Chapter Text
Feyre’s knees buckled as shivers racked her body. An icy wind swirled around her, the unforgiving dark and damp air of her cell weighing down on her thin frame. Feyre hit the stone ground hard, her knees slamming into the hard floor as her hands grasped onto the frigid bars of the cell, her mortal body unable to sustain the cold.
She pulled herself forward, peering out into the hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lucien coming to visit her, hoping for anyone to come to her aid. But the hallway was empty, painfully dark and empty.
Feyre sighed, letting go of the bars. Her skin stuck to the icy metal, ripping her palms open when she tried to pull backward.
“Dammit.” She cursed under her breath, hating Rhysand for not allowing her to change back into her original, fully-covered clothing. Was this his doing? Had he cursed her cell with this icy blast? Had he planned this all along?
She grabbed a handful of the thin fabric of her dress, the paint and blood from her palms smearing on the sheer skirt.
Perhaps this was Amarantha’s doing.
Revenge for Feyre kissing her dark and twisted minion. Though that wasn’t by her choice. She’d known that kissing Tamlin at the party could’ve caused problems if she’d been caught, but she hadn’t thought that Rhysand would go so far as to take the blame for her. She hadn’t foreseen him risking his own neck to kiss her, only to save her and Tamlin from Amarantha’s wrath.
She shivered again, staggering over to her cot and grasping for the thin blanket, wrapping it around herself as her breath formed in the air before her. The damp air turned to ice, crystals sticking to every surface as the temperature continued to drop.
Feyre looked at her hands, gripping the threadbare blanket around herself. Her fingers were turning a sickly shade of blue. She closed her eyes, trying to forget that she was trapped in this cold, desolate dungeon Under the Mountain. Trying to remember the warm embrace of a spring day in Tamlin’s court. Trying to remember the warm embrace of his strong arms around her body.
This would pass.
It would have to pass.
Her final trial was in two days time, Amarantha wouldn’t kill her like this, would she? Alone in her cell?
Feyre’s entire body trembled as she tried to focus on the riddle, tried to focus on escaping. But the cold seemed to soak through her very soul, freezing her every thought. She shivered wildly for what could have been minutes or hours, all grasp of time was lost on her.
She heard footsteps after awhile, not bothering to move towards the bars to discover who it was. Not risking to lose even an ounce of the heat she was so desperately trying to conserve. She only lifted her head when she heard the feet stop in front of her cell.