Chapter Text
“I didn’t see you Under the Mountain.”
“Because none of us were.”
Amarantha's Reign - Day 1 - February
Under the Mountain
Rhysand - High Lord of Night
The moment that damned wine hits his throat, Rhysand knows she's outplayed them all. By the smirk on her face, she knows it too. He has seconds to make a choice: use his fleeting powers in a last-ditch attempt to kill her, or send everything he has left to protect what he loves most?
He closes his eyes and claws for the last of his power as it slides away, straining against her spell.
There’s no time to be gentle. He shatters his family's mental walls–I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Protect each other. Protect it all.
Their pain and confusion overwhelm his senses. He throws a ward over Velaris, anchoring it to his family: as long as they live, it will hold.
It locks into place just as Cassian’s body slams into it.
Azriel’s shadows recoil; his attempt to shadow-walk to the Mountain is cut short.
Mor's screams turn into desperate pleas echoing off the ward.
Above the chaos one voice remains clear: We will not fail you.
Amren — his second-in-command — answers, steady even as her voice thins in the fog.
Eyes burning with unshed tears, he hurls one last burst of magic to erase his inner circle from every mind in Prythian. He stretches that tiny drop farther than it should go, giving everything.
His ears ring as he opens his eyes to chaos. In the time he takes to shield his people, the other six High Lords rush to act.
Beron kneels, snarling and cradling his arm. The sleeve smolders; blistered skin peeks through the smoke of burning flesh.
Cold floods the room as Demetrios launches a spear of ice at Amarantha. It melts before it leaves his hand. Roots explode from the floor, lashing and binding his arms behind his back.
Apollo throws up a wall of water—a tidal wave frozen in time—between the female who stole his power and his Court. She flicks a hand; it collapses into a puddle.
Nostrus yanks his wife and son behind him and flings his last power at Amarantha to break the spell. For a heartbeat he shines—pure light—then it dies. He collapses in pain. Shards of ice driven into his side.
Kneeling beside a blue-skinned woman, her body twisted and broken from the stampede, is Thesan. Light flickers from his fingertips, her wounds begin to knit together; then the light sputters out.
Tamlin does nothing. He kneels at Amarantha’s feet, clutching his chest, mouth agape; shock and something that looks dangerously like awe, in his eyes.
Her smug, confident gaze meets his—just as Lucien runs to his side.
Amarantha's lips move; she offers Tamlin a hand. There's something almost tender in her gaze. It makes Rhysand's stomach twist and chills his blood.
Lucien–-the fool--throws himself between the High Lord of Spring and Amarantha. Her eyes flick to him; this male who dares to stand between her and her prize. Her hand barely twitches, and Lucien is sent flying to the other side of the room. With a sickening crack, his body falls limp.
Shock drains from Tamlin’s face and leaves pure rage. The ground trembles as he stands. Each step forward, the stone cracks beneath his feet.
Amarantha takes a step back.
Doubt flashes across her face for the first time tonight. Claws tear their way through Tamlin’s fingertips, Amarantha flinches as her eyes dart between the talons and the murderous set of his jaw.
Lucien slowly rises, clutching his side and wheezing with every breath. The movement breaks the spell Tamlin’s rage had placed on Amarantha. Rhysand watches as Tamlin folds inwards; claws retract into his hands by an invisible force as Amarantha's lips peel back in a snarl.
The ringing in Rhysand’s ears fades and a voice—once silken, now laced with venom—speaks.
“I understand —— disorienting ——---- you. —— all of ——. To —— —— —— no --—— —— this plainly. Everything you ——, —— —— were, —— now mine.” She glances at each of the High Lords, one by one, and puts on a pathetic attempt to display each of their powers. It's sloppy. Rhysand can see the strain on her face as she attempts to wield magic that doesn't answer to her. Stolen. “There —— no more High Lords. There —— —— one Court —— —— —— only one ——. Me. Now, go. Return to your Courts and tell your people of the good news. Alter your trade routes. In six months, bring a Tithing to the Mountain. Do not come short—or late.”
The High Lords obey without protest. In a heartbeat the room empties; small pops of light mark their winnowing back to their Courts.
Rhysand reaches for the small pool of magic he has left. It answers, sluggish and timid—a speck compared to what he had seconds before, but it's enough to bring his people home to Hewn City.
Then, the magic recoils and burrows deeper. Tendrils of darkness—his own power—coil around him, cold and wrong. He is not the hand that guides them. She is.
Grunts and moans rise behind him—his Court bound and struggling. The room is now empty, save for the Night Court.
Amarantha’s gaze locks on him, hungry.
Her finger flicks side to side like a blade, slow enough to savor the moment. “Ah-ah-ah,” she purrs. “Not you. You and I have business to attend to first.”
Something wicked flashes in her eyes, screams echo behind him. She has him locked in place, the magic barely allowing his chest enough movement to breath. He cannot turn, but he feels sticky warmth seep through the soles of his feet as blood snakes across the floor.
The binding magic is the only thing holding him upright as his knees begin to buckle.
A smile slithers onto her face as the screams slow to sobs.
Each step she takes sends a shockwave through the room. Her beadlike eyes rake his frozen body, unblinking, while the hem of her dress drags through the spreading pool red. The smell of roses, laced in iron, overwhelms him as she steps close. Her breath hot against his ear.
“When I heard your father died, I shed a tear. Did you know that?” She tilts her head to the side. He wonders if she even realizes her hold on him prevents him from replying.
Nails pierce his shirt as she walks her fingers up his chest.
“What a shame,” she muses. “Such a powerful male—such a worthy adversary—dead.” Her nails stroll past his collarbone. “And not by my hand.”
Drops of blood snake down his neck as her fingers climb higher, jabbing holes into his flesh with each stab.
“Your father… he killed my friend—sneaked into the Spring Court like a coward and murdered the High Lord in his sleep. The Lady of Spring, too— butchered.” Amarantha's hand clamps around his throat, spreading the blood like a necklace. “Then he made his greatest mistake: he tried to take my Tamlin from me. His last mistake.”
Amarantha’s gaze follows a drop of blood trailing down his throat, transfixed.
“If anyone else had taken that kill, they’d be dead. But if anyone deserved it—it was Tamlin.” She smiles. “I heard he ripped your father’s throat out with his teeth. I wonder if it tasted as sweet as I imagined.”
She's so close now. If only he could move, he'd wrap his hands around her throat until he saw the light fade from her wicked eyes. But he can't so much as twitch.
“But—not all is lost.” Her fingers tighten. Black spots bloom across her face as she leans in. “You. You were there that night too—to busy massacring Tamlin’s brothers to save your own father. Selfish. Pathetic.”
She lets go of his throat as if the very touch offends her and drops her hand to his shoulder. Air forces it's way back into his lungs as she shoves him to his knees. Fingers wind through his hair and yank his head back; he looks up at her.
“If I can’t have your father,” she whispers, “I can at least ensure you face justice. I’m sure Tamlin won’t mind.” Her eyes glaze with something he cannot name. “He may even be… grateful.”
Her look crawls over him like spiders. “You and I are going to have so much fun,” she purrs.
Something heavy crashes into him from behind. The world swallowed in darkness as screams erupts once more.