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Feyre had laughed. Nesta had stared at Mor with the wariness that only a female who’d just witnessed another female kissing her mate could conjure.

So Mor had winked at Nesta, as if to say, Relax, he’s all yours.

If Nesta had been any other person, Mor might have quipped, Been there, done that, but they’d already dealt with one disaster mere hours before. And had endured Bryaxis hours before that. She didn’t need to add a brawl with Nesta to the list.

Snickering at the memory, Mor stepped out the front door and onto the sun-washed front lawn. She preferred her goodbyes like this—no prolonged embraces or advice from the overprotective males in her life.

Even if the most overprotective of those males wasn’t even here.

Her stomach twisted. She’d come as close as she’d ever dared to telling Azriel everything last night. Why she hadn’t once returned the love and desire she’d seen in his eyes from the moment they’d met. Why it would have been so unfair of her, so cruel, to grant him that even once, knowing what he felt . . . and knowing where her heart usually lay.

What Bryaxis had shown her yesterday at the temple had cemented for her that she could never tell him, though. She’d barely slept at all last night thanks to seeing it play out, over and over again, in agonizing detail.

She rolled her shoulders as she crossed the lawn, the dew tickling her ankles. Her heavy gown—a thicker green silk, long-sleeved, and more modest than she usually favored—and fur-lined cape dragged in the grass behind her, both far too warm for the autumn weather in Velaris. But the moment she set foot in Vallahan, she’d be shivering if she wasn’t dressed appropriately, and she couldn’t afford to show them even that sliver of vulnerability.

She crossed the wards surrounding the property, their tingling the only sign of breaching the boundary. Her trunks were already held in that in-between pocket that was so useful for traveling—not as big as Rhys’s, but she could certainly carry five trunks crammed with clothes—and all she had to do now was simply picture the visitors’ landing space outside the golden walls of Thrudheim, summon nearly the entirety of her power, and winnow there.

One last attempt to stop this madness before it wreaked havoc on their world.

Feyre and Rhys had already planned out an alternate treaty, in case Storr failed. Mor would present it to Vallahan first, to see if the king found it any more palatable—as he seemed the most predisposed toward her. Or at least willing to lend her an ear.

She flexed her hands at her sides, working out the faint trembling in them. It was a fool’s errand. She knew it—Rhys and Feyre knew it. Vallahan would know it, too. But she’d try. One last time.

Mor sucked in a breath, an ancient, night-kissed power awakening from its slumber deep within her. Different from Rhys’s. Older. Her hateful father had tried to lord that over Rhys’s father once—Keir had wound up with two broken legs as a result.

It had been one of the few times Mor had appreciated the former High Lord. And one of the first times in her childhood at the Hewn City that she’d smiled.

Keir had seen that smile, though. In his agony, he’d seen her in the shadows, laughing softly at his screams. When he’d recovered, he’d broken one of her legs and asked her if it was still funny.

She’d seen that yesterday, too.

Her mother had done nothing. And though Mor’s Fae body had healed the broken bone—a straight snap across her shin—she hadn’t smiled again for a long, long time. Until three arrogant, reckless Illyrian boys had overturned her life.

Gods, she’d left things a mess with Azriel. Maybe she should track him down and talk to him before leaving. The Mother knew when she’d be back, and—

“Take me with you.”

Mor whirled. With the wall of wards, her senses had been muddled enough not to notice anyone approaching from the house.

But there stood Elain, immaculate in her heavy rose-colored dress and cloak. A small bag shook in her trembling hands.

Mor slowly blinked. “Excuse me?”

Elain’s brown eyes were lined with silver, pleading as she crossed the wards. “Take me with you—to wherever you’re going. I can’t stay here.”

Mor backed up a step—then another. “I’m going into enemy territory on a diplomatic mission,” she said as gently as she could. “I know you’re upset right now, but . . .” She hadn’t believed it last night, and still couldn’t quite believe it now: Azriel and Elain. In bed together. This sweet, shy young female had been sneaking behind her mate’s back to tangle with the shadowsinger, of all people. “I can’t bring you with me. I have an estate in the countryside—Athelwood—if you want to use it. No one is there except my horse, Ellia. She’s docile and sweet and you could ride her every day. You’d have the whole place to yourself, and it’s warded to hell and back—”

“I don’t want to go to an empty house. I don’t want to be locked away and forgotten.” Elain took another step, those doe-like eyes so wide, so searching. “Let me come with you. I won’t get in your way. I won’t talk to anyone, or do anything to jeopardize your task. I’ll help tend to your clothes, fix your hair, whatever it is you need.”

“You are the sister of the High Lady of the Night Court,” Mor said, reeling. “Your presence will have a marked effect, and might make you a target.”

“I can protect myself.” Elain’s chin lifted. Mor had enough decency not to scoff at the idea. “And as for being Feyre’s sister . . . I think my presence will lend more legitimacy, more urgency to your requests for peace.”

“How so?” Mor asked. She could humor her.

Elain glanced at the river house behind them. She definitely hadn’t told anyone about this plan.

If Mor took Elain to Vallahan, who would kill her for it first? Rhys? Feyre? Nesta? Azriel? Lucien? The line of would-be Mor-murderers would stretch out the door.