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But Elain explained, “It shows that Feyre is willing to send her flesh and blood as a sign of her goodwill. That she trusts them.”

Mor crossed her arms. “Hmm.”

Elain added sheepishly, “And there is also the fact that you and I are quite attractive.”

Mor raised a brow. “What of it?”

Elain blushed. “That tends to make people agree to . . . things they might not otherwise agree to.”

Mor chuckled this time. “As flattering as it is that you think I—we—could deter this invasion from happening because we’re that good-looking . . . That’s not really how it works. These people are old and greedy enough that however tempting the thought of bedding one of us might be, the prospect of regaining vast swaths of territory is even more seductive.”

Elain grimaced, but tried again. “There’s also the fact that I’m Made.”

Mor stilled.

Elain pressed on, “And I am a Seer. I might not be privy to all your meetings, but I’m not a fool. I listen. I’m clever enough, even if none of you think of me that way.”

Something like shame twisted in Mor’s gut. But she made herself say, “So?”

Elain’s eyes shuttered. “So I understand what you fear is happening in Vallahan. That they either have or are about to attain a Made weapon. My sisters never bother to ask for my help, but . . .” A slight shrug. “Perhaps I could find it for you, figure out whether Vallahan already has it in their possession. Perhaps it would speak to me. Like calls to like. And I heard you need proof to present to potential allies—proof that these enemies are working with the one they call Koschei the Deathless. I can help find that, too, in whatever way I am able. People tend to forget I am there. Perhaps that’s not the most appealing asset, but it might be useful nonetheless.” The last words were barely more than a whisper. “I’m not skilled like my sisters are in so many things, but I can try. I will try.”

Mor said nothing. Just stared at her. Thinking.

Elain deflated. Her shoulders sank, head bowing. Like she already knew what Mor would say. What the others had said to her a hundred times these past few years.

It was awful. That crumbling, curling-inward motion.

“I can’t . . .” Elain said thickly. “I can’t stay here,” she repeated. “I can’t.” Her voice broke. “And I want to be useful. For once.”

Mor peered at the river house. They’d never, ever forgive her. It might even be worse than Nesta handing over the Mask.

“What about Az?” Mor asked carefully, a pang rocking through her at the memory of their argument on the bridge. No small part of her was actually relieved to be leaving, if only so she didn’t have to face him again soon.

Running away, a voice in her accused. Like you always do.

Elain’s expression turned bleak. “I can’t stay here,” she whispered once more.

Mor inferred what she meant, the words Elain couldn’t yet formulate. Elain needed time and distance—needed to be away so she could think and feel without anyone else swaying her. Mor knew exactly how it felt, how necessary it was, that leaving. That space. That need to run and run and not look back.

And beyond that, Elain was right. A Seer—a Made Seer—would be useful in Vallahan. They needed to find that Made object. To know if Vallahan already had it in hand.

Mor started, “If I take you—”

Elain’s brown eyes turned nearly gold with hope. “I will do whatever tasks need to be done, I will listen to every order you give me, I won’t get in your way—I promise.”

Mor squinted at the blue sky and sighed. “Please don’t make me regret this,” she said—and held out her hand.

Elain beamed, tears of pure relief shining now, and grabbed Mor’s hand. “Thank you.” She squeezed tightly enough to hurt. “Thank you.”

Mor sighed again, rallying even greater power this time, enough to carry two bodies across the world. She’d be drained to near-uselessness when they arrived at Thrudheim. “Wait to thank me until you feel how cold it is in Vallahan,” she muttered.

And then they were gone.

Nesta & Cassian

It wasn’t that he was looking for a fight, Cassian told himself as he circled above the sprawling estate for the fifth time, despite the unseasonable, early spring chill so brutal it could steal the breath from even the most battle-scarred Illyrian warrior. Rhys had asked him to deliver his latest letter to the human queens, since Az was otherwise occupied trying to infiltrate whatever nasty defenses they held around their palace, and Mor didn’t want to set foot in the mortal realm unless necessary. Amren, naturally, was out of the question—simply because she was Amren and it’d be like sending a plains-cat into a pen of lambs. So that left him.

Well, Feyre, too, but she and Rhys were . . . busy.