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The shadows couldn’t read minds, but they could read scents, expressions, even the most minute. And from that, they formed a picture to report to him. He understood them all too well, even when he didn’t want to.

It was why he only gave them the barest sliver of his power, never anything more. They caused enough misery in his life.

Nesta said, still not turning from the window, “Are we sure that other territories would stand with us, even if we had proof of these three working with Koschei?” They were frank, stark words. Spoken like the Valkyrie she’d become. “We need to be certain. Need to know who we should even be delivering this information to. Who is worth the risk.”

No one replied. Not even Rhys.

There had only been a few instances in their shared history when Azriel had seen his High Lord at a loss for words, for ideas. As powerful as Rhys was, it was his razor-sharp mind that was his greatest asset. His ability to think two steps ahead of friend and foe.

Az had prided himself on making it possible—on giving his brother the information to stay those two steps ahead. And for so long, Az had amassed that information by any means necessary. No matter the cost.

Until he’d seen Feyre’s grimace that day in the cell beneath the Court of Nightmares, with the Autumn Court soldiers tied to the chairs before them. The flicker of pain, of memory—of her own torture at Amarantha’s hand.

He was no better than Amarantha. How many had he tortured without thinking of who they were, who loved them? He’d lost count.

“We have a short window to find these allies,” Amren advised Rhys darkly, her eyes softening as they lingered on his crown, as if she knew its weight. “A short window to chart our course of action while our enemies hunt for this Made item.”

“Short, yes,” Feyre agreed, “but even if Montesere, Rask, and Vallahan dispatch their armies for the human lands today, they’ll need to stop well before the open Fae lands’ southernmost border to camp for the winter, until the spring thaws out the passes of the Helbronn Mountains. Even Koschei cannot change the seasons. We have some time.”

“This time will come and go quicker than you think,” Amren warned. Feyre straightened. But Amren had moved on, her silver eyes pinning Azriel to the spot. His shadows rustled by the door in answer, snakes coiling to strike. Even the twin Siphons atop his hands seemed to waken, priming for a fight. A thought, and they dimmed again. Another power he loathed, used only when necessary. Amren didn’t so much as blink. “Don’t you dare set foot in Vallahan, boy.”

He had a healthy respect for Amren, but he wouldn’t be cowed by her. “We need to track the prince before he finds that Made item—”

“I’m going back,” Mor declared.

Azriel whipped his head toward her. That beautiful face that had haunted him for so many years, that face he’d built so many dreams around for his future, their future—

“After Nyx’s Naming Day, I’ll be the one returning to Vallahan,” she said to him, almost pleadingly. “To do what needs to be done.”

“Absolutely not,” Cassian blurted, voicing the shock and fear Azriel couldn’t master enough to form into a retort. “They know what we’re about now.”

“Then I can stop attempting subtlety,” Mor said, waving a hand. “I’ll have the rest of the fall and all winter to observe them and find proof that they’re working with Koschei.”

Azriel glanced between his High Lady and High Lord. “You can’t be seriously considering this.”

Feyre’s and Rhys’s expressions remained hard—unmoved. Az might have objected, but he understood. He’d seen the respect the King of Vallahan showed Mor. That Montesere, too, showed her. If there was someone here who might stand a chance of being heard . . . it was Mor.

But to send her back now, when their enemies had confirmed that this court possessed the Trove—

“They won’t dare hold me hostage,” Mor said gently to Az, as if reading his mind. Or just his face. He schooled it back into neutrality. Once he would have crawled to hear her speak to him with such tenderness. Such concern. “Made item or no, they’re still too afraid we’ll use the Trove on them, even if it’d give them all the justification they’d need to obliterate us.” She offered Az a grim smile. “Trust me—I’ll get what we need.”

He did trust her. She’d learned the hard way how to navigate an adder’s nest. Had spent years in that hellhole called the Court of Nightmares. She bore the scars to prove it. He’d loved her for it—for surviving, thriving, despite what she’d been born into.

A similar hell to the one he’d been born into. Had also survived.

He’d thought that had destined them for each other, two people born in darkness so different from what Rhys had later offered, two people born to fathers who loathed their very existence and mothers with little to no ability to protect them—or, in the case of Mor’s mother, no desire to protect her daughter at all. Two people who possessed unique powers to glean information, truth, whether they wanted to or not.

It hadn’t meant shit. In the end, through no fault of Mor’s own, it hadn’t meant a damn thing.

But for Mor to go back across the sea alone, with the stakes even higher—

“I trust you,” Feyre said pointedly to Mor. “We all do.”

Shame flooded Azriel. He was no whelp to be managed, whose feelings needed to be reined in and worked around.

But Mor gave their High Lady an appreciative wink. And he understood: Mor wasn’t venturing once more into enemy territory to bandy with a bunch of war-bent conquerors only for the sake of the humans. It was also for the sake of the child in this room, half-drunk on his mother’s milk, utterly safe and contented. For if another war came, one or both of his parents would fight in it.

And if one of his parents didn’t come back, the other wouldn’t survive, either. Thanks to that stupid, lovesick bond they’d made, the promise between their souls: if Rhys or Feyre died, the other would go, too.