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Amren’s already pale face blanched with fury.

Feyre went on, “You should have done then what we are going to do now. Found a way to immediately unite Prythian against her—to convince them of the threat she posed, and not wasted your time with charming and tricking allies, as you said. You knew she was evil, yet you wanted to play games in the shadows instead.”

Even Nesta was gaping at her sister now, at the unkind words flowing from her mouth.

Feyre seemed beyond caring. “So we’ll unite Prythian as best we can first. It will only strengthen our case with Fomoria when—if—we decide to beg at their doorstep.”

That one word—if—made it clear enough who would be making the call about approaching Fomoria.

Amren tried again, shockingly willing to let Feyre’s accusations drop, “You could do both at the same time. You would be stretched thin, yes, but to do what must be done—”

“I know what must be done,” Feyre interrupted. Az’s shadows stirred again—and again, he banished them.

“You don’t,” Amren returned with equal venom. “The fact that you are arguing with me about this—”

“I’m aware that being told no is foreign to you,” Feyre said. Cassian sucked in a breath. None of them, even Nesta, had ever spoken to Amren like this. “But this isn’t your decision.”

Amren opened her mouth, then shut it, again to Az’s shock. But silvery light still glowed in her eyes as she said, “Whatever my High Lady wishes.”

Feyre’s nose crinkled, as if she’d snap something back, but Rhys cleared his throat. Feyre, thankfully, said nothing more.

Nesta broke the miserable tension, clearing her throat, too, as she asked, “Regardless of all that . . .” It was a clumsy attempt to gloss over the ugly argument, but at least Nesta was willing to step into the line of fire as she said to Feyre and Rhys, “You’re hiding the Trove. But what do you all plan to do about the other Made weapons in our hands?”

There were five of them now. The Made blades. Three, Nesta had Made herself. A sword whose power felt colder than ice; a dagger as temperamental as fire, once more in Eris’s possession; and the third . . . Ataraxia. The great sword that could kill the unkillable. So much power, and yet Nesta had barely explored what she’d created. Az’s shadows had always seemed to be half in awe, listless and yearning, around the blade. He’d ignored their longing.

And then there were the other two.

Gwydion—the Starsword, as Bryce Quinlan had called it. Even now, Az had trouble reconciling the fact that the black sword Bryce had brought with her—and then gifted to Nesta, of all people—had been Gwydion, newly returned to this world after fifteen thousand years in Bryce’s own. Gwydion, the legendary magic blade of Fionn, the last High King of Prythian. And later Theia, his traitorous queen.

And the last: Truth-Teller, sister to Gwydion. Made of the same dark metal, from the same fallen meteorite. Iridium, Bryce claimed. Small wonder that Truth-Teller had leaped to join Gwydion, after fifteen thousand years apart. But that hadn’t lessened the betrayal when it left him.

Az couldn’t help peering downward, to where Truth-Teller’s dark hilt seemed to devour the light of the room.

Even after the blade had been returned to him, when Bryce had, miraculously, brought it back after she stole it, the sting of that betrayal hadn’t faded. Amren and Rhys had deemed it wise for Az to keep the blade, though he hardly wanted it at his side. Long centuries had it been content to stay with him, they said. So it would continue to do so. With Gwydion returned to this world, who knew what the dagger might do, especially unsupervised? It could not be hidden with the others; could not be left to its own devices. It would hang at Azriel’s hip, as it had always done, under his close watch.

He had no interest in even touching the knife. And so he hadn’t. Not more than he had to when fastening it to his body. Az willed himself to forget its weight.

“Most of the blades,” Feyre said, still stroking Nyx’s head, even as embers of anger toward Amren simmered in her eyes, “are weapons our enemies don’t know about, even Koschei. So we keep it that way for as long as possible. They’ll stay in Rhys’s possession for the moment. We don’t use them.”

He didn’t miss the long look Amren gave Rhys. Or how Rhys pointedly didn’t turn the petite female’s way. It had nothing to do, Az knew, with her argument with Feyre.

Az had mulled over their conversation from last year many times. The debate regarding those swords and what Rhys might do with them. Who—what—Rhys might become with them, if Amren was to be believed. High King of all Prythian. Rhys had rejected the idea outright.

The others nodded. Nesta turned back to the window, resuming her silence. A Valkyrie at her vigil.

Never mind that Az’s shadows had told him that Nesta had stopped going to the Valkyries’ morning practice weeks ago. He himself had stopped teaching her after she’d handed the Mask to Bryce. He hadn’t wanted to see her after that. The other priestesses and Emerie, who had been training with Nesta, had nothing to do with Nesta’s choices, but he’d stopped teaching them, too.

No one had asked him why he’d stopped going. Not even Cassian.

“Rest for tonight—all of you. Let your tempers and anxieties settle,” Amren declared. Then she addressed Az, who immediately stiffened, unable to help it, no better than the fearful whelp he’d once been. “Send your wraiths to Montesere and Rask, though. Get them in place.” She nodded to Mor, Azriel forgotten like morning dew under the sun. “You can wait a day or two after the naming celebration. Don’t seem too eager to rush over to Vallahan.” Mor nodded back, but Amren was already looking to Rhys—pointedly not at Feyre, who was doing a good job not looking at Amren, either. “Enjoy your son’s Naming Day. After that . . .” She loosed a long, heavy sigh that had Az bracing himself. When she spoke again, the hot anger in her silver eyes had cooled. “After that,” Amren said, “we will proceed as planned.” As the High Lady plans, she didn’t need to add.

The defeat and pity in her voice were terrifying. Az had never once heard Amren speak like that, even when they’d fought against Hybern.

And then there was the even more terrifying fact that none of them tried to call her on it.

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