I didn’t know what time it was—probably some gods-forsaken hour when the torches burned low and even the nightmares were growing tired. My head pounded. My magic was thin, stretched too far and snapped back too tight. But I needed out. Just for a moment. A breath.

So I slipped into the shadows.

Her cell was cold, the scent of mold and rust thick in the air. I heard her shift before I saw her. She jolted upright, spine straightening like a startled fawn.

And there she was.

Feyre.

I could still taste her mouth on mine. Could still feel the way she'd gone still, the way she'd kissed me back like her life depended on it—before the rage came. She'd scrubbed herself raw after, I knew. I could smell the clean water, the blood from her lips. She wanted me gone, erased. But I was still there. I always was.

My tunic was open—I hadn’t bothered with appearances tonight. I ran a hand through my hair, let the weight of the evening drag me down, and slid to the floor across from her. My back hit the wall. Cold stone. Silence.

“What do you want?” she demanded. Not afraid, but sharp. Angry. Good.

I closed my eyes. “A moment of peace and quiet,” I snapped, pressing my fingers against my temples. The pressure helped. Slightly.

She paused. “From what?”

From what.

What a question. What wasn't it from?

I rubbed at my skin, trying to press the exhaustion out of me. “From this mess,” I muttered.

I felt her straighten across from me. Not mocking. Curious. Watching.

“That damned bitch is running me ragged,” I said before I could stop myself. It came out too fast. Too real. But I was so, so tired. “You hate me. Imagine how you'd feel if I made you serve in my bedroom. I'm High Lord of the Night Court—not her harlot.”

There. The truth of it, raw and wretched. She could think whatever she wanted. The rumors were true enough.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

I let my head fall back against the stone. The swagger was gone. The mask had cracked. “Because I’m tired. And lonely. And you’re the only person I can talk to without putting myself at risk.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “How absurd. A High Lord of Prythian and a—”

“You can leave if you’re just going to insult me.”

Her voice had steel in it. Good. She still had fire.

“But I’m so good at it,” I said with a grin. Reflex. The kind that hid bruises beneath smirks. But even that faded.

“One wrong move tomorrow, Feyre, and we’re all doomed.”

I hadn’t meant to say it out loud. But the words hung there, heavy and still. I saw the way they hit her—saw the horror settle in her eyes like a stone in water.

“And if you fail,” I added, almost to myself, “then Amarantha will rule forever.”

“If she captured Tamlin’s power once,” Feyre said slowly, “who’s to say she can’t do it again?”

I looked at the ceiling. “He won’t be tricked again so easily. Her biggest weapon is that she keeps our powers contained—but she can’t access them, not fully. She can control us through them, yes, but not wield them like we can. That’s why I haven’t shattered her mind. Why she’s not dead already.”

She shivered. I felt it as much as saw it.

“The moment you break Amarantha’s curse,” I said, “Tamlin’s wrath will be so great that no force in the world will keep him from splattering her across the walls.”

The image was satisfying. Terrifying. Necessary.

“Why do you think I’m doing this?” I asked, waving a hand toward her.

“Because you’re a monster.”

I laughed. There it was. The truth from her lips.

“True,” I said. “But I’m also a pragmatist. Working Tamlin into a senseless fury is the best weapon we have against her. And we need that. I have people I care about waiting for me.”

And I did.

Velaris. My court. My family.

None of them could see me like this.

But Feyre—she already hated me.

Which made her the safest person in the world to tell the truth.