You and Rhysand aren’t friends. Allies, at the most. Neither of you would bat an eye if the other died. Or so you thought.

Rhys had come to you when you’d been on death’s door in your cell after the first of Amarantha’s trials. He offered to heal your arm, in exchange for a week of your life each month. A week of your life spent away from your friends in the Spring Court. A week spent with him, as his prisoner, essentially, in the Night Court.

You took his offer.

You’d managed to get through your second trial, if only for the bond between the two of you. You had just completed the third trial—which consisted of murdering two innocent faeries, which still left you shaken—and were currently on the floor in Amarantha’s throne room, her practically on top of you, torturing you in front of the entire court.

Tears streamed down your face as she broke your ribs, one by one, and proceeded to kick them—hard. You could faintly hear Tamlin begging her to stop, and Rhys had even attempted to stop her, which ended with him thrown against a wall of the court.

Your vision began to blur, and you thought of the riddle she had given you. The only way to free the Spring Court, and the rest of Prythian, from her tyranny.

It was only when you answered her riddle that you felt something in your spine crack, and Rhys swore he would hear the sound of your neck breaking over and over again until he himself died.