"Is this to be a new habit?" The Shadowsinger mused after Rhysand appeared in front of him and leaned a hand on his shoulder to steady himself. They were in a safe-house to the edge of the city – the same one Rhysand had winnowed himself to the night before.

Rhysand's answering groan elicited a laugh from Azriel.

"Well, that was quick." A muscle twitched in the corner of Azriel's mouth. "I take it it went well?"

"What an utter waste of time."

His friend's eyes slowly drifted over the slight sheen of sweat on Rhysand's temple, the rise and fall of his chest. "What happened?" His voice was tinged with curiosity.

"Nothing," he spoke through his teeth, looking around the sparsely furnished room. Could he make it to the table? "That damn ash!" His insides were coiling. And despite having left the asphyxiating enclosure of the palace grounds and the presence of the High Lords and Mortal Queens, his stomach didn't settle as he hoped it would once he left the reminders of Under the Mountain behind.

He took two steps in the direction of a chair, then forcefully kicked it towards the table. Panting, he leaned against the table and turned to Azriel who looked at him solemnly, his brows pulled together.

"Should I –"

"No. Just allow me a moment," Rhysand took a deep breath, trying to quiet the pull. Closing his eyes, he tried thinking of the night sky, its constant adornments. But as much as he tried to focus on the shimmering lights that cast a veil of content over him when he most needed it, their calming presence remained out of his reach, his hands grasping at thin air, distracted by the weight of his friend's eyes on him and the increasing pull at his chest.

So for the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to reach further.

Further into his memory and into those dark moments Under the Mountain. He looked for the dreams he had had when he had lain next to Amarantha, for the flashes of those painfully familiar hands painting flowers on tables much like the one he was now leaning against. He called forth the very dreams he had banned himself from accessing when they had come to an abrupt halt a few months before the curse was lifted, leaving him with nothing but the bittersweet tinge of their memory in his most despondent moments. Their appearance had once given him hope. Strengthened him. The knowledge that somewhere out there was a person that had enough peace, enough light in their life, that they could paint flowers on a table, sit around the hearth in a dimly lit room or spend their time gazing at a warren of rabbits.

Dreams, that had seized him once again the moment he came free; his thoughts urging him to look for the keeper of his longings. A woman that had given him hope, then ripped it from him as soon as the petals of distraction started blossoming within him. As soon as he tried reaching out. He was left to wither and crumble in the darkness of his mind's endless sea, convincing himself her appearance to be an aberration – a Fata Morgana of his own making.

Old acerbity engulfed him, a friend he had long acquainted himself with and whose presence he dearly welcomed. There was a reason he barred himself from accessing those memories. False hope was servant to the weak, blinding the righteously despairing. Awareness of his exigency's vicissitudes is what kept him from drowning, anchored him to the truth of his existence.

"There's this pull," Rhysand explained when he couldn't take it anymore, when the urgency within him didn't subside. "This relentless tug at my chest. It's driving me insane." Another beat passed. He closed and opened his fist repeatedly. "This ash…"

"Has been completely cleared from your system. The healer assured me. It shouldn't be causing it." He could hear shuffling as Azriel moved closer to him.

Rhysand opened his eyes and looked at his friend. "Then what…"

His sweat turned cold at the scream that echoed through his mind, dipped in fright and anguish so potent, he would have stumbled had he not been leaning against the table. But despite the cry he heard reverberate through space, he was only met with his friend's inquiring gaze.

"I… I need to go."

He was unsure what had compelled him, what drove his belief that he needed to find the girl he had sworn to himself he would not seek out. But the pull in his chest intensified, the panic in him rose. And he had no other reasonable explanation for the yank at his chest now that he was free of his responsibilities' confinement than what he assumed to be the bond's tethers, strung taut between them, being pulled by her.

Two racing heart-beats. That's how long it took. And then he was gone, following the pull that was ravaging him. Frantically searching for the tug he had been trying to suppress. A panic took hold of him he was unable to place or explain. His anger rose at the hold this mortal seemed to have over him. He would not be controlled. Now that he suspected the tug's origin, he considered leaving her to her own devices. He would not be manipulated by anyone. Much less by a human that seemed to find enjoyment in his debacle. As mirthlessly entertained as he had been by her actions the night before, he did not take lightly to her influence. Yet he couldn't bring himself to ignore it, his curiosity over her whereabout winning over.

The pull intensified the closer he got. His eyes closed and in the vast array of nothingness, it led him to the origin of the push and pull he felt inside, the wind ripping at his skin as he stepped out of the darkness and onto murky grass in midst a canopy of trees.

There she was – on the ground, hunched between two stones, fumbling with one of her frayed boots. Rhysand was hidden between the shadows of the trees, his presence muted just enough so he could go by unnoticed as he scanned the periphery and took in the situation, yet not so much as for the Shadowsinger to be unable to follow his track should he need to. Two men stood in front of the girl, one of them flushed, his posture angry, the other – better dressed – holding the blades the girl had stolen from him the night before and looking at them appraisingly, disinterested in his companion's obvious irritation. He couldn't make out the girl's face. Her back was turned to him. Though, he needn't step closer to hear her racing heart.

"Have you changed your mind, girl?" The well-dressed man mused as he tore his gaze from the blades and looked at her derogatorily.

Rhysand watched as she spat on him. The man grunted, his face scrunching up in obvious disgust. He only motioned to the fuming man to his right with two fingers and his lackey took a step closer, a twig breaking beneath his weight. The girl jumped to her feet and pulled out a knife she must have had tucked away in her boot. She directed it towards the men, lifting it between them. Hellion, through and through.

Rhysand moved past a few trees and stepped closer so he could make out her face. She held her left arm to her chest. Tears and dirt stained her cheeks. Yet she didn't back down as the man stepped even closer, his lip pulling back to form a sneer.

"Do not come any closer. I'm warning you." He could hear the tremble in her voice, yet her posture screamed of silent certainty. This girl was no stranger to the weigh of a knife and its ways. "Pay me and we can be on our ways."

The man holding Rhysand's blades laughed, then took a step closer. He lifted the blades so they both looked at them. "You would like that, wouldn't you." He took another step closer. "And why, little girl, would I pay you? When I already have what I want?"

"Those blades are mine. We agreed to a trade." The last bit came out in a pant. Rhysand came closer, wanted to see what caused her distress. The tug in his chest was still present.

"But you see, I do not remember having agreed to a trade. Nor are those blades in your possession." The bastard had the audacity to smile, and with a nod of his head the brute surged in the direction of the girl and made to grab her knife. She took a step back, then sliced her hand through the air going for the man's throat. But she wasn't fast enough, and before she could regain her balance, the man had grabbed her hand and squeezed, the knife falling to the ground, the empty thud as it hit the earth buzzing through the clearing.

Rhysand took another step forward. His mind screamed at him to step in, but before he could, he felt the presence of his friend behind him. He staid put, lifting a hand to make sure Azriel didn't step in.

He could feel the question burning on his friend's tongue, so he nodded. Azriel's shoulders tensed slightly as he followed his order to not intervene.

"Let me go," the girl ordered. But the man didn't obey. She kept struggling against his hold, her panic rising, and with it the pull Rhysand felt.

"Let me go," she repeated more forcefully and yanked her hand. The lackey used the momentum to pull her against him, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her back against his chest. Rhysand took another step forward.

"How do you like this?" he whispered into her ear as she leaned her face away from him as much as she could. Rhysand wanted to strangle her himself for exposing her throat to him so recklessly. But then the girl bit him and the man cried out in pain. She stumbled forward, but before she could free herself from his hold, he gripped her with his other hand, yanking on the arm she had been clutching to her chest and twisting.

The girl let out a scream that made his insides coil; her cry coloured by the same pain as the tug he felt that made him seek her out. This time, however, there was no searching involved and Rhysand snapped into action.

The man slumped to the floor beside her, his nose and ears bleeding, his weight pulling her down with him. Her eyes were red and rimmed in silver, the tears running down her face freely as she stumbled to put distance between herself and the body. Rhysand didn't even bat an eyelid as the rage fuelled by her own fear and pain consumed him. He had no time for rationalism or reason. He had no will to suppress the force calling him to action.

He dropped his glamour and stepped out of the shadows, directing his attention to the second man – the one holding his blades. He heard her breath hitch as she shuffled on the floor, trying to crawl away from him, even battered as she was. But despite the tug pulling his attention towards her, all he focused on was the man that had given the order, his eyes still strained on the body of his companion.

Then he stilled and looked at Rhysand; at the darkness rippling from him. His eyes widened and he took a step back before breaking into a hasty run.

Rhysand didn't follow him. One thought. Then the man was suspended, his movements frozen in mid-air, unmoving. The next moment he stood in front of him at a breath's distance. He watched the panic on the man's face spread as he understood that his body no longer obeyed him. That the Lord of Night was now his master. His eyes widened and he watched horror-stricken as the blades fell out of his limp hands.

Rhysand picked them up and tucked them into his belt as if that's where they had been all along. As if it were the most natural thing to do. When he was done, he faced the struggling man. Had he cared, he might have noted how young he was, the hunger in his eyes and fear. But he didn't. For that man himself had cared little about the girl cowering by the rocks behind them. Instead, he saw the greed, the arrogance, the self-importance and decay that had driven his actions.

Rhysand smiled cruelly as he watched the light wink out of him. He let him struggle. Let him feel how his lungs stopped obeying, how he couldn't grasp for air no matter how hard he tried. And when he turned his pleading eyes to him he made sure that all he saw were the most heinous creatures of his Court and all he could feel was all they would want to do to him. Sweat coated his face and body; the droplets suspended in the air just like him, a prison to his mind and body worthy of this cruel man's actions. And then he allowed him to gurgle, suffocating on his own blood trickling from his nose, until his mind, too, fell limp, and Rhysand allowed the body to drop to the ground.

He stared at the heap of limbs, taking in the horrid sight, slowly returning to himself. The shuffling of the girl crawling to the tree-line drew his attention to her. She was trembling as she wrapped her arms around her folded legs. Yet she was looking around frantically for what he assumed was a weapon. He almost smiled at her as he took her in. How brave she was to think she could fight him. How stupid she was to think a knife might help her after what she witnessed.

He noticed Azriel's shadows crowding behind her, one of them already surrounding the first body, obscuring it slightly from her view, making it look less horrifying.

He started walking towards her in a slow shuffle, giving her time to adjust to his presence, his movements steady and measured. How she didn't run surprised him.

"You're welcome." He stopped in front of her. Her head snapped towards him, her eyes wide and breaths shuddering. Her eyes locked on his blades safely tucked into his belt, then they once more scanned the ground frantically. He didn't know what it was about her, but her resolve to fight even at this time, even after seeing what he could do made him want to laugh. Instead, he unfastened the blades from his belt, allowing only his cruel smile to turn softer. He watched her tense, her eyes not leaving his hand. With a shake of his head, he threw the blades to her side, their clinking sound as they hit the ground beside her making her whole body jump. She winced at the jolt and grasped her left arm to her chest once more.

Rhysand saw the blood and bruising. There was a twist to it that should not be in a healthy arm. Broken as it was, he tried dulling the pain she was feeling at least a bit, taking the very edge off. Yet the frantic tug still didn't subside. She wasn't aware of it.

"You can stop being scared now."

She scowled at his words. Then she quickly reached for one of his blades and lifted it between them as she stood.

"Do not come closer," she whispered.

This time Rhysand allowed himself to smile truly.

"You will need much more than a blade to defend yourself against me."

"I will take my chances."

"That you will." He took a step closer and she lifted her trembling hand higher. Her knuckles had turned white from how hard she was holding on to it.

"For someone who just yesterday was all too eager to undress me, you sure seem to change your mind fast." A coughing laugh came from the woods behind her. Rhysand muffled as much of it as he could, lest the girl hear it and be even more alarmed. He made a show of looking at their surroundings, trying to show her she was not the epicentre of his attention. "Then again, you did poison me." He smiled.

She faltered for a moment, her hand dropping infinitesimally. But then her eyes landed on the glamoured bodies, and she tensed up again. In an instant, they were gone. Obscured from her vision, Rhysand made sure to drop them at Azriel's feet. He would deal with them and the repercussions of his actions later.

"Will you stop?" he eventually snapped.

"Stop what exactly?" There was a bite to her voice he was not expecting.

"Stop trembling at the sight of me, girl." She swallowed. "If I wanted you dead like them, you wouldn't be pointing that sword at me." Rhysand rubbed at his chest. The tug wasn't subsiding, though the pull wasn't as erratic as before.

"It seems you got yourself in a fair amount of trouble. Again." He sounded almost teasing. She just stared at him in return. She seemed more determined by the minute. A plan was forming behind her blue-grey eyes. "Go ahead." Her questioning eyes met his. "Try to run. Though, I wouldn't do it if I were you."

She hurled the sword at him and it landed a few paces to his left. "Not a smart move," he taunted.

"As if that thing would help me against the likes of you."

"The likes of me?" His smile turned menacing, despite his slight amusement. "You are right. It wouldn't. Not the way you were wielding it anyway." He picked up the sword and its twin, then looked for their sheath. It disappeared from the ground where the men had dropped it when he arrived and reappeared at his waist. He tucked the blades into it and grunted satisfied. "I had assumed you would have liked to keep them, after all the work you put into acquiring them." When she didn't respond, he continued. "But I guess not."

"How can you be on this side of the wall?"

"Do you poison all the men you try to rob with ash?"

"You are avoiding my question." Her voice broke at the end.

"I think you lost the right to ask me any questions the moment you tried to trick me."

He felt her heartbeat quickening. Yet her eyes mirrored yesterday's resolve.

"The swords are yours to keep if you want them. You earned them."

"I don't want them." There was a tingling at his fingertips. Something falling forth his power. Rhysand closed his fists.

"Why were you trying to sell them?" He took a step towards her.

"What do you want from me?" Her breath was still rugged as she took a step back, keeping the distance between them.

"How about a thank you?"

"A thank y–" She broke off, shaking her head. "You are a monster."

Rhysand laughed at that. She had no idea what kind of monster he was. But the thing leaching on to him did. He needed to move. Quickly.

"No thank you then. How quaint," he mused, trying not to make his agitation noticeable.

"You broke the Treaty."

"I did."

"There is a price to pay." She took a quick breath. "Retribution."

"And who will enact it, Feyre darling?" Her nose scrunched up at his words. It bothered Rhysand more than he was willing to admit, though he also felt a peculiar sense of pride swell in him at her disdain towards him.

Despite his words, there was a sense of urgency closing in on him. Azriel's shadows were twirling frantically around his feet as if to warn him. He didn't have much time.

"Move," he told her, his demeanour changing and his face stern. He had no time for games. The best thing would be to leave her there. Disappear and erase her from his mind. He would not be held accountable for a senseless girl's decision. Even if to her he appeared to be the greater danger. The only one. And maybe she was right. So if she did not come willingly, he would not force her.

"What?"

The hum of the magic closing in on them was getting stronger. He could not afford to be on this side of the Wall when it happened.

"Fine then." When she didn't move, he stepped away, ready to winnow to the Wall. But the flare from the direction of the girl grew stronger. It held him back. The magic would come looking for him here and whilst it wouldn't be able to find him, the tether strung taut between them would lead it straight to the girl just as it had led him to her. Their faint bond was of the same essence as the thing haunting him now. He could not risk leaving a sign pointing straight to him behind. Not when it served as a direct connection to him.

"One would think you would feel otherwise," Rhysand muttered, unbelieving what he was doing. Within moments he had his arms wrapped around her as his wings erupted from his body. Her sudden intake of breath and following scream filled the air around them with sound as her lungs emptied. His whole body roared at the connection. Then, despite the pain she must have felt, she started pushing against him, thrashing in his arms and trying to get away from him. He did not have time to subdue her. With a thought, he infiltrated her mind and her body slumped against his.

A second later he lifted off the ground, Azriel with the bodies on his trail. The next, he opened the door to the slit in the Wall between their two worlds, the body in his arms weighing heavy as the distance drained him.

As he slipped through the slit, he allowed himself to feel the incessant buzzing of the Wall for the first time in a while–the all-consuming power of what was intended to keep them separate. He didn't allow himself to think about what it meant. About the girl he clutched to his chest, the pull finally having subsided. About the two lifeless human bodies, he had Azriel haul back. About the magic trailing him. About how he was about to lead it straight to Velaris. About what it meant for him or his people. About the High Lords and their decision.

For the first time in a while, all he concentrated on were those few cherished dreams had once had and the peace they had momentarily granted him. Peace he knew he would not have for a while.