#lord devlon fanfic

[astarlitsoul]

Morning Star

Azriel x OC

@starfallweek prompt: Character A is a fallen star, Character B finds them.

A/n: This is my first time posting on tumblr (Ik I'm a decade late) and my first time trying to write fanfic. I wanted to give this prompt from Starfall Week a try. I hope to make at least a second part bc I'm a sucker for a happy ending. Feedback is appreciated, I hope you enjoy.

This is set a year after ACOSF when the red star (likely Aelin) was seen by Rhysand on Starfall.

Warnings: Angst, blood, wounds (not too graphic), I think that's it...

Rhys had truly outdone himself this year. In anticipation of Nesta and Cassian’s wedding, the High Lord had created his largest guest list yet for the upcoming Starfall. The House of Wind had been undergoing preparations for the week prior to the holiday in preparation for all the guests. The residence was being readied to host the courtiers and their plus ones, the ruling families of allied courts, and Keir and Lord Devlon plus their ilk. Even the owners of businesses the Inner Circle frequented had been extended an invitation. 

Azriel had attended far more of the balls than he could remember. In his youth, Rhys, Cassian, and he would perch atop the roof of Rhys’ mother's house to watch the streaks of light until they dwindled away. In his adolescence, it was not uncommon for one of them, often Cassian, to bring their lover at the time and share kisses under the show. (Of course, the perpetrator would be teased to no end the following day.) More recently, as Rhys and Cass found their mates, Azriel found himself missing those days. He was happy for his brothers, and he loved his found sisters. But that didn’t change the feelings of unworthiness that were spurred when he was left without a date at event after event. 

In the recent weeks leading up to Starfall, these thoughts were the subject of Azriel’s dreams. The dreams were not nightmares, per se, which Azriel was well acquainted with. They all began with a depiction of a different Starfall from his youth. However, the good memories were soured when Rhys and Cassian would fall silent beside him atop the roof. Azriel would call out for them, but their eyes would remain glued to the sky as if seeing something he couldn’t. They pointed and murmured things he couldn’t hear before they grabbed him in an attempt to winnow away. 

Even now, as he flew home the morning before the holiday, he found himself thinking over the dreams. Lost in thought, he was surprised to find himself flying over the quaint cabin. He had subconsciously altered his flight path to pass the first home he’d known. Landing softly in front of Rhys’ mother’s house, he scanned his surroundings before entering. Assured that the sun was just beginning its ascent and that much of the world still slept, he entered the cabin. 

Strolling through the small foyer and into the kitchen, he observed just how worn it was. As boys, they did a number on the cabin, leaving lasting scuffs on the floor and permanent dents in their favorite chairs. He loved the damages now, seeing them for what they were. Signs of life, proof that joy and love had filled the space. Proof that even he had known joy and love. After walking through the small rooms, he exited and flew up to the roof. He told himself he wouldn’t get too comfortable, that he’d rest for only a few moments before heading to the House of Wind. Facing the spot where the sun threatened to rise from the ocean, he took in the orange and pink hues of the pre-dawn sky. While Velaris was mostly obscured by the trees, he could glimpse the city in the distance. 

His musings were interrupted by a rising feeling that moved from his stomach up behind his ribs. His shadows, which had settled into languid movements upon arrival at the cabin, began flaring out from him in a frenzy. He inhaled deeply at the foreign sensation, and it was then that he noticed the first star in the darkening sky. Azriel cocked his head at it. Prythian's brightest star — and the last to disappear each morning — should lay behind him in the sky. His confusion only grew as the star began flickering and growing.

No, not growing, approaching. The white-hot mass was careening towards him. He ducked, lying flush against the roof, his shadows making themselves scarce in the presence of the foreign glow. He closed his eyes against the brightness before he felt a wave of searing heat through his leathers as it passed overhead. Only when the light stopped attempting to shine through his shut lids, did Azriel open his eyes. Standing once more he looked himself over, then at his surroundings. Whatever it was had bowed the trees in its path, unobscuring the view to Velaris and leaving char marks and a glittering substance in its wake. 

Let us see. Let us investigate. A few of his shadows hovered in front of his face, and he permitted them to follow the path. Reaching for Truth-Teller, Azriel wracked his mind for any information he’d know of objects falling into their atmosphere. He’d gone with Rhys to see multiple experts about the upcoming celestial event. The High Lord was still shaken by the red star he’d seen during last year's Starfall. Yet none of the court’s prophets nor astronomers had forecast this. They’d all claimed the view on Starfall was set to be uninterrupted, that only good things would come from the spectacle. It was another reason that Azriel’s dreams confused him. And a reason why he didn’t mention it to his brothers.

There is blood, Master. So much blood. His shadows whizzed back to him, wrapping around his middle and tugging him in the direction of the foreign object. Taking to the sky, he spotted a clearing a few hundred feet behind the cabin that hadn’t been there before. Upon passing the last of the trees, Azriel drew up short and hovered over the sight. There were so few things that turned his stomach after centuries of horrors. But the sight of a body laying in the crater, a tangle of limbs and wings and branches and moss had the foreign feeling returning to his chest. Landing softly, he rolled the hilt of his dagger in his palm, a nervous tic of his. He stood at the edge of the crater and found his throat tightening as he took a closer look. 

The being was breathtaking, even as it lay limply in the ground. Pale blue feathers lay beneath the body, adorning wings that bent at a too-wrong angle. The being was dressed in nondescript robes of a darker blue hue, which now lay in tatters. Much of the flesh that wasn’t shredded, was obscured by long, curly locks of dark hair and a thick layer of glittering dust. His shadows were snaking their way towards the body, picking up some of the glistening flecks as they approached when they froze suddenly. 

Alive. But the breaths are too shallow. There is a great wound.

A faint groan escaped the being and he found himself stepping down into the crater. Precaution thrown to the wind, he saw no need to intimidate the dying creature. It appeared female, as he took in the soft facial features and shapely figure as she lay against the dark soil.

“Hello?” he asked gently. 

Another groan, then a cry as the being shifted. Tightening his grip on Truth-Teller, Azriel watched a shaky hand emerge from beneath a heap of feathers to reach for what he believed was a thigh. It was then he saw the wound. The Illyrian winds had been known to whisk away even the largest tents and banners, typically with sandbags and iron posts still attached. The stake of one of those posts was protruding through the leg, too close to the center for her femur to still be intact. 

“Hey hey hey,” he sputtered as he reached for the delicate hand hoping to prevent her from causing herself further harm. While he was no healer, he knew that the bones and arteries in the thigh posed a life threat when damaged. The moment his scarred hand closed around her wrist her eyes flew open. 

Time may as well have frozen. His eyes met her own, pools of a similar hazel but flecked with stardust. Within his chest, he felt a new ebb and flow. Not of his diaphragm as he remembered to breathe, but of his end of the mating bond that had awoken within him. He was shaken from the moment when another cry left her lips.

She began speaking frantically in a language he’d never heard as she attempted to move, her eyes jumping between his face, his shadows, his flared wings, and the weapon in his hand. Her feathered wings shifted again, as she attempted to free her other arm. Sheathing his dagger, he held up his hands, a sign that he meant no harm. Realizing the efforts to free herself were futile, the female stilled, throwing him a pleading look. 

He brought his hands towards the wound slowly, one hand steadying the bloodied stake before the other felt beneath her leg. Wherever the stake had come from, this piece had broken off when it caught in her leg. 

She must be moved. She will not last long. His shadows had been working their way around her form, through the hair, feathers, and tatters as they tried to gain a full picture for their master. A few of them brushed the hair off of her face, while others seemed to stroke her hand. Something in his chest squeezed at their report.

“Let me,” he gestured to himself, “help you.” He finished by making a scooping motion with his arms. Azriel had no idea if she understood his miming, or if the bond had come to life in her chest too, but she nodded once in agreement. He pushed an arm under her back gently, before leaning her torso up from the ground. Her face screwed in pain and he paused as she took a shaky breath. He ordered his shadows to steady the stake before pushing his arms under her legs as well.

Standing up, he took note of her limp wings. What he had believed were two large wings, were actually two sets of wings. Looking up at her face, he flared his shadows as he prepared to shadow-walk to Velaris. Once again, despite her ragged breathing and pained face, she nodded at him with resignment in her eyes. Azriel was unsure if she could feel it, but he tried to soothe her through the bond before he allowed his shadows to envelope them. He hoped that she was able to receive the calming waves he sent her, and none of the panic he felt as his mate’s blood soaked his leathers.

#starfallweek2024 #acotar #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #acotar oc #starfallweek #starfall #its my first post be nice plsss

[tadpolesonalgae]

Hey Tabby! how's your day going/ if you're reading this at night—how was your day? i hope you had a good one!

i think I saw you mention once that you don't get to read as many fanfics as you'd like to?(sorry if I'm remembering wrong tho🥲) so when you do, do you have preferences in ships or maybe AUs?

but I mainly wanted to ask if there were certain rarepairs(idk if I'm using the right term here, I'm kindof a noob when it comes to fanfic slang🥲even tho I've been reading them for years now) that you enjoy?

I once read a Feyre×Gwyn fic that I really enjoyed even though I'd never thought of the ship before/come across it. and then there were these 2 fics that were Feyre×Lucien that I really liked (but couldn't find more of🥲), which ik might sound kinda weird after acomaf but I think I'd read it right after the first book?? so😶... there are a few more that I can't think of at the moment but do you also have ships that might seem a little odd at first but you personally think have potential or are just a guilty pleasure?

also, what's your favourite ship to read or write about in general? thoughts about TamSand?(sorry if this has already been asked before)

—🫀

Hello hello!!

My back and fingers are aching but I’m good for the most part! I think my cycle is coming up though which I’m not looking forward to—I’ve been having trouble sleep this last week :/

‘i think I saw you mention once that you don't get to read as many fanfics as you'd like to?(sorry if I'm remembering wrong tho🥲) so when you do, do you have preferences in ships or maybe AUs?’

That was me, yes 🫠

So on the rare occasions I have the time and inclination to read fanfics, it’ll usually be by someone I trust? If that makes sense 😭 If I’m reading to relax, I want to know the writing will be good and the story will be enjoyable, so I’ll stick to people I trust for that. But if I have time and I’m interested in having a nose about, I’ll usually be more interested in female characters rather than the male ones (since, well, you know👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩🤭) I’ll also read some female character x female character fics instead of x reader from time to time if I can’t find anything new, but I struggle to find those too 🫠

‘but I mainly wanted to ask if there were certain rarepairs(idk if I'm using the right term here, I'm kindof a noob when it comes to fanfic slang🥲even tho I've been reading them for years now) that you enjoy?’

Girl I’m with you there, I have no idea about proper tags 🫠 I only recently (this week) found out apparently there’s a happy ever after tag? So people I guess can settle into a fic knowing the ending?

Anyway, I guess gwynlain? If I came across a fic with that pair I’d probably give it a go, but it’s not often my interests go in that direction :) though I’ll stay away from male x male character fics since they just rub me the wrong way for personal reasons—as a general rule :)

‘there are a few more that I can't think of at the moment but do you also have ships that might seem a little odd at first but you personally think have potential or are just a guilty pleasure?’

Not really, I don’t think? I mean again, I quite like gwynlain but I don’t frequently or actively search for things under that tag :)

I do think it’s fun however when people have their own corner of chaos where you can find some odd ones (I would consider Amarantha x Lord Devlon and odd one—though I don’t know if that actually exists or not 🤭)

‘also, what's your favourite ship to read or write about in general?’

Favourite ship to read would probably be Feysand? And to write about it would probably also be Feysand :) pretty straightforward 🧡💛

‘thoughts about TamSand?(sorry if this has already been asked before)’

I enjoy seeing fanart of it, but I think I’m more on the side of it would be nice if they began mending relations so neither of them have to constantly deal with their resentment to one another since I think it takes a lot of energy to hate someone :)

#🫀 anon <3 #🫀 #ships

[daevastanner]

Gwynriel WIP Announcement:

Tiktok trailer

Trial of the Valkyrie

By: Daevastanner

Beta-d by: rosebudmode and @frecklesandfiction

Release date: 4/09/2022 (midnight central 4/08/2022)

Post ACOSF the Valkyrie’s feud with Illyria after winning the Blood Rite is far from over

Rhysand went on, “The Illyrian Tribunal Magistrates, at the request of Lord Devlon, have issued an arrest warrant for Nesta Archeron and Gwyneth Berdara.” Gwyn’s breath caught. “For murder.”

Punishment is near certain for the two Valkyrie but there’s a way out

“There is an old Illyrian law that allows the male spouse or mate of the accused to accept the sentence on their wife or mate’s behalf.” Rhysand waved a hand at Cassian who had drifted closer to the back of Nesta’s seat at some point. “Once Cassian is given the sentence, he can invoke diplomatic immunity as the High Lord’s General and we will wash our hands of this situation. You cannot be tried again for the Blood Rite.”

The room went wholly still. Gwyn could’ve sworn that Emerie was holding her breath again.

Blinking owlishly as she tried to retain all the information, Gwyn finally responded, “I don’t have a husband.”

Ever one to come to the rescue, Azriel wastes no time in coming to his priestess friend’s aid

Shadows, thick and ominous, coiled around Azriel’s shoulders. “As Gwyneth Berdara’s husband, I invoke the right to accept whatever punishment is determined on her behalf.”

Gwyn faces her fears, confronts her demons; and Azriel must address his prejudices towards Illyria, the skeletons in his closet and his developing relationship with the priestess that challenges all ideas he’s ever had about love.

A canon compliant, marriage of convenience, fake dating, feature length fanfic with daily updates.

Inspired by the witch trial in Outlander

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #gwyn and azriel #gwynriel supremacy #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #acotar fanfiction #ao3 #gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel fic #acosf #acotar #azriel #Wattpad

[vidalinav]

All My Girls Like to Fight

Inspired by the song “All my girls like to fight” by Hope Tala

Summary: Devlon trains Nesta. Devlon’s POV

Disclaimer: I personally am on the fence about Nesta training because she’s more magically powerful (probably) than anyone else. However, I will not lie and say it does not intrigue me, because I tend to like anything involving Nesta Archeron. And, I think it would be cool to have her fight (and inevitable) and the sexual tension with Cassian would be through the roof if they ever trained together, which is just chef’s kiss* I just don’t like that Nesta learning to fight feels like she’s giving up more of her values, which doesn’t sit well with me, since she’s had to change so much already and not by choice. But the thought of Devlon being the one to train her satisfied all of the check boxes in my head because I could then work out subtly his own views about female’s fighting. That was very interesting and the fic practically wrote itself. 

Anyways.... here it is! 

General Masterlist, AO3, Fanfic

~

Devlon awoke to the sound of cutting air. It whirred and disappeared. Whooshed and was no more. He clamped his pillow to his ears, half-awake and in the middle of dreaming—some nonsensical dream that he knew he would not remember in the morning.

But the sound erupted again, this time a heavy clash, and his eyes burst open once more stinging.

He was going to murder the person who was at the training quarters this hour—never mind that it was his fault he lived so near. Every warrior, novice or no, knew that hours were reserved for early mornings until the sun completely set. Most males would be at home or a tavern somewhere. Those unlucky enough to be on watch, would be roaming above the forests scouting all that scuttled in the darkness.

But no one should be in the training fields.

Devlon slipped on his boots, not bothering to change, as he ripped the door open and met the ink and wind. He didn’t bother grabbing a weapon, sure as daylight that he’d scare the living wits out of the Illyrian with his presence alone. Probably a new trainee. Young, not knowing the rules. He was going to learn the rules today and he was going to learn them well…

But he did not find a young male, a boy. Not a trainee or a full-blown warrior.

On the dirt, where the mud still lingered from yesterday’s rain, was a girl…. A female. Her brassy hair shining in moonlight. Devlon stepped away at the sight of her.  

This… female.

This witch.

Only a true witch could conjure that bright of a moon or so Devlon thought as she held up the steel. It was much too big for her, probably too heavy by the way her arms shook lifting the sword. But she swung at the leather target in front of her, wobbling on her feet.

The witch barely made a dent in the arm, and as she swung again, Devlon had to clamp his mouth shut from yelling that she was holding the sword wrong in her palms. If she kept that up, she’d surely break her wrist, if not multiple body parts from where it would either slip from her grasps and land on her toes, or from where it would fly from her hands and hit someone else.

He was the only other being on this training field, so Devlon took several steps back.

The mistake he noticed was something he didn’t bother correcting the few girls he’d trained that morning. Their first lesson in swords and shields. And, if he did not do it then, Devlon would not deign to do so now.

That girl was the problem of the general. Though, Devlon wanted to scoff at the audacity of the commander criticizing his training of the females, when his own could not hold a sword.

In fact, Devlon wanted to go get the commander himself, present her before him as another way he was inadequate—stick it to him and that high lord of theirs. This is who you entrust to win wars.  

Instead, Devlon watched as she tried again, switching the blade to her other hand and waving her wrist as if it ached. He swallowed his tongue.

Oh no, he would not get involved in high court affairs.

~

The vexatious female had not stopped her pestering sword fight until early morning, and Devlon had punished the trainees for it. By the time the day had ended, the males were grumbling, wound tight and weary, and he could have sworn a few boys had thrown up behind the saunas.

Devlon had enjoyed their displeasure for he too was displeased. Annoyed. Irritated. Ready to pummel the commander in his next fight for bringing that blasted female to his camp.

Long past the evening was over, he was ready to forget it all, to sleep in his warm hut of a house, simple in its function. Ready for the night to overtake him and for the headache he’d had all day to stop pounding in his skull.

Devlon closed his eyes willing sleep to take him…  

The sound of clashing metal started again.

His body moved without a second thought.

He stormed out of his house, his eyes adjusting to the array of purples and blues alight from trembling stars. Devlon could see her head peak out from the ring, where the practice dummies had been scattered in each corner. Like the night before, he wanted to yell, scream, rage, drag her back to that commander who thought too much of himself.

But like the night before, the image of her, her vile grandeur, made his temper cease.

As he neared, Devlon noted that she wasn’t even on the mats at all. She was sitting on the ground, tapping the sword against a rock. Clack, Clack, Clack. Over and over. Screeching metal that had him gritting his teeth.

Her legs were spread wide in what he thought was far from ladylike, her white nightgown peeking through the fur.

What odd training leathers she had.

He watched as the young witch tipped her head back, her nose held high but not in that pompous way he’d seen before. Devlon followed her gaze all the way to the stars. The midnight beast blinking back its thousand eyes.

There was a story in a Illyria about the night. When he was younger he was half-afraid it would swallow him whole. All of his friends, his family, tumbling to the back of its throat. It was the only thing he’d ever truly been afraid of. Not the wars, the creatures of the forest, the cruelty of the fae, but of this inconsequential thing that stared down as if it were waiting for them. Waiting for them both here in these training fields.

Devlon shook away the ominous thought, turning back to the female who sighed audibly. She hiked up her skirt as she kicked up her boots, and he shifted his head quickly, shying away from the indecent exposure.

She picked up her sword, swinging it round and round, turning to one of the practice dummies. It was large and heavy, three times her size, with various pegs sticking out its trunk. She merely gave it a glare and hiked up the weapon.

What the witch did not know was that it was designed to move. If it was hit, one the arms would swing forward. Hit again, and another on the opposite side would move. It was to teach one to defend rather than to swing blindly.

Swing blindly, she did.

Her wrist was still angled at odd ends, but she managed to cut the leather on the figure’s side. Not a killing blow but perhaps enough to wound an enemy if they had not already maimed her from her lack of skill.

Except the sword got lodged in the wood at the same time one of the pegs moved towards her. The little witch couldn’t maintain her footing, and so the peg smacked her side.

She yelped and Devlon clasped his hand to his nose, shaking his head. Thinking of all the ways, she would hurt herself tonight.

He’d never get sleep...

So, Devlon cut his losses and went back to his hut, willing himself to forget all he’d seen.

~

There were bags under her eyes. The heavy grey, dark and shadowed. It reminded him that she was still just a human girl underneath it all. Devlon half-wondered what she might have been doing if she’d not been thrown into this strange new world where war was what they ate, what they breathed, what they awoke at dawn to pursue.

It was true that he liked to call the witch spoiled behind the commander’s back—in his head; when he grumbled under his breath. That spoiled princess kept in the general’s cabin, unseen, unheard of, but trapezing through the camp as if she belonged here—as if she was one of them. That beautiful, solemn witch who lived in the woods, who ate the dreams of the elders and the smiles of the young.

But she was not a witch. Not Illyrian, certainly. Perhaps, not fae. No longer human. Could not be called lesser fae though, because there was nothing lesser about the female who had ripped Hybern’s head from his body.

She did not show the same strength she had in those few days of the war. Devlon had seen her walking with those buckets and bandages, watching his comrades fall one by one as if she commanded their deaths, plucked their souls from their bodies. How terrifying it must have been for her? This young girl, who had not lived even half of their youngest citizen.

He trained warriors for a near millennium who came back with lost limbs, lost friends, lost sanities, but what did she lose? What did she even have to lose? This little witch who had experienced nothing.

“Your wrist—” He spoke at last, his words rough to his own ears. She stared up at him, eyes widening then down at the sword in her hand. “You’ll break it if you keep bending it like that.”

He watched as she stubbornly gripped the handle tighter, turning her back to him and swinging at the practice dummy again. It swung from the momentum and the girl—female—witch—stepped back unable to keep her footing.

Dead, he thought. If she were in a battle she’d be dead.

“And your stance needs work,” He added sardonically. She huffed in reply. But Devlon was not finished. She had kept him up with her pestering noise for six days. He was tired.

“Why do you want to train?” he demanded because he truly needed to know. Why the late nights and the early mornings? Why punch when she didn’t know how? Why use a sword she could barely hold upright? He was tired of not knowing why she walked through the training fields as if it were a war zone and she was wading through the bodies.

Why fight at all?

She could be sheltered, taken care of, happily ensconced in an estate somewhere, with the general himself even if that last day in the war was any indication.

But the witch did not answer his question. Instead, she adjusted her grip, widening her stance, and holding the sword as if she was holding some sporting bat he’d seen the children play with.

“Incorrect,” he voiced allowed, circling her form.

She huffed but moved her left foot forward and her right slightly back, though he gave her no directions to do so.

“Incorrect!”

“Then why don’t you tell me what is correct?” She answered, harshly.

“Why don’t you ask?” He provoked.

But she lunged at him with the sword.

He quickly stepped out of her way and gave her a look, “Too easy.”

She tried again, and he stepped to the side. She hit the rope and it cut in half.

“You are not doing anything but tiring yourself.”

“Shut up!” She yelled, fury spitting out of her words.

Fine.

He remained silent as she ambled towards him, huffing along the way. Devlon crossed his arms, raising a brow and when she swung again, he grabbed the sword from her hands.

It was easy… because she was holding it wrong.

Devlon waited. The little witch glared, raising her head to meet him in the eyes.

Her face was red. Her hair, wild. Her eyes, gleaming. And, for a moment she reminded him of the night sky. The imminent danger of someone inconsequential…

Devlon held out the sword to her, the handle ready for her palm. She glanced at it, then back at him.

The female pursed her lips, looking as though she did not want to accept his gift, but Nesta grabbed the weapon firmly.

Why do you want to fight? He’d asked her.

“No one else can fight for me.”

~ “Join the ranks tomorrow,” Devlon commanded, crossing his arms, “At a decent hour, this time.”

“You can’t be serious,” Nesta exclaimed, dropping the sword on the ground. Devlon sniffed at that. That would be their next lesson it seemed, how to treat weapons with the respect they were due.

For now, he settled on tapping a foot. His patience dimming with the lack of sleep. A headache was already beginning to form as the little witch crossed her arms, lifting her shoulders in a way that had him thinking she must have had wings in another lifetime—in another form.  

In any case, she could not be more irritated than him and Devlon rose to the challenge, “In a real battle, you will not be fighting training dummies.”

Nesta scoffed, her eyes widening as she began to make big, dramatic gestures with her hands, “They’ve trained all their lives. They’ll pummel me.”

“Perhaps, but that is the risk you take in any fight,” He breathed; the words coated in sincerity. “The males won’t take it easy on you, surely. Might even try harder to win. After all, no one wants to be beaten by a mere wisp of a female, but no enemy in war will spare you or wait for you to be ready. Either they best you and you end up with a few bruises or you learn to hit first.”

She took a deep breath, her nostril flaring in that way he knew meant she wanted to yell and so Devlon went on.

“You have kept me up for three weeks. I have taught you basic forms, stances, how to punch, how to kick, how to use your body against someone larger. I cannot teach you anymore. You must fight.”

“Is that all it takes? A few punches and a kick and someone’s ready to rage war.”

“No,” He called, scenting the fear. “But if you don’t fight, you don’t learn. There are some things only experience can teach you.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but Devlon raised a hand.

“I won’t force you to go.” She clamped her mouth shut, her shoulders relaxing. “But know that if you don’t go, I’m not training you any longer. Our lessons stop here.”

Devlon watched as she gulped down her arguments, the silence tangible in the height of the witching hour.

Nesta looked past him, up to the stars.

If she saw her answers hidden in the cosmos, he wanted her to say it aloud, get this night over with and settled. But she closed her eyes, clenching her fists.  

When she opened them again, he saw the grey flash in the darkness.

A newborn star, he thought.

Bright and burning.

“Fine,” She huffed, picking up the sword.

~

When Nesta walked into the training quarters the morning after next, Devlon was almost surprised.

This time instead of nightgowns and fur coats or sweats she’d hastily thrown on, she wore training leathers. But even if she walked with arrogance of a queen, he could still see the apprehension in her gait. Perhaps, it had something to do with the commander and the shadowsinger who looked on, eyebrows crinkling.

He supposed he picked a wrong day for her to join legion training, because well… both of them were here. Usually, Devlon had advanced warning of these visits but it seemed that the commander hadn’t bothered telling him that the shadowsinger would be making his rounds, spying on their progress.

At their gazes, at all of their gazes including the males who started to whisper under their breaths, the witch lifted her chin. Tall and impressively indifferent.

Learn to examine them, he’d told her. The foot they favor. The side they use the most. The weapons they’re most skilled at. That is what you learn by being in the ring, by facing them head on.

Learn to use what you know—what you are.  

Nesta had no problem at finding weaknesses, he found, as she surveyed them all, but they had no problem leering, sneering, and jeering at her. The males closest to the general began to step aside, and the ones far enough away moved closer to see his reaction.

But Nesta didn’t bother looking at Cassian, instead she stepped towards him. Her arms crossing in that petulant way of hers.

“I’m here,” She huffed.

“I can see that,” he said, giving her a dry look.

His lack of directions seemed to annoy her, because she looked away, not succeeding to hide the roll of her eyes. Devlon could feel the headache already forming.

“We’ll start with drills,” He began, “Laps around the field, running through stances, and then hand-to-hand combat.”

The witch nodded her head, moving to join the males who straightened as she walked towards them.

She looked… small in comparison.

But small in the way that he imagined a venomous snake hid on the forest floor or a bushel of nightshade might disguise itself in grand bouquets. She was dangerous, he knew. They all knew, though they didn’t know exactly what chaos hid beneath her skin or how it might destroy them all had she been displeased with them.

The general sidled up to him, the shadowsinger ever close and present, and Devlon inwardly sighed. Both of them watching Nesta begin to run laps.

“When did she start this?” He asked, his tone outrageous and cynical.

“I don’t know what else to tell you, besides the fact that she lives in your house. If you don’t know when she started this, I’ll have to point out your lack of perception.”

“When did she start this?” The commander snarled. Devlon did not care for the tone.

“You. Tell. Me.” He offered slowly, tilting his head, waiting for the male to answer. “If you don’t know where she’s been, then how would I know? She was left to you wasn’t she?”

“Nesta can go wherever wants.”

“Then it seems we’re at a standstill, because you allowed her to roam freely but apparently were not clever enough to spy. Or is that why the shadowsinger is here?”

The hotheaded commander sneered as Azriel, the surprising voice of reason, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Just ask her, Cass?”

Cassian shrugged him off. “Why is she here, then?”

He thought that was obvious. “Because she made the choice to train.”

“She doesn’t know how to fight.”

Devlon grinned.

“Then maybe you should have trained her.”

The general’s face turned a special shade of red as his wings spread wide, but Devlon merely turned away. Watching as the little witch ran circles around the ring.

~

“I have to fight him?” She asked, pointing her index lightly to the male who grunted as he lifted a set of heavy weights.

“You don’t have to fight him,” Cassian interjected. “There’s no logical reason for this.”

Devlon tapped his foot. Even the shadowsinger looked as if he’d rather be somewhere else. “Experience is the best teacher.”

Nesta made a face, unconvinced.

“It will teach you your weaknesses.”

Her voice rose incredulously. “What weaknesses?” She asked.

Devlon raised a hand to his nose, the endless questions wearing down his patience. But he began with the truth anyways. “You favor your right side, but you’re left-handed, so you get off balance easily. You get tired too fast and end up winded before you hit anything vital. You clearly favor a sword, but all of the ones we have are too heavy for you to lift…”

The witch crossed her arms, a frown appearing on her face.

“But those things can be trained out of you… What cannot is the way you think too much before you swing. You second guess yourself before you punch. You’re too trapped in that head of yours and either you understand that you have to hit, or you understand that someone will beat you before you get the chance because you’re too busy thinking about the success of each outcome.”

Devlon watched as Nesta straightened her stance.

“I cannot teach you how to fight for yourself.”

He looked her dead in the eyes, knew and understood what she’d said that day, knew she remembered by the clench of her jaw. But, Nesta lifted a casual shoulder, noting Cassian and Azriel who watched the discourse with rapt attention.

“You’ve been watching me.”

“We should all know our enemies.” He pointed to the male, Aedon, a novice set to complete the Rite this year, who was used to being bullheaded and arrogant. “That male, right now, is your enemy.”

The little witch nodded in concession, and the commander scoffed, looking all too defeated for someone who’d barely argued for his cause. Perhaps, he knew he didn’t have one or at least one that Nesta would listen to.  

She sidled up to the platform as the male, noticing her stare made his way. A swaggering prick who Devlon knew wanted to intimidate her. They would all do that at one point or another, he warranted, he grasped as the rest of the males seemed to forget they were supposed to be training themselves. They crowded around the mats; the boundaries separated by ropes.  

Cassian and Azriel too, made their way to watch the fight unfold.

It seemed that many of the trainees were making bets, though they hushed quietly as he neared.

Nesta ignored the rest, only looking to the male who wrapped his hands in white gauze.

“You’re a small thing,” he noted, unhelpfully.

The little witch lifted a brow. “I’d say you’re a large thing, but I think it’s only your head.”

Aedon huffed a laugh, and though his eyes lit up with amusement, something else settled in. Something darker and foreboding.

It was a look Devlon had seen before. A look he’d seen on many of his warriors.  

“I’ll make sure not to hit your face,” the male mocked.

Nesta looked at him confused, but Aedon took that as an opportunity to lung, kicking his foot out until Nesta was lying on the ground. He heard the crack as her shoulders slammed into the platform and he hoped, in some deep part of him, past the part that said he didn’t care at all, that it was the wood that splintered and not her spine.

She gasped loudly as she placed a hand on her chest, but no one came to help her move. It would’ve been shameful to do so. This female who wanted to fight with the warriors.

She did this to herself he imagined them thinking. Because it was that thought that immediately entered his mind. She chose this.

Get up, Devlon wanted to shout. Get. Up!

The shadowsinger held the commander back, though what he could have done Devlon didn’t know. Pummel the male who hit her when she willingly entered the match?

After learning everything he knew about this witch, he doubted she’d appreciate the gesture.

“You want to play with the big boys?” Aedon spit, “You get hit.”

He tutted lowly. “Do you need a minute, princess, or are you used to being on your back?”

Devlon didn’t dare show his own rage, but he grasped the rope, his fists clenching around the thick string until he felt he might rip it off himself. The feeling surprised even him.

But Nesta twisted herself upright, turning to the male with bright, furious eyes.

Nesta lunged and when he punched, she ducked, grabbing his arm. She used her weight until he was sprawled on the floor, but he reached out to grab her leg and she fell to her knees. She tried to kick him off, but he was larger, heavier, and it didn’t take much to pull her backwards until she was on the floor with him on top of her. He punched once, his fists landing on her cheekbone.

Aedon walked off, grabbing a towel he’d hung on the rope. Nesta cradled her cheek, kissing the mat with her body. While he waited, Aedon began tapping his foot. Tap. Tap. Tap. Over and over until Devlon, himself, could hear the noise ringing in his ears.

Nesta turned to face him and no one else.

She sauntered up to him slowly, serpentine and vile. Her eyes getting darker, her mouth set in a thin line. And Aedon laughed. Lowly at first, but the sound began to rise in pitch until it sounded maniacal and deranged.

This time, Aedon sprung forward, but Nesta was quick on her feet, and she moved just enough to grab his arm and twist it behind him. In this position, the male bowed before them and Nesta kicked out her foot.

He fell to the ground, twisting quickly to face her, but Nesta didn’t let him move. She ambled on top of him, her legs on either side of his torso and she hit. And hit. And hit. Until his face was bleeding, and her fists were drenched in the male’s blood.

Still she hit and the awaiting Illyrians did nothing but watch the young warrior play with the big boys.

Cassian shrugged off the shadowsinger, bending through the ropes around the ring. Devlon watched as he hoisted Nesta off the male by the waist. Her face was red and ferocious, and she began to fight the commander as well. But he didn’t let her go. Not until she had stopped fighting, stopped kicking, stopped punching, and she took deep, gasping breaths.

She stared at the male on the ground, wiping her forehead with her arm, the blood smearing on her face like war paint and she must have finally noticed all of the males looking at her. Some in doubt of what they just witnessed, others in outrage that she had the guts. Devlon didn’t know what his expression looked like, though he tried to school it into plain indifference.

The little warrior looked to the commander once more, who braced himself, his wings expanding wide. Ready to take her punches or fly her off, Devlon wasn’t sure, but he wanted to see. A mere curiosity at what the general would do.

But Nesta slipped past him, past them all with her shoulders pushed back and her head raised high. She looked to him then, her gaze harsh.

“Are we done?”

Devlon turned his gaze back to the warrior who’d bragged about his skill and was defeated so easily. “For now.”

She left without a second glance and Devlon could only nod to the male dripping blood on his mats, “wipe your face.”

~

Devlon found the young female in the infirmary. A tent the size of a small room that many warriors chose not to even step in, in fear that they would look weak to their comrades. The general and the shadowsinger were already there.

Azriel turned to the corner, blending with the shadows as Devlon so often noticed. Distantly, he could see him crushing some herbs, though the action did not make him look inconspicuous. Rather, it seemed he was trying to give the other two privacy at the same time he was eavesdropping. Cassian ran amuck, grabbing bandages and band aids and tea, though Nesta looked perfectly fine to him, besides a wound on her face.

Devlon wanted to sigh at the two of them. Pups still, even if they were over five hundred and had ended more lives than the years they’d lived.

Cassian laid an icepack under Nesta’s eye, where her cheek was red and blistering. She’d have a bruise in the morning probably...

Even some wounds couldn’t heal fast enough for the fae.

But, Nesta angled away from him as she hissed, grabbing the pack from his hands. The commander frowned but let her take control, though he remained hunched, his wings drooping to the floor.

His gaze laid solely on hers and Devlon felt... uncomfortable—conscious that the moment was between the two of them and perhaps not for two Illyrian busybodies who’d stumbled on this place for the same reason. To see exactly what would befall the two when disaster seemed to always follow.

“I wanted to teach you how to fight,” He admitted, unsure of his words.

Nesta didn’t bother looking at him.

“It wasn’t your decision.”

“And Devlon is...”

“He’s an asshole,” she said. Devlon gave her a bland look, though she made no move to take notice of him standing in the middle of the tent like an outright buffoon. “But he’s honest... and he doesn’t treat me any different from anyone else.”

Cassian shook his head, his expression pained. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that you couldn’t... tell me that you were...wanted to train. I--” His eyebrows cinched in that way Devlon remembered he’d do when he was young. All too afraid of being exactly what they called him.

“It wasn’t about you,” the little warrior answered harshly. The commander straightened at her stare, poignant but not malicious.

Honest.

Brutally so.

And perhaps that was what the general needed to hear, after all. What they all needed to hear for they all knew what the little witch meant. That the ability to choose was perhaps more powerful than the opportunity itself. That she had chosen, invariably, to wander in the middle of the night, to pick up a sword, to keep swinging and hitting and punching, to fight whether she knew how or not.

Nesta had chosen this. No one else could have convinced her.

Nesta turned to him then and lifted the icepack from her cheek.

“He said he wouldn’t hit my face,” She grumbled.

Devlon blinked, surprised at her words. “Did that appease you somehow?”

The female angled her head, thinking it over.

“No...” She declared somberly, “Bruises that you can’t see are still bruises.”

At the tone, Devlon began to shuffle uncomfortably once more, though he stayed as the witch grimaced. Cassian moved to switch her icepack to one wrapped in cloth, the liquid dripping on to the leather.

But Devlon couldn’t help stepping forward. Didn’t know why he did.  

“You fought like an Illyrian today.”

Cassian and Azriel raised their heads. Devlon tried not to care too much, though he wanted to yell at them to run more drills as if they were still in his warband five hundred years before, fresh and almost too squeaky clean.

“Like a male,” he continued.

Nesta made a disgruntled face, displeased with his choice of words. “You just haven’t seen enough females fight.”

Devlon shrugged a shoulder. “I haven’t seen enough females want to fight. You are a rare exception.”

She lifted a brow and then grimaced at the gesture. She’d done that twice already, as if she kept forgetting that she was in pain. Devlon smiled in spite of himself.

But she pursed her lips anyway, looking to the tent that surrounded them, the purple fabric mimicking purple skies. He wondered if she could see straight through, feel the weight of the atmosphere like a bandage on a wound. Like that icepack on her face.

“Your world is too small if you believe that,” She spoke.

Devlon opened his mouth to refute, but Nesta held up her hand, silencing his argument.

“Are we training tomorrow?” She asked, though she must have known the answer.

“At the crack of dawn.”

Nesta began gesturing dramatically.  

“That’s so early,” She whined. Devlon scoffed in outrage.

But at the look, Nesta merely smiled. Small and perhaps just a tilt of her lips, but unafraid. A wild look in her eyes as if she enjoyed the teasing... the prospect of training... of being someone they didn’t expect.

Inconsequential to the naïve. Imminently powerful to the rest.

Perhaps this time, Devlon wouldn’t mind training the girls... Might even look forward to it.  

~

Tags: @ekaterinakostrova, @soitsgorgeous, @duskandstarlight, @pizzaneverdisappoints, @imwritingthesewords, @arin1030, @adelainejdevyn, @thebluemartini, @nahthanks, @laylaameer01

~

I wanted Nesta to make the choice to fight, and I definitely didn’t want it to be a decision on behalf of anyone else, because Nesta has had enough people take away her autonomy. But I also wanted the choice to fight to directly relate to her making a choice to fight for herself. And so at the end there, she may not be as skilled as everyone else realistically, she may not even know what fighting will cost her, but she’s angry and she’s tired and she’s going to fight and she’s going to fight to win.

Also, Devlon is a really cool character to me, but in this fic I wanted to make his lack of allowing women to fight be more complicated than just traditional sexism. So, I thought to make half of his treatment towards women because of his traditionalistic views that haven’t been challenged, and the other half, the contention, be because of having been told by Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian that he must train the females and the females must train or else. Rhys and Azriel and Cassian chose to do the blood right, these girls are being told they have to learn to fight. So I thought, here lies the great hypocrisy of being like we need to make this camp more equal, but the way we’re going to do that is by taking another decision away from the women. I just thought maybe Devlon would willingly help Nesta because she made the choice to want to train—might even admire and respect that about her and in turn this would be the spark to change. Nesta indirectly influencing the others. 

One day I will stop writing essay length analyses of my own writing lol but today is not the day. I’m going to work on my Eris fic now and get that posted soon!

Comment, Reblog, Like or all three if you liked and want to see more fics posted! If you don’t like... don’t tell me lol 

But also, Happy Reading and almost release day!!! It’s getting closer at least. Keep holding out! I know we’re all going a bit stir crazy... 

#nessian #nesta archeron #devlon #cassian #acosf #nessian fanfiction #acotar #vidalinav #nesta x cassian #cassian x nesta #acowar #acomaf #acofas #acomaf fanfiction #feyre archeron #fanfiction #nesta #my writing

[cinaja]

Before the Wall - part 15

An acotar fanfic on the time of the War. For the summary and the entire story, click here

Disclaimer: The world and the characters belong to sarah j maas

TW: Suicide (not explicit)

----

There was no keeping what happened during the battle secret. Not when every healer saw Miryam run off and the Illyrians are, apparently, able to sense witches and have been close to revolt ever since they found out that one of the camp`s commanders is one.

Jurian feels horrible. He is well aware that this situation is almost entirely his fault. Miryam‘s most closely guarded secret is secret no longer. And she could have died. All because he pushed her.  (Although if he is entirely honest, a part of him is also glad that it went this way. At least Miryam stopped hiding from her own power and can perhaps begin to use it properly. He doesn`t dwell on these thoughts too long, though, because they always make him feel like a prick.)

It is a good thing that the post-battle clean-up keeps Jurian extremely busy. That way, at least, he has reason to stay away from Miryam without having to admit to himself that he is too ashamed to face her. Instead, he gets into a fight with three Illyrians for hissing insults at her and sentences ten of his own soldiers to guard duty when he overhears them wondering if they want a half-Fae witch in their midst.

But - and this is the true surprise - the people hissing insults are outnumbered by far by those who seem awed by the news. He overheard more than one of them whispering of a blessing, a gift from the gods. It`s better than the others, but still somehow unsettling. 

„Jurian.“

He turns around to face Tia, who is running towards him, waving a letter.

„This just arrived from the Alliance“, she says.

„For me?“

„And Miryam.“ Tia winks at him. “But I thought I‘d deliver it to you and have you tell her.“ Jurian takes a face at her. Tia grins. „What? I didn`t watch you dance around each other for months only for you to bolt because you messed up once.“

Jurian snatches the letter out of her hand. He inspects the sear, then rips it open and scans the content. He curses softly. Now he is really going to have to talk to Miryam. He doubts it will be a pleasant conversation, though.

„I have to go“, Jurian says.

„Have fun!“, Tia calls after him.

Jurian makes a rather rude gesture over his shoulder. Miryam, fortunately, seems to be in her tent, saving him from having to search the entire camp for her. He hesitates for a moment before entering. There are voices coming from the inside.

“-will cover that order”, Miryam is saying, “With the battle, no one will even question it.”

“So we`re out of trouble?”, Mor asks, sounding relieved.

“Which”, Mor`s cousin cuts in, “is sheer dumb luck, Mor.”

“Oh, shut up!”

Jurian has to admit, he`s curious. He`d love to remain standing before the entrance, but he has already crossed one line lately. Eavesdropping on a private conversation (especially with lots of Fae who are likely to catch him) doesn`t seem like the smartest move. Besides, he has news to deliver.

Everyone turns to Jurian as he enters. Mor and her cousin exchange a look.

“We were just leaving”, Mor says.

She takes her cousin by the arm and shoves him out of the tent. Miryam smiles wryly, Jurian shakes his head.

“Do they think”, he asks, “that we don`t notice what they are doing?”

“Oh, I´m sure they just don`t care.”

Jurian grins, but sobers quickly. “About the camp talk…”, he begins, but is unsure about how to continue.

Miryam`s face tightens. “Don`t worry about it”, she says, “I always knew it would happen. Honestly, I`m surprised they aren`t calling for my head.”

Jurian clenches and unclenches his fingers. He`s already trying to come up with a way to shut down the talk, no matter what Miryam says. He knows, though, that this will be damn near impossible once the news pass beyond their camp, which is bound to happen anytime now.

“You should be angry with me”, he says.

“Maybe. But I`m not.” Jurian is about to reply, but she shakes her head. “Can we just drop it? Please?”

Jurian sighs and holds up the letter. “They set the time for the meeting.”

He didn`t think that Miryam could grow any tenser, but she does. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?” Now, Miryam is staring at him with wide eyes, like she is searching for a hint of a lie. Unfortunately, Jurian is telling the truth.

“At least by then, news of your abilities likely won`t have broken yet.” It`s a piss-poor attempt at comforting her, but he really can`t think of anything else.

“She`ll be there”, Miryam says softly.

Carefully, Jurian reaches out for her hand. “You won`t be alone”, he says, “I`ll be with you and it will be fine.”

Miryam nods, but the look in her eyes tells her that she sees straight through his empty words. Because Jurian may be going with her to the meeting, but he is no politician. During the discussions, she will be on her own.

----

Drakon is not having a pleasant day. He thought it couldn`t get much worse after the nightmare of a meeting he had this morning with Sinna and the commander of the unit the Alliance sent to replace them. They are from Prythian, with membranous bat-like wings. So far, Drakon‘s experiences with their new allies have been... difficult. In their meeting, the Illyrian leader kept sneering at Drakon and calling him boy – which was still polite compared to how he treated Sinna. Unsurprisingly enough, the meeting ended with the Illyrian`s nose broken and Drakon having to keep Sinna from killing the male.

In the two hours since the meeting ended, he was already called in to break up three fights between his soldiers and the new ones. (Sinna seems more inclined to start fights than to stop them these days, so he is stuck playing peacemaker.)

This round through the camp seems to be going better than the last one, though. It looks like the soldiers learned to stay out of each other`s way at last. Besides, Drakon and his soldiers will be leaving tomorrow so the tentative peace won`t have to last long, anyways.

Drakon reaches the waste disposal area. It seems like the now soldiers are already digging new latrines. Drakon looks into the hole in construction and is surprised to find only one soldier working inside.

“Where are the others?”, he asks, “Surely you aren`t supposed to dig the latrine all on you own?”

The soldier puts down his shovel and gives Drakon a wild grin. “Oh, I`m more than enough for one such hole.”

He seems far more pleasant than the other Illyrians Drakon met so far. Younger, too, which is somewhat refreshing. (These days, Drakon is usually surrounded by people at least a hundred years his senior.)

“Want me to help you?”, Drakon offers, “Otherwise, you`ll be busy until past midnight.”

“You volunteer to spent your afternoon digging through hard dirt?” The Illyrian laughs. “Well, I can`t save you from yourself, then.”

Drakon takes that as a yes. He grabs a shovel that is lying next to the hole and jumps down. From there, he gets a better view of the male. There are seven red stones – syphons? – glinting on his armour. From what Drakon gathered, the amount of stones is usually related to a person`s rank.

„What did you do“, he asks, „to end up in this shithole?“

The male snorts at the pun. „Was born a bastard.“ He shrugs, grinning, „And mouthed off to Lord Devlon about getting his nose broken by a female.“

Drakon frowns. „If you knew half of the females I‘ve met, you wouldn‘t be surprised.“

The Illyrian laughs. „Oh, I know my fair share of scary females, too, so I wasn‘t surprised. But for Devlon, getting pummelled by a female is a new experience for him. Almost a pity you guys are leaving - maybe someone would be able to beat some sense into that thick head of his.“

„Well, as someone who has been stuck here for months, I`m looking forward to leaving.” Drakon thinks back to the look on Lord Devlon`s face after Sinna punched him and adds, “Although watching Sinna break that guy‘s nose might have been worth staying a while longer.“

“On first name basis with your general.“ The Illyrian whistles softly and throws a shovel of dirt out of the latrine. “You‘re highborn, aren‘t you?“

Drakon nods, unwilling to say any more on it. Maybe it‘s stupid, but it is freeing to be a normal person for once, instead of the Prince of Erithia. Like he isn‘t responsible for thousands of lives. The Illyrian seems to consider his answer for a moment, then nods.

„Where were you stationed before this?“, Drakon asks, happy to steer the conversation into a different direction.

„Further south.“ He wrinkles his nose. „Fighting these Black Land bastards. Fire magic really is no fun. You?“

„I‘ve been stuck here.“ Well, except for his brief visits to the other parts of the army and Erithia. „But we‘re leaving due north tomorrow. I can‘t say I‘m sorry to be leaving this place.“

The Illyrian laughs. „Oh, I can imagine. I‘ve been here for a day and already want to leave. It‘s-“ A bucket full of dirt hits him square in the face, cutting him off. Drakon spins around to the source of the attack.

„Hey, bastard!“, a voice shouts from above. Three Illyrians are standing at the edge of the latrine. „Enjoying eating dirt?“

Drakon frowns up at them. „Leave him be.“

„What is it to you?“, one of the Illyrians asks.

He kicks a bunch of dirt into the pit, but it bounces off harmlessly on the shield Drakon set up. For a second, he is sorely tempted to let the dirt they shovelled out of the pit in the last hours bury the soldiers under them. Unfortunately, getting into a fight with your allies is not a very prince-like thing to do. (Bad enough if Sinna does it.)

So instead, he does the mature thing and says, „I generally do not permit soldiers in my camp to provoke fights. So if you aren‘t here to help, I‘d suggest you leave.“

„Your camp?“, one of the soldiers snorts. “Sure. That`s why you`re digging around in the dirt.”

Drakon really doesn`t like most Illyrians, he decides. “Well, someone needs to dig the latrine, unless you`d prefer to take a shit in the middle of the camp”, he says, “And I`d not be a very good commander if I asked my soldiers to do something I`m not ready to do myself, would I?”

The soldiers exchange looks. Drakon is pretty sure that none of their leaders ever bothered with such undignified tasks. But they seem unwilling to risk a punishment, so they leave with barely any complaint.

Drakon turns back to his companion, who is watching him with raised eyebrows.

“You`re Prince Drakon of Erithia?”, he asks.

“Would you believe me if you said I`m not?”

The Illyrian laughs. “No.” He picks his shovel back up. “Well then, Your Highness. Better get back to work.”

----

Miryam barely recognizes herself in the mirror. If she thought she was dressed up for previous meetings, it is nothing compared to this. 

The dress was a gift by the Grand Duke of Sangravah. It is all flowing silk, midnight black yet shimmering in the light. Around the hems, there are silver embroideries. With it came a necklace of diamonds glowing like stars and a diadem.

It makes Miryam look less like a girl of nineteen and more like a grown female. More than that. It makes her look like she belongs with these royals. An impression that couldn`t be more wrong.

From where he is sitting on her desk, Kiel lets out a shriek and puffs up his feathers. Miryam turns around to the bird.

“You`re wondering what I`m doing, aren`t you?”, she whispers, “Well, I don`t know either.”

Before she can change her mind and bolt as her entire body is screaming at her to, she steps out of the tent and into the camp. A bunch of passing soldiers stop short to stare at her. Jurian stops speaking in what appeared to be the middle of a conversation with Tia. Miryam blushes.

A few soldiers begin whispering amongst each other. “Witch”, Miryam hears, and “Gods-blessed”. She doesn`t know which word she loathes more. Before this can go any further, she steps towards Jurian. She doesn`t miss Tia giving him a nudge and Jurian quickly snapping back to attention.

“Let`s go”, Miryam says quietly.

Mor is tasked with winnowing them to the meeting place, although she herself is not invited to participate. She holds out her hand to Miryam.

“You look stunning”, she says, “Go show those pricks their place.”

Miryam manages a shaky smile, then Mor winnows them away. When they reappear, Mor only gives her hand a quick squeeze before she vanishes again, leaving Miryam and Jurian on their own.

The meeting is held in the Continent‘s neutral meeting space - a palace that was built by some long-ago king in the middle of a huge lake. It has been long since abandoned and after the three bordering territories spent centuries fighting over the island, it has been declared neutral ground.

The guards waiting at the gate belong to every territory, but it has been chosen that Alliance members are searched by Loyalist guards and vice versa. Miryam hands her dagger to a guard and then tries to keep a neutral look on her face as the guard begins searching her, hands lingering a bit too long for comfort. Next to her, Jurian looks like he considers punching the guard searching him. (Miryam wonders if it was perhaps a mistake to bring him along.)

But then, they are through the control. A far more friendly-looking guard points them to a glittering crystal bowl standing just before the entrance. Miryam takes a knife lying next to is and presses it agains ther palm lightly. A drop of blood wells up and falls into the bowl.

„I swear that while I am on these grounds, to do no harm to anyone here, not by action or intention. I swear it on my life and on my blood.“

The blood in the bowl turns to blinding light. Rays of it shoot up into the air and merge with the wards that encircle the palace. They are more complicated than any Miryam has ever seen. Far too complicated for her to ever understand. But when Miryam steps forward, the wards move aside to allow her through. A step behind her, Jurian whistles softly as they step into the foyer.

„Well, this is certainly impressive“, he mutters, looking up at the high ceiling and the ornate admonishments. Miryam nods, although she can‘t say she is overly impressed. Unlike Jurian, she has seen her fair share of Fae architecture and while she can usually still appreciate its beauty, today, the thrill is lost on her.

She barely spares her surroundings more than a glance and instead focuses on the assembled Fae. Her eyes scan the room with practiced ease, but the Black Land‘s delegation is not there yet. (A brief reprieve, Miryam knows. Still, she can‘t help feeling relieved.) There are other familiar faces, though.

Miryam knows most leaders of the Continent‘s bogger territories at least by sight. She recognises the Xian empress, dark-haired and light-skinned. She is deep in conversation with the Raskan king. Further off, she spots the current leader of Montesere‘s High Council, who is glowering at Jurian.

He isn‘t the only royal to spot their arrival. Quite a few turn and stare, some snarling, others seeming more curious than angry. Miryam lifts her chin and loops her arm through Jurian‘s. At the end of the room, she spots some of the other Alliance delegates and makes to lead Jurian towards them.

But before they are even halfway across the room, two females step into their pass. Jurian stiffens immediately. It takes Miryam a few seconds longer than him to recognize them. It‘s the red hair that makes the memory stir at the end - something she remarked already during the battle  two days ago.

„Look at that“, one of the females drawls. She is the less beautiful one of the two, but somehow more terrifying. Not that it fazes Miryam much - even General Amarantha of Hybern could never even come close to Ravenia. „Two dirty little humans“, the General continues, „thinking they can hold up with their betters.“

Her mouth curles into a smile. Miryam‘s every instinct shouts at her to run at this smile. Or at the very least to lower her head, bow quickly. Make herself invisible. Instead, she squares her shoulder and smiles back.

„And here I was, thinking we were here because you had trouble holding up with us.“

Jurian rasps a laugh. „It certainly looked like it during our battle two days ago.“

Now, that is a blatant lie. They would have gotten their asses kicked if the Hybern soldiers hadn‘t run when that witch`s spell failed. The moment of surprise really did save them. Miryam doubts it will work a second time, though.

Still, the second female. -Clythia, Amarantha‘s younger sister, more beautiful but just as cruel - now watches Jurian with interest. There is an intensity in her gaze that makes Miryam bristle.

„So you are the General who pushed our armies back?“, she asks, „An impressive feat.“ Amarantha scoffs and Clythia pats her arm without tearing her gaze away from Jurian. „You must be a fine General.“

„Now, now. It‘s hardly skill “, Amarantha says, „unless you now count having a way to repel our spells as a feat of the commander.“

Miryam has to remind herself to keep breathing normally. She knows that her secret will be out within a few days, but for the span of this meeting, she`d prefer to keep it.

Clythia steps towards Jurian in a fluid motion. His hand darts for his belt, he, too, had to surrender his weapons. Clythia whispers something to him, to low for Miryam to hear. Then, she lets go and steps back. Amarantha is frowning, she grabs her sister by the arm and whispers furiously to her as she leads her away.

Miryam turns to Jurian. „What did she say to you?“

Jurian presses his lips together, his hands are clenching and unclenching. „That we‘d meet again. She said our lives are intertwined.“

Behind them, a laugh sounds and Helion steps up between them. „That‘s seers to you - always saying things to mess up your lives.“ He claps Jurian on the back. „Don‘t let it get to you.“ He grins at Miryam. „You look absolutely stunning.“

Miryam forces a smile, but still can‘t shake what Clythia told Jurian. She may not know much about seers, but even she knows that only a fool takes their words lightly. She wishes she could talk to Jurian in private, but then, the rest of their delegation is standing around them now and Miryam is busy greeting all of them, discussing strategies and playing confident leader. (What was she thinking, agreeing to lead this delegation?)

Finally, the clock chimes twelve and everyone files into a huge meeting room. Miryam, as leader of the Alliance delegation, takes the seat at the head of the table. The chair opposite her remains empty. Ravenia still isn‘t there. Miryam isn‘t surprised - she accompanied the female to enough meetings to know that she loves to flaunt her power by turning up late. By making everyone wait for her.

A few of the Loyalists look annoyed at having to wait, too, but when Miryam suggests to start the meeting early, none of them agree. They are all too scared of Ravenia to risk angering her by starting without her. So they sit in silence as the minutes tick by. Miryam feels her nerves beginning to fray. Next to her, Jurian is tapping his fingers on the table.

After half an hour, the door opens and Ravenia enters. The queen of the Black Land looks radiant, dressed in a white cloth so light she seems to glow, gold jewellery glinting in the light. Her gaze sweeps over the room with the disinterest of a female who knows that she is on top of the world and everyone is so far beneath her that she can barely see them. She is flanked by two advisors. And, behind her, three human slaves follow. Children, like all of her personal slaves. Miryam tenses. Next to her, Jurian hisses softly.

Ravenia takes her place and her eyes finally find Miryam. Her eyebrows lift ever so slightly, the only sign of her surprise.

„That belongs to me“, she says and jerks her chin towards Miryam.

Murmuring rises aroung the table. Miryam wants to reply something, but words escape her. All she sees is Ravenia at the other side of the table, her slaves standing behind her. She can‘t push the memories back. It`s like it is her standing next to Ravenia instead of these slaves. All that pain and fear and suffering. What was she thinking, coming here like she stood a chance against the female before her?

„She belongs to no one but herself“, Jurian says.

Miryam wants to shoot him a grateful look, but she can‘t tear her eyes away from Ravenia. She feels like if she does, she won‘t be able to hold it together anymore. She will just fall apart into a million broken pieces.

Ravenia smiles at her like she knows exactly what Miryam is going through. „That‘s not true, now, is it, Miryam? You may fool them all into thinking you their equal, but in the end, You‘ll always belong to me.“

Miryam just holds her stare. She prays that people will interpret it as defiance and not understand that she couldn’t speak if she wanted to.

The Xian empress saves her from thinking of something to say. „Could we get on with it, then?”, she asks, “No one cares about your runaway slaves and we are already late.“

There is an edge to her voice. The Loyalists may be allies, but that doesn‘t mean that they wouldn‘t throw each other to the wolves at a moment‘s notice if it benefited them. That‘s an advantage, but Miryam still can‘t find the words to take it.

The meeting is a nightmare. Miryam does her best to stir the conversation, but her words feel stiff and unwieldy. She is way out of her depth among these royals, all of whom don‘t seem inclined at all to go easy on her. On a good day, she might still have been able to stand her ground. But not today, not here. Because standing before these people, she isn‘t the emissary of the entire Alliance anymore - she‘s just a slave girl, alone in a room full of Fae.

The conversation spirals out of control far too quickly. Her allies have begun shooting Miryam questioning looks, but she can‘t do anything against it. They are losing, and losing badly. By now, some of the Alliance members look like they are inclined to agree with what the Loyalists are saying – promises of peace, of new trading deals and prosperity for all. If only the war ended. Utter rubbish, but some of the Fae seem to believe it.

„It isn‘t that we are fighting for slavery“, Ravenia says, „We are fighting for our freedom. Our freedom to choose how to run our countries. None of us wish to force you to start owning slaves, but we want to keep our property and our way of living.“

There are murmurs of agreement. To Miryam‘s horror, some come from Alliance members.

„What you call freedom“, she says, fighting to keep her voice even, „includes the enslavement of thousands of people. Your way of living destroys thousands of lives and what you call property are living, feeling beings.“

But it isn‘t enough. The words lack the punch they would need to draw the audience back on her side. Ravenia smiles and Miryam shrinks back in her seat. Jurian puts a hand on her arm and she only barely manages not to flinch.

That is when one of Ravenia‘s slaves moves. She lifts her head and takes a step forward.

„We are not property“, she says, staring at Ravenia, “You can beat us and chain us up and kill us, but you will never truly own us.”

Then, faster than any of them can react, she draws a knife from under her thin clothes. At first, Miryam thinks that she is going to attack Ravenia. But the girl just looks at Miryam. For a moment, their gazes lock. Then, she turns the knife towards her own chest and plunges it down.

„No!“

Miryam jumps to her feet, but the girl is already collapsing. Without thinking, Miryam rushes around the table and falls to her knees next to the girl. She knows that she is too late, but she still presses her hands on the bleeding wound on the girl‘s chest.

She is only a few years younger than Miryam, with the same curly dark hair and brown skin. Had things gone a bit differently, this could have been her.

„Please“, the girl whispers, her voice barely more than a breath. Miryam doesn`t know what she is begging for and the girl never gets a chance to say it. She doesn`t even get another word out before she dies.

Still, Miryam remains kneeling on the ground. There is blood on her hands, blood on her dress, but she can‘t tear her eyes away from the girl.  

„Could we get on with it, then?“, Ravenia asks.

Like there isn‘t a dead child lying on the floor. Like this girl‘s life was nothing. And suddenly, Miryam isn‘t scared anymore. She is angry.

„You will never win“, she whispers.

„What?“

„I said“, Miryam says and lifts her head, „you will never win.“

Slowly, she stands up and turns around to face Ravenia. For the first time, she meets the queen‘s gaze without fear.

„Because we will never stop. Even if you win this war, even if you kill us all, you won‘t win. Because you create your own downfall.“ Miryam pints a bloody hand towards the dead girl. „You take everything from people until they have nothing left to lose. And as long as there is a single slave left, there will never be peace.“

„You seem to think“, Ravenia says, „that we would hesitate to kill every human in our territories should it become necessary.“

„You can‘t.“ Miryam shakes her head. „Humans are the ones who build your palaces and houses. The ones who grow your food and serve it. For all your power, you are nothing without us. And in the end, that‘s what you will be in the end: Nothing.“

The entire room is silent now.

Miryam says, „You are all doomed. Every territory that owns slaves is walking towards its downfall. Maybe you will win this war, maybe you will survive. But you are still doomed. Even if it takes centuries, in the end, you will lose.“

She turns back to Ravenia and takes a step towards her until she is standing directly in front of her.

„But you“, she says, „you will not survive this war. They say you create your own doom and it will be my pleasure to be yours. I will destroy you. When this is all over, there will never be slaves again in the Black Land.“ She dares a glance towards her allies on the other side of the table before she turns back to Ravenia. „And if no one will stand with me, I will do it alone. If it is necessary, I will march into your capital on my own and personally free every single man, woman and child you deem property. I will tear down the palaces you paid for with my people‘s blood with my bare hands and when you stand in the ruins and your land is burning around you, you will remember this moment and the fact that you have no one but yourself to blame.“

For a moment, something like worry flickers in Ravenia‘s dark eyes. But then, she tips her head back and laughs. A few of her allies join in.

„I‘m a queen“, Ravenia says, „and you are nothing. Just a human worm. And you think you can destroy me?“ She laughs again. „Go ahead, then. I‘d like to see you try.“

Miryam stares her down. And for the first time, she releases the hold she has on her magic. She doesn‘t let it do anything, just flow through the air. A few people gasp, but Miryam sees nothing but Ravenia.

In a voice she barely recognizes, she says, „I‘d like to see you stop me.“

This time, no one laughs. They just stare. Miryam holds the queen‘s gaze a moment longer. Then, she turns away.

„Unless you free your slaves, there will never be peace“, she says, „As far as I‘m concerned, there is nothing else to say.“ Miryam pulls open the door. “This meeting is over.”

For a heartbeat, she thinks that the others won‘t follow. But then, Jurian rises. The rest of the Alliance members get to their feet as well. As one, they leave the meeting.

----

Tags: @sjm-things

#miryam #jurian #drakon #clythia

[nessianfantasystoryteller]

Daughter Of A Warrior (Part 1)

Summary : Cassian and Nesta’s Daughter Alina has lived her whole life in Devlon’s camp with the Illyrians, training day in and day out, the Illyrians aren’t happy she is turning out to be one of the best fighters in any camp at only 16, and four siphons into her power. With Devlon’s son, Derek as her fighting rival, she’s ready to rattle the stars. 

(This is my first post, and summaries aren’t always my thing. Hope you like it. Part two hopefully coming out soon.)

Alina’s legs burned. They were approaching their thirteenth mile when she finally started to slow, her father slowed along with her and she looked up. He was less winded than she was but still breathing hard.

Without a word they both launched into the sky, landing nearly twenty minutes later with a light thud in Devlon’s camp. As they walked she watched the rings, knowing that's where they were headed next.

Alina was in the top ten best warriors in her camp - and in most others if she was honest - and most of them being over 400 years old adds points to her sixteen years. There was only one Illyrian near her age who rivaled her, who she had to put actual energy into a fight with him. Speak of the devil... she groaned. Of course, it was just her luck that Devlon’s son would be here.

The eighteen year old was constantly a raging pain in her ass, but knowing why she had groaned, her o-so helpful father - the lord of bloodshed himself - smirked. Oh, no.... no,no,no,no,no. He wouldn’t dare. But of course he would, he would pair her with Derek just to watch the scene play out.

Ten minutes later that’s exactly what ‘Commander Cassian’ did, smirking all the while. She glared at Derek. He was too cocky for his own good and he, not unlike his father always wanted to shove her down, always wanted to show that he was better. Just like Devlon did to her father despite who held the upper hand.

“Ready to lose, Ally?” a voice purred by her ear, she hated that name, absolutely hated it. She let him know. She whirled, turning his shoulder with her hand and jamming her hand up into the base of his right wing.

Derek’s back arched in pain and she shoved him away from her. He collapsed to the ground and she just knew that her dad was laughing at the scene from a distance. That was another reason she didn’t like Derek. He was so dramatic. It was annoying, and never failed to make her want to throttle him.

“Get up, we have work to do.” she turned, walking into the ring and started wrapping her hands. He walked in a moment later wrapping his own hands mumbling something about how ‘that was uncalled for’ but got into a fighting stance nonetheless. no weapons, not for sparring.

He lunged first and she blocked, bringing her arm around taking advantage of his open flank. He used his stumble to his advantage and ducked just in time as she swung into offensive.

With both of them nearly matched, the fight lasted longer than others, some of the other gathering to watch, and because her father knew this would get them even more riled up, he didn’t bark at them to get back to training.

With one last ounce of strength, she went into a new kick she had been working on, shoving his arms together and singing her legs over them and landing without letting his arms go. He flipped with a surprised cry and landed on his stomach. She smirked as she pressed her knee into his back, right between those sensitive wings.

He let out a whimper so low she barely heard it and she knew nobody else had over their chatter. She knew he wasn’t in pain.... her smirk grew as she just slightly shifted her leg, brushing his wing again as she stood.

He groaned, covering it by pushing up, acting as if his body was sore when it wasn’t. But there was too much sweat and blood to smell anything, even by Fae noses and she walked away.

Her dad clapped her on the back as she walked out of the ring and she smiled at him before starting a cool down jog. Two miles later she stopped to walk into a clearing she had found as a kid, she didn’t even think her dad knew about it but over time she had made a small shelter in the trees, weaving together the branches as they grew and ten years later they were strong enough to easily hold her without any give. To the overhead and underhead view it just looked like a place where the trees had grown too close together and the leaves helped to conceal that. Her secret.

Despite the cold that lingered year round in the mountains the trees that grew here seemed almost unaffected by it. The leaves still grew even in the dark, damp and cold of the Illyrian winters. This was her safe place and she would never forget it.

She used her wings to propel her upward, avoiding scraping them on any hard twigs, sighing in contentment as the leaves brushed her sensitive wings. She looked out of the loopholes she had made as the branches had grown, places she could see out of and watched.

She pulled her blades from her boots, grabbing the cloth beside her on the flooring of the little hideout and started cleaning them, then she worked up to the ones on her calves, then her thighs, chest and the ones everyone saw no matter what that were strapped to her back, piling them beside her, setting them down, she looked at her nails, they were definitely in need of a little care, she kept them sharp, in a camp full of men used to getting what they want, she always had all the armor she could.

She made a mental note to go visit Mor again soon and they would get their hair and nails done in Velaris. Alina smiled remembering how every time her aunt wanted to put in blue streaks through her hair - and once she had even let her - and paint her nails some frilly color or design. Alina always went with black and metallic gold.

The color looked good on her tan skin, and it was the same color as her four current siphons, she knew she was going to need a new one too. That was another reason this camp didn’t like her. Despite her dad being a bastard, and her being a half breed, at only ten she had needed her first siphon and she had needed three more after that, but even now her power was still growing when she was almost done, and it showed no signs of stopping or even slowing down.

So far her siphons resided on the tops of both hands, her chest and one at the collar of her armor where the neck rose up. Her father had also been watching her power, not because of jealousy, like most Fae would, but in worry. There was a good chance she would have more power than her father or even her mother, and if she surpassed both of them, she knew they worried they would not be able to teach her to control it.

Already she had had to have Amren and Rhys teach her some of that control and her father’s training techniques help keep most of it down, but the siphons were the real key, and she didn’t know how the Illyrian camp was going to take it if she ended up with more than seven, she knew they wouldn’t take it well.

A thud threw her out of her thoughts as someone landed above her, jumping down the top entrance she had made and clambered in.

(Fanfic about Nesta and Cassian’s daughter from ACOTAR by Sarah J Maas)

[rhysand-vs-fenrys]

The Shadows of Night: Chapter 1

Summary: A mysterious army appears in the mountains of Night and soon declares war against the High Lords. The conflict will shed light on Night’s darkest secrets and reveal the horrible truth behind every Daemati and Shadowsinger in Prythian.

All Chapters: > ~1~ < || ~2~ || ~3~ || ~4~ || ~5~ || ~6~ || ~7~ || ~8~ || ~9~ || ~10~ || ~11~ || ~12~ || ~13~ || ~14~ || ~15~ || ~16~ || ~17~ || ~18~ || ~19~ || ~20~ || ~21~ || ~22~ || ~23~ || ~24~ || ~25~ || ~26~ || ~27~ || ~28~ || ~29~ || ~30~ || ~31~ || ~32~ || ~33~ || ~34~ ||

For my fanfic library, visit @rhysand-vs-rowan-vs-writing. 

To read on Archive of Our Own, click here.

Chapter 1

The entire world was… damp.

Nesta’s breath came in bursts of steam as she panted. Her furs were almost unbearably heavy with water from endless days in the mists that hugged the mountaintops. Even protected as she was by the dense oaks, rain still drip-drip-dripped over everything. Not enough to be wet per se but… damp.

It didn’t matter though. Nothing mattered except putting one foot in front of the other and pressing on through the forests. Every step could be the difference between escape and capture. Especially now.

Eleven days ago, Cassian left for Velaris. He’d never been gone longer than a single evening, certainly not long enough for Nesta to mount any serious attempt at fleeing that Illyrian camp her damned sister banished her to. Four months- four months- of playing the good little girl and training under Cassian’s hawkish gaze. Four months of patience with only her wrath to warm her heart.

Then her half-breed brother-in-law called a summit of High Lords- five days of discussion and meetings- meaning he needed Cassian there to help Azriel keep everyone in line. The summit was a way to improve inter-Court relations and cooperation, so it would be held in the newly renovated House of Wind where the ponce could show off his precious Velaris.

Nesta, well behaved as she was, could surely be left under the supervision of Lord Devlon during Cassian’s absence… except all it took to convince him to leave her alone for eleven days were two simple words: “Lady troubles”.

Nesta packed up and walked out of camp in broad daylight mere hours after Cassian’s departure. Every step since then had been to obscure her path and put as much distance as she could between herself and that wretched cabin she’d been forced to share with the Illyrian.

Her goal was the eastern coast of Night, but she took a decidedly western path through the foothills to help throw off the trail. Everyone would expect her to go west to the coast, then travel south to the border of Day- which Azriel would undoubtedly put eyes on.

Instead, Nesta hooked around a mountain, climbing higher and higher until she deemed it safe to turn eastward. She intended to cross the continent, reach the coast, find a port, and sail not to Day but to Spring. Nesta had no money, but she’d been screwing Illyrians for alcohol behind Cassian’s back, and passage out of Night was a much more worthy use of the body she’d never claim as her own.

All the planning in the world would be for nothing though if Cassian caught her. It was hours since Nesta last saw sky through the trees, but she estimated it was early afternoon. Either he’d gotten in first thing in the morning and was already on the hunt, or he would arrive at sunset and this was her last day of travel unpursued.

‘I’ll get as close to Tamlin as possible, but not close enough to risk him seeing me,’ Nesta couldn’t be sure the High Lord wouldn’t turn her over to Feyre as a gesture of some sort. Her sister hated Tamlin- or had the last time Nesta bothered listening to her. No one would be running to Spring to look for her, and Beron was so tedious in the High Lord’s meeting two years before that she refused to even consider Autumn.

No, Spring was the safest option, at least until she could pay or fuck her way off Prythian.

The thrill of the escape, the thought of being away from the Court and the entire damned continent was the first thing in memory that made Nesta feel something akin to alive. Sex didn’t shame or please her and alcohol only made time pass faster, but the thought of her family’s outrage as they tried- and failed- to find her year after year fed a vicious, cruel piece of her soul and brought a smile to her lips.

The monsters of the forest paid no mind to her as she made her escape, but Nesta still wouldn’t risk a fire that night. They feared the female who reeked of the Cauldron, but there was no need to make the beasts question that fear by letting her guard down. Monsters aside- Cassian’s hunt had either already begun or would commence at sunset. If she lit a fire she might as well stand in the middle of an open field screaming ‘I’M RIGHT HERE!’

Eleven days in the forest with no fire, wearing wet furs, and eating strips of salted meat were taking a toll. Nesta’s pace was dangerously slow considering her pursuers. She tripped over nothing at all, and beneath her leather pants her legs were bruised and bloody thanks to her own cold-numb feet.

She was weak, exhausted, and severely trying the patience of even fae survival abilities. Time and again Nesta would pull herself back up onto her feet and press on- but as the hours crawled by she questioned what the bigger risk might be: an evening fire to warm her body and steady her hands, or bloody legs that beckoned to every forest beast?

Nesta felt a frigid breeze kiss her cheek and a splash of light flickered through the branches. She hesitated- ahead, behind, and to her left the trees were dense as ever, but on her right they’d thinned abruptly.

An outcropping.

It didn’t matter to her what the view might be- why should it? She knew she was high up in the mountains, so long as she didn’t go higher or lower she would keep the path. As much fog and mist as there was in the mountains, Nesta wouldn’t be able to see far, but what if Cassian were following her? What if he’d guessed her path and was already circling overhead, looking for her?

The aching darkness she’d stolen from the Cauldron roiled in her veins. A shiver wracked her body at the sensation- it was the first time she’d felt that power since the final battle with Hybern. Nesta stomped down on it and tried to continue on her path- but the magic shifted again. It pulled her towards that light.

See see see see see see see see… The Cauldron’s voice chanted in the back of her mind.

If only to silence it, Nesta finally turned and walked through the trees to a rocky ledge. She crept out of the forest’s protection and squinted, trying to peer through the mountain clouds.

A breath of wind stirred through the valley below, affording only the briefest glimpses of whatever it was the Cauldron wanted her to see.

Five seconds was all Nesta had.

Five seconds was all it took to turn Nesta on her heels and send her racing back into the forest-

-and all the way to Devlon’s Camp.

---

---

All Chapters: > ~1~ < || ~2~ || ~3~ || ~4~ || ~5~ || ~6~ || ~7~ || ~8~ || ~9~ || ~10~ || ~11~ || ~12~ || ~13~ || ~14~ || ~15~ || ~16~ || ~17~ || ~18~ || ~19~ || ~20~ || ~21~ || ~22~ || ~23~ || ~24~ || ~25~ || ~26~ || ~27~ || ~28~ || ~29~ || ~30~ || ~31~ || ~32~ || ~33~ || ~34~ ||

#nesta #cassian #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #chapter 1 #the shadows of night #my writing #feyre #rhysand #azriel #mor #morrigan #amren #inner circle #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #fan fiction #fan fic

[wingsofanillyrian]

Protective Uncle Cass

Anonymous asked: “ Fanfic of Uncle Cassian being protective over Feysand's son when Lord Devlon unnecessarily yells at him during training. “

Send me a request!

Masterlist

The clash of steel on steel jolted Cassian from his slumber, and his hand automatically reached for the knife under his pillow. Remembering that he had been staying at a war camp, he sighed and released the blade. The sun was barely poking its head over the horizon and the Illyrians were already practicing.

Not that he could blame them. When it came to preparing for the Rite, you wanted every second of training you could get. It was a male eat male world out there, and few knew that better than he.

“Oryn?” Cassian cracked an eye open, and was unsurprised to find the cot beside him empty. He sat up with a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. That boy went to bed later and rose earlier than anyone else he knew, and yet still had boundless energy.

Feyre had practically begged Cassian to accompany her son to Devlon’s camp to help him transition to the new dynamic. He almost told her that Oryn needed to figure it out on his own, but held his tongue. Feyre’s concern had been written on her face, plain as day. She’d heard their stories of the horrible beatings they had received at the camps, and of how harsh and unforgiving the Lords could be. She hadn’t wanted her son to come home broken.

So Cassian had gone with him, promising to stay for a month and make sure he gained a solid position in the pecking order.

“Where the hell are you, Oryn?” He grumbled, strapping a short sword to his belt. Pushing open the tent flap, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim morning light. Devlon’s gravelly voice sounded from the pits to his right.

“I told you to protect your damn flank!” A frustrated growl followed the words, both a threat and a demand.

“I am!” Cassian frowned. He knew that small, vulnerable voice. It was one that still held the innocence of youth, untouched by the perils of the world. He walked to the edge of the pit, watching as Oryn flicked his shaggy raven hair from his eyes and lifted his sword awkwardly. Even from this distance, Cassian could tell that it was unbalanced in his hand; not at all the right weapon for him to be training with.

Something that Devlon was certainly well aware of as well.

But Cassian would not interfere. That was the promise he had made to Rhys when he came here; he wouldn’t step in unless absolutely necessary.

Devlon swiped at Oryn again, a swift blow that he barely had time to deflect. His chest was heaving as he stared the older male down, fire blazing behind his violet eyes. Devlon let out a harsh laugh, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

“Pathetic. You can’t even hold a sword correctly, you spoiled prince!” Cassian bristled at the words, wings flaring unconsciously. Oryn was panting, obviously drained as he let the sword tip hit the sand.

“My heritage does not define me,” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow and turning his back on the other male. “I’m done for now. I’ll train with Cassian later.”

Devlon took advantage of his lapse in judgement and slashed at Oryn with a dagger he produced from his belt, giving the young male no time to react. Oryn cried out in shock and touched his cheek, his fingers coming away coated in scarlet.

Faster than any of them could process, Cassian dropped into the pit between the camp lord and his nephew. He drew his sword, preparing for the impending fight.

“How dare you,” he hissed, features twisted in disgust. “He is seven years old. You knew he was doing the best he could; he’s only been here a week. That sword you gave him is incorrectly weighted, you bastard, and he doesn’t know how to counter balance it yet.”

Devlon’s lips curled into a devilish grin. “Just doing my job.”

“Does your job description include spilling the blood of your High Lord and Lady’s son?”

“Training accidents happen everyday. And by the way, Cassian, the only bastard here is you.”

The only warning Devlon received was the bright red flash of Cassian’s siphons before he struck. A fist of his power slammed into his gut, knocking him back against the wall. He slumped against it, moaning as he clutched his bleeding head.

Cassian glanced back at Oryn. “Okay, kid?” He asked, eyeing the already clotting wound under his eye.

Oryn nodded, flexing his fingers at his side. “Thank you, Uncle.” Cassian grinned, opening his mouth to spout a witty remark, but was interrupted by a low chuckle.

Devlon struggled to stand on shaking legs. His beady eyes settled on Oryn, and Cassian instinctively sunk into a fighting stance.

“Too scared to face me alone, prince?” Devlon taunted, waving his hand at Cassian. Oryn looked to his uncle with violet eyes brimming with determination, and the young Illyrian flared his wings wide.

“I can do this,” He said in a voice so much like his father’s that Cassian blinked in surprise. Cassian took a step back, and Oryn picked up his sword and stalked to smug commander to glare up at him.

Oryn shook his head. “I fight my own battles. I’m a warrior in my own right.” With the flick of his finger, a cut twin to his own appeared on Devlon’s cheekbone, and he grunted. He dropped the sword at Devlon’s feet before turning and leaving the pit.

Good for him, Cassian thought. Being able to control his rage so well would certainly prove helpful for him in the future. However, Cassian’s own temper was still roiling at the camp lord.

“You pull shit like that again,” he said, voice simmering with violence, “and you’ll wake up in a dungeon. You will not train him again.” Devlon bared his teeth at the order, but didn’t speak.

“If you so much as critique the position of his pinkie, you’ll regret it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

Cassian didn’t tell Oryn, but he’d be leaving in the morning. He glanced up at the lip of the pit, where a crowd of young warriors had been watching the entire scene unfold. He grinned up at the gathered boys, most of whom were starting at him with wide eyes.

Cassian was pretty sure no one would be bothering his nephew anytime soon.

#cassian #feysand #acotar #acowar #acomaf #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses fanfiction #my writing