Chapter Text
“You and your stupid paintings are going to get us all killed one day.”
Nesta’s words clanged through Feyre’s head as she ran. Godsdamnit, she hated it when her eldest sister was right.
Right about the paintings, right about Feyre being too scatterbrained for her own good, right about their father becoming too careless with his deliveries—and based on the way it felt as though her bare feet were being torn apart with every step, right about how she should really start wearing shoes instead of being a feral excuse for a High Fae.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She had never ventured this far into the labyrinth of Under the Mountain’s tunnels before; keeping mostly to her family’s quarters or the quieter communal areas of the Hybern court, and only occasionally tripping along behind her father to receive new shipments into one of the outer caves. The same route every time, the same faces every time, the same routine of stealthily sliding small, secret parcels of painting supplies into the folds of her skirts before anyone could notice.
“This is the last time, Feyre,” her father would say under his breath as they walked back to the section of the underground city they called home. And each time she would merely flash him a grin, knowing that it wasn’t. It never was.
Even upon reaching her majority, Feyre had managed to avoid being called upon to present to High Queen Amarantha who, after initially delighting in her two sisters’ debuts, so rare were they Under the Mountain, had apparently grown weary enough of Nesta’s petulance and, by contrast, Elain’s compliance that she hadn’t yet bothered to repeat the process a third time. Feyre’s two sisters had been claimed, as it were, by two lords from the Autumn Court, and that had been that. She had barely seen them since.
All of which was fine by Feyre; she had no interest in being dangled like a carrot in front of some monstrous courtier or other until Amarantha was entertained enough to let one of them bite. Sheltered as she might’ve been, incomplete as her education was after the untimely death of her mother, Feyre wasn’t completely naive. She did not share Nesta’s desire to be perceived as powerful, nor Elain’s apparent dedication to pretty acquiescence. She had no desire to be made a fool of for her illiteracy, for her weak grasp on the meagre magic she possessed, or to have her wildness tamed or indeed exploited. Her desires in life were to paint and to stay alive long enough to maybe one day escape this place and see the stars with her own eyes. One she could do, albeit in secret, the other…well, she could dream. Especially after this spectacularly disastrous day.
The darkness of the tunnels seemed to grow deeper, danker and more dangerous with each turn. Feyre tried to pick out specific details as she hurtled around bend after bend in the hope of being able to eventually lead herself back the way she had come, but everything looked the same. Endless and oppressive, even the faelight burning in sconces here and there supplied no warmth to the atmosphere.
A small, panicked voice in her head warned her to stop, to be wary of where she might end up, but her survival instinct was louder. Stopping was not an option; if Amarantha’s soldiers caught her with the small leatherbound package of paintbrushes she was clutching so tightly she feared they would snap, her father would likely be killed. Perhaps they all would. Nothing was supposed to enter Under the Mountain without Amarantha’s express permission. Painting supplies, or indeed any items that could bring anyone even a modicum of joy without involving the torture of another being, were considered contraband.
Seeing that the tunnel forked up ahead, Feyre allowed her pace to slow just enough to better listen out for her pursuers. She hadn’t lingered in the shipment cave long enough to count how many unexpected guests, all wearing the uniform of Amarantha’s closest guard dogs, had crept out from the shadows before bolting, the sound of many footsteps on her tail. Now, however, her fae hearing picked up no sound over her own pulse pounding in her ears and each desperate gasp of air, echoing slightly off the cavernous walls.
Left or right? Left or right?
Feyre chanced a look behind her. Nothing but the shadowy expanse of tunnel. Words were carved onto the stone where the tunnel split into two different directions, and Feyre found herself once again cursing her inability to read fluently. It would take time that she did not have to stop and break down the letters until she could understand them—if she could understand them.
Left or right? Left or right?
In the low light, Feyre’s keen eyes detected that the tunnel to the right seemed brighter, and on instinct veered left, guided by years of taking small comfort in the protection of shadows whenever Amarantha’s soldiers carried out one of their inspections on the Hybern court chambers. The air that whooshed past her felt colder in this part of the tunnel, searing her burning lungs, the ground like ice under her feet. It was darker too, impossibly so, and there was something different about the faelight down here. Instead of one gently pulsing source within each orb, the light seemed to sparkle in the way her mother had once described the stars. In better circumstances she would’ve liked to stop and admire it properly so that she might try to paint it at her first opportunity.
Smaller tunnels began to branch off on either side as Feyre continued to run, her heart skipping as she crossed each threshold, aware that anything—anyone—could leap out at her. But no one appeared. She wanted to feel grateful for that, and yet fear prickled at the base of her scalp. Why had she passed no one? She had no other excursions to compare this one to, but she found it hard to believe it was normally this deserted. She felt certain she had been running for long enough now that she must be about to reach some other court or populated area of Under the Mountain, and if no one was about to see her, what were they avoiding? Who were they avoiding?
Feyre pushed her legs to go faster, ignoring the cramping in her muscles, ignoring the pain in her shoeless feet, ignoring the gnawing panic at what might’ve happened to her father. Guilt flooded her brain, sharp and sickly. She shouldn’t have run when one of the usual officers questioned the parcel containing her paintbrushes, just before the soldiers appeared. If it had been Nesta, she'd’ve stood her ground, chin high and eyes filled with such confidence it was hard to defy her. Elain would have found a way to explain it away calmly, sweetly, intelligently. But Feyre had bolted like a spooked animal. She needed to work out how to get back. How to help her father, if it wasn’t too late.
Wincing as she stumbled on an uneven section of ground, Feyre careened to the left again, and then again, and again, speeding past more glittering faelight and hoping that perhaps going in a vaguely circular pattern might eventually bring her back to a place she could recognise. Left again, again, again until—she screeched to a halt, only just throwing her hands out in time to stop herself from slamming into cold, hard stone, the paintbrushes clattering loudly to the floor as she did so. A dead end.
No, no, no.
Releasing a breathless whimper, Feyre’s hands slid down the rough hewn wall as she panted, her vision going blurry. She tried desperately to calm her breathing, to will herself to move again, but her energy was spent. Fae as she might be, she and her sisters had spent most of their life cooped up, with low tolerance for high activity, the exception being Nesta’s proclivity for dancing, of course. Resting her forehead against the cool stone, Feyre closed her eyes and honed her hearing. Nothing. Her breaths came out a little slower, her head clearing slightly.
Maybe she had outrun them. Maybe they’d given up, grown tired of chasing someone as inconsequential as she was. Maybe she’d be able to pick her way back through tunnels until she could find her way home. Maybe she’d get there to find everything was ok, that her father had smoothed everything over, and she could maybe squeeze in a chance to use her new brushes before she had to prepare some food…
“There you are,” said a deep, sensual male voice from behind her. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Feyre whirled on the spot, her head spinning as she did. Panic coursed through her as she beheld the figure now blocking her only escape route. While Feyre was not accustomed to meeting members of other courts, she didn’t need to guess twice who now stood before her.
The High Lord of the Night Court’s reputation preceded him, reached even the loneliest corners of Under the Mountain. Amarantha’s whore. Faithful and fearsome. If he was here, Feyre realised with a pang of sorrow, then she really could kiss goodbye to that dream of ever seeing the stars.
He was just as tall and menacing as she had heard him described. And just as beautiful. Tragically so. Piercing violet-blue eyes. Hair black as midnight. High cheek bones, a sharp jaw line, full lips tipped slightly upward. Jewels glittered at his pointed ears and on his long fingers. Silver thread along the collar of his tailored black jacket reflected what little light reached this far into the tunnel. And the darkness that radiated from him, the star-flecked shadows that bloomed around him…so contrary to the soft, golden light that she was able to produce, albeit unreliably.
She didn’t need him to do anything to understand that this male was powerful. Very powerful. Her heartbeat raced faster with fear and—and something else. Fascination, perhaps? Folly, certainly. For her desire to paint the vision before her was at truly irresponsible war with the desire to run from it.
Not that she’d be running anywhere. Only a fool with a death wish ran away from the Lord of Nightmares, and Feyre wanted to live.
Mustering what was left of her strength, of her dignity, Feyre drew back her shoulders and willed herself not to shrink under the weight of the gaze this male now fixed on her. She could feel her cheeks burning from both exertion and embarrassment at being found, at ending up cornered like this over something as small as a few paintbrushes. Meanwhile, he looked as cool and collected as if he’d merely strolled here. If he really had been looking for her, it had either required no effort from him whatsoever, or she’d run right into his path.
The High Lord’s mouth quirked up a little more as she held his gaze, amusement dancing in his depthless eyes. He raised an eyebrow, and Feyre frowned in response, confused as to why he still hadn’t said or done anything to apprehend her, drag her off to his queen and her court of monsters. He smiled properly now, white teeth flashing. He was certainly charming, she acknowledged. Who needs weapons or power with a face so disarming?
Feyre pretended that the skip in her heartbeat was a coincidence. His head tipped to the side slightly, listening, and smiled even wider as her heartbeat stuttered again. Or was he listening to her thoughts? She’d never been sure whether the stories about his mindreading abilities were true, or just a myth designed to instil nightmares.
She noted his eyes taking in her bare feet, and again wished she’d had the sense—the decency, even—to wear some shoes, if only so that she could’ve thrown one at his perfectly sculpted head. The dazzling grin that stretched across his face was confirmation enough for Feyre that it seemed the mindreading nightmare was indeed real.
With irritation helping to bank some of Feyre’s fear, words came tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop them.
“Are you just going to stand there smiling, then?” If Feyre hadn’t immediately regretted allowing the words to escape, she might’ve felt proud of how steady her voice had sounded in spite of the circumstances.
The High Lord laughed. Laughed. It was a sultry sound, skittering along her bones. He took a small step closer and Feyre pressed herself back against the stone, unable to look away as he composed himself once more. For a brief moment Feyre could swear a look of vulnerable surprise passed over his features, as if he hadn’t laughed for a long time and had forgotten how it felt. But it was gone as quickly as it had come, replaced by the kind of taunting glimmer that only a predator at the top of the food chain can afford to show when toying with prey.
“Would you like me to do something else for you?” he asked her. Feyre squirmed, those beautiful blue eyes boring into her. He stepped closer still, looming over her now. He smelled of citrus and bergamot, and she resisted the urge to lean toward him. Was this always how he began to torture his enemies? Lured them into a false sense of…what was it Feyre was feeling exactly? Security? Surely not.
And yet, she still hadn’t attempted to escape.
“You’re the High Lord of the Night Court.” Stars twinkled in his eyes at her words.
“And you’re the elusive Feyre Archeron,” he replied. She tried not to show any surprise at the fact that he knew who she was. Perhaps he had met her sisters. Perhaps he’d been filled in on who she was before being sent to find her. Perhaps he just knew everything.
“Aren’t you going to attack me?” She’d heard tales of the devastation this male had wrecked upon those who disrespected Amarantha that had kept her up at night. Tales of torture and humiliation and death. And yet here she was before him in the flesh, wondering if the few pots of blue and red paints she had access to would ever mix to make the exact shade of his eyes.
He stepped closer again, and all the air seemed to evaporate from the remaining space between them. One deep breath and her breasts would brush against him. Feyre pressed back harder into the stone, hoping he hadn’t been listening to that part of her stream of consciousness.
Slowly, he lifted a hand toward her face, silver rings glinting as he tucked a strand of hair that had loosened from her braid behind her ear. Feyre shivered. From fear. Definitely just fear. His jaw ticked, a curious look in his eyes.
“Not without cause.” He spoke softly, and it only stirred up more confusion for Feyre. This was not going as she had expected. Not that she had expected any of this.
Tilting her head back against the stone to maintain eye contact, Feyre said with a boldness even Nesta might’ve praised, “I’d like you to let me go then.”
The words seemed to hover between them for long moments, long enough that Feyre started to wonder if she’d actually said them out loud, before what seemed like genuine amusement lifted his features again.
“As you wish,” he replied, voice like treacle.
And to her utter astonishment, he stepped back and sideways, gesturing with a broad hand to the space he’d cleared for her. Feyre stifled the most deranged urge to pitch forward and move with him, to reach out and pull him back to her. Eyes wide, Feyre’s gaze darted back and forth from his face to the now visible tunnel. This was surely a trap. A trick.
“Are you just going to run after me?” she asked, apparently unable to stop herself from saying exactly what she was thinking in front of this male.
“Do you want me to?” He sounded so sincere that Feyre felt herself growing delirious.
“N-no,” she managed to respond, cringing at her slipping bravado. Gods, she’d almost said it like she wasn’t sure. She didn’t want this male, this High Lord who was known to have done such despicable things, to chase her, did she? She wanted to get away, right?
“Shame, that would’ve been fun.” The High Lord then winked at her, gesturing once again to the tunnel ahead.
Feyre chanced a step forward, willing her limbs to unlock. She didn’t even know how to get back from wherever this was that she’d ended up, but she’d worry about that if he actually did let her get away.
Keeping her eyes on the High Lord’s, Feyre stepped forward again, bracing for him to suddenly spring forward and grab her, but he allowed her to pass, step by small step, until she was almost craning her neck to look over her shoulder at him.
“Don’t forget your paintbrushes, darling,” he said pleasantly, waving a hand. Feyre watched with undiluted amazement as they floated over to her, carried by star-kissed tendrils of shadow. She’d never witnessed magic like this until now.
“Th-thanks?” Her fingers shook as they closed over the handles of the brushes.
Steeling herself, and masking the wince each time her torn up feet moved, Feyre finally broke eye contact with him, although she felt the brand of his violet gaze prickle along her spine.
One step in front of the other, that’s all she had to do. Just keep walking. Get back home.
It was only as she reached the point where she would need to turn right and finally out of sight of the High Lord that she felt it. A strange sensation, like a piece of string had been tied under her rib cage. Upon taking her next step, the phantom string seemed to tug backwards, only relenting when she paused.
She tried again to continue.
Tug.
Again.
Tug.
Sharper this time, the motion stirring up a sickening feeling in her stomach which only quelled as she rocked back on her heels.
Lifting her free hand to her chest, Feyre took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, attempting to ground herself.
Aware that she was not alone in this tunnel, she turned, suddenly fearful that this was all part of some strange game the High Lord was playing with her and expecting to find him right behind her, ready to strike.
What she did not expect to find was him mirroring her position, his hand over his heart and a look of pure shock and…was that fear in his eyes? Was the Lord of Nightmares even capable of such emotion? He stumbled back a step. Stumbled.
Tug.
Feyre’s breath hitched, her legs carrying her forward without her permission, following an instinct to go closer and closer and closer to this dangerous male. She felt hot all of a sudden, struggling to focus.
“What have you done to me?” Feyre demanded, trying to push back against the sensation at her ribs. She attempted to retreat a step, but the tugging sensation worsened still and instead she found herself stepping forward.
“I haven’t…” he trailed off, looking just as disoriented as she felt.
“What have you done to me?” she repeated, louder this time. Her fingers trembled against the instinct to reach out for him.
“Feyre, I-” he broke off, eyes snapping away from hers as she too heard it: footsteps in the distance. Lots of them.
The High Lord’s eyes found hers again, and the expression he wore was…wild. Panicked.
What is he panicking for?
Dread coursed through Feyre’s veins, the realisation sinking in that there was no way out of this. She really should not have run. Godsdamnit, she really should not have run. She was going to die here in this dark, dank tunnel, if not at the hands of the terrible High Lord in front of her, then at the hands of whatever monsters were currently racing toward her, their footsteps sounding moments away.
She was never going to paint again. Never going to see the stars.
As if activated by her resignation, light bloomed from her fingertips, a poor impression of the brilliant power she remembered seeing her mother produce a long time ago. The High Lord’s night-kissed shadows danced forward, stars twinkling brighter in her light.
A soft “oh” escaped Feyre’s mouth, momentarily distracted by the scene before her. At least if she was going to die, or worse, be carried off to be tortured, this would be a good image to hold on to.
The footsteps grew louder, louder, louder. They were here.
Feyre’s body went taut, muscles bunching even though there was nowhere to run to, no weapon to wield to turn her from prey to huntress. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for whatever was about to happen.
But where she’d been waiting for perhaps the slice of an arrow or the sting of a claw, she felt warm fingers grip her arms tightly and a swooping sensation as the world slipped away from under her feet.