The Beginning
1
The Beginning
[Signe]
She was at the forest again.
Her feet moved almost on their own, guiding her through the trees, through paths she took countless times all those years ago, and in her dreams ever since. Sometimes, she took the small, crooked trail that led all the way down to the lake, just so she could watch the sky reflected on the smooth, undisturbed surface of the water; sometimes she allowed herself to rest against a fallen tree trunk, peacefully observing the forest and all the life it held within.
Those were the good dreams, the good memories that resurfaced sometimes. But not this time.
The forest, bright and welcoming before, was now dark, cold despite the sweat dripping from her neck, stinging the small bruises that covered her skin. She ran for her life, dress cut to ribbons from all the unforgiving branches she ran into, not stopping even as her breath felt like glass shards in her throat. The sound of footsteps was everywhere and, at the same time, nowhere at all. For all she knew, whatever chased her could be right next to her, though it was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t stop running, she wouldn’t.
She didn’t have enough time to dodge a bush that seemed to materialize in front of her, so she ran through it, the branches slicing her skin again, just as they had at least three times before.
Am I running in circles? She thought, desperate for some landmark, anything that would tell her where she was. She then jumped over a small crevice on the ground, the same one she had passed just a few minutes ago. Oh, I’m definitely running in circles.
But no matter what she did, it was as if the forest itself was determined to slow her down, and the footsteps were always near, always closing in. If such thing was even possible.
Finally, a few meters ahead, she saw a fallen tree she recognized. It sat next to a river, and she knew that if she managed to cross it, there would be a trail that led to a settlement… maybe. She couldn’t remember exactly, but she knew it left the forest, and that it was her best option at the moment. Perhaps what—or who—chased her wouldn’t go that far.
Perhaps.
With that thought in mind, she ran even faster, the adrenaline in her veins relentlessly moving her legs towards the entrance of the trail, nearly hidden among the trees. But, due to the speed she was in, there was no time to stop as she finally saw what awaited beyond the tree line. The trail ended abruptly, and where the path should have continued among the trees, there was only a cliff—an impossibly deep cliff.
There was nothing she could do as her feet failed to stop her before she reached the edge. Her momentum launched her into the abyss, and she fell, the entire world boiling down to the sight of the ground far below, growing near with every heartbeat.
There was nothing she could do, so she closed her eyes and braced herself for the inevitable end.
And fell…
Fell…
Fell…
* * *
Signe woke up with a start just before hitting the ground in her dream. She shot upwards, frantically glancing around the small bedroom, looking for any signs of danger, for the invisible threat that had lurked in the shadows just moments before, but was unable to find anything. It took her a moment to realise where she was, that the covers, damp with sweat and tangled around her legs, weren’t moorings meant to restrain her. That the chest of drawers on the other end of the room wasn’t the shape of someone, crouched in the dark. That she was on her bed, in her room. Safe.
As if the word meant anything to her.
She moved her hands, meaning to bury her face in them, and only then she noticed the dagger she held in one of them, her grasp on it strong and immovable, perfected over the years. She’d grabbed it without realizing from under her pillow, where she kept it.
Old habits, she thought to herself as she tucked it back to its place, the old words coming in her father’s voice. Old habits, she thought again, doing her best to take deep breaths and settle her thoughts.
Old house, old habits, old memories.
It had been a while since those nightmares had crawled their way into her sleep. Not that sleep had come easy lately, given the current situation Prythian was in. The threat of a new war with the continent hung heavy in the air, a constant reminder of yet another crisis on the way, as if the last one hadn’t been enough already. She hadn’t been there to see first-hand the attack that befell Velaris last year, nor the other horrible things that had happened around the Night Court—around Prythian—during Amarantha’s reign, but she’d arrived just in time to see the end of it all. The sight of the battlefield from the prow of Lord Archeron’s ships was a sight still carved in the back of her mind, one she wasn’t sure she’d ever forget. She’d fought alongside her people, alongside humans, for the peace that held its stand around the island, however fragile it was.
It had been her first time on a battlefield, and she doubted it would be the last.
A gush of night air came in through the curtains, carrying the scent of the city below. Sunrise was still a few hours away, but the Palace of Bone and Salt was already bustling with vendors and early shoppers, all preparing for the next day’s sales. The Sidra was a dark smear in the distance, running its course peacefully, unbothered by her terror, unchanged by the war.
Signe rolled out of bed and wandered towards the door, catching a glimpse of herself on the mirror on the wall, next to the window. The dark-haired female who stared back looked frightened—her clothes rumpled, hair a mess, eyes still wide, alert. She looked exactly as she felt, as it would be expected of someone who just woke up thrashing on the bed. She didn’t stop in front of the mirror, however—didn’t cast her reflection a second glance as she crossed the door to the living room, reaching out a hand to the small table at her left. Her fingers touched the faelight orb she kept there, and light filled the small room, warm and welcoming, shining over wood and stone and metal.
Mostly metal.
The living room was a mess, as usual. Bits and pieces of her gear were laid all over the kitchen table, which she usually transformed into a workbench, given the lack of space in the small apartment. But it was more than enough—although the task of putting everything away afterwards was always the worst part. She’d constantly delay it, work longer into the night so she could have an excuse not to do it, and then be too tired to do it afterwards. She had done it again earlier, before going to bed, but this time she didn’t curse herself for it. She needed the distraction, so she just approached the mess with silent steps, the small orb in hand, allowing her a better look.
The bundle of steel and leather that lay over the table was supposed to become a gauntlet for her gear, eventually. It was a work in progress, delayed for so long that the original blueprints she had designed were barely legible when she’d picked them up a few weeks back. Luckily, the ideas were still in her head, improved over the years, and the project she now worked on was much better than the one she had initially. Still a prototype, but a promising one.
The only problem was that she didn’t really have enough time to work on it as she would’ve liked. More scouting missions were being issued now that the war was over, and she was assigned to those on a regular basis. She didn’t mind the extra work at all, even if it kept her from spending precious time leaning over her project. It felt good to be on the field again, after so long. Even with the threat of a new war, she was just glad to be home again, after decades of exile, and any sense of normality—which, oddly enough, the scouting missions seemed to provide—was more than welcome.
She placed the orb on the small chandelier that hung over the table before settling down on one of the chairs, though her mind was already working ahead, planning what to fix first and what to do next. It was a familiar pace that often helped her ground herself, which was exactly what she needed. Soon enough, the world outside became blurry as her focus shifted to her work. The growing rumble of the Palace of Bone and Salt below, the easy rush of the Sidra beyond—all of it became background noise. She was so invested she didn’t notice the sun starting to peek out from the far horizon, hours later, or the golden light that came in through the glass doors to the balcony, lighting up the room. She only noticed the lack of it, when suddenly the table in front of her was covered in darkness.
From the corner of her eye, she saw it. A shape, standing on the balcony.
His size alone was enough to block the sunlight from coming in through the narrow doors, plus the wings… It blocked every bit of the sun. Signe blew out a breath, knowing very well it was on purpose. Why use the front door, anyway?
Only then she lifted her head, gesturing for him to come inside. Azriel didn’t bother winnowing the short distance, although it would have spared him the work of lowering his wings to fit through the door. He just walked inside, keeping to the corner of the room like a shadow, as usual. A real shadowsinger, she thought to herself.
Signe often wondered if the habit was either a product of his powers as a shadowsinger or his position as spymaster, or if it had always belonged to him, regardless of anything else. Azriel was what one would call a quiet person, rarely speaking but always watching, eyes sharp and expression near-unreadable. Everything about him reminded her of the shadows that surrounded him constantly—from the way he walked to the way he talked, his voice quiet and his steps even quieter. It was no surprise Lord Rhysand had named him his spymaster—honestly, she couldn’t imagine him in any other line of work that didn’t require him to revel in his ability to be as quiet as the wind. It was effective, of course, and his Illyrian armour, with its black leather scales, made him seem even more mysterious, intimidating even, though it wasn’t always necessary. For instance, he stood at the other end of the room looking like he was about to interrogate her about anything, and her training was the only thing that kept her from squirming under the intensity of his gaze. Plus, she knew him long enough to know that it wasn’t exactly on purpose—Azriel was just naturally intimidating.
“Late night?” He asked, by way of greeting, nodding to the mess in front of her.
“Something like that,” she replied, finally uncurling herself from the position she held for the last few hours. Stretching on the chair, she threw him a glance. “The same to you, I assume.”
Not really a hard assumption to make. Not only because of the armour—which, in fact, seemed to be all he wore—, but also because of the number of blades he carried. Five of them at least, of varied sizes, strapped around his waist, legs and chest; plus Truth-Teller, the magic dagger that Signe knew to be strapped around his right thigh, as it always was. That kind of weaponry wasn’t necessary in Velaris, or even the Illyrian camps up north, and she knew he had been doing surveillance missions on the continent, keeping tabs on the mortal queens and their associates. So, it wouldn’t be hard to guess he had just returned from one of those trips, either by winnowing directly from the continent to the Night Court or by flying all night over the sea.
Azriel, too, saw the obviousness of his whereabouts just by glancing down at himself, and raised a brow in response, as if saying: That obvious?
Signe shrugged, turning back to the table and the mess over it. With her back to the Illyrian, she reached for one of the boxes sitting under the table, where she used to keep her tools, scraps and prototypes. She began the process of scooping up the bits of metal from over the table without a word, and felt Azriel approach with silent steps, offering his help. She just pointed to the side of the table where the bigger pieces of metal were, and he immediately understood what to do.
They worked together almost in synchrony, but instead of the usual silence, Azriel went straight to the point: “I have a job for you.”
“Is it about Briallyn?” Signe couldn’t help but ask, as she picked up a wrench and put it in the box. The mortal queen Made high-fae by the Cauldron. Signe knew her only from Azriel’s reports. She knew the woman was carried away by the promise of a long life in a young and beautiful body, only to be transformed into a crone. The Cauldron took her youth and her mortality, in exchange for whatever Nesta Archeron took from it when she herself was Made, against her will. The queen loathed Nesta ever since and swore revenge on her and the Night Court. Revenge which had not yet come, but would, eventually. And this new war seemed an oh-so-perfect opportunity for it.
“No,” Azriel answered while scanning one of the metal plates, before putting it back on the box. “There’s been no movement in the mortal queens’ castle, nor in its surroundings.” Though his voice came in steady tones, she knew there was a frustrated edge to it.
“What exactly do you expect to see?” Signe was genuinely curious about that whole situation, though she doubted Azriel would give her a straight answer—not only because it was unlike him to do so, but because he’d been especially silent about the subject, which, where Azriel is concerned, is saying something.
“I don’t know, but I guess that’s the whole point of keeping watch.” There it was: that pointed edge again. Signe knew better than to press him—trying to get him to talk had always been fruitless. And she’d tried in the past, probably way too many times before coming to that realization herself.
So, she changed the topic instead. “What is it about, then?”
“It’s about the Illyrians.”
“The Illyrians?” She turned to face him.
Azriel nodded. “We believe some groups are using our losses in the war to raise dissatisfaction among the clans.”
“I thought Cassian was dealing with them.” The Night Court’s general had been sent to Illyria last week, to find a way to put order in the house. Or, at least, as much as possible, given the predisposition of the Illyrians to conflict.
“He is,” Azriel said, “but he can’t be everywhere at once. Besides, he doesn’t know that there are rumours of an uprising.”
She frowned. “An uprising?”
And the grim look Azriel gave her was answer enough.
She raised her brows, though not really surprised. The Illyrians never hesitated in displaying their resistance to Rhysand’s rule, and some clans even sold their loyalty to Amarantha in exchange for immunity, during her reign. But, honestly, weren’t they a race of warriors, trained since birth to become expert soldiers? Didn’t their entire culture revolve around war, combat, and strategy? Wasn’t the infamous Blood Rite a consequence of that? They spoke of war as one would speak of a sport, or a hobby, or even a fun memory. They knew better than anyone that lives would be lost, and not only on the enemy side, and yet their casualties seemed to be enough reason to turn on their High Lord again, perhaps the only being in all seven courts who was willing to do something about Hybern’s invasion. Who actually did, and alongside his newly crowned High Lady managed to put together a front formed by all seven Courts united.
Still, despite all of this, they held a grudge against him. For being a half-breed, no more, no less.
Deep down, she understood Azriel’s hatred towards his own people.
“But why?” She asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “I mean, why now?”
“Why not?” He countered, his expression never faltering. If she didn’t know better, it would be easy to assume the Illyrians didn’t bother him as much as they did. “The war ended a month ago, and the Court is still scrambled. If anything, we are vulnerable.”
“The court was also scrambled right after Amarantha fell,” Signe said, remembering the reports Azriel had given her about Hybern’s general. “Why not riot then?”
“Rhys, Cassian and I went after the rebel clans. Personally.” It was all he said, and she knew exactly what he meant. Executed, like so many other beings during those years, and in the war that followed. She tried not to shudder as she pushed back the memories of those years. “I have some numbers, and some names,” Azriel continued, “but we need more information if we are to do something about it.”
Which explained why they hadn’t chased them already, like last time. And that was where she came in, Signe realised.
“I see,” she said, lowering her gaze to the ground, forcing her mind to begin processing the task ahead, if only to keep the memories from coming back for a little while. “Anyone in particular I should concern myself with?”
“Kallon. He is the son of the current war-lord of the Ironcrest clan.” He said, simply. No further instructions were needed. In other words, Kallon was a dangerous target. Not only for his skill as a warrior, but because being caught targeting him would surely damage the already difficult diplomatic ties with the Illyrians. “I don’t think I have to remind you to be careful,” he warned, his gaze meeting hers.
“I’m not that out of shape,” she met his gaze with the same intensity, “you made sure of that yourself.”
And he had. The weeks since her return, since the end of the war, were filled with interrogations, training, and even more training. She was even summoned to a private meeting with Lady Feyre and Lord Rhysand themselves, for further questioning—that is, having the two daemati peer into the memories of her exile. All to make sure she was still reliable as a spy.
Deep down, she understood the weariness. She’d been away too long, and given the current situation Prythian was in, she wouldn’t have expected otherwise. In fact, she would have done the same, if she was in their position. She’d once been one of Azriel’s most trusted spies, and trust meant everything in her line of work, especially in times like this. It was only necessary—after all, a lot could happen in fifty years.
A lot could happen in a year.
“I want you to keep an eye on Kallon, as well as any others in the camp that may be colluding with him,” he said, eyes still on her, “and, remember—”
“Do not interfere, I know, I know.” Signe finished the sentence for him with a smile. It was a warning she’d heard a lot, and hearing it again now brought back a sense of familiarity that warmed something in her chest.
Azriel’s lips curled slightly, the hint of a smile blooming on his face. “It’s good to have you back,” he said, to her surprise.
She smiled back at him. “It’s good to be back.”
The shadowsinger then turned back to the table, reaching for the prototype gauntlet, the only thing still left to put away. He studied it with intent eyes before handing it back to her. “What’s that supposed to be?”
“An idea,” she said, mimicking his mysterious tone, “you’ll see it eventually, if it works.”
He leaned away from the table, one hand resting over the obsidian hilt of Truth-Teller. “I’m sure it will.”
“So,” she started, carefully placing the prototype inside the box before looking back at him, “when do we start?”
Azriel just nodded at the cabinet next to front door, where he knew she kept the rest of her gear. Where it was once again stored, after years of it being empty.
“Now.”