Chapter Text
Under her fingers, the harp's strings hummed.
Not music. Not precisely.
Something more ancient. Unknown.
It reverberated off the dark walls of the prison cell and throbbed through the stones under her boots. The note echoed like the mountain's own heartbeat.
It wasn't her intention to pluck it. Never again. Her hand had moved mindlessly, though, because the air had been so still following the vision—a glimpse of the long-dead owner, the icy sorrow etched in his face.
Like a stone dropped into a still pond, the sound rippled outward as the note swelled and folded in on itself.
Then the world bowed.
The shadows around the cell's edges looked like they were pulling together into long, jagged shapes that didn't belong in the prison. The air shook and split, and for a split second, a seam in the darkness with blinding light inside it showed up.
Nesta took a deep breath.
The scream went away just as quickly as it came. The note stopped playing.
The harp was heavy in her arms, and the old strings were humming softly as if they were amused.
Nesta stepped off the rocky path, and the snow crunched under her boots. The wind bit her cheeks. The harp was still in her arms, and the old strings were barely audible over the howling wind.
But there was something else in the air besides the cold and the smell of pine. It was like the sea had sent a single breath up this far from the shore. It didn't bother her, so she changed how she held the harp.
Cassian's presence at her side was a steady heat, and his wings flapped a little to keep her warm. Even though they were no longer in the prison, she could still feel its shadows. When she gets to kill Lanthys and plucks the harp, it doesn't take her and Cassian to the Riverhouse. Instead, it takes her outside, farther from the cell.
“Shit.” Her breath puffed white in the cold. She adjusted her hold on Cassian, who leaned heavily against her, bleeding and battered. “I’ll pluck it again.”
Then she froze.
“Nes,” Cassian rasped, voice low and wary. “Do you feel that?”
It felt different from winnowing, which has a slow ripple of magic; instead, it was violent, like a seam being ripped open. The wind screamed through the tear in the air as light bled out in jagged beams.
Cassian shoved himself in front of her, siphons blazing despite his injuries, his blade half-raised.
And through the rift stepped a man.
He is tall. Broad-shouldered beneath a weatherworn cloak, with hair framing his face in a thick, wind-tossed mane, its layered volume and outward sweep reminiscent of a lion’s mane, and a bronze band gleaming at his wrist. His eyes swept the cliff and the snow. then landed on them. His brows raised, seeing the battered Cassian and Nesta in front. “Are you okay?—” Cassian interrupted with a snarl, and his hand went to the blade at his side. “Who are you?”
The stranger’s gaze flicked to the harp in Nesta’s arms, lingering a heartbeat too long before returning to Cassian. The stranger raised his hands slowly, palms out in a gesture of peace. The wind caught at the edges of his cloak—heavy, salt-stained wool clasped with a bronze pin—and wrenched it aside.
Bronze flashed. Leather strips swayed at his thighs, revealing legs corded with muscle. A sword gleamed at his hip, a quiver of arrows at his back, and a bow was strung across his chest. A long spear jutted over his shoulder like some ancient banner. And on his feet—sandals. Thin leather, laced to the calves. Nesta’s brows drew together. No sane person would trek through a mountain winter in sandals. Not unless the cold meant nothing to them.
“I didn’t mean to provoke. I just,” The man paused. “I just got here.” He said, voice calm, rich, and edged with something old.
“Bullshit.” Cassian growled; his sword is now unsheathed and is pointing at the man.
“Who are you, and why are you here?” Cassian asked again.
The man took a deep sigh before he answered, “I am Aamon. I was transported here.” He answered. Nesta’s grip tightened on the harp. This can’t be. “How?” She finally spoke.
Aamon’s gaze shifted to her and then back to Cassian. “I opened a rift, and it transported me here.”
The wind whistled through the cliffs, tugging at his cloak. No one moved.
Cassian’s sword didn’t lower. “You expect me to believe—”
The harp gave a sudden, trembling hum in Nesta’s arms. The sound was low and resonant, like the echo of a plucked string in some cavernous hall. Aamon’s head snapped toward it with idle curiosity.
Cassian shifted, stepping between them.
“I don’t know who you are or what game you’re playing,” the warrior growled, “but you’re going to drop the weapons and step back.”
The wind caught Aamon’s cloak again, pulling it wide enough for the cold light to catch on bronze and leather, on steel and string.
“If I drop them,” he said evenly, “and something comes for us, you’ll regret it.”
Cassian’s wings flared. “Try me.”
Aamon’s mouth curved—not quite a smile. More like a man weighing his odds. “I’d rather not put them on the ground.”
“That wasn’t a request.” Cassian’s tone sharpened.
Aamon’s jaw flexed, the faintest edge of defiance in his eyes before he inclined his head. He crouched, lowering each weapon with deliberate care—sword, bow, quiver, spear—as if placing them in a shrine instead of snow.
“Kick them here,” Cassian ordered.
“They don’t listen to anyone but me,” Aamon said, voice even. “You won’t be able to use them.” Cassian’s lip curled; the statement balanced somewhere between insult and bluff. “Kick them.”
Aamon’s boot nudged the sword forward, the blade whispering against the frost. Cassian stepped forward, never breaking eye contact, even as pain tightened his jaw.
He bent, wrapped his fingers around the hilt—
Nothing. The sword didn’t shift so much as an inch. Cassian’s brows pulled low. He braced and tried again. Still nothing.
“I told you,” Aamon said quietly, something almost like amusement threading his tone.
Cassian growled, but the sound was cut short when Aamon’s head snapped toward the treeline, his posture shifting. “Footsteps,” he murmured. “A dozen. Heavy. Armed.”
Nesta felt it too, the faint tremor through the snow. Cassian swore under his breath. “Autumn Court,” he said. They had seconds.
Cassian turned to Nesta, the harp still cradled in her arms. “We’re leaving.” Her gaze darted to Aamon. “Not without him.” Aamon’s brows raised from surprise; his expression is still calm.
“Nes—”
“Do you want to stay here and fight them alone,” she asked Aamon, ignoring Cassian’s glare, “or come with us?”
Aamon’s answer was a single, firm nod.
“Good.” She shifted her grip on the harp. “Stand close.”
Cassian’s wings curved around them, his siphons flaring as golden armor burst from the trees. Aamon swept up his weapons in one smooth motion, bow slung across his back, spear at his shoulder.
Nesta plucked a string. The cliff, the snow, the roar of the autumn warriors—gone in an instant. Warmth and the familiar scent of river water and wood smoke wrapped around her. The quiet interior of the River House replaced the frozen wilds. Cassian’s ragged breathing filled the silence, his arm steadying her as she lowered the harp.
From the sitting room, footsteps approached—light, measured. Rhysand’s voice, edged with steel, filled the space.