Chapter Text
The cold, unyielding silence of his private study pressed in like the weight of the mountains above the Court of Nightmares. The hearth’s flame offered little warmth, its faint crackle swallowed by the cavernous space. Keir stood before his desk, the sealed letter from Hybern poised between his gloved fingers. The royal crest gleamed in the flickering firelight—a gilded serpent coiled around its prey.
He turned the letter over, studying the seal with the detached scrutiny of a predator examining its kill. Hybern did nothing without purpose, least of all something so formal as this. They were not allies. Not truly. Not yet. This was a prelude. A test.
With deliberate precision, Keir broke the wax. The parchment unfurled with a soft hiss, its scent faintly metallic, like blood on steel. The script was sharp, the kind that cut with a glance, penned with the weight of kingship behind it:
"To Keir, Regent of the Hewn City and Master of the Court of Nightmares—"
Keir’s lip curled, his smirk equal parts amusement and disdain. Regent. Master. Titles that dressed up the truth, but lies often served better than honesty in courts such as his. No true power resided in his hands—yet—but those words carried weight. Enough to keep his subordinates in check, enough to make Rhysand’s disdain an unspoken acknowledgment of his value.
He read on, the faint twitch of his jaw the only sign of his rising interest.
"In the spirit of the peace forged between Hybern and Prythian, His Majesty King Brannon extends an offer to solidify this accord: the hand of his daughter, Lady Nerys, in marriage.
Her beauty is quiet, her demeanor humble, and she has been raised with an unwavering understanding of her duties. It is our belief that she will bring dignity and grace to the Court of Nightmares as your bride and ally."
The corners of Keir’s mouth twitched again—this time into a cold, humorless smile. His eyes flicked from the letter, lingering on the shadows pooled in the far reaches of the room. Quiet beauty. Humble demeanor. Polite words for unremarkable, dispensable.
Hybern was clever, as they always were. A daughter—no doubt one they could afford to part with—offered not for love or sentiment but strategy. A pawn, wrapped in silken ribbons and sealed with a royal crest. A token meant to bind him to their cause.
He tapped the edge of the parchment against his palm, the motion steady, calculated.
“A daughter,” he murmured, his voice low and cold, the words rolling like frost over stone. “A lamb led to the slaughter.”
Yet there was no denying the opportunity. A marriage to Hybern’s princess would bolster his position among the discontented. Those who already whispered against Rhysand’s reign would see it as a sign—a rallying cry for change. And if this Nerys proved pliable, even better.
If not...
His gaze flicked to the hearth, the firelight dancing in his pale eyes. He folded the letter with care, though his mind churned with possibilities. This was no gift, no gesture of goodwill. It was a move in a game far older and more vicious than Nerys could comprehend.
A quiet beauty. A humble bride. He nearly laughed aloud. Hybern thought to tether him, to dangle their fragile little offering as bait.
But Keir was no fool.
He approached the hearth, extending the letter toward the flame. Not to burn it—though the temptation stirred—but to better see the signature at its base. Bold and unyielding, Brannon’s name sprawled across the parchment, a reminder of the power it carried.
Keir’s smile sharpened, his teeth gleaming in the firelight like a predator’s. “Tell your king,” he murmured, imagining the couriers waiting for his reply, “that I graciously accept his... generosity.”
He tucked the letter into his coat, his movements as precise and deliberate as his thoughts. With one last glance at the flames, he turned and strode from the room, his steps echoing against the cold stone.
This wasn’t Hybern’s game to control. Their pawn might sit on the board, but Keir was already crafting his next move. And when the dust settled, it would be Prythian—not the Court of Nightmares—that bore the brunt of the reckoning.
The knock at her door came at an unusual hour, the soft sound breaking the fragile stillness of her chamber. Nerys flinched, her trembling fingers faltering over the embroidery hoop in her lap. She set it aside carefully, though her pulse had already begun to quicken.
The door creaked open without her bidding. She didn’t need to look up to know it was her eldest sister, Iridiel. The swish of silk skirts and the sharp clink of heeled shoes against the marble floor were unmistakable. Iridiel always moved with purpose, every motion precise and practiced.
“Nerys,” Iridiel said without preamble, her voice a blade wrapped in velvet. “Father summons you.”
The embroidery hoop slipped from Nerys’ lap and rolled onto the floor. She swallowed hard, her mouth dry. “N-Now?” Her voice cracked, the faint stutter she loathed creeping in.
“Yes. And be quick about it,” Iridiel replied, her tone clipped as she cast a pointed glance at the plain grey dress Nerys wore. “You look... acceptable enough.”
Nerys stood, her knees wobbling beneath her. She smoothed her skirts with shaky hands and avoided her sister’s gaze as she followed her into the hall. The sprawling corridors of their estate felt emptier than usual, the shadows longer and colder. Servants scurried past, their arms laden with folded garments and travel trunks.
Her brow furrowed as she turned her head to watch them. “W-What’s happening?” she asked, her voice barely louder than a whisper.
Iridiel didn’t answer.
The dread that had coiled in her chest now twisted tighter, snaking its way into her throat. She was being sent somewhere—she could feel it. But where? Why?
The heavy oak doors to her father’s study loomed ahead, the dark iron hinges etched with the crest of their house. Iridiel opened them with ease, her posture sharp and regal as she stepped aside to let Nerys enter.
Nerys hesitated on the threshold. The air inside the room was colder still, carrying the faint tang of ink and wax. Her father sat behind his great desk, a towering figure of broad shoulders and cutting eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her.
“Come,” he commanded. His voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of finality.
She obeyed, her steps slow and unsteady. Her mother was nowhere to be seen, nor her elder brother. Only Iridiel lingered near the far wall, watching with an expression that gave nothing away.
“Nerys,” her father began, leaning back in his chair as he studied her like a merchant appraising goods. “I have made a decision regarding your future.”
The cold in her chest sank lower, pooling like ice in her stomach. “M-My future?” she managed.
“Yes,” he said, his tone as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather. “You are to be wed.”
The words struck like a slap. Her breath hitched, the room spinning for a moment as her heart raced wildly in her chest. “W-Wed?”
“To Keir of the Hewn City,” he continued, each word clipped and deliberate.
It was as if the floor had been yanked out from beneath her. She swayed, her fingers curling against her skirts to ground herself. Keir. She knew the name. Everyone in Hybern did. The Court of Nightmares, with its treacherous High Fae and its ruler who bowed to no one save Rhysand himself. Their enemy.
Her voice barely scraped out of her throat. “B-But why? Why me?”
Her father’s gaze sharpened, a glint of irritation flashing in his eyes. “Because it is necessary.” He rose from his chair, looming over her now. “You are young, and you have been raised to understand duty. This is your chance to serve your family. To secure the treaty that keeps Hybern’s interests alive in Prythian.”
“Keir is our e-enemy,” she stammered, her pulse roaring in her ears.
“He is our ally now,” her father snapped, the force of his voice making her flinch. “And you will do as you are told.”
Nerys opened her mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes silenced her. He wasn’t asking. He never had.
“Iridi—” he began, but her sister was already moving, stepping forward with a serene grace.
“Her belongings are being packed as we speak,” Iridiel said smoothly. “We will ensure she is ready for the journey.”
Nerys turned to her, the words tumbling from her lips before she could stop them. “You knew.”
Iridiel’s expression remained impassive, though her lips pressed into a faint line. “Of course. It is an honor, Nerys. One you should accept with gratitude.”
Gratitude. Nerys’ chest tightened, her breath coming shallow and sharp. Her family was packing her life away—folding it neatly into trunks and sending it to a place she had only ever heard of in whispers and warnings.
Her father’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. “You leave at dawn.”
Nerys blinked rapidly, her eyes stinging as she stared at him. He had already returned to his desk, his attention shifting back to the papers before him. The matter was settled. She was dismissed.
When Iridiel’s hand closed around her arm, she didn’t resist. She let her sister lead her from the room, her legs weak and her chest hollow. As the door closed behind them, the sounds of the house surged around her once more: the hurried footsteps, the rustle of fabric, the creak of wooden trunks being locked.
Her life was being stripped away, piece by piece, and she was powerless to stop it.
The halls of her family’s estate seemed colder than ever, though Nerys suspected it wasn’t the stone that had chilled—it was her. Her hand rested limply on Iridiel’s arm, her sister guiding her as though she were a porcelain doll too fragile to walk unaided. Nerys’ steps were unsteady, her mind distant, trailing somewhere far behind them in the dark corridors.
She had never left Hybern before. Never ventured beyond the confines of their small, isolated court. Her world had always been defined by these walls, the gardens enclosed by iron gates, the cold cliffs overlooking the churning sea. She had thought she might live her whole life here, perhaps—if the gods were merciful—even marry here.
Once, not long ago, she had dared to dream of a match within the court. Someone gentle, someone kind enough to overlook her stammering words and trembling hands. Someone who would make her a home not unlike the one she had always known. It was a foolish dream, and she had known it even then, but she had clung to it nonetheless.
Now that dream lay shattered, as distant as the land they called Prythian.
The Court of Nightmares.
She had heard the stories whispered among her sisters and the servants. Of Lord Keir, cold and ruthless, his court a place of shadows and cruelty. And beyond him—above him—there was another name. One they scarcely dared to speak aloud.
The High Lord of the Night Court.
Rhysand. The butcher of Hybern.
Nerys shivered, her chest tightening as the stories came rushing back. She could still hear the voices of the servants from her childhood, low and fearful as they warned of the High Lord who had laid waste to their armies, who had reduced their kingdom to nothing but ashes and whispers.
And now she was to be sent there—to his subordinate, no less. To Lord Keir, who, by all accounts, shared his High Lord’s cruelty, if not his power.
She almost stumbled, but Iridiel’s grip on her arm tightened, pulling her upright.
“Keep walking,” her sister said, her tone clipped.
The words stung more than they should have. Iridiel had always been poised, her sharp beauty and sharper tongue enough to make their father proud. She didn’t stammer or flinch. She didn’t cower. And she certainly didn’t dream of silly things like love and mercy.
When they reached her rooms, Iridiel released her without a word. Nerys swayed for a moment before grasping the edge of the doorframe to steady herself.
Her chamber was in chaos. Servants flitted in and out, their arms laden with gowns, shoes, and jewelry—all the trappings of a life that wasn’t hers anymore. Trunks sat open in the center of the room, their yawning mouths filled with silks and satins she had never thought to wear. The garments looked foreign to her, too fine, too cold, as though they had been meant for someone else entirely.
“Stop dawdling,” Iridiel snapped from behind her. “You still need to be fitted into the gown you’ll wear for the journey.”
Nerys turned to her, her voice faint. “Why?”
Iridiel raised an elegant brow, her expression unreadable. “You’re to make a good impression, of course. The Court of Nightmares is a cruel place. They will not respect you if you look weak.”
Nerys flinched at the word. Weak. That was all anyone ever saw when they looked at her, wasn’t it? A fragile, stammering girl, barely worth the breath it took to speak her name.
Iridiel’s expression softened—just a fraction, but enough to make Nerys’ heart lurch. “This is your duty,” her sister said, quieter now. “You are doing what is necessary for our family. For Hybern.”
Nerys swallowed hard, her gaze dropping to the floor. Duty. That was what they had always told her. When her father had silenced her attempts to protest her isolation. When her mother had scolded her for embarrassing the family with her trembling hands and stuttered words. When her siblings had mocked her for the magic she could barely summon, let alone control.
“Of course,” she murmured, though the words felt hollow. “I understand.”
Iridiel studied her for a moment longer before turning sharply on her heel. “The seamstress will arrive shortly,” she said over her shoulder. “Try to look presentable.”
The door shut behind her with a decisive thud, leaving Nerys alone amid the flurry of servants and gowns and trunks. Her hands trembled at her sides, and she clasped them together to still them, though it did little good.
The room spun around her, the sounds of rustling fabric and hurried footsteps merging into a distant hum. She felt as though she were floating, untethered, as if this weren’t her life but someone else’s.
Her gaze fell to the small writing desk near the window, where a single vase of flowers sat—pale white lilies, her favorites. The sight of them sent a pang through her chest. She wouldn’t see them bloom again.
Would she ever see this room again?
A soft knock at the door startled her, and she turned to see one of the servants—a younger girl, her face pale and nervous as she held out a silver tray bearing a folded piece of parchment.
Nerys hesitated before reaching for it, her fingers trembling as they brushed the smooth paper. The seal had already been broken, but the insignia was unmistakable.
The crest of the Hewn City.
Her stomach churned, the parchment slipping through her fingers before she could unfold it. She pressed a hand to her chest, her breaths shallow and sharp.
The Court of Nightmares awaited her. Lord Keir awaited her.
And there was nothing—nothing—she could do to stop it.