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11. Communication Is Key

When you finally — finally — heard other people up and about, you got ready for the day.

You washed your face with a towel, mindful of your bandaged hands, and then did your hair to your liking.

And because it was hotter and muggier than usual, you slipped on a poofy white dress that ended just above your knees. It was covered in beads of varying shades of blue and orange, so you complemented it with a pair of beige sandals that had white frill.

You looked yourself over before leaving your room, but when you got to the top of the stairs, you froze.

Illyrian soldiers walked around the first floor with purpose; quick, quiet, and wings tucked in tight.

You curled your fingers around the railing in thought. "What the . . ?"

All you'd wanted to do was ask Rhysand or Feyre if you could busy yourself with chores or errands because, if you were being honest, you didn't think you could face Azriel — at least, not right away. You just had a feeling that some space would be in everyone's best interest.

But as you watched the Illyrians, you figured that whatever was going on was far more complicated than a simple chore or errand.

You recognized one of them as they spoke.

"No, we don't need anymore," Devlon said to someone. "It's already too busy here. In fact, send a few home."

You refrained from rolling your eyes as you started down.

You thought you'd be ignored for the most part, but when the beads of your dress sparkled in patches of sunlight, every soldier took note of you. It was probably an instinct — to be aware of their surroundings.

When Devlon caught a soldier staring, he sent them away.

"Good morning, Lord Devlon," you said as you reached the first floor. "Do you know where Rhysand is?"

"Yes," he said, scowling at your outfit. "But he can't be bothered right now. He's busy."

You simply walked away, trailing some of the soldiers.

"I said he's busy."

You continued to ignore Devlon as you followed the soldiers past the study, through a sitting area, and then into another, larger room. It was spacious but poorly decorated. There were chairs, but they'd been shoved against the walls, out of the way.

The only other piece of furniture in the room was a large table, and it was carved in the shape of Prythian — a war table, you realized.

Your stomach sank, so you made a beeline for Rhysand and Feyre to figure out what the hell had happened between last night and this morning. They stood at one end of the table with Amren, Mor, Nesta, Cassian, and — Azriel.

You dreaded talking to him but decided to put a pin in your own crisis until this new one — the very obviously bigger one — was solved.

Rhysand noticed you first, but only because the soldiers he was speaking to were distracted — by you.

"(Y/n)," he said, gesturing for you to join them. "Thank you for showing her the way, Devlon."

You stopped at the end of the table next to Feyre.

"I told her you were busy," Devlon said, agitated. "And she shouldn't be here anyway. She doesn't know what's going on, and she isn't prepared. She'll only be a distraction."

"She's fine," Feyre said, cutting him a glare. "Leave her alone, Devlon."

"But she's wearing a dress. This isn't the time or place. It's an insult."