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12. Eye for an Eye

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Finally, a male you recognized as Thesan from Feyre's stories cleared his throat. "But that's impossible. The last High Lord of Twilight was Azur, and he disappeared thousands and thousands of years ago. I only know about him because it was required learning. Our Courts were so similar, after all."

"We're not sure why, but we think he was sent to (Y/n)'s universe," Helion explained. "And then, because he had no way back, the essence of Twilight had no other choice but to find a suitable heir — over there."

The black male to your left, who had white dreadlocks and blue eyes, gave Helion a curious look (you figured he was Tarquin, the High Lord of Summer). He asked, "But how? She's human."

"She almost meets all the criteria," Rhysand said with a shrug. "She can control sunlight and moonlight — but can't create either. We think it has something to do with Azur creating the harp."

To your surprise, Tarquin nodded and said, "Because Azur would've had to relinquish a significant amount of his essence." He paused to offer you an attentive smile. "Would you mind . . . showing us? Your essence?"

Without missing a beat, you extended your left hand and summoned it — that bead of light. It slid across your bandaged palm, so you had to keep very still.

Everyone leaned forward to look at it, even Beron.

"Fascinating," Tarquin murmured as you reabsorbed it. "But what happened to your hands, dear?"

Your heart skipped a beat at the term of endearment.

You were, after all, only human.

"Moonlight is a bit . . . difficult to control," you admitted. You made eye contact with the other High Lords to be polite. "I'm still getting the hang of it."

Tamlin scoffed. "So she's just a bomb waiting to go off? Perfect. Just perfect."

"If I remember correctly," Feyre said icily, "you were the same not too long ago, Tamlin."

The High Lord of Spring scowled but didn't argue.

"Enough," Beron said, upper lip curling. "I didn't come all this way to swap conspiracy theories. We're all here because Rhysand possesses the Dread Trove, and I'd prefer it if he didn't."

"Unfortunately, I agree with Beron," Kallias, the High Lord of Winter, chimed in. "I don't think Rhysand would ever use the Trove for evil but having all three items in one place is concerning. It's said that merely one of them can puppeteer its wielder for eternity. Or until they're slain."

It dawned on you that he wanted to know if Rhysand had used them yet.

In fact, so did everyone else.

Rhysand held Feyre's hand before saying, "We've only used them once. To save my High Lady's life."

Aw. Cute.

"Then what about Azriel's mate?" Beron asked. He clearly didn't care about Feyre's near-death experience. "How did she get here?"

"The harp brought (Y/n) here all on its own."

Beron narrowed his eyes. "I find that hard to believe."

"But how—?" Kallias furrowed his brow. "Who used them?"

You glanced at the inner circle, curious.

After a beat, Feyre said, with confidence, "Nesta. She was Made by the Cauldron, so . . . like recognized like."

Made? You refrained from expressing your confusion.

You could always ask about it later, in private.