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16. She Is Home

As the darkness of Rhysand's winnowing disappeared, he said, "Welcome to the Illyrian Steppes."

The sound of rain welcomed you, but if you listened closely, you could also hear—

"The ocean," you breathed, looking to your right.

As far as the eye could see, unforested grassland met reeds, sand, and then the ocean. Because it was currently storming, it was choppy, and waves crashed with much more force than usual.

And . . . you couldn't help but feel like you'd been here before.

"Something wrong?" Rhysand asked to your left.

"It's just . . ." You trailed off. "I'm just getting this strange sense of déjà vu."

"Huh?"

The corners of your mouth twitched up.

"Sorry," you said, turning to face Rhysand. "Where I'm from, when you get déjà vu, it means feeling like you've already lived through something. Which is weird, considering I've never been here before."

Rhysand hummed thoughtfully. "It could be because you have the essence of Azur."

You cocked your head to the side. "Oh, did he live here before he . . ?"

"That's what we're here to find out, actually."

You focused on the area to your left and were pleasantly surprised by how large the camp was. It spanned for miles in all directions, even over some hills in the distance, barely visible from the beach. The houses were either square or circular, and they were all made out of logs, mud, and probably hay — you weren't sure.

Devlon shifted behind Rhysand, coming into view. He'd used magic to change into Illyrian leathers, red siphons glowing. He only had three of them, so you wondered if there was a connection between the number of siphons one had and their magic.

Devlon took a deep breath before forcing out, "You should pull your hood up."

"Oh, right." When you reached for your hood, you saw a panel of transparent red light above you, already blocking the rain. You figured it was Devlon's doing, which surprised you. You weren't sure what to do with his unusual kindness, so you said, "You don't have to—"

"Let's go," he said, turning on his heel.

You quickly pulled your hood up and followed after him, expecting to be rained on, but Devlon never got rid of the shield.

You looked to Rhysand for answers, but he wouldn't meet your gaze. The High Lord of Night kept his chin high, expression hard and sharp. Like Devlon, he'd used magic to change into Illyrian leathers.

"The elders we're meeting with aren't that old," Devlon said over his shoulder, "but they're all we have left. As I'm sure you can imagine, Illyrians don't have the luxury of a long lifespan."

"Oh," you said over the rain. Your boots sloshed through mud and wet grass. "How old are they?"

"The oldest is seven thousand," Rhysand explained. At your wide-eyed reaction, he grinned and added, "Doesn't hold a flame to Amren, though. She's fifteen thousand."

". . . Wow," you finally said, voice barely above a whisper now. "Us mortals must seem so expendable in comparison. We're just a blip in time." Your chest twinged around an awful, bitter feeling. "I don't know how mates work here, but Azriel will be rid of me in sixty years, give or take. Maybe then he can finally be happy."

Before Rhysand could respond, Devlon looked back at you over his shoulder, brows high.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a busybody, Lord Devlon," you bit out.