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╰┈˚ · ° . ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴇᴋ ᴘᴀꜱꜱᴇᴅ Qᴜɪᴄᴋʟʏ. ꜰᴇʏʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʟᴇꜱꜱᴏɴꜱ where most of the time Maiven sat next to her until she finished. Helping her when she needed to or just reading a book.
The relationship between the siblings strained more and more as the day passed and Mai couldn't help but feel like Feyre was angry with her.
The rest of the time Maiven would pass it in Velaris, sometimes just looking at the city from the top of the mountain next to the House of Wind, other times with Rhysand or Amren teaching her duty to the Court as Bloodsinger.
The twins walked to the usual little table where Feyre normally practiced, when Rhys's and Mor's voices floated toward them.
Rhys pacing before the open plunge off the mountain, Mor lounging in a cream-colored armchair.
"Azriel would want to know that," Mor was saying.
"Azriel can go to hell," Rhys sniped back. "He likely already knows, anyway."
"We played games the last time and we lost. Badly. We're not going to do that again."
The twins swapped glances between each other as they paused to a healthy distance.
"Say what it is you came here to say, Mor," Rhys said tightly.
"There was another attack—at a temple in Cesere. Almost every priestess slain, the trove looted."
Rhys halted. Utter rage conveyed in one word as he said, "Who."
"We don't know," Mor said. "Same tracks as last time: small group, bodies that showed signs of wounds from large blades, and no trace of where they came from and how they disappeared. No survivors. The bodies weren't even found until a day later, when a group of pilgrims came by."
Shadows started erupting from Rhysand—plumes of them from his back.
And then those wings became flesh.
Great, beautiful, brutal wings, membranous and clawed like a bat's, dark as night and strong as hell. But Rhysand's voice was still midnight-soft and he said, "What did Azriel have to say about it?"
