A Court of Graves and Flowers

CHAPTER THREE

Azriel moved first, removing the cloak from around his shoulders.

He approached the figure slowly so as not to startle her. The wide, confused gaze turned to him, and he gave a gentle smile. Recognition flickered in the purple eyes.

"Azriel." Her voice was hoarse. Raspy. But it was a voice that he was familiar with.

"Hello, Callisto," Azriel murmured, his own voice shaky. His brain was still trying to process the sight before him. He wasn't quite sure if this was real, but he wasn't going to leave her wet and naked on the ground. He held up the cloak, indicating his intentions. When Callisto gave a nod, he carefully wrapped it around her.

He then turned to the others, still frozen in their shock.

Nesta and Amren didn't quite understand how Azriel knew the female, but something about her seemed very familiar.

Then, Rhys was launching himself across the small distance, nearly shoving Azriel out of the way. His hands grasped the sides of the woman's face, and Nesta turned her questioning eyes to Cassian. Who is this woman?

The look on Cassian's face made the words die on her lips. She'd never seen such sorrow etched into his handsome features.

"Callisto, is it really you?" Rhysand asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Rhysand," the girl spoke his name slowly, as if trying to remember how to shape the vowels and consonants. "I shouldn't be here."

"But you are here. I-I don't know what happened, but the Cauldron-it brought you back."

"The Cauldron didn't bring her back," Amren cut in, also regaining her composure. "Someone used a spell to resurrect her, and you know as well as I do that playing with life and death comes with strings, Rhysand. We can't be sure that that's truly your sister."

Sister. The word made Nesta flinch. She recalled Feyre mentioning something about Rhysand's sister-how he'd lost her and his mother at a young age. But that was centuries ago.

A snarl ripped from Rhysand's throat, and his wings twitched angrily behind him.

"Let him have a moment, Amren," Azriel spoke quietly, his shadows swirling around him.

"Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you," Amren huffed.

Rhysand turned back to his sister, cradling her in his arms. Nesta rarely saw Rhysand look at anyone with such tenderness. He only saved that look for Feyre and Nyx. Silver lined his eyes as he clearly struggled to fight back tears.

It had been so long since he'd seen Callisto's face. In truth, he tried not to remember it. Every time he tried to picture her, all he saw was the silent scream that her expression had been stuck in when she passed. When she had been murdered. All he saw was the look of horror on his father's face as he opened the basket that had carried her decapitated head to their war camp. Rhys still felt sick, thinking of it now, so he looked at her. Looked at her, staring up at him in wonder and confusion. Looked at her, somehow alive in his arms. Looked at those eyes-eyes that they both shared.

Then, his joy was replaced with worry.

She looked so thin. He could feel her bones digging into him through Azriel's cloak. He could feel her slight trembling as her body fought off the chill of the evening and the water that she was still drenched in. Her face was drawn and gaunt, the cheekbones seeming to cut through the skin of her face.

"Do-how-how do you feel? Does anything hurt?"

"Thirsty," Callisto croaked, and Rhys nodded.

"Okay. We're going to get you out of here. We're going to get you home."