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They’d anticipated that Rask likely wouldn’t show—Az had argued that this meant it wasn’t worth going at all. But both Feyre and Rhys had insisted. We owe it to all the lives that will be lost in this war to try for a peaceful solution, Feyre had said.

It had shamed some part of Az to realize he hadn’t so much as thought of that.

But that was why Feyre had been destined to be High Lady—why she and Rhys were best left to make the decisions. Azriel merely bloodied himself and others to make sure their vision of peace was attainable. He’d keep doing so until the bitter end. Even if there was nothing left of his soul long before then.

Not that there was much left of it anyway. Maybe there’d never been much of it to begin with. Perhaps that was why the shadows had found him. They’d sensed some gaping void, some innate lack, and come to roost in him. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn he’d been born without a soul at all.

Mor added grimly, “Let’s not forget that Koschei, Made items awakening or no, is also pulling the strings of all these territories. I’ve never been able to get proof of it while at their courts, but I can feel it.” With that remarkable truth-sensing gift of hers, she could pick up on much that went unspoken.

Fraught silence settled over the room once more, interrupted only by Nyx’s soft gulping as he drank, little wings twitching with pleasure.

Feyre said at last, “Koschei wishes all of us distracted, fighting and killing each other. Prythian, Montesere, Rask, Vallahan, and any other territories that might join in. He’ll use our distraction to break the spell containing him with little interference.”

“We were distracted plenty before now,” Cassian countered, rubbing his jaw. “Why not do this during the Hybern War? That would have been the time.”

“Perhaps that’s what he needed,” Amren mused. “Time. The war with Hybern would have been ideal, but if he didn’t have what he required yet, he’d have been unable to act. Whatever he was waiting for, he’s now moved the pieces into place, and will try to distract us with this new conflict.” She examined her red nails. “To make matters worse, it sounds as if the territories are well aware of his influence—if not outright allying with him. They’ll never admit it, though. Too many other realms and kingdoms would balk at allowing a death-lord to break free.”

“The Mistress of the Unseen implied the same,” Mor agreed.

“So we prove to the rest of the world that these three territories are working with him,” Feyre said. “Maybe we don’t even need to rally a force against these armies. Maybe we just provide clear proof of their working with Koschei to other powerful territories, and we’ll find ourselves with enough allies that they’ll back down from any invasion. Maybe the unaffiliated Fae from the open territory in the middle of the continent would even rally against them—that would make it virtually impossible for their armies to get to the border with the Mortal Lands unless they go through the Helbronn Mountains.”

“We can and should do that,” Amren said. “But Koschei is still trying to free himself from his lake. And that must not be allowed to happen under any circumstances.”

Az lifted his brows, unable to help himself.

“He’s likely been driven mad by millennia of containment,” Amren clarified. She would know. She’d spent thousands of years in the Prison. Had somehow survived it.

She still dreams of that darkness, his shadows began to whisper. He shoved them back toward the outer edges of the room with a silent, mental snarl. They knew better than to get that close to Amren.

Amren went on, “A sane death-lord is threat enough. But one lost to madness? We cannot begin to imagine the horrors, the suffering that would be unleashed upon the world. Especially if he gets his hands on a Made item, which I imagine he intends to do once one of these territories is in possession of it. He will swoop in to claim it through manipulation and treachery. And when Koschei gets it in his claws, there shall be no going back.”

Az resisted the urge to tap his foot, to pace toward the door and fly away, get started on this hunt when it seemed every second was precious.

“It sounds as if they’re tied together, then,” Cassian said. “Stop the territories—and therefore Koschei—from getting this Made item, expose their alliance with Koschei to the world, and thus create a coalition of territories willing to stand with us, the might of which will convince Rask, Montesere, and Vallahan to drop this invasion.”

Silence followed—one of contemplation, of agreement.

“So we start by getting eyes and ears in these three territories,” Feyre said, nodding to Az, again with that You were right gleam in her eyes. “We need to figure out what Made item they want, who specifically is going after it, and try to find any definitive proof of them working with Koschei.”

“Vallahan seems primed to slip up,” Mor said. “They’re the roughest of the three territories—still a few centuries behind the others in many ways. We should plant Nuala and Cerridwen in Rask and Montesere, but I think we’ll find the most potential for weakness in Vallahan.”

Az could only stare at her. Radiant. Glowing with power and surety. She had always been that way—and he’d loved her for it from the very first time he’d had the honor of witnessing Mor in her element.

A fool’s love. A boy’s love. Five centuries of waiting in the shadows, yearning. Five centuries of his own inability to see what was in front of him. He’d never again let himself be that stupid.

“The Duke of Bernion didn’t seem unquestioningly loyal to his king,” Feyre said, drawing Az back to the conversation at hand. “He commands a sizeable chunk of Montesere’s army. Perhaps he could be enticed to reveal more of their plans and Koschei’s involvement.”

“Valderic’s sister is to marry the king’s son,” Mor explained. “He stands to gain far more from staying true to the royal family than joining our side.”

Az hadn’t known that. These were shreds of information that he should have gathered, that he should be presenting, not Mor. But Mor had been the one chosen to infiltrate these territories, not by stealth but by charm—something he’d never possessed. Not like Mor or Rhys or even Cassian, in his own way.

Azriel knew he’d never had that gift. He was a monster—merely a creature. Best left skulking in shadows. Most suited to collecting information through subterfuge or pain.

The shadows had taught him about that. How to extract truth with agony. Where to slice and twist so that enemies spilled their guts, sometimes literally. He’d named his blade Truth-Teller for what it had carved from their foes. He should have called the knife Butcher’s Blade instead.

Az pushed the thought aside as he caught Feyre peering at the child in her arms, stroking his cap of black hair with one tattooed hand. Tracing her fingers over the tips of the wings beginning to bud claws at their apex. Whatever thoughts filled her mind, she kept them to herself.

Out of respect for that privacy, Az again ordered his pack of shadows to keep back.