A Court of Silver Flames - Sarah J. Maas Page 0,207

fun of his annual snowball fight with his brothers. Followed by a steam in the birchin and more drinking, usually until all three of them passed out in variously stupid positions. One year, he’d awoken wearing a blond wig and nothing but an evergreen garland around his groin like a loincloth. It had itched and scratched awfully—though it was nothing compared to his pounding hangover.

He supposed, at its root, he loved the Winter Solstice because it was uninterrupted time with the people he treasured most.

This year, just as it had last year, it filled him with nothing but churning acid.

The Court of Nightmares was decorated as it usually was, adorned for the celebration that lasted three whole days surrounding the longest night of the year. Each night held a different ball, and at the first of them, Nesta would dance with Eris.

Tonight. In a matter of moments.

He’d had a month to prepare for this. A month of being in Nesta’s bed—or at least fucking her in it. The Cauldron knew she hadn’t ever asked him to stay after he pulled out of her.

He stood at the foot of the black dais, staring out at the glittering throng with a face that promised death. Az stood on the other side of the dais, wearing a similar expression.

Each and every one of the people here could fucking burn in hell.

Starting with Keir, at the head of the gathered crowd. Ending with Eris, standing proud and tall—wearing Night Court black—beside him.

Mor stood by Feyre’s and Rhysand’s thrones, representing them until they arrived.

The entire throne room was bedecked in black candles, evergreen wreaths and garlands, and holly berries. The twin banquet tables flanking either side of the massive space overflowed with food, but it was forbidden to all until Feyre and Rhys allowed it.

He’d lightened some of his Night Triumphant demeanor with the people of the Hewn City lately, but not by much. Cassian didn’t envy Rhys his juggling act. They couldn’t isolate Keir, not if they were to need his Darkbringers again. Hence the nicer tone. But they couldn’t let him forget the ass-kicking he’d receive if he stepped out of line. Hence the only slightly nicer tone.

They’d heard nothing of the Crown, nothing from Briallyn. She had not come for the Trove. Cassian wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was over. None of them were.

The towering doors to the throne room at last yawned open.

Dark power rumbled through the mountain, warning of their approach. The mountain sang with it. Everyone turned as the High Lord and High Lady appeared, crowned and garbed in black.

Rhys looked his usual handsome self, but Feyre …

The room gasped.

Tonight also served another purpose: to tell the world of Feyre’s pregnancy.

She wore a dress of sparkling black panels, much like the one she’d first worn here—and it did nothing to hide her swelling belly.

No, it showed off her pregnant womb, gleaming in the candlelight.

Rhys’s face was a portrait of smug, male pride. Cassian knew he’d shred anyone who so much as blinked wrong at Feyre into a million bloody ribbons. Indeed, cold violence rippled off Rhys as they walked toward the dais, Feyre’s baby-rich scent filling the air. He’d let everyone here smell it, further confirming that she was with child.

Feyre might as well have been a goddess of old, crowned and glowing, her belly swollen with life. Her serene face was lovely, and her full red lips parted in a smile at Rhys as they aimed for their thrones. Keir looked torn between anger and shock; Eris’s face was carefully neutral.

Motion at the back of the room tugged Cassian’s stare from his enemies, and then—

Both sisters wore black. Both walked behind Rhys and Feyre, a silent indicator that they were a part of the royal family. Had mighty powers of their own. They’d planned it that way, wanting Eris to see for himself how valuable Nesta was. Cassian wondered if Elain and Nesta had broken their silence while waiting for their entrance. They hadn’t spoken to each other for months now.

Elain in black was ridiculous. Yes, she was beautiful, but the color of her long-sleeved, modest gown leeched the brightness from her face. It wore her, rather than the other way around. And he knew the cruelty of the Hewn City troubled her. But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court—and would do whatever was