2_-_court_of_mist_and_fury_a_-_sarah_j._maas

A nod. “Cassian, Azriel, and Amren.”
“Who are they?” He’d said something about Illyrians, but Amren—the female voice I’d
heard—hadn’t possessed wings. At least ones I’d glimpsed through the fogged glass.
“There are tiers,” he said neutrally, “within our circle. Amren is my Second in
command.”
A female? The surprise must have been written on my face because Rhys said, “Yes.
And Mor is my Third. Only a fool would think my Illyrian warriors were the apex
predators in our circle.” Irreverent, cheerful Mor—was Third to the High Lord of the
Night Court. Rhys went on, “You’ll see what I mean when you meet Amren. She looks
High Fae, but something different prowls beneath her skin.” Rhys nodded to a passing
couple, who bowed their heads in merry greeting. “She might be older than this city, but
she’s vain, and likes to hoard her baubles and belongings like a firedrake in a cave. So …
be on your guard. You both have tempers when provoked, and I don’t want you to have
any surprises tonight.”
Some part of me didn’t want to know what manner of creature, exactly, she was. “So if
we get into a brawl and I rip off her necklace, she’ll roast and eat me?”
He chuckled. “No—Amren would do far, far worse things than that. The last time
Amren and Mor got into it, they left my favorite mountain retreat in cinders.” He lifted a
brow. “For what it’s worth, I’m the most powerful High Lord in Prythian’s history, and
merely interrupting Amren is something I’ve only done once in the past century.”
The most powerful High Lord in history.
In the countless millennia they had existed here in Prythian, Rhys—Rhys with his
smirking and sarcasm and bedroom eyes …
And Amren was worse. And older than five thousand years.
I waited for the fear to hit; waited for my body to shriek to find a way to get out of this
dinner, but … nothing. Maybe it’d be a mercy to be ended—
A broad hand gripped my face—gently enough not to hurt, but hard enough to make me
look at him. “Don’t you ever think that,” Rhysand hissed, his eyes livid. “Not for one
damned moment.”
That bond between us went taut, and my lingering mental shields collapsed. And for a
heartbeat, just as it had happened Under the Mountain, I flashed from my body to his—
from my eyes to his own.
I had not realized … how I looked …
My face was gaunt, my cheekbones sharp, my blue-gray eyes dull and smudged with
purple beneath. The full lips—my father’s mouth—were wan, and my collarbones jutted
above the thick wool neckline of my sweater. I looked as if … as if rage and grief and
despair had eaten me alive, as if I was again starved. Not for food, but … but for joy and
life—