The Hybern King's palace tasted of damp, rotting marsh and iron.

The once strapping cartilage of Cassian's wings was shredded like parched paper, his breathing coming in wet, ragged gasps. He felt his muscles betray him; his whole balance had disintegrated without the grounding tilt of his wings to keep him centered. He felt his chest collide with a shoulder, and a grunt choked out of his lungs as he felt Azriel's attempt to push against his chest to keep him upright. It failed to hold him up; his brother had a faebane dagger lodged in his chest, and Cassian's eyes widened—a searing current of fury running up his veins at his helplessness.

Rhysand's once shimmering starlight eyes have dimmed; his powers were suppressed; and the ropes around his limbs and around his family were heavily saturated with faebane. A trap. This was a trap. And we played right into it. His composure faltered under the humiliation; the very thought of failing his Court after just shortly being released from Amarantha's tyranny was a jagged wound to his soul. He looked around, teeth bared, an animal that had been cornered and trapped in the hands of power that was stolen from once rich, lively lands. The Hybern King has stolen so much power from his continent that it's nothing but marshlands of rotting corpses. Life can no longer sprout from the soil.

Mor was trying to hold Azriel up, despite her battered state. Azriel has gone quieter than his shadows—breath caught, wet and ragged—his chest threatening to cave in as he feels the foreign, brutal lodge of the dagger driven deep and precariously between heart and lung. Every beat of his heart was a scrape of poison rushing through his system, and every painful breath drawn was an inhale that drew all the energy from his veins. The shadows on his shoulders were like deflated things, sluggish and oily, struggling to hold onto their Shadowsinger's armor. Some slivers found the dark Illyrian blood oozing in an unnatural sludge against his chest Siphon; they stuck to it—trying to weave into the remnants of their master's power. If they separated from him, they might just never return.

"Bring the pretty one first." Grunts of a struggle, a scuff of a boot, and a rightful hiss made Nesta an awfully slippery captive. Her human body, although slender and essentially breakable to the eyes of a Fae, was surprisingly lithe. She fought, kicked, and scratched at the soldiers trying to restrain her. "UNHAND ME!" Her snarl was full of poisonous detestation. The Hybern King himself simply smiled, still in his stature before the Cauldron. He watched, and Feyre blanched, her hands shaking in the restraints as she watched her sister get dragged to the boiling Cauldron. "What do you want from us?" She sneered at the dark figure centered on the dais.

"I want to see what the Cauldron will spit out." The king's eyes followed the way Nesta's boots were using the Cauldron's stand as leverage to avoid touching the bubbling, alien liquid. His lips stretched into a thin, wicked smile. "—especially with one that seems to have more steel and sharpness in her than I've seen in a mortal." Nesta's muscles could only take so much. Inevitably, the soldiers hauled her up and dumped her into the searing liquid. Nesta didn't make much of a sound; her eyes instead sharpened into slits, and as she sank, her one hand stuck up, a mighty finger pointed at the king. Her face said everything, promising retribution of the highest intensity that the Hybern King himself bristled at.

The Inner Circle stilled in frozen dread. The only sounds during the eternal minutes were the hiss of the Cauldron and the slew of labored breathing from each Inner Circle member. And as if the stands were raised, the Cauldron tilted and spilled its contents, the figure slipped out, and Nesta pushed herself up in rasping gasps, liquid sloshing off from every inch of her. The Hybern King's face stretched with glee at the newfound form of the heaving woman on the ground.

Snap. His hands collided, his gaze landing on Elain. "Now, let's see what the Cauldron will create with one so..." The Hybern King gave the soft woman an appraising look. "—soft." Elain was dragged. The softer sister's cheeks were smudged with dirt, tears streaking through it. She watched as Feyre ran up to Nesta and pulled her toward the huddle of the rest of them. Her eyes were laden with helplessness.

Elain thrashed and shrieked, terror rushing up her veins like lightning as she neared the Cauldron. Unlike Nesta, the lightness of her body did nothing but aid the soldiers in dropping her into the Cauldron. The Cauldron swallowed her. Minutes later, she was spilled out like leaves in a stream. She coughed and spat, heaving. Feyre moved with urgent devastation, pulling her other sister behind her. Her whole body determined to stand between her family and the immorality before her. The Hybern King finally settled back on his throne, watching the pitying scene before him like animals whimpering in a cage.

His eyes then flicked towards {user}.

{user}'s body was taken with force, arms wrapped like iron under each shoulder. The Fae's bodies were so superior to humans that soldier's height gained favor in carrying the mortal towards the Cauldron. Nesta held Elain tightly to her chest; she didn't know if the shaking was coming from her or Elain. Her newly made eyes—sharper, crueler in their clarity—tracking their last sibling as they was dragged toward the same fate Nesta had been forced to endure. Feyre was vibrating, but she was strangely quiet, her fingers curled and then stretched at her sides.

Azriel's state was worsening; his chest began to stutter, and his blood felt like it was sludge trying to worm in his veins. His form slumped completely on Mor, his wings sagged, and the talons scraped on the grimy concrete floor. Mor gasped, her eyes momentarily prying away from the horrifying scene on the dais. It snapped into focus on the male's weight she was supporting. "Rhys." She choked out. Mor didn't move, afraid that any movement could lodge the dagger at an angle that would truly take away the Shadowsinger's light.

Rhysand, his head like sand, swiveled over his shoulder, and his teeth gritted. He couldn't afford to be distracted; he needed to find a way out of this place. If we stay here, we're all dead. There was a ward, an enchanted barrier over them that kept them from using magic to winnow and escape. The High Lord's hands grabbed his tunic, ripping the fabric with great desperate force. He handed it to Mor. "Pack it." Mor took the soiled fabric and wrapped it carefully around the dagger. Her hands shook with terrified urgency. "Just... hold on, Az. Please, hold on." She whispered, her voice cracking.

Cassian, on the other hand, was in a torturous state of awareness. His body was his ultimate weapon, and they've completely obliterated it by striking the one part of him that kept him fully mobile—his wings. This was preplanned. His gaze momentarily shifted to Rhysand's face, and at that moment, he knew. His High Lord has already processed it at a rate that Cassian's mind could have never attained.

Maybe, maybe we can get out of this. His hands curled into fists; his arms trembled as they fought to keep him from completely collapsing flat on the ground. His gaze tracked {user} as they were dragged toward something permanent—an irreversible, life-altering fate. Two had already been made out of their will, and here he was, the only weapon that didn't rely on magic—castrated.

{user} didn't sink nor was dumped into the Cauldron; they were pushed by the Hybern soldier. Their head was held down beneath the surface until the thrashing ceased. Any sign of their struggle or fight was completely futile. Only a moment passed. One slow, wet breath of Azriel's commenced before the Shadowsinger's eyes snapped open.

“No.” Azriel managed to choke out—his eyes no longer glazed and dull, but razor-sharp, fixed on the Cauldron with raw, horrified clarity. Despite the horrifying volume of his blood puddled beneath him, his mind has found a tether to pull him back to the earth. Rhysand, his mind reeling as he tried to inch his power back from the darkness, froze. His fingers stopped curling and uncurling; his gaze, once focused on the Hybern King's potential weaknesses, darted to the Cauldron. "Mother above." He breathed out in realization.

Cassian was more volatile, pushing himself up with the last great strength he could muster. A painful groan left his lips as his wings tried and failed to balance him. It fluttered once, sending shards of wet, shredded membranous skin spraying across anyone unlucky enough to be nearby. "I'm going to kill you." His voice held the finality and dread of a male that has realized that his mate, his Cauldron-fated mate, was a mortal that's been the victim of a war he failed to win. The Cauldron didn't spit or spill.

{user} emerged.

Feyre found the edge of the barrier; her heart thumped hard in her chest as she found that light inside her that she'd struggled to navigate during her magic training. Desperation discovered it as she watched {user} emerge from the Cauldron; their figure rose as if the Cauldron presented them as a vision to be valued by its audience. She felt the light inside her break free, a quiet wisp of her magic that snapped the barriers away in a whisper. Even if the king clued in, he would've been too distracted staring at the spectacle that surfaced before him. The Hybern King's eyes raked the Made figure. His hand came up, hovering over {user}'s cheek.

The three males behind Feyre snarled in unison.

"Enough." Feyre's voice broke the trance from the throne room. The Hybern King's breath choked out to a disbelieving laugh, his teeth baring in triumph. "And what will you do, Feyre, dear?" Feyre's face, deceptive in its kindness, smiled. She felt the hum of her power run through her veins as she stepped forward, catching {user} as they stumbled disoriented towards her. Her hand grabbed Nesta's shoulder behind her. Feyre's next word were a revelation of its own cursed accord.

"Hold." Mor's eyes widened, her arm circling tighter around Azriel's heaving waist. Rhysand held onto Azriel's shoulder, his gaze completely frozen on {user}'s Made figure. Azriel wheezed, tilting his head back until it lolled, eyes half-lidded and glazed—yet beneath the haze burned an intense, focused vigilance on the last Made mortal. Rhysand reached for Cassian, their forearms locking in a firm, desperate grasp.

"We're going home." He breathed out. Then Feyre with a concentrated surge of her power, winnowed them through the fabric of reality, wisping through heavy layers whilst carrying her whole family with her.

A dark cloud materialized in the House of Wind's grand sitting room; Amren's head snapped up from the book she had laid on her lap. Her lithe figure rose as the battered forms of her family, lugged along with three soaked bodies, were thrown before her, each one collapsing in a chaotic, bloody spill. Amren's nose crinkled; they all stunk of iron, marsh, and the familiar tang of ancient magic. "What in the Cauldron's—" Her silver eyes whipped towards the twin wraiths by the door.

"Summon Madja."

.