A Court of Silver Flames (A Court of Thorns and Roses #4) by Sarah J. Maas

Easy enough.

It wasn’t. The first few times Nesta counted ten breaths, no thoughts plagued her at all. But when she began the next set …

What would Elain think, to see Nesta here with a friend? The thought bubbled up from nowhere. As if in opening her mind, it had rushed toward her. Would Elain be pleased, or would she feel the need to warn Gwyn about Nesta’s true self?

She’d been on breath five. No, six. Wait—maybe it had only been three.

“Start over if you lose count,” Gwyn said, as if she’d heard the halt of Nesta’s steady breathing.

Nesta did so, focusing on the breaths and not Elain. I acknowledge this thought about my sister, and I am letting it go.

She was on her seventh breath when her sister appeared again. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.

Had Elain been right? Feyre had admitted she was guilty of it, too, but—Feyre hadn’t known Elain as Nesta did. Or, it hadn’t been that way before. Before Elain had chosen Feyre.

Before Amren had chosen Feyre.

Before—

I acknowledge these thoughts and I am letting them go.

Nesta inhaled an eighth time. I am focusing on my breathing. These thoughts exist, and I am letting them pass me by.

Nesta took another breath. Forced her mind to think only of her breathing.

“When you finish your next set of ten,” Gwyn said, near and yet far away, “stop counting your breaths and just let your mind do as it wishes. We’ll do that for a few heartbeats, then stop. The goal is to work up to longer and longer periods of this.”

Nesta did so, counting each of the ten remaining breaths. Feeling that moment of halting like a looming wave. She finished the tenth breath.

Do as you want, mind. Go drift into those dark, horrible places.

It didn’t, though. Her mind lingered. Didn’t wander. It just … sat there. Contented. Resting. Like a cat curled at her feet.

Stilled.

Only a few moments passed before Gwyn whispered, “Begin to sink back into your body. Mark the sounds around us. Mark the feeling in your fingers, your toes.”

Strange—so strange to find her body suddenly … calmed. Distant. Like she’d somehow indeed been able to step back. Let it rest. And her mind …

“Open your eyes,” Gwyn breathed.

Nesta did. And for the first time in her life, she felt utterly settled into her own skin.





CHAPTER

40

The rain kept falling for two days, the temperatures plummeting with it. Leaves lay scattered around Velaris, and the Sidra was now a silver snake, sometimes hidden by the drifting mists. The females showed up every damn day without fail.

But only Nesta stood at his side as he knocked on the door of the small blacksmith’s shop on the western outskirts of Velaris.

The gray-stoned, thatched-roof shop hadn’t changed in the five centuries he’d been patronizing it—he bought all his non-Illyrian weapons there. He’d have taken her to an Illyrian blacksmith, but they were mostly backward, superstitious males who wanted females nowhere near their shops. The ruddy-skinned High Fae male who opened the door for them was skilled and kind, if gruff.

“General,” the male said, wiping his sooty hands on his stained leather apron. He opened the door wider, delicious heat blasting out to meet them in the chilled rain. The blacksmith’s dark eyes swept over Nesta, noting her soaked hair and leathers, the calm intensity of her features despite the awful weather.

She’d had that same look on her face, in every line of her body, while training this morning. And when Cassian had issued the invitation to join him here during the lunch hour. He’d invited all of the females, but Emerie had to return to Windhaven, and the priestesses had been unwilling to leave the mountain. So only Nesta had come with him to the small village, with the city looming on its eastern side and broad, flat plains stretching away toward the sea to the west.

“How can I assist you?”

Cassian nudged Nesta forward with a hand to the small of her back, and grinned at the male. “I want Lady Nesta to learn how a blade is made. Before she picks up a real one.”

The blacksmith surveyed her again. “I don’t need an apprentice, I’m afraid.”

“Just a quick demonstration,” Cassian said, keeping his smile in place as he glanced to Nesta, who was staring over the blacksmith’s broad shoulder into the workshop behind him. The blacksmith frowned deeply, so Cassian added, “I want her to learn how much work and skill goes into the process. To show her that a blade is not merely a tool for killing, but a piece of art as well.” Flattery always helped smooth the way. Rhys had taught him that.

Nesta’s gaze shifted to the blacksmith’s face, and for a moment, they stared at each other. Then Nesta said, “Whatever you can show me, in whatever free time you have, would be much appreciated.”

Cassian tried not to show his surprise at her polite words. The hint of deference.

It seemed to do the trick, as the blacksmith waved them in.

Nesta listened while the dark-haired male explained the various stages of forging a blade, from the quality of the ore to the proving. Cassian kept near her, asking questions of his own, since she said little herself. One of the few times she’d spoken had been to request to move away from the roaring fires of the forge room to the quieter, cooler dark of the workshop proper. But as the blacksmith finished going over the design process for more ornate blades, Nesta asked, “Can I try it?” At the blacksmith’s hesitation, Nesta stepped forward, eyes on the doorway beyond them, filled with the bellowing of the forge. “Hammering the blades, I mean. If you have any to spare.” She glanced at Cassian. “You’ll be compensated, of course.”