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

Her brows rose higher with each absurd word. “I Made three magic weapons?”

“We don’t know yet what manner of magic they have, but yes.”

She angled her head. Emerie and Gwyn halted their chatting at the water station, as if they could see or sense the shift in her. And it wasn’t the fact that she’d Made these weapons that hit her like a blow.

“Who is ‘we’?”

“What?”

“You said ‘We don’t know what manner of magic they have.’ Who is ‘we’?”

“Rhys and Feyre and the others.”

“And how long have all of you known about this?”

He winced as he realized his error. “I … Nesta …”

“How long?” Her voice became sharp as glass. The priestesses were watching, and she didn’t care.

He did, apparently. “This isn’t the place to talk about it.”

“You’re the one trying to coax a name out of me in the middle of training!” She gestured to the ring.

Her blood pounded in her ears, and Cassian’s face grew pained. “This isn’t coming out the way it should. We argued about whether to tell you, but we took a vote and it went in your favor. Because we trust you. I just … hadn’t gotten a chance to bring it up yet.”

“There was a possibility you wouldn’t even tell me? You all sat around and judged me, and then you voted?” Something deep in her chest cracked to know that every horrible thing about her had been analyzed.

“It … Fuck.” Cassian reached for her, but she stepped back. Everyone was staring now. “Nesta, this isn’t …”

“Who. Voted. Against me.”

“Rhys and Amren.”

It landed like a physical blow. Rhys came as no surprise. But Amren, who had always understood her more than the others; Amren who’d been unafraid of her; Amren with whom she’d quarreled so badly … Some small part of her had hoped Amren wouldn’t hate her forever.

Her head went quiet. Her body went quiet.

Cassian’s eyes widened. “Nesta—”

“I’m fine,” she said coldly. “I don’t care.”

She let him see her fortify those steel walls within her mind. Used every bit of Mind-Stilling she’d practiced with Gwyn to become calm, focused, steady. Breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth.

She made a show of rolling her shoulders, of approaching Emerie and Gwyn, whose faces bunched with concern in a way Nesta knew she didn’t deserve, in a way that she knew would one day vanish, when they, too, realized what a wretch she was. When Amren told them what a pathetic waste of life she was, or they heard it from someone else, and they ceased being her friends. She wondered if they’d even say it to her face, or if they’d just disappear.

“Nesta,” Cassian said again. But she left the ring without looking back at him.

Emerie was on her heels instantly, trailing her down the stairs. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Nesta said, her own voice foreign to her ears. “Court business.”

“Are you all right?” Gwyn asked, a step behind Emerie.

No. She couldn’t stop the roaring in her head, the cracking in her chest. “Yes,” she lied, and didn’t look back as she hit the landing and vanished down the hall.

Nesta made it to her bedroom, where she ran the bath. She knew Cassian would come by. So she stood by the tub, the water gushing from the spout, while he knocked on her door. She waited until she sensed him leave, giving up on her as everyone else had done, and then shut off the flow.

She asked the House, “Is he gone?”

The door opened in answer.

“Thank you.” She strode into the empty hallway. Perhaps the House hid her from sight, for she saw and scented no glimpse of Cassian as she hurried down the short flight of stairs near her room. Down the hall. Right through the archway into that long stairwell.

Then and only then did she let her fury out. Then and only then did she drop that coldness and give herself over to the raging of her heart.

Amren had deemed her so untrustworthy, so awful, that knowing she had this world-altering gift would be dangerous. Amren had spoken to the others about it, and they had voted on it.

Down and down and down.

Step to step to step.

Around and around and around.

She didn’t count the stairs. Didn’t feel her legs moving. There was only the roaring of her blood and the roaring in her head and the crack down the center of her chest. No amount of Mind-Stilling could calm it, smother it.

The ground grew nearer.

She couldn’t think around her fury, that pain. Couldn’t think, only move.

The stairwell turned warmer, farther away from the cold wind above.

Amren had entirely given up on her. The debate about sending her up here had been different—Nesta knew that debate had been out of a desire to help her. She could acknowledge that now.

This debate had been out of hatred and fear of her.

The tiled rooftops became clear. Her legs were shaking. She didn’t feel them.

Didn’t feel anything but that molten rage as the stairs suddenly stopped and she found herself before a door.

It opened before her fingers could touch the handle. Sunlight flooded the stairwell, revealing cobblestones beyond.