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

Nesta gaped at him. Then burst into tears.

Cassian sat up, soothing sounds on his tongue, and took her face in his hands. “You Unmade her.”

Nesta glanced to the Crown on the earth—the black stain where Briallyn had been. “She had it coming.”

He chuckled, leaning his brow against hers. Nesta closed her eyes, breathing in his scent. “You are my mate, Cassian,” she said against his lips, and kissed him softly.

“And you’re mine,” he said, kissing her in turn.

And then his hands slid into her hair. And the kiss …

It did not matter, the world around them, or the Crown at her feet, as he kissed her. A mate’s kiss. One that set their souls twining, glowing.

She pulled back, letting him see the joy in her eyes, her smile. His awe, his own joy, made her throat tighten.

“Cassian, I—”

But two figures landed beside them, making the mountain shudder, and they whirled to find Mor and Azriel there, faces grave.

“Eris?” Cassian demanded.

“Safe, and the Made dagger is in our possession again,” Azriel said, “though Eris is pissed and confused. He’s at the Hewn City. But—”

“It’s Feyre,” Mor said.





CHAPTER

76

The river house was so silent. Like a tomb.

“She started bleeding a few hours ago,” Mor said as she led them through the house.

“But she’s months away from giving birth,” Nesta protested, following close on her heels.

The scent of blood filled the room they entered. So much blood, all over the bed, smeared over Feyre’s spread thighs. No babe—and Feyre’s face … It was white as death. Her eyes were closed, her breathing too shallow.

Rhys crouched at her side, gripping her hand. Panic and terror and pain warred on his face.

Madja, kneeling on the bed between Feyre’s legs, blood up to her elbows, said without looking at them, “I turned the babe, but he’s not descending. He’s wedged in the birth canal.”

A small intake of breath from the corner of the room revealed Amren sitting there, her pale face drained of color.

“She’s losing too much blood, and I can feel the babe’s heart in distress,” Madja announced.

“What do we do?” Mor asked as Cassian and Azriel went to stand behind Rhys, hands on his shoulders.

“There is nothing we can do,” Madja said. “Cutting the babe out of her will kill her.”

“Cutting it out?” Nesta demanded, earning a sharp glare from Rhys.

Madja ignored her tone. “An incision along her abdomen, even one carefully made, is an enormous risk. It’s never been successful. And even with Feyre’s healing abilities, the blood loss has weakened her—”

“Do it,” Feyre managed to say, the words weighted with pain.

“Feyre,” Rhys objected.

“The babe likely won’t survive,” Madja said, voice gentle but no-nonsense. “It’s too small yet. We risk both of you.”

“All of you,” Cassian breathed, eyes on Rhys.

“Do it,” Feyre said, and her voice was that of the High Lady. No fear. Only determination for the life of the babe within her. Feyre looked up at Rhys. “We have to.”

The High Lord nodded slowly, eyes lined with silver.

A hand slid into Nesta’s, and she found Elain there, shaking and wide-eyed. Nesta squeezed her sister’s fingers. Together, they approached the other side of the bed.

And when Elain began praying to the Fae’s foreign gods, to their Mother, Nesta bowed her head, too.



Feyre was dying. The babe was dying.

And Rhys would die with them.

But Cassian knew it wasn’t fear of his own death that had his brother trembling. Cassian’s hand tightened on Rhys’s shoulder. Night-flecked power leaked from his High Lord, trying to heal Feyre, just as Madja’s was, but the blood kept pouring out, faster than any power could stifle.

How had it come to this? A bargain made through love between two mates would now end in three lives lost.

Cassian’s body drifted somewhere far away as Madja got off the bed, then returned with a set of knives and tools, blankets and towels.

“Go into her mind to take the pain away,” Madja said to Rhys, who blinked in confirmation, then cursed, as if scolding himself for not thinking of it sooner. Cassian looked across the bed, to where Elain was holding Feyre’s other hand, and Nesta held Elain’s.

Rhys said to his mate, “Feyre darling—”

“No good-byes,” Feyre panted. “No good-byes, Rhys.”

Whatever Rhys did for the pain had her eyes closing. And Cassian’s mind went wholly silent and blank as Madja pulled up Feyre’s shift, her knives flashing.

There was no sound when the tiny, winged babe emerged. When Mor stood there, blankets in hand, and took the unmoving boy from Madja’s bloody hands.

But Rhys was crying, and tears began pouring down Mor’s face as she gazed at the silent babe in her arms.

And then Madja swore, and Rhys—

Rhys began screaming.

Cassian knew, as Rhys lunged for Feyre on the bed, what was about to happen.

Yet no force in the world could stop it.



The world slowed. Went cold.

There was the silent, too-small babe in Mor’s arms.