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

But she knew where the stairs lay. Knew that particular door, at least, would not be locked.

Still snarling, Nesta yanked open the heavy oak door and peered down the steep, narrow stairwell. Spiral stairs. Each a foot high.

Ten thousand steps, around and around and around. Only the occasional slitted window to offer a breath of air and a glimpse of progress.

Ten thousand steps between her and the city—and then a half-mile walk at least from the bottom of the mountain to the nearest tavern. And awaiting, blessed oblivion.

Ten thousand steps.

She was no longer human. This High Fae body could do it.

She could do it.



She couldn’t do it.

The dizziness hit her first. Winding around, over and over, eyes trained downward to avoid a slip that would kill her, caused her head to spin.

Her empty stomach churned.

But she focused, counting each step. Seventy. Seventy-one. Seventy-two.

The city below barely drew any closer through the occasional slitted windows she passed.

Her legs started to shake; her knees groaned with the effort of keeping her upright, balancing on the steep drop of each step.

Nothing but her own breathing and the sound of her scuffing steps filled the narrow space. All she could see was the endlessly curving, perfect arc of the wall ahead. It never altered, save for those tiny, too-rare windows.

Around and around and around and around and around—

Eighty-six, eighty-seven—

Down and down and down and down—

One hundred.

She halted, no window in sight, and the walls pushed, the floor kept moving—

Nesta leaned into the red stone wall, let its coolness sink into her brow. Breathed.

Nine thousand nine hundred steps to go.

Bracing a hand on the wall, she renewed her descent.

Her head spun again. Her legs wobbled.

She got in eleven more steps before her knees buckled so suddenly she nearly slid. Only her hand grappling at the uneven wall kept her from wiping out.

The stairwell spun and spun and spun, and she shut her eyes against it.

Her jagged panting bounced off the stones. And in the stillness, she had no defenses against what her mind whispered. She couldn’t shut out her father’s final words to her.

I loved you from the first moment I held you in my arms.

Please, she’d begged the King of Hybern. Please.

He’d snapped her father’s neck anyway.

Nesta gritted her teeth, blowing out breath after breath. She opened her eyes and stretched out her leg to take another step.

It trembled so badly that she didn’t dare.

She didn’t let herself dwell on it, rage about it, as she turned around. Didn’t even let herself feel the defeat. Her legs protested, but she forced them upward. Away.

Around and around again.

Up and up, one hundred and eleven steps.

She was nearly crawling by the last thirty, unable to get a breath down, sweat pooling in the bodice of her dress, her hair sticking to her damp neck. What the hell were the benefits of becoming High Fae if she couldn’t endure this? The pointed ears, she’d learned to like. The infrequent cycle, which Feyre had warned would be painful, had actually been a boon, something Nesta was happy to worry about only twice a year. But what was the point of it—of any of it—if she couldn’t conquer these stairs?

She kept her eyes on each step, rather than the twisting wall and the dizzying sensation it brought.

This hateful House. This horrible place.

She grunted as the oak door at the top of the stairwell became visible at last.

Fingers digging into the steps hard enough for the tips to bark in pain, she dragged herself up the last few, slithering on her belly onto the hallway floor.

And arrived face-first in front of Cassian, smirking as he leaned against the adjacent wall.



Cassian had needed some time before seeing her again.

He’d updated Rhys and the others immediately upon returning; they’d received his information with dour, somber faces. By the end of it, Azriel was preparing for some reconnaissance on Briallyn as Amren pondered what powers or resources the queen and Koschei might possess, if they had indeed captured Eris’s soldiers so easily.

And then Cassian had been slapped with a new order: keep an eye on Eris. Beyond the fact that he approached you, Rhys had said, you are my general. Eris commands Beron’s forces. Be in communication with him. Cassian had started to object, but Rhys had directed a pointed look at Azriel, and Cassian had caved. Az had too much on his plate already. Cassian could deal with that piece of shit Eris on his own.

Eris wants to avoid a war that would expose him, Feyre had guessed. If Beron sides with Briallyn, Eris would be forced to choose between his father and Prythian. The careful balance he’s struck by playing both sides would crumble. He wants to act when it’s convenient for his plans. This threatens that.

But no one had been able to decide which was the bigger threat for them: Briallyn and Koschei, or Beron’s willingness to ally with them. While the Night Court had been trying to make the peace permanent, the bastard had been doing his best to start another war.

After an unusually quiet dinner, Cassian had flown back up to the House. And found the oak door to the stairs open, Nesta’s scent lingering.

So he’d waited. Counted the minutes.

It had been worth it.

Seeing her claw her way onto the landing, panting, hair curling with the sweat sliding down her face—completely worth his generally shit day.