Nesta’s brows rose. “Really?”

“Some philosophers believe there are eleven worlds like that. And some believe there are as many as twenty-six, the last one being Time itself, which …” Gwyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Honestly, I looked at some of her early research and my eyes bled just reading her theorizing and formulas.”

Nesta chuckled. “I can imagine. But she’s researching something else now?”

“Yes, thank the Cauldron. She’s writing a comprehensive history of the Valkyries.”

“The who?”

“A clan of female warriors from another territory. They were better fighters than the Illyrians, even. The Valkyrie name was just a title, though—they weren’t a race like the Illyrians. They hailed from every type of Fae, usually recruited from birth or early childhood. They had three stages of training: Novice, Blade, and finally Valkyrie. To become one was the highest honor in their land. Their territory is gone now, subsumed into others.”

“And the Valkyries are gone, too?”

“Yes.” Gwyn sighed. “Valkyries existed for millennia. But the War—the one five hundred years ago—wiped out most of them, and the few survivors were elderly enough to quickly fade into old age and die afterward. From the shame, legend claims. They let themselves die, rather than face the shame of their lost battle and surviving when their sisters had not.”

“I’ve never heard of them.” She knew little about any of the Fae history, both by choice and because of the human world’s utter lack of education on it.

“The Valkyrie history and training were mostly oral, so any accounts we have are through whatever passing historians or philosophers or tradespeople wrote down. It’s just bits and pieces, scattered in various books. No primary sources beyond a few precious scrolls. Merrill got it into her head years ago to begin compiling all of it into one volume. Their history, their training techniques.”

Nesta opened her mouth to ask more, but a clock chimed somewhere behind them. Gwyn stiffened. “I’ve been gone too long. She’ll be furious.” Merrill would indeed. Gwyn twisted toward the ramp beyond the reading area. But she paused, looking over her shoulder. “But not as mad as she would have been with the wrong book.” She flashed Nesta a grin. “Thank you. I am in your debt.”

Nesta shifted on her feet. “It was nothing.”

Gwyn’s eyes sparkled, and before Nesta could avoid the emotion shining there, the priestess sprinted toward Merrill’s chambers, robes flying behind her.

Nesta made it to her room without collapsing from sheer exhaustion or Merrill realizing she’d been duped and coming to kill her, both of which she considered to be great accomplishments.

She found a hot meal waiting on the desk of her bedroom, and she’d barely sat down before she tore into the meat and bread and medley of roasted vegetables. Standing again was an effort, but she made it to her bathroom, where a hot bath was already steaming away.

Getting into the tub required all her concentration, hefting one leg at a time, and she moaned with relief as the delicious heat soaked through her. She lay there until her body had loosened enough to move, and fell into the warmed sheets without bothering to put on a nightgown.

There would be no trying the stairs tonight. No dreams chased her awake, either.

Nesta slept and slept and slept, though she could have sworn that her door opened at one point. Could have sworn a familiar, beckoning scent filled her room. She reached toward it with a sleep-heavy hand, but it was already gone.

CHAPTER

14

Cassian stood in the training ring, trying not to stare at the empty doorway.

Nesta hadn’t come to breakfast. He’d let it slide because she hadn’t come to dinner, either, but that had been because she’d been passed out cold in her bed. Naked. Or close to it.

He hadn’t seen anything when he’d poked his head into her room—at least, nothing that might have scrambled his mind to the point of uselessness—but her bare shoulder had suggested enough. He’d debated waking her and insisting that she eat, but the House had stepped in.

A tray had appeared beside her doorway, full of empty plates.

As if the House was showing him precisely how much she’d eaten. As if the House was proud of what it had gotten her to eat.

“Good work,” he’d muttered into the air, and the tray vanished. He made a mental note to ask Rhys about it later—whether the House was sentient. He’d never heard his High Lord mention it in five centuries.

Considering the filthy things he’d done in his bedroom, his bathroom—fuck, in so many of the rooms here—the idea of the House watching him … Cauldron boil him alive.

So Cassian had let Nesta sleep through breakfast, hoping the House had at least brought the meal to her room. But it meant he had no idea if she’d show up. She’d made a bargain with him yesterday, and he’d come here today to see if she’d at least meet him. Prove yesterday hadn’t been a fluke.

Minutes dripped by.

Maybe he’d been a fool to hope. To think one lesson might be enough—

Muffled cursing filled the stairwell beyond the archway. Each scrape of boots seemed to move slowly.

He didn’t dare to breathe, not as her cursing grew nearer. Inch by inch. As if it was taking her a long, long time to climb the stairs.

And then she was there, hand braced on the wall, a grimace of such misery on her face that Cassian laughed.

Nesta scowled, but he only said, relief wobbling his knees, “I should have realized.”

“Realized what?” She stopped five feet from him.

“That you’d be late because you’re so sore you can’t climb the stairs.”

She pointed to the archway. “I got up here, didn’t I?”

“True.” He winked. “I’ll let that count as part of your warm-up. To get the muscles in your legs loose.”

“I need to sit down.”

“And risk not being able to get back up?” He grinned. “Not a chance.” He nodded to the space beside him. “Stretches.”

She grumbled. But she got into position.

And when Cassian began to instruct her through the movements, she listened.

Two hours later, sweat poured down Nesta’s body, but the aching had at least ceased. You need to get the lactic acid out of your muscles—that’s what’s hurting you, Cassian had said when she’d complained nonstop for the first thirty minutes. Whatever the hell that meant.

She lay on the black mat, panting again, taking in the cloudy sky. It was a good deal crisper than yesterday, with tendrils of mist wandering past the ring every now and then.

“When do I stop being sore?” she asked Cassian breathlessly.

“Never.”

She turned her head toward him, about as much movement as she could manage. “Never?”

“Well, it gets better,” he amended, and moved down to her feet. “May I?”

She had no idea what he was asking, but she nodded.

Cassian lightly wrapped his hands around her ankle, his skin warm against her foot, and lifted her leg upward. She hissed as a muscle along the back of her thigh shrieked in protest, drawing so tight she gritted her teeth. “Breathe into it when I push the leg toward you,” he ordered.