Mor set down her glass, and gripped my arm. “Come with me.”

Before I could object, she’d winnowed us out.

Blinding light hit me. And cold.

Brisk, brutal cold. Far too cold for the sweaters and pants we wore.

Snow. And sun. And wind.

And mountains.

And—a cabin.

The cabin.

Mor pointed to the endless field atop the mountain. Covered in snow, just as I’d last seen it. But rather than a flat, uninterrupted expanse …

“Are those snow forts?”

A nod.

Something white shot across the field, white and hard and glistening, and then—

Cassian’s yowl echoed off the mountains around us. Followed by, “You bastard!”

Rhys’s answering laugh was bright as the sun on snow.

I surveyed the three walls of snow—the barricades—that bordered the field as Mor erected an invisible shield against the bitter wind. It did little to drive away the cold, though. “They’re having a snowball fight.”

Another nod.

“Three Illyrian warriors,” I said. “The greatest Illyrian warriors. Are having a snowball fight.”

Mor’s eyes practically glowed with wicked delight. “Since they were children.”

“They’re over five hundred years old.”

“Do you want me to tell you the running tally of victories?”

I gaped at her. Then at the field beyond. At the snowballs that were indeed flying with brutal, swift precision as dark heads popped over the walls they’d built.

“No magic,” Mor recited, “no wings, no breaks.”

“They’ve been out here since noon.” It was nearly three. My teeth began chattering.

“I’ve always stayed in to drink,” Mor supplied, as if that were an answer.

“How do they even decide who wins?”

“Whoever doesn’t get frostbite?”

I gaped at her again over my clacking teeth. “This is ridiculous.”

“There’s more alcohol in the cabin.”

Indeed, none of the males seemed to even notice us. Not as Azriel popped up, launched two snowballs sky-high, and vanished behind his wall of snow again.

A moment later, Rhys’s vicious curse barked toward us. “Asshole.”

Laughter laced every syllable.

Mor looped her arm through mine again. “I don’t think your mate is going to be the victor this year, my friend.”

I leaned into her warmth, and we waded through the shin-high snow toward the cabin, the chimney already puffing against the clear blue sky.

Illyrian babies indeed.

CHAPTER

19

Feyre

Azriel won.

His one-hundred-ninety-ninth victory, apparently.

The three of them had entered the cabin an hour later, dripping snow, skin splotched with red, grinning from ear to ear.

Mor and I, snuggled together beneath a blanket on the couch, only rolled our eyes at them.

Rhys just dropped a kiss atop my head, declared the three of them were going to take a steam in the cedar-lined shed attached to the house, and then they were gone.

I blinked at Mor as they vanished, letting the image settle.

“Another tradition,” she told me, the bottle of amber-colored alcohol mostly empty. And my head now spinning with it. “An Illyrian custom, actually—the heated sheds. The birchin. A bunch of naked warriors, sitting together in the steam, sweating.”

I blinked again.

Mor’s lips twitched. “About the only good custom the Illyrians ever came up with, to be honest.”

I snorted. “So the three of them are just in there. Naked. Sweating.”

Mother above.

Interested in taking a look? The dark purr echoed into my mind.

Lech. Go back to your sweating.

There’s room for one more in here.

I thought mates were territorial.

I could feel him smile as if he were grinning against my neck. I’m always eager to learn what sparks your interest, Feyre darling.

I surveyed the cabin around me, the surfaces I’d painted nearly a year ago. I was promised a wall, Rhys.

A pause. A long pause. I’ve taken you against a wall before.

These walls.

Another long, long pause. It’s bad form to be at attention while in the birchin.

My lips curved as I sent him an image. A memory.

Of me on the kitchen table just a few feet away. Of him kneeling before me. My legs wrapped around his head.

Cruel, wicked thing.

I heard a door slamming somewhere in the house, followed by a distinctly male yelp. Then banging—as if someone was trying to get back inside.

Mor’s eyes sparkled. “You got him kicked out, didn’t you?”

My answering smile set her roaring.

The sun was sinking toward the distant sea beyond Velaris when Rhys stood at the black marble mantel of the town house sitting room and lifted his glass of wine.

All of us—in our finery for once—lifted ours in suit.

I’d opted to wear my Starfall gown, forgoing my crown but wearing the diamond cuffs at my wrists. It sparkled and gleamed in my line of vision as I stood at Rhys’s side, taking in every plane of his beautiful face as he said, “To the blessed darkness from which we are born, and to which we return.”

Our glasses rose, and we drank.

I glanced to him—my mate, in his finest black jacket, the silver embroidery gleaming in the faelight. That’s it?

He arched a brow. Did you want me to keep droning on, or did you want to start celebrating?

My lips twitched. You really do keep things casual.

Even after all this time, you still don’t believe me. His hand slid behind me and pinched. I bit my lip to keep from laughing. I hope you got me a good Solstice present.

It was my turn to pinch him, and Rhys laughed, kissing my temple once before sauntering out of the room to no doubt grab more wine.

Beyond the windows, darkness had indeed fallen. The longest night of the year.

I found Elain studying it, beautiful in her amethyst-colored gown. I made to move toward her, but someone beat me to it.

The shadowsinger was clad in a black jacket and pants similar to Rhysand’s—the fabric immaculately tailored and built to fit his wings. He still wore his Siphons atop either hand, and shadows trailed his footsteps, curling like swirled embers, but there was little sign of the warrior otherwise. Especially as he gently said to my sister, “Happy Solstice.”

Elain turned from the snow falling in the darkness beyond and smiled slightly. “I’ve never participated in one of these.”

Amren supplied from across the room, Varian at her side, resplendent in his princely regalia, “They’re highly overrated.”

Mor smirked. “Says the female who makes out like a bandit every year. I don’t know how you don’t get robbed going home with so much jewelry stuffed into your pockets.”

Amren flashed her too-white teeth. “Careful, Morrigan, or I’ll return the pretty little thing I got you.”

Mor, to my surprise, shut right up.

And so did the others, as Rhys returned with—

“You didn’t.” I blurted out the words.

He grinned at me over the giant tiered cake in his arms—over the twenty-one sparkling candles lighting up his face.