POLITICAL ESPIONAGE AU. Vaguely fantasy-renaissance era. Feyre is an assassin (nobody say TOG) who takes out Lord Andras for an anonymous client; the job goes wrong and through she kills him, she’s caught by his superior Lord Tamlin, who agrees not to turn her in in exchange for a hit. He’s apparently already sent three assassins out on the job, all of whom failed: the target is Lord Rhysand, Tamlin’s mercurial, cutthroat political rival. But this is no shot-in-the-dark job like Feyre is used to; to get close to Rhysand, she’ll have to integrate herself into his court of associates.

Rhysand knows exactly what the awkward young woman who’s recently come into his orbit intends… and finds himself enamored with her anyway. Feyre finds herself unable to kill the kind, complicated lord, even when he provides her with plenty of opportunities to do so–but Tamlin has her sisters as collateral ensuring she finishes the job.

Masquerade balls, daring heists, and kicking Tamlin’s ass ensue.

the plot belongs solely to @valamerys, from this post over here.

here’s chapter one.

“And you are?”

The guard’s voice, rough and sharp, jolts her out of her thoughts. It’s only then that Feyre glances up from the parchment held in calloused hands, her gaze meek.

“Duchess Labonair, of course,” she murmurs, flicking her loose braid over her shoulder.

The guard shifts, monitering each and every movement of hers before he steps aside. “Enjoy the ball.”

A sigh of relief before she steps past him. The acting she does is perhaps some of her best work; better than the assassinations, that’s for sure. She reins in the urge to roll her eyes when she makes her way down the immaculate halls, pausing every once and awhile to perhaps take note of the furniture, or of the ornate chandeliers that hang from the ceilings, practically dripping with crystals.

“And a lady such as yourself is?”

Yet another man that was simply in her way, and she found herself exasperated as she turned to face whoever seemed to be addressing her, eyes flashing dangerously. But then she is met with the gaze of the man that keeps her from turning hastily with a shifty excuse; and the mask, once she catches sight of it, is what keeps her firmly uprooted in her spot. It’s utterly exquisite, detailed heavily, depicting a fox. His eyes, which are on her with a steely gaze, aren’t the same either. One is amber, and the other is metal. A poor attempt at a prosthetic eye, but a replacement nonetheless.

“The Duchess Labonair,” she says smoothly yet again, wondering just HOW many times this conversation will go on. “And you are?”

“Lucien. Emissary to the Spring Court,” he says rather coolly, keeping his gaze leveled on her.

She wants to squirm, but that’d give her away. She doesn’t doubt that he’d be able to see through her deception if she gives him enough reason to; which is why she can’t simply leave with a half thought up excuse.

“I wasn’t aware you were a close acquaintance of the Lord Andras,” he carries on, oblivious to her thoughts, “seeing as he hasn’t mentioned a Labonair to me. What was your first name, again?”

A quiet, dangerous question. His words, which had been polite at first, are now sharp. He suspects something may be amiss, then. She opens her mouth, hoping to provide a reply that’s as scathing as it is intelligent, but she is saved from doing so by the appearance of yet another fae, one who strides up and claps this Lucien on the back.

“Lucien, we’re going to miss the festivities.” His tone, albeit jovial, is also laced with warning. Probably a superior to this male, judging by how Lucien seems exasperated and slightly exhausted at the same time.

Feyre takes the opportunity to begin to turn, but then that man addresses her too. She has no choice but to turn around, her features lightening up once more, painting her the young duchess who has been invited to one of her first balls yet again.

“Enjoy these festivities, lady. I’ll be throwing quite the ball for Lord Andras.”

And with that the two turn away from her, disappearing into a crowd of finery and deceit, and she takes the opportunity to turn as well. How fortunate it is for her that the ballroom is heavily filled. Shoulders are brushing against shoulders, conversations easily overheard, and it all hits her at once. She can’t linger too long. Her eyes are easily recognizable, and despite the pathetic excuse of a mask that covers her upper features, she very well may be recognized by anyone from this crowd if they sneak a too long look at her.

One more lingering look is thrown at the grand ballroom before she turns down the hall that’ll lead her into the estate instead.

She hadn’t been wandering for too long; and with her mask now off and hair unbound, it could be assumed that she was a member of the household. She’d only been stopped by a maid once, who’d asked if she’d grown tired of the festivities before they begun. It was to be assumed by that that tonight was to be more than just rowdy. The lord with hair like gold must’ve thrown balls that songs were based off of.

The gardens were empty when she found her way in them. The air was cool, pressing against the bare skin exposed from her gown, but she didn’t shiver. Not when she was so close to achieving what she’d made it here for. Lord Andras would be here, in the gardens. She wouldn’t have to step to close, either; a thrown dagger would do the trick. The only she held in her hand was simple, untraceable. Nothing that could lead back to her and the establishment that is home to her and numerous other assassins scattered throughout Prythian. Her home.

She spots him on the outskirts of the garden, kneeling in front of a spectacular fountain. The statue in the middle must be of some significance to him, then. It might be of some relative, perhaps. For a second, the mortal assassin stands behind the hedge, watching the lord kneeling in front of the fountain, his hands set on the stone.

She feels that guilt rush through her before the dagger is thrown. It’s all the same, those feelings that she feels before each and every assignment. When the Lord hits the ground with a thud, she doesn’t move. She remains in her spot, watching his fallen body before knowing that no one had seen this.

Feyre moves faster than the wind; one minute she’s where she’d been, between a hedge and the path, and the next at the side of the fallen lord. She’s meant to leave him as a message, and she knows that the only place that would work for that is this fountain. It holds significance to him, and was where she knew others would look for him. The maids, for the cauldron’s sake, were murmuring about it being his favorite spot too.

She’s in the middle of hauling his far too heavy body through the water before she hears someone clearing his throat. She whirls, hair flying and hands rising, daggers clutched in both, before she pauses. The onlooker is the one who’d thrown the ball. The male with golden hair who had directed Lucien away from her.

“Didn’t fancy catching you here,” he breathes.