Description
Two hundred years ago Rhysand lost his mother and sister in a grueling murder. But what if that sister had survived? What if the head in that box was just a tree-stump, transformed to look exactly like her? What if she had instead been sold for her knowledge on the mysterious Night Court? And what if that sister would now, just a few years after the war, find her way back, but with agendas of her own? ****************************************************************************** "Alright, oh wise one, my need for wisdom has run out now, so you can be on your way now" I waved my hand. "That's cold" Rhys put a hand over his heart, " I thought we were having a big-bro-little-sis talk here." I rolled my eyes, but he slid an arm around my shoulder: "We both already know what you'll do anyway." "Oh, we do, is that right?" He nodded: "You always been so predictable, if you would write murder-mysteries everyone would know from the beginning who killed the victim." "That's weirdly specific, how long have you been sitting on that one?" I snorted. "Since you insulted my taste in art" he sniffed theatrically. I laughed: "You are one petty High Lord." "I don't even know what to say to that insolence" he shook his head.
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