In Chap­ter 4, the night erupt­ed into chaos as an enor­mous beast, unlike any­thing Feyre had ever seen, stormed into their small, frag­ile home. Gold­en fur rip­pled over a mus­cu­lar frame, and its enor­mous head—both wolf-like and predatory—was crowned with antlered horns that cast eerie shad­ows against the walls. Its long, black claws scraped against the wood­en floor, and yel­low fangs gleamed in the dim light as it let out a growl that sent tremors through the entire cab­in. Though her sis­ters cow­ered in ter­ror and her father remained frozen in stunned silence, Feyre instinc­tive­ly posi­tioned her­self between them and the mon­strous intrud­er, her hand tight­en­ing around the hilt of her hunt­ing knife. The crea­ture radi­at­ed pow­er, an unnat­ur­al ener­gy that sent every instinct in her body scream­ing that she was fac­ing some­thing far more dan­ger­ous than an ordi­nary preda­tor.

The beast spoke, its voice a deep, gut­tur­al snarl filled with rage and con­dem­na­tion. It was not a mind­less creature—it was fae. The real­iza­tion sent ice through Feyre’s veins, for no faerie had crossed into their lands in her life­time, and yet here one stood, fill­ing the small home with its immense pres­ence. Its accu­sa­tion was swift and damn­ing: a mur­der had been com­mit­ted. Though she did not yet under­stand the full weight of its words, she could feel the truth press­ing down on her like a heavy stone. It was speak­ing of the wolf—the one she had killed in the woods, the one she had skinned for its pelt with­out a sec­ond thought. The crea­ture’s fury made it clear that this was no ordi­nary wolf, but a faerie in anoth­er form, slain by her arrow.

Feyre’s pulse pound­ed as she forced her­self to stand tall, her body a shield for her trem­bling sis­ters. There was no use in deny­ing her crime; the faerie already knew. Instead, she grit­ted her teeth and con­fessed, hop­ing to bar­gain, to nego­ti­ate a way to pro­tect her fam­i­ly. But there was no room for dis­cus­sion. The laws were clear—a life for a life. The ancient Treaty, the only safe­guard between humans and faeries, had been bro­ken, and ret­ri­bu­tion was required. Her father, once a mer­chant of influ­ence and knowl­edge, knew enough of faerie deal­ings to offer an alter­na­tive, plead­ing for gold, for any oth­er price that could spare his daugh­ter. But the beast would not be swayed.

Feyre’s mind raced, weigh­ing her options, but there was no clear escape. If she refused, the faerie would kill her where she stood, and her fam­i­ly would bear wit­ness to her grue­some end. If she fought, she would lose—no blade, no human strength could match a faerie’s. And if she tried to run, the crea­ture would find her before she made it beyond the tree­line. The only path that remained was the one the faerie offered: exile in Pry­thi­an. It would mean leav­ing behind every­thing she had fought so hard to pro­tect, but it would also mean spar­ing her father and sis­ters from what­ev­er wrath the fae might oth­er­wise unleash.

The weight of her deci­sion set­tled heav­i­ly in her chest as she nod­ded stiffly, forc­ing her­self to meet the creature’s gaze. “I’ll go,” she said, her voice steady despite the fear tight­en­ing her throat. A flick­er of some­thing unread­able passed through the faerie’s inhu­man eyes before it turned its gaze away from her, as if unim­pressed by her resolve. Feyre turned to her sis­ters, tak­ing in their tear-streaked faces, the way Elain clutched at Nesta’s arm in silent dis­tress, the rare flash of emo­tion in Nesta’s usu­al­ly cold expres­sion. Her father’s lips part­ed, but he said noth­ing, his silence car­ry­ing an unspo­ken grief she didn’t have time to acknowl­edge.

With­out anoth­er word, she gath­ered what lit­tle she could—her bow, a few knives, and a thread­bare cloak that would do lit­tle against the com­ing cold. There was no time for good­byes, no time to explain or reas­sure them that she would return, because she did­n’t know if that was even pos­si­ble. The faerie turned and strode toward the door, and Feyre fol­lowed, each step drag­ging her fur­ther from the life she had built and deep­er into the unknown. She had spent years sac­ri­fic­ing every­thing for her fam­i­ly, and now, she was sac­ri­fic­ing her­self.

The night swal­lowed them whole as they crossed the thresh­old, leav­ing the warmth of the cab­in behind. Feyre took one last glance over her shoul­der, com­mit­ting the sight of her home—her father and sis­ters hud­dled together—to mem­o­ry. Then she turned back toward the dark­ness, toward the tow­er­ing fig­ure that had come to claim her, and took her first steps toward Pry­thi­an, toward an uncer­tain and pos­si­bly unfor­giv­ing future.