Chapter 59 is a raw, emotional, and intense moment, as Feyre faces off against the Attor, a fearsome enemy who has haunted her thoughts and her world. She winnows to a nearby rooftop, her mind sharp, her body prepared for the battle that is about to unfold. With both hands gripping the ash arrows tightly, she scans the skies, sensing the threat looming above her, a presence she knows all too well. The air is thick with tension, and Feyre braces herself for the fight that she knows must come, even as she fights to shield herself from the Attor’s mental intrusion. His voice reverberates in her mind, attempting to break through her defenses, but Feyre is resolute. She slams a mental shield of adamant against his influence, determined to keep him at bay, her focus unbroken, her purpose unwavering. In this moment, Feyre is not the woman she once was—she is stronger, more powerful, and prepared to do whatever it takes to defeat the creature before her.

The Attor, sensing her defiance, fights back, but Feyre’s will is stronger. She can feel him pushing against the barrier she has constructed, roaring at her, trying to reach her, but she holds steady. Despite his furious attempts, Feyre remains undeterred, her mind clear, her heart set on one goal: to end the threat he represents. As she prepares for the next move, she feels the weight of the world around her shift, a dark force moving toward Velaris. The soldiers in its path do not return, and Feyre knows that death is near—her mate, Rhysand, embodies this death, this triumphant arrival of the night. Feyre’s resolve hardens further as she watches the Attor veer toward the sea, toward Hybern, a creature steeped in malice. With a powerful surge of will, Feyre winnows again, locking her focus onto the creature, using the tether to guide her toward him. She feels the darkness of the Attor, the smothering corruption it embodies, and she cannot allow it to continue. She feels her mind hone in on him, guiding her through time, distance, and the winds of fate.

As Feyre emerges from the wind and shadow, she is right on top of the Attor. The air is filled with the Attor’s screeching cry as Feyre strikes, plunging her ash arrows through his wings with precise force. The feeling of the arrows sinking into the muscle of his wings is exhilarating, and Feyre’s grip tightens as she ensures the creature cannot escape. The Sidra runs beneath her as they hover in the sky, the city a blur beneath them. With a roar, the Attor writhes in pain, but Feyre is relentless, wrapping herself around him like a force of nature, a living flame that burns wherever she touches. She becomes an unbreakable force, a burning embodiment of vengeance, her power flowing through her as she holds the Attor in her grasp. His attempts to break free are futile; her grip, like a vice, holds him tight, and with each violent thrash, she only tightens her hold. As they continue to fall, Feyre’s resolve never wavers. She pulls out her dagger, the tool of her final retribution, ready to finish what she started.

With each passing moment, the darkness of the horizon seems to close in, but Feyre is not deterred. Her focus is razor-sharp as she leans in closer, her lips barely brushing against the Attor’s ear. She whispers her final words, her voice cold and filled with determination as she drives the dagger deep into its ribcage. “This is for Rhys,” she hisses, and with a sharp tug, she hears the sickening sound of steel meeting bone. The Attor’s silvery blood warms her fingers, a reminder of the pain it has caused, and Feyre knows that this is the moment she has been waiting for. With each strike, she can feel the weight of the anger and grief she has carried, but also the power she has gained through each battle fought, through each loss. As the Attor screams, the pain it feels is nothing compared to the years of suffering Feyre has endured. With one final twist of the dagger, she pulls it free, and the Attor’s screams fill the air, a fitting end to the creature’s reign of terror.

As the Attor continues to thrash in her grip, Feyre focuses on the task at hand. The city below becomes more distinct as they near the ground, the Sidra running a vivid red beneath them. She sees the streets, the buildings, the cobblestones all taking shape as they plummet closer to the earth. In this moment, everything is clear—the hatred, the rage, and the justice she seeks. But it’s not just about revenge; it’s about reclaiming power and strength. Feyre’s grip tightens, her mind focused on the task she has set out to accomplish. She plunges the dagger once more, each strike fueled by the memories of everything that has led her here. As the Attor’s screams echo, Feyre’s own heart beats with purpose, and she can feel the power of her actions reverberating through her. With each moment, she draws closer to victory, knowing that the battle she is fighting is not just for herself but for everyone she loves.

Finally, as they near the ground, Feyre speaks the final words that end the battle once and for all. “This is for Clare,” she says, driving the dagger deep into its side, twisting it for maximum effect. The Attor’s struggles weaken, its final breaths escaping as it collapses beneath her grasp. Feyre stands victorious, blood splattering her face, but her heart steady and calm. She looks around at the city, at the peace that will follow, knowing that she has completed the task at hand. The Attor, defeated, will no longer be a threat. But Feyre knows that this victory is not the end—it’s a new beginning, one in which she has found her strength and her purpose, forever changed by the power she has embraced.