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Chapter Text

The Spring Court manor was too quiet. The air was too still, like the whole house was holding its breath.

Elain tossed and turned in her soft sheets, heat slick against her skin. The room was too warm. Or maybe it was her.

A door creaked open in her dream. She didn’t remember opening it. And suddenly, there he was.

She didn’t remember calling him, but she must have. He always came when she called.

Eris.

Just him - barefoot, shirt open, trousers hanging low on his hips, eyes glowing like molten amber in the dark. 

Standing at the foot of her bed like he’d always belonged there. Like he’d been waiting. He didn’t speak, he just looked at her, his gaze raking over her slowly - possessively - and her pulse fluttered.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, or maybe just thought it.

Eris smiled, slow and secret. “Then stop dreaming of me, Elain.”

He stalked closer to the side of the bed, climbing into it as the manor itself fell away like dead petals in a dying bloom. Her bed turned to leaves, the earthy scent of the forest floor beneath her barely clothed body.

“You do this often enough,” he murmured, pinning her beneath him. “Call me to you with those pretty little gasps in the dark.”

He leaned in close enough for his breath to kiss her jaw. “What was I doing in this one, Elain? Hmm?” His fingers slipped under the straps of her nightgown, slow and deliberate.

His fingers ghosted up her thigh, reverent and cruel all at once, the way only he could be. “Is this what you wanted?” he asked, voice a purr in her ear.

She made a strangled sound in response, and he chuckled.

“Poor thing,” he said, tugging the silk down her arms until she was bare beneath him. “So desperate for me.”

She knew she was dreaming. There was a certain weightlessness to her, a fluidity to the world around her that betrayed its unreality. Yet knowing didn't diminish the vividness of the sensations, nor did it erase the fact that she was naked beneath Eris, and he looked like he might devour her.

Which is exactly what he did next. He settled between her thighs and licked a slow, deliberate stripe up her aching core. Elain arched, a soft cry tumbling from her lips.

"Quiet," Eris murmured, two fingers pressing against her lips. "You wouldn't want anyone to hear us, would you?"

His weight was delicious against her, the heat of him searing through her skin as his hand skimmed down her throat, over her collarbone, to cup her breast. Her back arched instinctively into his touch, seeking more, and he smiled - that arrogant, knowing smile that should have infuriated her but instead sent liquid heat pooling between her thighs.

"Look at you," he breathed, his thumb circling her nipple until it hardened beneath his touch. "So responsive. So eager."

"I'm not-" she began, but the words died on her lips as he lowered his head, replacing his fingers with his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue against her sensitive skin tore a gasp from her throat.

Eris chuckled against her breast, the vibration of it rippling through her. "No? Your body says otherwise, love." His teeth grazed her nipple, just the barest hint of pressure, and Elain whimpered. "Your scent says otherwise, too."

One hand slid down her stomach, dipping between her thighs to find her already slick with want. Elain's hips bucked involuntarily as his fingers skimmed over her most sensitive place, teasing but never quite giving her what she needed.

"So wet," he murmured, satisfaction evident in his tone as he stroked through her folds. "Is this all for me, Elain? All this sweetness?"

She bit her lip, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of admitting how desperately she wanted him. But dream-Eris, much like the real Eris, wouldn't be denied.

"Answer me," he growled, his fingers stilling their movement.

"Yes," she gasped, pride forgotten in the face of her need. "Yes, it's for you."

He rewarded her honesty by sliding one long finger inside her, his thumb circling the sensitive bundle of nerves above. "Good girl," he purred, and the praise sent an unexpected thrill through her.

She moaned as he added a second finger, stretching her deliciously as his thumb continued its relentless circles. The pressure built inside her, a coiling tension that threatened to snap with each skilful stroke of his hand.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a silken caress. “Sweet little flower, blooming just for me.”

His mouth found hers in a searing kiss, swallowing her moans as his fingers curled inside her, finding that spot that made her vision blur at the edges. Elain clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle there as the tension within her built to an unbearable crescendo.

"I can't-" she started, but the words dissolved into a moan.

"Oh, but you can," he insisted, his movements becoming more insistent. “You will. Come for me, Elain."

Her release crashed over her like a wave, her inner walls clenching around his fingers as pleasure coursed through her body. But Eris didn't stop, didn't slow his movements as she shuddered beneath him, drawing out her climax until she was trembling, oversensitive, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

Only then did he withdraw his hand, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes never left hers as he tasted her, a low groan of satisfaction rumbling in his chest.

Then he flipped her over with a growl, dragging her up onto her knees. “Still with me?” he asked, hand sliding into her hair.

“Yes,” she breathed, voice shaking.

She felt him shift his weight behind her to settle between her thighs, the hard evidence of his desire pressing against her core.

"Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice strained as he gave her hair a gentle tug. "Tell me you want me."

She should say no. Even in a dream, she should maintain some semblance of propriety. But in this dream world, consequences didn’t exist. The barriers between them - Lucien, their courts, his responsibilities, her powers - they held no meaning here. And Elain found it easy to confess the truth she'd been hiding even from herself.

"I want you," she gasped, the words tumbling from her lips without hesitation. "I want this. I want all of you, Eris."

A sound of raw satisfaction rumbled through his chest as he positioned himself at her entrance, the blunt head of him pressing against her slick heat. "Mine," he growled, and with one powerful thrust, he seated himself fully inside her.

Elain cried out at the delicious stretch, the feeling of completeness that washed over her as he filled her completely. Her fingers curled into the forest floor beneath them, anchoring herself as he began to move.

"Look at you," Eris breathed, his voice reverent as he withdrew almost completely before driving back into her. "Taking me so perfectly."

Each thrust sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body, building upon the aftershocks of her previous climax. The scent of autumn leaves and woodsmoke surrounded them, mingling with the heady aroma of their joining.

"Eris," she moaned, his name a prayer on her lips as he established a rhythm that had her gasping with each movement. "Please-"

When he added his fingers back into the equation, reaching around to find that sensitive nerves again as his relentless pace continued, Elain felt herself climbing toward another peak, higher and sharper than the first.

"Let go," Eris commanded against her flesh. "Let go for me, Elain."

And she did, shattering completely under his skilled ministrations, his name a broken cry on her lips as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

She felt him follow, his rhythm faltering as he spilled inside her with a guttural groan of her name.

For a moment, they remained frozen in that position, both trembling with the aftershocks of their shared pleasure. Then Eris withdrew gently, turning her in his arms so she lay cradled against his chest.

His fingers traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder as their breathing slowed, the forest around them bathed in the golden light of perpetual autumn. In the dream, his eyes were softer than she'd ever seen them, the usual sharp edges of his personality smoothed away by the intimacy they'd shared.

"This isn't real," Elain murmured against his chest, her fingers tracing the contours of his face, memorising details she shouldn't know. "You're just a dream."

Eris's lips curved into that dangerous smile she was beginning to know too well, even in dreams. "If I'm just a dream, love," he drawled, his voice velvet-soft against her ear, "then you have quite the vivid imagination. Should I be flattered or concerned by how accurately you've conjured the more intimate details of my anatomy?"

Heat bloomed in Elain's cheeks at his boldness. Even her dream version of him was insufferably arrogant. "You're incorrigible," she murmured.

She sighed, nestling closer to him in this perfect dream world where everything seemed so clear, so simple. If only reality could be like this.

"You're thinking too much," dream-Eris murmured, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Even in sleep, that mind of yours never stops working."

"I can't help it," she admitted. "Everything is so complicated when I'm awake."

His expression softened, and for a moment, he looked almost sad. "It doesn't have to be."

"Doesn't it?" Elain asked, suddenly desperate to understand. "Tell me then, since you seem to know everything. What am I supposed to do?"

"About what?" he asked, though his knowing smile suggested he already knew the answer.

"About you," she whispered. "The real you."

Dream-Eris considered her for a long moment, his fingers still tracing idle patterns on her skin. "Perhaps," he finally said, "you should ask him that question, not me."

Before she could respond, the forest around them began to shift, images melting into one another like watercolours in the rain.

"Ah," dream-Eris murmured, something like regret flickering across his features. "It seems our time is up."

Elain clutched at him, suddenly desperate to hold onto this moment, this version of him that was hers alone.

"Don't go," she pleaded, fingers digging into his shoulders.

Eris smiled. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised, pressing one last kiss to her lips. "I'll be right across the hall when you wake up."

The dream faded, and Elain drifted off into a dreamless sleep once more. 

Chapter Text

The forest blurred past Sevan as he pursued his youngest brother through the dense undergrowth of the Autumn Court’s southernmost border. Dain moved ahead of him with brutal efficiency, snapping branches and leaving a trail of disturbed foliage in his wake. Neither of them bothered with stealth, as though they wanted Lucien to know they were coming.

The scent of his youngest brother hung in the air, faint but unmistakable - pine and cinnamon with an undercurrent of fear. Lucien had passed this way recently, heading toward the Spring Court border.

"He's close," Dain called back, his voice thick with anticipation. 

Sevan kept pace easily, his movements more fluid than his brother's but no less deadly. Unlike Dain, who relished the hunt with predatory glee, Sevan felt nothing but resignation. This was necessary. This was duty. This was what Father demanded.

At least, that's what he told himself.

"Father wants his head. And I intend to deliver it."

Sevan's stomach twisted, though his face betrayed nothing.

"Don’t get ahead of yourself, Dain," he said, keeping his voice neutral, "Father wants him alive, remember?"

Dain snorted. "Since when do you care about following Father's orders to the letter?"

"Since disobedience lands us in the dungeons," Sevan replied smoothly, though the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

In truth, he wasn't entirely sure why he'd agreed to this hunt. Perhaps because refusing wasn't an option. Perhaps because part of him wanted to be the one to find Lucien first, to have a chance to...

To what? Warn him? Help him? The thought alone was treasonous.

A twig snapped behind them, and both brothers whirled, magic flaring to their fingertips. Sevan relaxed marginally when he recognised the figure emerging from the shadows.

"Aldric," he sighed, extinguishing the flame dancing above his palm. "What are you doing here?"

His twin approached cautiously, his movements fluid but hesitant. Though identical in features, Aldric's face held a softness that Sevan's lacked, or perhaps had lost long ago.

"I followed you," Aldric said simply, his voice softer than Sevan's but with the same melodic cadence. "You shouldn't be doing this."

Dain stalked back toward them, irritation radiating from his massive frame. "We don't need a nursemaid, Aldric. Go home."

"Three against one?" Aldric's amber eyes narrowed. "Is that what we've become?"

Sevan felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest. "This isn't about fairness. It's about ensuring the job gets done."

"The job," Aldric repeated flatly. "You mean murdering our brother."

"He's a traitor," Dain snarled, looming over Aldric with barely contained violence. "He attacked Father. He chose a lesser faerie whore over his own blood."

"He's still our brother," Aldric insisted, turning to Sevan with an appeal in his eyes. "Sev, think about what we're doing. Whatever he's done, he doesn't deserve to die like this. Hunted like an animal. There has to be another way."

For a moment - just a moment - Sevan hesitated. The memory of Jesminda's lifeless body flashed before his eyes, of Lucien's raw grief transforming into murderous intent. Of his own failure to prevent any of it, despite his best efforts. He should have put the female out of her  misery rather than drawing it out in an attempt to buy her time, which had only given her false hope. 

But the image was soon replaced with their father’s face - at how he always grinned with cruel delight as he tortured his sons. If Beron ever found out that Aldric had tried to stop them, he’d have his twin flame-whipped to within an inch of his life. And Sevan couldn’t let that happen.

"There is no other way," he said finally, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. "Father's orders were clear. We bring Lucien back, or we don’t return at all."

"Stop being so soft," Dain snapped at Aldric, shoving past him. "You can stay here and weep if you want. We have a traitor to catch."

Without waiting for any further discussion, Dain took off again, following Lucien's trail with single-minded determination. Sevan cast one last glance at his twin before following. He could hear Aldric's reluctant footsteps behind them, crunching through the underbrush.

They ran for what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, the border between Autumn and Spring growing closer with each stride. Sevan's lungs burned, not from exertion but from the growing dread in his chest. The trees were thinning, the perpetual autumn giving way to an eternal spring.

Then suddenly, they broke through the treeline into a small clearing. And there, standing with his back to a massive oak tree that marked the boundary between territories, was Lucien.

His youngest brother looked haggard. Lucien’s red hair was tangled with leaves and twigs, his clothes torn and stained with blood - some of it his own, some Jesminda’s. But it was his eyes that caught Sevan's attention. They were wild, feral with a mix of grief and rage.

Sevan felt something cold settle in his chest at the sight. This broken creature before them barely resembled the little brother who had once followed him around the Forest House, begging to be taught how to throw knives.

"Stop," Sevan called out, as Dain moved to step over the invisible line that separated their territory from Tamlin's. "The border, Dain.”

Dain growled, his momentum carrying him a few steps further before he managed to stop. "So? He's right there."

"This wasn't part of the plan," Sevan said carefully, eyeing the invisible line that separated Autumn Court territory from Spring. "Father said to bring him back, not to pursue him into another High Lord's domain."

"Since when do you care about borders?" Dain sneered.

"Since crossing them uninvited is an act of war," Sevan replied evenly. He turned to Lucien, who hadn't moved from his position by the tree. "Lucien. Be reasonable. Come back with us, and perhaps Father will show mercy."

A bitter laugh escaped Lucien's throat. "Mercy? Like the mercy he showed Jesminda?" His voice cracked on her name. "I'd rather die and join her."

"That can be arranged," Dain snarled, flames dancing along his fingertips.

Lucien's gaze swept over the three of them, lingering on Aldric who stood slightly apart, his posture rigid with tension. "Three against one," he observed bitterly. "How very brave of you."

"Two," Aldric corrected quietly. "I'm not part of this."

Dain shot him a venomous look. "Coward."

"Call it what you will," Aldric replied, crossing his arms. "I won't raise a hand against him."

Lucien's eyes widened fractionally at this unexpected alliance, but his focus quickly returned to the more immediate threat. "What does Father want? My head on a pike?”

"He wants you to face justice for your treason," Sevan said, working to keep his voice steady. "Return with us willingly, and you might be spared execution."

Lucien's laugh was hollow, devoid of any humour. "Justice? Is that what you call it?" His russet eye fixed on Sevan with burning intensity. "You were there, Sevan. You saw what he did to her. What Dain did."

"She was nothing," Dain spat, taking another step forward. "A lesser faerie who forgot her place."

"She was everything," Lucien snarled, his hands curling into fists as flames danced between his fingers. "And you murdered her in cold blood."

Sevan stepped between them, raising a placating hand toward each brother. "Enough. This accomplishes nothing." He turned to Lucien, keeping his voice level. "Father's anger will cool eventually. Come back now, accept your punishment, and in time-"

"In time what?" Lucien cut him off. "He'll forgive me? Let me live my life? We both know that's a lie." His gaze shifted to Dain, then back to Sevan. "You're not here to bring me back. You're here to finish what Dain started."

Dain's patience snapped. "Enough talk," he snarled, flames erupting around his clenched fists. "Come quietly or come in pieces. Your choice, little brother."

Sevan hesitated, the carefully constructed mask slipping for just a moment. It was enough for Lucien to see the truth.

"You're actually here to kill me," Lucien whispered, the realisation dawning in his eyes. Not anger now, but hurt - the betrayal of a younger brother who, despite everything, had never believed his siblings capable of this.

Before Sevan could respond, Dain laughed, the sound cruel and cutting in the stillness of the clearing.

"One less brother to kill when it comes time for me to become High Lord," Dain said with a casual shrug. "Father may want you alive, but accidents happen during capture. Don't they, Sevan?"

Sevan's head snapped toward Dain, genuine shock flashing across his features. "That wasn't the plan-"

A deafening roar shattered the tense standoff, vibrating through the earth beneath their feet. Birds took flight from nearby trees as a massive beast burst from the underbrush on the Spring Court side of the border.

Tamlin.

The High Lord of Spring was transformed into his beast form, a creature of nightmare with razor-sharp claws and teeth designed to rend flesh from bone. His green eyes, the only recognisable feature from his fae form, blazed with murderous intent as he charged straight for Sevan.

Sevan barely had time to summon his magic before the beast was upon him, massive paws swiping at his chest. He dodged, rolling to the side with the agility born from centuries of training, coming up with flames dancing along his fingertips.

"Is this how the Spring Court greets visitors?" Sevan called out, dancing away from another swipe of those massive claws. "No wonder you don't get many guests, Tamlin."

The beast snarled in response, its massive jaws snapping inches from Sevan's face as he ducked beneath the attack. Despite the danger, Sevan couldn't help the sharp grin that spread across his features - the thrill of combat always did bring out the worst in him.

"Not much for conversation in this form, are you?" he taunted, sending a whip of flame cracking toward the beast. "A shame. I've heard such interesting things about your court."

Tamlin roared again, the sound so powerful it seemed to shake the very air. His massive body moved with shocking speed for something so large, nearly catching Sevan as he twisted away from another attack.

"You know, most hosts offer wine before trying to disembowel their guests," Sevan continued, his breath coming faster now as he narrowly avoided those lethal claws. "Your hospitality leaves something to be desired."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dain advancing on Lucien, flames dancing along his brother's massive arms. Aldric stood frozen, caught between intervening and staying out of the fray.

“Over here, High Lord," Sevan called, desperate to keep the beast's attention on him and away from his brothers. "I'm the one you want. I'm the pretty one, after all."

The beast's green eyes blazed with primal fury as it charged again, forcing Sevan to leap sideways. He landed in a crouch, sending another burst of flame toward Tamlin's flank. The fire singed the beast's fur but did little to slow its assault.

A scream shattered Sevan's concentration - a sound of pain and rage that he recognised instantly. He turned, horror dawning as he saw Dain stumbling backward, a glinting dagger buried to the hilt in his abdomen. Lucien stood before him, his face a mask of cold fury, his hand still extended from the strike.

"Dain!" Sevan's focus shifted for just a heartbeat - just one moment of distraction.

It was all Tamlin needed.

The beast lunged, claws extended toward Sevan's unprotected back. Time seemed to slow as Sevan realised his mistake, knew he couldn't move fast enough to avoid the blow that would surely tear him in half.

Then something slammed into his side, sending him sprawling. Sevan rolled, coming up in a defensive crouch, only to see Aldric standing where he had been a moment before - directly in the path of Tamlin's attack.

Those massive claws tore through Aldric's chest as if his body were made of parchment, not flesh and bone. Blood sprayed in an arc that caught the sunlight like macabre rubies, spattering the grass and trees.

Aldric made no sound as Tamlin's claws ripped through his flesh, only a soft exhalation of surprise. His amber eyes, so like Sevan's own, widened in shock as he looked down at the gaping wounds across his chest. Blood poured from between his fingers as he pressed his hands against the injury in futile desperation.

"No!" Sevan's scream tore through the clearing, raw and primal. He lunged forward, catching his twin as Aldric's knees buckled.

Tamlin paused, his massive beast form seeming to hesitate at the unexpected turn of events. But the moment of restraint didn't last. With another deafening roar, he charged again, this time with deadly purpose.

Sevan couldn't move, couldn't think beyond the weight of his brother in his arms, the warmth of Aldric's blood soaking through his clothes. He stared up at the beast bearing down on them, frozen in horror.

Tamlin's massive claws tore into Aldric again, this time ripping through his abdomen with terrible efficiency. The sound was sickening - wet and final as flesh and bone gave way beneath that brutal strength.

Aldric's body jerked, a puppet with severed strings. His lips parted, perhaps to speak, but only blood bubbled forth, dark and thick. His trembling hand reached up, fingers brushing Sevan's cheek in a touch so light it might have been imagined.

Then the light faded from Aldric's eyes, leaving them blank and empty. The hand against Sevan's face fell away, limp and lifeless.

Sevan couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't process the reality of his twin - his other half - lying eviscerated in his arms.

Then he screamed.

The sound that tore from his throat was inhuman, a howl of such raw anguish it seemed to shake the very trees around them. Fire erupted from his skin in uncontrolled bursts, scorching the grass beneath him and forcing Tamlin to retreat several steps.

Even Lucien looked shocked, his russet eyes wide with horror as he stared at Aldric's mangled body. The knife he'd plunged into Dain hung forgotten in his hand, dripping crimson onto the forest floor.

"Aldric," Sevan choked, cradling his twin's broken body against his chest. "Aldric, please. Please don't-"

But there was no response. No flutter of eyelids, no whispered reassurance. Only the terrible stillness of death.

Tamlin growled, low and warning, as he circled the scene. His green eyes no longer burned with the same murderous intent, but the beast was still present, still dangerous.

Sevan's gaze lifted from his brother's body to Tamlin, then to Lucien. Something broke inside him then - something fundamental. Not just his heart, no. The very core of his being. Half of his soul had been ripped away, leaving nothing but a raw, bleeding wound where Aldric had once resided.

Even Lucien stood frozen, his face drained of colour, knife still clutched in his bloodied hand. Horror replaced the hatred in his eyes as he watched his brother fall apart, cradling Aldric's mutilated body.

"Sevan," Lucien whispered, taking a hesitant step forward. "I didn't… I never wanted -"

Sevan's head snapped up, his amber eyes burning with such unfiltered agony that Lucien flinched back. There was nothing of the mocking, silver-tongued courtier left in that gaze, only devastation so complete it seemed to warp the very air around him.

"Don't," Sevan rasped, his voice shredded from screaming. "Don't you dare."

With trembling hands, he gathered Aldric closer, pressing his forehead against his twin's still-warm brow. For a heartbeat, he remained that way, whispering something too quiet for anyone else to hear - a final goodbye, perhaps, or a promise of vengeance.

Then, with a surge of power that sent shockwaves rippling through the clearing, Sevan winnowed away, taking Aldric's body with him.

He materialised in the courtyard of the Forest House, startling the guards who immediately lowered their spears when they recognised him. Their expressions shifted from suspicion to horror as they took in the bloody bundle in his arms, the vacant devastation in his eyes.

"Lord Sevan," one began, reaching out as if to help. "What happened -"

"Get away from me," Sevan snarled, staggering past them. Blood - Aldric's blood - left a glistening trail behind him as he moved through the courtyard, up the stone steps, into the grand entrance hall where courtiers scattered before him like leaves in a storm.

He barely registered their gasps, their whispers, their horrified stares. The world had narrowed to the weight in his arms, the copper hair so like his own now matted with blood, the face that mirrored his in death as it had in life.

Servants flattened themselves against walls as he passed, noblemen and ladies drew back in hushed horror. Somewhere in the distance, he heard shouting - orders being given, guards being summoned. None of it mattered. 

He found himself in the eastern wing of the Forest House, where the family's private quarters lay. His feet had carried him there without conscious thought, seeking the one person who might understand the magnitude of his loss.

His mother.

The doors to his mother's conservatory burst open as Sevan stumbled through, Aldric's lifeless body cradled against his chest. Lady Sybil sat by the window, her auburn hair catching the late afternoon light. When she turned, her russet eyes widened in horror, her embroidery falling forgotten from her lap.

"Mother," Sevan croaked, his voice unrecognisable.

A keening wail tore from Lady Sybil’s throat as she rose, swaying on her feet. "No," she breathed, rushing forward. "No, no, no..."

Sevan couldn't meet her gaze. His eyes remained fixed on Aldric's face so peaceful in death, as if he were merely sleeping. The contrast between that serene expression and the carnage below his neck was obscene.

Sybil reached them, her trembling hands hovering over Aldric's bloodied form as if afraid to touch him, to confirm the reality of her son's death. When she finally did, her fingers brushing Aldric's cold cheek, something inside her seemed to shatter.

She fell to her knees before Sevan, a primal sob wrenching from her chest. The sound was raw, animalistic - a mother's grief stripped of all pretence or dignity. Her body convulsed with each wrenching cry as she clutched at Aldric's limp hand, pressing it to her lips.

"My son," she gasped between sobs. "My sweet, gentle boy."

Sevan remained standing, unable to move, to speak, to process. The world had taken on a strange, muffled quality, as if he were underwater. His mother's cries seemed to come from far away, though she knelt at his feet. The weight of Aldric in his arms felt both crushing and insubstantial.

He just stared at Aldric's face, memorising every line, every freckle, every detail of the brother he had failed.

Footsteps pounded in the corridor outside, sharp and purposeful. The doors flew open again as Eris strode in, his copper hair disheveled, his face taut with alarm. He froze at the tableau before him - Sevan standing like a statue, their mother collapsed in grief, and Aldric...

"By the Cauldron," Eris breathed, his usual composure cracking. "What happened?"

Before Sevan could answer - before he could even attempt to form the words to explain the horror he'd witnessed - the room filled with armed guards. They poured through the doorway, spears levelled, faces grim beneath their helmets.

"Lord Sevan," their captain announced, his voice flat and formal. "By order of the High Lord, you are to be taken into custody immediately."

Eris whirled on them, the temperature around him rising by several degrees. "What is the meaning of this? Can you not see we are in mourning?"

The captain didn't flinch. "Your father’s orders, my lord.”

The guards were advancing now, their expressions grim beneath their helmets. One reached for Aldric's body, and something primal flared in Sevan's chest.

"Don't touch him," he snarled, the words tearing from his throat like broken glass.

"Stand down, Sevan," the captain said, more gently than the situation called for. "The High Lord has ordered-"

"I don't care what he's ordered!" Sevan's voice cracked, fire sparking at his fingertips despite the all-consuming exhaustion that had settled in his bones. "He's my brother.”

Eris stepped between them, his posture tense but controlled. "Give him a moment, Captain. Surely even my father can grant that much."

The captain hesitated, then nodded sharply. "One minute. Then we take him."

Sevan knelt slowly, lowering Aldric's body to the floor with infinite care. His twin's head lolled lifelessly against his arm, copper hair spilling across Sevan's sleeve like liquid fire. With trembling fingers, he brushed a strand from Aldric's forehead, tucking it behind his ear as he had done a thousand times in life.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words inadequate, meaningless in the face of such loss. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Eris knelt beside him, his face a careful mask that did little to hide the shock and grief beneath. "Sevan," he said quietly, urgently. "Tell me what happened. Who did this to him?"

But Sevan couldn't speak. The words lodged in his throat, choking him. How could he explain what had happened? How Aldric had died saving him? How Tamlin had torn his twin apart before his eyes? How everything that mattered in the world had been ripped away in one violent moment?

Sevan couldn't bear to meet his mother's gaze. Her keening sobs tore through him, each one a fresh wound. She remained on her knees, Aldric's lifeless hand pressed against her cheek, her shoulders shaking with grief so profound it seemed to fill the entire room.

"Time's up," the captain said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.

Two guards flanked Sevan, gripping his arms and hauling him to his feet. He didn't resist. The fight had drained from him, leaving nothing but a hollow shell where Sevan Vanserra had once been.

"Wait," Eris commanded, rising to his full height. "At least tell me what happened. Sevan - who did this?"

Sevan's lips parted, but no sound emerged. The words were there, trapped behind the wall of shock and grief that had closed around his throat. Tamlin's name burned on his tongue, along with Lucien's betrayal, Dain's cruelty, and his own failure to protect his twin.

"Sevan," Eris pressed, something almost like desperation flickering across his normally composed features. "Tell me who killed our brother."

But the guards were already moving, dragging Sevan toward the door. His feet stumbled beneath him, barely able to support his weight. The last thing he saw as they pulled him from the room was his mother's broken form hunched over Aldric's body, her fingers combing through his bloodied copper hair as she rocked back and forth, keening her grief to the uncaring walls.

The journey to the dungeons passed in a blur of stone corridors and flickering torchlight. Sevan felt disconnected from his body, as if watching the procession from somewhere far above. Guards flanked him on either side, their grip unyielding as they marched him deeper into the bowels of the Forest House.

The temperature dropped with each descending step, the warm golden light of the upper levels giving way to cold, blue-flamed torches that cast eerie shadows across the ancient stone. The dungeons of the Autumn Court had existed since before Beron's time, carved into the living rock beneath the forest floor.

They reached a heavy iron door inscribed with runes of binding and containment. The captain stepped forward, pressing his palm against the center sigil. The door swung open with a groan of ancient hinges, revealing a narrow corridor lined with cells.

"In here," one of the guards ordered, shoving Sevan through an open cell door.

He stumbled, catching himself against the far wall. The cell was small but not inhumane - a narrow cot bolted to the floor, a chamber pot in the corner, and a single barred window set high in the wall that offered a sliver of the sky.

The guards withdrew, the door slamming shut with a finality that should have terrified him. Instead, Sevan felt nothing. He slid down the wall until he sat on the cold stone floor, his bloodied hands resting limply in his lap. Aldric's blood had dried on his skin, flaking off in rust-coloured patches that caught the dim light.

He stared at those stains, unable to process that this was all he had left of his twin. Blood on his hands. Blood on his clothes. Blood in his hair where he'd pressed his forehead to Aldric's.

Time lost meaning. Minutes or hours might have passed as Sevan sat motionless, his mind replaying the moment of Aldric's death in an endless, torturous loop. 

The scrape of a key in the lock barely registered. The cell door swung open, admitting six guards who moved with grim purpose. Sevan didn't resist as they hauled him to his feet, dragging him toward the centre of the cell where iron hooks protruded from the ceiling.

They stripped him to the waist, the cool air raising gooseflesh on his exposed skin. Rough hands secured his wrists in manacles that hung from the hooks, stretching his arms painfully above his head until his toes barely touched the floor. The position forced his back to arch, exposing the vulnerable expanse of skin from his shoulders to his waist.

This was not the first time he had been in such a position, but with any luck, it might be his last. Perhaps this time, his failure was so complete that Beron might decide to rid him of his disappointing son once and for all. 

Sevan hung there, swaying slightly, his mind still far away with Aldric. The guards stepped back, forming a half-circle behind him. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant drip of water somewhere in the darkness.

Then came the sound of measured footsteps approaching down the corridor. Slow. Deliberate. The walk of someone who knew their power was absolute and had no need to rush.

Beron Vanserra entered the cell, his amber eyes - so like Sevan's own, like Aldric's had been - sweeping over his son's restrained form with cold calculation. The High Lord of Autumn was dressed immaculately in deep crimson, his copper crown nestled among dark hair that showed no hint of grey despite his centuries of rule. In his hand, he carried a flame-whip - a cruel invention of his own making, a leather lash infused with his fire magic.

Sevan remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the wall before him, seeing nothing.

"Look at me," Beron ordered.

When Sevan didn't respond, Beron moved closer, gripping his son's jaw, forcing Sevan's head up and examining him with clinical detachment.

"You failed me," Beron said simply. "You failed your court. You failed your brothers." A cold smile curved his lips. "Well, one less brother to worry about now, isn't it?"

Something flickered in Sevan's vacant gaze at that - a spark of rage quickly extinguished by the overwhelming tide of grief.

"Nothing to say?" Beron released his jaw, stepping back to examine the flame-whip in his hands. Fire danced along the leather straps, contained but eager to be unleashed. "Usually I can't shut you up. Where's that silver tongue now, boy?"

Sevan remained silent, his eyes once again finding some distant point on the wall. Beron circled him slowly, the flame-whip trailing along the floor behind him.

"You were sent to retrieve Lucien," Beron continued, his voice conversational. "A simple task. And yet you return with one son dead and another on death’s door." He paused behind Sevan, just out of his line of sight.

"Hold him," Beron commanded, his voice soft yet carrying the unmistakable weight of absolute authority. The guards moved at Beron's gesture, positioning themselves on either side of Sevan. Their hands gripped his shoulders, bracing him for what was to come.

"Twenty lashes," the High Lord announced, "for your incompetence. For your weakness." The High Lord stepped back, unfurling the flame-whip with a practiced flick of his wrist. "Count them."

The first lash tore across Sevan's back, the leather biting into his flesh while the embedded flames seared the wound closed almost instantly - a cruel mercy that prevented him from bleeding out while maximising the pain. The scent of burning flesh filled the small cell.

Sevan's body jerked reflexively, but no sound escaped his lips.

"One," Beron counted for him when it became clear Sevan would not speak.

The second lash fell, crossing the first in a fiery X that branded his skin. Again, Sevan's body reacted to the trauma, muscles tensing and spine arching, but his mind remained disconnected from the physical agony.

"Two," Beron continued, sounding almost bored.

By the fifth lash, sweat poured down Sevan's body, his muscles trembling with the effort of remaining silent. Yet his eyes remained vacant, fixed on some middle distance that only he could see.

The tenth lash drew a grunt from him - the first sound he'd made since entering the cell. Not from pain, but from the force of the blow that swung his body forward.

"Half done," Beron commented, pausing to examine his handiwork. Sevan's back was a lattice of angry red welts, the skin blistered and blackened where the flames had kissed it. "You might have learned to endure pain, but you've never been able to properly appreciate it. A pity."

The flame-whip cracked again, and again, and again. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

Sevan's body responded as it had been trained to do - muscles tensing, spine arching, sweat pouring from his brow - but his mind remained elsewhere. With Aldric, in that clearing. With the sound of his twin's last breath. With the light fading from eyes identical to his own.

"Eighteen," Beron counted, a note of irritation creeping into his voice at Sevan's continued silence.

The nineteenth lash landed with particular savagery, cutting diagonally from shoulder to hip. Still, Sevan gave no reaction beyond the involuntary spasm of his muscles.

Beron paused before the final strike, circling to face his son. He studied Sevan's vacant expression, the empty devastation in his amber eyes.

"Look at me when I punish you," he commanded.

Sevan's gaze drifted slowly to his father's face, but there was no recognition there. No fear, nor even defiance. 

Beron's lips thinned with displeasure. He stepped back, raising the flame-whip for the final blow.

"Twenty," he spat as the lash tore across Sevan's chest rather than his back, a deviation from tradition that should have shocked him, should have drawn some reaction.

But Sevan merely swayed in his chains, his gaze already sliding away from his father to fix once more on that middle distance where Aldric's ghost seemed to linger.

Beron studied him a moment longer, then coiled the flame-whip with a sharp gesture that extinguished the magical fire running along its length.

"Clean him up," he ordered the guards as he strode toward the door. "He's useless to me like this."

The guards moved quickly, releasing Sevan from his restraints. His legs buckled beneath him, unable to support his weight after so long suspended. They caught him before he could hit the floor, dragging him to the narrow cot and depositing him there with little gentleness.

One guard brought a bucket of water and a cloth, setting it beside the cot before they all filed out, the cell door clanging shut behind them. Sevan lay where they'd left him, face down on the thin mattress, the ruined skin of his back exposed to the cool dungeon air.

He should be in agony. Yet Sevan felt nothing beyond a distant awareness of his body's trauma, as if the pain belonged to someone else entirely.

Perhaps it did. Perhaps the person who had existed before Aldric's death - the Sevan who had laughed at Lucien's expense and plotted court intrigues and spent his days wooing females and males alike - was truly dead. Killed as surely as Aldric had been, torn apart by the same claws.

In the oppressive silence of the dungeon cell, Sevan stared at the wall without seeing it. His consciousness drifted, untethered to his physical form, seeking the familiar presence that had been beside him since before birth.

Aldric. His twin. His better half. The conscience he pretended not to have. The voice of reason he claimed to ignore but secretly relied upon. Gone.

The weight of that absence crushed him more thoroughly than any physical torture could have. Each breath felt like a betrayal - how dare he continue to exist when Aldric did not? Each heartbeat was a reminder that he lived while his twin lay cold and still.

The scrape of the cell door opening barely penetrated his consciousness once more. Heavy boots approached the cot where he lay, still face-down, his back a ruined landscape of welts and burns.

"Get up," a gruff voice ordered.

When Sevan didn't respond, rough hands seized his arms, dragging him upright. He swayed on his feet, vision swimming from dehydration and shock. Three guards surrounded him, their faces grim beneath their helmets.

"Lord Beron wants you brought to the interrogation chamber," one said with something akin to pity in his voice. "Can you walk?"

Sevan stared through him, seeing nothing. The guard sighed, nodding to his companions. They gripped Sevan's arms, half-carrying him from the cell and down the dimly lit corridor.

The interrogation chamber was larger than the cell, with high ceilings that disappeared into shadow. Iron hooks and chains hung from the walls and ceiling, tools of persuasion arranged neatly on tables around the perimeter. In the centre of the room stood a simple wooden chair, bolted to the floor.

The guards deposited Sevan in the chair, securing his wrists to the armrests with iron manacles. He offered no resistance, his body limp and compliant as a doll's.

"Water," one guard said, holding a cup to Sevan's cracked lips. "Drink."

Sevan didn't respond, didn't open his mouth. The guard sighed, setting the cup aside with a shake of his head.

"He's not well," he murmured to his companions. "The shock has taken him."

"That's the High Lord’s concern now," another replied, his voice pitched low. "We have our orders."

They withdrew to the edges of the room as the heavy doors swung open.

Beron strode in, his movements unhurried, deliberate. Behind him came Eris, his face carefully composed in the mask of the dutiful heir, though something flickered in his eyes when they landed on Sevan.

I should feel something, Sevan thought distantly. Fear. Anger. Pain. Anything.

But there was only emptiness where those emotions should be, a vast hollow space that had once been filled with Aldric's presence.

"Leave us," Beron commanded, and the guards filed out silently, the heavy door closing with an echoing thud.

Beron circled Sevan slowly, examining him with the detached curiosity of a collector inspecting a flawed specimen. "Still nothing to say for yourself? No clever remarks?"

When Sevan remained silent, Beron's hand lashed out, striking him across the face with enough force to snap his head to the side. The physical pain registered dimly, like an echo from very far away.

"Father," Eris said quietly. "Perhaps this approach is-"

"Silence." Beron didn't look at his eldest son, his attention fixed on Sevan. "I want to know exactly what happened. How you allowed two of your brothers to die, and a third to escape."

Sevan's gaze drifted past his father to fix on a point somewhere beyond the stone walls. He barely registered that Dain was now apparently dead, too. In his mind, he was back in that clearing, watching Aldric die again and again in an endless loop of horror. The spray of blood. The shock in those amber eyes. The final, gentle touch against his cheek.

"He's in shock," Eris said, stepping closer. "He needs a healer, not an interrogation."

"What he needs," Beron replied coldly, "is to remember his duty. His loyalty." He seized Sevan's jaw, forcing his head up. "Look at me when I speak to you, boy."

Sevan's eyes met his father's without recognition. The face before him could have belonged to a stranger for all the emotion it stirred in him.

"Tamlin," he whispered, the word slipping out unbidden.

Beron's grip tightened. "What did you say?"

"Tamlin," Sevan repeated, his voice a barely a rasp. "He killed Aldric. Tore him apart..." The words tumbled out now, disconnected fragments of the horror he'd witnessed. "We were at the border. Lucien was there. Dain wanted to kill him. Aldric tried to stop it. Tamlin came. Beast form. He was aiming for me, but Aldric... Aldric pushed me aside."

The words hung in the air, echoing in the cavernous chamber. Beron's expression shifted, calculation replacing anger as he processed this new information.

"The High Lord of Spring killed my son?" he said slowly, releasing Sevan's jaw. "A direct act of war against Autumn."

I should care about this, Sevan thought distantly. I should be demanding vengeance, screaming for Tamlin's blood. But the thought of violence, of more death, only pained him further. What was the point? Aldric would still be gone.

"He died because of me," Sevan whispered, the realisation cutting through his numbness like a blade. "It should have been me. Tamlin was aiming for me."

Beron made a sound of disgust. "Your brother died because he was weak. A true son of Autumn would have let you face the consequences of your own failure."

Something stirred in Sevan then - not grief, which was too vast and consuming to be contained in such a simple word, but anger. A tiny spark in the void where his heart had been.

"He saved my life," Sevan said, his voice gaining the faintest edge. "He died a hero."

"He died a fool," Beron corrected coldly. "And now I've lost two sons in a single day."

"Three," Eris corrected, his voice quiet but firm. "You've lost three sons today."

The words hung in the air between them, weighted with accusation. Beron's gaze snapped to his eldest, amber eyes narrowing.

"Watch yourself," he warned.

Beron's lips curved in a cold smile as he turned his attention back to Sevan. "You always were too attached to one another. Perhaps this will teach you the price of such weakness." He began to pace the room, his footsteps echoing against the stone. "Your mother hasn't stopped crying since they brought Aldric's body to her. The sound has become... tiresome."

A fresh wave of pain washed through Sevan at the mention of his mother. The image of her collapsed over Aldric's body, fingers combing through his bloodied hair, burned behind his eyes.

"I do not like to see my wife upset," Beron continued, his tone casual as if discussing the weather. "Her weeping disturbs the peace of the household. The servants are distracted. The court is unsettled." He paused, directly behind Sevan now, where he couldn't see his father's face. "You will remain here until her mood improves."

The implication hung in the air between them, clear as crystal. This was only the beginning. Beron would continue to torture him, day after day, until his mother managed to hide her grief well enough to satisfy her husband's demands.

Eris stiffened, his carefully maintained composure slipping for just a moment. "Father-"

"Perhaps you'd like to join him?" Beron asked, his voice silky with threat. "I'm sure there's room for two in these cells."

Eris's jaw tightened, but he lowered his eyes in submission. "No, Father."

"Good." Beron circled back to face Sevan, bending until their faces were level. "I think we'll begin again tomorrow. Give you time to consider your failures. To remember what happens when you disappoint me."

Sevan stared through him, seeing not his father's cruel smile but Aldric's face in those final moments.

"He's not even hearing you," Eris said quietly. "Look at him."

Beron straightened, studying his son with clinical detachment. "He hears me. Don't you, Sevan?" He gripped Sevan's hair, yanking his head back painfully. "Deep down in whatever hole you've crawled into, you hear every word. And you'll come back eventually. You always do."

He released Sevan with a shove that would have sent him sprawling if not for the restraints holding him to the chair.

"Take him back to his cell," Beron ordered, turning away. "No food. No water. Not until he speaks."

Eris remained motionless as the guards re-entered and unfastened Sevan's restraints. When they lifted him from the chair, his legs folded beneath him, unable to support his weight. They dragged him toward the door, his bare feet scraping against the stone floor.

"You will pay for this, Father," Sevan whispered, the words barely audible as they dragged him away.

Eris's head snapped up, amber eyes widening at this first sign of his brother's return from the abyss of grief. But Sevan wasn't looking at him. His eyes remained glazed and far away, but burning with determination. 

The guards hauled him back to his cell, their grip unnecessarily rough as they tossed him onto the hard cot. His ravaged back hit the thin mattress, sending white-hot pain lancing through his body. The sensation was distant, muted, as if happening to someone else.

The cell door clanged shut, the sound echoing through the stone chamber. Darkness enveloped him as the guards took the torch with them, leaving only the faintest sliver of light seeping beneath the door.

Alone in the darkness, Sevan stared unseeing at the ceiling. The emptiness inside him had shifted, fractured. Something else stirred in that void now - something cold and sharp and dangerous.

You will pay for this, Father.

The thought crystallised in his mind, hardening from formless grief into something tangible. Tamlin would pay too. And Lucien. And Dain, if he had lived. Everyone who had played a part in Aldric's death would answer for it.

It wasn't enough. Nothing would ever be enough to fill the void Aldric had left. But it was something - a reason to endure, to survive, to claw his way back from the brink of oblivion.

Sevan closed his eyes, embracing the darkness. In it, he could almost feel Aldric beside him again, a phantom presence in the cell. Not the broken, bloodied corpse that had died in his arms, but the brother who had stood beside him through centuries - where Sevan was harsh, kind where Sevan was cruel.

"I'll make them pay," he whispered to that ghostly presence. "All of them. I swear it."

The silence that answered him was absolute, but Sevan imagined he could feel a gentle touch against his cheek - the same final gesture Aldric had made as the light faded from his eyes.

A single tear escaped, tracking a path down his temple to disappear into his hair. It would be the last tear he would allow himself. Grief was a luxury he could no longer afford. Not when there was vengeance to be planned.

In the darkness of his cell, Sevan Vanserra made a silent vow - to his twin, to himself, to the merciless gods who had taken him.

As before, time had no meaning in the darkness of the cell, in the shell of his physical body. Minutes bled into hours, hours into what might have been days. Sevan drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain of his ravaged back merging with the deeper, more profound agony of his loss until he could no longer distinguish between them.

The sound of the cell door opening and closing barely registered. Guards had come and gone, bringing water he wouldn't drink, food he wouldn't touch. This time, however, the footsteps were different. Lighter. More cautious.

"Mother above," a deep voice muttered.

Through half-lidded eyes, Sevan made out a broad-shouldered silhouette framed in the doorway. Not a guard, then. The figure approached cautiously, a torch in one hand casting dancing shadows across the walls.

Riven Marrow. Eris's most trusted soldier.

"You look like shit," Riven observed, his voice pitched low as he crouched beside the cot. "Can you hear me?"

Sevan stared through him. Riven sighed, setting the torch in a wall sconce before reaching into a pouch at his belt.

Riven pulled out a small glass vial filled with a murky green liquid which glinted like polished jade in the torchlight as he uncorked it.

"From Lord Eris," Riven said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "For the pain."

Sevan's gaze drifted to the vial, then back to the middle distance. His eyes were hollow, rimmed with shadows so dark they looked like bruises against his pale skin.

"He couldn't come himself," Riven continued, holding the vial closer. "Your father has him under constant watch. But he sent this. It will help with the burns."

For a moment, it seemed Sevan hadn't heard him at all. Then, with a speed that belied his weakened state, his hand shot out. Riven flinched, expecting an attack, but Sevan merely snatched the vial from his fingers.

In one fluid motion, Sevan hurled it against the far wall of the cell. The glass shattered with a delicate, musical sound, the herbal concoction dripping down the stone in viscous rivulets.

"There's nothing you can do to take the pain away," Sevan rasped, his voice rough from disuse, "unless you can somehow reach back in time and stop Aldric from coming after us."

The words hung in the air between them, raw and jagged as the wounds on Sevan's back. Riven remained crouched beside the cot, his scarred face unreadable in the flickering torchlight.

"I can't do that," he said finally. "No one can."

"Then leave me."

Riven didn't move. "Lord Eris also sent food. You need to eat."

A bitter laugh escaped Sevan's throat, the sound so hollow it barely resembled laughter at all. "What I need," he said, "is for everyone to stop pretending they give a damn about what I need."

Riven's jaw tightened. He reached into his satchel again, this time producing a small loaf of bread and a strip of dried meat. He set them on the edge of the cot.

"Eat or don't," he said bluntly. "But your brother went to considerable trouble to arrange this visit, and I'm not leaving until you've at least acknowledged what I'm about to tell you."

Something in his tone, or perhaps just the novelty of being spoken to as if he were still a person and not a broken thing, caught Sevan's attention. His gaze shifted slightly, focusing on Riven's face for the first time.

"What?" Sevan asked, the word barely audible.

Riven leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Your brother, Lucien, has been officially exiled," Riven said, each word measured and careful. "Tamlin granted him sanctuary in the Spring Court."

The words hit Sevan like physical blows, though his expression remained unnervingly still.

"Dain's body was recovered from the Spring border this morning," Riven continued.

A flicker of something - not quite emotion, but awareness perhaps - crossed Sevan's vacant eyes. "And Aldric?" he asked, the name catching in his throat.

"They've prepared him for burial on your mother’s orders," Riven said, his voice softening slightly. "The High Lord wanted him burned immediately, but Lady Sybil refused. She's been sitting vigil with his body for three days now, won't let anyone touch him except the priestesses. The ceremony is tomorrow at dawn. For both of them.”

Three days. He'd been in this cell for three days while his twin's body lay cold above.

Sevan's gaze drifted to the ceiling, fixing on a crack in the stone as if it held some profound truth. "They'll bury him without me."

It wasn't a question, but Riven answered anyway. "Lord Beron has decreed you're to remain here until after the ceremony." He hesitated, then added, "He says your presence would be a distraction from honouring the dead."

A bitter, broken sound escaped Sevan's lips - something between a laugh and a sob. "He means my mother might actually show her grief if I'm there. And we can't have that, can we? Not in the Autumn Court, where appearances matter more than lives."

Riven shifted uncomfortably. "There's more. Lord Eris wanted you to know that he's negotiating with your father. He believes he can secure your release after the burial."

"To what end?" Sevan asked. "What purpose would my freedom serve?"

"That's not for me to say," Riven replied carefully. "But Lord Eris was insistent that you know he's working on your behalf."

Sevan's fingers curled into the thin blanket beneath him, the only outward sign of the turmoil within. "Tell my brother that his concern is noted. And unnecessary."

Riven's brow furrowed. "You don't want to be released?"

"What I want," Sevan said, each word precisely enunciated despite his parched throat, "is to see my brother one last time before they put him in the ground. Since that's clearly not an option, my wants are irrelevant."

Riven studied him for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable in the dim light. Then he reached into his tunic and withdrew something small that gleamed in the torchlight.

"Lord Eris thought you might say that," he said, placing the object on the cot beside Sevan. "He said to give you this if you seemed... coherent."

Sevan's gaze dropped to the item - a small iron key, unremarkable except for the rune etched into its head. The symbol for passage.

A key to freedom. A possibility of escape. Yet where would he go? What would he do? The walls of his cell suddenly felt less like a prison and more like a sanctuary - a place where he could nurture his grief and rage in private, without the expectation to perform, to speak, to exist.

But Aldric...

The thought of his twin being lowered into the cold earth without him there made something twist painfully in Sevan's chest. The first real sensation he'd felt since watching the light fade from eyes identical to his own.

"When?" Sevan asked, his fingers hovering over the key without touching it.

"The burial is at dawn," Riven replied, his voice low. "The guards change at midnight. There's a three-hour window when the dungeon is lightly patrolled."

Sevan's gaze drifted to the tiny barred window high in the wall of his cell. The sliver of sky visible was dark - night had fallen. How many hours until midnight? Until dawn? Time had lost all meaning in the darkness of his grief.

Three hours to say goodbye. Three hours to see his twin one last time before they committed his body to the earth. It wasn't enough - nothing would ever be enough - but it was something.

"Why would Eris risk this?" Sevan asked, suspicion finally penetrating the fog of his despair. "Father would have his head if he knew."

Riven's expression hardened. "Your brother may be many things, but he is loyal to family. Even you." He rose to his feet, brushing dust from his knees. "It's your choice, my lord. But know this - if you're caught outside this cell, neither Eris nor I will acknowledge any part in it."

Sevan's fingers finally closed around the key, the metal cold against his skin. "Tell my brother..." he began, then faltered. What could he possibly say? Thank you seemed woefully inadequate. And why should he thank Eris for the chance to say goodbye to his twin? It should have been his right, not a privilege to be granted in secret.

"Tell him I received his message," Sevan finished, his voice empty once more.

Riven nodded sharply, retrieving his torch from the wall sconce. "Eat something," he said, nodding toward the bread and meat. "You'll need your strength."

Sevan pushed himself upright, ignoring the searing pain as the movement pulled at the half-healed welts on his back. His arms trembled with the effort, muscles weak from days without food or water.

"I'll be ready," he said, his voice gaining strength.

For the first time since Aldric's death, Sevan felt a purpose beyond grief. He would be at his twin's burial, would see him laid to rest properly. Would say the words that needed saying.

And then he would begin planning his vengeance.

With that, Riven turned and left, the cell door closing behind him with a sound that echoed through the stone chamber. The lock clicked, sealing Sevan in darkness once more.

Chapter Text

The autumn wind whispered through the Forest House, carrying with it a strange tension that Eris couldn't quite place. Two hundred years of navigating his father's court had honed his senses to detect even the slightest shifts in atmosphere, and today, something was decidedly off.

The birth of a royal prince should have filled the halls with laughter and celebration. The staff should have been bustling about with sweet wines and delicacies from across Prythian. Yet as Eris stood in the antechamber outside his mother's birthing room, the silence was deafening.

His brothers shifted restlessly beside him. Dain, ever the schemer, leaned against the wall with feigned disinterest, though his eyes darted constantly to their father's closed study door down the hall. Vale kept his distance, as always watching and calculating. The twins, Sevan and Aldric, whispered to each other in the corner, no doubt exchanging theories about the unusual mood that had descended upon the Forest House. And Calix just twirled his dagger, almost daring someone to try and fight him. 

"At least I'm not the youngest anymore," Aldric said, breaking the silence with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. At seventy-six, he'd held the position of youngest Vanserra son for nearly a century, even if it was only by a few minutes.

Dain snorted. "One more brother vying for Father's crown, you mean."

"As if any of us stand a chance against Eris," Sevan muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

Eris kept his face carefully neutral, though he couldn't help but notice the flash of fear in his younger brother's eyes when their gazes met. Let them be afraid, he thought. Fear kept them in line.

But beneath the practiced mask of indifference, Eris found himself genuinely curious about the new addition to their family. Seven sons was indeed a lot, even for High Fae, and he worried for his mother's strength.

The door to their father's study crashed open, and Beron Vanserra stormed out, fire literally trailing from his fingertips and scorching the ornate carpet. His face was a mask of barely controlled rage as he stalked past his sons without acknowledgment, heading toward the central atrium.

The brothers exchanged glances but knew better than to comment. Only when their father's footsteps had faded did the midwife appear, her face lined with exhaustion but her eyes bright.

"The Lady Sybil will see you now," she said, and Eris detected a strange note in her voice - pride, perhaps, but tinged with something like defiance.

One by one, they filed into the warm chamber where their mother reclined against silk pillows, a small bundle cradled in her arms. The familiar scene was one Eris had witnessed five times before, yet something about this moment felt different to those previous births.

Eris approached first, as was his right as eldest son. Sybil looked up at him with tired eyes that somehow still managed to shine with joy. The bundle in her arms stirred slightly, and she adjusted the soft blanket to reveal a tuft of russet hair - brighter than any of theirs, almost a true red in the late afternoon light filtering through the curtains.

"My son," she said softly, beckoning Eris closer. "Come meet your new brother."

Eris leaned in, surprised by the surge of protectiveness he felt as he gazed upon the tiny, perfect face. The infant's eyes were closed in peaceful slumber, his features delicate but with the unmistakable stamp of her lineage in the high cheekbones and straight nose. He wondered at the slightly darker skin tone, but only briefly.

"What have you named him?" Eris asked, his voice lower and gentler than he'd intended.

Sybil's face transformed with a radiant smile. "Lucien," she said, the name like a caress on her lips. "His name is Lucien."

Something flickered in her eyes then - a nervousness that hadn't been present moments before. Eris caught it immediately, his instincts sharpening.

"Did something happen?" he asked quietly, positioning himself so his brothers couldn't hear.

Sybil shook her head, but her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the babe. "No one, not even your father, can ruin this day," she whispered fiercely. "Not now that this little light has come into our lives."

A strange pang shot through Eris's chest - jealousy, he realised with mild shock. He had always been his mother's confidant, her friend almost as much as her son given their relatively close age for immortals. Now, watching her gaze adoringly at this new life, he felt suddenly displaced.

He straightened, annoyed with himself. He was Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court, feared and respected throughout Prythian. He would not be jealous of a days-old infant, regardless of how his mother doted on him.

"He's a handsome boy," Eris said formally, stepping back to allow his brothers their turns. "The Autumn Court welcomes him."

As the day progressed into evening, Eris noticed his mother's absence from the dining hall. Beron sat at the head of the table, his mood darker than usual, the air around him nearly crackling with suppressed power.

"Is Mother unwell?" Vale finally dared to ask, after the third course had been served with no sign of their mother.

Beron's amber eyes flashed. "She is indisposed."

The way he said it, cold and dismissive, raised Eris's hackles. When the meal concluded, he slipped away from his brothers and sought out Mirelle, his mother's most trusted handmaiden, who was hurrying through the eastern corridor with a tray of untouched food.

"Mirelle," Eris called softly, causing the young woman to startle. Her eyes widened when she recognised him, and she dipped into a hasty curtsy, careful not to upset the tray.

"My lord," she murmured, gaze darting nervously down the hallway.

"How is my mother?" Eris asked, stepping closer. "And the child?"

Something like fear flickered across Mirelle's face, but it was quickly masked. "The young lord sleeps soundly. Your mother..." She hesitated, then lowered her voice. "She refuses to eat, my lord."

Eris frowned. "Why?"

Mirelle's eyes filled with tears. "The High Lord, he-" She bit her lip, clearly torn between loyalty to her mistress and fear of speaking ill of Beron. "Perhaps you should see for yourself, my lord. She's in her chambers."

A cold dread settled in Eris's stomach as he dismissed Mirelle with a nod and strode toward his mother's wing of the Forest House. The guards posted at her door straightened as he approached, but made no move to stop him. They knew better.

The chamber was dimly lit, heavy curtains drawn against the evening light. Lady Sybil sat by the window, her gaze fixed on something beyond the glass. Lucien slept peacefully in an ornate cradle beside her, unaware of the tension that filled the room.

"Mother," Eris said quietly.

She didn't turn to look at him, but her shoulders stiffened slightly. "You shouldn't be here, Eris. Your father-"

"Is occupied with his wine," Eris finished, approaching slowly. As he drew closer, he noticed the redness around her eyes, the tracks of dried tears on her pale cheeks. "What happened?"

Lady Sybil's fingers twisted in her lap. "Nothing that hasn't happened before."

Eris followed her gaze out the window, and what he saw made his blood run cold. Where his mother's beloved greenhouse had stood for centuries - a sanctuary of rare flowers and herbs from across Prythian - there was now only twisted metal and shattered glass, the plants within withered and blackened as though a great fire had swept through.

"When?" he asked, his voice tight with barely controlled rage.

"This afternoon," she whispered. "After... after he saw Lucien."

Eris understood immediately. The russet hair, the darker skin tone - features that matched neither Beron nor his mother, at least not enough. Features that might, perhaps, resemble another High Lord entirely.

Eris did not dare voice his concerns. For one, it would only serve to upset her further, if true. And even here in the confines of her private chambers, he would not risk saying the words out loud. After all, there was no proof - not really. If Beron suspected, it was pure conjecture and he would not be able to act against his mother - not openly, at least.

Behind closed doors, however, it would be another matter entirely. Eris braced himself and decided he had to at least give her the option. He leaned down next to her, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I will only say this once, Mother. If you wish to leave, I can arrange it." His voice was steady, measured, revealing nothing of the turmoil within. "Quietly, without Father's knowledge. The Summer Court might offer sanctuary, or perhaps..." He hesitated, watching her carefully. "Day?"

His mother's head snapped up, her eyes flashing with something dangerous - fear, warning, panic. Her fingers gripped his wrist with surprising strength.

"Never speak of that again," she hissed, glancing anxiously toward the sleeping infant. "Not here. Not anywhere."

Eris remained perfectly still, the confirmation of his suspicions settling like a stone in his gut. So it was true, then. Or at least, his mother believed it might be possible enough to fear the connection.

"You misunderstand me," she continued, her voice softening as she released his wrist. "I cannot leave. I will not abandon my children to his mercy, or lack thereof."

"The child-" Eris began.

"Lucien," Sybil corrected sharply. "His name is Lucien, and he is your brother."

Eris nodded slowly. "Lucien would go with you, of course."

A sad smile that made him want to burn the whole court to ash touched her lips. "And what of you? What of Vale, Dain, Calix, and the twins? Would I leave you all behind?" She shook her head. "A mother does not abandon her cubs to the wolf, even to save one."

The sleeping infant stirred, tiny fists clenching as though sensing the tension in the room. Sybil immediately reached for him, gathering the bundle into her arms with practiced ease. Lucien settled against her chest, his breathing returning to the deep rhythm of untroubled sleep.

"He will need protection," Eris said quietly, watching the tenderness with which his mother held the child. "More than the others."

Sybil's eyes met his, a silent question in them.

"I am not blind, Mother. Neither is Father." Eris moved to the window, surveying the ruined greenhouse below. "This was merely the beginning. A warning."

"You think I don't know that?" Her voice trembled slightly. "But what would you have me do? Send him away? Hide him?"

Eris turned back to face her. "I would have you let me help you. Both of you."

Surprise flickered across her features. "Why would you do that?"

It was a fair question. Eris had spent centuries cultivating his reputation as the cold, calculating heir to the Autumn Court. He had removed obstacles from his path without hesitation or remorse. By all logic, this child - this potential threat to his claim - should be viewed as just another rival to eliminate.

And yet...

"He is my brother," Eris said simply. The words felt strange on his tongue, but true nonetheless. "And you are my mother."

Sybil studied him for a long moment, as though searching for something only she could see. Whatever she found in his face must have satisfied her, because she nodded once, a slight but unmistakable gesture of acceptance.

"Very well," she said. "But I warn you, Eris - this path will not be easy."

Looking down at the sleeping infant, with his russet hair and features that might one day reveal truths best kept hidden, Eris felt a strange certainty settle over him. "Few worthwhile things are."

In the days that followed, Eris found himself drawn to his mother's chambers more frequently than ever before. He told himself it was to ensure her safety, to keep watch over both her and the infant. But in truth, there was something about little Lucien that fascinated him.

The child rarely cried. Instead, he seemed to observe the world with a quiet intensity unusual for a newborn. When Eris held him - awkwardly at first, then with growing confidence - those tiny eyes would fix on his face as though memorising every detail.

"He likes you," Sybil remarked one evening as Eris rocked the baby while she rested. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, testament to sleepless nights and constant vigilance.

"He doesn't know any better," Eris replied dryly, though he couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips when Lucien's tiny hand wrapped around his finger.

It was during one such quiet moment that Beron chose to make his first appearance in his wife's chambers since the birth. The door swung open without warning, and the High Lord of Autumn stepped inside, his power filling the room like a physical presence.

Eris straightened immediately, instinctively shifting to place himself between his father and the child in his arms. The movement did not go unnoticed by Beron, whose amber eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I wasn't aware my heir had taken up nursemaid duties," he said, his voice deceptively soft. "How domestic of you."

"Father," Eris acknowledged with a slight inclination of his head. "I was just leaving."

"No," Beron countered, closing the door behind him. "Stay. I find myself curious about this sudden fraternal devotion."

Sybil rose from her chair, her face carefully composed though Eris could sense her fear. "My lord, perhaps you could return later. Lucien has just settled-"

"I've come to see my son," Beron cut her off, the emphasis on the word 'my' unmistakable. "Give him to me."

Eris felt the child tense in his arms, as though the infant somehow sensed the danger emanating from the High Lord. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to protect this small, vulnerable life from whatever cruelty Beron might inflict. But defiance now would only make things worse.

With measured movements, Eris approached his father and carefully transferred Lucien into his waiting arms. The baby immediately began to fuss, tiny face scrunching in displeasure.

Beron studied the child with cold detachment, turning him this way and that like a merchant assessing questionable goods.

"The boy favours you, they say."

"All newborns resemble their mothers more than their fathers," Sybil replied. "It's nature's way of ensuring the mother bonds with her child. As he grows, he'll develop more of the Vanserra features."

A laugh, cold and humourless. "Indeed. We shall see what... features... develop."

"He has Mother's colouring," Eris said smoothly. "The russet hair, the-"

"I know what my wife looks like," Beron snapped. His fingers tightened slightly around the infant, causing Lucien to whimper.

Sybil moved forward, her hands outstretched. "Please, my lord. He needs feeding."

For a terrible moment, Eris thought his father might refuse. The air in the room grew heavy, charged with the unmistakable buildup of power that preceded Beron's displays of temper. Then, with deliberate slowness, the High Lord handed the child back to his mother.

"Still coddling the brat, I see," Beron remarked, watching as Sybil settled into the rocking chair with Lucien, her body curved protectively around the infant.

"All mothers coddle their newborns," Eris said, his tone carefully neutral despite the rage simmering beneath his skin. "It ensures their survival."

Beron's gaze slid to his eldest son, calculating and cold. "And what ensures your interest in this particular child, Eris? I don't recall you hovering over your other brothers with such devotion."

"Perhaps I'm simply growing sentimental in my old age," Eris replied with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Sentiment," Beron sneered, "is a luxury for those without power." He moved to the window, staring out at the ruined greenhouse below. "You would do well to remember that. Both of you."

The threat hung in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. Beron turned back, his face a mask of perfect control once more.

"I have arranged for a banquet next week." His gaze fixed on Lucien. "I expect my newest son to be presented properly."

“Excellent idea, Father,” Eris replied smoothly. “The birth of another Vanserra prince should be celebrated.”

It was the right approach - appealing to Beron's pride in the Vanserra name, in the power that multiple offspring represented. The High Lord's expression shifted subtly, calculation replacing open hostility.

"Seven sons," he mused, moving to the window. "More than any other High Lord in Prythian. A testament to the virility of Autumn." He turned back, his gaze settling on Lucien with renewed interest. "Let us hope this one proves worthy of the name."

When Beron finally departed, the tension in the room dissipated like mist under morning sun. Sybil's shoulders sagged, and she pressed her forehead against Lucien's, murmuring soft reassurances.

Eris released a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Mother-"

"Don't," she said sharply, her attention focused on soothing the agitated infant. "Not now."

He watched as she settled further into the chair, loosening her gown to nurse the child. The intimacy of the moment made him uncomfortable, yet he couldn't bring himself to leave. Not when the threat Beron posed still lingered like smoke in the air.

"He won't harm him," Eris said finally, though he wasn't entirely certain of this.

Sybil looked up, her eyes haunted but determined. "I need your word, Eris. If anything happens to me-"

"Nothing will happen to you," he interrupted, tension coiling in his gut at the very suggestion.

"If it does," she persisted, "Lucien will need protection. Your protection. Promise me."

Eris hesitated. Such a promise could prove costly. If Beron ever confirmed his suspicions, defending Lucien would mean defying the High Lord - a dangerous position even for the heir. And yet, looking at his mother's face, at the fierce love she bore for this child, he found he couldn't refuse.

"I promise," he said quietly. "No harm will come to him while I draw breath."

The relief that flooded her features made something in his chest ache. Had she truly doubted him? Or was it simply that she knew, better than most, the price of such a vow in the Autumn Court?

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Later that night, Eris sat alone in his chambers, a glass of untouched wine in his hand as he stared into the dancing flames of his hearth. He replayed the day's events in his mind, analysing every nuance of his father's behaviour, every subtle threat and implication.

His brothers would be easy enough to manage, at least in the short term. Dain was the only wild card - ambitious and reckless, with just enough cunning to be a potential threat.

Eris exhaled sharply. He needed allies, people he could trust to help shield the child. The problem was, trust was in short supply in the Autumn Court. The thought of reaching out to Day crossed his mind, but he dismissed it immediately. Too dangerous, too obvious.

If Lucien's true parentage was ever confirmed, the consequences would be catastrophic - not just for the child and his mother, but potentially for the entire Autumn Court. Relations with Day were already strained. An affair between their High Lord and the Lady of Autumn would shatter the fragile peace that existed between the courts.

It would also, he realised, make his baby brother heir to the Day Court. For the first time in days, an involuntary smile tugged at his mouth, at the thought of that little bundle in his mother’s arms sitting on a throne, a golden crown atop his head. Perhaps they would rule together, he in Autumn and Lucien in Day. Perhaps together, they could ensure greater cooperation between the seasonal and solar courts.

But Eris was getting ahead of himself. For now, his sole focus had to be on keeping the babe from harm. He may not have known it then, but as little Lucien grew up, it would turn out to be the hardest mission of his life.

Chapter Text

Azriel arrived at the River House in Velaris just as the scent of roasted meat and spices wafted through the evening air. His body ached from the two-week reconnaissance mission in Rask—a wasteland of politics as treacherous as its arid landscape. The shadows clung to him like old friends, whispering secrets he'd rather not hear as he made his way up the stone steps.

The raucous laughter inside should have warmed him. Instead, it only highlighted the hollowness in his chest that had been his constant companion these past months.

"Look what the wind blew in," Cassian called out, raising a glass of amber liquid as Azriel stepped into the dining room. "We were starting to think you'd decided to set up permanent residence on the Continent."

Rhysand sat at the head of the table, Feyre beside him, her hand resting on his arm while she balanced Nyx with the other. Mor was gesturing wildly as she recounted some tale to Amren, who looked thoroughly unimpressed. Nesta sat beside Cassian, her eyes the only acknowledgment of Azriel's arrival.

But the empty chair - the one that should have held a certain brown-haired Seer - made his shadows writhe in protest.

"Az," Rhys said, "perfect timing. We've just started."

Azriel slid into his seat, noting the place setting beside him remained untouched. "Where's Elain?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral despite the way his shadows hissed with concern.

The table fell momentarily silent.

Feyre exchanged a glance with Rhys before answering. "She's gone to the Autumn Court. With Lucien."

The knife Azriel had picked up clattered against his plate. "What?"

"She left three days ago," Nesta added, studying her wine. "Lucien came to escort her himself."

Azriel's wings tightened against his back. "And you let her go? To the Autumn Court?" His voice remained calm, but the shadows darkened around him.

"She wanted to go," Feyre said carefully. "She made the decision herself."

"It's suicide," Azriel said, remembering all too well the reports he'd gathered on Beron's court. The political machinations, the cruelty that ran through that family like a disease. "That court will eat her alive."

"She's with her mate," Rhys replied, his tone measured but firm. "She could not be safer."

Azriel's jaw clenched. Her mate. The words scraped against him like a blade.

"Her mate who was cast out by his own family," Azriel countered. "Who has no standing there. Whose own father and brothers would just as soon see him dead."

"It's alright, Azriel," Feyre said, her voice gentle but firm. "Besides, Beron has formally pardoned Lucien and granted him safe passage. Elain will be protected."

"Pardoned?" Azriel's shadows writhed around his shoulders, betraying the calm he fought to maintain in his expression. "A pardon from Beron Vanserra is worth less than the parchment it's written on."

The food before him might as well have been ash. He couldn't taste it, couldn't focus on anything but the emptiness of the chair beside him. The chair where she should be sitting, her floral scent drifting around him, her soft voice occasionally drawing him into conversation when the others were too loud, too much.

His mind returned unbidden to that fateful Solstice night. The small velvet box he'd hidden in his pocket. The necklace with the delicate flower that only bloomed in the right light, just like her gifts. Just like her strength. The way his hands had trembled slightly when he'd wrapped it, imagining her face when she opened it.

But Rhys had pulled him aside. Had reminded him of the mating bond - of boundaries that shouldn't be crossed.

And now she was gone. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye.

"Az," Cassian's voice broke through his thoughts. "You haven't heard a word we've said, have you?"

Azriel looked up to find the entire table watching him. He schooled his features into careful blankness. "I was thinking about the intel I gathered in Rask."

"Of course you were," Mor said, but her eyes held a knowing sympathy that made him want to flee the room.

"It's only for a few weeks," Feyre added. "Lucien needs to make formal appearances at court to solidify his position, and Elain wanted to see more of Prythian. She mentioned something about rare flowering vines that only grow there."

Of course she had. Always seeking beauty, even in the most dangerous places.

"I should go there," Azriel said, the words out before he could stop them.

Rhys's eyebrows rose. "To what end?"

"For reconnaissance," Azriel clarified, though the excuse sounded hollow even to his own ears. "If Beron is suddenly extending pardons to exiled sons, we should know why."

"Lucien is already feeding back information, as will Eris," Rhys said. "They are better suited for this kind of observation."

Azriel's shadows coiled tightly around his scarred hands. "I should be the one to check on her."

"Az," Rhys said, his voice dropping into that tone he used when he was about to deliver an order disguised as friendly advice. "Let it be. Lucien will protect her."

The shadows whispered in Azriel's ear, hissing words of doubt and worry. He had trained himself for centuries to control them, to keep them from revealing his thoughts, but lately - ever since Elain had started spending time in his company -that control had begun to slip.

"With all due respect," Azriel said, his voice deceptively soft, "Lucien couldn't protect himself against his own family, let alone her."

Cassian set down his fork. "Brother-"

"No." Azriel stood abruptly, his wings shifting behind him. "I respect the mating bond. I've kept my distance. But sending her into that nest of vipers with only Lucien as protection is foolish."

The uncharacteristic outburst silenced the table. Even Amren looked up from her wine with interest.

"You forget," Rhys said carefully, "that Elain isn't helpless."

"Her visions come without warning or control," Azriel countered. "They leave her vulnerable."

Feyre's eyes softened with understanding. "Az, I know you care for her, but-"

"This isn't about that." The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. "This is about security. Intelligence. The Autumn Court has never been trustworthy, and now we've sent one of our own directly into their hands. Elain, of all people."

Azriel could feel Rhys's mental probe, gentle but insistent, and he slammed his shields into place. After five hundred years, some privacies remained sacred, even among brothers.

"I'll be in the training ring if anyone needs me," he said, turning to leave before anyone could see the way his shadows curled possessively around the empty chair beside him.

"Az," Rhys called after him. Azriel paused but didn't turn. "Don't do anything rash."

The Shadowsinger didn't respond as he walked out, his footsteps silent on the marble floor.

The night air hit him like a balm as he stepped outside, wings unfurling slightly to catch the breeze coming off the Sidra. He didn't head toward the training ring. Instead, he made his way to the small garden behind the River House - the one that Elain had transformed from a patch of weeds into a sanctuary of blooms and fragrance.

In the moonlight, her roses looked silver, their perfume a ghost of her presence. Azriel knelt beside a particular bush. She’d been so proud of coaxing it to life, having shown him once before… well, before his High Lord made him keep his distance.

His fingers brushed against the velvet petals, thinking of her delicate hands that had tended them. Now those hands were in the Autumn Court - that wretched place with its sharp-toothed politics and dangerous games. She'd gone with Lucien, a male she could barely look at without discomfort shadowing her features, let alone stand to be near for extended periods. Azriel had noticed how she would subtly shift away whenever Lucien entered a room, how her shoulders would tense when he addressed her directly.

And now she was surrounded not just by her unwanted mate, but by Beron, a High Lord who would undoubtedly seek to exploit her Seer abilities the moment he learned of their true extent. The thought of Elain's gifts being twisted to serve that monster's ambitions made Azriel's shadows flicker with rage.

Then there were the brothers. Four males cut from the same cruel cloth as their father, each harbouring their own deadly ambitions. He'd gathered enough intelligence over the centuries to know what they were capable of - the casual violence, the calculated cruelty.

With the possible exception of Eris.

Azriel's jaw clenched. Eris Vanserra remained an enigma, even to his shadows. The heir to the Autumn Court played his cards close, maintained a façade of cold indifference that occasionally slipped to reveal... something else. Something that suggested he wasn't entirely his father's son.

But that made him no less dangerous. Perhaps more so.

The thought of Eris in such close proximity to sweet, gentle Elain... Azriel's shadows darkened, coiling tightly around his scarred hands. He hated it. Hated knowing that the male who had once left Mor bleeding on the border might now be sharing meals with Elain, might be watching her with those calculating amber eyes, might be noting her every vulnerability.

A shadow curled around his ear, whispering suggestions. Azriel tilted his head, considering. Rhys had forbidden direct interference, but perhaps there were other ways. His shadows could travel where he could not, could slip past wards and barriers, could watch and listen without being detected.

He could send them to check on her. Discreetly, of course. Just to ensure her safety, to gather information. It wouldn't be crossing any lines - he was the spymaster of the Night Court, after all. This was his duty.

Azriel straightened, decision made. He extended his hand, palm up, and concentrated. The shadows pooled in his palm, writhing and twisting like living ink.

"Find her," he whispered.

The shadows seemed to pulse with understanding before slipping from his hand and disappearing into the night. As they vanished, Azriel felt a weight lift from his chest. It wasn't enough - it would never be enough - but it was something.

The next morning, Azriel's shadows returned, slipping through his window like smoke. They curled around him, eager to whisper what they had witnessed. He sat motionless on the edge of his bed, eyes closed, letting their observations flow into his mind.

The Autumn Court forest stretched before him through his shadows' vision - a riot of crimson and gold, sunlight dappling through the canopy. A hunting party moved through the trees, their boots crunching on fallen leaves. His shadows had found her, just as he'd commanded.

Elain rode a dapple grey horse, her back straight, her golden-brown hair braided away from her face and - Azriel's breath caught - a silver-hilted dagger strapped to her thigh. The unexpected sight sent a surge of something like pride through him. At least she wasn’t entirely helpless.

Lucien rode beside her, his metal eye gleaming as it swivelled, constantly scanning their surroundings. His hand never strayed far from his sword hilt. And at least the male was taking his protective duties seriously, though Azriel noted the careful distance Elain maintained between them.

The three other Vanserra brothers rode ahead, their copper heads catching the light. But it was Eris who commanded Azriel's attention. The heir to the Autumn Court hung back, his mount keeping pace several yards behind Elain. His amber eyes never left her, studying her with an intensity that made Azriel's shadows sing with displeasure.

Not the gaze of a male admiring beauty, though there was perhaps an element of that. No, this was the calculated assessment of a predator measuring potential - weighing value against risk.

One of them said something to her. Sevan Vanserra. The shadows hissed his name with particular distaste.

Azriel's fists clenched as the shadows relayed the exchange. The way Azriel's shadows painted a scene that made his muscles tense. Sevan Vanserra - the second youngest of Beron's brood - rode alongside Elain, leaning toward her with that perpetual smirk that seemed carved into his face. The shadows couldn't relay his exact words, but they captured his body language with perfect clarity. The casual way he invaded her space, the flash of teeth too sharp to be friendly, the predatory gleam in eyes that never quite matched his smile.

A growl built in Azriel's throat. Of all the Vanserra brothers, Sevan was perhaps the most unpredictable. Where Eris was calculating, Sevan was impulsive. Where Eris concealed, Sevan flaunted. His reputation for toying with females was well-documented in Azriel's intelligence reports - a game to him, with rules only he understood and outcomes that often left ruins in his wake.

And now he was circling Elain like a fox around a chicken coop.

Yet it wasn't only Sevan who set Azriel's shadows to hissing. Eris remained several paces behind, his expression unreadable, but his gaze never wavering from Elain's back. Those amber eyes missed nothing - not the way she adjusted her posture when uncomfortable, not the slight tightening of her fingers on the reins when Sevan leaned too close, not the small dagger she kept absently touching as if to reassure herself of its presence.

Eris watched her with the focused attention of a male cataloguing weaknesses. Or perhaps strengths. With Eris, it was impossible to tell which was more dangerous.

Azriel inhaled deeply, forcing his shoulders to relax. Rhys had commanded him to stand down, and centuries of loyalty demanded he obey, regardless of how every instinct screamed at him to fly to the Autumn Court, to insert himself between Elain and those predatory gazes. His High Lord had spoken. The mate bond took precedence. Politics took precedence.

But his shadows had always had a particular affinity for Elain. From the first day she'd entered the Night Court, still fragile from the Cauldron's transformation, they had swirled gently around her, as if drawn to the quiet light she carried. They'd never done that with anyone else, except perhaps Gwyn. Not even Mor, not even his brothers. Only Elain could coax them to dance at her fingertips without his explicit command.

And he... he had always liked her too. More than liked. The sentiment was so inadequate it was almost laughable. What he felt for Elain Archeron couldn't be contained in something as simple as ‘like’.

Azriel dismissed the shadows with a gentle gesture, watching them dissipate into the corners of his room. He would respect Rhys's command. He would maintain his distance.

But he would send his shadows again whenever he could spare them until Elain came home safe and sound. 

Chapter Text

Sybil had never imagined wearing crimson on her wedding day. In her girlhood dreams, she had pictured herself in pale blue or perhaps lavender - colours that complemented her auburn hair and brought out the warmth in her russet eyes.

She had always envisioned short sleeves, or perhaps no sleeves at all… the weather was always so temperate in the Day Court, after all, and its High Lord so handsome and-

But there was no sense in lingering on such dreams. Having been chosen as bride to the High Lord of Autumn was not a matter of choice but of honor. So she wore crimson and gold, the colors of falling leaves and dying things, and tried to ignore how they made her skin appear bloodless.

Beron Vanserra stood tall and handsome before her, his face a carefully arranged mask of dignity as he recited his vows. His fingers were warm when they clasped hers - unnaturally so, as befitted the master of fire, but they did not burn. Not back then, at least. 

"You look beautiful," he told her at their wedding feast, his voice low and polite. Not affectionate, not passionate, but polite. Sybil had thought that was enough. She had been raised to expect little more from a political marriage.

"Thank you, my lord," she had replied, lowering her eyes as she'd been taught.

"Beron," he corrected, the faintest smile touching his lips. "We are husband and wife now."

When the musicians began to play, he held out his hand to her. "Would you honour me with this dance, Lady Vanserra?"

The title still felt foreign to her ears, but she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the centre of the grand hall. The gathered nobility of the Autumn Court parted before them like leaves scattered by a gentle breeze.

"I confess I'm not much of a dancer," Sybil admitted as his hand settled at her waist.

"Then we shall be poor dancers together," Beron replied, and when she looked up, surprised, she found him smiling - not just with his mouth, but with his eyes as well. Those dark, fathomless eyes that seemed to catch the light of a thousand candles as they moved across the floor.

Sybil felt herself smiling in return, genuine and unguarded. For that moment, as they twirled among the autumn finery, she forgot about politics and alliances. She forgot about the expectations that weighed upon her shoulders. She merely existed in the circle of his arms, moving to music that seemed to match the beating of her heart.

Later, when they stole away to the gardens for a moment of respite from the celebrations, Beron plucked a fire-bloom from a nearby bush and tucked it behind her ear. "Perhaps," he said softly, his fingertips lingering against her cheek, "this marriage might be more than merely political after all."

Sybil had believed him then. Had allowed herself to hope.

That night, he had been gentle with her. Considerate, even.

His hands had moved with surprising skill, igniting sensations she hadn't known her body could feel. When he'd kissed the hollow of her throat, her breath had caught, and when he'd whispered endearments against her skin, she'd believed every word.

She had never lain with Helion, though there had been moments - stolen glances, fingertips that lingered too long when passing a goblet of wine, words with double meanings exchanged in shadowed corners. Part of her mourned that the handsome High Lord of Day had not been her first, had not introduced her to the pleasures of the marriage bed. But those were childish fantasies, she reminded herself, smoothing her hands over the crimson sheets.

Beron knew precisely how to touch her, how to make her forget her reservations. His lips traced patterns of heat across her skin, not burning but warming, like sunlight through stained glass. When he entered her, the pain had been brief, quickly replaced by waves of pleasure that had her clutching at his shoulders, her nails leaving crescent moons in his flesh.

"My lady," he'd murmured against her ear, his voice husky with desire. "My beautiful wife."

Perhaps she could learn to love him after all, Sybil thought as she lay beside him afterward, watching the play of moonlight across his sleeping face. Perhaps this marriage could become what she had always secretly hoped for - not just an alliance between courts, but a true partnership. A home.

In the days that followed, he showed her the grounds of the Forest House, introduced her to the staff, and explained her duties as Lady of the Autumn Court with patient thoroughness.

"You will adjust quickly," he assured her, when she admitted feeling overwhelmed by the responsibility. "You have a natural grace about you."

For three years, they existed in cordial partnership. Beron was often absent, attending to court business, but when present, he was unfailingly respectful. He didn't seek her company beyond what was required, but neither did he avoid her. They dined together most evenings, and he listened politely to her observations about household matters. If she felt lonely sometimes, if she yearned for something more than politeness, she reminded herself that many arranged marriages offered far less.

Then Eris was born.

Sybil would never forget the look on Beron's face when he first held their son - something had cracked in that carefully maintained façade. His eyes had shimmered with unshed tears as he cradled the infant, studying the tuft of red hair so like his own.

"He will be strong," Beron had whispered. "I can feel the fire in him already."

For the first time, he had kissed her forehead with genuine tenderness. "You have given me a worthy heir, Sybil. I am... grateful."

Those years after Eris's birth were the happiest of her marriage. Beron sought her company more frequently, lingering in her chambers to watch their son sleep.

He would sit by the hearth with her, discussing plans for Eris's education, for his future. Sometimes his hand would find hers, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that made her heart flutter.

Their bedchamber, once a place of dutiful coupling, became a sanctuary of shared passion. Beron would seek her out not just for the purpose of creating more heirs, but for the pleasure they found in each other's bodies. His touch grew bolder, more possessive, and Sybil found herself responding with equal fervor. When his lips claimed hers, she no longer had to force herself to forget another male's face, another's smile. The memories of golden skin and sunlit eyes faded against the reality of Beron's burning touch.

"You are mine," he would whisper against her skin, and Sybil would arch into him, believing it, wanting it to be true.

She was happy, she told herself. Content in her role as Lady of Autumn, as mother to the future High Lord. If occasionally she caught herself staring too long at the horizon in the direction of where the Day Court lay, she quickly turned away, busying herself with her son or her duties.

Then came Eris's fifth birthday celebration.

The Forest House was transformed for the occasion, festooned with garlands of autumn blooms and golden leaves. The air was thick with the scent of spiced wine and roasting meats, with music floating through the halls like drifting embers. Sybil had spent weeks overseeing the preparations, determined that her son's first public event would befit his status as heir.

"You've outdone yourself," Beron complimented, surveying the great hall with approval. His hand rested possessively at the small of her back as they greeted their guests.

One by one, the High Lords of Prythian arrived with their retinues, bearing gifts for the young heir. Sybil's heart hammered against her ribs as she awaited the arrival from Day, telling herself it was merely the stress of hosting such an important event.

When Helion Spell-Cleaver finally entered the hall, the sunlight seemed to follow him, gilding his golden-brown skin and catching in the metallic accents of his formal attire. His smile was just as she remembered - warm and inviting, with a hint of mischief that made her palms sweat beneath her gloves.

"High Lord," she greeted him with a formal curtsy, eyes carefully lowered.

"Lady Vanserra," Helion replied, his voice like honey and smoke. "Motherhood becomes you."

She dared to meet his gaze then, and the look in his eyes - appreciative, regretful, knowing - made her breath catch. Beside her, she felt Beron stiffen.

"How kind of you to say," she managed, stepping back into the shadow of her husband.

Throughout the evening, she felt Helion's eyes following her.

And even worse, she felt her own eyes betraying her, seeking him out in the crowded hall when Beron's attention was elsewhere.

When the banquet began, she found herself seated with Eris on her lap, Beron on her right, and Helion directly across from her. The High Lord of Day entertained the table with witty anecdotes, each tale punctuated by that rich, melodic laugh she had once found so entrancing. Still found entrancing, if she was honest with herself.

"And what do you think, Lady Vanserra?" Helion asked, his golden eyes finding hers across the table. "Surely you have an opinion on the matter?"

She had not been following the conversation, too distracted by the way the candlelight played across his features. "I... forgive me, I was attending to Eris."

"Ah, of course." Helion's smile softened as he looked at the child. "He has your eyes, my lady. A fortunate boy indeed."

Beron's hand closed over hers beneath the table, his fingers uncomfortably hot against her skin. "My son takes after his father in all ways that matter," he said, his voice deceptively calm.

The tension at the table was palpable, the air between the two High Lords crackling with unspoken animosity. Sybil busied herself with helping Eris with his food, desperately trying to ease the moment.

Later, as the guests mingled and Eris was taken by his nurse for a brief rest before the gift-giving ceremony, Sybil found herself momentarily alone near the terrace doors. She stepped outside, needing a breath of cool air to calm her nerves.

"He doesn't appreciate what he has."

She whirled to find Helion leaning against the balustrade, his golden power subtly bent around them to ensure privacy.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered, glancing back toward the hall. "If Beron-"

"If Beron what?" Helion moved closer, close enough that she could smell the citrus and sandalwood scent of him. "If Beron knew that I still think of you? That I wonder what might have been?"

"Please," she begged, "don't say such things."

His fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light. "Are you happy, Sybil? Does he make you happy?"

Before she could answer, a shadow fell across them. Helion's magic dissipated like morning mist as Beron stepped onto the terrace, his face a mask of cold fury.

"My lord," Sybil said quickly, stepping away from Helion. "We were just-"

"Inside," Beron ordered, his voice a low growl. "Now."

She obeyed, heart racing as she hurried past him into the hall. Behind her, she heard Beron murmur something to Helion that made the High Lord of Day's expression harden before he turned and walked away.

The remainder of the celebration passed in a blur of forced smiles and hollow laughter. Sybil performed her duties as hostess mechanically, her mind racing with fear at what would come when the last guest departed. Eris sensed her distress, growing fussy and clinging to her skirts, which only heightened her anxiety.

When Helion finally took his leave, he bowed formally over her hand, his fingers pressing something small and hard into her palm. She closed her fist around it instinctively, not daring to look.

"Until we meet again, Lady Vanserra," he said, his golden eyes holding hers for a heartbeat too long.

The moment the guest disappeared from the main hall, Beron gripped her elbow and steered her toward their private chambers. His fingers burned through the fabric of her gown, not enough to sear but enough to warn.

"Husband, please," she began as he closed the door behind them. "It was nothing-"

"Do not lie to me," Beron hissed, his handsome face contorted with rage. "I saw the way you looked at him. I saw him touch you."

"He merely greeted me as is proper between-"

"Proper?" Beron laughed, a harsh sound like crackling flames. "There is nothing proper about the way that male covets what belongs to me."

Sybil flinched at the possessive tone. "I am your wife," she said quietly. "I have been faithful to you in every way."

"In body, perhaps." Beron stepped closer, heat radiating from him in waves that made the air shimmer. "But where do your thoughts wander when I'm inside you, Sybil? Do you imagine it's his hands on your skin? His name you wish to cry out?"

"No," she whispered, backing away until she felt the edge of their bed against her legs. "Beron, I swear to you-"

"Open your hand."

She froze, suddenly aware of the small object still clutched in her palm. "Please-"

"Open it!" he roared, his power flaring around him in a corona of amber flame.

Slowly, trembling, she uncurled her fingers. In her palm lay a tiny golden sun, no larger than her thumbnail - a Day Court token, the kind exchanged between lovers as a promise of fidelity.

Beron stared at it, then at her, his eyes darkening to the color of dried blood. "So," he said, his voice eerily calm. "You've made me a fool in my own court."

"No, I didn't know he would-"

The crack of his palm against her cheek silenced her. The force of the blow sent her sprawling across the bed, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth as her teeth cut into her inner cheek. For a moment, the world spun, her vision blurring with unshed tears. The golden token skittered across the floor, coming to rest beneath a chair.

"Beron," she gasped, raising a hand to her stinging cheek. "Please-"

But the High Lord of Autumn was already stalking toward her, his power crackling around him like a living thing. His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back until she was forced to meet his gaze.

"You are mine," he growled, his breath hot against her face. "My wife. The mother of my heir. Not his. Never his."

"I know," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I have never forgotten my duty to you, to this court."

"Duty?" His laugh was bitter as he released her hair, only to grasp her chin in a bruising grip. "Is that all this is to you? A duty to be endured?"

She could see the hurt beneath his rage, the insecurity that fueled his violence. It shocked her, this glimpse of vulnerability in a male she had always thought incapable of such feelings.

"No," she said softly. "Not just duty. You are my husband. The father of my child."

"But not the one you want." His voice was dangerously quiet now, his eyes searching hers for the truth she couldn't quite hide.

Sybil swallowed hard. "I chose you," she said finally. "I stand with you. That is what matters."

For a long moment, Beron stared at her, the silence broken only by the crackle of his power and her shallow breathing. Then, without warning, his mouth crashed down on hers, the kiss brutal and possessive. His hands tore at her gown, the fabric ripping beneath his fingers.

"Then prove it," he demanded against her lips. "Prove that you are mine."

That night, there was no gentleness in their coupling, no tender words or careful touches. Beron claimed her with a desperate ferocity that left bruises on her pale skin, marks that would linger for days as reminders of her transgression. And yet, when he finally collapsed beside her, his breathing ragged, his hand sought hers in the darkness.

"Don't make me hurt you again," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion she couldn't name. "I don't want to be that male."

Sybil turned her face away, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. The golden token still lay beneath the chair, a reminder of roads not taken, of dreams abandoned. In the morning, she would dispose of it, this dangerous memento of what could never be.

For now, though, she simply lay beside her husband, feeling the weight of her choices settle around her like chains. She had made her vows. She had borne his son. This was her life now, for better or for worse.

From that night forward, Sybil learned to navigate her marriage like a ship through treacherous waters. She measured her words carefully, kept her eyes appropriately lowered when other High Lords visited, and devoted herself to being exactly what Beron wanted: the perfect Lady of Autumn, loyal and unquestioning.

"You look tired, my lord," she would murmur when he returned from court business, already pouring his favourite spiced wine. "Let me ease your burdens."

She found that gentleness often soothed him when his temper flared. A soft touch to his arm, a willing smile when he sought her bed, a careful agreement with his opinions - these small surrenders purchased moments of peace.

When his hand occasionally raised in anger, she no longer flinched or argued, but accepted the punishment as the price of her earlier indiscretion. The bruises faded, but the lesson remained: Beron would tolerate no division of her heart.

In the quiet moments, when Beron slept beside her, Sybil sometimes allowed herself to remember golden eyes and a warming laugh. But such memories were dangerous luxuries, quickly banished when morning came.

Six months after Eris's birthday celebration, Sybil noticed the familiar symptoms - the tenderness in her breasts, the subtle changes in her scent that even she could detect. When the court healer confirmed her suspicion, she waited until dinner to share the news with Beron.

"A child?" His eyes widened, the wine goblet pausing halfway to his lips. "You're certain?"

"Yes, my lord." She lowered her gaze modestly. "The healer believes I am nearly two months along."

Beron set down his goblet and rose from his chair, coming around the table to stand before her. For a terrible moment, Sybil feared he might question the child's paternity - might count back the months to Eris's celebration, to Helion's visit. But then his hand, warm and gentle, settled on her still-flat abdomen.

"Another son," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I can feel it."

Relief washed through her. "I pray to the Mother it will be so."

Beron's lips curved into a smile as he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "You please me, wife."

Those three words became her anchor in the months that followed. Beron's temper cooled as her belly swelled, his possessiveness taking on a protective edge rather than a punishing one. He ordered the finest foods brought to their table, imported rare teas said to strengthen the growing child, and even began to include her in some court discussions - asking her opinions on matters of protocol and ceremony.

"The Lady has a keen eye for such things," he would tell his advisors, his hand resting proprietarily on her shoulder.

When the birth pains came, Beron paced outside her chambers like a caged animal, growling at any servant who dared disturb him with court matters. For three days and nights, Sybil labored, her screams echoing through the Forest House until finally, as dawn broke on the fourth day, another son was born.

"Strong lungs," the midwife commented, cleaning the wailing infant before placing him in Sybil's trembling arms. "A fighter, this one."

When Beron was finally permitted to enter, his eyes fixed not on her exhausted face but on the bundle in her arms. With reverent hands, he took the child from her, counting fingers and toes before examining the tuft of russet hair so like his own.

"Vale," he declared, naming their second son without consulting her. "He will be called Vale."

Sybil smiled weakly, too drained to argue even if she had wished to. "A fine name, my lord."

Beron placed the infant back in her arms and, to her surprise, sat on the edge of the bed beside her. His fingers brushed a strand of sweat-dampened hair from her forehead with unexpected tenderness.

"You have done well," he said, his voice low and pleased. "Two sons to strengthen the Autumn Court. I am pleased, wife."

Those words, more than any declaration of love, told Sybil what she needed to know. She had found the path to Beron's good nature - through sons, through heirs, through the continuation of his bloodline. It was not the romance she had once dreamed of, but it was safety. Security. A way to navigate the dangerous waters of her marriage.

From that point on, Sybil resigned herself to this strategy - appealing to Beron's pride in his growing family, his satisfaction in her fertility. She devoted herself to motherhood, raising Eris to be strong and clever like his father, nurturing baby Vale with all the love she dared not show elsewhere.

When Beron's temper flared, she would place a protective hand over her womb and murmur, "Think of the children, my lord," and watch as he mastered himself, unwilling to risk any harm to his legacy.

Three years after Vale’s birth, she felt the familiar symptoms once more. This time, she waited until she was certain, until her dresses needed subtle adjustment, before sharing the news.

Dain was born. Then Calix some years later. It was another decade before the twins arrived.

Sybil busied herself with raising her young sons in the hope that when they finally came to take wives of their own, they would do so with kinder words and softer hands than their father.

Five hundred years later, she sat at her dressing table, staring at her reflection. The woman who gazed back at her was still beautiful - immortality had preserved her porcelain skin and the rich auburn of her hair - but her eyes had changed. Where once they had sparkled with hope and possibility, now they were flat, dull with resignation.

"My lady," her handmaiden said softly from the doorway. "The High Lord requests your presence at dinner tonight."

Requests. As if she had a choice. As if Beron's requests were not commands, his suggestions not threats.

"Tell him I shall be down shortly," Sybil replied, reaching for her crimson dress - always crimson now, always his colors, never her own. The fire-bloom he had once placed in her hair had burned her skin by morning, leaving a scar so faint only she knew it existed.

She wondered sometimes when exactly his smiles had stopped reaching his eyes, when the warmth in his hands had turned to burning, when his polite courtesies had twisted into cruelties. Perhaps it had been gradual, like the changing of seasons - so slow she hadn't noticed until suddenly she was surrounded by winter.

It would have been one thing had his rage been solely targeted at her. But her husband had no issue raising a hand against his own children, either and it was that which hardened her heart against him permanently.

Her sons had grown in the crucible of Beron's temper, each developing their own methods of survival. Eris learned to mirror his father's cruelty, a shield of callousness protecting whatever gentleness might have once existed in him. Vale became silent and watchful, fading into shadows when Beron's rage flared. Dain cultivated perfect obedience, while Calix sought escape in the army. The twins, always together, created their own world where no one else was permitted.

And Lucien... her bright, passionate Lucien, with eyes that sometimes caught the light in a way that made her heart stop with terror and recognition. Lucien, born of a true union that resulted from that fateful day which broke her resolve.

Sybil's hands trembled as she fastened the ruby necklace around her throat, the weight of it like a collar. She could still feel the phantom sting of the lash against her back, though she had not been the one whipped that terrible day.

It had been the worst of Beron's rages. Eris, barely into adulthood, had stepped between them when Beron raised his hand to strike her for some imagined slight at dinner. Her eldest son, usually so careful to mirror his father's cruelty in public, had shown a momentary weakness - had revealed that he cared for his mother still.

"Enough," Eris had said, his voice low but firm as he caught his father's wrist. "She has done nothing to deserve this."

The silence that followed had been deafening. Beron's eyes had widened, not with contrition but with a terrible, calculating rage. He'd smiled then - a smile that chilled Sybil's blood more than any shout could have.

"Take him to the whipping post," Beron had ordered his guards, his voice casual as he straightened his sleeve. "And bring Lady Vanserra to watch."

"No!" she had pleaded, falling to her knees before him. "Punish me instead. Please, my lord-"

"Oh, I am punishing you," Beron had replied, lifting her chin with one burning finger. "In the only way that truly matters."

They had dragged Eris to the courtyard, stripping him to the waist despite the autumn chill. The guards had forced Sybil into a chair directly before the post, close enough that she would feel the spray of her son's blood when the lash bit into his flesh.

"Count them," Beron had instructed her, handing the whip to his captain. "Twenty lashes. If you close your eyes or look away, we begin again."

Eris had not screamed until the seventh lash. By the fifteenth, his back was a ruin of shredded flesh and exposed bone. By the twentieth, he had mercifully lost consciousness, hanging limp from the chains that bound his wrists to the post.

"Let this be a lesson," Beron had whispered in her ear as the guards cut Eris down. "Cross me again, and next time I won't stop at twenty."

That night, as she tended to her son's wounds with hands that would not stop shaking, something inside Sybil had finally, irrevocably broken. The thin thread of loyalty that had bound her to her husband - the hope that somewhere beneath his cruelty remained the male who had once tucked fire-blooms behind her ear - snapped like a dry twig underfoot.

Three days later, when Eris could finally speak again, she made a decision. The broken remains of her heart cried out for solace, for a reminder that not all touches were meant to bruise, that not all words were designed to cut.

With trembling hands and a racing heart, Sybil penned a letter - carefully coded, addressed to no one, sealed with plain wax rather than her signet. She gave it to a servant she had known since childhood, a woman whose loyalty lay with Sybil rather than her lord.

"Take this to the border of the Day Court," she whispered, pressing a small pouch of gold into the woman's palm. "Give it only to a golden-eyed messenger."

Three agonising days passed before a response came - not a letter, but a single golden feather wrapped in silk, delivered by the same servant with knowing eyes and a sympathetic smile. The message was clear: he would come.

The abandoned temple of the Mother lay deep in the forest that divided their territories - ancient, forgotten by most, sacred ground where even High Lords dared not spill blood. Sybil told Beron she wished to make offerings for Eris's recovery, a pious lie he accepted without question, perhaps grateful for her apparent submission.

Her heart hammered against her ribs as she approached the crumbling stone edifice, moss-covered and beautiful in its decay. Autumn leaves crunched beneath her feet, the sound deafening in the stillness of the sacred grove.

"I wasn't sure you would come."

Helion's voice, warm as summer wine, made her freeze in her tracks. He stepped from the shadows of a broken column, golden light spilling from his skin like he couldn't quite contain his power in her presence.

"I shouldn't have," she whispered, but her feet carried her forward anyway, drawn to his warmth like a flower to the sun.

"What has he done to you?" Helion's eyes darkened as he took in the fading bruise at her temple, the careful way she held herself to avoid aggravating healing ribs.

"Not to me," she said, voice breaking. "To Eris. He-" The words caught in her throat, trapped by years of forced silence.

Helion closed the distance between them, his hands hovering near her arms without touching, awaiting permission. "Tell me," he urged gently.

The story poured from her then - the years of calculated cruelty, the punishments disguised as discipline, the invisible chains that bound her to a male who saw her as property rather than partner. As she spoke, Helion's expression hardened, golden light flickering beneath his skin like banked flames.

"Come with me," he said when she finished, his voice low and urgent. "Today. Now. I can protect you, Sybil. You and your sons."

She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "He would never stop hunting us. And my sons... they’re his heirs. They belong to him.”

"But you need not," Helion whispered, his hand finally, gently, cupping her cheek.

The implication hung in the air between them, unspoken but undeniable. Sybil closed her eyes, leaning into his touch despite herself. His skin was warm - not burning like Beron's, but soothing, like sunlight on a winter's day.

"I can't," she whispered. But even as the words left her lips, she felt herself swaying toward him, her body betraying the longing she had suppressed for centuries.

Helion's thumb brushed across her lower lip, the touch sending sparks dancing along her skin. "Tell me to leave," he murmured, "and I will go."

Sybil opened her eyes, meeting his golden gaze. In his face, she saw everything Beron was not - compassion where her husband showed only cruelty, patience where Beron demanded immediate obedience, desire tempered by genuine care rather than mere possession.

"Stay," she whispered, the single word falling from her lips like a prayer.

His kiss was gentle at first, reverent, as if she might shatter beneath his touch. When she pressed closer, fingers tangling in his dark hair, his restraint fractured. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, carrying her deeper into the temple where autumn sunlight spilled through the broken roof to pool on the stone floor.

There, among the ruins of ancient worship, Sybil gave herself to Helion - not out of duty or fear, but from a desperate, aching need to be touched with kindness, to be seen for herself rather than as an extension of her husband's will.

Helion worshipped her body with his hands and mouth, erasing the memory of Beron's bruising grip with feather-light caresses that left her gasping. When he finally joined their bodies, the pleasure that cascaded through her was so intense that tears spilled from her eyes.

"Beautiful," he murmured against her throat as they moved together. "So beautiful, my Sybil."

Afterward, cradled in his arms as the afternoon light faded to dusk, Sybil felt something she hadn't experienced in centuries - peace. The knowledge that she would have to return to the Forest House, to Beron's watchful gaze and calculated cruelties, seemed distant and unreal in the circle of Helion's embrace.

"This cannot be the last time," Helion said softly, his fingers tracing patterns on her bare shoulder. "I cannot walk away from you again."

Sybil raised herself on one elbow, looking down at his beloved face. "It would be madness to continue," she whispered, even as her heart rebelled against her own words.

"Perhaps," he agreed, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. "But they say madness and love often walk hand in hand."

That first meeting became many. For years, they stole moments together in the forgotten temple, their sanctuary from the world. Sybil would make excuses to visit the border villages, to pray at the old shrines, to gather rare herbs that grew only in that liminal space between their courts. Beron, consumed with court politics and raising sons to be warriors, rarely questioned her absences.

In Helion's arms, Sybil found herself again - not just the pleasure of the flesh, though that was intoxicating enough, but the freedom to speak her mind, to laugh without restraint, to exist without constant vigilance. Helion listened when she spoke of her fears for her sons, offered counsel without demanding obedience, touched her with reverence rather than ownership.

"What if we simply never returned?" he would sometimes whisper, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her bare skin as they lay entwined on a bed of cloaks spread across the temple floor. "We could go beyond Prythian, find a place where Beron's reach cannot extend."

And oh, how tempting it was to imagine - a life of sunlight and laughter, of waking each morning to Helion's smile rather than Beron's cold scrutiny. But reality always intruded, harsh and unyielding.

"My sons," she would remind him gently. "I cannot abandon them to him."

Helion would sigh, pressing his forehead to hers. "Then we steal them away too. All of them."

But they both knew it was impossible. Beron would tear Prythian apart to reclaim his heirs. The best they could hope for was these stolen moments, these precious hours carved from lives that belonged to others.

For nearly a decade, they maintained their secret. Their meetings were carefully planned, their messages coded in ways only they understood. When they couldn't meet, Helion would send her small tokens - a pressed flower, a scrap of poetry, once even a tiny golden songbird that sang when touched, its melody known only in the Day Court.

Sybil kept these treasures hidden in a false compartment beneath her dressing table, taking them out only in the dead of night when Beron was away and her ladies dismissed. They were tangible reminders that somewhere, someone saw her - truly saw her - and loved what he found.

Then came the day when her courses failed to arrive.

At first, Sybil dismissed it as the irregularity that sometimes came with age, even for immortals. But when the subtle changes in her body became undeniable—the tenderness in her breasts, the faint nausea in the mornings, the subtle shift in her scent that she prayed others wouldn't notice - she could no longer ignore the truth.

She was with child. Helion's child.

The realisation struck her with equal parts joy and terror. A child born of love, not duty.

Fear seized her heart as the full implications became clear. If Beron discovered her infidelity - if he saw the child and recognised its true parentage - his rage would know no bounds. Not only would her life be forfeit, but the innocent child's as well. Perhaps even her other sons would suffer for her transgression.

With trembling hands, Sybil penned one final letter to Helion. No tokens, no poetry, no coded messages of love - just the stark truth and her decision.

We cannot meet again. Forgive me, my love.

She sent it with her most trusted servant, instructing the woman to burn it after Helion read its contents. Then, with a heart that felt like lead in her chest, Sybil did what she must to protect her unborn child.

That night, when Beron returned from a border skirmish, she greeted him in her finest gown, her hair loose around her shoulders the way he once preferred. She poured his wine herself, watching as he drank deeply before setting down the goblet with a questioning look.

"What's the occasion?" he asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Sybil moved to stand before him, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Must there be an occasion for a wife to welcome her husband home?"

His laugh was short, disbelieving. "There usually is with you."

Swallowing her revulsion, Sybil reached for him, her fingers lightly tracing the embroidery on his tunic. "I've missed you," she lied, forcing warmth into her voice. "The bed feels empty without you."

Beron caught her wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise as he searched her face for deception. "What game are you playing, wife?"

"No game," she whispered, stepping closer until her body brushed against his. "Only a desire to please my lord."

Something shifted in his expression - suspicion giving way to a darker hunger. It had been years since she had initiated intimacy between them, years since she had been anything but passively compliant in his bed.

"Please me, then," he growled, releasing her wrist to tangle his fingers in her hair.

Sybil closed her eyes as his mouth claimed hers, brutal and possessive. She forced herself to respond with feigned passion, to arch against him as if craving his touch. When he tore at her gown, she helped him remove it, guiding his hands to her body with a deliberateness that made his breathing quicken.

"What has gotten into you?" he murmured against her throat, his voice rough with desire.

Necessity, she thought grimly. Survival.

But aloud, she only whispered, "I am yours, my lord. I have always been yours.”

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she forced herself to repeat it as Beron claimed her body. She closed her eyes and endured his touch, his kisses, his possession - all to protect the innocent life growing within her. If he believed the child was his, the baby would be safe. This single night of surrender would buy her unborn child a future.

When it was over, Beron lay beside her, satisfaction evident in his relaxed posture. His fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder, almost tender in their movement.

"Perhaps I should leave court more often," he murmured, "if this is the welcome I receive upon return."

Sybil smiled faintly in the darkness, relief washing through her that her gambit had worked. "Perhaps you should, my lord."

In the weeks that followed, she made a show of being the dutiful wife - attending to Beron's needs, anticipating his desires, playing the role of the contented Lady of Autumn. When she finally announced her pregnancy, his pleasure was evident in the rare smile that touched his lips.

"Another son," he declared, placing a possessive hand on her still-flat abdomen.

Sybil lowered her eyes, hiding the pain that flashed through them. "As you say, my lord."

Each day that passed was both a victory and a torment. Her child grew strong within her, but so did her grief at what she had sacrificed. No more stolen afternoons in the abandoned temple, no more whispered endearments in Helion's rich voice, no more feeling truly seen and cherished. She had traded her happiness for her child's safety, and though she knew she would make the same choice a thousand times over, the loss cut deep.

At night, when Beron slept beside her, Sybil would place her hands on her swelling belly and silently promise her unborn child that they would know love - true love, not the twisted version Beron offered. She would find a way to protect this child, to nurture whatever spark of Day Court power might manifest in them.

The months passed in a haze of morning sickness and careful pretence. Sybil avoided court gatherings where she might encounter Helion, pleading the fatigue of pregnancy. She burned the few remaining tokens he had given her, save one - the tiny golden songbird, which she kept hidden in a place even Beron would never think to look.

Sometimes, in her weakest moments, she would hold it in her palm and listen to its sweet melody, allowing herself to remember, just for a moment, what it felt like to be loved rather than owned.

When her labor pains began, earlier than expected, fear gripped her heart. What if the child resembled Helion too strongly? What if Beron took one look at the baby and knew? She sent her most trusted handmaiden with a message for Beron, urging him to attend to pressing court business that she knew would keep him occupied for hours.

Alone but for the midwife and her most trusted ladies, Sybil brought her seventh son into the world with gritted teeth and desperate prayers. When the infant was finally placed in her arms, still damp and wailing, she held her breath as she examined him.

Russet eyes - like hers. Auburn hair - again, shared by both parents. No obvious signs of Day Court heritage, aside from his slightly golden skin, to betray his true paternity. Relief washed through her, so profound she nearly wept.

"Lucien," she whispered, pressing a kiss to her son's forehead. “My Lucien.”

As Lucien grew, Sybil watched him with a mixture of pride and trepidation. He had her quick mind and Helion's boundless curiosity, though thankfully these traits could be explained away as her influence. His russet eyes sometimes caught the light in a way that made her heart stop with fear, a golden glint that hinted at his true heritage. But Beron, thankfully, never seemed to notice.

Of all her sons, Lucien was the one who most reminded her of what she had sacrificed - and why the sacrifice had been necessary. In his gentle nature and quick wit, she saw echoes of Helion. In his defiance of Beron's cruelty, she recognized her own suppressed rebellion.

The years passed, and Sybil guarded her secret with vigilance. She never returned to the abandoned temple, never sent another message to Helion. The wound of their separation scarred over but never truly healed. Sometimes, she would catch herself wondering if he ever thought of her, if he ever suspected the truth about Lucien.

But such thoughts were dangerous luxuries she could ill afford. Her priority had to be protecting her son from Beron's suspicion, ensuring that Lucien grew up safely within the Autumn Court.

When Lucien fell in love with Jesminda, Sybil had recognised the same reckless devotion that had once led her to risk everything for stolen moments with Helion. She had tried to warn him, to protect him from Beron's wrath, but her son had his father's stubbornness - both his fathers' stubbornness.

The day Beron executed Jesminda and Lucien fled to Spring, a part of Sybil died too. She had failed to protect him from Beron's cruelty, just as she had failed to give him the father he deserved.

And now, it had been years since she had seen her youngest boy properly, save for brief glimpses Under the Mountain.

A soft knock at her chamber door pulled Sybil from her reverie. She expected her handmaiden returning to help with her hair, but instead found Eris standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Mother," he said, the single word formal and distant. "May I speak with you?"

Sybil gestured for him to enter, studying her eldest son as he closed the door behind him. Of all her children, Eris most resembled Beron - the same hair, the same angular features, the same calculating gaze. But in private moments like this, she glimpsed the boy he had once been.

"I have news. About Lucien." Eris said, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he glanced at the door to ensure their privacy. 

Sybil's heart seized in her chest. Her hands, which had been idly arranging the bottles on her vanity, froze mid-motion. She forced herself to breathe, to maintain the careful composure she had perfected over centuries.

"What news?" she asked, proud of how steady her voice remained despite the fear coursing through her veins. Had something happened to her youngest son? Had Beron finally found a way to reach him, even under the protection of the Night Court?

Eris's expression softened, just slightly, but enough that she recognised it as genuine. "Good news, Mother. I've convinced Father to pardon him."

For a moment, the words didn't register. They seemed too impossible, too miraculous to be true. "A… pardon?"

"The paperwork is being drawn up as we speak," Eris continued, moving deeper into the room. "Father has agreed to formally rescind his exile and restore Lucien's status as a son of the Autumn Court."

Sybil's legs threatened to buckle beneath her. She gripped the edge of her dressing table, steadying herself as the implications washed over her. "How?" she breathed. "Your father has sworn for decades that Lucien would never set foot in Autumn again without facing execution."

A ghost of a smile touched Eris's lips. "I can be persuasive when necessary." He paused, then added with careful neutrality, "I may have suggested that having a son with connections to both the Spring and Night Courts could prove advantageous in the current political climate."

Sybil studied her eldest son's face, searching for any sign of deception or hidden motive. Eris had learned to play Beron's games too well; sometimes she barely recognised the boy who had once stood between her and his father's wrath.

"And Beron agreed to this?" she asked, still disbelieving.

"Not easily," Eris admitted. "But I reminded him that with tension brewing between courts, having a direct line to Rhysand's inner circle could prove invaluable." He lowered his voice further. "And I might have implied that we could use Lucien's return to gauge the Night Court's true intentions."

A cold weight settled in Sybil's stomach. "You're using him as a pawn."

"I'm keeping him alive," Eris countered, a flash of something like hurt crossing his features. "Would you prefer he remain exiled forever? Never able to return to his home, to see his mother?"

The accusation stung, more so because Sybil couldn't deny the selfish joy that bubbled beneath her fear. To see Lucien again, to hold her youngest son, to speak with him freely, without the constant fear of Beron's retribution hanging over both their heads.

"Of course I want him home," she whispered, tears threatening to spill. "More than anything."

Eris nodded, a flicker of understanding passing between them. For all his calculated cruelty, for all the ways he had molded himself after Beron to survive, Eris had never lost his connection to her entirely.

"There's more," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "The invitation has been extended to his mate as well."

Sybil blinked, momentarily confused. "His mate?"

"The Archeron girl. The Seer." Eris studied her face carefully.

"Yes, of course. His mate." The words felt strange on her tongue. Her baby boy, her youngest son, bound to another by the most sacred of Fae bonds. And not just any female, but one of the famous Archeron sisters who had helped save their world from Hybern.

"It's a complicated situation," Eris continued. "From what I understand, the mating bond has not been formally accepted. She remains in the Night Court while Lucien has been spending time in the mortal lands." A pause. "But I thought it prudent to include her in the invitation. To show goodwill."

Sybil's mind raced, trying to process this unexpected news. Lucien had found his mate - a gift from the Cauldron itself. And yet, from Eris's careful phrasing, it seemed the bond remained unclaimed. Her heart ached for her son, for whatever complications kept him from his happiness.

"Does she know?" Sybil asked quietly. "About the pardon?"

"The message was sent to him this morning," Eris confirmed. "I specified that guest quarters would be prepared for their arrival, away from Father's immediate presence."

Sybil stared at her eldest son, truly seeing him for perhaps the first time in centuries. Behind the mask of cold calculation, behind the carefully constructed facade that had kept him alive in Beron's court, she glimpsed something she had feared long extinguished: compassion.

"Why are you doing this, Eris?" she asked softly.

For a moment, he seemed about to offer another political justification, another calculated explanation. Then his shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly.

"Because he is my brother," Eris said simply. "And because you have mourned his absence long enough."

Tears spilled down Sybil's cheeks before she could stop them. In a rare display of vulnerability, she reached for her eldest son's hand, squeezing it gently. "Thank you."

Eris allowed the contact for a brief moment before withdrawing, his customary mask of detachment sliding back into place. "Don't thank me yet. Father has agreed to the pardon, but that doesn't guarantee his good behaviour."

Eris moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. "I should warn you... Father's interest isn't entirely selfless." His voice dropped lower still. "It's the girl's power that interests him."

Sybil felt a chill run down her spine. "Her power?"

"Her gift is... unusual. Powerful. Father has been collecting reports about her visions for some time now." Eris's expression darkened. "He believes such an ability could be of particular use to the Autumn Court."

Sybil's fingers curled into fists in her lap. "You mean exploitation."

"I mean whatever Father intends," Eris corrected carefully. "But yes, her power will be coveted here. Not just by Father. I’m sure my brothers will have something to say about it, too."

Cold dread pooled in Sybil's stomach. She knew all too well what happened to those whose gifts drew Beron's attention. The calculating hunger that would enter his eyes, the way he would circle like a predator assessing the most efficient way to claim his prey.

"Does Lucien know this?" she asked, rising from her seat.

"I've hinted at caution in my message, but I couldn't be explicit." Eris's mouth tightened. "She should be warned before she steps foot in the Forest House."

Sybil moved to the window, gazing out at the autumn landscape - the crimson and gold leaves that had once seemed so beautiful to her, before they became the colours of her prison. "If Beron wants her power..."

"He'll find a way to control it," Eris finished grimly. "Through Lucien, if necessary."

The implication hung heavy between them. Beron would use Lucien as leverage against the girl - against Elain - forcing her compliance through threats to her mate.

"We cannot allow him to harm her," Sybil said, resolve hardening within her. For centuries, she had bent to Beron's will, had acquiesced to his demands to protect her children. But this - this would be asking too much. She would not stand by while Beron twisted her son's sacred bond into another tool for his ambitions.

"What do you propose?" Eris asked, a careful neutrality in his voice that told her he was testing her resolve.

Sybil turned to face her eldest, a plan already forming in her mind. "We must ensure that Elain understands the danger before she arrives. That she comes prepared." She hesitated, then added, "And we must find a way to shield her from Beron's influence."

Eris was silent for a long moment, and when Sybil turned to look at him, she found him studying her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Pride, perhaps? Or wariness at this sudden display of backbone from a female who had spent centuries in careful submission.

"I cannot guarantee anything, Mother," Eris finally said, his voice low and measured. "But I will do my best to ensure Lucien is positioned to protect her."

"How?" Sybil pressed, taking a step toward him. "Your father will never allow Lucien any real authority here, not after his exile."

"No," Eris agreed, “but there are other ways.” Eris's lips curved in a cold smile. "And I can be very persuasive about how useful Lucien's connections to the Night Court could be for gathering intelligence."

Sybil studied her eldest son, seeing the cunning strategist he had become. How much had it cost him, she wondered, to survive all these centuries under Beron's thumb? To learn to play these deadly games so well?

"And if Beron refuses?" she asked quietly.

"Then we find another way." Eris straightened his already impeccable jacket. "But I suggest we focus on one battle at a time, Mother. First, let us get Lucien and his mate safely into the court."

Sybil nodded slowly, her mind already racing ahead.

"When will they arrive?" she asked.

"Three days, if they accept the invitation." Eris moved toward the door. “I’ve assigned guards I personally trust to their security. I’ve only met the female once in the Hewn City - she seems the quiet sort, unlikely to draw too much attention to herself.”

Sybil's mind raced with possibilities. Three days. Just three days to prepare for a reunion she had both longed for and dreaded for decades. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned back to her mirror, studying her reflection with new eyes. Would Lucien see the changes in her? The new lines of worry that even immortality couldn't erase, the careful blankness she had cultivated to survive?

"Will you tell him?" Eris asked quietly from the doorway.

She didn't need to ask what he meant. The question that had haunted her for centuries: would she tell Lucien the truth about his parentage?

"No," she whispered, the word falling heavy between them. "Not now. Perhaps not ever."

Eris nodded, unsurprised. "A wise decision. Father would-"

"This isn't about your father," Sybil interrupted, a rare flash of steel in her voice. "This is about Lucien. He has suffered enough without adding this burden."

For a moment, something like respect flickered in Eris's eyes. "As you wish, Mother." He hesitated. "I should go. Father will be expecting me for the council meeting."

"Of course," Sybil murmured, turning back to her dressing table. "Thank you, Eris. For telling me about Lucien."

When the door closed behind him, Sybil allowed herself a moment of pure, undiluted joy. Her son was coming home. Her Lucien, with his quick wit and kind heart, would walk these halls again. She would hear his laughter, see his smile, perhaps even embrace him if Beron's watchful eyes weren't upon them.

But the joy curdled quickly into dread. Beron would never have agreed to this pardon without ulterior motives. If he sought to use Elain's power, to exploit the mating bond between her and Lucien...

Sybil's fingers closed around a delicate glass bottle on her vanity, gripping it so tightly she feared it might shatter. She had failed to protect Lucien once before, had watched helplessly as Beron destroyed his happiness with Jesminda. She would not fail him again.

This time would be different. This time, she would find her courage.

She had buried that part of herself for so long, had become the obedient, submissive Lady of Autumn that Beron demanded. But perhaps a spark of that younger Sybil remained - the female who had once risked everything for love.

For Lucien, for his mate, she would find that spark again.

Chapter Text

The first time Sevan Vanserra saw her, she was dressing down a steward in the Forest House.

Not shouting. Not flustered. Just eviscerating the male with clipped words and narrowed eyes, her hands gloved in burgundy leather.

He leaned against the doorframe, lazy grin in place. “You know, if you keep scaring my father’s staff like that, he might start to like you.”

Lady Sienna didn’t turn. “That would be unfortunate.”

“Oh?”

“I rather enjoy being disliked.”

Sevan arched a brow. “A masochist. Gods, how refreshing.”

She finally glanced over her shoulder, taking him in with one slow, deliberate sweep. “And you must be Sevan Vanserra.”

He dipped his head. “Guilty.”

"I've heard about you." Her tone suggested she'd heard nothing good.

That only widened Sevan's grin. "All true, I assure you. Especially the more salacious bits."

She made a sound that might have been a scoff before turning fully to face him. The steward behind her seemed to remember how to breathe, backing away with a bow before disappearing down the corridor. Smart male.

Lady Sienna was exactly as described in the reports his network had gathered. Hair like burnished auburn, falling in precise waves to her mid-back. Russet eyes, somehow both warm and cutting. The daughter of one of the most powerful lords in the Autumn Court.

What the reports hadn't mentioned was the way she held herself - like a blade waiting to be unsheathed.

"Your reputation precedes you, Lord Sevan," she said, tugging at her gloves. "The court's most notorious rake." Her lips curved. "Though I must say, I expected someone taller."

A laugh bubbled up his throat, genuine enough to surprise him. "Size isn't everything, my lady," Sevan said, straightening from the doorframe. "It's how skilfully one wields what they have."

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. "I'm certain that's what all males of modest stature tell themselves."

"Modest?" He pressed a hand to his chest in mock offence. "I've been called many things, Lady Sienna, but modest has never been one of them."

"I wasn't referring to your character," she replied, those russet eyes dancing with challenge.

Sevan closed the distance between them with unhurried steps. "Perhaps you'd like a demonstration of my skills talents before passing judgment."

"I'd sooner wrestle a naga."

"That could be arranged too, if that's what excites you."

Her laugh was unexpected. She covered it quickly with a cough, but Sevan had already caught it, tucking the sound away like a prize.

“I think I'll pass on both offers," she said, smoothing her hands down the front of her gown

Most females at court either fluttered nervously in his presence or made overt attempts to seduce him. Lady Sienna did neither, and it was... intriguing.

"You wound me deeply," he replied, pressing a hand to his chest. "And here I thought we were becoming friends."

"Is that what you call your conquests? Friends?" Her russet eyes glinted with something sharper than mere amusement. "How diplomatic of you."

"I prefer to think of them as mutually beneficial arrangements." He leaned closer, just enough to catch her scent - cinnamon and clove, with something underneath he couldn't quite place. "No conquest involved."

"Hmm." She took a deliberate step back, maintaining the space between them. "Well, I'm afraid I have no interest in becoming one of your 'arrangements,' beneficial or otherwise."

"You misunderstand me, Lady Sienna." The lie rolled easily off his tongue. Or was it a lie? Even he wasn't entirely sure. "I merely wish to welcome you properly to the Forest House. It can be difficult for newcomers to navigate."

"I've managed thus far." She glanced down the corridor where the steward had fled. "Though your father's staff could use some improvement."

"On that, we agree." Sevan followed her gaze. "May I ask what the poor male did to earn such a thorough dismantling?"

Lady Sienna's expression cooled further. "He attempted to enter my chambers without permission. Claimed he was delivering fresh linens, though none were in sight when I caught him rifling through my correspondence."

Interesting. Sevan filed that information away. Either his father or Eris had set a spy - both were equally likely. The Forest House was a nest of vipers, each with their own agenda.

"How careless of him," Sevan said, voice light despite the calculations running behind his eyes. "Though one might wonder why you'd leave sensitive correspondence where it could be found."

"One might also wonder why the High Lord's son is lurking outside guest chambers instead of attending his father's council meeting." Her smile was sharp enough to cut. "Unless you weren't invited?"

The barb struck closer than he cared to admit. Sevan's exclusion from his father's private meetings was deliberate - a reminder of his place in the hierarchy.

"Council meetings are tedious affairs," he said with a dismissive wave. "All that talk of border patrols and grain stores. I prefer more stimulating activities."

"I'm sure you do." She adjusted the cuff of her sleeve. "You look like the kind of male who seems more at home in bedrooms than boardrooms."

"At least I'm consistent."

"Consistency is a virtue, I suppose," she said, then checked the ornate timepiece pinned to her bodice. "As is punctuality. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

"By all means." Sevan stepped aside with an exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm in a flourish. "Don't let me detain you from your important affairs."

Lady Sienna moved past him, her skirts whispering against the stone floor. The scent of cinnamon and clove lingered in her wake, and Sevan found himself turning to watch her go. Not just because of the pleasing view - though there was certainly that - but because something about her departure felt unfinished.

She paused at the end of the corridor, glancing back over her shoulder. "Lord Sevan?"

"Yes, my lady?" He straightened, inexplicably eager for whatever she might say next.

"Perhaps one day I'll show you just how stimulating a boardroom can be." Her amber eyes glinted with mischief. "Though I doubt you'd be able to keep up."

Something electric shot through Sevan's veins, a jolt of... anticipation? Challenge? Desire? Perhaps all three.

The casual dismissal coupled with that veiled invitation struck him with unexpected force. In that moment, watching her lips curve into that knowing smile, Sevan realised with alarming clarity that if she asked him to follow her right now - to a council meeting, to battle, to the depths of hell itself - he would have gone without hesitation.

"Well, shit," he muttered to the empty hallway.

Because that was when he knew he’d follow her anywhere.

Their first time happened in a crumbling hunting lodge two weeks later.

A storm raged outside. She was pacing, barefoot, annoyed about a suitor her parents had arranged for her to go riding with. He made a comment about her boots being too fine for mud. She called him a spoiled dilettante with too much mouth and not enough discipline.

He kissed her before she could finish the sentence.

They slammed into a table. She yanked open his shirt with a growl. He shoved her skirts up, found her already slick, and lost all ability to smirk.

"Already so wet for me," he breathed, circling her most sensitive spot with maddening lightness. "Is this disciplined enough for you?"

Sienna's hips bucked against his hand. "Get on with it," she managed, though her voice had lost some of its cool composure.

"So impatient," Sevan clicked his tongue in mock disappointment as he slipped one finger inside her, then another, curling them in a way that made her back arch. "Better?"

"Don't - ah - fish for compliments," she panted, her nails digging into his shoulders. "It's beneath you."

"I'd rather be beneath you," he quipped, withdrawing his fingers despite her sound of protest. "Or perhaps above you. Or behind you. I'm not particularly picky about the logistics."

She laughed breathlessly, then gasped as he kneeled down and replaced his fingers with his mouth. "Oh-"

"No clever retort?" he murmured against her most intimate flesh, glancing up the length of her body to meet her eyes. The sight of her - flushed, disheveled, lips parted in pleasure - sent a surge of possessiveness through him that was entirely unfamiliar.

Sienna tangled her fingers in his hair, guiding him. "Less talking, more action," she commanded, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the tremor in her voice.

Sevan redoubled his efforts, licking and sucking until her thighs trembled around his head. Just as she teetered on the edge, he pulled back, earning a frustrated growl.

"You absolute bastard," she hissed, eyes flashing.

"Patience, my lady," he soothed, crawling up her body to kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on his tongue.

He winnowed them to the plush run by the fire, pinning her body beneath him. "The night is young, and I intend to savour every moment."

"I didn't come here for savouring," she said, wrapping her legs around his waist and grinding against his length. "I came here for fucking."

The crude word on her refined lips sent a jolt of lust through him. "As the lady wishes," he murmured, positioning himself at her entrance. He paused there, the head of his cock teasing her slick folds.

Sienna's eyes narrowed. "Are you always this insufferable during sex?"

"Only with partners worthy of my full attention." He pushed forward slightly, just enough to make her gasp but not enough to satisfy. "Most females don't challenge me enough to warrant the effort."

"Poor you," she said, voice dripping with false sympathy. "Such a burden being-" Her words cut off as he thrust into her completely, her mouth forming a perfect 'O' of surprise and pleasure.

Sevan stilled, allowing her to adjust to his size while savouring the exquisite tightness enveloping him. "You were saying?" he murmured, leaning down to nip at her lower lip.

"Not important," she breathed, her inner walls clenching around him deliciously. "Just move."

Sevan withdrew almost completely before driving back into her, setting a rhythm designed to drive them both mad. Each thrust pulled a soft sound from her throat that he immediately decided was his new favourite music. Her nails raked down his back, leaving marks he'd wear proudly tomorrow.

"Gods, you feel divine," he groaned, adjusting his angle slightly. The change drew a high-pitched moan from her. "There?"

"Yes," she gasped, her hips rising to meet his. "Right there."

He maintained the position, watching her face with rapt attention. The cool, collected female was gone, replaced by one flushed with desire, her careful mask shattered. It was the most beautiful transformation he'd ever witnessed.

"Is this-" he punctuated the word with a particularly deep thrust, "-what you came for, Lady Sienna?"

Her eyes fluttered open, somehow managing to look both aroused and annoyed. "Must you talk so much during this part?"

Sevan laughed, slowing his pace deliberately. "Would you prefer I stop altogether?"

"Don't you dare," she hissed, tightening her legs around him.

"Then indulge me." He leaned down to whisper in her ear, his hips still moving in that maddening, leisurely rhythm. "Tell me how it feels."

"Like you're deliberately trying to drive me insane," she answered, arching beneath him. "Like I want to murder you and fuck you in equal measure."

"Violent," he observed, nipping at her earlobe. "I approve."

She retaliated by clenching around him, making his rhythm falter. "Two can play at this game, Lord Sevan."

"Indeed they can." He shifted his weight, flipping them over so she straddled him without breaking their connection. "Show me how you play, then."

Sienna looked momentarily startled by the change in position, but quickly recovered, planting her hands on his chest. She rose up slowly, then sank back down with a fluid grace that made him bite back a groan.

"Not so smug now, are you?" she observed, setting a pace just as torturous as his had been.

"On the contrary," he managed, his hands finding her hips to guide her movements. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't hide the pleasure on her face as she rode him. "Your arrogance is truly boundless."

"Not arrogance when it's earned." He slid one hand between them to circle her clit, making her falter. "You're close again, aren't you? I can feel it."

"Shut up," she gasped, her movements becoming less controlled.

"Make me."

The challenge sparked something in her eyes. She leaned down, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss that stole his breath. Her tongue swept against his, demanding and commanding all at once. When she pulled back, they were both panting.

"Better," she murmured, lips curved in a victorious smile.

Something shifted in Sevan then. A competitive fire ignited in his veins. He'd never been outmanoeuvred in his own bed, and he wasn't about to start now - especially not with her. In one fluid motion, he sat up, wrapping an arm around her waist and flipping them again. This time, he pinned her wrists above her head with one hand.

"Much better," he agreed, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "But I believe I was in the middle of something."

He drove into her with renewed purpose, abandoning the teasing pace for something more primal. The change drew a cry from her throat, her back arching to take him deeper.

"Gods," she gasped, eyes wide. "Sevan-"

"Say it again," he commanded, punctuating each word with a thrust.

"Sevan," she repeated, the sound of it on her lips sending a shudder through him. "Sevan, please-"

"Please what?" He maintained his grip on her wrists but used his free hand to tilt her hips, changing the angle to hit that spot inside her that made her walls flutter around him. "Tell me what you want, Sienna."

"I want-" She bit her lip, either unwilling or unable to vocalise her desire.

"No," he said, slowing his pace again. "None of that. You wanted discipline, remember? This-" he rolled his hips in a way that made her gasp, "-is discipline in its purest form."

Her eyes met his, defiance warring with desire. "I want to come," she finally admitted, the words barely above a whisper. "Make me come, Sevan."

The rawness of her confession sent heat spiralling through him. "As my lady commands," he murmured, releasing her wrists to slide his hand between them once more. His thumb found her clit, circling it in time with his thrusts while his other hand tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to expose the column of her throat to his lips.

"You feel divine," he breathed against her skin, the words escaping unbidden. "So perfect around me. Like you were made for this. For me."

She moaned, her nails scoring his back as her pleasure built. "Don't… fuck… get sentimental on me now."

"Not sentiment," he corrected, feeling her begin to tighten around him. "Observation."

Her laugh turned into a gasp as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. "Always the last word," Sienna panted, her body tightening around him like a vice.

"Always," Sevan agreed, his rhythm growing erratic as her inner walls fluttered. He could feel his own release building, a pressure at the base of his spine that threatened to overwhelm him. But he wouldn't allow himself to fall before she did. "Let go, Sienna. Let me see you come undone."

Her eyes locked with his, that final barrier of control still holding. Even now, with pleasure evident in every line of her body, she fought to maintain some semblance of composure.

"Still fighting me?" he murmured, admiration colouring his tone. 

"Always," she echoed his earlier sentiment, a challenge in her gaze despite her ragged breathing.

Sevan's lips curled into a predatory smile. "Then let me give you something worth surrendering to."

He shifted his angle once more, driving deeper while his thumb pressed firmly against her clit. The combination proved too much for even her iron will. Her back arched off the floor, a cry tearing from her throat as her climax crashed through her. The sight of her - completely unraveled, utterly magnificent in her abandonment - pushed him over the edge. He buried himself to the hilt, his own release pulsing within her as he groaned her name against her throat.

For several heartbeats, they remained locked together, breathing harsh in the sudden quiet of the room. Then, carefully, Sevan withdrew and rolled to his side, bringing her with him.

"Well," Sienna said once she'd caught her breath, her voice remarkably steady despite the flush still colouring her cheeks. "I suppose your reputation isn't entirely unearned."

Sevan laughed, the sound genuine. "High praise indeed.”

The sound startled him. His own unguarded laughter. When was the last time he'd laughed without calculation? Sevan studied her as she lay beside him, auburn hair splayed across his pillows like liquid fire, her chest still rising and falling with rapid breaths.

"Careful," he murmured, tracing a finger along her collarbone. "That almost sounded like a compliment."

"Almost," she agreed, capturing his wandering hand. "Don't get used to it."

Despite her words, she didn't push him away, and Sevan took advantage of her momentary languor to pull her closer. Her skin was feverish against his, their bodies fitting together with a perfection that unsettled him.

A strange tenderness washed over him as he gazed down at her flushed face.

"You're staring," she murmured, eyes still closed.

"You're worth staring at."

One eye cracked open. "Is that your standard post-coital flattery?"

"No," he replied truthfully. "Usually I'm already planning my exit strategy."

Both eyes opened at that. "And now?"

"Now I'm wondering how soon I can have you again."

A small smile tugged at her lips. "Insatiable."

"Only for you," he said, rolling to his side and pulling her against him. The admission felt dangerously close to the truth.

She propped herself up on one elbow and said, “Is this the part where you whisper something sentimental and ruin the whole thing?”

“Gods, no,” Sevan said, chest still heaving. “You’d stab me.”

“I might still.”

“Promises, promises.”

She grinned, teeth flashing. “Try not to fall in love with me.”

He snorted. “That’s the most insulting thing you’ve said all night.”

“Then I clearly haven’t been trying hard enough.”

He didn’t reply, just watched her intently and wondered how it was possible that he wanted her again so soon. "One of your rules was that you don't stay the night," he reminded her, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "But you didn't say anything about a second round."

Sienna’s eyes met his with a spark of renewed interest. "Presumptuous of you to think you're capable of a second round so soon."

Sevan guided her hand downward, letting her feel his already hardening length. "Evidence suggests otherwise."

Her eyebrows rose. "Impressive recovery time."

"You inspire me," he replied, rolling her beneath him once more. This time, he took his time exploring her body, mapping every curve and hollow with his hands and mouth. He discovered a sensitive spot behind her ear that made her gasp, another at the inside of her elbow that made her squirm.

"Your stamina is impressive, Lord Sevan, but even you must have limits."

"Let's find out, shall we?"

This time, he didn't tease or torment. He entered her in one smooth thrust, swallowing her gasp with his mouth.

Her legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, drawing him deeper. The sensation of her - hot, wet, perfect - nearly undid him. He set a rhythm that was neither hurried nor leisurely, each stroke deliberate and deep. Her fingernails scored his back, marking him as thoroughly as he intended to mark her.

"Gods," she breathed against his neck, her inner walls already fluttering around him. "How are you-"

"So fucking good," Sevan finished for her, his voice rougher than he intended.

Her eyes widened slightly at his intensity, and something in her expression shifted - a glimpse of vulnerability beneath the practiced composure. It stirred something unexpected in Sevan's chest, a possessiveness that went beyond mere physical desire.

She came for him again - twice. Beautifully, perfectly each time.

Later, as they lay tangled in his sheets, both breathing heavily, Sevan traced a finger along her spine. "You're full of surprises, Lady Sienna."

"Don't get used to it." She was already sitting up, gathering her scattered clothing. "This was an indulgence. A moment of weakness."

"One you're welcome to repeat whenever the weakness strikes again."

She paused, looking back at him with those intelligent russet eyes. "Perhaps. But don't mistake this for anything more than it is."

Sienna stood and dressed with practiced efficiency, her back to him. Sevan lay sprawled on the rug, as he admired the elegant curve of her spine.

"I won't be staying," she said, voice cool and businesslike as she fastened her dress. "Not tonight. Not ever."

Sevan propped himself up on his elbows. "And here I thought we might cuddle."

Lady Sienna turned, her face composed into that mask of careful indifference he was beginning to recognise. But her eyes still burned with the echo of what they'd done.

"Let me be clear about what this is," she said. "I don't need flowers sent to my chambers. I don't need poetry or promises or pretty lies. This is just fucking."

"There you go again. Such a crude word from such refined lips," Sevan drawled, though something in his chest tightened at the clinical way she addressed what had just happened between them.

"And not a word of this to anyone," she continued, ignoring his quip. "Not your brothers, not your drinking companions, not the stable boy. No one."

Sevan's smile dimmed slightly. "You think I'd brag?"

"I think males like you consider discretion a challenge rather than a virtue." She pulled on her gloves with sharp, efficient movements. "If I hear even a whisper that you've spoken of this, it ends. Immediately."

He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, not bothering to cover his nakedness. "And if I agree to these rather stringent terms?"

For a moment, something vulnerable flickered across her face - gone so quickly he might have imagined it.

"Then perhaps we'll do this again," she said.

Sevan approached her slowly, like one might a skittish deer. "No flowers, no poetry, no talking, no staying over. Anything else I should add to this list of prohibitions, my lady?"

She looked up at him, and for the first time, he noticed the faint shadows beneath her eyes. "I meant what I said. Don't fall in love with me."

He laughed, the sound echoing in the small lodge. "I'm not exactly known for my romantic sensibilities."

"Good." She fastened her cloak, preparing to brave the storm outside. "Because I have nothing to give you but this."

As she moved toward the door, Sevan caught her wrist. Not forcefully, just enough to make her pause.

"Same time next week?" he asked, his voice lacking its usual mockery.

Lady Sienna didn't answer immediately. Then, with a slight nod: "I'll send word."

After she left, Sevan stood alone in the hunting lodge, listening to the rain hammer against the roof. He should have felt triumphant. Instead, he found himself wondering what had made her build such careful walls around herself, and why he suddenly wanted to tear them down.

"I detest you, you know," she said at their next encounter, three nights later, as she pushed him against the wall of his chambers.

"Clearly," he murmured against her neck, his hands already working at the laces of her bodice.

It became a refrain between them - her insistence on hatred, his mockery of it. Yet she returned to him night after night, week after week, their bodies finding a harmony that belied their barbed exchanges.

"This means nothing," she said one particularly heated evening, her voice slightly breathless as she disentangled herself from his embrace.

"Absolutely nothing," Sevan agreed, watching her bare form in the moonlight as she gathered her clothes. "Just like the last six times meant nothing."

"Seven," she corrected automatically, then scowled when he grinned. "Don't look so pleased with yourself."

"Difficult not to when you're keeping count." He stretched languidly across the bed. "Shall we aim for an even ten by week's end?"

She threw a pillow at his head. "You're insufferable."

"And yet you suffer me so beautifully." He caught her wrist as she moved to leave, his expression suddenly serious. "Stay."

Something flickered in her eyes before she pulled away. "We had an agreement."

"Agreements can be amended."

"Not this one." She finished dressing quickly and wandered to the door. "Good night, Lord Sevan."

"Until tomorrow, Lady Sienna."

"Don't count on it," she called over her shoulder, but they both knew she would return.

Three weeks into their arrangement, Sevan found himself turning down other offers that came his way. Not all of them - he had a reputation to maintain, after all - but enough that Eris noticed.

"You're losing your touch, brother," Eris remarked over breakfast, after a particularly beautiful courtier had offered Sevan an obvious invitation and been politely rebuffed. "Or have you finally caught something that required medical intervention?"

"Your concern is touching," Sevan drawled, "but I assure you, I'm in perfect health. Simply exercising discretion."

Eris's eyebrows rose. "Discretion? You? Has Father's wine cellar frozen over?"

Sevan merely smiled and changed the subject, but later that night, when Sienna slipped into his chambers, he found himself unusually irritable.

"You're late," he said, not moving from his position by the window.

"I wasn't aware I had a specific appointment time." She began unlacing her gown with practiced fingers. "Or are you keeping a schedule of our trysts now?"

"Perhaps I should," he said, finally turning to face her. "To avoid conflicts with your other engagements."

Her hands stilled. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I saw you with Lord Fabian this evening."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. "Are you jealous, Lord Sevan?"

"Don't be absurd," he scoffed, though something cold and unfamiliar coiled in his stomach.

"Jealousy would imply emotional investment," Sevan said smoothly, closing the distance between them. "And we both know this is purely physical."

Sienna laughed, the sound sharp as shattered glass. "Good. Because Lord Fabian was quite attentive tonight." She let her gown fall to the floor, standing before him in nothing but her undergarments. "Very attentive."

Something dark flashed in Sevan's eyes. He moved with preternatural speed, pinning her against the wall, his mouth a breath away from hers. "Is that so? And did you let him touch you like this?" His hands skimmed down her sides, fingers digging into her hips.

"Maybe I did," she taunted, her eyes gleaming with challenge. "Maybe he's just one of many. Did you think you were special, Sevan?"

He growled, actually growled, before claiming her mouth in a bruising kiss. She responded with equal ferocity, her nails raking down his back.

"You're lying," he murmured against her throat, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there.

"Prove it," she gasped, already working at the fastenings of his trousers. "Prove you're better than the others."

"Others?" He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her to the bed. "Tell me, Sienna, do your other lovers make you scream like I do?"

"Bold of you to assume I'll scream for you," she retorted, though her breath hitched as he tore away her undergarments.

"Then I'm not trying hard enough." He pushed her thighs apart, settling between them with predatory intent. "Let's see if I can change that."

What followed was nothing like their previous encounters - all controlled passion and measured pleasure. This was raw, primal, a battle neither was willing to lose. When he finally thrust into her, she arched beneath him with a gasp that was almost, almost a scream.

"Does Lord Fabian know how you like it?" Sevan demanded, his rhythm punishing and perfect. "Does he know to hold you down just so?" His fingers closed around her wrists, pinning them above her head.

"Maybe he's... better at it," she managed between ragged breaths, her body contradicting her words as it responded to his every touch.

Sevan's laugh was dark velvet. "Liar." He shifted his angle, hitting that spot inside her that made coherent thought impossible. "Tell me the truth, Sienna. Tell me no one fucks you like I do."

"I hate you," she moaned instead, her body tightening around him.

"That's not what I asked." He slowed his pace deliberately, drawing out each thrust until she writhed beneath him in frustration. "Tell me."

"Bastard," she hissed, trying to move her hips desperately to meet his, seeking the friction he was denying her.

Sevan felt something shift inside him, watching her beneath him - proud even in surrender, defiant even in pleasure. This wasn't just desire anymore. It was possession. Obsession. Something dangerously close to-

"Brat."

"No one," she finally gasped, her walls clenching around him as she approached her peak. "No one fucks me like you do. There is no one else. Satisfied?"

He was. Deeply, profoundly satisfied in a way that transcended the physical. The admission broke something loose in him, and he drove into her with renewed purpose, his own release building as she shattered around him, his name - not his title, but his name - torn from her lips in the scream he'd promised to wring from her.

Afterward, as they lay tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, Sevan traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder. The usual urgency with which she dressed and departed was absent tonight. Instead, she lingered, her breathing slowly returning to normal against his chest.

Sevan watched as firelight danced across Sienna's skin, casting her in a glow that transformed her sharp edges into something almost ethereal. The sight of her - flushed and breathless above him - made something twist painfully in his chest. A dangerous feeling he'd been fighting for weeks now.

"You know," he said softly, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip, "I think I might actually-"

Sienna's eyes flashed with sudden alarm. Before he could finish, she pressed a finger against his lips, then replaced it with her mouth in a bruising kiss that stole the words from his tongue.

"Don't," she whispered against his lips. "Don't ruin this."

And then she was moving, rising up on her knees and sinking down onto him in one fluid motion that made them both gasp. Sevan's thoughts scattered like autumn leaves in a gale as she set a merciless pace, her body clenching around him.

He understood her strategy perfectly - it was impossible to speak sentimentalities when she was riding him like this, impossible to think beyond the exquisite friction of their bodies. Clever, ruthless Sienna, always one step ahead.

His hands found her waist, fingers digging into soft flesh as he helped guide her movements. His chambers filled with the sounds of their ragged breathing, skin against skin. Sevan watched her through half-lidded eyes, memorising every detail - the way her head fell back, exposing the elegant column of her throat; how her auburn hair tumbled down her back in wild waves; the small crease between her brows as she chased her pleasure.

"Look at me," he commanded, surprising himself with the raw need in his voice.

For once, she obeyed, those russet eyes meeting his. Something unspoken passed between them in that moment - something that transcended the physical act they were engaged in. Something dangerous.

Sienna must have felt it too, because she immediately increased her pace, determination written across her features as she drove them both toward oblivion. A tactical retreat from whatever precipice they'd approached.

As release claimed them both, Sevan knew with bone-deep certainty that this game they played was shifting. The rules were changing, whether Sienna wanted to acknowledge it or not.

Later - much later - as they lay sated and exhausted, Sienna finally moved to leave. But as she reached for her discarded gown, Sevan caught her wrist.

"Stay," he said again, but this time it wasn't a casual invitation. It was almost a plea.

She hesitated, looking torn. "Sevan..."

"Just until morning," he said, hating the vulnerability in his voice. "What harm could it do?"

"You know what harm," she replied softly. "This is already more than we agreed to."

"And yet here we are." He tugged gently on her wrist, pulling her back toward the bed. "Sleep here. Just sleep."

For a long moment, she stood frozen, indecision written across her features. Then, with a sigh that might have been surrender or resignation, she set down her gown and slid back under the covers.

"Just until morning," she murmured, her body fitting against his with familiar ease.

"Just until morning," he agreed, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close.

As she slept beside him, her face softened in slumber in a way it never was when she was conscious, Sevan traced the curve of her shoulder with a feather-light touch. The words he'd nearly spoken earlier hung in the air between them, unvoiced but no less real.

"I might actually like you," he whispered to the darkness, secure in the knowledge she couldn't hear him.

Sevan woke to unfamiliar warmth and the scent of cinnamon and cedar. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting golden stripes across his bed - across them. Sienna slept curled against him, her auburn hair spilling over his chest, her breathing deep and even.

He should feel trapped. Annoyed. Inconvenienced, at the very least. This wasn't how his liaisons ended - with soft morning light and shared breath. This was dangerous territory, breaking every rule he lived by.

And yet.

His fingers found her hair, stroking through the silken strands with a gentleness he rarely allowed himself. Sienna stirred, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks before her russet eyes opened, momentarily confused. She stiffened as awareness returned.

"I fell asleep," she said, her voice rough with sleep.

"You did." His fingers continued their gentle exploration of her hair. "The world hasn't ended yet, though. Surprising."

She pushed herself up, the sheet falling away to reveal the constellation of marks he'd left on her skin the night before. "This wasn't part of our arrangement."

"Consider it an amendment." He traced a finger along her bare shoulder. "A rather pleasant one, I'd say."

"Sevan-"

"Stay for breakfast." The request surprised even him.

"Breakfast," she repeated flatly.

"To start with." He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. "Then perhaps lunch. Dinner. Another night if you're free."

"You're insane."

"Possibly." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "But I find I don't want you to leave. Not yet."

Something vulnerable flickered across her features before hardening into resolve. Sevan watched the transformation with a sinking feeling in his chest, already knowing what she would say before the words left her lips.

"This was a mistake," she said, pulling away from his touch. "Staying was a mistake."

Sevan's jaw tightened. "Is that what we're calling it now? A mistake?"

"What would you call it?" She stood, gathering her clothes with quick, efficient movements. The intimacy of moments before evaporated like morning dew beneath a harsh sun.

"I'd call it progress," he said, watching her dress with a strange hollowness expanding in his chest. When had this happened? When had she - this sharp-tongued, guarded, maddening female - become something more than a conquest?

"Progress toward what, exactly?" She fastened her gown with practiced fingers, not meeting his eyes. "This arrangement works because it's simple. Uncomplicated."

"Is that what you need?" he asked quietly. "Uncomplicated?"

Her hands stilled momentarily. "It's what I want."

Lie. The word whispered through his mind with absolute certainty. For the first time since their arrangement began, Sevan consciously reached for that power he rarely used - that ability to sense others’ emotions - their likes and dislikes, their fears... their desires.

What he felt from her wasn't simple deception, though. It was layers upon layers of fear, determination, and something deeper he couldn't quite grasp. Like trying to see the bottom of a lake through murky water.

"What are you afraid of, Sienna?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "I'm not afraid of anything."

Another lie, but this one wore thinner armour.

"Everyone's afraid of something." Sevan rose from the bed, not bothering with clothes as he approached her. "Even you."

She took a step back, her composure slipping for just a moment. "Stay out of my head."

So she knew about his abilities. Interesting. Most people didn't, or if they did, they thought the rumours exaggerated.

"I'm not in your head," he said softly. "I'm just looking at you."

"Well, stop it." She turned away, fingers fumbling with the last of her laces. "This was supposed to be simple."

"Was it?" Sevan reached for her, turning her gently to face him. "Or was that just what you told yourself to make it safe?"

Her eyes flashed. "Don't presume to know what I think or feel."

"Then tell me," he challenged. "Tell me what this is, what's happening between us."

"There is nothing happening between us beyond the obvious," she insisted, but the words rang hollow. "I'm going now, before you say something else stupid." She left, the door shutting with a decisive click that echoed in the suddenly empty room.

He stood naked in the centre of his chambers, the ghost of her warmth still clinging to his skin.

"Well, that could have gone better," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his copper hair.

He moved to the window, watching as Sienna crossed the courtyard below. Even from this distance, he could see the rigid set of her shoulders, the too-quick pace of her steps. Running away. Always running.

The question was: from what?

The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of the Forest House’s dining hall, gilding the polished wood and gleaming off golden cutlery. Eris was already seated, sipping his tea with maddening serenity, while Vale and Calix were arguing over who had hidden the last bottle of Winter Court vodka.

Sevan entered late, wearing yesterday’s clothes, hair a mess, and the faintest trace of a smile on his mouth.

He didn’t speak. Just poured himself tea and sat.

Eris glanced up. “You look like you slept in a stable.”

Sevan took a sip. “I was busy.”

“Mm,” Eris hummed, unimpressed. “That explains the shirt you’re wearing. Isn’t that one of Lady Sienna’s favourites?”

Vale perked up, grinning like a wolf scenting blood. “Oh, are we talking about Sienna now? Excellent.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sevan insisted, sitting down and reaching for a piece of toast. “It’s just sex.”

"Just sex," Eris repeated, his voice dangerously soft. "How fascinating."

"What's fascinating about it?" Sevan kept his tone deliberately bored, though his fingers tightened imperceptibly around his teacup.

"The fact that you've been exclusively having 'just sex' with the same female for nearly two months." Eris set down his cup with precise movements. "That's not your usual pattern, brother."

Vale whistled low. "Two months? With the ice queen herself? I'm impressed."

"Don't call her that," Sevan said, the words sharper than he intended.

A heavy silence fell over the table. Calix's eyebrows shot up, while Vale's grin widened to predatory proportions. Eris merely watched, those calculating eyes missing nothing.

"My, my," Calix murmured. "Defensive, aren't we?"

Sevan forced himself to relax, to summon that lazy smirk that had been his shield for centuries. "Not defensive. Just accurate. There's nothing cold about Lady Sienna." He let his grin turn suggestive. "Quite the opposite, in fact."

The crude deflection worked on Vale and Calix, who laughed and began pestering him for details he had no intention of sharing. But Eris... Eris continued to watch him with that unnerving stillness that meant he was seeing far too much.

Sevan excused himself as soon as politeness allowed, retreating to his chambers. He needed to think, to sort through the tangle of emotions that had ambushed him over the past weeks. This wasn't like him - this preoccupation, this... fixation.

His rooms still smelled faintly of her - cinnamon and cedar and that indefinable something that was purely Sienna. He found himself inhaling deeply, like some lovesick fool.

"Pathetic," he muttered, stripping off his clothes and heading for the bath his servants had prepared.

As he sank into the steaming water, Sevan closed his eyes, trying to make sense of the chaos in his mind. When had this happened? When had ‘just sex’ become something he looked forward to not just for the physical release, but for the sharp wit, the challenging conversation, the rare glimpses of vulnerability behind her carefully constructed walls?

When had he started wanting more?

The realisation hit him with the force of a physical blow. He wanted more. More than stolen nights and secret trysts. More than her body beneath his in the darkness. He wanted mornings and arguments and the right to touch her in public. He wanted to know what made her laugh, what made her cry, what had happened to make her so fiercely protective of her independence.

He wanted her - all of her.

Sevan had been hiding in his study for the better part of the day, surrounded by stacks of books he wasn't reading and a glass of whiskey he'd barely touched. The leather chair creaked as he shifted, staring at the same page he'd been pretending to read for the past hour.

He wasn't hiding, he told himself. He was strategically avoiding certain parts of the Forest House where Elain Archeron might be wandering. His brother's mate - the Seer - was unsettling. That vision she’d had of him after dinner had unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

The memory of those words, and the knowing look Elain had given him afterward, made his skin crawl. Seers and their cryptic nonsense.

The door to his study banged open without warning, and Sienna stormed in, her russet eyes blazing and a stack of papers clutched in her white-knuckled grip.

"Your father," she seethed, slamming the papers onto his desk, "is a thieving, corrupt bastard."

Sevan leaned back in his chair, summoning an expression of lazy amusement despite the way his heart had kicked at the sight of her. It had been three days since their morning-after confrontation, three days without word from her.

"Good afternoon to you too, Lady Sienna," he drawled. "Please, do come in. Make yourself comfortable."

She ignored his sarcasm, jabbing a finger at the papers. "Beron has levied tariffs on my family's lands again. Twice the rate from last season." Her voice shook with barely contained fury. "It's targeted. It's corrupt. And I want to know what you're going to do about it."

Sevan raised an eyebrow, deliberately reaching for his whiskey instead of the papers. "What makes you think I have any intention of doing anything about it?"

"Because you're his son. Because you have his ear," she snapped.

"Do I?" Sevan swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "I wasn't aware my father valued my opinion on fiscal policy. Or anything else, for that matter."

"Don't play dumb, Sevan. It doesn't suit you." She began to pace, her burgundy skirts swishing angrily with each step. "These tariffs will ruin my family. We employ half the northern border. If your father keeps bleeding us dry, people will starve. Children will starve.”

His jaw ticked. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why are you sitting there smirking like it doesn’t matter?”

“Because I’m not the one who needs convincing,” he growled, standing. “Go scream at Beron if you want to be useful.”

“You’re his son - useful would be getting off your ass and doing something.”

“Oh, I’ve done plenty,” he snapped. “I’ve bribed, blackmailed, and burned for this court. Just because I don’t weep over ledgers doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Her chest rose and fell, wild and furious. “Then act like it.”

He stepped in. “So this is about my tone now? Gods, you’re exhausting.”

“And you’re a coward,” she hissed. “Always pretending to be bored so no one sees that you’re just scared.”

The accusation hung between them, a blade suspended in air. Sevan's amber eyes darkened, something dangerous and primal flashing across his features.

He moved with predatory speed, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His hands found her waist, fingers digging into the fabric of her gown as he spun her around and backed her against the towering bookshelf with enough force to rattle the spines.

"You think I'm afraid?" His voice was barely more than a growl, his face inches from hers. "You know nothing about me."

Sienna's chin lifted, defiant even in her position of vulnerability. "I know enough."

His laugh was dark, humourless. "No, Sienna. You don't."

And then his mouth crashed down on hers, swallowing whatever retort she had prepared. The kiss was nothing like their previous encounters - there was no teasing, no slow build of desire. This was rage and need and something darker, something that made her gasp against his lips.

She bit him. Hard enough to draw blood.

Sevan pulled back, his tongue running over the spot, a feral grin spreading across his face. "There she is."

Sienna's hands fisted in his shirt, whether to push him away or pull him closer, neither of them could tell. "I hate you," she breathed.

"Liar," he murmured, his hands already working at the fastenings of her gown with practiced efficiency. "You're many things, Lady Sienna, but a convincing liar isn't one of them."

Her breath came in short, sharp gasps as his fingers brushed against her bare skin. "This changes nothing."

"Of course not." He pushed the fabric from her shoulders, letting it pool at her feet. "This is just fucking, remember? Your rules."

The crude word on his tongue sent a visible shiver through her. Sevan's eyes tracked the movement, predatory and knowing. His hands slid beneath her shift, finding her already slick and ready.

"Angry at me, but still wet for me," he observed, his voice a dangerous purr as he circled her most sensitive spot with maddening lightness. "How fascinating."

Sienna's head fell back against the bookshelf, a strangled sound escaping her throat. "Shut up."

"Make me."

The challenge sparked something in her eyes. She reached between them, freeing him from his trousers with determined movements. He hissed as her fingers wrapped around him, stroking once, twice.

"Enough games," she demanded, her voice hoarse with need.

Sevan lifted her in one fluid motion, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed her more firmly against the bookshelf. Books tumbled to the floor, forgotten as he positioned himself at her entrance.

Before she could protest that he was being too slow, he entered her in one furious, perfect thrust.

“Still hate me?” he gritted against her neck.

“Yes,” she gasped, slamming back against him. “I hate you so much.”

He thrust harder.

“Good,” he growled. “Then don’t stop.”

He drove into her with renewed fury, each thrust punctuated by the creaking of the bookshelf behind her. Books continued to fall, pages fluttering like wingbeats around them, but neither paid any attention. The world had narrowed to this - to the slick heat where their bodies joined, to the savage rhythm they created together.

"Tell me again," Sevan demanded, his voice raw as he changed his angle, hitting that spot inside her that made her walls clench around him. "Tell me how much you hate me."

Sienna's fingers dug into his shoulders, her head thrown back, exposing the elegant column of her throat. "I…"

"Can't even speak now?" He slowed deliberately, drawing out each thrust until she whimpered. "Where's that sharp tongue, Lady Sienna?"

Her eyes flashed open, meeting his with defiance even as pleasure threatened to overwhelm her. "Fuck you," she managed, the words breathless and lacking their usual bite.

"You are," he reminded her, his grip on her thighs tightening as he quickened his pace again. "And enjoying it thoroughly, it seems."

He could feel her tightening around him, her body betraying how close she was. Sevan shifted one hand to where they were joined, his thumb finding her most sensitive spot with unerring precision.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice dropping to that register he knew undid her. "Come for me and tell me how much you hate me."

Her back arched, her inner walls fluttering around him as she approached the edge. "I hate- I hate…"

"Say it," he urged, feeling his own release building at the base of his spine.

"I hate that I need this," she gasped instead, the admission tearing from her like a confession. "I hate that I need you."

Something primal and possessive surged through Sevan at her words. He drove into her with renewed purpose, his thumb circling her clit with relentless pressure.

"Then take what you need," he growled against her ear. "Take all of it."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the merciless rhythm of his hips proved too much. Sienna shattered around him, her release claiming her with such intensity that a sob - a genuine, broken sound - escaped her throat as she came. Her body convulsed around him, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her.

He buried himself to the hilt, his own release pulsing within her as he groaned her name against the curve of her shoulder.

For several heartbeats, they remained locked together, breathing harsh in the sudden quiet of the study. Books lay scattered around them, casualties of their passion. Slowly, carefully, Sevan lowered her feet to the ground, but kept his body pressed against hers, unwilling to break the connection just yet.

"Say it again," he murmured against her throat, his voice rough with spent desire.

Sienna's eyes fluttered open, confusion momentarily clouding their russet depths. "Say what?"

"That you need me." His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, catching a tear she hadn't realised she'd shed. "Say it again."

Something vulnerable flickered across her features before the familiar walls slammed back into place. She pushed against his chest, creating distance between them.

"It was just sex," she said, her voice steady despite the flush still colouring her cheeks. "Don't read too much into heat-of-the-moment declarations."

Sevan's jaw tightened, but he stepped back, allowing her the space she seemed so desperate for. He watched as she straightened her skirts.

“You’re going to fix this,” she said. “My father’s taxes. You’re going to make it right.”

“Fine.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I said fine,” he muttered. “But only so you’ll shut up.”

“You like my mouth.”

“I love your mouth,” he snapped. “But it’s most useful when full.”

She arched a brow. “You’re vile.”

“You’re wet.”

“If you touch me again before my father’s tax is halved, I’ll break your nose.”

He smirked. “I’m already hard again.”

The corners of her mouth ticked upwards. "Will you really speak to Beron?" Her voice had lost some of its edge, vulnerability peeking through the armor of her anger.

Sevan sighed, running a hand through his copper hair. "Yes."

"You promise?" She asked, those russet eyes searching his face for any sign of deception.

Something twisted in Sevan's chest at the naked hope in her expression. Gods, when had he become so pathetically eager to please her? He, who had spent centuries cultivating a reputation for caring about nothing and no one.

"I'll speak to him," he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. "Not that it will do much good, but I'll try."

She bit her lip, studying him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher. "Why?"

Because I'm falling in love with you. Because your pain is becoming my pain. Because I want to be the kind of male worthy of your trust, not just your body.

"Because it's the right thing to do," he said instead, the truth but not the whole truth. "Despite what you think of me, I do occasionally recognise injustice when I see it."

Something shifted in her gaze - a softening, perhaps, or just surprise. "Thank you."

Two simple words, yet they fell between them with the weight of something far more significant. Sevan inclined his head, not trusting himself to speak.

She finished dressing in silence, her gaze occasionally flicking to him as if expecting him to break the fragile peace between them. When she was done, she moved toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle.

"Tonight," she said, not looking back at him. "My chambers. Midnight."

Before he could respond, she was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of cinnamon and cedar and the promise of another night in her bed.

Sevan stood alone in his study, surrounded by fallen books and the aftermath of their passion, and wondered when exactly he had lost control of this game they played.

Two days later, a crisp sheet parchment outlining a signed and sealed decree made its way to her rooms, hand-delivered by Sevan himself. The tariff on her family’s land had been slashed and retrospectively reimbursed.

She didn’t know whether to scream or laugh or kiss him.

“Hate me a little less now?”

She didn’t answer.

She just dragged him inside her chambers, locked the door, and made a different kind of thank you entirely.

The night of Samhain cast the Forest House in an eerie glow, firelight dancing off golden masks and jewel-encrusted gowns. Sevan leaned against a marble column, watching the revelry with detached amusement. The scent of burnt offerings and spiced wine hung heavy in the air, mingling with the perfume of hundreds of Autumn Court nobles desperate to outshine each other.

He took another sip of his wine, his amber eyes scanning the crowd. He'd lost track of Eris some time ago, last seeing him escorting a visibly exhausted Elain from the grand hall. Their little flower had looked pale, clearly the result of over-indulging in the wine.

Then he saw her.

Sienna stood across the hall, resplendent in a gown of navy blue that caught the firelight like liquid sapphire. Her auburn hair was partially swept up, revealing the elegant curve of her neck, while the rest cascaded down her back in waves that made his fingers itch to touch them. She was speaking with Lord Benit, her posture rigid despite the casual setting.

Sevan's lip curled. He drained his wine and set the goblet on a passing servant's tray, making his way through the throng of dancers and revellers. The musicians had just finished a lively reel, and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation for what would come next.

"Ladies and lords," the master of ceremonies announced, his voice magically amplified to reach every corner of the vast hall, "prepare yourselves for the Flaming Circle!"

A ripple of excitement coursed through the gathering, notoriously the most sensual dance of the evening.

Sevan reached Sienna just as Lord Benit was making his excuses, bowing over her hand with a lingering touch that made Sevan's jaw tighten.

"Lady Sienna," he said, his voice a lazy drawl that belied the intent in his eyes. "May I have the honour of this dance?"

She turned, surprise momentarily widening her russet eyes before that familiar mask of cool indifference slipped into place. "Lord Sevan. How unexpected."

"Is it?" He offered his arm, arching one copper brow. "The Flaming Circle seems perfectly suited to our particular dynamic, wouldn't you say?"

A hint of colour touched her cheeks. "Bold of you to assume I wish to dance with you at all."

"Bold is my middle name." His grin turned wolfish. "Among other things."

She rolled her eyes, but he didn't miss the way her lips twitched. "Fine. One dance."

Sevan led Sienna onto the dance floor, feeling the eyes of the court upon them. The Flaming Circle was not a dance one performed with someone they merely tolerated. It was intimate, charged - a public declaration of desire that even the most brazen courtiers approached with caution.

As they took their positions, Sevan caught Eris watching from the edge of the hall, one eyebrow raised in silent question. He ignored his brother's scrutiny, focusing instead on the woman before him.

"You look beautiful tonight," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear as the musicians struck the first haunting notes. “It’s distracting.”

Something flickered across her face - surprise, perhaps, at his sincerity. The dance brought them closer, bodies nearly touching as they circled each other. Heat flared between them, a tangible thing that had nothing to do with the magic sparking from the musicians' instruments.

"You're staring," she whispered as they drew apart only to come together again, her back pressing against his chest.

"I'm admiring," he corrected, his lips close to her ear. "There's a difference."

And there was indeed much to admire. Courtiers moved in perfect synchronicity, the drum beats punctuating each and every movement. But to Sevan, Sienna outshone them all. As they moved through the intricate steps, he found himself watching her with an intensity that went beyond physical desire.

He memorised the grace of her movements, the subtle shifts in her expression as she concentrated on the dance, the way firelight caught in her hair. When they came together again, his hand at her waist, hers on his shoulder, he felt something dangerous unfurling in his chest.

"What are you thinking?" she asked, her voice low as they turned together, bodies pressed close.

"That I might be in trouble," he answered truthfully.

Her eyes widened slightly. "What kind of trouble?"

The music swelled, and the dance required them to part once more. Sevan used the moment to gather himself, to rebuild the walls that seemed to crumble whenever she was near. When they came together again, his lazy smile was back in place.

"The best kind," he replied, twirling her with practiced ease.

The dance reached its climax, the music a crescendo of drums and strings that matched the thundering of Sevan's heart. As tradition dictated, the male dancers lifted their partners in one final, dramatic sweep. Sevan's hands found Sienna's waist, lifting her effortlessly as she arched above him, her arms outstretched like wings of flame.

For one breathless moment, time suspended. Sienna looked down at him, her russet eyes reflecting the dancing lights, something unguarded and raw in her expression. Sevan felt it then - a shift inside him, like tectonic plates realigning. This wasn't just desire or obsession. This was something deeper, more terrifying.

He was in love with her.

The realisation hit him with such force that he nearly stumbled as he lowered her back to the ground. The music faded, applause erupted around them, but Sevan barely registered any of it. His entire being was focused on the woman before him, on the revelation that threatened to shatter the carefully constructed façade he'd maintained for centuries.

"Sevan?" Sienna's voice broke through his stupor, concern furrowing her brow. "Are you alight?"

He blinked, forcing his lips into their usual smirk. "Never better. Just pleasantly surprised by your enthusiasm."

She rolled her eyes, though the concerned look didn't entirely fade. "The dance is over. You can let go of me now."

He realised he was still holding her waist, his fingers digging into the silken fabric of her gown. Reluctantly, he let go, offering a formal bow as etiquette demanded.

"My thanks for the dance, Lady Sienna," he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

She curtseyed, her eyes never leaving his. "You dance better than I expected, Lord Sevan."

"High praise indeed." He offered his arm to escort her from the floor. "Perhaps we might find somewhere quieter to discuss my technique?"

A hint of a smile played at her lips. "Perhaps after I've had some refreshment. Dancing with you is surprisingly taxing."

They moved through the crowd, Sevan hyperaware of every brush of her arm against his, every subtle shift in her expression. How had he not recognised this feeling sooner? This wasn't just lust or fascination. This was something infinitely more dangerous - something that made him want to burn down the world if she asked.

"Your brother is watching," Sienna murmured as they reached a relatively quiet corner.

Sevan followed her gaze to where Eris stood conversing with a group of lesser lords, his attention seemingly on them but his amber eyes - so like Sevan's own - occasionally flicking toward his brother and Sienna.

"Eris watches everyone," Sevan replied. "It's his favourite hobby."

"He doesn't approve."

It wasn't a question, but Sevan answered anyway. "Eris is in no position to disapprove of anyone's entanglements," Sevan said with a sardonic twist of his lips. His eldest brother’s feelings for his youngest brother’s mate had been made quite clear this evening and while he supported them wholeheartedly, the whole thing was still a bit of a mess.

Not unlike the whole thing between him and Sienna.

"Speaking of entanglements," Sienna said, her voice deceptively casual, "Lady Elain looked lovely this evening."

Sevan's eyes snapped back to her face. "Lady Elain?" he repeated, a hint of genuine amusement creeping into his voice. "Is that what this is about?"

Sienna lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "Your family seems quite taken with her. You included."

"Ah." Sevan's lips quirked into a knowing smile. "Is that jealousy I detect, Lady Sienna?"

"Observation," she corrected, her tone clipped. "Nothing more."

Sevan leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Lady Elain, while undoubtedly lovely, is very much out of bounds."

"Is she?" Sienna's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Entirely," he affirmed with unexpected seriousness. "For reasons I'm not at liberty to discuss. But more importantly," he reached out, boldly tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear, "she's not the female who's been occupying my thoughts day and night for months now."

A flicker of something - relief, perhaps - passed through Sienna's eyes before she could mask it. "How fortunate for her."

Sevan chuckled. "Indeed. I imagine I'd be quite insufferable as a suitor."

"You're already insufferable," she pointed out, though the bite had left her words.

"And yet you tolerate me," he murmured, his fingers brushing against hers with deliberate casualness. "Rather enthusiastically at times."

Before she could reply, the music changed again, this time to a slower, more intimate melody that had couples drawing closer on the dance floor. Sevan glanced toward the dancers, then back at Sienna, a question in his eyes.

"Another dance?" he asked, extending his hand.

She hesitated, her gaze darting to the calculating eyes around them. "People will talk."

"People always talk," Sevan replied. "The question is whether you care."

For a long moment, she didn't answer, and Sevan felt a twinge of something uncomfortably like disappointment. Then, with a small sigh that might have been surrender or resignation, she placed her hand in his.

"One more dance," she said. "But then I should circulate."

Sevan led her back onto the dance floor, unable to suppress the surge of triumph as her hand rested in his. This dance was slower, more deliberate than the Flaming Circle, allowing couples to converse as they moved together.

The music wrapped around them like a silken thread, binding them together in ways that went beyond the physical steps. Sienna moved with perfect grace, her body following his lead as naturally as breathing. Sevan found himself entranced by the play of candlelight across her features, the subtle changes in her expression as she responded to his touch.

They didn't speak much during this dance - they didn't need to. The language of their bodies said more than words could convey. When his hand pressed against the small of her back, guiding her through a turn, she leaned into his touch rather than away. When their eyes met during a particularly intimate movement, neither looked away.

As the final notes faded, Sevan kept his hold on her, reluctant to break the connection. Other couples were already dispersing, moving toward refreshments or new partners, but he held her in place with nothing more than the gentlest pressure of his fingers against hers.

"Will I see you tonight?" he asked, his voice low enough that only she could hear, amber eyes searching her face for any hint of her thoughts.

The question held more weight than its simple words suggested. Will you come to me tonight? Will you let me hold you until morning? Will you finally acknowledge what's growing between us?

Sienna hesitated. "I'm not sure that's wise," she murmured, though she made no move to pull away from him.

"Wisdom is overrated," Sevan replied, his thumb tracing circles on the inside of her wrist. "Especially on Samhain."

A hint of a smile touched her lips. "Is that your professional opinion, Lord Vanserra?"

"It is." He leaned closer, close enough that he could detect the faint scent of cinnamon that always clung to her skin. "The veil between worlds is thin tonight. Who knows what might slip through if you spend it alone?"

"Are you suggesting you'd protect me from wayward spirits?" Her eyebrow arched in amusement.

"I'm suggesting I'd give them something to be jealous of." His voice dropped to a register that he knew affected her, satisfaction coursing through him when he saw the slight dilation of her pupils. "My chambers. After the midnight offering."

She didn't answer immediately, and for a moment, Sevan thought she might refuse. Then she gave a nearly imperceptible nod.

"Still," Sienna said, "perhaps we should be more discreet."

Sevan felt something in him rebel at the suggestion. He was tired of discretion, tired of stolen moments and secret trysts. Tired of pretending she meant nothing when she was rapidly becoming everything.

"Why?" he asked, surprising himself with the challenge in his voice. "Afraid someone might discover you don't actually hate me?"

Her eyes widened slightly. "That's not-"

"My chambers. One hour," he interrupted, his voice low and intent.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and walked away, feeling her eyes burning into his back. He needed air, space, a moment to gather his thoughts before he did something truly reckless - like declaring his feelings in the middle of Samhain.

An hour had passed - more than an hour. Sienna hadn't come to his chambers. Sevan paced the length of his room, tension coiling in his muscles with each step. Perhaps she'd changed her mind. Perhaps his behaviour at the dance had scared her away. Perhaps-

A soft knock interrupted his spiralling thoughts.

He moved to the door with preternatural speed, opening it to find Sienna standing in the dimly lit corridor, still in her Samhain finery.

When she finally came to his chambers, still dressed in her finery, Sevan did not say a word. He did not need to.

Sevan simply took her in his arms and kissed her with a fervour that surprised even him. Gone was the teasing, the calculated seduction. In its place was raw need, the culmination of months of wanting more than she was willing to give.

"You're late," he said, stepping aside to let her in.

"I wasn't sure I was coming at all." She entered, her movements carrying less of their usual confidence.

Sevan closed the door, leaning against it as he watched her move to the centre of his chambers. "What changed your mind?"

She turned to face him, her russet eyes unreadable. "I don't know."

The honesty in her voice made something in his chest tighten. "Sienna-"

"Don't," she interrupted, holding up a hand. "Please don’t say whatever it is you're about to say. I can see it in your eyes, and I'm not ready to hear it."

Sevan pushed off from the door, closing the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. "What do you think I'm going to say?"

"Something that will ruin this." She gestured between them. "Something that will make this complicated."

"And if it already is?" He stopped just before her, close enough to catch the scent of cinnamon and cedar that clung to her skin, but not touching. Not yet.

"Then we pretend it isn't," she insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. "We go back to our arrangement. Simple."

"There's nothing simple about what I feel for you," Sevan said, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Sienna's eyes widened, panic flashing across her features. "Don't."

"Don't what?" He stepped back, hands falling to his sides. "Don't tell the truth?"

"Not like this," she whispered, arms wrapping around herself. "Not now."

"Then when?" He ran a hand through his copper hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. "When is it acceptable for me to admit that I'm in love with you?"

The words hung between them, impossible to take back. Sienna stared at him, her russet eyes wide with an emotion he couldn't name.

"You can't be," she finally said, her voice barely audible.

"Believe me," Sevan laughed, the sound hollow. "I'm as surprised as you are."

She shook her head, backing toward the door. "This isn't what we agreed to."

"No," he acknowledged, making no move to stop her retreat. "It's not."

For a long moment, they stood frozen, the air between them heavy with unspoken words. Then, with a shuddering breath, Sienna turned and fled, the door closing behind her with a quiet click that somehow hurt more than if she'd slammed it.

Sevan stood alone in his chambers, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. He moved to the window, staring out at the moonlit gardens without really seeing them.

"Well done, Vanserra," he muttered to himself. "Masterfully executed."

He should go after her. He should apologise, retract his declaration, pretend it was the wine speaking. He should salvage what he could of their arrangement.

Instead, he poured himself a measure of whiskey and downed it in one burning swallow. The alcohol did nothing to dull the ache in his chest.

He was a fool. A complete and utter fool.

What had possessed him to confess like that? To shatter the delicate balance they'd maintained for months with three reckless words?

The worst part wasn't that he'd said it. The worst part was that he meant it.

Love. The concept had always been abstract to him - something other people experienced, something to mock and dismiss as weakness. Yet here he was, undone by it, hollowed out by the absence of a female who had made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing more than his body.

Sleep was out of the question. His mind raced with every moment they'd shared, analysing each touch, each glance, each barbed exchange for signs he might have misinterpreted. Had he imagined the softening in her eyes when she thought he wasn't looking? The way she lingered sometimes, just a moment longer than necessary?

No. He hadn't imagined it. But neither had he anticipated her fear.

That's what it had been in her eyes - not disgust or pity, but raw, unfiltered fear. As if his love was the most terrifying thing she could imagine.

Given the history of what happened to females who found themselves the object of a Vanserra’s affections, perhaps she was right to be afraid. Sevan found himself, not for the first time that day, cursing his family name, cursing his bastard of a father for raising them in cruelty, cursing his twin brother for going off and dying and leaving him here to deal with the world alone.

And yet, in recent weeks, he had begun to not feel so alone. Eris, Vale, Calix, and even sweet little Elain had made his life that little bit more bearable. And Sienna… she had brought screaming colour to his life, which seemed to be dulling by the second in her absence.

Maybe this was a good thing.

A clean break before he could drag her down with him, before the darkness that seemed to follow his family like a curse could touch her too.

Sevan refilled his glass, the amber liquid catching the moonlight as he swirled it idly. Maybe in time, the ache in his chest would fade. Maybe in a century or two, he'd look back on this night and laugh at his own foolishness.

A soft knock at his door startled him from his melancholy. Hope flared, bright and dangerous, before he ruthlessly crushed it. Probably just a servant with more firewood or one of his brothers come to mock him for his public display with Sienna.

He opened the door, ready with a cutting dismissal, only to find Sienna herself standing there. Her eyes were rimmed with red, as if she'd been crying.

"You're right," she said without preamble. "I am afraid."

Sevan's heart stuttered in his chest. He stepped back, allowing her to enter. "Of what?"

"Everything." She moved past him, her scent enveloping him briefly. "Of you. Of this. Of what happens when it all falls apart."

"Who says it has to?" He closed the door, keeping his distance despite the urge to pull her into his arms.

She laughed, the sound brittle. "Don't be naive. It always does." She paced the length of his chambers, her movements sharp with nervous energy. "My mother loved my father once. Now they can barely stand to be in the same room. My sister loved her husband, and he left her for a younger female after eighty years. Love doesn't last, Sevan. It withers and dies."

"That's not-"

"And even if it didn't," she continued, speaking over him, "even if by some miracle what you think you feel for me is real and lasting, what then? We're not compatible. You're the son of a High Lord, I'm just-"

"Just what?" he challenged, finally moving toward her. "The daughter of one of the wealthiest families in the Autumn Court? A female of impeccable lineage and formidable intelligence? Please, enlighten me on your inadequacies, because from where I'm standing, I'm the one who doesn't deserve you."

She stopped pacing, staring at him with those russet eyes that saw too much. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand." He reached for her hand, relieved when she didn't pull away. "Help me understand why loving you is such a terrible thing."

Sienna's fingers trembled in his. "Because I can't give you what you want."

"And what is it you think I want?"

"Forever," she whispered, the word like a prayer and a curse combined.

Sevan's breath caught in his throat, the weight of that single word pressing against his chest. Forever. She thought he wanted promises, vows, the kind of commitment that bound souls together through centuries. And maybe part of him did. But what he wanted most was far simpler.

"I don't need forever," he said softly, drawing her closer until he could feel the heat of her body. "I just need now. Today. And maybe tomorrow, if you're willing."

Confusion flickered across her face. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that loving you doesn't come with demands." He reached up, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear with gentle fingers. "I'm not asking you to love me back. I'm not asking you to make promises you don't want to keep."

"Then what are you asking for?" Her voice trembled slightly, vulnerability shining through the cracks in her carefully constructed armour.

"Nothing," Sevan said, surprising himself with the truth of it. "I'm not asking for anything you're not ready to give."

He watched the emotions play across her face - disbelief, confusion, the faintest glimmer of hope quickly extinguished by fear. It hurt to see how deeply she distrusted love, how convinced she was that it could only end in pain.

"That's not how this works," she insisted, though she made no move to pull away. "You say you love me now, but eventually you'll want more. You'll resent me for not being able to give it to you."

"You don't know that."

"I do." She pulled her hand from his, wrapping her arms around herself. "I've seen it happen."

Sevan felt a flare of frustration. "I'm not your father, or your sister's husband, or whoever else has disappointed you. I'm me."

Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “And I’m engaged, Sevan.”

Sevan's world tilted on its axis.

"What?" The word escaped him as a whisper, his voice unrecognisable even to his own ears.

"I'm engaged," Sienna repeated, each syllable like a dagger between his ribs. "My father arranged it months ago. The contract was finalised yesterday."

The room seemed to shrink around him, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. "To whom?" he managed, though he wasn't sure he wanted the answer.

"Lord Fabian."

Of course. The male she'd been speaking with at dinner just last week. The male whose lingering touch had made Sevan's blood boil with jealousy.

"I see." He stepped back, needing distance, needing to think through the roaring in his ears. "And when were you planning to tell me this rather significant detail?"

"I wasn't." Her honesty cut deeper than any lie could have. "This - us - it was never supposed to be more than physical. You weren't supposed to fall in love with me."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "My apologies for the inconvenience."

"Sevan-"

"When is the wedding?" he interrupted, his voice cold.

She flinched. "The week after Winter Solstice."

Eight weeks. Mere weeks until she belonged to another. The thought made something primal and possessive rear up inside him.

"And do you love him?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

"That's not relevant."

"It's the only thing that's relevant." He moved toward her again, unable to stay away despite the pain clawing at his chest. "Do you love him, Sienna?"

"No," she admitted, the word barely audible. "But that was never part of the arrangement."

"And what about us?" Sevan gestured between them. "Was this just a last indulgence before you resigned yourself to a loveless marriage?"

Her silence was answer enough.

"I see." He ran a hand through his copper hair, fighting for control of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. "Well, congratulations, I'm sure you'll make a lovely bride."

"Don't be like that."

"Like what?" His voice rose despite his efforts to remain calm. "You've been fucking me for months while engaged to another male. How exactly am I supposed to react?"

"The engagement wasn't official until yesterday," she protested weakly.

"But you knew it was coming." It wasn't a question. "You knew, and you still came to my bed. You still let me fall for you."

"I didn't ask you to fall for me!" Tears spilled down her cheeks now, her composure finally cracking. "I warned you not to!"

"As if love is something that can be commanded or controlled." He laughed, the sound hollow. "Gods, Sienna, for someone so intelligent, you can be remarkably obtuse."

Sevan turned away from her, unable to bear the sight of her tears. His chest felt hollow, as if something vital had been carved out with a dull blade. The whiskey decanter caught his eye, and he poured another measure with unsteady hands, downing it in one burning swallow.

"I should go," she whispered behind him.

"Yes," he agreed, not turning around. "You should."

He listened to her footsteps retreating, to the soft click of the door as it closed once more. Only then did he allow himself to break, hurling the empty glass against the wall where it shattered into a thousand glittering pieces.

The sound was satisfying, but the relief fleeting. He sank into a chair, head in his hands, trying to make sense of the wreckage of his heart.

Engaged. To Lord fucking Fabian of all people. The male was twice her age, with a reputation for cruelty that rivalled even Beron's. She would wither under his control, her fire slowly extinguished until nothing remained of the fierce, sharp-tongued female Sevan had fallen in love with.

The thought was unbearable.

A knock at his door interrupted his spiral into despair. Hope flared, bright and dangerous, before he ruthlessly crushed it. Not her. She wouldn't return, not tonight.

"Go away," he called, not bothering to mask the roughness in his voice.

The door opened anyway, revealing Vale standing in the threshold, his amber eyes taking in the scene with calculating precision.

"Bad night?" his older brother asked mildly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Sevan snorted. "What gave it away? The broken glass or the stench of misery?"

"Both, actually." Vale moved to the sideboard, producing two fresh glasses and pouring a measure of whiskey into each. He handed one to Sevan before taking a seat across from him. "I saw Lady Sienna leaving. She looked upset."

"Did she?" Sevan took a sip, letting the alcohol burn a path down his throat. "How unfortunate for Lord Fabian."

Vale’s eyebrows rose slightly. "Ah. So you know."

Sevan's head snapped up. "You knew?"

"I make it my business to know everything that happens in this court," Vale replied with a shrug. "The engagement was finalised yesterday. Father has been pushing for the match - it secures the northern border and brings a substantial dowry."

"How pragmatic," Sevan muttered, draining his glass. "I'm sure she'll be deliriously happy."

Vale studied him over the rim of his glass. "You're in love with her."

It wasn't a question. Sevan didn't bother denying it. Why bother? He was just a male in love with a female who was promised to another. How disgustingly ordinary his tragedy was.

"Doesn't matter now, does it?" He reached for the decanter again, refilling his glass with unsteady hands. "She made her choice."

"Did she?" Vale leaned back, watching him with those perceptive eyes that missed nothing. "Or was it made for her?"

Sevan's eyes narrowed, a bitter laugh escaping him. "You clearly don't know the lady if you think anyone makes decisions for her." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

"She chose to tell me tonight," Sevan said, the words like ash in his mouth. "After I told her I loved her."

Vale winced. "Shit timing."

"Indeed." Sevan drained his glass again, welcoming the burn. "Though I suppose there's never a good time to tell someone you're fucking that you're engaged to another male."

"What will you do now?"

The question hung in the air between them. What could he do? She was promised to another - a match sanctioned by both her family and his father. Even if he wanted to fight for her, even if he was willing to risk everything, what right did he have to demand she do the same?

"Nothing," Sevan finally said, the admission tearing something vital inside him. "There's nothing to do."

Vale studied him with uncharacteristic gentleness. "That doesn't sound like you."

"The old me would have schemed and manipulated," Sevan said, setting his glass down with careful precision. "The old me would have found a way to ruin Fabian, to break the engagement, to force her hand."

"And the new you?" Vale prompted.

Sevan stared into the dying embers of the fire. "The new me respects her enough to let her go."

Vale's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. "Well, fuck me sideways. You really are in love."

"Eloquent as always, brother." Sevan leaned back, exhaustion settling into his bones like an old friend. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to drink myself into oblivion in peace."

Vale hesitated, then rose with unexpected grace for someone of his size. "For what it's worth, I've seen the way she looks at you. That's not the gaze of a female who feels nothing. You've been pushing for Eris to pursue how he feels for Elain - perhaps it's time you took some of your own advice."

After Vale left, Sevan sat motionless, his brother's words echoing in his mind. The way she looks at you. What did that even mean? What good were looks and lingering touches when she was promised to another?

Was Sienna even worth fighting for? Even knowing she might never love him as he loved her?

The answer came without hesitation: yes.

He stood abruptly, decision made. He'd go to her, convince her that what they had was worth more than an arranged marriage, more than duty or obligation. He'd offer her choice - real choice, not the illusion her parents had given her.

But as he reached for his coat, a realisation stopped him cold. He couldn't go to her like this - half-drunk and desperate. She deserved better than his reckless impulses. She deserved a plan, a real alternative to the future her parents had mapped out for her.

Sevan sank back into his chair, mind racing. If he was going to do this, he needed to do it right. He needed allies, resources, and most importantly, he needed to be sober.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would begin to fight for what he wanted. For who he wanted.

Because for the first time in centuries, Sevan Vanserra had something worth fighting for.

Chapter Text

The package arrived on the morning of Elain's birthday, wrapped in emerald paper and tied with a golden ribbon that glinted in the early light. She hadn't expected anything from the Spring Court - certainly not from Tamlin himself. Relations between the courts remained delicate, tenuous threads that could snap with the slightest tension, though she supposed she had sensed a budding camaraderie between them when she and Eris had visited a couple of weeks ago. 

Elain's fingers trembled slightly as she untied the ribbon. Inside lay an assortment of seeds, each variety tucked into small paper envelopes labeled in elegant script: moonflower, bleeding heart, autumn crocus. Beneath them rested a perfect dandelion, its delicate sphere of seeds somehow intact despite what must have been a journey across courts.

How curious, she thought, lifting it carefully. By all rights, it should have scattered its seeds during transit, yet it remained pristine. It must be some kind of magic, a small smile playing at her lips.

A folded note accompanied the gifts, sealed with the Spring Court's insignia. Elain broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

Lady Elain,

I hope this finds you well on your birthday. Feyre once told me of a curious human custom - blowing dandelion seeds to make a wish. After everything, you made me want to start wishing again. I thought perhaps I might return the favour.

May your garden continue to flourish.

Yours,

Tamlin

Elain read the note twice, tracing her finger over the words. It was unexpected, this glimpse of vulnerability from the High Lord who had caused her family such pain, yet had suffered so much himself.

She had slipped away from the Forest House after breakfast, avoiding her hosts' watchful eyes. The Autumn Court's perpetual crimson and gold splendour still took her breath away, even after weeks here.

She found a small clearing not far from the property, where tall grasses swayed in gentle breezes and wildflowers poked their heads through the autumn foliage. Settling herself atop a fallen log, Elain carefully extracted the dandelion from her pocket, marvelling again at how it had remained whole.

The soft sphere rested in her palm, each seed a tiny possibility waiting to be released. What should she wish for? Peace between the courts? Her sister's happiness? The mastery of her still-unpredictable visions?

Elain closed her eyes, letting the warm sunlight caress her face. Since arriving at the Autumn Court, her powers had begun to flourish under careful training. No longer did the visions leave her disoriented and frightened. Now, they felt like whispers of possibility rather than shouts of inevitability.

And then there was Eris.

Her heart quickened at the mere thought of him. His amber eyes that bore into her own with such warmth, the sardonic curl of his lips when he found something amusing, the unexpected gentleness in his hands when he'd carried her to her chambers on Samhain.

Now, sitting in the field with the dandelion balanced delicately in her hand, Elain knew exactly what she wanted to wish for. Not just Eris himself, but the freedom for both of them to choose their own paths, their own futures - together, if that's what they wanted.

She lifted the dandelion to her lips, drew a deep breath, and blew.

The seeds scattered, dancing on the autumn breeze, spiralling upward in a pattern that seemed almost deliberate. Elain watched them float away, carrying her wish across the gilded landscape of the Autumn Court.

"Is that some sort of exotic fertilisation technique I'm unaware of?" a familiar voice drawled behind her. "Blowing seeds to the wind rather than planting them properly? How delightfully rebellious."

Elain startled, nearly slipping from her perch on the log as she turned to find Sevan Vanserra leaning against a nearby oak, arms crossed over his chest. Sunlight caught in his copper hair, turning it to living flame against the backdrop of autumn foliage. His amber eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Sevan," she acknowledged, smoothing her skirts. "I didn't hear you."

"Few do," he replied with a lazy grin. "One of my many talents. Though I must say, watching you perform secret botanical rituals in our woods is far more entertaining than whatever tedious meeting I just escaped."

Heat rose to Elain's cheeks. "It wasn't a ritual. It was a wish."

"A wish?" His eyebrows shot up, and he pushed away from the tree, sauntering closer with that predatory grace all the Vanserra males seemed to possess. "Do tell. What could the lovely Elain Archeron possibly need to wish for? You've already bewitched half the court - my eldest brother included."

"It's an old human custom," she explained, ignoring his comment about Eris. "You blow on a dandelion and make a wish as the seeds scatter. One seed for each wish."

"And how many wishes was that?"

"Just one." She met his gaze steadily. "But important enough to need all of them.”

Sevan dropped onto the log beside her, close enough that she could smell cinnamon and cloves on his skin. "So… what did you wish for?”

"Wishes don't come true if you tell someone."

"Another charming human superstition," Sevan laughed, the sound rich and melodic. “Alright, let me guess. Wealth? Power?" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Or perhaps a way to convince my brother that his ridiculous notion of duty shouldn't keep him from your bed?"

"That's not-" Elain sputtered, her blush deepening. "You shouldn't say such things."

"Why not? It's painfully obvious to anyone with eyes. Eris has been positively tolerable since your arrival. Some might even mistake him for happy."

Elain looked away, focusing on the dandelion stem still clutched in her fingers. "He's made it clear nothing can happen between us," she said quietly, still not meeting his eyes.

"Yes, my brother excels at denying himself happiness. Yet he's always watching you," Sevan continued, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I caught him staring at you during dinner last night - nearly set his napkin on fire."

Despite herself, Elain laughed. "You're terrible."

"I'm delightful," Sevan corrected, nudging her shoulder with his. "And you're avoiding the subject."

"There is no subject to avoid," Elain insisted, but her lips curved upward.

"Whatever you say," Sevan replied, rising to his feet with fluid grace. He offered her his hand. "Come, birthday girl. I've been instructed to escort you back to the Forest House. Apparently, there's some sort of small gathering planned - though I've been sworn to secrecy on pain of having my favourite hunting bow snapped in two."

Elain groaned. "I thought I requested explicitly to avoid any celebration," she said, but accepted Sevan's hand. His touch was warm, like all the Vanserra males, though lacking the electric spark she felt whenever Eris's skin met hers.

"You did," Sevan confirmed cheerfully. "And Eris tried valiantly to honour your wishes. But then Vale got wind of it, and you know how he loves any excuse for merriment."

Elain couldn't help but laugh, her eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. As they walked through the golden woods, she found herself relaxing in Sevan's company.

"Don't worry," Sevan continued, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch and holding it aside for her. "Mother promised it’ll be a small affair - just us, Lysa, and Mirelle. If it becomes unbearable, I've identified no fewer than ten excellent hiding spots throughout the Forest House. I'd be happy to show you all of them." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

"I'm sure you would," Elain replied dryly. "And I'm equally sure your brother would set your hair on fire if you did."

"Which brother? I have so many, and they all want to set my hair on fire for various reasons."

"You know which one," she teased, feeling her cheeks warm despite her attempt at nonchalance.

Sevan's grin turned positively wicked. "Ah yes, our illustrious heir who glowers every time another male so much as breathes near you. Tell me, has he given you the tiresome 'duty before desire' speech yet? It's one of my favourites."

"Several times," Elain admitted, stepping over a fallen log. "Along with 'complicated political situation' and 'dangerous alliance.'"

"Excuses, excuses," Sevan sighed dramatically. "I've never understood why people make things so complicated. If you want something, take it." He plucked a perfect crimson leaf from a nearby branch and tucked it behind Elain's ear. "If Eris weren't my brother, I'd have swept you off your feet by now."

"Would you, now?" Elain challenged, surprising herself with her boldness. These past weeks in Autumn had changed her - or perhaps simply revealed a part of herself that had always existed beneath the gentle exterior. "And what makes you think I'd let you?"

Sevan's eyes widened with delighted surprise. "The kitten has claws! I knew there was fire beneath that sweet façade." He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's always the quiet ones who surprise you the most."

"Perhaps I'm full of surprises," Elain said, lifting her chin slightly. The forest around them seemed to brighten in response to her mood, the autumn colours more vibrant, more alive.

"I have no doubt," Sevan replied, squeezing her arm gently. "Now come along before my brother sends out a search party. He's been insufferable all morning, rearranging your gifts at least six times."

"Gifts? I told everyone not to-"

"As if that would stop anyone in this family," Sevan finished with a laugh.

A flutter of something warm curled in Elain's stomach. "You all didn't need to go to any trouble."

"Oh, but we wanted to," Sevan said, his voice uncharacteristically sincere. "I think that's what terrifies me most."

They walked in companionable silence for several minutes, the Forest House gradually coming into view through the trees. Its elegant spires and sweeping architecture seemed to grow organically from the landscape, as if the forest had decided to fashion itself into a palace.

"Sevan," Elain said suddenly, stopping him with a gentle hand on his arm. "What did you mean earlier, about Eris denying himself happiness?"

Something flashed in Sevan's eyes - a rare moment of seriousness beneath his perpetual amusement. "My brother has spent centuries playing a role, crafting an identity designed to keep him alive in our father's court. I'm not sure he remembers who he truly is anymore." He shrugged, his usual carefree demeanour returning. "But he's different with you. More... himself."

She smiled at him, unsure what to say - what she could say that would convey how his revelations made her feel. "Thank you for the escort," Elain offered, genuinely grateful for his company despite her misgivings about the celebration.

Sevan bowed with exaggerated flourish. "My pleasure, Lady Elain." As he straightened, his expression softened into something more sincere. "And happy birthday. I hope your wish comes true - whatever it might be."

Chapter Text

The air Under the Mountain tasted of ash and decay, cloying and thick in Calix's lungs as he stood before Amarantha's twisted throne. Her slender fingers drummed against the armrest, red nails clicking like the mandibles of some monstrous insect. Calix kept his head bowed, not out of respect but necessity. Looking into those dead eyes for too long was a mistake he'd only made once.

"Calanmai approaches," Amarantha said, her voice like poisoned honey. "I want you to attend and report back in detail.”

A flicker of irritation passed through Calix, too quick to suppress. "You want me to babysit the High Lord?"

She smiled wider. "Quite. I want to know every move, every scheme." Her long tongue darted out to wet her lips. "You and your brothers are becoming lazy here. You could use some air."

Calix dared a sideways glance at the figure lounging in the shadows near the dais. Jet-black hair, violet eyes, the posture of a man who’d already won every game before it began. Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, stood obediently next to his cursed mistress.

"I’m not your spy.” He couldn't help himself, nodding his head towards Rhysand. “Isn't that usually your pet's job?"

He barely saw Rhys move, a slight twist of his fingers, and Calix’s mind was being held in a vice-like grip. He dropped to his knees, palms splayed on the cold stone.

His mother always did say he never knew how to keep his mouth shut. Turns out she was right.

"Careful, Vanserra. That is no way to speak to the Lady of the Mountain.”

Amarantha, of course, only laughed. "Would you like to try that again, fireling?" she purred.

Calix gritted his teeth. "Apologies, my lady. I am at your service."

"Good." She turned her attention away from him as if he were a broken toy, already plotting her next amusement.

"You'll leave at dawn. Make sure the Spring Court sees you, Calix. I want Tamlin reminded of what waits for him here, should he fail." Her smile was a wound. "And if your brother gives you trouble, remind him of his place." She punctuated her warning by tapping the ring on her finger - the one that contained Jurian’s eye.

The memory of Lucien's screams as his own eye was carved out flashed through Calix's mind. His youngest brother had always been soft, but even he had been in awe of the courage - or perhaps stupidity - he had shown when challenging the queen herself. Amarantha had made them all watch. She had delighted in his pain, in their collective helplessness. Calix had vowed then that he would never give her reason to take similar interest in him.

But then again, Vanserras did not have an excellent track record of keeping their vows, hence his current predicament. Rhysand finally released his grip, the pain receding with nauseating slowness. Calix staggered up, pride as battered as his body.

He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack. The bitch queen and her games. Nearly five decades of serving her whims, of watching his family, his whole court suffer under her rule. He imagined, not for the first time, how satisfying it would be to wrap his hands around that pale throat and squeeze until those cruel eyes bulged.

Instead, he said, "As you command, My Queen." The words tasted like bile.

"Dismissed," Amarantha said, and he understood she meant for all of them to go, this audience concluded. Rhysand offered a shallow bow and drifted away, shadow trailing him like a living thing. Calix followed, jaw set.

Outside the throne room, the corridor was empty but for a few cringing servants and the muffled echoes of distant screams. Rhysand waited, arms folded, expression unreadable.

“Enjoy yourself in there?” Calix sneered.

Rhysand’s gaze slid over him, assessing, as if he were a specimen under glass. “You’re lucky she finds your insolence charming. Most would not survive it.” The High Lord's voice was soft, but there was steel beneath the silk. “But then again, what should one expect of a brute with more brawn than brains?”

Calix held his glare, matching Rhysand’s intensity. "Speaking of which, if you ever touch my mind again-"

"You’ll what?" Rhysand’s smile was bright as a blade. "Burn me? You could try. Oh, that’s right," he murmured, as if recalling a half-forgotten detail. “You don’t have any powers left, do you.”

Calix bared his teeth in a parody of a smile. “Yeah, well, at least I didn’t fuck my way to keeping them.”

A lazy shadow flickered over Rhysand’s hands. "You should try it sometime," he said, flashing a canines-bared grin. “Better to be between her legs than beneath her heel, don't you think?”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. This fucking prick. Rhysand was the sort who made you want to shatter your own teeth just to drown out his voice.

His hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to send a jet of flame right down the High Lord’s throat. But there was nothing left to kindle, only embers and scorched pride, so he settled for a glare that could have melted iron. “Maybe if you spent less time on your knees and more time growing a spine, you’d have something to show for it.”

Rhys’s eyes flashed, a flaring violet that cut through the corridor’s gloom. “Careful, my lord,” he said, and this time the amusement was gone, stripped to acid. “You’re not the only one with loved ones in the line of fire. Next time, mind your tongue, or I’ll have it for my collection.”

Rhysand’s laughter echoed down the corridor, dark and effortless, as he glided away - gods, even the fucker’s stride was smug. He was everything Calix despised about the Night Court - pretty and poisonous, so slick with his own cleverness that not even the blood of a thousand innocents could stain him.

And after this long Under the Mountain, he was sure the High Lord’s victims exceeded the number tenfold.

He rolled his shoulders, still half-dazzled from the aftershock of Rhysand’s little mind trick. The shivering sense that something essential had been scraped raw inside him, left to sting in the open air. He’d endured worse, but never learned to like it.

Calix waited until the echo of Rhysand’s boots had faded, then turned his back to the throne room door and pressed a fist to the nearest wall, hard enough to leave a faint imprint in the ancient stone. A servant scuttled past, refusing to meet his eyes, and he almost pitied the wretch. Almost.

His mind was spinning, already tallying the favours and debts that would be called in tomorrow. Calanmai. He would have to play nice with that self-serving court whose only punishment was wearing masks, while the rest of them were left to suffer at Amarantha's mercy, or lackthereof. 

Calix spat onto the floor, the metallic taste of magic still thick on his tongue. He had work to do before dawn.

At least the mission was simple. Get to the Spring Court for Calanmai. Watch Lucien, watch Tamlin. Report back. Don’t get noticed. Don’t get killed.

Simple.

The journey to the surface was a blur of dark tunnels and subtle gasps from the few Fae unfortunate enough to cross his path. Fuck the bitch’s orders, he wasn’t waiting to leave. Not when it was the first time she'd seen fit to let him above ground. 

He winnowed until the flames deposited him at the borders of Spring. His knees nearly buckled as he raised his face to the sky.

Stars. Cauldron boil him, there were stars overhead.

For forty-eight years, seven months, and thirteen days, Calix had lived in darkness. Not that he kept count. Much.

He stood transfixed, head tilted back, drinking in the vast expanse of night sky like a man dying of thirst. The stars were brilliant pinpricks of silver against velvet black, countless and overwhelming after so long beneath stone and earth. A cool breeze caressed his face, carrying scents he'd almost forgotten. Flowers, earth warmed by day and cooling in darkness. His eyes nearly watered at the thought. 

"By the Mother," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion he would never admit to feeling.

The border of Spring Court sprawled before him, a riot of greenery even in darkness. Flowering vines draped over trees, their blossoms luminous in the moonlight. In the distance, lights glimmered - towns and villages full of people living their lives, not stuck underground like the rest of them.

Calix inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with clean air. No stench of fear, no metallic tang of blood, no cloying perfume hiding the rot beneath. Just... life. Growing things. Freedom.

For one dangerous moment, he considered running. The thought was as fleeting as it was foolish. Amarantha's reach was long, her vengeance terrible. And he had no illusions about what would happen to those left behind if he disappeared. Eris would pay first. Then his other brothers. Then anyone who had ever shown him kindness. Gods forbid the bitch queen turned her attention to their poor mother…

"Get a hold of yourself," he muttered, shaking his head to clear the traitorous thoughts. He needed to focus. But first, he needed to wash away the filth from his time Under the Mountain.

Calix tracked the sound of rushing water to a small river cutting through the Spring Court territory. Fading moonlight danced across its surface, the water clear enough to reflect the stars. He hesitated only a moment before stripping off his leathers, letting them fall in a heap on the mossy bank.

The cold water hit his skin like a shock, but Calix welcomed it. He dove beneath the surface, scrubbing at his skin and hair with handfuls of sand from the riverbed, as if he could scour away the memory of Amarantha's wretched court along with the grime. When he finally emerged, gasping, he felt almost like himself again - or at least, the version of himself he remembered from before.

Calix floated on his back, staring up at the night sky. Tomorrow was Calanmai. Fire Night. The Great Rite. One of the most sacred rituals of the year, when magic surged through the land, renewing it. Before Amarantha, before everything went to hell, he'd attended a few of these celebrations. They were wild, primal things - dancing and feasting and fucking.

In the distance, he could see the preparations. Massive bonfires were being constructed on the hills. Even from here, he could make out tiny figures hauling wood, working through the night, eager to please their High Lord. From his vantage point, Calix could just make out the glittering white stone of Tamlin’s manor, standing stark against the lush landscape.

He dragged himself from the river, water streaming from his muscled form. The cool night air raised gooseflesh along his arms as he considered his options. Should he approach the manor now, announce his presence to Tamlin as a supposed emissary? Or wait until tomorrow, blend into the revelry, observe from the shadows?

Calix snorted, shaking water from his dark hair. The thought of playing nice with Tamlin, of bowing and scraping to the beast who wore a High Lord's power - who had murdered his brother, Aldric, in cold blood - made his skin crawl. The Spring Court lord was nothing but a puppet now, dancing to Amarantha's tune while pretending he still had any real autonomy.

"Pathetic," he muttered, reaching for his clothes.

A bitter laugh escaped him as realisation struck. Was this how Rhysand felt during his occasional reprieves above grass? This hollow freedom, this temporary taste of a life beyond Amarantha's control? The High Lord of the Night Court was permitted to leave her side more often than most, allowed to visit his lands, breathe free air.

But at what cost?

Calix's lip curled in disgust. He might despise the Night Court lord for many reasons, but even he couldn't deny the horror of Rhysand's position, however willing he pretended to be. To lie with that snake, night after night, to perform for her amusement while the entire court watched. The rumors of what happened in Amarantha’s bedchamber turned even Calix's stomach.

He pulled on his breeches with sharp, angry movements. His skin still felt clean from the river, but his thoughts had turned as murky as the waters Under the Mountain.

For a moment, he thought about seeking Lucien out. After all, he had not seen his brother since the unfortunate incident with his eye. But that would mean speaking to Lucien, who hated him for what happened with Jesminda. And Calix had enough of hatred of late.

In truth, the less he interacted with Tamlin and his court, the less chance of revealing his own disgust at the entire charade. How did they sleep at night knowing they were free while everyone else was suffering under Amarantha’s cruel thumb?

Not wanting to give the notion too much thought, Calix settled against the trunk of a massive oak, its branches providing cover while still allowing him a clear view of the valley below. Tomorrow, he would join the throng of fae and courtiers who always flocked to Calanmai. Another face in the crowd, unremarkable despite his Autumn Court colouring. Tonight, he would savour this rare taste of freedom, brief as it was.

Drums thundered across the hills as Calanmai descended upon the Spring Court. Calix moved through the sea of bodies, his face an impassive mask while his amber eyes missed nothing. The fires blazed high into the night, casting everything in a flickering orange glow that reminded him too much of home, of the birthright that was stripped from him when Amarantha took their powers.

All around him, Spring Court fae danced and drank and laughed, their faces alight with joy and anticipation. It grated on his nerves. How dare they celebrate so openly while the rest of Prythian suffered? While his own people withered Under the Mountain, these pampered courtiers twirled beneath the stars, drunk on their borrowed freedom.

"More wine, my lord?" A serving girl appeared at his elbow, her eyes downcast.

Calix waved her away with a grunt. He needed his wits about him tonight.

The crowd parted, and there was Lucien, his copper hair gleaming in the firelight, that mechanical eye whirring as he scanned the throng. Behind him strode Tamlin, bare-chested and painted with blue spirals that pulsed with ancient magic. The High Lord of Spring moved with predatory grace toward the altar where the stag he had caught awaited.

"Coward," Calix muttered under his breath. If Tamlin had half the spine of any Autumn Court male, he'd have found a way to endure the role of Amarantha's consort. Instead, he hid behind his borders while the rest of Prythian suffered under her cruel rule.

The crowd fell silent as Tamlin raised his knife. The ceremonial blade flashed in the firelight before plunging into the stag's heart. Blood spilled onto the altar, dark and viscous. Magic surged through the gathering as Tamlin absorbed the sacrifice, his eyes glowing with otherworldly power.

Calix watched with undisguised contempt as Tamlin turned toward the line of females who had gathered near the mouth of the sacred cave. They stood in various states of nervous anticipation, each hoping to be chosen for the Great Rite. Some wore elaborate gowns that must have cost a fortune, others simple shifts that left little to the imagination.

"Lucky bastard," Calix muttered, taking a deep pull from his flask. At least one of them would experience pleasure tonight. Under the Mountain, such indulgences were rare and dangerous.

The females were all beautiful in their own way - some ethereal and poised, others wild and free. But there was something unsettling about the whole ritual. The way they lined up like cattle at auction, hoping to be chosen by a male who barely looked at their faces. The way the magic compelled both hunter and hunted into a coupling that had nothing to do with choice.

And then it hit him.

The magic of Calanmai slammed into Calix like a physical blow, nearly driving him to his knees. His flask slipped from suddenly trembling fingers. The world around him blurred, sounds becoming muffled as if he'd been dunked underwater. His skin burned, every nerve ending suddenly alive and screaming. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. He was here to observe, not take part.

"What the fuck," he gasped, clutching at his chest where his heart hammered violently against his ribs.

His vision sharpened, the world coming into hyper-focus. Colours intensified, scents multiplied. The crowd of revellers, previously just a sea of bodies, suddenly became individuals - each face distinct, each movement precise. And then his gaze was pulled, as if by an invisible thread, away from the line of females awaiting Tamlin's choice.

There, standing apart from the revelry, half-hidden in the shadow of a flowering dogwood.

A female. High Fae, with hair the colour of wheat in sunlight and eyes like cornflowers. She wore a pale blue dress that floated around her slender form as if woven from the morning mist itself. Unlike the others who preened and posed, she seemed to be trying to disappear into the background, her delicate hands clasped tightly before her.

The sight of her pierced through Calix like an arrow - precise, painful, and impossible to ignore.

Who was she? Why was she here, alone and withdrawn, when most females her age would be jostling for a chance at being chosen by their High Lord for the Great Rite? More importantly, why did the sight of her make his blood roar in his ears, drowning out the drums and revelry around him?

The magic pulsed through him again, more insistent this time. His feet began moving before his mind caught up, carrying him through the crowd toward her like a predator stalking prey. Fae scattered from his path, sensing something dangerous in his posture, in the feral gleam of his amber eyes.

He was halfway to her when realisation struck. This - this pull, this need - was reserved for Tamlin during Calanmai. The compulsion to hunt, to claim. But why was Calix feeling it? Why now, after centuries of attending these rituals without incident? Sure, he fornicated, but it had never felt this compulsive.

The female looked up, sensing his approach. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked across the distance - cornflower blue meeting burning amber. Something like recognition flickered in her gaze, though Calix was certain they'd never met. He would have remembered her.

Then fear replaced that flicker of recognition. She took a step back, then another, her blue dress swirling around her like water. Before Calix could reach her, she turned and fled, disappearing into the dense crowd.

"Wait," he called, the word sending him lurching into motion. She was running from him. And something primal inside him loved the chase.

Calix pushed through the crowd, ignoring the indignant cries as he shouldered past revellers. His senses had narrowed to a single focus - her. The scent of her led him forward even when he lost sight of her blue dress in the throng.

The magic of Calanmai thrummed through him with each heartbeat, a drumbeat of need that drowned out rational thought. He followed her trail away from the main celebration, past the sacred cave where Tamlin would soon claim his chosen female, into the shadowed gardens that surrounded the Spring Court manor.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended. The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do to her, only that he needed to catch her, to see those blue eyes up close, to discover why the magic had singled her out.

A flash of pale blue between flowering bushes betrayed her position. Calix changed direction, cutting through a hedge to intercept her path. He emerged from the foliage just as she ran past, and his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her slender wrist.

The contact was electric. Heat raced up his arm, and he heard her gasp - whether in fear or something else, he couldn't tell. He pulled her to him, her body colliding with his chest. She was small, delicate against his hardened warrior's frame. Up close, her scent was intoxicating, like wild flowers and freshly fallen rain. The epitome of the court from which she so clearly hailed with her fair complexion.

"Let me go," she whispered, her voice trembling. She kept her face turned away, but Calix could see the rapid pulse at her throat, the way her chest rose and fell with quickened breaths.

"Look at me," he demanded, loosening his grip just enough that she wouldn't bruise but not enough to escape. "Why are you running?"

She finally raised her eyes to his, those cornflower blues wide with a mixture of fear and something else - curiosity, perhaps. Her lips parted, and she drew a shaky breath.

"I-" Her voice shook, but she pressed on, as if the admission might itself offer absolution. "I only wanted to see what it was like. I never meant to-"

Calix’s grip slackened further, his mind spinning. She didn’t sound like any of the painted, perfumed courtiers in the crowd. There was no coyness, no calculation. She was genuinely terrified. Or maybe, like him, she just didn’t know what to do with the force of the magic.

He loosened his hold, enough to let her slip away - but she didn’t. Instead, she shivered against his palm, lifting her small chin until her gaze met his full-on.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she said quietly, the syllables almost lost to the wind. “There was a dare, and-” Her nostrils flared as if to swallow down her pride. “I lost. My sisters. They said I would never do it.” A bitter laugh. “Now I see why.”

Calix stared, nonplussed. He’d seen fear, yes - plenty - but this was another animal entirely. Not the brittle terror of a court lady risking her reputation, nor the hysterics of a sheltered fae thrust into debauchery. It was a steady, raw defiance, as if she’d already weighed her fate and found it wanting.

He found himself bemused, even intrigued. “A dare,” he echoed, unable to keep derision from his tone. “You're braver than you look to venture out tonight of all nights.”

She blinked, the blue of her eyes sharp as a blade. “Is it bravery, if I want nothing more than to run?”

Gods, she was beautiful.

He swept a hand through his hair, buying a moment while he got his breathing under control. “You could’ve just said no to your sisters, you know.” The words came out softer than he intended.

A flash of wryness. “You must not have sisters, my lord,” she said.

He snorted. “Brothers. And they’re worse.” He let the words hang, not explaining why. She took them at face value.

She bit her lip at that, a quick, involuntary thing. “I should go,” she murmured, eyes darting toward the noise and light of the festival, but Calix could feel her pulse thrumming where his hand still encircled her wrist.

He could have let her go. Could have turned and melted back into the crowd and left her to pick her way through the gardens, through the long, lonely night. But the magic didn’t wane. If anything, it doubled down, hunger crawling beneath his skin, insistent and predatory.

He realised, with a start, that she felt it too. He could see the flush climbing her throat, the tremor in her hands. She was afraid of him, yes, but not only that.

The magic wanted them closer. It wanted skin on skin, lips on lips. It wanted him to take her, here and now, in the dew-damp grass beneath the stars. For a moment he thought he might let it - might let this wild, terrified girl be the salve for his own wounds.

No. That’s not why you’re here. Reign it in, for fuck’s sake.

Calix stepped back, releasing her wrist and granting her space. “You should go,” he parroted back to her, voice raw. “Before the magic gets any worse.”

She blinked at him. The spell of the chase fracturing, just a hairline crack, as if she hadn’t expected him to let go. For a beat, neither moved.

Then she gathered her dress in trembling fists and made to step away. But the magic - cruel, binding thing - it did not let her go easily. She stumbled, catching herself on a twisted bough, and looked back at him over her shoulder. He saw, in that unguarded moment, a yearning so deep it made his own bones ache.

Calix drew a slow breath, fighting the heat simmering in his gut. He could leave her. He should. But something in her look rooted him to the spot. That stubborn little tilt to her chin.

And before he could stop the words tumbling from his lips, he asked what her name was.

“I’m Grier,” she said, so quietly it was almost a confession.

He stared. “Grier,” he repeated, testing the name on his tongue and finding, to his surprise, that he liked it. Liked it more than he had any right to.

Grier took another hesitant step. "And you are...?" She let the question hang, as if she doubted he would answer.

He considered lying. By all rights, he should - every instinct, every lesson, every scrap of caution from Under the Mountain screamed at him to be nobody. But he found himself saying, “Calix Vanserra.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Recognition, maybe, or fear. But instead of recoiling, she only nodded. “You’re Lucien’s brother.”

The name of his youngest brother hung between them like a barbed hook. Calix's jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching beneath his skin. Of course she would know Lucien. The fox-masked emissary was Tamlin's right hand, after all.

And yet the words stung more than he let on. Not just Lucien’s brother. Calix was a prince in his own right, second-in-command of Autumn’s armies. Or would be again, if Tamlin could somehow muster enough charisma to charm an unwitting human female into loving him.

Based on what he had witnessed of the stoic High Lord, the chances of that happening were slim and they were all fucked.

But he let it slide. “That’s right.” His tone made it clear the subject was done.

She lingered in the garden, her arms crossed tight over her stomach. She watched him the way a wounded animal watches a trap - wary, but with the unshakable knowledge she had nowhere safer to run. For a long time, neither spoke. Every so often the wind shifted, bringing the wild music of the celebration up from the valley, and both of them flinched, the hunger in the air as sharp as any blade.

He looked at his hands, flexing them. The phantom heat of her wrist lingered on his skin, impossibly delicate. “This is your first Calanmai, isn’t it.”

She nodded.

“Aren’t you supposed to be locked up with the rest of the good little daughters?”

She tried to smile, found she couldn’t. “I couldn’t let my sisters win,” she admitted. “Even if I see now that it was clearly a mistake.”

He considered her a long time. “You should be careful, Grier. The magic’s dangerous. So are the males.”

“I know.” She took a shaky breath, the kind that wanted to be a laugh and failed somewhere in her chest. “But it’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

He followed her gaze. Upward, to where the smoke of the bonfires curled into the starlit sky. He had to admit, it was. Even here, even now, with the world crawling with monsters, some things could still be beautiful.

Calix found his mouth curving upwards, almost in spite of himself, as he wondered what it would be like to see her in another context. Not a trembling slip of a thing, but a creature of her own desires. Had she ever known what it was like, to want for herself? Did she want him now as much as he wanted her, his blood singing for just a taste of her touch?

“You should go back,” he said, softer this time. “There’s a tonic - honey and willow bark. If you take it before, the magic won’t hit you so hard next time.”

She nodded, though she lingered. To his surprise, she did not run. Instead she stepped closer.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You don't want to let your sisters win. Not even now.”

He closed the last of the distance between them. “Tell me what they dared you.”

She ducked her head, the corner of her mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. “They dared me to… to kiss someone. Before midnight.” The admission cost her, if the flush creeping up her throat was any indication. “They said I’d be too scared, too proper. That I’d just stand in the shadows and watch while everyone else…” She trailed off, but the shape of it hung in the air.

While everyone else drank, and danced, and fucked.

Calix let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a snarl. “That’s it?” He thought of the parties in Autumn, the reckless dares his brothers made - blood oaths and shattered windows, drunken brawls. A stolen kiss was nothing.

But for her it was everything. He saw it now: the trembling in her spine, the set of her jaw. The way her hands twisted in the fabric of her dress, pulling it taut across her hips. Her sisters must have been merciless.

He looked at her again, really looked, past the quiver and the fear. She was pretty, yes, but not the porcelain beauty the Spring Court prized. Grier’s features were a touch too sharp, her lips a little too wide, her blue eyes too intent.

He should not. Calix knew that, just as surely as he knew that Amarantha would flay him for even a fragment of this kindness. But her bravery demanded answer.

He bent, just enough that she could have stepped back, turned away, refused him.

She didn’t.

Instead, her lips brushed his, soft and unsure. It was the barest touch, a whisper of contact, but it sent a jolt through him that was as much hunger as it was surprise. When she pulled back, he caught her gaze, saw the shock in her eyes - the realisation that it hadn’t been half as terrible as she’d imagined.

He could have left it at that. But the magic, and something deeper, held him fast.

He bent his head, cupped her jaw in one hand, and kissed her properly.

She gasped, her fingers tightening in his shirt. It was clumsy, sweet, and entirely unpracticed, and Calix had to bite back a groan at the way her lips parted for him.

When he broke the kiss, he kept his hand on her cheek, thumb stroking her skin as if smoothing out a crease in the world.

He smiled, for real this time, the expression surprising even him. A distant roar cut through the night - Tamlin, no doubt, completing his part of the ceremony. The magic surged in response, nearly sending Calix to his knees. And he knew that if she didn’t leave now, he would never let her go.

“Go home, Grier,” he said. “You’ve won.”

She smiled, small and secretive, and he recognised in it a kind of pride that made his chest ache.

She turned to leave, her feet picking their way lightly through the tangled undergrowth, but she stopped after only a few steps and looked back. Her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders, a halo of pale gold in the firelight.

“Will you come again next year?” Grier asked, the question trembling with both hope and uncertainty.

He paused, his tongue thick in his mouth. There was every chance he’d be dead by then, or simply forbidden from ever setting foot outside that wretched hell-hole again. And yet, the thought of never seeing her - never matching wits, or gazing into those cornflower blue eyes - made something in his ribcage go raw and desperate.

He looked away, fixing his gaze on the distant bonfires. “If I can, I will.”

She nodded, as if that was the answer she expected. Grier’s hand drifted up, fingers brushing the skin of her own lips, as if to confirm the kiss had really happened. To his astonishment, she grinned - a mischievous, reckless thing, utterly at odds with her trembling minutes before.

“Then I have a dare for you, Lord Calix,” she said, voice gaining strength in the shadowed garden. He waited, his mouth gone dry at the way she said his name. “Next year, if you’re here - find me. Catch me again.”

She twirled on her heel and vanished into the night before he could think of a reply, pale hair and blue gown melting into the darkness. He could have followed her - should have, every muscle in his body ached for the chase - but he stood rooted, the taste of her still clinging to his mouth.

Calix let out a long, shuddering breath, raking a hand through his hair. Foolish girl. She had no idea who he was, what he was. Didn’t know she’d just teased a wolf and left him starving for more. He should have scared her properly, sent her running for her sisters with a story that would keep her away from males like him until the end of days.

But he hadn’t. And now, for reasons that made no sense at all, he wanted to see her again.

Eventually, he turned back toward the revels, squaring his shoulders. He let himself disappear into the chaos, letting the music and the bodies and the scent of sweet wine and sweat mask whatever longing still lingered.

He remembered his mission only when he caught sight of Lucien, standing at the edge of the bonfire, his gaze darting always to the edge of the crowd, as if haunted by ghosts.

He could still be useful tonight - could still do as Amarantha commanded. There were plots to overhear, secrets to steal. He found a vantage at the edge of the revel, where wine and gossip flowed freely, and let the old habits take over. He watched Lucien, smiling at Tamlin’s side as if nothing had ever hurt him. He watched Tamlin, resplendent and vacant, his movements mechanical, haunted. And he watched the others - priestesses and courtiers, alike, all of them playing at joy while the real power lay rotting Under the Mountain.

The night wore on, the fires burned lower, and the music softened to a kind of melancholy. Calix drifted through the fringes of the celebration, collecting rumours and gossip, storing them in the back of his mind. A few females tried to catch his eye, but he brushed them off with practiced indifference, their painted faces suddenly uninteresting in comparison.

He filed every word, every lie, away for later. He did his duty.

When the first light of morning crept over the fields, he slipped away, leaving what remained of the celebration behind.

He didn’t look back until he reached the river where he had bathed the night before. The water ran cold and clear, and he let it wash the last of the magic from his skin.

He could still feel Grier’s touch, the ghost of her breath against his jaw. He closed his eyes, sealing the memory away. He would need it, in the long months to come.

He dressed quickly, making for the border. He had a report to deliver, and a queen to keep at bay. But as he winnowed back toward Under the Mountain, Calix found himself already counting down the days.

If you’re here, find me.

He had a dare to keep, after all.

Chapter Text

A year passed in a haze of blood and smoke and the slow, rotting crawl of time Under the Mountain. Calix barely bothered to keep count anymore. He kept himself busy, taking on the most suicidal missions Amarantha's court could spit at him, as if by dying in service he’d spite her by denying her the pleasure of breaking him in person. Somehow he didn’t die, though. Perhaps he was too stubborn or too mean, or just too stupid, as even his father and brothers often allowed.

He lasted until a week before Fire Night before volunteering for the next mission. None of his brothers called him on it, but Eris' left eyebrow did twitch in the direction of a smirk when Calix announced his intent. As if to say, you’re not fooling anyone, little brother.

Eris could fuck right off. He wasn’t sure his eldest brother even knew how to feel, and he certainly wasn’t about to be judged by him for daring to cling onto the last shreds of his own tortured heart.

Calix had thought she was the fool then, but here he was, skirting around the bonfires and immediately scanning the crowd for a flash of gold hair or blue fabric.

She’d likely forgotten him already, or married into a nest of Spring Court nobility and was now busy popping out spoiled, pretty little heirs. He didn’t need her. He would do his job, collect his intelligence, and maybe - maybe - just catch a glimpse, a scent, a memory. Something, anything, to keep him sane for the next year.

The magic was weaker this year. Either the curse had drained more from the land, or he’d built some tolerance to its seductions. He could walk the edges of the celebration without feeling the old, bone-deep hunger. Could watch the fae rutting in the grass without wanting to tear off his own skin.

And yet, he prowled along the outer circle, eyes peeled, but not a hint of Grier.

His heart did an uncomfortable flop, which he pretended was merely indigestion. Maybe she’d come to her senses. Maybe she was tucked up safe in her ancestral manor, making polite conversation and pretending she’d never been so reckless as to dare the Fire Night again. Maybe he was an idiot for remembering a single trembling kiss for a whole fucking year.

The ceremony began, as it always did. Tamlin’s big show: the hunt, the ritual kill, the brooding High Lord painted in blue whorls, stalking up to the altar with grim determination.

He imagined, not for the first time, taking Tamlin’s pretty face and shoving it into the altar’s slab until neither magic nor divine mandate could pull it free. But he kept his feelings to himself, swallowing them with the bitter dregs of borrowed Spring Court wine.

While the High Lord performed the sacrifice, Calix continued to search and search, but the crowd yielded only strangers.

He even circled the perimeter twice more, his mood blackening with each fruitless turn. The magic pulsed dull and insistent at the base of his spine, a drumbeat that mocked his every step.

When the line of maidens was assembled for Tamlin’s selection, Calix almost didn’t bother looking. The girls stood in a shimmering row, each more absurdly lovely than the last, decked in silks and petals and the kind of nervous expectation that made his skin crawl.

The High Lord made a show of walking the line, pausing here and there to sniff, to gaze, as the magic within him searched for the perfect maiden to complete the ritual with.

But then, Calix’s gaze snagged on a figure so familiar he felt the wind knocked from his chest. Grier, hair tied into a loose braid trailing down her back, dressed in a gown of white this time instead of blue, her hands twisted around a sprig of forget-me-nots. She stood a head shorter than the others, and was plainly trying to shrink herself further, as if hoping invisibility might be granted to the desperate.

He had to stop himself from wading through the crowd right then and there. Instead, he found a position near the altar, arms folded, eyes fixed on her.

Calix stared, so hard he was surprised she didn’t wither under it, and waited for her to notice him. But her head was down, in reverence or shyness, he couldn’t tell. Across a gulf of bodies and magic and a year of brutal longing, Calix waited. And then, at the last, she looked up.

Their eyes met. That impossible blue, the same as last year. She did not flinch, did not smile, but her eyes widened and she stood taller, hands fisting at her sides.

Calix’s lips twitched in answer. There you are.

He lost track of anything else happening, barely aware of Tamlin striding down the row, his presence as subtle as a falling axe. But then the High Lord slowed as he reached her, nostrils flaring.

For a moment, Calix thought Tamlin would pick her - he saw, in the flick of green eyes, the same pulse of desire that had caught him a year ago - but then Tamlin bristled, confusion flickering across his golden features. As if repelled by something, he ducked his head, lips drawing into a frown, and moved on.

Calix exhaled slowly, pulse thundering. He realised, in that instant, he’d been prepared to intervene - to start a row, to ruin the ceremony, to draw every eye if Tamlin laid a hand on her.

Grier’s own lips parted, a quick, incredulous breath escaping her as her eyes caught Calix’s once more, only this time her gaze was sharpened by something he hadn’t seen before: mischief. She tilted her head, the corner of her mouth curving into a smirk so sly it was almost a dare all by itself.

He grinned, all teeth. She hadn’t just shown up... she’d signed herself up for the main event.

Calix continued to watch her as the line dwindled and the chosen female was led away by the High Lord, the rest of them dismissed, left to seek what company or comfort they could in the chaos of the night.

He very nearly didn’t go to her. It would have been easier, less painful, to walk away. Instead, he prowled across the meadow, each step measured, heart beating a traitor’s rhythm.

Grier stood her ground. No trembling, this time. She watched his approach, arms still folded, a smile barely peeking through. “Here for the party, my lord?” she asked, voice low. “Or were you hoping to catch some other unsuspecting maiden?”

Calix tried for a sneer but it fell apart as she smiled, wider, the real thing now. “You're braver than last time.”

She shrugged. “I had a whole year to practice.”

A moment passed where he thought he might scoop her up and carry her off into the woods - let the night swallow them, damn the consequences. Instead, he stuck his hands in his pockets, awkward for the first time in decades, and looked away.

“You didn’t have to come, you know,” he managed at last. “Not for a dare.”

“I didn’t,” she said. “Not this time.”

He sucked in a breath, sharp as frost. She stepped closer, the moon painting her features silver and wild.

“I was hoping I’d see you,” she said, matter-of-fact, as if it was the only logical reason she’d come to Calanmai at all.

Her honesty nearly ruined him.

He swore under his breath, but it didn’t scare her - it only made her smile wider, the slight gap in her front teeth showing. And gods, he wished he could have bottled the way that made him feel, light and weightless and utterly suspended in time.

He reached for her, one hand tangling in the white fabric of her sleeve. “You shouldn’t want this,” he told her, voice gone hoarse. “Ritual or not. I’m not some storybook hero.”

She laughed, a real, bright sound. “Good,” she said. “I’d rather have you, anyway.”

He stared at her, stunned, unable to recall a single moment when anyone had meant those words and addressed them to him.

Calix pulled her close, and her hands wrapped around his neck like a memory made flesh. She didn’t taste like magic, this time. She tasted like herself, sweet and tart and alive. He hadn’t realised how hungry he’d been until she kissed him back, open and fearless, as if she’d been waiting for it her entire life.

She was bolder now, but not reckless, her eyes dancing with calculation as she traced a finger along his jaw, daring him to do something about it. The music of the festival had faded to a distant hum behind them, leaving only the blood-rush thrum in his own ears and the soft sound of her breath.

He bent to kiss her again and this time she did not tremble. Her lips parted immediately beneath his, tasting of honeyed wine and clover, and the touch was as electrifying as a jolt of autumn lightning. Fire Night, indeed. The hunger that had knotted inside him for a full year - gods, for a lifetime if he was being honest with himself - spilled up and out in a rush, and he found himself pressing her back through the tall grass, the soft sweep of her body yielding and eager against his own.

Around them, the world carried on: laughter, singing, the distant yowling of some poor fool already lost to the hangover that would clutch him by dawn. But here, at the edge of the wild and the cultivated, Calix tasted a kind of peace he hadn’t known he craved. Grier’s hands tangled in his hair, and she pulled him down for another kiss, biting at his bottom lip with a ferocity that made him almost laugh.

“You really have been practicing,” he accused, breathless, when she finally let him up for air.

Her eyes glittered with satisfaction, but she only shrugged, as if that explained everything.

He decided not to waste time arguing with a female who so clearly knew what she wanted. He let his hands slide down to her hips, cradling her as if she were something precious - and maybe she was, in a world that had precious little gentleness in it. Her body was all delicate bones and soft curves, pressed close enough to feel the erratic thump of her heart. When she reached for the laces of his shirt, Calix stopped her with a gentle hand.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice gentler than he’d meant it.

She didn’t answer, only pressed her palm to his cheek and drew him down with a certainty that left no room for doubt. And after that, it was just the two of them - her mouth, her hands, her back arching against the mossy ground. His name, a breathless exhale lost in the wind. He went slow, reverent, as if he could memorise every shiver and gasp and startled hitch of her breath. She surprised him, again and again, how she met him touch for touch, never shying away from the hunger in his eyes.

When he finally entered her, it was slow and careful, and the sound she made - half pain, half pleasure - almost broke him in half.

He wanted to be rough, to rut her into the earth and leave her marked for days, but instead, when he moved inside her, it was with every scrap of gentleness he’d ever denied himself, every touch a question, every answer met with a moan or a whispered yes. The world narrowed to the cocoon of her arms, the lush green of the leaves overhead, the heat and thrum of their bodies together. It was not the frantic, desperate coupling he was used to. It was slow, and exquisite, and unlike anything he had ever known.

At the end, when she cried out and clung to him, Calix pressed his lips to her temple and let himself fall apart in her name, burying his face in her hair so the world would never see him broken.

When it was over, she curled into his side, head tucked beneath his chin, and for a long time neither of them spoke. The magic was still there, but it was quieter now, contented and sleepy, humming in their joined skin.

He might have drifted off, lulled by the soft sound of her breathing, but then Grier reached up and traced a finger along his jaw, her touch feather-light. “Next year,” she whispered, not a question but a promise.

He looked down at her, at the blue eyes now darkened and rimmed with gold from the firelight. The sight speared through him, sharp and sweet.

“Next year,” he echoed. “And every one after that.”

She smiled, and something in his chest cracked open, a fissure that ran deep as the centuries. He thought he might die, right there.

Calix had never believed in the stories his mother used to tell, of fated bonds and souls twining through time. But as Grier held him, her body soft against his, he felt it - a silver thread, pulling tight, unbreakable and eternal. Mate.

He had never feared anything so beautiful in all his life.

Three months had passed since Calanmai. Three months of darkness and torment Under the Mountain. Three months of Calix avoiding thoughts of cornflower blue eyes and wheat-coloured hair. Three months of pretending that night had been nothing but a dream - a brief respite from the nightmare his life had become.

Amarantha's revel was in full swing, the cavernous hall filled with courtiers trying desperately to curry favour. Calix stood against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching the pathetic display with thinly veiled contempt. Fae who had once been proud now simpered and grovelled at her feet. High Lords reduced to pets. It made his stomach turn.

A flickering shadow resolved beside him, and Calix looked sideways to see Eris, resplendent in blood-red velvet, sipping his wine as if the air didn’t reek of death and misery.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Eris said, voice pitched low.

“Almost as much as you, brother.” Calix’s eyes nodded towards Sevan, who was huddled by the drinks table, two High Fae females hanging off his arms. “But certainly not as much as Sevan.”

Eris’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement. "At least he doesn’t have to pretend." He reached into his jacket, withdrawing a sealed letter. "This arrived for you."

Calix frowned, taking the folded parchment with a frown. No one ever wrote to him.

The paper was fine, expensive but the seal unfamiliar, featuring a pressed sprig of forget-me-nots, blue petals still intact. Blue like-

He felt the room contract around him. He broke the seal, hands surprisingly unsteady, and unfolded the note.

It was brief, written in a hand that tried for elegance and settled for determination.

His eyes scanned the first line, and his heart slammed against his ribs. He read the entire letter once. Twice, his mind refusing to process the words even as they branded themselves into his memory.

For several heartbeats, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The cavern around him faded away - the revellers, the music, Amarantha on her stolen throne -  of it dissolved into a distant blur at the news Grier had just delivered.

She was with child. His child. Growing inside the female he'd spent three months trying to forget. His…

No. He would not allow himself to even think that word. It would be the equivalent of a death sentence for him, for her, and for whatever fragile life bloomed of their doomed coupling. What had he been thinking? Did none of them learn after what happened to Lucien and Jesminda, or Aldric and Havren?

Calix saw first-hand what the death of his mate did to the Winter Court male, and it wasn’t pretty. To even think the word, to acknowledge the possibility that that’s what this was, was tantamount to signing up for the same exact heartache, and he would not – could not – allow that to happen. Not for himself, for he was no stranger to suffering. But to her.

"Bad news?" Eris asked, his voice cutting through the fog in Calix's mind.

Calix's head snapped up, his amber eyes blazing with sudden intensity. His fingers crushed the letter, crumpling the expensive parchment in his fist and tucking it into a pocket. “None of your business.”

Eris raised an eyebrow, clearly sensing the shift in his brother's demeanour. "If you say so." His gaze lingered on the spot where Calix had hidden the letter. "Try not to do anything stupid, brother. We have enough problems without you adding to them."

Calix barely heard him. His thoughts had narrowed to a single, burning focus: he needed to get out of here. He needed to see Grier. To protect her and their child from Amarantha's reach.

"I have to go to Spring," he muttered, already pushing away from the wall.

Eris caught his arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "Are you insane?" he hissed. "You can't just leave. She'll notice."

Calix's gaze flicked to Amarantha, who was currently occupied with tormenting some unfortunate lesser faerie for her court's amusement. The female's screams echoed through the cavern, but Calix couldn't focus on her suffering. Not now. Not when his own child's future hung in the balance.

"She won't notice if I'm gone for one night," Calix growled, yanking his arm free of Eris's grip.

“No, but her cronies will, or do you think the Attor is just going to let you stroll out of here?” His brother's amber eyes, so like his own, narrowed with suspicion. "What exactly did that letter say?" Eris demanded, his voice low enough that only Calix could hear.

Calix hesitated, weighing his options. Eris was the only brother he halfway trusted, the only one who'd shown any backbone when Amarantha took power. But trust was a dangerous commodity Under the Mountain.

"I have never asked anything of you, brother," Calix said, his voice rough with an emotion he rarely displayed. "I need to get out of here, just for one night."

Eris's expression shifted from suspicion to surprise. In nearly five decades of Amarantha's rule, Calix had never begged, never shown weakness - not even when the red-haired bitch had ordered him flogged for some imagined slight.

"One night," Eris repeated, studying his brother's face. "What in the Cauldron's name could be so important to risk your life?"

"I met someone," Calix said finally, the words scraping his throat like broken glass.

"You're fucking with me," Eris said, the words more accusation than question.

Calix only stared.

The awkwardness grew - a great, hulking thing, too imposing for even Eris’s ironclad composure. He waited for the punchline, for the sly smile and the inevitable reveal. Instead, Calix’s silence hung there, brittle and absolute.

"You're not fucking with me," Eris said after a time, shoulders sinking as if this, finally, was the blow to break him.

Eris's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flickering across his normally controlled features. For a moment, he looked like he might laugh, but something in Calix's expression stopped him.

"Tell me you didn’t," Eris said at last. "Gods, Calix. That’s not how this works. You can’t just-"

Eris set his jaw, eyes flicking between Calix’s face and the crowd as if recalibrating his understanding of the universe. “When?”

“At Calanmai.”

“Calanmai,” Eris said, flat and unblinking. “You met someone at Calanmai. You colossal fucking idiot.”

He didn’t hiss it, didn’t snarl. He just said it, blunt as a blade and twice as cold. Calix felt the rebuke in his marrow, but he glared back, daring Eris to push further. Some part of him had always expected to be caught, to be called up before a tribunal of his siblings and tried for high crimes against common sense. Of all the Vanserra brothers, only Eris could make Calix feel twelve years old and stupid again.

“Say it a little louder, won’t you?” Calix gritted, voice low.

Eris just looked at him, face gone blank as polished marble. “Tell me you at least used your head,” he said, every syllable weighted with disbelief. “Tell me you didn’t touch her in front of the whole damned court.”

Calix’s mouth twisted. “It was Fire Night. Spring’s own High Lord was rutting a maiden in the sacred fucking cave, Eris, I doubt anyone noticed me snatching a kiss in the garden.”

Eris barely blinked. “That’s not what I meant.” He took a step closer, crowding Calix against the wall. “You realise what will happen if she finds out. If anyone finds out.”

Calix drew a shuddering breath. “If you breathe a word-”

Eris cut him off. “I would sooner cut out my own tongue. But if you get caught, it’s not just your head on the block. It’s hers. And, likely, mine, if we’re being honest.”

His brother straightened, smoothing his immaculate jacket. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the revel for spies. “I’ll cover for you. But one night, Calix. One.”

Calix exhaled, a slow, rib-crushing relief. “Thank you.”

Eris shrugged, and for a brief moment, he looked every bit the older brother from a lifetime ago, before politics and blood and Beron’s cruelty turned them into strangers. “Get out of here before I regret it. And don’t do anything-” He stopped himself, then shook his head as he began wandering off. “Actually, just don't do anything.”

The moment Eris was out of sight, Calix slipped through a side passage, away from the revel's cacophony. His heart hammered against his ribs as he found a secluded alcove, far enough from prying eyes but still within the Mountain's suffocating embrace.

He withdrew the letter with trembling fingers, reading it once more as if the words might have changed. They hadn't.

A father. He was going to be a father.

Calix closed his eyes, a wave of emotions crashing through him - terror, rage, and beneath it all, a fragile, dangerous spark of joy he couldn't afford to feel.

The faces of his brothers flashed through his mind, followed by his father's cruel smile. The Vanserra legacy of pain and betrayal. And now he would add to it, bringing an innocent life into this nightmare.

He'd never considered fatherhood. Not once in his centuries of existence had he imagined creating life, passing on his bloodline. The Vanserra name was already well-established through his father's numerous sons. His contribution had never seemed necessary.

Yet now, the thought of his child - his and Grier's - growing in her womb filled him with a fierce, protective instinct that threatened to overwhelm his usually calculating mind.

As he walked, he rehearsed how it would go. He would find her, say nothing at all, just stand there until she looked at him the way she had that first night. Maybe she’d laugh at him, or slap him, or tell him she’d come to her senses and wanted nothing to do with an Autumn brute. Maybe the child wasn’t even his - gods, what would he do if that were true?

He shook himself, trying to dislodge his descent into madness. Not now, you bastard. Now is for her.

The village was not far from the border, a sleepy little clutch of houses and gardens, perfumed with lilac and woodsmoke. He snuck through the streets at first, wary of being recognised, but quickly realis ed no one here would know him in the dark. All the windows were shuttered tight, but he could sense the fear that lingered even in sleep. The curse of Amarantha’s reign had infected every corner, even here. He wondered if the Spring folk ever dreamed of freedom, or if they’d resigned themselves to this endless, beautiful purgatory.

The letter had not given an address, but he had not needed one. Some part of him had known which door to knock.

A small cottage sat nestled against the edge of a flowering meadow, smoke curling from its chimney in lazy spirals. Wildflowers dotted the path leading to the door, their colours vibrant against the lush green grass. It looked peaceful. Untouched by the horrors that plagued the rest of Prythian.

He hesitated at the foot of the steps, suddenly and absurdly unsure of himself.

What would he say to her? What could he offer beyond empty promises and fleeting protection? He had nothing to give Grier or their child except danger.

In truth, he could face Amarantha’s whips without blinking, but this - this quiet hope - made him feel sick. He was about to turn away (he had no right, no place here) when the door opened and Grier stepped out.

She wore a plain linen dress, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair caught up in a messy twist. She looked tired, paler than he remembered, but her eyes were bright when they found him. Blue as ever.

She froze when she saw him, one hand flying instinctively to her stomach in a protective gesture that made his chest ache.

"Calix," she breathed, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.

He swallowed, fists knotted at his sides.

“You got my letter,” she said, tentative.

“I did.” He found his voice. “Is it- are you-?”

She held his gaze, fiercely steady. “I’m fine. We’re fine. But I didn’t know if-” She hesitated, the words trembling. “I didn’t know if you’d come,” she finished, voice small but clear.

He wanted to grab the words from the air and crush them, to banish the uncertainty in her eyes. Wanted to rage at the universe that forced this on her, on them, on the child neither of them had planned but both seemed to already be orbiting. Instead he stood there, hands shaking, until he could trust himself not to snap the world in half with the force of his own need.

He nearly laughed, the sound ragged at the edges. “Did you think I'd let anything keep me away?” The words came out too fast, too raw. “I haven’t stopped-” He cut himself off, tempering the truth.

The admission hung between them, gleaming and fragile.

"Would you like to come inside?" she asked, gesturing toward the open door. "I've just made tea."

Such an ordinary invitation, as if he were a neighbour stopping by for a chat rather than a warrior who'd risked everything to see her. The normality of it cracked something inside him.

"Yes," he said simply, closing the distance between them in a few long strides.

Up close, the changes in her were more apparent. Her face had softened slightly, her cheeks fuller. There was a glow about her that had nothing to do with the morning sunlight. Pregnancy suited her, bringing a vibrancy to her features that stole his breath.

Calix stood frozen on the threshold, his amber eyes taking in every detail of her - the slight widening of her hips, the fullness of her breasts, but most of all, the gentle curve of her belly where his child grew. His throat tightened with an emotion he couldn't name.

Grier stepped back to give him space and beckoned him inside.

The cottage was small but welcoming, filled with simple furnishings and touches that spoke of Grier's presence - dried flowers hanging from the ceiling beams, handwoven blankets draped over chairs, the scent of herbs and honey in the air. It felt like a home, not just a dwelling.

Calix lowered himself into a chair at the small wooden table, his large frame making the furniture seem fragile in comparison. His amber eyes tracked Grier as she moved about the kitchen, her movements graceful despite her changing body.

"How far along are you?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion he refused to name.

"Nearly four months," she replied, placing a steaming mug before him. "The midwife says all is well. The babe is strong."

Of course it was. His child would be nothing less than a fighter. Vanserra blood ran hot and fierce, even in the smallest vessels.

"And you?" he pressed, studying her face for signs of distress or illness. "How are you faring?"

A soft smile touched her lips. "I'm well. The first months were difficult - sickness every morning - but that's passed now." She rested a hand on her swollen belly. "I feel him moving more each day."

When her hands slid to rest on her stomach, he covered them with his own, feeling the tiniest swell beneath her dress. “Will it be a boy, do you think?” he asked, unable to disguise the wonder in his voice.

“A boy, yes,” Grier replied. “He’ll have your eyes, I think.” She reached up, touched his cheek, as if checking he was real. “But I hope he’s stubborn like me.”

He let her touch linger, the lightness of her fingers a balm he had not known he needed. Calix, who had once believed himself immune to hope, found it blooming in his chest with the same reckless abandon that had brought him to this doorstep. He drew in a breath, then another, as if each one might steady the tectonic shifts inside him.

"I want to do right by you," he said, voice low. The words embarrassed him, too earnest, stripped bare of the lacquered sarcasm he usually wore like armour. "By both of you."

Grier’s eyes widened, and she blinked hard, as if trying to gauge whether he meant it. He didn’t flinch, which took an altogether different sort of courage than he was used to. This - her, and the small life between them - was utterly terrifying in the best possible way. 

He forced himself to look away, scanning the quiet lane, the shuttered windows. "I’m not good at this," he admitted, hands flexing at his sides. "I didn’t exactly have the best role model. But I’ll try." His jaw flexed as he searched for words that weren’t threats or commands or bitter jokes. "I want you to be safe. I want him to be safe. I don’t want you to regret this."

Her smile, softer now, was tinged with sadness. “Calix-”

He kissed her before she could finish. One night, Eris had said. A single taste of freedom, before the jaws of the Mountain closed again.

He could not keep her forever. He knew that. But he could keep her now.

And so Calix held her. All through the night, he held her as they talked, as she told him how she’d first found out, how her joy was mixed with anxiety, how she wondered at his reaction. And she held him, as he told her of how he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, how receiving her letter had felt like a blessing from the Mother herself, and how he knew she would make an amazing mother.

He made his promise then - to Grier, to their unborn child, and to himself.

He would not be his father.

He would not let despair or violence or the ancient, rotting curse of their bloodline touch this little family. Whatever it cost him, he’d keep them safe.

The next letter was not from Grier’s determined hand, but a different script entirely - shaky, desperate, blotted as if written in haste or with tears. It was from the midwife, though her name meant nothing to Calix. The message itself was concise, almost clinical, yet the meaning behind it carved into him like a blade. The baby was coming early. Grier was weak. A plea for help, for healing, for anything that could stave off the worst.

Calix read it once, then again, hardly comprehending. The ink blurred as his thumb smeared the words. He’d returned from the last mission with half his body torn open - crimson still crusted beneath his fingernails - and nothing had ever frightened him as much as this.

He hunted down Eris and pulled him aside. “I have to go,” Calix said, and heard the break in his own voice. “She needs a healer.”

Eris stared at him, then away, jaw tight. A pause, long enough for Calix to want to shake him. “There’s someone in Dawn,” Eris said, voice low. “A friend. She owes me a favour.” His gaze flicked to Calix’s face, reading the desperation there. “I’ll do what I can to get a message through. But you-”

“I’m going,” Calix said.

Eris closed his eyes, as if pained by the sheer idiocy of his brother’s heart. But he nodded.

“You don’t come back until you’re sure it’s safe,” Eris said. “Unless you want the Attor to string you up in the throne room for the next decade.”

Calix nodded and turned on his heel. He left almost immediately, choosing the longest, most winding path out of the Mountain, trusting Eris to cover his tracks.

He arrived at the cottage well past midnight. The windows flickered with candlelight, and the sound that greeted him as he crossed the threshold was not the thin, keening cry of a newborn, but a guttural moan of pain that made his bones curdle.

The midwife met him at the door, shaking her head before he could speak. “She’s-”

Calix brushed past her, nearly tearing the door off its hinges, and found Grier curled on the floor, drenched in sweat, her body a knot of agony. She looked up when he entered, her eyes wild and glassy.

“Calix,” she said, and tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace. “You made it.”

He fell to his knees at her side and took her hand. It was small and cold, her nails digging into his skin as the next contraction ripped through her. The midwife hovered at the edge of the room, silent, wise enough to know better than to interfere.

Calix pressed his forehead to Grier’s and whispered all the apologies he’d never learned how to say. She shook her head, shivering.

“You’re here,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

He wanted to tell her it would be all right, but he saw the truth in her eyes. The blood pooling beneath her, the pallor of her lips, the way her breathing rattled. He’d been present at enough battlefield deaths to know what the end looked like.

When the pain hit again, Grier arched backward, jaw clenched against a scream. Calix held her, bracing her body with his own, as if sheer force of will could keep her anchored to the world.

The midwife moved in, pressing hot cloths to Grier’s brow, murmuring encouragement as if it mattered. The hours blurred. Calix lost track of the passage of time, of anything except the heat of Grier’s hand in his and the way her grip tightened with each pulse of agony.

By dawn, it was over.

The midwife lifted a squalling, blood-slick child into Calix’s arms, and he stared at the tiny thing, stunned. She was impossibly small, birdlike, and angry at the world. He recognised his own stubbornness in the way she screamed.

Grier, who had collapsed against the bed, smiled faintly at the sound.

A daughter. He - they - had a daughter.

“Let me see her,” she whispered.

Calix brought the child over, knelt, and pressed the bundle to Grier’s chest. The baby quieted, rooting instinctively toward her mother. Grier stroked the downy head with trembling fingers.

“She has your eyes,” Grier said, voice thready. “Just as I’d hoped.”

“She’s perfect, Grier,” Calix replied, and it nearly broke him. “You did it.”

The midwife hovered, a shadow of concern passing over her face. Grier’s eyes were unfocused, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She held the child as long as she could, then looked up at Calix.

Grier herself was too pale, too weak. Where the hell was the healer from Dawn? Maybe if they arrived in time, they could-

“Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise you’ll keep her safe.”

He nodded, tears he would never admit to stinging his eyes.

“Of course,” he said. “No matter what.”

Grier managed a smile, thin as a ghost. “Good,” she said, and then she was gone, her hand slipping from his, her spirit flickering out with the rising sun.

Calix stood there, stunned, unable to comprehend the cold emptiness where Grier’s presence had been. The midwife reached for the child, but Calix drew her close, wrapping his arms around the impossibly small bundle, cradling her to his chest as if she might vanish if he let go.

He did not bury Grier immediately. Instead, he sat vigil through the day and night, holding his daughter, watching the candle flames gutter in the drafts, listening to the tiny breaths and occasional angry squalls. He did not cry. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He simply sat, as if by sheer stubbornness he could will the world to reverse itself.

The next morning, the midwife brought fresh linens and gentle words. Calix ignored her, lost in the endless looping of Grier’s last words.

Promise me.

The midwife cleaned and rewrapped the baby with deft movements. "What will you name her?"

Name her. As if this was a normal birth, a joyous occasion. As if Grier's body wasn't laying cold just feet away.

An old Spring nursery rhyme from when he was a child popped into his mind. What had been the little girl’s name? Demelza.

"Demelza," he said, the name emerging as barely more than a whisper. "Her name is Demelza."

The midwife nodded approvingly. "A beautiful name for a beautiful child."

Calix's eyes remained fixed on Grier's still form as the midwife cleaned and swaddled his daughter. He couldn't bring himself to look away, almost waiting for her eyes to flutter open, for all of this to have been some cruel nightmare. But every now and then, the coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils, a bitter reminder that she was indeed gone and of his failure to protect her.

He laid Grier to rest in the woods behind the cottage, beneath a stand of birch trees. The earth was cold and unyielding, but he dug the grave himself, bare-handed, unwilling to allow anyone else the task.

When it was done, he stood over the grave for a long time, planting a bundle of forget-me-nots atop the fresh mound of earth. How? How was it possible that he could experience such simultaneous joy and grief?

Calix quietly re-entered the cottage and wandered to the makeshift cot where his daughter had been placed.

Demelza's tiny face was peaceful in sleep, her features still swollen and red from birth. A tuft of golden red hair - not quite his shade, not quite Grier's - crowned her head. Calix traced one finger along her cheek, marvelling at the softness of her skin.

"I have to go away for a while, little one," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion he refused to name. "But I will come back for you. I swear it on my life." His throat tightened as Demelza's tiny hand curled reflexively around his finger. "I will find a way back to you. No matter what it takes."

The vow settled into his bones, into his very being - a promise more binding than any magic. This child, this tiny scrap of life, was his. His to protect. His to return to.

"You should say your goodbyes," the midwife said gently. "We must leave soon if we're to reach my sister's home undetected."

Calix nodded, unable to form words. The midwife knew where he was bound and indeed whom he served. Under the Mountain was no place for a child and he would be damned if Amarantha ever found out about Demelza’s existence.

Calix had studied her for a long moment, weighing his options. He had precious few allies in this world, even fewer he could trust with something as precious as his daughter. But what choice did he have?

He pressed his lips to her forehead, breathing in her scent - new and clean and perfect. Memorising it.

When asked why she was helping him, the female simply replied that no child should suffer for the circumstances of their birth.

"But you should know, my lord, my sister's home is not a permanent solution. The child will need her father."

"She'll have me," Calix growled, his arms tightening protectively around the bundle. "This is temporary. Just until I can figure out how to..." How to what? Escape Amarantha's service? Protect his daughter from a world gone mad? Create a safe haven in a land ruled by a sadistic queen?

The midwife nodded, not pressing further. "I'll need something of yours," she said, her voice gentle but practical. "Something with your scent. It will help the child feel secure in your absence."

Without hesitation, Calix shrugged out of his leather vest. It was one of the few possessions he truly considered his own, worn smooth from years against his skin. He handed it to the healer, who wrapped it and tucked it into her rucksack.

The healer stepped forward, hands reaching out for the child. "We must go quickly, my lord," she reminded him softly.

"Wait," Calix said, his gaze falling on the pale blue shawl draped over the chair beside Grier's bed. The same shade as her eyes. He reached for it with his free hand, bringing it to his face and inhaling deeply. It still held her scent - wildflowers and rain, with something uniquely Grier beneath it all.

"This should go with the babe," he said, handing the shawl to the midwife. "She should know her mother's scent, too."

She nodded, carefully folding the soft fabric and placing it in her bag. "I'll make sure she has it always."

Calix looked down at his daughter once more, studying every detail of her tiny face. Would she grow strong? Would she have his temper or her mother’s soft nature?

He vowed to himself he would one day find out. No matter what it took, no matter how long he had to serve that red-haired bitch, he would see his daughter again. Would watch her grow, protect her from the world's cruelties, teach her to be strong.

Calix's jaw clenched as he handed his daughter to the midwife. His entire being rebelled against the action, every instinct screaming at him to snatch her back, to run far from Amarantha's reach with his child in his arms. But he knew that path led only to death - for himself, for Demelza, for anyone who helped them.

He watched as she wrapped Demelza more securely in her swaddling, tucking the tiny bundle against her chest with practiced ease. His daughter didn't stir, exhausted from the trauma of her birth.

"One last thing," he said, reaching for his dagger. The blade gleamed in the dim light as he sliced a lock of his dark hair. "Give her this. So she knows..." His voice faltered. So she knows I exist. So she knows I didn't abandon her willingly.

The midwife accepted the lock of hair, carefully tucking it into a small pouch. "She will know of you, my lord. I promise."

With that, she was gone, taking his daughter and with her, his heart into the pre-dawn darkness. Calix stood motionless in the doorway, listening until the sound of her footsteps faded completely.

He finally had a moment by himself to process what had happened this day. A life for a life. The oldest exchange in the world.

One he would gladly make with his own life, if it ever came to it.

Calix turned away from the door, the emptiness of the lodge pressing in around him like a physical weight. His shoulders sagged with the burden of the last few hours - frantic journey, the desperate hope, the crushing loss.

Two paths stretched before him now. He could return Under the Mountain as planned, continue his charade of serving Amarantha while secretly working to ensure his daughter's future. Or he could run - take Demelza from the midwife and disappear into the wilds of Prythian, spending every day looking over his shoulder, waiting for Amarantha's hunters to find them.

The second path would doom them both.

"Forgive me," he whispered to the empty room, though whether he spoke to Grier or Demelza, he couldn't say.

With mechanical movements, Calix gathered what little evidence remained of his presence. The letter from Grier. The small wooden toy he'd carved since his last visit - a fox that would never find its way into his daughter's tiny hands. The bloodied sheets would need to be burned, the cottage cleansed of any trace that might lead back to him or his child.

When he finally made his way back to the hellhole he called him, he barely registered Eris’s disapproving glare as his eldest brother dragged him into his chambers.

Calix said nothing as he entered, stripping off his jacket and tossing it into a heap. He dropped onto the edge of the bed, hands braced on his knees, head bowed like a male awaiting execution. Perhaps that would have been a small mercy.

Eris paced the length of the chamber once, twice. “You weren’t followed,” he said. “My source says the Attor’s been sniffing for you since dawn, but you lost the tail.”

Calix shrugged. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t say you were an idiot.” Eris stopped a few feet away, considering him. “But you’re acting like one. You should have come straight back. You actions have put-”

Calix barked a laugh, harsh and ugly. “Fuck my actions. She’s dead, Eris.”

His brother’s face didn’t change, but something in him stilled. “The girl?”

Calix looked up. “Her name was Grier.”

Eris nodded, just once, but remained silent for a long time, the only sound the ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece.

Then he crossed the room and, in an uncharacteristic gesture, put a hand on Calix’s shoulder. It was heavy, grounding.

“I’m sorry,” Eris said, and for once, there was no edge in it. Just the truth.

Calix glanced up at his brother, searching for the inevitable judgment. But all he saw was a reflection of his own grief, stripped bare and ugly.

“She was more than just a girl,” Calix said, voice hoarse. “She-” He stopped, unable to say it.

But Eris was not a fool. He finished it for him.  “She was your mate.”

Calix let out a breath, slow and ragged. “Yeah.” His lips twisted, more pain than humor. “Lucky me.”

Eris looked away, jaw clenched. “I won’t tell anyone,” he said quietly. “Not even mother.”

“Thank you,” he said, as relief and regret warred inside him. 

They sat in silence a while, the weight of it pressing down on both of them, until at last Eris said, “You should rest. The bitch will have work for us soon, and you look like hell.”

Calix managed a faint smirk. “Why bother? You're the pretty one.”

Eris snorted, but didn’t disagree. He stood, pausing at the door. “Get cleaned up. Tonight we drink.” His voice softened. “For her.”

Calix nodded, once, and waited until the door closed before letting the grief out, slow and quiet, until the stone walls could hold it for him.

Only when the candles burned low did he slip a hand beneath his pillow, fingers closing around the tiny fox he’d carved for his daughter. He held it tight, knuckles white, and whispered a promise into the darkness.

Someday.

Chapter Text

Lucien made it two corridors and one winding staircase before the adrenaline ran off, the pain in his hand and in his heart flooding in all at once.

He expected to feel triumphant, having finally landed a blow on Eris, but instead… Well, it was like punching a mountain. Eris had taken the hit and barely flinched, and the look in his brother’s eyes had not been anger, but a kind of relief. Maybe they'd both needed it, the blood and the finality, something simple to mark the end of a story neither of them had wanted to write for themselves, or each other.

He took a long, meandering path through the house, avoiding servants and sentries with the ease of someone who'd once known every secret passage and blind spot in the place. He needed air, needed to get outside before he drowned in the pressure of it all - the ache in his hand, the roiling in his gut, the way Elain's voice sounded around the letters of his brother’s name… The way it grated him that it never sounded that way around his own.

He'd been fool enough to think she’d asked him to come home for anything good. As he circled the gardens, flowers he knew she loved seemingly taunting him, he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, mind stuck on a single, stupid refrain.

She doesn’t want you. She never did. She wants him.

He wasn't angry at her. Not really. It was the universe's twisted sense of humour that stung the most. That for all the fate and magic and prophecy, all it took was his brother to make him irrelevant. That was the real trick, wasn't it? Always being a day late, a coin short, an afterthought tacked onto someone else’s story.

He’d imagined himself as the kind of male who, upon learning his mate had chosen someone else, would stoically wish her well and move on with quiet dignity. He’d prepared a hundred variations of that parting, thinking it inevitable when he learned of her affections for the Night Court’s spymaster. He’d envisioned the wry smile, the tight embrace, even the clever, gallant quip that would let her remember him fondly. In none of those scripts did he ever once deck Eris in the jaw.

But then again, his eldest brother did always have that coming.

He could have gone to the tree house, or found a bottle of whiskey and a high window, but instead he went to one of the other places where he had spent most of his adolescence, hiding from Beron and all the ugly politics of Autumn.

The stables were empty save for a single groom, a thin, skittish male who barely looked old enough to shave. He bowed low as Lucien entered, but Lucien waved him off and wandered down the line of stalls, trailing his unbruised hand over warm flanks and soft noses.

He stopped in front of his chestnut stallion, Otto. Lucien scratched the horse’s mane, muttering nonsense under his breath, and the animal butted him in the shoulder, hard enough to nearly topple him.

"Easy, boy," Lucien said, steadying himself. "You're not the only one who wants to kick something today."

He stood there for a long while, letting the familiar sound of the animals and the sweet, grassy stink of hay fill the blank spaces in his head.

Eventually, he noticed the stablehand still hovering nearby, throwing anxious glances in his direction, as if expecting Lucien to start breaking things. Lucien straightened, dusted off his hands, and nodded to the boy. "You got a name?"

The boy looked surprised to be addressed. "Jorry, my lord."

"Jorry," Lucien repeated, trying it out. "Take good care of this one for me, would you? He bites, but he means well."

Jorry nodded, eyes wide as saucers. "Yes, my lord. I will."

Lucien made for the door, stopping only when he heard the boy’s timid voice. “Are you… are you alright, my lord?”

Lucien looked back, surprised to find the question didn’t sting. “No, Jorry,” he said, “but I will be.” He forced a smile, and for the first time all morning, it almost felt real.

He wandered deeper into the woods, not in any hurry, not dreading what came next. The air helped, the movement, the reminder that the world outside had not stopped just because his heart had found a new and spectacular way to break. The slight twinge of pain his hand was grounding, almost welcome.

The bond hummed quietly at his ribs - present, but no longer sharp. No longer certain. Just a note he couldn't place in a song he no longer recognised.

The Cauldron had chosen her for him.

But Elain had chosen Eris.

And wasn’t that the deeper magic, the crueler truth? That all this time, the bond had felt like a thread, pulling him forward - but maybe it had only ever been his thread. One he’d been dragging behind him, tangled and fraying.

He couldn’t believe that Eris had truly asked him if he would still help kill Beron, after he’d given his brother his word.

Lucien laughed once, sharp and humourless. Of course he would. Beron was still a monster. That hadn't changed.

The bastard who'd murdered Jesminda. Who'd sicced his sons on Lucien like hounds after a rabbit. Who'd made his mother - a woman of infinite grace, deserving of everything good - live like a caged bird for centuries. Who had nearly ended Eris once. Who still clung to his court like a parasite, draining it dry with cruelty and paranoia.

No, their betrayal - if it even counted as one after all was said and done - didn’t undo the reasons Lucien wanted Beron dead.

…But perhaps, Lucien thought as he wandered the woodland paths behind the Forest House, it was time to stop measuring his life in what he wasn’t. Stop counting himself as what was left over - by Beron, by his brothers, by Elain and fate and every justice the Mother had failed to deliver. Maybe it was time to try want on for himself, if only as a private experiment. There was a kind of dignity in standing up again, even if it was only to brush off the dirt.

He watched the pale sun slide through the turning leaves, felt the press of late-autumn rot under his boots, and let the silence settle his thoughts. The bond with Elain was quiet now, no longer a razor at his sternum, just a faint ache - like the memory of a healed wound. He wondered if it would always be there, a ghost of what might have been, or if eventually the world would fill in the shape she had carved out of him. He suspected the latter. If there was one thing Lucien Vanserra had learned, it was that even the worst pain could become just another part of the landscape, given enough time and distance.

He told himself not to blame Eris. Not to blame Elain. But in the quiet moments, it was himself he blamed most - blamed for wanting something as foolish as a happy ending, blamed for believing that fate could ever be more than a slow-motion disaster. He had thought himself immune to self-pity, but now he found himself wallowing in it, and resented his own weakness most of all.

The thing was, he didn’t truly hate his brother. How could he? For all Eris’s cruelty, his pettiness, his penchant for ambition, he was still the only one of them who had ever seen Lucien - really seen him, even if just to mark the flaws. The only one who had ever fought for him, even if it meant fighting him. In a way, Lucien thought, it made perfect sense that Eris would be the one to end up with Elain. A beautiful, impossible thing doomed from the start. That was their family’s style, after all.

He wandered until his legs ached and the anger guttered out, until all that was left was the low-grade ache of disappointment and the stunned hush that followed every loss. He found himself in a secluded glen, the rush of a nearby stream healing to drown out his thoughts.

It was then that a small upturned stone caught his eye. His feet moved toward it before he even registered the motion, but it was the name carved into it that brought him to his knees.

Jesminda.

He knelt at the grave for a long time, at first unable even to touch the stone. The carving was rough, but careful. Someone had taken the time to gouge each letter with a craftsman’s precision, then gone over it again and again until her name stood out, stark as a wound, against the lichen-furred granite.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the J softly. For a moment, Lucien could not breathe. It was not just a marker. It was a monument to everything she had been: the way she laughed, unafraid; the way she danced barefoot on the grass; the way she’d once told him that the sun only ever shone for them.

No one had told him she’d been buried at all. He’d always assumed, in the harrowed hollow of his heart, that Beron had left her for the crows, or burned what was left of her to ash. But here she was, beneath the earth and the roots of these old trees, in the woods she had loved, with the moss and the wild violets she used to pick and wear in her hair.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Mostly, he wanted to crawl into the ground beside her and never rise again.

But the ache was too great. It was as if a hand had reached through his chest and squeezed until there was nothing left but the hollow, and the memory, and the wrathful longing for what should have been.

He pressed his forehead to the stone, lips moving in a prayer he did not remember learning, and let the silence swallow him. He recalled the first time Jesminda had ventured this close to the Forest House. She’d been wary at first, of everything - of his brothers, his father, of being spotted by a guard…

But by the end of that day, she’d taken his hand and led him deeper into the tangle, laughing as she wove a band from maple leaves and crowned herself as queen of the forest.

Lucien blinked, breath shuddering out of him. Even now, even after all these years, he could see her - bare feet on the moss, hair wild, smile undimmed by fear. He always wondered if a small part of her knew, even then, that she was living on borrowed time.

That the price of loving him was always going to be blood.

And yet, she loved him anyway.

He let her memory fill him, as it always did when the world grew too heavy. The sound of her laughter. The sharp, cindery taste of her kisses. The way she had called him “Fox” and rolled her eyes at his every attempt to impress her. He let himself remember the night they’d lain together, bare to the moon, and promised that nothing - not death, not distance, not even the cruelty of his father - could change what they were to each other.

Well. They’d been wrong about that, hadn’t they?

He spoke to her, then.

He told her about Elain, about the bond that had felt like a shackle and a miracle in equal measure, about the moment he’d realised it wasn’t enough. That she would never choose him, no matter how long he waited, no matter how many times he told himself to just be patient. He told Jesminda about the anger and the humiliation, and about the strange clarity that followed.

He told Jesminda about Jurian. About those late nights by the fire, the three of them drunk on mulled wine and mutual disgust for the world. About how Jurian, for all his eternal bitterness, had never once judged Lucien for his failures, had never once made him feel small for caring too much. About how Jurian was the first friend he’d made in a hundred years who made him feel like he belonged somewhere.

He told her about Vassa, too, though he didn’t have the words for what she meant to him. Not yet. He told her about the way Vassa could make him laugh even when he wanted to break things, about the way she always found him when he tried to hide, about the way she swore in half a dozen languages and never once made him feel like a disappointment.

He told her how sometimes the three of them would sit on the roof of the manor and talk until dawn, and how, in those rare moments, Lucien had almost - almost - believed he could be happy again.

He did not know how long he knelt there, fingers pressed to her name in the stone. For the first time in years, the tears came. Not the hot, blinding tears of rage or humiliation, but a low, constant leak, as if the body had finally surrendered its last pod of resistance. He let them come, because he owed her that much, and because there was nothing left to do but let the sorrow run its course. When it was done, he wiped his face on his sleeve and lay with his back in the soft grass beside her grave, the cold of the earth seeping up through leather and flesh alike, and stared at the canopy, the last leaves of autumn fluttering down in lazy spirals.

He thought of Elain, her face pinched with regret, the way her hand trembled as she’d reached for him. He thought of Eris, eyes flat with pain even as he took the punch without a flicker of protest. He thought of all the ways he’d failed those around him - Jesminda, Elain, himself. But in the slow, drowsy hush that followed his tears, he found he could not hate either of them. The world had never been kind to people who chose their own happiness, and maybe, in the end, that was what he resented the most: not that they had found something impossible together, but that the one time he’d been brave enough to do the same, it was taken from him in the cruelest way.

He looked up through the branches at the sky, grey and heavy with the promise of later rain, and tried to imagine what Jesminda would have said about all this. Probably something clever - something sharp but not unkind. She would have laughed, maybe, to learn that the great and terrible Vanserra brothers were now plotting to kill their father and that Lucien himself would be on the front lines, not as a pawn but as a key piece in his own right.

He could hear her voice, as clear as if she sat beside him, sighing at his self-pity. “So do something about it,” she would have said, never one to coddle. And maybe he would. Maybe this time, for her, he’d try.

He lay there until the numbness turned to hunger, until the ache in his hand reminded him that he was, in fact, for better or worse, still alive.

Lucien stood, dusted himself off, and pressed his palm to the stone in farewell. “I’ll see you again, Jes,” he promised. “Not too soon, I hope, but soon enough.”

As he walked back towards the Forest House, his thoughts went back to the human queen.

Her laughter when Jurian said something ridiculous. The quiet way she always stood beside him on long walks, not touching, but close enough to warm the air between them. How she never asked about the bond. Never looked at him like she was waiting for something he couldn’t give.

A hundred times, he’d almost leaned in and kissed her, but a hundred times he’d stopped, wary of shattering the fragile peace they’d carved out of exile and betraying a bond he felt honour-bound to respect. Even when she teased him, when she was free with her affection, he hadn’t.

Of course he hadn’t. Because that was the story of his life, wasn’t it? Wanting without ever asking. Always waiting for someone else to give him permission to want.

But maybe… maybe Elain was on to something, and the Cauldron didn’t know everything. Maybe it never had. Maybe the magic that mattered was the kind you made yourself.

Maybe it was time to stop waiting for permission.

Lucien did not linger long in the glen after that. With a step lighter than the one he had come on, he made his way back to the Forest House and let himself in through a side door. There were too many eyes in the main corridors, and Lucien had no stomach for the scrutiny of neither servants nor courtiers.

He wanted, quite simply, to see his mother.

He found her in her private sitting room, a grand, sunlit chamber lined with faded tapestries. Lady Sybil Vanserra sat by the window, hands folded in her lap, copper hair plaited in a loose coronet.

Lucien paused on the threshold, uncertain if he should interrupt. But Sybil looked up at once, her gaze sharp and unerring. “Lucien,” she said, and there was a note of raw relief in the word, as if she’d been waiting for him all along.

He stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Mother.”

She rose to her feet, crossed the thick rug, and gathered him into her arms. For a moment, Lucien allowed it, let himself be held as he had as a child - his face pressed to the silk of her shoulder, her thin hands smoothing his hair as if she might reset the world.

“My darling boy,” Sybil whispered. “You’re still here.”

He blinked against her, fighting the urge to cry again. “I’d never leave without saying goodbye. Not again.”

His mother’s smile was like dawn breaking on snow. She pressed her lips to his brow, a benediction. "You are stronger than you know, my son. And you are not alone, no matter what you tell yourself."

He drew in a measured breath, the scent of her perfume rooting him in the present. "Mother, I have to ask-" He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. "Did you know? About Eris and Elain?"

Sybil’s expression did not change, but her silence was confirmation enough. She pressed her lips together, the faintest ghost of a smile darkening the corner of her mouth. "I suspected, for a time," she said at last. "But I did not know for certain until recently."

He laughed, a dry, broken sound. "Gods. Even you."

He wanted to be angry, to find in her some fresh betrayal, but the truth was he’d always known she cared for him more fiercely than for any of her other sons. She’d tried to protect him, in her own way, from the worst of Beron's appetites. Even now, she looked at him with a kind of hope, as if he might yet transform this heartbreak into something useful, something good.

"Did he tell you himself?"

She shook her head. "He did not need to. I saw the way he looked at her, Lucien. The way you looked at her, too, once upon a time. But love is a rare thing in this house, and I would not deny either of you a chance at it." She cupped his cheek. "You need not choose between your family and your own happiness. Not this time."

He dropped his gaze, unsure if he believed her. "It never bothered you? That she was my mate?"

"Why would it?" Sybil asked, voice mild. "The world is not so simple, Lucien. You will find that bonds of magic and bonds of the heart rarely agree on what is right." She let her hands fall to her lap, folding them like a prayer. "I have lived long enough to see how fate’s decrees can be a chain. The trick is to know when to push against the lock."

"I thought I could wait her out," Lucien admitted, bitter and ashamed. "That if I was patient, if I just proved worthy, maybe…"

"You are worthy," Sybil said, and her hands found his again, squeezing hard. "You always were, my love. But not all stories arrange themselves to make us happy. I know it is hard to accept. But I also know that you will not let this wound fester. There is not a petty bone in your body, Lucien. Not truly."

He shook his head, uncertain whether to laugh or weep. “I just… why does it always have to be him? Every time I scrape something together, it’s Eris who-” He stopped, the old anger spiking in his chest, then draining away just as quickly.

His mother sipped her tea, unhurried by his confession. “Your brother has never taken joy in causing you pain.” She looked at him then, really looked, and Lucien felt the full weight of her attention settle on him with the gentleness of a hand on his face. “Do you remember the year you fell from the roof of the north tower?”

He frowned. The memory was distant, but it surfaced. He’d been six or seven, showing off for one of the scullery maids, and the next moment was darkness, the sickening lurch of falling, then nothing but pain and the sound of Eris shouting for help.

“I remember,” Lucien said, rubbing at his ribs as if soothing the ancient injury.

“Eris carried you back, cursing himself for not intervening sooner. He sat at your bedside for days.” Sybil’s gaze grew distant, as if she were watching the memory play out in front of her. “When the healer said you might die, he offered the male a bag of gold to take his own life in your place.”

Lucien stared into his tea, the story as unfamiliar as it was absurd. It sounded like Eris - grand, ruthless, melodramatic. “Did he really?”

Sybil’s smile was fond, if a little sad. “Oh, yes. He was always protective of you, but that day he decided that your life was worth more than anything else in this world.”

Lucien set the cup down, more gently than he felt. “I wonder what changed his mind.”

“Eris became what he needed to be to survive. But I have seen him soften, these past months.” She tilted her head. “I think, perhaps, Elain is to thank for that.”

The thought was strange - Eris, softening for a female, and not for the sake of power or strategy but for something as undignified as love. Lucien tried to imagine his brother in the role of suitor, his sharp edges dulled by affection, and found he could not. But then again, perhaps that was the point.

He stared into the fire for a long time, the silence companionable, rich with the things that did not need to be said. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost lost in the crackle of the logs.

“I am not angry at her,” he said. “Or even at Eris. I just… I don’t know what to do with all of it.”

Sybil squeezed his hand. “You have been through so much, my son. You will survive this too. And you will find someone who makes you feel as alive as your Jesminda did. I believe it.”

He wanted to believe it, if only to make her happy. He tried her words on for size, and found they did not fit, but perhaps in time they would.

“For now, let it hurt. That is the price of being alive.” He looked at the ceiling, blinking hard. Sybil squeezed his fingers once more and released them. “You do not have to stay, if it pains you,” she said. “But if you must be here, you must also let yourself heal. That is my only request. And… if you cannot be happy for them yet, at least try not to be unhappy for yourself.”

Lucien nodded. “I’ll try, Mother.”

But as he caught sight of the two of them heading to dinner, Eris’s hand at the small of her back, a radiant smile on her lips, he found he was not quite ready to play happy families.

Instead, he pictured the one thing he could count on: a roof over his head, and two people who would be happy for him to show up, in whatever shape he managed. With that, he winnowed to the manor in the human lands, landing in the foyer.

There was a moment’s silence - the kind that only old buildings could conjure - then a quick, hobbling step, and Jurian appeared at the end of the corridor, shirt untucked.

“Back so soon?” Jurian called, half a smirk and half concern.

Lucien rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Change of plans,” he said, and immediately regretted the attempt at nonchalance. His voice was hoarse, spent. “It went about as well as you’d expect.”

Jurian surveyed him, eyes sharp. “What’d he do this time, have you thrown in a dungeon, or just punch you in the face?”

Lucien grinned, or tried to. Little did he know it was the other way around. “I managed to avoid the dungeons, at least.”

Jurian snorted, stepped forward, and clapped Lucien on the shoulder. “Good man.” Then, softer, “You alright?”

Lucien did not answer, not at first. He stood in the corridor, letting the question settle. Did it matter if he was? Wasn’t that the whole point of a home, even a bastardised one like this? That you didn’t have to answer, if you didn’t want to?

He shrugged, and let Jurian take it for the answer it was, before following him into the sitting room, where the fire was already going. The minute they were through the threshold, he was shoving a half-full decanter of brandy into Lucien’s hand and barking for him to drink.

Vassa was there, too, curled on the far end of that ridiculous pink couch, knees drawn up under her chin and hair loose over one shoulder. There was a book in her lap and while she didn’t look up as he entered, the fainted quirk of her mouth told him she was aware of his presence.

“You’re back early,” she said, eyes raising from the page to look at him. “How’d it go, did you kill your father yet?”

“Not quite,” he offered, dipping his chin at her. “But I did punch Eris in the face, which I count as a win.”

He lifted his head just enough to catch her expression. Instead of reproach, there was a devilish glint.

“Good for you.”

Jurian, now leaning against the mantle, grinned like a wolf. "Did it feel as good as you thought it would?"

Lucien considered. "No," he lied. "Yes. Maybe. I don’t know."

She watched Lucien with those sharp blue eyes as he poured himself a glass and tossed it back, the burn searing a path from tongue to chest. It was, in a perverse way, almost pleasant.

“Did he deserve it?” Vassa asked, voice mild.

Lucien stared at the wall. “Not really. He just took it, the bastard.” He found himself saying, “You ever feel like you’re the punchline to a joke everyone else already knows?”

Vassa made a sound between a scoff and a laugh. “Every day. You’re talking to the girl who turns into a bird at dawn, remember?”

“And I was literally just an eye for a while there. I’m sure you can imagine the jokes got rather creative,” Jurian interjected and then raised his mug. “To being the punchline.”

Vassa clinked hers against his, and after a moment, Lucien lifted his own, the three of them united in their shared, idiot fate.

There was comfort in it, he realised - not just in the warmth of the sitting room or the company of friends who expected nothing from him except to exist, but in the knowledge that he was not alone in having somehow subverted just about every expectation he had imagined for his life. Band of Exiles, indeed.

Lucien took up a seat on one of the armchairs by the fire and let out a deep sigh. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting from today, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

Jurian produced a pack of cards from somewhere and shuffled them with one hand. “You want to talk about it, or just drink?”

Lucien considered. If he started talking, the words might never stop. “I think I’d rather just not think at all.”

Vassa set aside her book and stretched her legs across the couch, her bare feet almost brushing Jurian’s thigh. “Come on, it can’t have been that bad, surely.”

Lucien considered. He could tell them nothing and they’d let it go - they had always been good at that, letting silences stretch. But he was tired, too tired for pride, and besides, if there was anyone in the world he could trust not to gloat over his defeat, it was these two.

“She chose Eris,” Lucien said, staring at his hands. “Elain. She and he, they…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to finish the sentence.

Vassa let out a low whistle, but it was Jurian who spoke first. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Lucien agreed. “Fuck.”

Jurian set his own glass aside, elbows on his knees. “You want us to go fuck up Eris on your behalf? I’ve got nothing planned tomorrow.”

Lucien smiled despite himself. It was a sorry thing, but it was real. “No. He’s got enough problems coming. Besides, he’s probably the only one who can pull this off.”

Vassa sat up, legs folding beneath her, expression open and oddly gentle. “Are you okay?”

Lucien tried to answer, but the words stuck. He managed a half-shrug. “It’s not the bond. Not mostly. It’s-” He looked up, meeting her eyes. “I thought maybe, if I was patient, if I waited long enough, she’d want me. The way people say it happens.”

Vassa snorted. “People are idiots. What do they know?” She slid off the settee and knelt by his chair, hands braced on his knees. “If she had picked you and it wasn’t right, you’d have been miserable. You’d have hated it.”

Lucien huffed a bitter laugh. “You’re probably right.”

“I am always right,” Vassa declared, grinning fiercely. Her thumb dug into his kneecap, a rude jolt that made him wince. “Besides, now that you’re not pining over the floral princess, you can do something useful with your life. Like overthrowing a tyrant.”

Jurian only raised his glass in another salute. “To tyrant-slaying. And to the end of the world’s worst romantic triangle.”

For a while, they simply sat like that, the three of them in easy silence, the air warm and close. Vassa fetched a bottle from the kitchen. Jurian poured. They drank, and Lucien felt the tight band of hurt around his chest slacken, if only for a moment. Perhaps his mother had been right - he would get through this.

It was Vassa who broke the silence again, her voice wry. "So, what did she say? Elain. When you confronted her."

Lucien hesitated, unsure how much he wanted to share. But Jurian just tipped his head, his expression almost gentle, and Vassa squeezed his thigh in silent encouragement.

"She said she was sorry," Lucien admitted. "That she tried to make it work. But she never felt it. Not the way the Cauldron intended."

Vassa nodded, her red-gold hair catching the firelight. "The Cauldron is an asshole."

Jurian barked a laugh. “That asshole brought me back from the dead, remember?”

“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” she retorted, then offered the bottle to Lucien. “You did the right thing, you know. Walking away.”

He drank, letting the burn settle his nerves. "It doesn’t feel like it."

"That’s how you know it matters," Jurian said. "Most good decisions feel like shit at first."

Lucien almost smiled at that. He’d spent so long performing the role of the dutiful exile, the bastard son, the clever survivor, that he’d forgotten what it was to be seen in a room for something other than what he could provide. Even now, at his lowest, they didn’t pity him. They simply… accepted him.

Jurian flicked a card at the table, spinning it so it landed precisely between them. “So what now? You going to stew about this for the rest of the week and walk into the coup like a corpse, or are you going to get your shit together?”

Lucien stared at him, not sure whether to laugh or throw his drink. “What would you prefer?”

“I’d prefer you not die, for starters,” Jurian said, voice softer now, eyes intent. “We didn’t survive all this just to have you get yourself killed out of spite.”

There was a disturbance behind his ribs, a small fluttering he recognized as something dangerously close to hope. He’d never been anyone’s priority before. It made him want to lean, just a little, into the idea that he might be wanted.

Vassa yawned, arms stretched above her head, and the motion drew Lucien’s eyes to the line of her neck, the delicate scatter of freckles at her collarbone. She caught him looking, but did not look away.

“So,” she said, “what’s the plan for the rest of the evening? Are we going to sit here miserably, or does someone have a deck of cards?”

“I have a deck,” Jurian supplied, producing it again from somewhere within his jacket. “But no cheating this time.”

Vassa grinned wolfishly. “I never cheat.”

For the next hour, they played a game Lucien barely remembered the rules to. The fire snapped and hissed, brandy flowed, and the mood in the room slowly, stubbornly, lightened. Vassa cackled at her own jokes, Jurian told stories that were probably half lies, and Lucien let himself relax into the rhythm of it, the warmth, the feeling of being wanted if only for his company. He caught Vassa watching him when she thought he wasn’t looking, her gaze contemplative, knowing.

Jurian dealt the next hand, and when Lucien’s cards were so bad it was almost comical, Vassa leaned over and jabbed him playfully in the ribs. “You could at least try to win,” she teased, her breath tickling his ear.

He smirked, buoyed by drink and her nearness. “Why? I enjoy watching you gloat.”

“I don’t gloat,” she objected, but the lie was thin. “I merely bask in my superiority.”

Jurian shuffled the cards with a flourish, winking at Lucien. “She’s insufferable when she’s bored, you know.”

“Then keep me entertained,” Vassa shot back. “Or I’ll have to start making my own fun.”

She stretched again, and this time her leg pressed more firmly against Lucien’s. The reality of her body - solid, vital, alive - sent an unexpected heat through him. He suddenly remembered a dozen nights on the roof of the manor, remembered her laughter, the way she’d leaned into him, the way she never recoiled from his touch. Had he been blind, or just afraid? Too preoccupied with the notion that he was mated male. Did she do this with everyone, or was it only for him and Jurian?

Vassa turned to Jurian with a slow, appraising smile. “You know what I think?” she said, raking her hand through her hair so it tumbled over her shoulder in a coppery fall. “I think Lucien needs a better distraction.”

Jurian’s brows arched. “What did you have in mind?”

Vassa’s blue eyes lingered on Lucien’s mouth. “Something a little less… cerebral. For once.”

Lucien blinked, and the world seemed to tilt slightly. She couldn’t be serious. But Vassa was always serious. She just had a talent for making it sound like a joke.

“Are you propositioning me, your majesty?” he managed, still clutching his glass. The words came out half-joking, like they were supposed to, but the pulse fluttering at his throat betrayed him. He looked at Jurian for backup, but the old warrior only held his gaze, expression unreadable, until the silence grew thick enough to be cut with a knife.

Jurian’s mouth quirked, a rare smile tugging at the edge. “I don’t think she’s joking, Lucien.” He looked to Vassa, who was watching Lucien with a speculative tilt to her head, her foot swinging idly where it dangled beside the arm of the settee.

Lucien felt the air change, charged now with something that prickled across his skin and made him acutely aware of the line of Vassa’s body, the electric blue of her gaze. She was sprawled on the arm of his chair now, her hand resting on his shoulder in a way that felt anything but platonic. If anything, it felt like a dare. He was suddenly, absurdly aware of himself: the heat in his abdomen, the sweat-salt at his neck, the taste of fire on his tongue.

“I mean it,” Vassa said, her voice gone low. “Look at yourself. You walk around with all this tension, like if you let it go for even a second you’d just… evaporate.” Her fingers traced the seam of his shirt, just above the bruised bone of his collar, and Lucien’s breath caught despite himself. “I think you should try and let go for a change.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out as a shiver instead. “You sound like Jurian. Next you’ll be telling me to talk about my feelings.”

“Gods, no,” Vassa said, and then she grinned, wicked and wide. “I’d rather put your mouth to better use.”

Jurian snorted, voice gone hoarse. “That’s my cue to leave.”

Vassa didn’t even look at him. “Don’t flatter yourself, soldier boy. This is your idea of therapy, too.” She flicked her gaze to Jurian, cool and imperious, and for a moment Lucien thought he’d imagined the whole thing, but then her hand slid from his shoulder to his jaw, and she kissed him.

It was soft at first, exploratory, but Vassa had never been a creature of half-measures. Her lips parted his, her tongue insistent. Lucien froze, the glass in his hand forgotten, every synapse overloaded at the shock of it. He was aware in some distant, clinical way that Jurian was still there, that the old general was watching them with an expression somewhere between amusement and arousal, but even that paled in comparison to the heat of Vassa’s mouth and the deft pressure of her fingers against the back of his neck.

She pulled away, eyes intent and amused. “See?” she said, voice husky. “You don’t have to be miserable all the time.”

Lucien groped for composure. “I’m not-” but her hands were already in his hair, her mouth seeking again, and the second time he let himself answer.

He kissed her back, then, the movement awkward and desperate and not at all how he’d ever planned it. But Vassa just made a pleased sound and climbed into his lap with an ease that suggested she’d been considering this scenario a long time. Her legs bracketed his thighs, skirt rucked up indecently, and she grinned into the kiss as if she’d just won a bet with herself.

Lucien broke away, gasping, his face gone hot. “You’re serious?”

Vassa shifted in his lap, grinding down in a way that made his brain empty out like a sieve. “Does it feel like I’m joking?”

“Gods, Vassa,” he said, and the laugh that escaped him was wild, a little hysterical. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” she interrupted, voice low and clear. “You’ve been punishing yourself long enough. Let me help. Let us help.”

She didn’t mean it in the abstract, he realised. Not in the way of stolen kisses and shared drinks and late-night confidences, but something more… immediate. Vassa’s hand found his and pressed it under her shirt, over the steep curve of her breast. She was hot beneath his palm, alive in a way that crackled and sparked.

Jurian cleared his throat, the sound a dry rasp. “If you two would prefer privacy, I can-”

Vassa, still pinning Lucien with her gaze, turned her head and said, “Stay, Jurian. I want you to watch.” Then, as if that were the most ordinary request in the world, she pulled Lucien’s hand to her mouth and kissed his palm. “Unless you’d rather join in?”

Jurian’s eyes went dark. “Well… I’d hate to miss out on all the fun.”

The next several minutes unfolded in a manner so swift, Lucien could only cling to the moment by his ragged breath and the sharp, tidal surges of want that threatened to drown him. Vassa was all heat and unyielding intent, her hips working him with a rhythm that bordered on cruel. Jurian, for his part, did not hover at the edge of things but leaned forward, one rough hand braced on the arm of the chair, the other tracing the line of Vassa’s calf where it curled around Lucien’s thigh. The fire snapped and spat behind them, its light rendering Jurian’s features in harsh, beautiful relief.

Vassa broke the kiss, her lips red and swollen. She turned her face to the side, pressing her cheek to Lucien’s as she reached blindly for Jurian’s hand. She found it, pulled it to her mouth, and sucked on two of his fingers until the old warrior’s breath stuttered audibly. Then she smiled, a lazy, victorious thing, and twisted in Lucien’s lap so that she could look at both of them at once.

"Are you with us?" she asked Jurian, her voice honeyed but edged with command.

Jurian’s mouth ticked up, and Lucien, for the first time, realised how sharp and white his teeth were. "You never have to ask twice," he said, and set his hand at Vassa’s waist, the broad palm spanning her easily.

Lucien tried to recalibrate, to make sense of how he’d gone from heartbreak to this - a goddess in his lap, a war hero at his side, both of them watching him with the kind of undivided attention he’d spent his life pretending he didn’t crave.

Vassa’s hands went to the buttons of her gown, undoing them with deft, impatient flicks, baring skin so pale it glowed in the firelight. She shrugged the garment off her shoulders, then tugged Lucien’s hand back to her breast, her nipple hard against his palm. She rolled her hips, grinding down until Lucien’s vision sparkled at the edges.

Jurian was not content to watch for long. He moved in behind Vassa, bracing himself on the armchair, his chest pressing against her bare back. His hands slid up her arms, drawing them overhead, his mouth finding that spot at her neck and biting down hard enough to make her gasp.

Lucien’s blood was a roar in his ears, every thought boiled away except the need to touch, to taste, to be wanted. Vassa’s head tipped back, her throat arched and vulnerable, and Lucien leaned in to kiss the hollow of her collarbone, to taste the sweat and the wildness there. She shivered, then twisted again, forcing Lucien to meet her eyes.

"Stay with us, fox boy," she said through half-lidded eyes, her voice low and commanding.

He nodded, swallowing hard, and she rewarded him by sliding off his lap just long enough to untangle his shirt, dragging it down his arms, nails raking over his ribs. When she settled back, Jurian was behind her, his hands guiding her hips, and Lucien realised with a dizzy sense that Jurian was the only thing keeping Vassa upright. She was breathing hard, shuddering as Jurian bit at her earlobe, one of his hands - bigger and rougher than Lucien’s - cupping her breast and squeezing with an insolence Lucien would have found offensive if it didn’t send a bolt of electricity straight to his groin.

Vassa tilted her head back, her lips parted, and for a second Lucien thought she might actually come undone from Jurian just kissing the slope of her neck. But then her hand - quick as ever - worked open Lucien’s trousers, pulling him free with a deftness that was almost clinical.

Lucien’s knees nearly buckled. “Fuck,” he muttered, half-laughing, half-moaning.

Jurian’s mouth twisted in a wicked smile. “What happened to that legendary Vanserra control?”

“Legendary for its absence,” Vassa replied, and then she was lowering herself onto Lucien, her heat enveloping him in a way that made his vision go white for a second. He vaguely heard Jurian grunt approval, felt the press of the man’s chest against Vassa’s shoulder blades as she began to move.

The rhythm was wild, neither of them trying for tenderness. Lucien’s hands gripped her hips, his nails leaving red trails in her skin, but she only arched into it, driving herself down on him with a focus that was almost terrifying. Jurian was right there, his hands everywhere - at Vassa’s breasts, at Lucien’s throat, gripping hard enough to remind him who’d once been a general.

Lucien had never been shy of touch - never craved it, either, at least not like this. But now, with Vassa writhing in his lap and Jurian’s teeth at his own shoulder, he felt stripped bare, a thing made of nothing but appetite and sensation.

He lost all track of time. At some point, Vassa pulled Jurian’s mouth to hers, and Lucien watched, dazed, as she bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The man moaned, and Lucien, drunk on the sight, reached up to draw Jurian down, kissing him with the same reckless abandon. There was the copper tang of blood, the taste of Vassa on Jurian’s tongue, and in that moment Lucien wanted nothing more than to be devoured by both of them.

Vassa came first, her body seizing around Lucien so hard he nearly lost himself, her nails digging into Jurian’s arm as she sobbed out his name. At the same instant, Jurian reached down and wrapped his hand around Lucien’s cock, squeezing just under Vassa’s grinding hips, and Lucien let go, his release hitting him with a violence he’d never known. Jurian held him through it, Vassa shuddering and gasping, and when Lucien’s eyes refocused, he saw that Jurian’s own hand was slick, and his eyes were wild.

They collapsed together, a tangled heap of sweat and limbs, and for a long minute none of them spoke, only the crackle of the fire and the ragged sound of their breathing between them. Vassa was sprawled bonelessly across his chest, her copper hair a wild snarl against his shoulder, and Jurian was braced on the floor at their feet, arms crossed on the arm of the chair and forehead pressed to the crook of his elbow, as if body-wrecked by the sheer stupidity of what they’d just done.

Lucien couldn’t recall ever being so completely, cosmically undone. He felt like a painting knocked from its frame. The throb in his knuckles from punching Eris, the rawness in his throat, the electric hum still running under his skin from the way Jurian’s mouth had found his, all buzzed together in a harmony of absolute, exhausted relief. He was empty and, for the first time in years, not looking to fill the void.

Vassa stirred with a low, feline noise, rolling her hips lazily as if testing the limits of her own bones. She looked up at Lucien, her face flushed and still a little mean, and grinned with all the satisfaction of a cat after a successful hunt.

“I told you it would work,” she murmured, stretching her arms above her head so her breasts lifted, then flopped sideways into his lap and promptly began to doze.

Jurian looked up, eyes narrowed in mock offence. “Am I a better therapist than you imagined?”

Lucien, still catching his breath, summoned a crooked smile. “Depends on whether your bill includes aftercare.”

Jurian barked a laugh, then sobered and leaned forward to rest a hand lightly on Lucien’s knee. “If you want to talk now, you can. Or we can just sit here like lazy hounds.”

“Lazy sounds good.” Lucien let his head fall back, staring at the ceiling, the smell of smoke and sex thick in the air, and let the numbness settle into something almost peaceable.

Maybe this was what it meant to be alive, after all: to find your tribe, to let them see you at your worst and your best, to grit your teeth and take the punches, and then, somehow, to try again.

Lucien did not want to move. Not ever, if he could help it. But eventually Vassa’s weight became too much for his already-overworked thighs, and he shifted her gently onto the settee, gathering a blanket around her bare shoulders. She murmured something unintelligible and burrowed deeper, a lock of hair falling across her mouth.

He watched her, feeling a tenderness he did not want to examine too closely. If Vassa ever knew how much he needed this - needed her - she’d never let him live it down.

He glanced at Jurian, who was rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand, then at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table. There was no need for words, not yet, butJurian, at least, was constitutionally incapable of silence for more than five seconds.

The general tipped the bottle toward him, sloshing just enough whiskey into Lucien’s glass to keep it honest. "You know," he said, "when I was younger, I thought the hardest thing in the world would be fighting immortals." He knocked back the rest of his drink. "Turns out the real war is just figuring out how to live after all the damn fighting."

Lucien snorted. "That explains why you’re so bad at both." He didn't mean it, not even a little, and the way Jurian's mouth curled said he knew it.

"Don’t be jealous of my efficiency," Jurian fired back. "Some of us have layers."

Lucien pretended to ponder this, then raised his glass in lazy salute. "If by layers you mean an outer crust of cynicism and a gooey centre of reckless optimism, then yes. You're a fucking mille-feuille."

Jurian blinked. "A what?"

Vassa, muffled under the blanket, supplied, "It's a pastry. Decadent. Continental. Overrated, if you ask me."

Lucien grinned to himself, the kind of smile that was all teeth and none of the usual guilt. "You would know," he said.

Vassa flopped her arm over her face, but he could see the edge of her smile. "If you’re done comparing desserts, I’ll take another glass."

Jurian poured it out, one-handed, and handed it over with a flourish. "Someday," he said, "I’m going to get you both properly drunk. And then you’ll all have to admit that I was right about everything."

"Careful," Vassa said, her voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. "Last time you said that, you lost your favourite sword."

Jurian cupped his chin, feigning deep thought. "A small price to pay for being right, though, isn’t it?"

The laughter wound down into a comfortable lull. Lucien felt himself easing into it, the old, familiar roles shifting but somehow more honest than they had ever been. Not the afterthought, not the exile, not even the golden son or the reluctant monster - just a male among people who did not want to save him or fix him or make him into something newer or more useful.

He looked across the room, where Vassa had begun to snore softly, her cheek pillowed on her crossed arms. The delicate, self-satisfied set of her mouth was enough to make him want to shake her awake and pick a fight, just to see if she’d let him win for once.

Jurian caught the look and grinned. “You know she’s going to destroy you tomorrow, right? I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.”

Lucien shrugged, mouth quirking. “She’s tried to kill me before. I’m still here.”

“Barely,” Jurian said, but his tone was warm, the cut softened by affection. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

They sat like that for a while, trading stories and insults, until the fire burned low and the fatigue of too much adrenaline and whiskey threatened to drag Lucien under. He stretched, joints popping in protest, and glanced again at Vassa. She looked impossibly young in sleep, the hard lines of her jaw gone slack, the riotous mass of hair shadowing her face with copper and gold.

He turned to Jurian, keeping his voice low. “Are we going to talk about what just happened, or are we going to pretend it was a weird dream?"

Jurian’s lips twitched, but he didn’t look away. “If it’s easier for you, you can tell everyone it was part of my ongoing therapy plan. You know- ‘exposure and desensitisation’.”

Lucien snorted. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

Jurian raised his glass. “You love it, though.”

Lucien looked down at his hands, thumb tracing the scar still fresh across his knuckles. The ache in his jaw, the residual throb lower down - these were good pains, clean and present, easy to understand. He considered, for the first time, that maybe the world had not already written him off. He could still choose something. Someone. Maybe even himself.

“I do, actually,” he said, surprising himself. “I really do.”

Jurian’s smile softened into something rare and sober. “Good,” he said, “because we’re not letting you run this time.”

Lucien nodded, quiet for a moment, then risked, “You think it’ll be alright? After all this?”

Jurian followed his gaze to Vassa, then looked back at Lucien with a spark of mischief. “If by ‘alright’ you mean a hell of a lot more interesting, then yes.” He hesitated, then added, softer, “But yes, Lucien. I really think it will.”

The answer hit somewhere deeper than Lucien expected. He nodded, once, and let himself lean back into the chair, head tipped to the ceiling.

He thought of his mother’s words.

You will survive this too. And you will find someone who makes you feel as alive as your Jesminda did. I believe it.

Lucien looked around at his merry Band of Exiles in a whole new light and for the first time that day - perhaps for the first time in his entire life - he believed it, too.

Chapter Text

As soon as the door to the hunting lodge lodge closed behind them, Sevan fell into step beside Calix, bouncing on the balls of his feet, barely able to contain the energy fizzing off him. “You absolute bastard,” he said, though the words were nearly a purr of delight. “Five years. Five whole years, and a whole niece, just sitting out there, and you didn’t think to mention it?”

Calix grunted, keeping his gaze fixed on the narrow game trail winding through the trees. “Wasn’t your business,” he said, though Sevan noted the twitch at the corner of his brother’s mouth that usually preceded a smile.

“Not my business?” Sevan pressed a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “Are you worried I’ll corrupt her beyond repair once I’m inevitably appointed her favourite uncle?”

Calix finally gave him a wry look. “I’m more worried about you turning her into a delinquent before she even learns to write her own name.”

“Gods, Calix, you wound me,” Sevan said, clutching at his heart. “I’m an excellent role model. I turned out perfectly.”

Calix snorted, but it only spurred Sevan on. “So… Does she look like you? Does she burn things? Oh gods, she does, doesn’t she?”

Vale, trailing behind them with his arms folded, cut in. “You’re insufferable, Sevan. Let the male have a minute to process the fact that he’s just outed his secret love child to the family. It’s not exactly casual dinner conversation.”

Sevan tossed him an arch look. “I was under the impression we’d abandoned ‘casual’ ages ago. What with patricide on the itinerary and all.” His smile, sharp as a blade, faded as he nudged Calix’s shoulder. “Seriously, though. When do we get to meet her?”

Calix’s jaw flexed. “When it’s safe.”

Sevan considered this answer, dissecting the thousand implications behind it. When it’s safe. Not if - when. He grinned, pleased, and let the subject rest for three whole heartbeats before he said, “Fine, but you’re giving me nothing, Calix. What’s she like? Is she a miniature you, or did her mother’s side mercifully temper the crazy?”

That earned him a fist in the arm, but Sevan only laughed, unbothered. Calix was silent for a while, eyes scanning the branches overhead as if expecting Beron’s spies to drop from them at any moment. But Sevan knew that look - knew when his brother was debating whether or not to let something slip.

“She’s loud,” Calix said at last, and from him, it was practically a poem. “And stubborn. Likes to climb shit.” He looked at the moss-green canopy, then back to the trail. “She set fire to her cradle when she was two.”

“Two?” Sevan crowed. “That’s a family record! Didn’t you only manage to torch the library at six?”

Calix shrugged. “She’s ambitious.”

“Gods, she really is one of us,” Vale said, and Sevan barked a laugh. “We must protect her at all costs.”

Sevan rolled his eyes. “You’re such a sap, Vale. If I had a daughter, I’d let her set fire to everything. Give her a sword. Turn her loose on the world.”

His brother regarded the sky, papered with the first uncertain stars of evening. “If you had a daughter, the gods would intervene before you got as far as naming her.”

Sevan sobered, sidling close enough to Calix that their shoulders brushed. “You did well, keeping her safe all this time.”

Calix gave him a sidelong look, the barest flicker of gratitude there before it was buried again. “She deserves better than what we had,” he said.

Sevan nodded, serious now. He could remember, in vague flickers, what it had meant to be a child in this family. The constant vigilance, the subtle (and less subtle) cruelties. He thought of Demelza, imagined her wild red hair and childlike glee as she exercised her pyromaniacal tendencies that he would fervently encourage, and quietly decided that his niece would never know what it felt like to be afraid in her own home.

“Does she… does she know about us?”

Calix shook his head. “She knows I’m her father, that her mother is dead, and that our family is dangerous. That’s enough for now.”

Sevan’s eyebrows shot up. He’d always assumed the mysterious lover was tucked away in some rural border town, perhaps raising their daughter far from Beron’s reach. He hadn’t considered… Oh, but he should have, given the odds - that Calix was alone in this. Had been all this time. “Shit,” Sevan said, softer than he meant. “What happened to her?”

“Childbirth.” Calix’s voice was flat, almost as if he dared Sevan to offer pity.

Sevan swallowed. This was not the answer he’d expected, and for a moment, all the games and cleverness drained out of him, leaving only the cold, unfamiliar ache of loss that wasn’t even his own. "Fuck," he said, unable to hide the emotion in his voice. "Calix, I’m so sorry, brother."

Calix didn’t answer. He just kept walking, the set of his shoulders broadcasting a warning that any further questions would earn Sevan a broken nose. Sevan let it go.

They walked in silence, Vale trailing behind, his earlier levity faded. Sevan found he didn’t like this version of quiet, that he preferred the yelling and the chaos and even the old bruises to the brittle hush that had settled over them.

It was only when they reached the fork in the trail that Vale spoke again, voice carefully neutral. "We should get back. There’s a lot to do."

Sevan nodded, but he hung back as Calix started down the right-hand path, watching the rigid line of his brother’s back. He wondered, for the first time in years, whether he’d ever really known any of them at all.

Then he squared his shoulders and jogged to catch up, because if Calix could keep moving, so could he.

He wasn’t sure when the stakes had changed. When it had stopped being a game? Maybe it never was, and he’d just fooled himself, all these years, into believing that outwitting his father was a competition with no real losers except for Beron, who deserved every cruelty returned to him. Maybe that was the only way to survive: to play. But now, the rules had changed mid-hand, and Sevan saw it with the same clarity he reserved for the instant before a knife met skin. There were more of them in the pot, more pieces on the board, and some of them were small and loud and set fire to their cradles.

If he failed now, it wouldn’t just be his hide on the line. It would be Calix, who had learned to carry his grief with such ruthless efficiency that Sevan had mistaken it for indifference. It would be their mother, and Vale, and Eris, and Elain, who had somehow managed to wriggle into their midst and make herself necessary, as if the court needed sunlight and not just scorched earth. And Sienna - gods, Sienna, whose smile made him believe that just maybe, there was something left in the world worth saving for the sake of it.

All he could think about now was how quickly everything could be lost, how easily Beron could sniff out hope and stamp it down to cinders. Their father had always been a master at that.

But for the first time, Sevan realised, he and his brothers weren’t just playing to survive anymore. They were playing to win. And that was a different thing altogether.

They crested the last rise before the Forest House, and Sevan took in the familiar sweep of the rooftop below. He wondered if Demelza would like it there, whether she’d race up and down the bannisters with her hair a wild red banner behind her, whether she’d ever believe that a home could be safe.

He’d make it so. For her, for Sienna, for the fractured, brutal family that somehow managed to stitch itself back together again out of nothing but spite and stubbornness.

He reached out and caught the back of Calix’s collar, pulling him to a stop. “Hey.”

Calix turned, brow raised.

Sevan hesitated, words clumping in his throat like wet ash. In the end, he gave up on subtlety. “We’re going to do this,” he said, low and hard. “Whatever it takes. Beron’s going to pay. And your daughter… Mother above, any other children unlucky enough to someday call us fathers, will be be loved. By all her family."

Calix’s eyes glittered, and for a moment, Sevan saw the ghost of a better time flicker across his face - a half-forgotten memory of warmth, of a world before all the rot set in. His older brother nodded once, clipped and decisive, and if he felt anything else about it, he swallowed it down with the rest of his ghosts.

He was right to do, Sevan thought to himself. This was no time for sentimental distractions. After all, like the bedtime stories he was already planning on reading to his beloved niece, they had a monster to slay. 

Chapter Text

Vale had made it halfway to his quarters with a slice of the coffee and walnut cake served at a dinner and a mind already halfway to the ancient treatise he intended to read before bed, when the Cauldron decided to reward his gluttony with the sight of Lord Lionas and his son, Benit, lingering just outside Eris's study. The two lords stood in a hush of urgency, their heads bent together, grim as stone effigies. Vale considered turning on his heel and doubling back to the library, but Lionas’s beady, hawk-like eyes caught him before he could retreat.

“Ah! Lord Vale,” He called, recovering first, his famished smile reconstituting itself with admirable speed. “A moment of your time, if you please.”

There was nothing Vale desired less, but years of courtly training compelled him to bow his head with the right mixture of civility and boredom. “Of course. I’m always at your service, my lord.” He made a show of dusting a crumb from his lapel. “What brings you to my brother’s door at such an hour?”

“Matters of alliance,” Lionas said, his tone heavy with implication. “Your brother is a formidable negotiator, but we value the input of every Vanserra prince.” The last word lingered with oily intent.

Vale allowed himself a long, slow blink. “Does this matter concern me, specifically?”

Benit exchanged a look with Lionas, then stepped forward, lowering his voice. “We wish to broach the topic of my sister’s hand. You are familiar with Lady Rosina, yes?”

Vale was familiar enough. The poor girl had been paraded at every seasonal gathering for two years running, always at the periphery, pale and gloved and trembling as though a strong breeze might shatter her. The thought of her as a Vanserra was so laughable that Vale nearly choked.

“I am acquainted, certainly,” he said, schooling his features into something between polite interest and strategic bewilderment. “A fine young lady, if somewhat... delicate.”

“Delicacy is a virtue, Lord Vale,” Lionas replied, bristling. “And it is precisely such softness that the Vanserra legacy lacks, would you not agree?”

Vale considered this. What the Vanserras lacked, he thought to himself, was a working sense of shame and the ability to leave a room without lighting it on fire, but he kept this observation to himself. “I see. And you would have her... matched with me?”

Benit nodded. “Precisely. You are the intellectual among your brothers, the most even-tempered. Rosina would flourish under your protection.”

The flattery fell so nakedly from Benit’s lips that the air itself seemed sticky with it. Vale almost admired the audacity. “You flatter me, my lord. But surely the matter of succession renders such an alliance... secondary?”

“On the contrary,” Lionas pressed, stepping in. “It is exactly the security of the Vanserra line that makes you the most suitable candidate. You need not bear the burden of the heir apparent” - here, a pointed glance in the direction of Eris’s study - “and can afford to invest in peace and prosperity. Rosina desires nothing more than a quiet life, where she would be devoted to you.”

Vale imagined, vividly, the years ahead on offer. Interminable breakfasts with a wife who flinched at the sound of dropped cutlery, the endless rounds of duty calls, the children bred for obedience rather than curiosity. He shivered, and not from the chill of the corridor.

“I appreciate the honour,” he said, bowing slightly despite himself. “But I am not in the market for matrimony.” He brandished the napkin-wrapped slice of cake in his palm, as if to suggest that his hands, clearly, were full.

Benit smiled, unshaken. “Perhaps you will reconsider, Lord Vale. At the very least, might we host you for supper? Rosina is far more charming in familiar surroundings.” The implication hung in the air and he bristled inwardly. She was to be presented, vulnerable and alone, for his inspection, like a prized horse rather than a living, breathing female. 

Vale tried to conjure up a gracious decline, but was too tired, in the end, to resist. “Of course. I would be honoured to dine with you and your household.” Anything, he thought, to get these two out of his hair for the evening.

Lionas and Benit exchanged a look of triumph, as if they had already sealed the deal. They bowed and swept off into the shadowy halls, their footsteps clicking in perfect synchrony.

Left alone, Vale finally exhaled a sigh of relief. The Vanserra line, he mused, was destined to be whittled down to only the most hard-wearing specimens - a collection of thorns, desperately seeking softness amongst themselves, and finding none. He made his way up the grand staircase, his mind already plotting how best to sabotage the impending dinner.

He found respite, finally, in his rooms. The hour was late, and the house had settled into the hush of night. Vale stretched out in his favourite chair, glasses resting on his elegant nose, treatise open and a glass of honeyed wine at hand. He tried to lose himself in the elegant arguments of philosophers long dead, but found his mind circling the image of the young female, her hands trembling over the keys of some harpsichord, her fate being parcelled out by males in rooms thick with smoke and cunning. Perhaps, in another life, she would have made a fine scholar’s wife, content to be left alone with her music and her thoughts. But here, in his father’s house, she would be consumed - if not by Eris and his machinations, or Calix and his violent tendencies, then by the endless, gnawing expectations of his family.

He sighed, closing the book. Perhaps he owed it to her, and to himself, to at least give the girl a chance. If she could survive a night in his company, she might be made of sterner stuff than her father supposed. And if not - well. There were always more dinners, and more daughters, and more desperate lords eager to trade in their bloodlines for a slice of legitimacy and increased proximity to the High Lord.

Vale finished his wine and turned in, the thought of the coming supper already beginning to amuse him. He had no need of a wife, at least not now. Look what Dain’s matrimony had wrought him before his death - nothing but misery. No, Vale would do his best to avoid becoming entrapped in that particular snare and so he resolved to be on his very worst behaviour.

A week later, with Eris and Lady Elain off playing diplomats in the Spring Court, Vale found himself the star of Lord Lionas’s supper whether he wanted to be or not. The invitation had arrived in the neat, violently precise hand of the lord himself, its contents couched in enough flattery to make even Beron blush. Vale accepted, if only for the novelty of seeing how desperate the two lords would become in their own lair. He selected his wardrobe with due care - a burnt umber tunic cut close enough to flatter but not so ostentatious as to suggest he was trying too hard. For the journey, he eschewed the gaudy house-trained stallions in favour of his personal favourite, a mottled gelding named Biscuit, whose primary virtue was an unhurried gait and a deep, abiding hatred for mud.

The ride to Lionas’s estate was uneventful, the forests thinning into rolling hills as he neared the manor. The house itself was a model of provincial wealth: stone and stained glass and spindly towers marred only slightly by the obvious additions made in recent generations. Vale was greeted at the gate by a liveried servant, who whisked him inside with the air of one ferrying a rare and potentially dangerous animal.

He found Benit waiting in a receiving room whose walls were lined with the sort of hunting trophies that spoke of overcompensation. The air smelled of sandalwood and roasted meat, overlaid with the sharp tang of polish and fresh flowers.

“My lord Vale! You honour us.” Benit’s smile was more relaxed than at court, his hair less helmeted into submission.

Vale bowed with practiced grace. “It is my pleasure, Lord Benit.”

“Please, sit. May I offer you a drink?” Benit made a great show of uncorking a bottle of wine, the vintage old enough to have been bottled before Rosina was born.

Vale accepted a glass and settled into a low armchair, crossing one leg over the other. “Your house is charming,” he lied, wondering how anyone could live in such modest accommodations, but then again, he was born a prince.

“Your journey was comfortable, I trust?”

“Entirely. I suspect any bandits hereabouts have heard what happens to those foolish enough to cross a travelling noble.”

Benit chuckled. “Not all the tales are exaggerated, I suppose. Our borders have been much quieter since your brother took command of the sentries.”

Vale inclined his head. “Calix is nothing if not thorough.”

They sipped in silence while Benit marshalled his thoughts, the measured calm of the room interrupted only by the faint clink of glass on glass. Vale let the silence stretch, forcing Benit to fill it.

“I was sorry to hear of the incident at Thornwicke,” Benit said at last, “though it seems you and Lord Eris acquitted yourself admirably.”

“Let us not discuss Thornwicke,” Vale said, too softly to be a rebuke but far too direct to ignore. He set his glass aside. “I would hear about your family instead. Your sister - how does she fare?”

Benit straightened, as if relieved to move into rehearsed territory. “She is well, my lord. The country air suits her. She spends most of her time buried in books or at her music.”

A faint cough at the doorway interrupted them. Vale turned to find a young female framed in the archway, a book pressed tight to her chest. She wore a gown in muted blue, her hair drawn back with a single ribbon. She was beautiful, there was no denying that, and yet not in the conventional sense. Her features bore the odd vulnerable symmetry of a woodland creature, with wide, startled eyes, a soft chin, and a mouth quick to firm resolve.

She watched him with the hesitant absorption of prey sizing up a predator, but did not shrink from his gaze. Vale found himself impressed in spite of himself, as she dropped a flawless curtsy. “Forgive me, my lords. I sought only to retrieve the next volume.”

Her voice, Vale noticed, was not timid. It was careful.

Benit waved her in with obvious pride. “Rosina, may I present Lord Vale?”

Rosina met Vale’s gaze directly, which was rare enough in itself. “My lord,” she said, her hands steady on the book. “It is an honour.”

Vale stood out of courtesy, bowing his head. “The honour is mine, Lady Rosina. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

She gave him a small, genuine smile. “Likewise.”

He gestured to the book she held, feeling the faintest prick of curiosity. “May I ask what has captivated you so?”

Benit rolled his eyes, an older brother through and through. “No doubt some dreadful romance or other. She is insatiable.”

Rosina’s brows drew together. “Yes, brother - a romance.” Her voice was gentle but edged with something else. “Or something like it.”

Vale did not miss the subtle lie, the way her fingers clutched the book just a little tighter as she took her leave. He watched her go, then turned to Benit, who looked equal parts exasperated and deeply fond.

“She has our father’s stubbornness,” Benit said. “Sometimes I wonder if she wouldn’t have made a better heir.”

Vale considered this. “She seems keenly intelligent, if I may say so.”

“She is, though I dare not compliment her to her face lest she become unbearable.”

A bell chimed somewhere in the house, and Benit rose. “Shall we dine? My father is eager to see you.”

The dining room was a gallery of family portraits, each figure sterner than the last, glaring down from gilt frames while the four of them picked at lamb and root vegetables.

Over the main course, Lionas praised the Vanserra line in grand, effusive terms, raising a glass to Beron’s continued health and unmatched wisdom. Vale drank to that with the hollow cheer of a man who had toasted to Beron’s health too many times to count, then turned the conversation cannily to more interesting matters: trade, politics, the Autumn Court’s most recent guest… Benit followed, while Lionas steered them back to the subject of legacy at every opportunity.

Through it all, Rosina sat at the far end of the table, silent and watchful, eating little but drinking her share of the sweet white wine. Any time her father mentioned her, she smiled and nodded, but her eyes remained fixed on her plate.

“You enjoy the musical arts, do you not, Lord Vale? My daughter is a most accomplished musician,” Lionas said, with the forced joviality of a man stretching a bowstring to its breaking point. “Did you know that?”

“Yes,” he replied, taking the bait. “I am told you play the harpsichord, my lade.”

Rosina nodded. “And the flute. But not at the same time.”

Lionas grunted at the- was that a joke? Benit only smiled, trying to cover it with his wine glass.

“She plays the harpsichord, the flute, and even the pipes, though that was more a whim of childhood than true study.” Lord Lionas looked at Rosina, who offered a small, uncertain smile as she took another sip of her wine.

Rosina’s eyes, a watery blue edged with green, flicked to Vale and then away. “I also read,” she said, her voice as soft as the morning mist. “Novels, poetry… Philosophy, when I can find it.”

Vale set down his fork. “Which philosophers?” he asked, aware of how dangerous the question could be.

Rosina lifted her gaze, and something cool and knowing flashed in it - gone in an instant, but there all the same. “I tend to favour those from Dawn or Winter.”

“Not Autumn?” He asked.

“Forgive me, my lord.” Her lips twitched, half-mocking. “But few modern philosophers in Autumn dare commit their truest thoughts to parchment anymore. And the older treatises, if they survive at all, are cleverly footnoted to the point of illegibility.” The look she gave him was guileless, but he heard the point loud and clear that here, in his father’s domain, honesty was easily mistaken for treason.

Lionas stiffened at the end of the table, but Benit only rolled his eyes, as if this was a familiar sparring ground. Vale, surprised into candour, laughed. “You speak like a poet yourself, Lady Rosina.”

He found himself oddly charmed and, perhaps, a little chagrined. The line between sharpness and sincerity in Rosina’s manner was so fine he nearly missed it, a razor’s edge tucked inside a velvet glove. She was, he realised, not fragile at all. In fact, she was anything but. “Perhaps we are overdue for a renaissance.”

Her smile was small and sharp. “I should like to see the day when an Autumn pen is sharper than its swords.”

Vale set his wine down, content to let the conversation become a slow battlefield. “If it’s sharpness you’re after, tell me - what do you make of the philosophers of Night?” he asked, inviting mischief.

Rosina’s lips curved, finally, in something less than a smile and more than a sneer. “They are dreamers, of course. But sometimes I think dreams are all that’s left for those with no stomach for using their power for change.”

Benit gave an audible groan. “Rosina, must you?”

Rosina only shrugged. A silence fell that was somehow both awkward and exhilarating. Vale could feel Lionas’s tension - could feel, too, the way Benit rooted for his sister to simply behave as expected, just this once. But Vale was not deterred and had no desire for the expected.

He cut in with a smile. “Don’t trouble yourself, my lord. If anything, I find your sister’s candour… refreshing.” He turned to Rosina. “I wonder,” he said, “the next time you visit the Forest House, if I might show you my collection. It is... less censored than most.”

Rosina’s cheeks coloured, but she did not look away. “I do not expect to make it that far anytime soon, my lord.”

The table fell silent once more, and not because the food was so fine. Lionas glared at his daughter as if her words were an act of personal sabotage. Benit, for once, looked genuinely at a loss.

Vale held Rosina’s gaze over the rims of their glasses, and imagined, for a moment, that he might have liked her very much if they’d met under different circumstances. “Well,” he said, “if you do, I look forward to your critique of our collection.”

Lionas, eager to reassert the shape of the evening, called for dessert with a clap of his ring-laden hands. A parade of sugared fruit and delicate pastries appeared, and Vale watched as Rosina picked at a candied fig, the corner of her mouth quirking at some private thought.

After the last course, as Vale expected, Rosina excused herself with a wordless nod and vanished from the room. Benit took this as the opening to resume the sales pitch, extolling his sister’s many virtues, but Vale surprised him by asking if Lady Rosina might be prevailed upon to show him the library.

Benit hesitated only a moment before clapping Vale’s shoulder in a parody of fraternal affection. “She would be delighted, I’m sure. It’s just down the hall, to your right.”

Vale set off, sure that he’d be able to find it quite easily, given the modest size of the house. There could only be so many rooms she had sought refuge in. The library was not large, but it was warm and well-lit, with books crammed into every available space and the scent of old paper and beeswax candles heavy in the air. Vale found Rosina at a small table near the window, her hands folded over the closed cover of her book, clearly enjoying the last vestiges of the fading evening light.

She rose when he entered, offering a polite curtsy. “My lord.”

“Lady Rosina,” he replied, inclining his head. “May I?”

“Of course.” She gestured to the chair opposite hers.

For a minute neither spoke. Vale studied her openly, while she seemed content to stare at the pile of books on the side table, nervously biting her lip.

“You read a great deal,” he said finally.

She shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. “There is little else to do here, and I lack certain social graces, or so I’m told. I tend to prefer my own company.”

“You seem perfectly civil to me.”

She snorted, a sound so soft it barely qualified as a laugh. “Low bar, considering the company.”

Vale smiled at that, then gestured to the book. “May I see?”

She hesitated, then slid it across the table. Vale glanced at the title, Treatise on the Alliance Between the Solar Courts, before flicking through the pages and finding that they were annotated in a meticulous, looping script. Not a romance, then. Not even close.

He looked up at her, one brow arched. “Your brother plays you false, Lady Rosina.”

She met his gaze this time, the corners of her mouth quirking. “He worries I will seem too severe. I believe he finds it an uncharming trait in a marriage prospect.”

Vale placed the book gently on the table. “It is not a trait I find lacks charm.”

She laughed, a real sound this time, and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “That is very gallant of you to say so.”

“Gallantry is not my strong suit,” Vale admitted. “But honesty, perhaps, is.”

She considered him, then inclined her head in concession. “Thank you, my lord.”

He wanted to ask her what she truly read for, why she annotated her books in the margins, what she thought of the state of the world outside her father’s walls. He wanted to know if she had always been so calm, so steeled, or if it had been forged by years of solitude.

Instead, he settled for asking what she thought of the treaties chronicled in her book.

They spoke for a long time, trading opinions and references, until the only light in the room came from the tiny lamp on their table. At last, she folded her hands again and asked, quietly, “My father will have told you what he wants from this, I expect?”

“He did,” Vale admitted.

She accepted this with a small, resigned nod, tracing a careful pattern atop the closed book.

Vale considered her anew. There was an odd dignity in her fatigue, as though she’d already survived so many decisions made on her behalf, that she was too exhausted to even resent this one. He leaned back in the chair, balancing it precariously on hind legs, and said, “That matters less to me than what you want.”

Rosina blinked. Once. Twice. “What I want?” She said it as if the phrase itself were a foreign tongue.

Vale smiled, gently this time, not the predatory smirk she must have expected from someone like him. “You seem clever enough to know that I am in no hurry to take a wife. If I must participate in this theatre, I’d rather both parties script their own lines.”

“I detest performance.”

He nodded. “Then let us be honest. I will not marry you, Lady Rosina - not unless you can look me in the eye and say you want it for yourself.”

She met his gaze across the darkening room, and in her expression he saw—was it relief? Or gratitude, or simply the unclenching of a long-held fist? “Thank you,” she said, and this time the words were not barbed at all. “I am not offended. In fact, I would prefer it if you told my father as much.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are a very unusual female? Most ladies of marriageable age would delight in being bound to a prince, especially one who is second in line to the throne.”

She shrugged, her smile gentle with a kind of practiced self-effacement. “I’m not like most females. Besides, it would be a mercy to us both. You would get bored, and I would be-” She trailed off, searching for a word. “Obstructed.”

“Tell me, then. What would you do, if nothing and no one stood in your way?”

She considered, and he waited, knowing most women would demure, or pretend they hadn’t understood the question. Rosina did neither.

“I would travel,” she said. “Read everything worth reading. And then, perhaps… I would write something worth reading myself.”

He felt an unexpected pang of kinship. “Those are reasonable ambitions.”

Her eyes flicked up, ocean-bright and unguarded for a single heartbeat. “You think so?”

He nodded. “And I’m certain you’d find Forest House more conducive to reading than this mausoleum of hunting trophies.” He let the sentence hang for a moment. “If you ever wished for a change of scenery. As a guest, I mean.”

Rosina studied him, wary and curious at once. “Would your family welcome such a guest?”

“My family?” Vale found himself laughing. “I imagine they’d relish the chance to horrify my father by outnumbering him with clever, opinionated souls, especially Eris. Believe me: you would be more than tolerated.” He paused, then added, “And you would not be required to play the harpsichord, unless you wanted to, of course.”

She let her lips quirk at that, but there was a sudden, grave sadness in her. “It’s a tempting offer. I doubt my father would agree, but…”

“But?” Vale prompted.

She shook her head, losing the thread. “It doesn’t matter. Forgive me, my lord, I must seem terribly ungrateful. It’s just-” She faltered, gathering herself. “I did not expect to be able to talk so openly with you. I thought you would be more like… well, your reputation.”

Vale considered the various stories about himself - most of them, he decided, were unflattering but not wholly unearned. “I have never been accused of sincerity,” he admitted, “but I do value openness. And honest conversation is in short supply these days.”

A comfortable silence settled over them, until he rose at last, offering a shallow bow. “It has been a pleasure, Lady Rosina.”

She stood, her shoulders steadier than they’d been all evening. “And for me, my lord.” She hesitated, then continued, “Tell me, would you settle for correspondence, perhaps, in lieu of matrimony?”

Vale cocked his head. “Meaning?”

Rosina tucked a loose strand of her behind her perfectly pointed ear. “Meaning… you may write to me, if you wish. Should you find yourself in need of more honest conversation.”

He did not laugh, as she evidently expected, but nodded in genuine amusement. “I should like that very much, Lady Rosina. But only if you reply in kind.”

She smiled then - unmistakable, luminous - and he caught a glimpse of the person she might have been, had she not spent so much effort keeping herself small. “You have a deal, my lord.”

Her energy was so bright now, so stark against the encroaching dark of night, that Vale found himself almost reluctant to leave when Benit reappeared in the doorway, clearing his throat with a tactful smile.

“Father wishes to bid you farewell before he retires, my lord,” he said, but his eyes lingered on his sister with obvious relief.

Vale bowed once more to Rosina, who bobbed a tiny curtsy in response. “Thank you again for a delightful evening, Lady Rosina.”

That smile again, this time crinkling the skin at the corners of her eyes. “And you, Lord Vale.”

Vale followed Benit from the library to the drawing room, resisting the urge to glance back at Rosina, whose pale hands had already found their way to the next book in the pile.

Lionas was waiting by the hearth in the receiving room, thumbing a signet ring as if the crest might change in a more favourable light.

“My lord Vale,” he began, “you have done us great honour with your visit tonight. I trust you found the company agreeable?”

Vale let the question rest, refusing to be trapped by its claws. “Exceptionally so,” he said, casting just enough warmth into the words to appear genuine. “Your daughter is a credit to your house.” Which, in this case, was not even a lie.

Lionas barked his laugh, short and sharp, and Benit’s eyes flicked to the ceiling. “If only she could learn to keep some of her opinions to herself, perhaps she’d have better prospects.”

“I don’t see why she should,” Vale replied, feigning a casual dismissal, “As I say, it is refreshing. There is so little that is genuine at court.”

Lionas’s eyes narrowed. It was only a flicker, but Vale saw it - the weighing and measuring, the moment of calculation. “You’ll forgive a father for hoping you might find more to recommend her than spirited conversation.”

“I have found conversation to be the root of all true alliance,” Vale said, meeting the man’s gaze. “And you and yours have certainly made your intentions plain.”

Lionas sniffed, and gestured to Benit, who hurried to pour them all a final goblet of wine. There was a brief, awkward ritual of thanks before Vale set down his emptied cup and made his farewells. The small talk was all performance, and Vale found himself eager to leave the stage and return home.

“I wish you a pleasant rest of your evening, my lord.”

Lionas inclined his head, slow and wary as a hound sizing up a new master. “You are most kind.” He seemed about to say more, perhaps to prod for a hint of proposal, but Vale gave him no quarter, only a crisp bow.

By the time he returned to the Forest House, Sevan was waiting for him in the drawing room, draped in a heap of velvet and sarcasm.

“So? Will we soon be welcoming a little rose to the family?” Sevan’s amber eyes gleamed with wicked humour.

Vale poured himself a measure of whiskey and smiled. “Unlikely,” he said. “She’s far too clever to have anything to do with us.”

Sevan snorted. “She sounds delightful. I’ll send her a letter of sympathy when her engagement is announced.”

“There will be no engagement. In fact, if I had to put money on the matter, I’d say Lord Lionas will be entertaining other suitors by week’s end.”

Sevan, who had an uncanny knack for pressing matters, fixed Vale with a look of dry, almost scholarly amusement. “What, was her dowry not to your liking, brother? Or did you simply find her disagreeable after all?”

“Far from it,” said Vale, the answer surfacing before he could censor its candour. He rolled the whiskey over his tongue, savouring the slow burn, then set the glass down with unnecessary care. “That is precisely why she should stay as far from this house, and from us, as her legs can carry her.”

Sevan’s lips parted in a little ‘o’ of surprise, quickly replaced by a smirk. “Beneath the ruthlessness you hide a beating heart of gold,” He observed. “Disgraceful.”

Vale only rolled his eyes. “I’m hardly the only one, am I? Tell me, brother, how is Lady Sienna these days?”

That did the trick, and Sevan quickly steered the conversation to less treacherous waters, although Vale hardly paid it any mind. Instead, he thought of Rosina’s striking face and even more striking words. For the first time in a long while, Vale Vanserra found himself looking forward to receiving a letter.

Chapter Text

Azriel had seen death before - had dealt it out himself more times than he could count. He understood, on a deeper level, what it meant for a body to go limp in your arms. He’d held so many dying males and females, watched them slip, heard the last rattle of their breath, that he’d thought himself beyond surprise. But watching Elain Archeron collapse was something else. Something sharp and terrifying and new.

He’d caught her before she hit the ground - reflex, not even conscious. He held her, first in a desperation to keep her upright, and then, as she slumped into dead weight, from a horror that tightened every muscle in his body and made his wings flex open, as if he could shield her from any danger beyond.

Elain’s body was as light as a child’s in his arms. Her wrists were limp, her golden-brown hair tangled over her face, and nothing in the world terrified him more than the eerie silence of her. He tried her name again, cradling the back of her head, brushing her hair away with trembling fingers. “Elain. Elain, wake up. Damn it, please-”

Training, centuries of it, skidded and crashed uselessly around his brain as he let his shadows carry him. He landed in the clearing where moments earlier the former High Lord of Autumn had been felled. Eris stood frozen, chest heaving, his brothers and guards fanned around him, as if none of them could believe what they’d done.

Azriel barely registered the tableau. He strode straight for Eris, boots splashing in the slop of the clearing, ignoring the gasps as people registered his presence and the unconscious female in his arms.

“Eris.” His voice tore, more a snarl than a word. “Help me.”

Eris didn’t move at first. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his amber gaze flicked to Elain’s limp form. Only then did he lurch forward. Mud sucked at his boots as he ran, not a moment’s worth of High Lordly decorum, and he reached Azriel in three great strides. He wrenched Elain from Azriel’s arms so abruptly Azriel nearly fell with the force of it.

“What happened?” Eris demanded, eyes wild. His hands cupped Elain’s jaw, thumbs smoothing over her cheeks as if gentleness could will her awake.

“She- she just collapsed,” Azriel said, realising in that moment how little he understood of what had happened. “I can’t wake her, I-”

“Is she-?” Sevan started, but Eris snarled, “She’s alive,” not taking his gaze from her face.

Azriel watched as Eris gathered Elain to his chest, her pale arms draped over his. The newly minted High Lord of Autumn didn’t seem to care that his father’s ashes still smoked a few feet away, or that the courtiers watched with wide, terrified eyes. Instead, he just cradled her like she was the only thing holding him together. Azriel had seen males break before, but not like this. This was a breaking open. This was raw, unvarnished need.

Eris pressed his nose to the crown of her head, his whole body shuddering. The Shadowsinger had never seen the princeling show softness to anyone before. It was unnerving, to say the least.

“Please,” Eris whispered into her hair, so quietly Azriel almost doubted he’d heard it. “Please, Elain. Come back to me.”

Azriel stood helpless. He wanted to do something, find a healer, fetch water, fix it somehow - but he was useless, nothing but muscle and brute force in a moment that required delicacy.

He barely registered Lucien’s suggestion to get her inside. Eris didn’t waste another second. He winnowed away, the air collapsing with a thump, and Azriel found himself staring at empty space. He followed the echo, using the thrum of his own magic to pull him to the same destination.

He’d winnowed straight into Eris’s rooms. Eris laid Elain gently on a massive bed, arms lingering as if terrified she might disintegrate the moment he let go.

Azriel hovered near the threshold, not sure if he should stay or go. He looked to Elain, then to Eris, and saw something shift in the new High Lord’s gaze - a kind of nakedness he didn’t know Eris owned. Azriel had never liked him, never trusted him, but in that moment, he saw it. Eris cared, perhaps even more than Azriel did, and it scared the shit out of him.

“I’ll fetch a healer,” he said, ducking out into the corridor, but something stopped him mid-step. Not just the fatigue pulling at his limbs, but the inescapable tug of duty. He needed to tell Rhys. Feyre. He’d blocked them out this entire time, shields ironclad, but now…

He dropped his guard, just enough for the High Lord’s voice to thunder into his mind. Azriel. Report.

Beron’s dead, he replied, vision swimming. Eris is High Lord.

He felt Rhys’s shock, the quiet flash of satisfaction, swiftly drowned by something else - urgency, fear. And Elain?

He waited a brief moment before replying, willing his voice into neutrality. She used a great deal of magic - more than she should have. She’s… she’s unconscious. Eris is with her now.

An image, unbidden, flashed through the mental link - Feyre, at the River House, face stricken and hollow-eyed, pacing a rut into the carpet. Azriel’s gut twisted, guilt clawing upward. He’d promised them all that he would protect her, and here she was, half-dead in enemy territory.

Bring her home, Rhysand commanded. Now.

Azriel hesitated, eyes flicking to Eris. The male looked like he might set the whole room on fire if someone tried to take Elain away. And with Beron gone, all of Autumn’s attention would be fixed on the next High Lord’s every move. Azriel didn’t see a scenario where Eris would allow Elain to leave without a fight. He relayed this and waited for the explosion, for the pulse of power, the psychic demand that he obey and winnow Elain back to Velaris at any cost. Instead, he was met with a low, seething growl. It sounded like Rhysand had to clamp down on his own power to avoid shattering something in the process.

She needs a healer. Feyre’s voice this time, frantic and sharp. Get her out of there.

He wanted to obey. He did. But the memory of Eris cradling Elain, the way the High Lord’s hands had trembled as if every hope in him lived and died with her next breath - it wouldn’t leave him. Eris would never let her go.

That isn’t going to happen, Azriel admitted. Eris - he won’t let her out of his sight.

That is not your decision to make.

Azriel glanced back at Elain’s still form. Eris’s arm lay across her waist, his head bent so close Azriel couldn’t tell if he was listening for her breath or simply refusing to look away.

He could try to take her. He could even succeed, if Eris didn’t kill him for it first. But Eris would not forgive, and perhaps more importantly: neither would Elain. Not after all of this.

Madja needs to examine her, Az. We don’t know if the magic did something permanent. Feyre tried again, pleading.

He bit back the retort that Elain was not a child, not a precious object to be shuttled and fussed over and locked away for safekeeping. Instead, he said, She’s asleep. When she wakes, I’ll ask her if she wants to come home.

Rhys’s voice turned cold. If you don’t bring her to Velaris, I will come there myself.

Azriel braced a hand to the wall and squeezed his eyes shut against the coming onslaught, the overlapping voices of his High Lord and High Lady slamming into him like a storm tide.

She’s not in danger, he insisted. She just needs rest. Eris is High Lord now, but it’s a mess. He exhaled, running a hand through his dark curls. If you try to haul her out by force, you risk starting a war. I’ll keep an eye on her. I swear it.

A pause, then Feyre’s voice, softer and a little scared. Just…don’t let her out of your sight. Please.

He caught the faint, trembling plea behind the words and nodded, though no one could see. I’m not leaving her.

The link receded, but he knew Rhys and Feyre would be standing by, waiting for the next report, ready to storm the gates if Elain’s condition worsened. Azriel exhaled shakily, leaning against the wall. For a moment let the cold stone leech some of the adrenaline from his body, then pushed back into the bedchamber.

The room beyond was dim, firelight casting long shadows over Elain’s limp form. She lay on the bed, the tangle of her hair wild on the pillow, skin almost luminous against the dark furs. Eris sat at her side, hunched forward, one hand wrapped tight around her wrist, like he could hold her pulse steady by force of will.

The new High Lord’s clothes were stained with mud and blood, but he didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t even look up as Azriel stepped inside. In that moment, for all his power, Eris looked small.

Azriel approached the bed, careful to keep his steps light. He waited for a flicker of reaction, some sign that Eris even knew he was there, but the other male just stared at Elain.

He felt the tension crackle, saw the way Eris’s hands shook as he gently arranged Elain’s hair, tucking it behind her ear. There was something in the gesture - desperation, yes, but also a kind of patience, a willingness to wait as long as it took for her to wake. Azriel found himself simultaneously infuriated and oddly respectful of it.

Lucien was the next to appear, rushing in and placing a hand on the back of Eris’s chair. “Mirelle’s gone to fetch Master Terrick,” he said, voice raw. “How is she?”

“She’s cold,” Eris said eventually, the words barely more than a rasp. “Is she supposed to be cold?”

“She pushed herself,” Azriel replied, watching as Lucien scanned Elain’s body for any signs of injury beneath the layers of blankets Eris had piled over her.

“You shouldn’t have brought her here,” he said, voice so low Azriel barely caught it. “I did everything - everything - to keep her from this place, to keep her safe from Beron. And now-”

Azriel stiffened, a flare of anger pushing up through the exhaustion. “If I hadn’t brought her, you’d all be dead. She saw what would happen. She saw-” He cut himself off, breathing hard, then forced his voice lower. “She saved your life.”

Eris’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. “And look what it cost.”

Azriel stared Eris down, hands fisted at his sides. “Would you rather she’d let Beron take you apart? Do you think Elain wants you moping at her bedside, blaming yourself for the air in your lungs?”

Eris’s mouth curled, brittle as glass. “I’d rather she not have risked her life for mine, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Well, tough luck,” Azriel snapped. “She did, because by some miracle, she’s actually in love with you.”

“You think I’m the problem here?” Eris shot to his feet, red hair wild, every muscle tensed for a fight. “You brought her into this. If she dies, it’s on you.”

“Stop. Both of you.” Lucien leaned against the carved mantel, voice steadier. “We can point fingers later. Right now, she needs rest, and not an audience of squabbling males.”

Azriel relented, stepping back, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from Elain. She looked so breakable, lying there in the tangle of dark bedding, her lips a shade too pale.

He expected Eris to tell him to leave, but instead the Autumn Lord sank back into his chair and took Elain’s pale hand in his own, expression softer as his gaze fell upon her.

Eris’s voice, when it came again, was flat and oddly empty. “It shouldn’t have come to this.” His thumb circled Elain’s wrist, the motion so gentle it made Azriel want to lash out at anything that would dare threaten it. “We should have found another way.”

Azriel stared at him, at the raw edge of guilt in every syllable. He could have said dozens of things - could have told Eris it was Elain’s choice, that she was braver than all of them, that she would wake when she was ready and probably start lecturing them both about their stupidity - but none of it would help, he knew.

He caught Lucien watching Eris, a wary, sidelong look. Lucien’s face was drawn tight, the colour gone from his lips. “You two need to stop blaming yourselves. Elain’s stronger than you think. She’s survived worse.” He glanced at Azriel, then at Eris. “You both know that.”

He surprised himself by saying, “He’s right, Eris. Elain is strong. She’ll pull through.”

Eris’s eyes flicked up, a mixture of pain and accusation flashing in his gaze. “You saw what she did. No one’s ever-” He let the sentence die, dropping his gaze back to Elain. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel could have left then. Would have, if not for the memory of Rhys’s voice, that silent threat. He owed it to Elain to stay. Maybe he owed it to Eris, too.

They remained with her in silence, the three of them forming a strange tableau - the new High Lord, the Shadowsinger, the jilted mate. Three males who had all loved the impossible female before them. Azriel realised he was exhausted, every muscle trembling with aftermath, but he did not trust himself to rest. Not yet.

He watched Eris for a long moment, cataloging the shift in him: the absence of artifice, the collapse of that brittle, aristocratic sneer. It was the first time Azriel had ever seen him without a mask, and the effect was almost more shocking than the explosion of Beron’s death.

Eris had always been the villain in Azriel’s stories. But here, in this quiet room, he was just a male who’d lost too much and stood to lose yet more. Azriel could understand that, perhaps better than anyone.

He cleared his throat. “If you need to go-”

Eris shook his head, slow and deliberate. “I won’t leave her.”

Azriel nodded, some knot in his chest loosening. “Then what can I do to help?”

Eris stared at Azriel like he’d grown a second head. The Shadowsinger couldn't blame him.

“Help?” Eris echoed, as if he’d misheard. His brow creased, suspicion warring with exhaustion. “You want to help me?”

Azriel nodded, feeling the word heavy and awkward on his tongue. “Elain risked herself for you. I defied my High Lord. I refuse to let those efforts be in vain.”

Eris’s mouth twisted, like he wanted to laugh and spit in Azriel’s face all at once. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity.” Azriel stepped closer, close enough to see the fine tremor in Eris’s hands. “You’re in over your head, Vanserra. I’ve seen how this goes - the vultures will circle the moment they smell weakness. You want to protect her, but if you go down, so does she.”

Eris’s jaw worked. “Fine.” His voice was a rasp. He turned back to Elain, brushing a golden-brown tangle off her forehead with a tenderness that made Azriel look away. “You want to help? Make sure no one in this gods-forsaken house gets near her until she wakes. No one but my family, Mirelle, or the healer.”

Azriel inclined his head. “Consider it done.” He stepped back, sliding into the corridor outside the chambers, taking up his vigil.

Azriel had not slept in three days. Not truly. He’d found himself twisted up in a chair at Elain’s bedside, blinking in and out of shallow, useless rest, every exhale half-expecting her to stir. She didn’t. The healer said her pulse was steady, her breathing unlabored, her mind merely in retreat. But Azriel had seen the way Eris withered, hour by hour, as though the will that had kept him upright on the killing field was now rotting him from the bones out.

He kept his promise, though. No one got near Elain unless Eris approved. Captain Riven Marrow and his battered lieutenants prowled the halls like wolves, their swords slung and ready, and when Azriel did his rounds, he sensed them in every corridor, always watching, always measuring him. His own shadows, so long accustomed to lurking, had taken to curling under the doors and behind the tapestries, reporting back with flickering snapshots of the world outside Eris’s apartments. The court was in chaos. Beron’s loyalists howled for retribution or else melted away into the forest. The older courtiers, their eyes keen and brittle, circled Eris’s rule with the patience of buzzards.

But that was nothing compared to what came from the Night Court.

Every morning, a fresh missive arrived. Rhysand’s handwriting, terse and barely civil. Feyre’s, more pleading and edged with panic. The first day, Eris ignored the notes, passing them to Azriel with a raised brow. By the third, he had taken to tossing them straight into the hearth, unread.

It was the third afternoon when the council convened in Eris’s study, a wood-panelled room that reeked of red wine and wet dog and the sharp, spicy tang of the new High Lord’s power. Azriel stood in the back, arms crossed, boots braced apart, watching as the Vanserra brothers filtered in.

Eris sat at the head of the table, elbows planted, fingers steepled. Azriel was not invited to sit, but no one seemed inclined to force him out. He watched the proceedings, cataloguing every tic and murmur, every sidelong glance. This was not a council so much as a pack hierarchy being re-established. The matter of Elain’s condition was first on the agenda.

“What does Master Terrick say?” Vale asked, taking notes as they discussed.

Eris’s voice was a rasp from too many sleepless nights. “That she needs rest. She drained her magic and it will take as long as it takes.”

Sevan popped the cork on a wine jug with one hand, as he skimmed a letter bearing the Night Court’s seal in the other. His laugh was sharp as a crow’s call. “Well, I don’t think Rhysand will be placated by that. According to this, ‘the might of the Night Court will raze the Forest House to the ground’ if we don’t send her back.”

“They can come and try,” Eris said, voice flat as old coals.

“I imagine they will,” Riven rasped, slumped in his chair with a grimace, his wounds improved but not altogether healed.

Sevan raised a cup in Azriel’s direction. “If you’re here to slit our throats in the night, at least wait until after dinner. I’d like one last decent meal.”

Azriel did not dignify it with a response.

“It doesn’t help that they’ve been trying to break through the wards,” Calix added, frowning. “If it weren’t for Lucien’s skill in that department, I suspect they’d have spirited her away by now.”

This time, Azriel bristled. “I won’t let any one take her any where if it’s not what she wants.”

Calix snorted. “What she wants, or what Rhysand wants?”

Azriel’s voice was quiet, but it rang in the chamber. “I’m not here on Rhysand’s orders. I’m here to protect her.” His shadows pooled at his heels, dark and restless.

Sevan refilled his glass, sloshing a little on the papers spread before him. “Do us a favour, Shadowsinger - tell your High Lord that if he tries to breach the wards again, he’ll find them less hospitable than last time.” He jabbed a thumb at Riven. “We’ve doubled the watch.”

Vale sipped his wine, quill still scratching. “Is it worth trying to negotiate?” He shot a look at Azriel, then at Eris. “Can we not just let them visit?”

Eris drummed his knuckles on the table. “No visitors. I won’t risk her recovery by allowing others to meddle, even if they are her sisters.”

Sevan leaned over to Calix, dropping his voice - though not enough to escape Azriel’s hearing. “Do you suppose the Shadowsinger even knows how to relax? Or does he sleep with a dagger up his-”

“Not all of us have to drink ourselves insensible to survive a council meeting,” Azriel said, voice dry as the wine itself.

For a split second, the table froze. Then Riven barked a laugh, clutching his ribs. Eris’s mouth twitched, more thought than amusement. Vale couldn’t quite hide a grin behind the rim of his cup.

Calix, instead of bristling, gave Azriel an appraising up-and-down. “Honestly, I always wondered if Illyrians were even capable of fun. You look like you haven’t smiled since before the War.”

Before Azriel could reply, Vale rounded on Eris, quill poised. “The next missive from Velaris will come tomorrow, if the pattern holds. How do you want to answer?”

Sevan and Calix both interjected their thoughts, but Eris cut off the debate with a slash of his hand. "Enough. Perhaps it's time we stop being on the defensive and send a clear message of our own." He levelled his gaze at Azriel, the arch of his brow a clear invitation.

Azriel met the look, his own face unreadable. He understood the request - the challenge - embedded in the words. It would be a risk, but he’d learned long ago when to bluff and when to play the hand openly. He simply nodded. "I’ll leave at once.”

Sevan’s glass paused mid-lift. Calix leaned forward, interest sharpening. Even Vale’s pen stilled above the parchment, waiting for the fallout.

For the first time, Eris’s mouth curled into a real smile - cold, but not unkind. "Tell Rhysand that Autumn looks after its own, and that Elain will remain here with us until she wakes.” The confidence in his tone was brittle, but it held. "If he wishes to discuss further, he may send you back as an emissary. But if he tries to enter my court by force again, I will consider it an act of war."

Azriel inclined his head. “As you wish.”

He waited for a further command, but Eris merely waved him out, eyes already shifting to the next order of business.

Azriel left the study in two steps, careful not to slam the door. The corridor was dark, but after the stifling tension of the council, even the air felt easier to breathe. He lingered a moment, letting his shadows spread and settle.

He could have winnowed straight to Velaris then and there, but his legs took him back toward where Elain was resting instead. He found Lucien waiting outside the door, arms crossed, heel tapping a restless rhythm on the floor.

"Are you leaving now?" Lucien’s voice was ragged, like something had been scouring his throat.

Azriel nodded. “Eris wants this business with Rhys and Feyre dealt with before it festers.” He gestured towards the door. “She still asleep?”

Lucien nodded once, jaw tight. "Mirelle says she’s getting stronger. More colour in her cheeks." He hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. "You’ll tell Feyre - tell them she’s safe?"

"I will." Azriel looked him over, noting the fatigue that seemed to cling to Lucien like a perpetual shadow. “If anything changes, send for me.”

Lucien offered a hand. Azriel shook it in silence - no need for words after what they’d survived together. With a final glance at the door, Azriel let his shadows take him home.

Azriel landed on the River House veranda with a thump, too drained to bother masking the sound of impact. The city’s familiar tang of river water and spice was a shock in his lungs after the resin-smoke of Forest House. Inside, the evening light bled gold across the windows, and the laughter of a child carried down the corridor. He was home, technically, but the last forty-eight hours had made a stranger of him.

He stepped through the glass doors, focusing on the weight and warmth of the air, how it coaxed his wings to loosen. They caught on the frame anyway. He gritted his teeth and folded them tight as he entered.

Cassian was waiting in the vestibule, a hulking shadow against the painted wall. He looked like he’d been standing there for some time, arms folded, expression wary.

Cassian’s eyes tracked Azriel from head to toe, lingering on the dried mud at his heels and the faint scorch mark on his left sleeve. “You look like shit,” Cassian said, somehow both a joke and a warning.

Azriel shrugged, grateful for the normalcy of it. “Been a long week.”

“They’re in the living room.” Cassian dropped his voice, as if there were secrets in the walls. “Everyone’s been worried sick.”

Azriel grunted, and made to brush past, but Cassian caught his arm - gentle, but unyielding.

“Nesta’s in a mood,” Cassian muttered. “She’s already had it out with Mor. Whatever you’re about to walk into…” He trailed off, searching Azriel’s face. “Just don’t make it worse.”

Azriel nodded, jaw tight. The last thing he needed was a domestic war on top of the one brewing in Autumn.

He left Cassian in the hallway and walked into the living room, where the entire Inner Circle had arranged itself for battle. Feyre sat on the low settee, her hands folded in her lap, face pinched around the eyes. Nesta paced the length of the hearth, arms crossed, mouth a white slash. On the chaise, Mor lounged with a glass of wine, but her posture was straight. Amren stood by the window, all feline indifference and metallic gaze.

Rhysand was the only one standing, hands clasped behind his back, head bowed as if in prayer. He looked up when Azriel entered, and the room fell instantly silent.

Azriel stopped in the doorway, refusing to show the fatigue in his legs. The memory of Elain, pale and unmoving, flickered behind his eyes. He tried to banish it, focused instead on the steady pulse of the river outside and the expectation in his High Lord’s eyes.

“Well?” Rhys said, voice like velvet pulled taut. “How is she?”

Azriel ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, not trusting his voice at first. “She’s stable. Drained, but improving. The healers say she just… needs time.” He kept his hands at his sides, flexed them once to keep the tremor at bay.

Feyre swallowed, and Azriel watched her compose herself, saw her thinking of all the ways she’d failed to protect her sister, the thousands of miles and secrets between here and the Forest House. “You saw her,” Feyre whispered. “You’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t have left otherwise,” Azriel said. “They’re very protective of her.”

“They’re animals,” Nesta spat, grey eyes flashing. “You should have dragged her out the moment Beron fell.”

“It wasn’t safe,” Azriel replied, slower now. “Not in her condition. Eris would never have allowed it, and I think-” He swallowed, feeling his own certainty harden. “I think if she woke up in Velaris, she’d never forgive me for it.”

Mor made a disapproving sound, almost a growl. “She belongs here. With her family.”

“And what if she doesn’t want that?” Azriel said, softly.

The silence that followed felt like a storm cloud creeping into the room.

Amren stirred by the window, her tongue clicking once. “The choice is hers,” she said, voice sharp as glass. “And from what I’ve seen, the girl’s more than capable of making it.”

Nesta glared at Amren, but Azriel caught the flicker of fear beneath the anger. “No one’s saying she can’t decide for herself,” Nesta snapped, “but you don’t just abandon family-”

“Enough,” Rhys said, calm but unyielding. He motioned Azriel closer. “Tell us everything, from the beginning.”

Azriel obeyed, recounting the battle and the aftermath, the chaos in Eris’s court, the way Elain had crumpled in his arms - how the male everyone had learned to hate had trembled over her, begging for her to return. He kept his voice steady. Made himself recount every detail, even if the memory clawed at his gut.

He saw their faces shift as he spoke, the surprise and wariness and - eventually - the creeping realisation that things had changed in the Autumn Court. He told them about the council meetings, the threats and promises, the way Eris had started to claw order from Beron’s old regime. And he told them how the new High Lord had insisted on keeping outsiders away from Elain.

“She is safe,” Azriel said quickly, “and under constant watch.” He tried for the faintest smile, but it didn’t hold. “Eris has barely left her side in three days.”

Rhys’s mouth twisted. “I assume he’s refusing to let her return.”

“He’s refusing to let anyone near her at all. Not even Lucien’s allowed in the room unless Eris says so.”

Azriel waited, wings pressed tight to his back, shoulders still hunched from days of bracing for impact. The words hung between them, brittle as ice.

Mor was the first to move, slamming her empty glass on the table. “So that’s it? We just let them keep her?”

Azriel shook his head. “She’s not in a dungeon, Mor. She’s-” He faltered, unable to explain the sight of Eris kneeling at Elain’s bedside as if in penance. “They care for her.”

“That’s not the point,” Mor snapped, voice shaking with something too ragged to be just anger. “You don’t know what he’s capable of-”

“I do, same as you.” Azriel’s words came out flat, but the pulse in his jaw ticked up, traitorously. He met Mor’s glare, then Feyre’s, trying to shape the next words carefully enough that they’d make it through the room without shattering anything. Azriel let out a breath, slow and deliberate. 

“He loves her,” he said. “If you’d seen him… He hasn’t left her side. He-” Azriel stopped, searching for a language that would make them understand. “I’ve never seen a male look so undone. He’d have burned the world down if it meant she’d wake up.” He drew in a long, ragged breath. “Eris loves her. You don’t have to like it, but it’s the truth. ”

He watched the words burrow under their skin. Feyre’s hands balled on her knees, knuckles white. Nesta had stopped pacing; she stared at him, eyes glassy and sharp. Even Mor, scorn scorched onto her face, turned away, as if unable to bear the conviction in his tone.

“Alright,” Rhysand said, after a too-long silence. His voice was the only calm thing in the room. “We wait. For now.” He looked at Feyre, who nodded once, the lines in her face relaxing by a degree. “And you will keep us updated. The moment she wakes-”

Azriel inclined his head. “You’ll be the first to know. And if she wants to leave, I’ll bring her back myself.”

Nesta’s arms were still locked over her chest. She glared daggers at him, but said nothing. Mor looked like she wanted to argue, but instead stood and made for the wine decanter, pouring herself another. Only Amren seemed satisfied, humming to herself as she watched the river outside.

Rhysand caught Azriel’s eye, and there was something in that look - relief, maybe, or forgiveness. “You did the right thing, brother.”

Azriel nodded and turned to leave, already feeling his wings itch for the sky. He arrived back at the Forest House just as the sun dipped below the horizon.

The Vanserra guards at the entrance recognised him at once and let him pass without a word, their gazes darting anywhere but his face, as he made his way to Eris’s rooms.

The room was warm, a low fire in the hearth keeping out the persistent chill. The only sound was the low, even breathing from the far side of the bed. Elain lay on her back, covers up to her chin, hair fanned over the pillow like a sunburst.

Her lips had colour again, faint but undeniable. She looked a little less like a corpse and more like herself. He crossed to the bed, careful not to disturb the old floorboards, and studied her. Eris sat in a low chair beside the bed, knees drawn up, head bent over a battered book.

Azriel cleared his throat. “Any change?”

“She stirred a few times,” Eris said, voice rough. “Muttered nonsense. I think she’s dreaming.”

“That’s good,” Azriel said. He hovered at the edge of the bed, unsure if he was intruding.

He let his wings droop, exhaustion finally winning out. “Rhysand won’t interfere unless it’s an emergency. He’s giving her time.”

Eris grunted, not looking up from the book. “You trust him to keep his word?”

Azriel shrugged. “He trusts me to keep mine.”

A long silence. The only movement was the slow rise and fall of Elain’s chest. She seemed smaller in sleep, the sharpness of her cheekbones softened, the ordinary prettiness of her features hinting at something more durable beneath. Azriel wanted to reach out, to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, but he kept his hands at his sides.

He watched her for a long while, until the crackle of the fire and the slow, rhythmic breathing nearly lulled him under. His eyes traced the line of her cheekbone, the faint twitch of her fingers where they curled against the blanket.

He almost missed it, the first time. A curl of darkness, slick and quick as oil, sliding along the edge of the bed. His own shadows were nestled around his shoulders - these were different.

The smokey wisps coiled along the edge of the mattress and touched Elain’s temple, lingering there. Azriel blinked hard, but they did not vanish. They moved like fingers, like caresses, brushing over her brow, her cheek, her lips. He could not move. His instincts screamed at him to do something, but the shadows did not appear to be hostile. They were almost… gentle.

He watched as the shadow stroked her hair and her lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. At this attention, they paused, then faded as if drawn back into the very walls. Azriel frowned, scanning the room, searching for a source, but there was nothing. Just the fire, Elain’s breathing, and Eris’s quiet page-turning.

He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and let out a slow, shaky breath, trying to banish the crawling sense that something was wrong. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the endless hours folded into chairs and corners, the ceaseless vigil that left his mind wandering down haunted corridors. Even his own shadows felt muddled, sluggish from so much time spent stationary and caged indoors.

He watched Elain for another minute, wary. Her breathing remained steady, undisturbed by whatever tricks his mind might be playing. Eris had not noticed anything, either, still doggedly reading, eyes flicking over the same page without truly moving on. Azriel forced himself to relax, to let the tension flow out of his jaw and temples.

He needed to rest. Azriel went into the sitting room and collapsed onto the settee, boots still on, wings unfolding awkwardly behind him. Mercifully, he was asleep before he fully hit the cushions. 

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of Beron’s downfall, much had come to light about why Lucien had been absent from the start of the coup. It appeared that Graysen, in some desperate bid to try and win Elain’s affections back, had made an appeal to Koschei of all people, and was under the misguided assumption that if he did his bidding, then the death god would somehow reverse what the Cauldron did and return Elain to her human form. As payment, all he had to do was detain Lucien, which was considerably easier with an arsenal of ash arrows at his disposal. It was not until Azriel arrived that the pair were able to disarm the human lord’s guards and return back to the Forest House - just in time, too.

Sevan had suggested they pay the bastard a visit but Lucien countered that Queen Vassa wouldn’t take kindly to one of her subjects being tortured by flame, even if he deserved it.

Eris, however, was not one to let such offences go unanswered. Lucien’s bleeding heart was forever his weakness, and whatever personal loyalty his brother owed Vassa, it could not outweigh the satisfaction to be reaped from a little moral correction. A few days later, once it was clear that Elain would be alright - exhausted, but whole - Eris slipped away and found Sevan lurking in the shadows of the corridor, as if he’d already anticipated the summons.

As he explained the plan, Eris realised he had never seen someone take so much pleasure at the prospect of tormenting those who had done their family wrong.

Sevan was chomping at the bit to get going. After all, this was nothing new. The two of them had been slipping into enemy territory for centuries, long before Beron’s ambitions had driven the family to infighting. Some things, Eris thought, never lost their sharpness - not Sevan’s appetite for mischief, nor his own taste for retribution.

Lord Nolan’s keep was a little more than a glorified manor, all sharp gables and ostentatious banners, a pale imitation of true power. Eris let Sevan do the talking at the gate, though it hardly mattered. The slightest use of his younger brother’s power, and the guards developed a sudden and pressing need to be elsewhere.

Inside, the keep was even less impressive. They moved through the darkened corridors like wolves, silent and surefooted, until they reached the main hall. Graysen was there, as predicted, sprawled at the long table with a goblet in hand, surrounded by six of his guards.

He looked up, a scowl already forming at the audacity of being interrupted during dinner. Eris did not bother with subtlety. He strode straight into the hall, boots echoing on the stone, and plucked an apple from the centrepiece as he passed. Sevan followed with a casual, predatory smile, the sort that preceded violence or seduction.

Eris took a moment to study the boy. Graysen’s hair was darker than he’d anticipated, his jaw soft with the first bloom of adulthood. He had the look of someone who’d been given everything he wanted, and yet it had somehow never been enough.

The moment he took in their appearance, their pointed ears, their uncanny resemblance to Lucien, Graysen’s goblet clattered to the table. And yet, to his credit, he held his resolve. “Gentlemen,” the boy greeted. “Or is that too generous a term?”

Eris sank his teeth into the apple, let the juice run over his tongue as he watched Graysen calculate. The mortal boy’s fingers tensed around his fork. The guards - six of them, all handpicked from his close friends, going by their young and inexperienced appearance - were already shifting, hands inching to sword hilts, eyes tracking the Vanserra brothers with uneasy disbelief.

“You must be Lord Graysen,” Eris offered, smiling with all the courtesy of a trained courtier. He chewed and swallowed, turning his attention over the guards. “And I see you’ve invested heavily in security. A wise choice. Though-” He turned, made a show of scanning the faces - one was sweating already - “not, perhaps, a sufficient one.”

Graysen stared, incredulous, as Eris summoned his flame and burned the rest of the apple to a crisp, the ashes fluttering down tot he ground. The boy barely flinched, but Eris noted the way his pupils dilated, the fine tremor in his hands. “You cannot just barge in here,” he spat, eyes flicking to Sevan, then back to Eris. “I could have your heads for breaking in. My father-”

“Your father is at least two days’ ride away and likely drunk on honeyed wine,” Sevan drawled, leaning against the nearest column. “Try again.”

The mortal lord met his gaze, jaw clenched. “If you’ve come to threaten me, you can save your breath. The queen will not appreciate you speaking to me this-”

Eris cut him off with a tilt of his head. “What makes you think I intend to use words to make my point?”

The guards bristled at the veiled threat, blades drawn, but Eris only gave them a bored glance and a flick of his wrist. Bands of living flame snaked up their arms, wrists bound in orange-hot shackles before they knew what hit them. The one closest to Graysen yelped and toppled to the floor, writhing.

“You always did have a penchant for dramatics,” Sevan remarked, though the glint in his eye said he welcomed the performance.

Graysen’s composure shattered. He surged to his feet, nearly overturning the chair. “What is the meaning of this?” Voice trembling, but not from fear - no, Eris recognised the strain, the effort to maintain control, to salvage some dignity. “You- your kind think you can do whatever you want. But this is my land. My home. You’re trespassing.”

Eris let Graysen’s tirade wash over him. Typical human posturing: arrogance as armour, entitlement as a birthright. How many times had he seen this exact performance, only to watch it wither under fire? Even now, Graysen tried to meet his gaze as an equal, but he could not mask the tightness around his mouth, the sour sweat blooming beneath his fine collar.

“Relax. We’ve come for a friendly conversation,” Sevan said, the edge in his voice anything but friendly. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms lazily. “I believe you had the pleasure of one with our brother recently.”

Graysen’s eyes narrowed. “I owe nothing to Lucien. He’s a liar and a traitor. I only wish I had enough ash arrows to finish the job, and I would have, if that winged monstrosity hadn’t come and taken him.”

Eris leaned in, bracing his hands on the table. “Your little stunt nearly cost me my crown,” he said, voice quiet enough that Graysen had to strain to hear it over the curling flames and the whimpering of his men. “And Lucien’s mercy is the only reason you’re still alive.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Graysen’s hand slid his napkin on the table.

Eris let him think he wasn’t watching for the knife. He could smell the acrid tang of Graysen’s fear even over the overcooked meat and spilled wine. “Afraid? Of course not. You’re very brave. Isn’t that right, Sevan?”

“Quite,” he replied, letting out a sharp bark of laughter. “Or very stupid. We heard about your little deal with Koschei.” Sevan pushed off from the wall circled the table, every movement loose and casual, but Eris could feel the tension humming beneath.

He wondered if Graysen grasped, even dimly, what it meant to make a deal with Koschei. To him, it likely felt like a simple story: a transaction, a desperate wish with no cost he could imagine. Mortals were always this foolish, always believing their suffering would move the very gods to pity. How little they knew.

Graysen tracked Sevan’s path around the table, eyes flicking between the two fae like a trapped animal unwilling to show its fear. “Why are you here?” The bravado had been stripped, but there was still a haughty tilt to his chin that made Eris want to drive it into the marble with his boot.

“What you did to my brother was not clever, but that’s not why I’m here,” Eris began calmly. “No, your mistake, was involving Elain in your ill-fated scheme.”

“Is that what this is about?” Graysen let out a scoff. “Elain?" Eris found he did not care for the way her name sounded from his twisted little mouth. "If so, you’re wasting your time. I want nothing to do with her now.”

“And yet you bartered with death itself to return her to you, all pretty and human again, so you could play house.” Sevan retorted, his grin all teeth.

Graysen scowled. “I had my reasons. You wouldn’t understand.” He shook his head. “You fae, you’re all the same. You think you’re so much better, but you’re all beasts at heart.” His eyes slid to Eris. “She was terrified of your kind, you know. To think she’s been whoring herself with the likes of-”

“Careful,” Sevan interrupted. “That’s no way to speak about a lady.”

Graysen bared his teeth, fighting for composure. “Why does it matter to you? She’s not the girl she was before. I heard she’s been passed around by fae males, bent over tables and-”

The last words barely left Graysen’s mouth before Sevan was on him, vaulting over the table and seizing Graysen by the throat. He struggled, but Sevan was quick and unyielding.

Graysen's face flushed crimson as he fought for breath, eyes darting between the brothers with a mixture of defiance and fear. "So that's how it is," he wheezed, lips curling into a sneer. "I'd understand this... display... from her mate, but you?" His gaze fixed on Eris, venom dripping from every syllable. "What claim do you have on my former bride, Lord Vanserra? Does she spread her legs for you too, or do you just like to watch?"

The room went very still. Sevan tilted his head, considering, then shot Eris a sidelong look. “Would you like me to do it?” he asked, his voice flat and bored. “Or would you prefer the honours?”

Sevan tightened his grip, and Graysen choked, the sound oddly satisfying in the echoing silence. Eris fixed his gaze on Graysen, a slow, terrible smile unfolding as he approached the pair.

He closed the final steps between them, relishing the way Graysen’s face purpled against Sevan’s hand, how his eyes bulged with righteous outrage and something bordering on panic. He flicked his gaze to Sevan, who didn’t bother to hide his impatience.

“Set him down,” Eris said, “I want him conscious for this.”

Sevan released his grip, and Graysen sagged to his knees. He gasped and coughed, clutching at his battered throat, and Eris waited, patient as death, until the mortal finally dragged his gaze up to meet his.

“You’re all monsters,” Graysen rasped. “You don’t even try to hide it.”

Eris shrugged, and Sevan merely sauntered back to lean against the wall, drawing a slender dagger from his coat. “He’s really much nicer about this than I am,” he said, the blade twirling lazily between his fingers. “But then, you never met our father, did you?”

Graysen’s eyes darted. “Get out of my house.”

“Not until you listen,” Eris said, steel in his tone as he bent down so they were level, leaning in just enough that the mortal lord could see just how little he meant in the world’s true order. “If you ever speak of her again,” he said, voice flat and low, “if you so much as allow her name to pass your lips, I will burn this entire keep to ash. You, your father, your lineage - extinguished.” He took a step closer, relishing the pale terror that swept through Graysen’s face.

He straightened, motioning to Sevan. “We’re done here,” Eris announced, as if excusing himself from a particularly tedious dinner party.

But the moment he turned his back and reached the threshold, Graysen found a last scrap of courage - or perhaps stupidity. “You think you own her, don’t you? She may have taken a liking to any fae with a functioning cock and a title,” The words were flung, desperate, “but I had her first. She was mine before you even knew her name and whatever she pretends now, she liked it well enough beneath me. So you’re welcome to have her. She’s nothing but a pretty whore and she’s all yours.”

Eris paused, and strode back across the hall, each step measured and unhurried - a lesson in inevitability.

Graysen’s remaining bravado collapsed by degrees, until only hate remained in his eyes. Eris let it hang there - let the terror and loathing mix, until it curdled into a memory that would never fade.

He considered ending it there, a neat punctuation to a pointless life. But Graysen - idiot, writhing, useless Graysen - had dared invoke her name. Had dared, after everything, to speak of Elain as if she were a bauble, a thing to be owned and discarded.

So Eris bent down, caught the human’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and made sure Graysen saw every flicker of fire in his eyes. “You’re correct about one thing,” he said. His voice was soft, almost gentle. “She is mine. And you will never matter to her again. You will never matter, full stop.” He let that hang, a death sentence more thorough than any blade.

He shoved Graysen back. The guards were still immobilised by the fire-bonds, some whimpering softly, others staring at the scene with pale, wide eyes.

“Still happy to help, brother,” Sevan offered, the blade twirling lazily between his fingers. “ Just say the word.”

Eris shook his head, stepping away. “No need,” he replied, dry as old parchment. “He understands.”

As the brothers turned to leave for a second time, Eris couldn’t help but give a brief nod to Sevan, before calling out over his shoulder. “Oh, and you may wish to do something about the fire.”

Graysen merely looked around confusedly, still on his knees, and asked, “What fire?”

Sevan smiled, a wild glint in his eyes. “This one.”

He didn’t bother with a flourish. His brother just flicked two fingers at the nearest velvet curtain, and a lancing pillar of fire erupted, incinerating the heavy fabric from hem to rod in a heartbeat. The inferno climbed the wall, coughing black smoke and spitting embers that landed, alive and hungry, on the waiting tapestries

Graysen scrambled back, crab-walking across the flagstones until his shoulders smacked the stone wall.

Terror had finally rooted out whatever pride the boy had. The whites of his eyes showed as he watched fire eat up his father’s ancestral hall, a feast unending.

Eris let it burn. They left the hall the way they’d come, the air sweet with the scent of scorched wood and singed pride.

He stalked down the corridor, Sevan falling into step beside him, neither of them bothering to glance back at the panicked shouts that followed them.

“That was very touching, brother,” Sevan drawled, still spinning the knife along his knuckles, as they descended the narrow stair toward the moonlit portico. “I think he’ll remember your bedside manner for the rest of his miserable life.”

Eris ignored him. He wondered, briefly, whether Elain was awake, whether she would want to hear how the night had gone. He wondered if she would be pleased, or merely horrified.

Either way, he couldn’t wait to return to her arms. 

Chapter Text

The moment Beron’s hand closed around Sienna’s jaw, Sevan’s world howled apart.

He knew, in that instant, what she was to him. What he was to her. The mating bond slammed into place with a violence he’d never believed possible, anchoring itself in the marrow of his very being.

He gasped, the sound wild and desperate, and for a moment he was nothing but a raw nerve, exposed to the world. The air vibrated with the force of it, an electric shock that seized every cell in his body and refashioned him around a singular, inarguable truth.

Mine, the bond insisted, low and relentless. Fucking mine.

She was his. Gods, she was his. The knowledge hit with the force of a physical blow. It was a madness, a fever, an agony. He was half-mad with the need to protect her, to kill for her, to tear out Beron's throat and paint the world with his blood for daring to touch what belonged to Sevan Vanserra.

She was his mate - and Beron had his hands on her.

He’d always suspected - hoped, even, in a stupid, hidden part of himself - that the bond would snap someday, that he’d meet someone who made the rest of the world fade to black. But he’d never imagined it would be now, like this, with his father’s filthy hand on her face and a ring of fire searing her wrists.

Sevan's own hands curled into claws at his sides. He could feel the magic gathering, the hot promise of it crawling up his spine. He’d never been the strongest, never the smartest, never the best at anything; but right now he was the most dangerous thing in this wood, and he would show his father exactly what that meant.

Beron turned, as if sensing the shift, and smiled at Sevan - a smile that said, I see you, I know all your secrets, and I will drag you down screaming into the dark. And then, just like that, the first volley of arrows hit.

Sevan barely managed to drop in time to avoid becoming skewered and from there, it all happened very fast. The clearing erupted in violence, courtiers scattering - some running from the trees, others rooting themselves in place, eager to witness blood.

The next moments were a blur. He was vaguely aware of Eris signalling the move, of Vale and Calix flanking with mechanical precision, but mostly he was aware of Sienna - her scent, her fury, her absolute refusal to cower even as flame circled her wrists and licked at her throat.

One minute he was behind the line of guards, the next he was on top of them, a blur of fists and flame. He tore through the first two, breaking one nose with a headbutt and sending the other sprawling with a knee to the gut. The bond sang with every blow, an electric current that made him faster, meaner, more alive than he'd ever felt.

Sienna wasn’t waiting to be rescued. She twisted in her captor's grip and drove her elbow into his chest. Before he could recover, Sevan was there, extinguishing the bonds from her wrists with a single touch.

He risked a glance. Her eyes were wild with fury, but also shining with a kind of disbelieving relief. "Took you long enough," she spat, voice raw around the edges.

Sevan grinned, even as he shot a ball of flame directly into another guard’s face. “I missed you too, darling.”

“You’re a fucking idiot.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

There was no time for more. In the next breath, one of the guards who had been restraining her lunged, but Sienna turned and kicked him square in the crotch - a move he was sure she’d perfected on overly familiar males over the years. The guard folded, and she grabbed his helmet, slamming it down on his skull with a satisfyingly hollow thunk. “You going to just stand there all day, or actually help me kill these fuckers?” she snapped, bending down to divest the now incapacitated guard of his blade.

Sevan had never loved anyone more.

They fought back-to-back, Sienna a wildcat in a ball gown, Sevan a perfectly honed blade, the two of them together a deadly pair. He could feel her behind him, every movement, every frustration, and every time she stumbled or overcommitted, he adjusted without thinking. She was not as tall as him, not as strong, but she was clever and ruthless and unafraid.

He killed three guards in close succession, but swiftly lost count after that. Everything had since well and truly gone to shit.

Fire splashed across the clearing, scorching the trunks and sending smoke curling up around the chaos. At the centre, Eris and Beron clashed, two storms colliding. Sevan could barely keep track - there was a moment when Vale and Calix seemed outnumbered, only to break through the ranks and regain the upper hand.

And though it went against every protective fibre of his being, he was glad Sienna was here with him. Glad that if he was to die this day, he would be able to do so with her as the last thing he saw.

Mother’s tits, he really was going soft.

As he looked around, Sevan thought to himself that maybe this was really happening - they could really do it, with or without Lucien. Fate, however, seemed to disagree with his optimism.

As a son of Autumn, few things made Sevan’s blood run cold. And yet, the sight of his eldest brother - the male who had effectively raised him and his brothers - on his knees before their bastard of a father was certainly one of them.

No. No, no, no. They had come too far now, they were so close to being free, all they needed was just -

“Seven saw the wound made. Five must see it close.”

Sevan’s mind struggled to catch up with what his eyes and ears were telling him. Elain… was here? Along with one of the overgrown bats, and- And Lucien. Lucien was here.

He eyed Sienna whose demeanour had drastically improved, and before he ripped his brother’s head off, he had to remind himself that it had nothing to do with Lucien’s good looks (probably).

Sevan called out some half-hearted quip to hide the fact that he was beyond relieved to see his little brother. Less so to see the infamous Shadowsinger, but he realised shortly after that this would be his only opportunity to get Sienna out of danger.

“Get them out of here,” Sevan barked at Azriel, nodding at Sienna and Rosina.

Sienna squared her jaw, ready to fight, but Sevan snapped at her, “For once in your fucking life, just do as you’re told. I will not lose you today.”

Sienna hesitated, then nodded, rage and something that looked perilously close to love warring across her face. “If you fucking die on me, Vanserra,” she snarled, “I’ll drag you out of the grave myself and kill you again.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, as Azriel’s gloved hand pulled on her elbow, Rosina already clutching to his free arm.

In a blink, they were gone, vanished into shadow.

The abrupt, wrenching absence left Sevan reeling, like a limb had been torn from his body. He staggered, chest heaving, and barely managed to throw a blast of fire over his own shoulder to fend off a guard who thought to take advantage.

He should have been relieved, grateful even, to know she was clear of Beron’s reach. Instead, all he could think was: I’m never going to see her again.

But by the Mother, he was going to try. Sevan fought like a demon. He fought because he was angry, and because he was afraid, and because he was in love with a female who would murder him if he failed to make good on his promise to her. He fought because this was the last chance any of them would ever get for a better future, and if that meant carving a path through every last one of Beron’s handpicked bastards, so be it.

He turned to Eris and Beron, locked in a spiral of fire and smoke, magic lancing the air with every blow. His father was gloating about something or other and Sevan watched in horror as the High Lord’s attention turned to Elain.

He didn’t think, only moved, as he blocked the ball of flame from hitting her, instead taking the full brunt of the attack right in his chest. He hit the ground hard, the world erupting in white-hot agony. For a second Sevan couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the way his skin felt like it was peeling off his ribs.

He rolled to his side, expecting to find the front of his leathers melted to his skin, but the blast had been more force than flame. Lucky him. He’d have a bruise the size of a watermelon and every rib cracked, but at least he wasn’t dead.

Sevan staggered upright just in time to see his four brothers surge together, fire licking Beron from every angle. He drew deep from his well of magic and gathered what flames he had left.

He caught Beron’s eye for a split second. The High Lord’s face was a mask, ancient and cruel, but Sevan had never seen him look afraid until that moment.

He hurled his magic. It left him like a scream, a spear of white fire that punched straight through the tangle of bodies and hit Beron dead in the gut. The force knocked Beron back, but not down - he was too strong, too stubborn, to die easy.

But that split second advantage was all Eris needed.

It was working. Mother’s tits, it was actually working. Eris spoke the words they had all been dying to throw at their father and his heart warmed when he mentioned his brothers. Eris had always looked out for them, in his own way - and this was his final most selfless act of protection.

A blinding flash of light engulfed the clearing, forcing Sevan to shield his eyes. When he opened them again, it was done. Beron lay motionless on the stone, his eyes empty and his body already beginning to crumble into ash. Above him stood Eris, surrounded by a corona of golden light that pulsed with the heartbeat of the Autumn Court itself.

The next hour was a blur of violence and confusion. Elain had been taken to the Forest House and while Sevan longed to follow suit and ensure both her and Sienna were alright, there was a court to secure first.

Loyalists tried to regroup, but with Beron gone and Eris’s power rising, it was hopeless. Anyone who didn’t submit was dealt with, quickly and without mercy.

He and Calix reached the edge of the wood in time to see Lord Fabian - Sienna’s betrothed - trying to slip away with a handful of supporters. Sevan caught him easily enough.

He refused to kill him quickly, though. Some things required more finesse.

He did not remember much of the slow march back to the Forest House, his magic too depleted to even winnow. All he remembered was the sensation of the bond thrumming under his skin, insistently.

Throughout the whole melee, her presence had pulsed at the base of his skull, saturated with equal parts anxiety and adrenaline. Now it was quieter, no less insistent but edged with something else. Anticipation, maybe. Or dread. Sevan had no idea what she’d do to him when they were finally alone, but he knew it would probably hurt.

Sevan combed the hallways, each stretch of empty corridor ratcheting his anxiety until he was sure it would snap. Blood still trickled from his cheek where a guard’s blade had grazed him, and his shoulder ached, but he barely noticed. The string tied to his ribs, the one that yanked harder the closer he got to Sienna, was the only thing that mattered. He ignored the servants - some cowering, some trying to look invisible, some weeping with the relief of Beron’s death, all of them proof that the world had changed in the space of a heartbeat. He wanted to laugh, or scream, or punch a hole in every priceless painting that lined the walls, but he kept moving, faster and faster as the bond called him home.

He found her in his own wing, of all places - a fact that would have been funny if he hadn’t been on the verge of combustion. Sienna paced the length of the antechamber, her hair wild, her gown torn at the shoulder, and when she saw him she froze as if caught in a snare. They stared at each other for the span of a breath. Then she ran to him, and he caught her hard, the force of her impact nearly knocking him off his feet.

He barely got his own arms around her before she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and let out a sound he’d never heard from her before. Half-laugh, half-sob - all relief. “Thank the gods,” she whispered, voice shattered and raw. Her arms locked around his neck so tightly, he thought his head might pop off.

They stood there for a long time, clutching each other, letting the world catch up.

When she pulled back, Sienna glared at him, breathing hard. “I thought you were dead. When it was over and you didn’t come right away, I thought he’d killed you. I thought-” She cut herself off, jaw setting hard, as if she could force the grief back down by sheer force of will.

Sevan, of all people, understood that trick. He laughed, but it was a choked, unsteady sound. “Didn’t realise you cared that much, Sienna.”

She swallowed, throat working. “I don’t,” she lied, her voice raw. “But if you died, I’d have to marry Lord Fabian.”

He ran a hand through his hair and managed a breathless, “You’ll be pleased to know that’s off the table.”

Sienna blinked at him, suspicious. “What is?”

“Fabian,” Sevan said, swallowing a cough.

“What do you mean, off the table?”

“I mean it would be difficult for you to marry him,” he said, managing not to smirk, "on account of Lord Fabian being very, very dead."

She stared, as if the sentence had been spoken in a language she didn’t know. Her hands loosened, then tightened on his collar. “You killed him?”

"If you want proof, you can have his head. Calix is probably mounting it on a pike as we speak." He tried to make her laugh, but the joke landed flat.

She let the words sink in, then made a small, strangled sound and pressed her head back to his shoulder, hard enough he wondered if it would bruise. She stayed that way, shaking, until it hit him that she wasn't angry, or even shocked - she was relieved. She was fucking grateful.

Gods, what had the male done to her?

“Sienna-” He wanted to say a thousand things, none of which would survive the air between them. He settled for, “You’re safe now. It’s going to be alright.”

He held Sienna tight, letting her shake against him, every muscle in her body gone rigid with the effort not to weep. In the past, he’d have mocked her for it, would have teased and prodded until she snapped back to her old self, until she’d found something sharp to throw at him and the world made sense again. Now, though, he gave in, then, because what the fuck else was there to do? He wrapped his arms around her, hard enough to feel the ridges of her ribs through the torn velvet of her dress, and buried his face in the tangled mess of her hair.

They stood there, holding one another, the air between them thick with everything they’d never said. After a while, Sienna eased back, but didn't let go. Her hands fumbled at the back of his neck, uncertain, and she couldn't quite look at him.

Sevan was the first to crack. “Are we going to talk about this?” He gestured, not at her but at the invisible line that ran between them now, the thread that was suddenly alive, humming in a way it hadn’t been minutes before.

She looked away, jaw set, and she was the only person he’d ever met who could blush and look even angrier for it. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t start?” He barked a laugh. “Are you kidding me? You could’ve died, Sienna. He would have killed you and Rosina for sport just to spite us. I watched him put his hands on you, and if I ever- if he had-” The rest stuck in his throat, lodging there like a bone.

She glared at him, mouth twisted in a snarl. “Yeah, well, you think I’m thrilled about it? You think I want this?” Sienna’s voice shook.

The words stung, but not enough to make him let go. “I’m not exactly overjoyed, either, you know,” Sevan shot back, but the lie was thin and both of them knew it. “I mean, I was hoping for someone who didn’t want to throttle me every other sentence, but the Mother works in mysterious ways.”

“I didn’t fucking ask for it, Sevan. I was fine. I was going to handle it. I always handle it.”

He gaped at her, not sure whether to laugh or throttle her himself. “You were about to be executed in front of half the court, Sienna. I’m not saying you’re not capable, but maybe you don’t have to do everything alone anymore.”

Sienna’s expression twisted, and for a half-second Sevan thought she’d finally give in and punch him, which honestly would have made things a lot simpler. Instead, she shoved him, hard, but not hard enough to break his grip. “You don’t get to just decide that,” she said, voice thin and bright with unshed tears. “I don’t need you to swoop in and play the hero. I don’t need anyone. I never have.” She spat the words, but her hands - gods, her hands - clung to his shoulders like she was afraid he’d disappear if she let go.

“Well, guess what? Now you’re stuck with me.” He forced a crooked grin, desperate to make her laugh, to bring back the Sienna who’d bite him just to see if he’d bite back. “Mother knows what you did to piss off the Cauldron, but it looks like I’m your punishment.”

She barked a laugh, short and sharp, but it collapsed almost immediately into a breathless exhale, and she looked away as if the floor might offer her some last-ditch escape. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” she muttered. “You’re the last person I expected to be bonded with, Sevan. You’re an asshole.”

“First of all, rude. Second, you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine yourself, Sienna.”

“Fine,” she spat, finally breaking the silence, “so we’re… whatever this is.” She made a vague gesture, as if the word ‘mate’ was too ridiculous to speak aloud. “What, you expect me to move to the Forest House, play the good little lady for you? Pop out heirs and attend court dinners?”

Sevan tried for a smirk, but the curve of it was broken, half-bitter. “I’d expect at least one or two heirs. Maybe three, if you’re as stubborn as you look. Odds are, they’ll be very attractive, but gods help them if they inherit your temper.”

Sienna’s lips twitched, and for a second he thought she might actually laugh. Instead, she ground her teeth, eyes glinting with something that wasn’t quite anger and wasn’t quite anything else. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

He shrugged. “Not really. But it beats feeling like I’m about to crawl out of my own skin.” His heart drummed at his throat. The bond was a hot wire, burning through every thought, every nerve; it would not let him rest, could not be ignored now that it had been forged in blood and chaos. “I can’t get it out of my head, Sienna. You. Us. It’s like… it’s like being on fire, and not even wanting it to stop.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “So, forgive me if I sound like an idiot. I’m not used to this.”

“I’m not used to this either, to this- this thing which is just going to make everything so much more complicated.” She met his eyes and winced, and Sevan realised she was genuinely close to weeping. The sight cracked him open in ways he wasn’t prepared for.

“Hey,” he began, softer now, “I know it’s a lot. Hell, I’m barely keeping it together myself. But you’re not alone anymore, alright? You ever try to run off, I’m just going to follow you and make your life miserable until you stop.”

She looked up at him, her eyes rimmed with red. “You’re already making my life miserable, Sevan.”

He shrugged. “Mother always said I was a prodigy.” Sevan’s pulse was a thunderclap in his ears. “Look, I know you’re angry. I know this is… not what either of us wanted. But I almost lost you today.” His hand came up, careful and slow so she could slap it away if she wanted (she didn’t), and cupped her face, thumbing the wild hair from her cheek. “You don’t owe me anything, but please…” He met her stare head-on, tried to show her with the tilt of his chin and the steadiness of his grip that he was here, that he’d always be here. “Don’t- don’t hold back. Not from me.”

Sienna made a sound, hoarse and small, her face crumpling before she dragged it back into defiance. “I’m not holding back,” she snapped, but her voice shook, and her next words came out so quiet he had to lean in to hear them. “I’m just-” She sucked in a breath, jaw set so tight he half-expected her teeth to crack. “I’m scared, Sevan, alright? Of what this will do to me. To us.”

“What do you want from me, Sienna? Tell me, and I’ll do it - anything. But don’t pretend you don’t care. I can feel you.” His hand tightened at the nape of her neck, thumb tracing the soft, rapid flutter at her pulse. “I’ve spent my entire life wanting things I couldn’t have, but I won’t force you. I’m not my father, or Fabian, or any male who would hurt you.”

"Don’t." Her voice was nearly gone, but he heard her anyway. "Don’t make promises you can’t keep."

"I’m not going anywhere, Sienna. Not unless you tell me to. Not unless you really want me gone."

She stared at him, and the tears finally spilled over, tracking down her cheeks. When she spoke, the words were a whisper. "I don’t want you gone, Sevan. I want the opposite, and it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever wanted. I want to believe you, but I can’t because if you leave, it’s going to kill me. It already hurt before and that was just when I loved you, but now-” She bit down, shaking her head.

He stared, stunned. "Wait," was all he could manage. "You-" He almost couldn't say it, but what the hell, the day wasn't getting any less batshit. “You love me?” he blurted, too loud, too eager, such a fucking disaster of a male he might as well have flung himself out the window right then.

Sienna glared at him before dipping her chin in confirmation. 

The world stilled. Sevan was used to fighting for every scrap of affection. Used to earning it with teeth and jokes and reckless acts of self-destruction. But this was different. This wasn’t a game, or something he’d tricked her into feeling. It was real. It was hers, and it was for him.

“Say it again,” Sevan said, voice ragged. He wasn’t sure if he was laughing or losing his mind. Maybe both. “Please. I need to hear it. Just once.”

She glared, as if she could set him on fire with willpower alone. “If I say it, you’ll never let me live it down.”

“I promise I’ll never mention it again unless you want me to,” Sevan replied, grinning reckless and unrepentant. “Not even if they torture it out of me.” He considered, then added, “Which, knowing my family, is a real possibility.”

Sienna’s expression twisted, the fury in her eyes flickering to something brittle and desperate. “I love you, Sevan. You are the most infuriating, reckless, gorgeous-” She choked, turned the sound into a snarl. “And now you’re my mate, which is just perfect, isn’t it?”

Something hot and unfamiliar dragged through his chest. “Gods,” he managed, and then, “Mother above, Sienna.” He couldn’t stand it - he reeled her in, hands at her waist, and kissed her.

The bond crashed between them like a wave, so loud it nearly knocked him off his feet. Sienna gripped his shirt, hauled him closer, kissing him back like she might beat him at his own game. There was no gentle sweetness in it - she bit his lip, he bit back, both of them gasping and huffing, clashing and melding all at once.

He'd never wanted anything so much. Never needed to consume and be consumed, to have someone see every broken, hollowed-out part and still fucking want him. The bond snapped and thrummed, every nerve singing in harmony with hers, and he realised, with a clarity that felt like a knife (no one ever talked about that part), that he could never let her go. Not if she stabbed him in the heart and left him bleeding, not if she rejected the damn bond altogether. Not ever.

He pulled away first, just a fraction, enough to rest his forehead against hers. “I love you too, Sienna,” Sevan whispered into the space between bruised lips and burning cheeks, and it was so easy to say now, so terrifyingly simple. “Gods help me, but I do. And I want this - I want you. I want all of it - because for the first time in my life, I don’t want to be alone. And I don’t think you do, either.”

She shuddered, and her hands went to his chest, not to push him away but to steady herself. “You’re not supposed to say that,” she whispered. “You’re supposed to make a joke, or tell me I look hot when I’m mad, or-”

“You want me to tell you you’re hot when you’re mad?” he asked, risking a small smile. “Because you are. Like, really, really hot. I mean, I’ve seen forest fires that look frigid compared to you right now.”

“Still an asshole, I see.”

“Always,” he laughed. “But I’m your asshole, now.”

He kissed her, softer this time, and she let him, let herself be pulled into it as though the rest of the world could wait. When her hands slipped into his hair and she made a broken sound in her throat, Sevan thought he might actually, for the first time in his life, survive what came next.

They stood there until someone banged open the doors and Calix stuck his head in, a cut slowly scabbing over one cheek. “Sorry to interrupt whatever ungodly thing is happening here, but you’re wanted in the throne room. Apparently, Eris is about to address the court.”

Sienna snorted but didn’t resist as Sevan draped his arm around her shoulders, as familiar with the gesture as if he’d spent years doing it. She elbowed him playfully before wrapping an arm around his own waist as they followed Calix through the battered halls, toward whatever future they’d just won for themselves.