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velarisdusk · 6 hours ago

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Where the Smoke Settled

Eris Vanserra x Reader

summary: You live alone at the edge of the woods, content with your herbs and your quiet. Then you cross paths with Eris Vanserra in the forest—and something long-buried starts to stir. word count: 8,132 content: [ explicit sexual content, piv, no protection, eris is NOT pulling out, crying while making out sorry not sorry, mentioned physical abuse, mentioned bruises, insinuated emotional abuse, explicit language ] author's note: ALRIGHTTTTT here we go >:) me always on my eris + tiger's eye bullshit ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ ember potion infused with a dash of blaze enhanced with starlight crystals whirled thank you for the request @savanah222 ! i don't think i've ever written a plot twist, idk if this is twisty enough but i tried my best lol i hope you like it!! <33

The forest has always felt like a chapel carved from light and leaf. Not holy—not exactly—but reverent in its quiet. Sacred in its stillness. Every branch an arch, every birdsong a hymn. You’ve always moved softer here, as if your steps might echo.

Wide enough to be left alone. Wide enough to breathe.

You walk without hurry, your basket swinging gently in your grip, a few herbs already nestled inside—soft sprigs of wintermint, a curl of birchbark. The air is cool for late autumn, sharp where it sinks through the gaps in your cloak.

It’s been twelve years today. You know that without needing to count. Your body always remembers before your mind does—waking with tension between your ribs, a restlessness you can’t place.

Twelve years since your father died.

You can’t say you mourned him.

Your fingers find the necklace at your throat. You rub the tiger’s eye pendant between your fingertips—a smooth, familiar motion. A nervous one. The stone’s warmth feels borrowed, like it’s storing something it won’t tell you.

You were hoping for goldenroot, or at least woodspore. Anything strong enough to fight the blight that’s crept through the edge of your lands—black-flecked and slow, but spreading. Your neighbors say it’s the same on their land, that something’s turning beneath the soil. You’ve tried salves, tried fire. You’ve buried salt rings and poured vinegar into the roots. Still it climbs.

The path narrows. You drift from it anyway, boots crunching over leaves softened by last night’s rain. It’s not a real trail—just a sliver of space between trunks where the sunlight drips in golden pools. You pass a standing stone—one you swear you’ve never seen before, though you’ve walked these woods hundreds of times—and something in your chest flutters, disoriented. A blink of vertigo. A breath caught sideways. You shake it off. Keep walking.

That’s when you hear it.

A low growl.

You still.

It comes again—closer this time. Low and guttural, like smoke catching on a breath.

A flash of movement—branches shattering, leaves thrown upward.

Then it crashes into the clearing.

You stumble back just as the thing barrels toward you—huge, four-legged, limned in shadow like smoke rising from fur. Its teeth flash. You scream. Brace for the bite.

It doesn’t come.

The creature skids to a halt inches from your legs, chest heaving. A smokehound.

It sniffs, eyes wild and glinting. You try to scramble backward, but it follows—nosing at your hip, your wrist. Its breath is hot through your sleeve. It whines.

It whines.

Not a snarl. Not hunger. Something gentler, more confused. A whine.

It circles you. Sniffs again. Then lunges—not with teeth, but with joy. One massive paw slams into your chest, knocking you flat onto the forest floor. Your breath leaves you in a grunt. Panic floods in its place.

You shove at the creature’s weight, and just as your hands meet coarse fur—

A familiar whisper grazes your senses.

A younger version of this beast, leaner and less fierce, curling beside you on a blanket. Wet nose tucked into your lap. The sound of laughter—your laughter, mingled with a deep voice that rumbled softly.

“He's harmless,” he says , voice calm but with a hint of amusement.

Gone.

You gasp, clutching the dirt as the creature settles beside you, tongue lolling and tail wagging like it’s just found its favorite person. It sniffs your hand eagerly, nudging you with a wet nose.

A sharp whistle cuts through the trees.

The smokehound goes still. Ears up. Perfectly trained. It backs off, slow and obedient.

Your heart thunders. You sit up, coughing into your sleeve—

And then you see him.

At the edge of the clearing.

Cloak hanging clean and still, boots wet from moss and bloodroot.

Eris Vanserra.

He stares at you like a ghost just spoke his name.

And then—

“(Y/n)?”

Your name from his mouth feels like something cracked open. Like a jar sealed too tightly, suddenly bursting under the pressure.

You blink. “…Good morning, Lord Eris.” It’s polite. A default courtesy, the same way you might greet a merchant or a passing soldier.

But his face shifts into something colder. Hardened. He draws himself up like you’ve slapped him.

“Good morning?” he echoes, voice clipped. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Your brow furrows. “No?”

He laughs—dry and sharp. “Right. Of course. Just a pleasant little stroll through the woods, is it?”

“…I was gathering herbs.”

His eyes rake over you like he’s looking for a lie. Like you’ve insulted him.

“Of course,” he mutters. “Back to that, then.”

You cross your arms. “Is there a problem, my lord?”

Something flashes in his expression. “Not unless you think ghosts make good company.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

He turns slightly, pacing a few steps like he can’t bear to look at you. The smokehound circles behind him, silent, alert.

He finally speaks again—low, scathing. “You’re very good, you know. I’ll give you that. Almost convincing.”

You gape. “What the hell is your problem?”

Eris stops. Turns. His eyes blaze—dangerous and sharp. And that’s when it hits you.

You shouldn’t have said that.

You shouldn’t have spoken to him like that—heir to the Autumn Court, son of a High Lord, a male who could ruin your entire life with a single word. Your stomach twists. You’re already halfway through forming an apology, throat tight, but—

“We’re done here.” His voice is a blade. Cold. Final.

He turns his back on you and walks away.

You stand there, pulse still pounding, heart racing for reasons you can’t name. Watching the smokehound trail after him.

You don’t understand what just happened.

But your chest twists something awful.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

It’s been nearly three weeks since you saw him in the woods.

You haven’t told anyone. About the smokehound, or the way it looked at you like an old friend, or the way Eris Vanserra said your name like it was a wound. The memory’s settled like damp fog in the back of your mind—too strange to touch, too heavy to lift.

You’ve done your best to forget it.

Which is why, when the letter arrives on thin, cream-colored parchment, stamped with the seal of the Forest House, your first reaction is pure, exhausted irritation.

Not fear. Not concern. Just a long-suffering sigh.

You slice it open with a paring knife at the kitchen counter, more forcefully than needed. The smell of rosemary still clings to your hands from the garden. The livestock are quiet outside. It’s meant to be an ordinary afternoon.

Your eyes skim the formal language—territorial review, upcoming assessment, recent census inconsistencies—and your jaw ticks. What the hell does the court care about your land now? They haven’t come by since before your father died.

Then your gaze snags on the signature.

Eris Vanserra

The ink shines faintly. Still fresh.

You stare at it for a long moment, jaw tight as you run your thumb across the name. A small, annoyed gesture. Petty.

But something flickers—like the strike of a match that never quite catches.

Your fingers freeze, suspended over the name. A breath caught mid-motion.

Then you pull back. Not in fear. Not even in pain. Just… as if the parchment had turned unfamiliar beneath your skin.

You close your eyes. Breathe in. Out.

“Gods, I hate him,” you mutter.

You crumple the letter halfway before flattening it again, your fingertips lingering just a moment too long at the bottom. You don’t know why.

It’s just stress. Just Eris Vanserra being difficult. Just this damned court being—

You shake yourself.

You don’t dwell on it.

But it lingers.

The very next day, you’re startled by a knock at the door.

Not a polite one—a firm, repeated rap. You open it to find two Autumn Court officials on your doorstep, a male and a female dressed in travel cloaks of deep russet and browned leather, stern-looking with clipboards in hand.

The female nods, eyes sharp. “I am Steward Arlen, and this is Assessor Maira. We’ve been sent to conduct an official inspection.”

And then your stomach drops.

Because standing behind them—aloof, arms crossed—is Eris Vanserra.

You try not to let your surprise show. He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you. Cool and unreadable. That same cloak of smoke. That same awful, arresting stillness.

“I’m just observing,” he says when you finally glance at him, cold and clipped, like the weight from your last encounter still hangs between you.

You bristle, but say nothing of it.

The Assessor, Maira, steps forward, his stance firm and eyes sharp beneath a fur-lined hood. “You’re the landholder?” His tone is polite, but clipped.

“I am.”

He nods once, then gestures toward your fields. “We’ll need to walk the perimeter. Document conditions. Confirm acreage and boundary use.”

Arlen offers a small smile. “Water would be appreciated. Thank you.”

You move to pour two glasses—pointedly not three—aware of their footsteps behind you as they step into the cottage. Maira keeps glancing around like he’s already appraising value. Arlen lingers just inside the entryway.

Eris doesn’t come inside.

He stays near the steps, one hand resting on the post with quiet authority.

You hand over the glasses, the officials nod gratefully.

“Your garden’s well-kept,” she says, maybe trying to be kind. “We passed worse on the way up.”

You shrug, voice clipped, eyes scanning the plants. “You can thank that damned blight for that. It’s creeping up on the neighbors, too. If it wasn’t for the herbs I’ve been scattering along my perimeter, this place wouldn’t be standing.”

Maira’s already heading for the back door, muttering, “Let’s start with the northern edge.”

You follow them out, boots crunching in the softened earth. Eris still doesn’t come inside—instead, he walks around the house and meets you all on the far side, his presence quiet but unmistakable. He falls in step beside Maira, walking ahead with the assessor.

Arlen glances sidelong at you. “You and your neighbors should bring it to the Hall of Petitions in two weeks. It’s the best place to have these concerns heard.”

Eris’ posture tightens. Just a little. But he says nothing.

Held twice a year, the Hall of Petitions was the one chance most citizens had to be heard directly by the High Lord. But being heard rarely meant anything changed—often, it was little more than a show of power, a reminder of who held the real control.

They walk the property, asking measured questions about irrigation, property lines, livestock. You answer easily enough—it’s your land, after all.

But it’s hard to focus with him there. Looming.

Eris trails behind the group, saying nothing. But you can feel his gaze whenever you’re not looking, like heat crawling up the back of your neck.

They pause at the shed near the treeline. “Any enchantments?” the woman asks, crouching to inspect the wood.

“No.” You cross your arms. “Just cedar and rust.”

She hums in acknowledgment, jotting something down on her clipboard.

When they move to the small barn, the two officials step inside to inspect the beams.

You remain outside, alone.

Across the paddock, Eris stands watching you.

Your eyes meet.

His expression doesn’t change. But something flickers—something uncertain, maybe. Or restrained.

You don’t say a word. Neither does he.

A breeze lifts the ends of his cloak. One gloved hand curls loosely at his side—controlled, composed—but you catch the way his jaw ticks, the slight shift of weight like he almost stepped forward. And didn’t.

Then the others return, thanking you for your time and cooperation. The inspection is done.

Eris lingers half a second longer. As if he might say something. As if he’s trying to decide whether he should.

Then he turns, and walks away.

You don’t watch him go.

And later that night, you find yourself pacing your kitchen, hands restless, jaw tight.

You tell yourself it’s just court business. Just procedure, even though the timing was suspicious.

And still—

You hate yourself for wondering what he almost said.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

The air is sharp, tinged with smoke from distant hearths, and the great hall of the Autumn Court hums with murmurs and shifting bodies. You’ve never set foot here before; your father always kept you away, his voice low but firm when he said, “This is not a place for you.”

You remember the nights he came from these things—half-drunk and swaggering, barking about how he’d put Beron in his place. How the High Lord listened when he spoke. How the whole damn court should be thanking him.

You’d sit stiff-backed at the table, nodding like you believed him. You never doubted the reason. He wanted you scared, wanted you to see him as powerful—even if behind closed doors he bent low before Beron’s will.

Tonight, you stand among the crowd for the first time. Back straight, fingers curled tight around the croll in your hand—your petition, your proof, your plea. It outlines everything: the mold spreading through the valley, the crops at risk, the families who will starve if nothing is done. You’d asked your neighbors to come. Urged them to speak.

But most of them didn’t.

A few were far too frail to make the journey. Some muttered that it wouldn’t matter.

And the rest…

The rest had that look in their eyes. Like they already knew what happened to people who raised their voices in Autumn.

The hall is a cavernous space filled with dark wood and flickering sconces, the shadows thick between pillars carved with ancient runes. Beron sits at the far end, regal and indifferent, his eyes of polished mahogany sharp beneath heavy brows.

Beside him—expected, yet jarring—Eris Vanserra.

He’s seated, his posture rigid, eyes locked on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. It’s not just observation. It’s personal. You can feel it, though you refuse to meet his gaze.

It’s hours before your turn comes. But you stand, resolute. You step forward when your name is called. The great hall hushes—just slightly. A ripple of bodies turning, subtle but unmistakable. You take your place on the stone before the dais and begin, voice steady but low—

“My name is—”

Beron’s voice slices through yours, deceptively casual. “Speak clearly, girl. If you’ve come to waste me time, at least have the decency to do so loudly.”

A ripple of laughter moves through the court. Dry. Dismissive. Your face burns. You tighten your grip on the folded scroll in your hand and draw a breath.

Then you lift your chin. Meet his gaze.

Beron watches you. Watches you, not your scroll, not your trembling fingers—your face, your stance, like he’s searching for something. Some thread he missed. Some familiar shape in the dark.

“My name is (y/n). My neighbors and I are struggling with a blight,” you say, louder now, unwavering. “It spreads faster each season. Our crops are failing. What little we’ve managed to harvest won’t last more than a few months.”

You don’t look away. Not even when the murmurs behind you grow. Not even when Beron leans back in his chair, gaze sharpening in a way that says he’s not listening to your words—he’s reading you. Looking for some thread that might unravel.

“And what causes this blight? Perhaps you’ve brought a scholar with you?” Another rumble of laughter.

“No,” you answer. “But I’ve observed it closely. It spreads fastest from the south and—”

He raises a brow. “Ah, so you’re a farmer and a botanist. How fortunate for your village.”

You push on, refusing to flinch.

“There’s mold in the root systems. It travels through the water table. I’ve tried cutting the affected rows, even burning patches, but nothing stops it. I’ve scouted the forest for herbs—wintermint, goldenroot, woodspore—to brew as a warding tonic. It slowed the spread, but…”

“But?” Beron echoes.

“They’re harder to find now,” you say. “And the blight is gaining again.”

“Hmm.” He taps a ringed finger against the arm of his chair. “And tell me—how many acres are affected? How many mouths do you speak for?”

You swallow. “Eleven farms. Nearly eighty people, not including the children. The next village over is starting to see the same signs.”

“So not your village, but theirs as well?” He leans forward just a touch. “And what about livestock?”

“They’re thinning. No milk from the cows these past two weeks. And some of the goats—”

Beron waves a hand. “Goats,” he repeats with a sneer. “You’d have me summon an agricultural response force over a few goats.”

You say nothing. You can’t. Not without your voice shaking.

He lets the silence stretch.

“What do you propose we do?” he asks at last, almost mockingly kind. “Send a steward to walk your fields? Dispatch a healer to bless your wells? Or perhaps you’d prefer we replace your crops by magic?”

You lift your chin. “I propose that the Forest House assist in coordinating treatment. That we receive supplies—tools, seeds, parchment to track it. That someone listen before it’s too late.”

Beron studies you. A long, steady silence.

Then he turns to one of his stewards, standing near the wall like carved stone.

“The Forest House,” he says lazily, “will consider your petition.”

That’s it. A flick of his hand. You are dismissed.

But he doesn’t stop watching you. Not for a heartbeat.

Eris’s gaze doesn’t waver either, and you feel a heat bloom in your cheeks. For a moment, the hall falls away. It’s just you and those burning eyes.

Beron’s lips twitch—almost a smirk, or maybe it’s disdain. You don’t know.

And behind you, the court shifts again. Preparing for the next name. The next voice. The next ask they’ll ignore.

You bow your head and retreat from the dais, heart pounding unevenly in your chest.

You shouldn’t have come.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚

The forest swallows you whole and you storm through the trees like you’ve got fire in your blood.

Evening drips through the trees in slanted amber light, but you don’t notice the way it spills across the moss, don’t hear the birds going quiet one by one. You’re already moving—fast, furious, half-blind with it. Your boots tear into the undergrowth. Branches claw at your arms, your cloak. You don’t care. You don’t slow.

How dare they dismiss you so easily..

How dare Beron sneer like that—like your concerns were nothing but noise.

And how dare Eris look at you the way he did.

The words loop in your head like a curse. Your jaw is tight enough to creak. Your hands tremble with rage.

And gods—gods, worst of all—how dare your chest ache the way it does now. Like something’s been carved out of it. Hollowed. Like there used to be something there and you should know what it was. Like half-remembered hands tried to fill it.

And you don’t know why. You don’t want to know why.

You break through a thicket into a clearing, breath heaving. You drag your hands through your hair, plant them on your hips, try to calm the fire thrumming through your veins. It doesn’t work. You want to scream. To break something. To shove all this confusion out of your body and breathe again.

A rustle behind you.

A twig cracks.

Then: “Gods, you really handed it to him, (y/n).”

You spin.

Eris stands a few paces back, half in shadow, half lit by the gold of the dying sun. He’s breathing harder than usual, like he followed you in a hurry. His arms are loose at his sides—tension coiled through them, restrained like a thread pulled taut.

“Said I needed to speak to a steward about a timber claim,” he goes on, voice too casual. Forced. “Don’t think he believed me.”

You blink. Once. Twice. “Leave me alone.”

He takes a step forward. Sharp. “Tell me what I did wrong.”

The words hit like a slap. You stiffen. “You showed up.”

Eris flinches—then snaps, but it isn’t sharp. It’s disbelief, raw and gutted. “Really, (y/n)? After ev—”

You scoff, start to turn—

“Don’t you walk away from me!” It explodes from him, hoarse and thunderous, loud enough to send crows scattering from the trees. It’s not just fury—it’s hurt, and something older, deeper, breaking loose.

You whirl, eyes blazing. “What do you want from me, Eris?”

His voice shatters in return. “The truth! Why are you pretending you don’t remember?”

“Because I don’t remember! What the fuck do you want me to say?”

“Bullshit!”

“I’m not lying!”

“Then what the fuck happened, (y/n)?” His voice cracks like splintering bark. “You vanished. You stopped coming. You never said goodbye.”

You stare at him. Your chest feels too tight to hold air. Each breath fights to stay in your lungs.

“We made a promise,” he grits out. “We made a godsdamned promise.”

You take a step back, like that’ll make it easier to look at him. It doesn’t. The clearing’s too quiet. The trees too still. Your feet shift on the moss like they’re trying to get distance—but you can’t tear your eyes away from him.

He’s pacing now. Frantic. One hand rakes through his hair; the other curls into a fist like he doesn’t trust it not to shake.

“You said—” He swallows hard. “You said if we both survived our fathers, we’d run. We’d leave it all behind.” He manages it, just barely—like stitching words around a wound. “And I believed you.”

Then he stops moving. And Eris looks at you like you’re a wound that never healed. Like seeing you is pain. Like not seeing you was worse.

“I waited for you,” he says quietly. “I waited every week in this fucking forest, wondering what I did wrong.”

And then he yanks something from beneath his shirt—fingers trembling as they untangle a silver chain. A tiger’s eye pendant glints at the end of it. Warm gold and dark bronze. It catches the dying light like a fire trapped in amber.

“And I still fucking wear this,” he breathes, voice low and raw. “Like an idiot. Like it meant something.”

You can’t speak.

You can’t breathe.

The twin chain around your own neck suddenly burns with weight.

Your voice comes small, unsure: “Where did you get that?”

Eris’ gaze lifts. Wrecked. Red-rimmed. “You gave it to me.”

He steps closer. Doesn’t stop.

He takes a step closer, chain clutched between his fingers.

“The last day I saw you. You took yours off and said—” his throat works. “You said, ‘Now we’ll both have a piece of each other. Not like we’d ever forget.’”

He exhales like it hurts. “I must’ve replayed those words in my head a thousand times. Thought maybe if I just wished them hard enough, you’d come back.”

He stares at you like you’ve split him open.

“And then you forgot me anyway.”

For a moment, it’s silent.

He’s breathing hard. You’re frozen.

The only sound is the wind shifting through the trees, the distant crackle of autumn leaves underfoot. A crow calls out from somewhere deeper in the forest. It doesn’t matter.

Because something else is pulling you now.

An urge. Unexplained. Inexplicable. Inevitable.

Your eyes fall to the pendant still clenched in Eris’s hand, glinting dark gold in the fading light. Your own matching chain burns cold against your skin, as if answering.

You step forward.

Carefully. Like you’re approaching a wounded animal. Or the edge of a cliff.

Eris watches you like he doesn’t trust you not to twist the knife. His breathing stays sharp, shoulders taut.

Your fingers hover.

Then close.

The moment your skin touches the pendant— everything hits.

Not a memory. Not a vision. An onslaught.

It swallows you whole.

You stagger. Almost fall. Your knees buckle under the weight of it, your hands scrambling at the air like you can catch yourself on a past that’s rushing up to meet you.

A forest clearing. This one. Years ago.

A smokehound puppy, tail thumping against the earth, licking your cheek while you laugh and try to push him off. "He just wants to play!" Eris shouts, voice cracking with joy. Sunlight through the branches, glinting off his hair like fire.

Flash.

A different day. The clearing is quieter now. Overcast. Damp from an earlier rain.

You’re sitting on the moss, arms wrapped tight around yourself. Your shirt’s slipped off one shoulder, revealing the sick bloom of bruises across your skin. Some still fresh. Some already yellowing.

Eris is in front of you, silent. He doesn’t ask who did it. He already knows. His face is thunder—every sharp angle barely contained. His hand hovers, shaking, over your shoulder. He hesitates… then exhales, and lets the magic come.

It’s warmth at first. Gentle. Spreading across your skin like a second heartbeat. You watch him watching you—his brow drawn, his eyes burning not with fire but with fury. And helplessness.

He doesn’t speak. Not at first. But when your eyes start to shine, when you bite your lip and try not to let it show, his voice finally cracks through the silence.

“I hate him for what he does to you,” he whispers.

His hand is still there, steadying the heat, as if he can melt the hurt out of you with sheer will alone. You shake your head, blinking fast.

“Don’t cry,” you murmur.

“I’m not,” he lies.

Flash.

His arms around your waist. His face buried against your stomach. You’re standing—still, unmoving—while he kneels before you, clinging like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sob.

But his shoulders shake with the weight of it. And his breath stutters against your shirt, warm and wet where it soaks through. You can feel it—that silent unraveling. The grief he’s never been allowed to show. The kind that can’t be screamed, only endured.

One of your hands moves on instinct, threading through his hair. He leans into it without meaning to, eyes squeezed shut. Like he’s afraid that if he opens them, this moment—this shelter—will disappear.

You don’t ask what Beron said this time. You already know it doesn’t matter. The words change. The wounds do not.

So you just hold him. One hand cupped to the back of his head, the other stroking gently down the nape of his neck. Your thumb brushes the edge of his jaw. He presses closer, silent still.

Like maybe if he fits himself against you tightly enough, he’ll finally feel whole.

Flash.

Stars overhead. The two of you lying side by side on a blanket, a smokehound curled at your feet. His warmth at your shoulder. The hush of night wrapping around you like a secret.

He lifts your wrist to his lips. Presses a kiss to the inside, soft and careful.

“If we survive our fathers,” you whisper, “we’ll run.”

He turns his head to look at you. That expression—like hope is caught between his ribs, too sharp to breathe around. “You mean it?”

You nod. “I promise.”

A beat. Then you reach for the clasp at the back of your neck. Fingers fumbling slightly. You slip your pendant free and hold it out to him, the tiger’s eye catching faint starlight.

“I want you to have it,” you murmur.

Eris stares at it. Then at you. His throat bobs with a swallow, and after a moment he reaches beneath the collar of his tunic—draws out his own necklace. The chain is heavier, the stone smoother. But without a word, he removes it.

“Then you should have mine,” he says, voice low. Rough.

He clasps yours around his neck. You do the same with his. The stones settle warm against your skin.

“Now we’ll both have a piece of each other,” you say, voice shaking.

He looks at you like it’s the first time he’s seen you clearly.

Your fingers find his. “Not like we’d need a reminder. Like we’d ever forget.”

The smokehound exhales, curling tighter into sleep.

Flash.

Your cottage. Dusk. You’re feeding the goats. Humming.

Then—a jolt.

Hands grab you from behind. Tight.

You freeze. You gasp. You open your mouth to scream—

And then: a voice inside your head.

Don’t scream. I can’t be seen speaking to you.

You go still. Your thoughts slam into a wall. A Daemati.

The male behind you is tall. Grim. Stiff. His grip bruising.

His men are watching me now. I have to look hostile. I’m sorry.

What—what are you doing to me?

Beron knows, the voice replies. About you and Eris. He wants it ended.

Your blood turns to ice as he continues.

I don’t want to do this. But I have to. He’s threatened my family.

Your thoughts are cracking. Splintering.

Please—don’t take him from me.

A pause.

Then: I’ll give you an out. A failsafe. But you won’t remember it. You need something you trust yourself to find.

Your thoughts leap instantly to the pendant.

To Eris.

But before you can even say it, you hear his voice again: A necklace. So be it. Find that necklace.

And remember.

Darkness.

Then light.

Then now.

Your knees hit the earth. Hard.

You’re gasping like you’ve just broken the surface of deep water.

Your hands grip the moss. Your fingers are shaking.

Eris drops beside you, eyes wide, reaching for you without thinking.

“What—what did you do?” he demands. But his voice isn’t angry. It’s terrified.

You can’t speak yet. You blink, dazed, heart hammering against your ribs.

Your gaze finds his.

“He made them do it,” you whisper.

Eris stares at you.

“He made them take you from me.”

Your own still comes in bursts—rough, uneven, too shallow to settle you. Your hands tremble where they press into the moss, knees damp from the earth, lungs still straining to catch up. Across from you, Eris says nothing. He’s crouched beside you, but not touching. His expression is unreadable again, the way it was in the town hall—only now, there’s something crumbling beneath it. A shaking in the mask.

You look down at his pendant in your palm. At your own chest where its twin still hangs. You let your fingers close around it, not ready to let go just yet.

“I remembered everything,” you say finally. Your voice is low. Hoarse. “Or—I didn’t. Not all at once. It came in pieces. Like falling through my own head.”

Eris swallows hard. His gaze is still locked on you, but his eyes are far away, like he’s trying to relive it along with you.

You tell him everything. The puppy, the bruises, the nights in this very clearing. His hands, warm on your skin. His silence after his father’s rages. The kiss on your wrist. The promise beneath the stars.

The necklace.

The voice in your head.

The way it all fractured—how your thoughts splintered like glass and you never even felt it.

You say it aloud, every piece you gathered on your knees in the dirt. Not to prove anything. Just to give it back.

Eris blinks once, then twice. He sits back like something struck him clean through the chest. His weight hits the earth with a muted thud. One hand braces in the moss, the other drags over his face—shaky, disbelieving.

“I hated you,” he says at last. Quiet, but not cold. The words spill like something broken inside him. “Gods, I hated you for so long.”

You turn toward him. Not fully. Just enough.

“I missed you,” he says. “Every day.”

The breath catches again in your throat. Slowly, like a gesture in a dream, you reach out—not bold, not certain—just a brush of your fingertips against his cloak. The fabric is damp from where he knelt with you. Softened by weather, worn through by time.

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “I just didn’t know it.”

His gaze flickers. Jaw clenched.

“I used to think about going to your cottage,” he says. “A hundred times, maybe more. I came close once, a few years back—stood at the edge of the clearing, just… watching. But I turned back. I told myself it was better that way. Safer. If your father saw me, if word got back to mine…” He trails off. Swallows. “I thought if your father saw me—if he suspected anything—I’d just make it worse for you. I didn’t want to…” His voice drops. “I didn’t want him to hurt you. Not because of me.”

A beat of silence.

Then your voice, quieter than before: “Eris… my father died twelve years ago.” He goes utterly still.

Like you’ve reached into his chest and crushed something vital.

“Twelve,” he repeats. Barely breathes it. “Twelve years?”

You nod solemnly.

His hand drops from where it had been braced in the moss. Knees still planted, spine bowed, he just sits there—staring at nothing. As if the weight of those years found him.

“Twelve years…” His voice cracks, hands rising halfway before falling helplessly at his sides. “I thought—I thought I was doing the right thing. Staying away. Keeping you safe.”

You don’t answer.

His eyes are glassy now. Lost. “We could’ve had—”

He cuts himself off. Chokes on it.

Then softer, wrecked: “You were right there. You were right there.”

He drags a hand over his face like he’s trying to wake from it. Like the past twelve years just rearranged themselves around him and he doesn’t know where he stands anymore.

A bitter huff of air. “I thought you were choosing not to see me. That I didn’t matter enough.”

“I didn’t know,” you say, soft but firm. “Eris, I didn’t know.”

“I know that now,” he mutters, like the words taste foreign. “I just—I spent so long… hating you. And hoping. At the same time.” A sharp, pained laugh. “Do you know what kind of rot that puts in a person?”

You reach for him again—not bold, not certain. Just fingers brushing his sleeve.

He flinches at first. Then he stills.

He looks at your hand. At the place where you’re touching him. And then up at you again—eyes flicking over your face like he’s afraid this will vanish. Like you’ll vanish.

When he moves, it’s slow and unsure, until his fingers press against your cheek. Lets his knuckles skim along your cheekbone, the curve of your jaw, like he’s making sure you’re real. You lean into it—light as breath. Fragile as a thread pulled tight.

Your foreheads touch. He exhales through his nose, shaky. So do you. Shared breath. Shared silence.

The air is cooler now, the sun sinking deeper into the trees, shadow wrapping close around your ankles—but here, in this one shared pocket of silence, it’s warm. His breath against your lips. Yours against his.

“You’re back,” he whispers.

You nod. “I promised.”

The kiss comes quietly. Not with hunger, but with tremor. With the ache of something long-forgotten made whole again.

Your lips find his like memory—like muscle and magic and a thousand hours lost in the woods. He breathes into it like he’s drowning. Your fingers clutch the edge of his cloak like you might float off if you don’t hold on.

And when his arms come around you, they do so slowly. No claiming. No heat. Just steadiness. Just presence. One hand in your hair, the other at your back—like he’s gathering every piece his father broke you into and stitching them back together with the space between.

There are tears, though neither of you says a word about them.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to look at you—his voice is ruined. Cracked around the edges.

“I would have wasted every year,” he says, “if it meant this one moment.”

You swallow. “Let’s not waste the next.”

His breath stutters against your cheek.

The clearing is quiet again, but not like before—not like absence. It’s the quiet of held breath, of something waiting. The trees loom tall around you, casting long dusk-colored shadows across the moss. The last of the sun slips through the branches, catching in his hair like fire.

Eris searches your face, slow and unsure. “Here?”

You nod. Barely. The whisper of it brushes his skin.

“Unless you’d rather winnow to your—”

“No.” Your fingers twist in his cloak. “Don’t take me away from this. From you.”

And gods, the way he looks at you then—like he’s unraveling just to wrap himself around you.

His hands slide down your sides. Slow. Like he’s reacquainting himself with a body he used to dream about touching. When he presses his mouth to yours again, it’s softer. Deeper. A kiss that says I remember. A kiss that says I missed you. A kiss that says let me have this.

You feel it when the cold brushes your skin—when he slips your cloak from your shoulders, mouth never leaving yours.

He catches it instantly. Pulls back just enough to curse under his breath, then presses his palm flat against your spine.

And you feel it: warmth blooming under his hand. Not heat, not flame—just warmth. Deep and steady, flowing under your skin. Like magic that’s missed you. The cold shrinks away, chased off by a fire that doesn’t burn.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he murmurs. “I swear it.”

Your breath stutters. Not from the chill anymore. From the way his voice sounds like a vow.

The light’s fading fast now. Dusk bleeding gold and red across the clearing. The trees tower around you, branches shifting above like they’re listening. Like they remember too.

Eris turns you gently. Your back brushes the tree—rough bark against the fabric of your dress, something real to anchor you. Something ancient and still, pressed against you while his hands tremble with motion.

His fingers span your waist, slipping under the edge of your bodice where it meets your skirt—just enough to touch skin, to drag fire across your ribs as he exhales against your mouth.

“I thought about this,” he breathes. “Every night I came back here. I thought about what it would be like. If you ever—”

You kiss him to shut him up. Not cruelly. Just desperate. As if every word he speaks chips away at the fragile grip you have on your own restraint. Your hands fumble with the fastenings of his cloak, tugging it aside. One layer. Then another. The fabric clings in folds between your bodies, caught and crumpled, and you laugh against his mouth—breathless, impatient.

He smiles—just barely. A flicker of softness through the tension lining his jaw. Then he lifts you, swift and certain, like he’s done it a thousand times before in dreams he never dared to speak of.

Your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. Like ritual. His hand braces your back while the other drags down your spine, searing through the fabric, anchoring you to the moment. The tree behind you creaks faintly with the shift of your weight, bark biting gently through your clothes, but Eris keeps you steady—closer.

“You sure?” he asks, low and rough against your ear.

You nod, breathless. Then, firmer: “I want you, Eris.”

His groan splits the space between you—wrecked, worshipful. That same sound that’s haunted you for years, unspoken and unfinished. He kisses you again, slower this time, and then his hands are at your thighs, shifting your skirts with reverent care. The cold air brushes your skin and makes you shiver, but everywhere he touches, you burn.

When his fingers find the wet heat between your thighs, he exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut for just a second. “Fuck,” he murmurs. “You’re—gods, you’re already there.”

You grip his shoulders tighter, heart hammering in your chest, and rock your hips toward him. “I’ve been waiting.”

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t take his time. There’s no smug smile now, no arrogance—only the ache in his touch, the reverence with which he lines himself up and pushes into you, slow and steady.

You cry out—a sharp, strangled sound—and clutch at him like he might vanish if you let go. He buries his face in your throat, breathing hard, his body trembling against yours.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, the words muffled against your skin. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

He gives you a moment. Then another. His thumb strokes the edge of your hip, and when he finally begins to move, it’s not with urgency—it’s with devotion. Every thrust is deep and deliberate, drawn from a place older than guilt and warmer than longing. His rhythm is reverent, like he’s trying to say all the things he never did with the motion of his body.

You hold on to him—fist his shirt, tangle your fingers in his hair—trying to anchor yourself against the tide of sensation. Your mouth finds his again, teeth and breath and heat. The world falls away until there’s only him: the slide of his hips, the shudder in his breath, the way he keeps you pressed tight against the solid strength of him like he’s trying to memorize how you feel.

The rhythm he finds is reverent. Measured. Like he doesn’t want to waste a second. Every thrust is full of ache, of apology, of remembering. Of home.

And it is home—the way you clutch his shoulders. The way his hand settles at your waist, grounding you, steadying you. Like he needs to hold every part of you at once just to believe you’re here.

There’s the rustle of leaves, wind catching the trees, the sound of your breath mingling in the hollow between your mouths. His hands slip to your hips, tightening, adjusting. You cling to him. Fist your hands in his hair, his shirt, anything you can find. Anything that says don’t stop.

Your back scrapes faintly against the tree, but you don’t care. Not when he presses in deeper. Not when his hand shifts beneath your thigh to adjust the angle, and he hits something inside you that makes your head tip back, eyes fluttering closed.

“Eris,” you gasp—half prayer, half plea.

“I know,” he whispers. His voice cracks. “I know. Let go for me.”

You do. You fall apart with a tremble that starts in your core and spills out through your limbs. The release crashes over you like a wave—bright, consuming, impossible to hold. You arch into him with a gasp, your cry swallowed by the crook of his neck as your body clenches around him.

He follows with a sound that’s half curse, half confession—low and raw. His hips stutter, the rhythm breaking, and then he’s sinking into you one final time, deeper than before, and coming apart with a ragged groan that nearly undoes you all over again.

You stay there, tangled together, breath mingling in the hush that follows. Wind threads through the trees. Your heartbeat slows.

Silence, after. But not empty.

His forehead rests against yours. His arms wrap around you, firm and slow, even as your feet find the ground again. You feel his cloak settle over your shoulders. His breath stirs the air at your cheek. He doesn’t let go.

Not for a long time.

And when he finally speaks, it’s barely more than a breath:

“You’re here.”

You lean into him, kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m here.”

The light has nearly faded. Only the softest blue remains, like the forest has exhaled. Like it’s giving you this. Just this.

Eris presses a kiss to your temple. “Do you want to go home? I can winnow us—”

“No,” you say softly, firmly. “I don’t want to go back right now.”

His brows lift slightly. “No?”

He blinks. “Outside?”

You smirk, just barely. “You can keep us warm, can’t you?”

There’s a pause.

Then he laughs—low and surprised and real.

“I suppose I can.”

You settle again, curling into his chest. He shifts until you’re more comfortably wrapped in the cloak, one hand lifting to trace absentminded circles at your back. Fire kindles faintly between his fingers, soft as a heartbeat, keeping the cold at bay.

You yawn into his shoulder.

He doesn’t tease you for it. Just tucks you closer.

Time fades. The night deepens.

And when sleep finally takes you, it does so gently. Curled against him, surrounded by leaves and fading light, his fire a hush against your spine.

Eris doesn’t sleep.

He stays awake with his chin resting atop your head, one arm cradling your waist, the other palm pressed over your ribs as if he’s guarding your breath.

Like he’s afraid to wake and find this was a dream.

He watches you.

Listens to the steady rise and fall of your breathing.

And thinks—for the first time in years—that maybe, just maybe, he’s found something worth living for.

ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚ᨒ↟ 𖠰𖥧˚EPILOGUE˚𖥧𖠰↟ᨒ˚𖥧𖠰↟ᨒ

The pendants hang by the door now. Side by side, dulled with age but still warm to the touch. You don’t wear them anymore. You haven’t had to.

It’s been just over two years since you ran.

Past the borderlands of Autumn. Past Prythian entirely. Across the sea, across the scar-mapped histories of the continent, until even the stars felt unfamiliar.

You didn’t pick this valley because it was safe.

You picked it because no one here knows your name.

Outside, the hills stretch golden and unbothered. The valley yawns wide and soft. There’s a vegetable garden now. A crooked little barn. A house with creaky floorboards and a roof that only leaks when the rain really wants in. Eris swears he’s going to fix it this year. You’ll believe it when you see it.

The kitchen smells like rosemary and woodsmoke. A lazy cat sleeps on the windowsill, half-sprawled near a pile of tomatoes. All twelve smokehounds are curled around the hearth like they’ve always lived here—like they weren’t smuggled halfway across the world because one red-haired fool couldn’t bear to leave them behind.

And you? You’re still not married.

Not yet.

He asked. You didn’t say no.

But neither of you were ready to turn your freedom into a ceremony. Not after what it cost to earn it. Not after how long it took just to breathe without bracing.

You wake to warmth. Not fire, not magic—just Eris. His arm heavy across your waist, his breath soft against your shoulder. His fingers trailing idle shapes down your spine like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

His arm heavy across your waist, his breath soft against your shoulder. His fingers trailing idle shapes down your spine like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.

“Someone’ll hear us if you keep doing that,” you murmur without opening your eyes.

He hums. “What a tragedy. I might have to marry you to fix your reputation.”

You snort into the pillow. “Might have to?”

His mouth brushes your neck. “Still thinking it over.”

Outside, someone from the village shouts hello—an early rider headed into town. You shout back without moving, your voice muffled in the sheets. Eris groans like you’ve mortally wounded him.

“Unacceptable,” he mutters. “You’re going to get us invited to things. That’s how it starts.”

You kiss his collarbone in apology. He pretends it’s not enough. You do it again, and he concedes.

By midday, he’s chopping wood and you’re elbow-deep in tomato vines. You swap chores halfway through just to mess with each other. He complains dramatically about the state of your garden gloves. You mock his axe technique.

He kisses you when your hands are dirty. You bump him with your hip and pretend to be offended. He grins and promises to make it up to you.

(He does. Later. Four times over.)

Dinner is quiet. Your legs rest across his lap as you both sit on the floor in the doorway, watching the sun leak from the sky. A few stars are already peeking out, shy and silver.

Eris runs a thumb over your ankle. Thoughtful. Steady.

You tilt your head back against the doorframe. “We survived our fathers.”

“We did,” he says. “And we ran.”

A pause.

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask. “Home?”

A longer silence this time.

Then:

“Autumn?” He shrugs. “Of course. Especially in heat like this. I miss the leaves, the quiet, the smug sense of superiority.”

You laugh. He kisses your shoulder. “But you’re better than it,” he says. “So I don’t miss it enough.”

Later, the world goes soft.

The fire in the hearth hums. A pot of leftover stew cools on the stove. One of the smokehounds sighs in its sleep.

And if someone were passing through the hills, just for a moment, and turned to look—