#eris/oc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

surielstea · 4 months ago

Text

Embers Entwined

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader was one of the most affected by Beron’s rule, after his death Eris was crowned High Lord and Reader became his personal servant by extension, what happens when she begins to recognize Eris for his kindness and not his cruelty?

Warnings: Beron being a right asshole as usual, and some kissing (*gasp* the scandal!)

A.Note: Sorry it’s been forever!! This one took me awhile but I’m pretty happy with it. Hope you guys enjoy too! Some Azriel smut coming out in a few days also! 💋💋

Word count: 7.9k

The ball was decadent, far grander than in previous years, though I supposed tonight warranted the excess. A special occasion, one that carried far more meaning than the usual frivolous gatherings meant only to remind the rich of their own wealth.

Tonight, the Autumn Court celebrated the coronation of Eris Vanserra. More importantly to me, we celebrated Beron's death.

I would never say such a thing aloud, never give voice to the hatred that simmered in my veins. But I knew I was not alone in my sentiments. Most despised that wretched male—just not enough to ever act against him. Beron had been cruel, but only to those within his grasp. His wife. His sons. His staff. Me, in particular—his personal courtier.

It had been my duty to obey him without question, to smile and nod and endure, no matter what vile thing he asked of me. The words he'd spoken to me, the way he'd toyed with me, broken me, forced me into submission—I would never find peace after him. I knew that.

I stood against the wall of the ballroom, my hands clasped in front of me, a pleasant, vacant smile painted on my lips. The same as always. My black dress marked me as staff, distinguishing me from the nobles twirling beneath the golden glow of the chandeliers. It wasn't an ugly dress—not physically—but the symbolism it carried made my stomach churn.

I was meant to be invisible. To stand for hours, heels biting into my feet, lips aching from feigned delight, waiting. Always waiting for the High Lord's command. That was my place.

But tonight, for the first time at an event like this, someone spoke to me. Not just someone. The newly crowned High Lord.

"Do you not wish to dance?"

His voice was smoother than I expected, rich and effortless, as though the words required no thought. When I turned my head, Eris Vanserra stood before me, resplendent in his deep forest green attire, gold-threaded embroidery glinting beneath the chandeliers. Rings adorned his fingers, catching the light as he gestured vaguely toward the center of the ballroom.

I had known Eris Vanserra since I was a girl—back when my father served as Beron's personal courtier and I trained under him, shadowing his every move. In those early years, Eris and I spent countless hours in the kennels, where I had been sent to feed the hounds, and he had sought my company. Even then, I knew better than to refuse a Vanserra. But it hadn't felt like an order. Not when he spoke so passionately about his dogs, his amber eyes alight with something rare and unguarded.

I had listened, quietly captivated, as he ran his hands through thick fur, naming each hound like they were something precious, something his father could not tarnish. And though I rarely spoke, I knew he never minded.

But time had a way of reshaping things. Our duties grew heavier, our paths diverged, and whatever thread had once tied us together frayed beneath the weight of expectation. I often wondered if he remembered—the girl who once sat beside him in the straw-covered kennels, listening in rapt silence as he spoke of things he loved. Or if I had faded into nothing more than a ghost of his childhood, long forgotten.

I snapped back to the present when I realized my hesitation, startled by his presence, by his question. By him.

I glanced at him only briefly before averting my gaze. I had long since learned better than to expect kindness from the Vanserras, Eris or not. "I'm working, my lord," I answered smoothly, forcing the usual mask into place. "Besides, the late Lord Beron was always particular about the servantry enjoying themselves at these sorts of things."

A flicker of something crossed Eris's face at my words. Perhaps it was amusement, perhaps something else. I wasn't certain. Then, he did something I never would have expected. He extended his hand to me, palm up. A silent command. I stared at it, my heart stuttering.

Was this a trick? A test? Was he waiting for me to disobey so he could remind me of my place? "Well," he mused, tilting his head, "I'm not Beron, am I?"

I swallowed thickly, but I did not take his hand. His amber eyes gleamed as he studied me, something unreadable lurking beneath their molten depths. "You were my father's personal courtier, yes?"

"Correct, my lord."

"And now that he's gone, you're mine." A statement, not a question.

I nodded.

"And you're required to do as I say."

Another nod.

"Then take my hand." His voice was softer now, quieter. "Dance with me." My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated. Was he attempting to humiliate me?

I had seen what his brothers were capable of, how they had reveled in Beron's cruelty, how they had wielded it against others for their own entertainment. I had heard the stories about Eris—his ruthlessness, his ambition, his callous disregard for those beneath him. I had no reason to believe he was any different.

Yet something about the way he stood there, hand still outstretched, gaze unwavering, made my stomach tighten. He wasn't forcing me. He wasn't demanding. He was patient. I hated him for that. For making me doubt my own certainty.

But in the end, I had no choice. With a deep inhale, I placed my hand in his. His fingers curled around mine—warm, steady. Not gripping. But I knew better than to believe in illusions.

Eris Vanserra was his father's son. And I would never trust him.

The moment my hand settled in his, a hush seemed to fall over the space around us—not total silence, but a ripple in the atmosphere, a shift in attention that pressed against my skin like a physical thing.

They were watching. The nobles, the courtiers, the sycophants who had spent years learning to fear and obey Beron, and by extension, his eldest son. They watched, likely waiting for me to make a mistake, waiting to see what game Eris Vanserra was playing.

I was waiting, too. But if this was some cruel trick, he did not let it show.

Eris led me toward the dance floor with unhurried ease, his grip firm but not forceful. A reminder, perhaps, that I was following him willingly. I didn't know what unsettled me more—that he had given me a real choice, or that, despite knowing better, a part of me wanted to believe he truly meant no harm.

The moment we stepped onto the floor, the nearest dancers shifted subtly away, giving us space without making it obvious. No one wanted to be caught in the High Lord's wake, in whatever he was planning.

He turned to face me, releasing my hand only to settle one warm palm against my waist, the other clasping mine once more. I stiffened beneath his touch, the weight of it burning even through the fabric of my dress.

"Relax," he murmured, amusement curling through his tone. "It's a dance, not an execution."

I forced my muscles to remain neutral, my expression placid, though I could still feel the weight of a hundred gazes searing into me. "That remains to be seen."

His lips curved slightly. "If I wanted to make a spectacle of you, I'd have chosen something far more dramatic." He guided me into movement, a slow, fluid step that I had no choice but to follow. "But I much prefer this."

I nearly scoffed, but reeled in my tone, replacing it with a polite one. "Dancing?"

His gaze flickered down to mine, something unreadable within it. "Yes," he admitted, voice quieter now. "It's one of the few things I enjoy."

I arched a brow at him, skepticism bleeding into my tone. "Truly?"

"Truly." A small pause, then, "My mother taught me."

His hold on my waist remained steady, his movements effortless as he guided me through the waltz. "She used to say that knowing how to dance was just as important as knowing how to wield a blade. Both would assist me on a battle field."

I couldn't stop the flicker of surprise at his admission. Not because I doubted his mother's wisdom—if anything, I had always pitied the Lady of Autumn, the horrors she must have endured under Beron's rule—but because I had not expected Eris to share something so personal.

And yet, before I could decide how to respond, he added, "It was the one thing Beron couldn't take from me."

I swallowed, focusing on my movements, on the way his body angled just to keep me steady, to keep the dance seamless.

He was watching me closely, I could feel it. I hated that I could feel it.

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, my voice quieter than before, as if the words might shatter between us.

His lips twitched, though there was something different in his expression now. A quiet sort of challenge. "Because you're expecting me to be my father."

I stiffened.

"I'm not," he continued, tone smooth, unwavering. "And I think you already know that."

I bit the inside of my cheek, forcing down the retort that sat at the edge of my tongue. I wanted to deny it.

Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I had no reason to believe him, that I had no reason to trust him. That, after what I had endured, I had no space left in me for blind hope. But I couldn't. Because, for the first time, I allowed myself to see him—not the heir of Beron Vanserra, not the male who had stood by and done nothing while his father ruled with malice, but the High Lord before me now.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous, cunning, and far too quick-witted for his own good. But he was not his father. And as much as I hated it, as much as it made something twist deep in my chest—

He was also undeniably beautiful.

His russet hair gleamed beneath the chandelier light, his sharp, angular features like something carved from fine marble. And those eyes—deep amber, filled with fire and calculation, but not cruelty. Never cruelty. It unnerved me.

I averted my gaze, the pressure in my throat tightening. "I don't know anything."

His fingers flexed slightly against my waist, the only indication that he had caught the tremor in my voice.

"You will," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. A promise.

I did not know whether it was a comfort or a threat. But I did know one thing—

The game, whatever it was, had only just begun.

As the waltz came to an end, Eris's grip on me loosened, but he did not immediately step away. His amber eyes remained locked onto mine, searching, calculating—always calculating.

I did not look away. I refused to.

Even as my heart pounded against my ribs, even as my throat tightened with the weight of memories that clawed at the back of my mind, I held his gaze.

He exhaled softly, something almost amused flickering in his expression before he lifted my hand, his touch lingering just enough to send a sharp jolt of awareness through me.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that sent heat curling in my gut, Eris pressed a kiss to the back of my hand.

A calculated move. A display of power.

And yet—his lips were warm. Gentle.

He let my hand slip from his grasp, stepping back with an air of ease, as though he had not just sent my already-frazzled mind into chaos.

"Thank you for the dance," he murmured, voice like silk and embers.

I said nothing. Because I couldn't. I simply bowed my head and turned away, ignoring the stares, the whispers that followed me as I slipped back into the shadows of the ballroom.

Eris Vanserra was dangerous. And not for the reasons I had always believed.

I had not been able to get him out of my head.

I hated it.

No matter how much I tried to shove the thoughts away—to remind myself of the horrors I had endured under Beron, of the way his sons had stood idly by for years, of the haunting whispers that surrounded Eris himself—I couldn't stop replaying that moment in my mind.

The warmth of his touch. The softness of his voice. The way he had looked at me, not with hatred, not with indifference, but with something else entirely.

It was a trick. Had to be. And yet, I found myself watching him more than I should have.

Every time he called for something, every time I had to be in his presence, I bowed low, just as I had always done for Beron. I kept my voice neutral, my head down, my routine unchanged.

As if nothing had changed at all. As if I had not danced with him. As if his hands had not burned against my skin. As if I had not spent the past few days wondering, against all reason, if perhaps he was not as evil as I had once believed.

I would not let myself believe it. Not when I had learned, time and time again, that kindness was a dangerous illusion.

So when one of the guards found me in the halls, stopping me with a clipped, "The High Lord is requesting you," a cold dread curled in my stomach.

Requesting me. Not a general summons for any courtiers. Not a task that could have been handled by anyone else. Me.

For a moment, I couldn't move. Memories crashed through me—memories of Beron's summons, of being called for with no warning, no explanation. Of standing before him, knowing what was coming but never being able to predict just how bad it would be.

My hands clenched at my sides. I swallowed hard, pushing down the panic, shoving it deep beneath layers of practiced control.

This was not Beron. I knew that. And yet, my body did not.

With carefully measured steps, I made my way to Eris's study, every inch of me wound tight.

My mind whispered warnings, my heart pounded against my ribs. I forced my hands to remain steady as I knocked once, then pushed the heavy wooden door open.

And there he was—seated behind a grand desk, amber eyes lifting to meet mine the second I entered.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn.

And the male who, for reasons I could not begin to understand, had called for me.

I braced myself, preparing for whatever awaited me next. And prayed that I was not about to be proven a fool.

The door shut behind me with a soft thud, the sound too final, too reminiscent of a past I wanted to claw away from.

I stayed near the entrance, hands clasped in front of me, chin dipped ever so slightly—not meek, but neutral. Just as I had been trained to be.

Eris sat at his desk, one elbow braced on the armrest of his chair, fingers resting against his temple as he watched me. Not impatient. Not cruel. Just watching. Then, with that signature tilt of his head, he asked, "What's your name?"

I blinked. "My name?"

He arched a golden brow, the flickering candlelight making the sharp angles of his face seem all the more severe.

"I'd like to know who to call for to keep my company, so yes, your name."

Company. Was this a game? A test?

I studied him, searching for the trap, but found nothing except expectation.

I told him my name carefully, waiting for the moment his expression would shift, for him to sneer or mock or twist the knowledge into something mean.

But he only smiled slightly, a soft curve of his lips that felt almost out of place on a face like his.

Before I could think better of it, before I could convince myself to stay silent, I blurted, "Have you been lonely, my lord?"

Eris's head tilted further, amusement flashing in his amber eyes.

I stiffened immediately. "Forgive me for asking. That was incredibly impolite. I'm so—"

"I have." He cut me off smoothly, his voice quieter now, but no less firm.

I swallowed.

"I imagined being High Lord would be quite different," he mused, gaze flickering to the stacks of papers on his desk, the glowing hearth, the empty room around us. "Nevertheless, here we are." He nodded as if conceding something to himself.

My lips parted slightly, but I had nothing to say to that. Nothing that wouldn't cross a line I was still hesitant to even approach.

Instead, I dropped into another practiced bow. "Will that be all, my lord?"

His eyes snapped back to me, something unreadable stirring behind them.

"Eris," he corrected.

I hesitated.

"I am not my father," he said, voice quiet but edged with finality, as if he were daring me to argue. "Nor do I wish to become him. So please, call me Eris."

I nodded slowly. "...Well then, Lord Eris."

"Just Eris, my dear," he corrected again, leaning back slightly. "Like friends."

I didn't know what startled me more—that he wanted me to call him by his name, or that he had referred to me as a friend.

Still, I tried to ignore the warmth curling in my stomach as I forced myself to say, "Eris."

His lips twitched, something satisfied gleaming in his gaze. "Good girl."

The praise sent something unfamiliar down my spine, not in the way it had whenever Beron complimented me... this was different.

"Now come, get comfortable." He gestured toward the plush green chairs adjacent to his desk.

I stared at him. "You want me to sit?"

"Stand, lean, lay, I don't care." He waved a lazy hand. "Just relax."

"My lord—Eris," I corrected, still trying to wrap my mind around the strangeness of this entire interaction. "I don't get paid to... relax."

He smirked. "No, you get paid to follow my orders. And I am ordering you to get comfortable."

I stared at him for a long moment, my heart hammering in my chest as I tried to decipher the true meaning behind all of this.

But I saw no malice in his expression. No cruel intent. Just anticipation.

I swallowed and, slowly, I did as he said. I sat stiffly, hands clasped in my lap, my back straight as if Beron himself was still lurking behind me, waiting to scold me for stepping out of line.

Eris, however, did not acknowledge my rigid posture. He only let out a pleased hum, as if my mere presence was enough to meet whatever unspoken standard he had set for this moment. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he returned his focus to the parchment before him.

The only sounds in the room were the quiet scratching of his quill and the faint crackling of the candlelight.

I should have been grateful for the silence. It was better than savage words, better than commands meant to humiliate me. But instead, an odd tension settled in my chest, as if I were waiting for the real reason he'd called me here to be revealed.

Minutes passed. Then—

"You're staring," Eris murmured without looking up.

I blinked, feeling heat creep up my neck. "I am not."

His lips curved slightly, and he flipped to another parchment. "You are."

"I was merely looking in your direction." It was wrong of me to talk back, but something about him let my tongue a little looser, he didn't seem displeased by it in the slightest.

He hummed, unconvinced, dipping his quill back into ink. "And why, pray tell, were you looking in my direction?"

I hesitated. "...I was thinking."

Amber eyes flicked up from the page. "Dangerous habit."

That small smirk still played on his lips, but something about it was softer than usual, teasing rather than taunting.

I frowned, not ready for this interaction to feel comfortable, for me to feel comfortable. "I don't find it particularly dangerous."

"That's because you've never played with fire." He twirled the quill between his fingers before dragging the tip across the parchment again. "Not the kind that burns."

I scoffed. "You forget who I served before you."

He paused at that, glancing at me fully and my heart rate spiked. Too far, I'd gone too far, just a few words and the walls I built were crumbling before my very eyes.

Something unreadable flickered in his expression, but it was gone before I could place it. Instead, he dipped his head slightly, understanding the point. "Then I imagine you know better than most that fire, when wielded incorrectly, only ever destroys."

I stiffened, his words striking something deep within me.

Is that what I was? A thing destroyed? Is that what he saw when looking at me, or himself?

Eris exhaled, shifting his focus back to his work. "For what it's worth," he murmured, quieter now, "I don't intend to wield it incorrectly."

I studied him carefully, as I had done many times before, searching for the game, for the cruel edge I knew so well from his father.

But there was no trick. Only a High Lord—no, a male—focused on his work, offering me something I had never once been granted in Beron's court.

Peace.

I swallowed, forcing myself to look away, to ignore the unfamiliar warmth creeping into my bones.

Minutes passed again in silence, but this time, it didn't feel quite so heavy.

"I was serious, you know," Eris mused, not bothering to look up as he broke the quiet.

I frowned. "About what?"

"Keeping my company." He flipped to another document, signing something at the bottom. "I'd prefer your presence over my advisors any day. They're old and dull. You, at least, have some spirit."

I scoffed. "I think you are confusing obedience for spirit."

"Oh no, my dear." His lips curved in a knowing smirk. "You and I both know you're anything but obedient."

I bristled, opening my mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. "It's alright. I find it... refreshing."

I wasn't sure what unsettled me more—the implication, or the way my stomach twisted at his words. Beron preferred all the servantry to have a fiery spirit, which makes it more fun to break, but he never really could stomp my flames out, and now Eris was sparking the embers. It was dangerous, so dangerous.

Silence fell between us once more.

For a moment, I thought that would be the end of it. That I would sit there, a piece of furniture in this room while he worked, just as I had been in Beron's court.

But then, without looking away from his parchment, Eris murmured, "Tell me something, Fawn."

The way he said that nickname—so deliberate, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue—sent something sharp down my spine.

"Tell you what?" I asked carefully.

He leaned back slightly, fingers steepled in thought. "Something real."

I hesitated. "That's vague."

"Intentionally so." He arched a brow. "Consider it a challenge."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but he only waited, watching me with that same expectant look, as if he truly wanted to hear something about me.

I exhaled. "I don't like the cold."

His lips twitched. "A courtier of Autumn who doesn't like the cold? Shocking, really." His voice was sarcastic, but something in his eyes told me he knew what I meant.

I shrugged, explaining anyway. "It reminds me of your father." The words left me before I could stop them, before I could think better of them.

Eris didn't flinch, but something in his expression shifted. "I hate the cold, too," he admitted after a beat.

I blinked, caught off guard by his honesty.

He returned his attention to the paper in front of him, but his next words were soft, almost contemplative.

"It's why I keep the fire going."

And despite everything I had come to know about Eris Vanserra—despite everything I feared—those words stayed with me long after I left his study that night.

It became routine.

Every evening, after the day's duties were done, I was summoned to Eris's study. At first, I had thought it was some kind of test, some trick to lull me into a false sense of security before he reminded me of my place. But the days passed, and the cruel words never came. The taunts never sharpened into something harsher.

Instead, I found myself sitting across from him as he worked, the fire crackling between us, filling the silence in ways neither of us felt the need to.

And I was learning things.

Not just about him—but about myself.

I learned that despite being raised under Beron's thumb, Eris did not rule with a hand of iron. He listened—to his advisors, to the reports of the court, to me, even. And when I spoke, he truly listened, as if my words meant something.

More recently I learned that he was—Gods help me—attractive.

That fact had been easy enough to ignore when I hated him, when I thought he was just another Beron in the making. But the more time I spent with him, the more I noticed things I shouldn't—like the sharp angles of his face, the golden hue of his eyes, the way his hands moved across parchment with effortless precision.

It was incredibly inappropriate.

He was a High Lord, for the Gods' sake. I was a mere servant. A courtier, yes, but still beneath him in every sense of the word.

But there were moments—subtle, fleeting—where I felt that he didn't see it that way.

Like when he'd catch me staring and smirk, as if he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone. Like when his fingers would brush against mine as he handed me a book, a touch so brief it might have been an accident, but my traitorous body knew better. Like when he said my name—not the way Beron used to, as if I were an object, a thing that existed for his whims, but as if I were someone worth hearing.

It was dangerous. He was dangerous. And yet, I kept returning to his study, night after night, drawn to him in ways I did not understand.

I was comfortable around him now. Too comfortable. And I wasn't sure if that terrified me or eased me more.

The fire crackled behind him, casting golden light over the room as I sat at his desk, scanning over the trade agreements he had asked me to review. Eris stood in front of the hearth, a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the flames with a contemplative expression.

"They're bleeding the smaller villages dry," I murmured, flipping to the next page. "The tariffs are nearly double what they should be."

Eris hummed in response, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And what do you suggest, fawn?" His voice was rich, edged with amusement.

I exhaled sharply through my nose, biting back a smile at the teasing lilt in his tone. "Lowering them would be a start."

He took a slow sip of whiskey, then turned, his gaze burning even hotter than the fire behind him. "Very well. Lower them."

I blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that." He smirked, as if amused by my surprise. "You have a sharp mind. It would be a waste not to use it."

A compliment. A genuine one.

I busied myself with the documents, ignoring the warmth that curled in my stomach. But before I could shift to the next matter, I felt it—him.

The space between us disappeared in a breath. Eris leaned over my shoulder, one hand bracing against the desk as he peered down at the papers with me.

His warmth seeped through the thin fabric of my dress, his scent—smoke, cedar, spice—curling around me, intoxicating. I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the quill.

"See?" His voice was softer now, smooth like velvet. "That wasn't so hard."

I swallowed, forcing my focus back to the parchment. "I assume the next set of reports won't be as easy."

His chuckle was low, deep. "Unfortunately, no."

We worked through the rest of it together, his proximity never wavering, his breath occasionally ghosting against my cheek as he murmured his thoughts. It should have been unbearable. It was unbearable. And yet, I didn't pull away.

Not even when he poured me a glass of whiskey.

I had refused at first, telling him I was technically working but he had simply raised an eyebrow and said, "I won't tell the high lord if you don't."

It burned going down, leaving warmth in its wake, emboldening me just enough to loosen the tight grip I always held on myself.

Perhaps that was why, when we finally leaned back in our chairs, the tension of duty momentarily relieved, I dared to meet his gaze with something close to ease.

"You're a better High Lord than I expected," I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty.

He turned his glass between his fingers, watching me over the rim. "High praise, coming from you."

I rolled my eyes, but the smallest of smiles played at my lips. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he quipped, grinning.

I shook my head, but I wasn't fast enough to hide the way my lips twitched in amusement.

Eris noticed. Of course, he did. And he leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Careful, fawn. Keep looking at me like that, and I'll think you actually enjoy my company."

I should have ignored the remark. Should have cut the moment short, should have reminded myself that this was Eris, that I was his courtier and nothing more.

But the whiskey hummed in my blood, and I found myself tilting my chin up slightly, arching a brow.

"Who said I don't?"

His gaze darkened, a flicker of something wicked dancing in those golden eyes.

The air between us tightened, the tension shifting into something heavier, something dangerous.

And for the first time, I wasn't entirely sure if I wanted to run from it.

The room was suffocating with heat—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he looked at me, like he could see through every carefully placed wall I had built around myself.

I should have left. Should have bowed my head, murmured a polite good night, and returned to the servantry quarters where I belonged.

But I didn't.

Instead, I stayed, rooted in place, watching the way Eris's eyes flickered between my lips and my eyes. The tension stretched unbearably tight, wound so thin that one more word, one more breath, would surely snap it.

And then it did.

One moment, we were speaking, our words slow and softened by whiskey. The next—I was in his arms, and his mouth was on mine.

It was a collision, a wildfire consuming everything in its path.

His lips were searing, his hands gripping my waist as if he couldn't bear to let go, pulling me flush against him. I gasped into the kiss, and he took full advantage, deepening it, his tongue sweeping over mine in a way that made my knees threaten to buckle.

He groaned, low and guttural, and something inside me snapped.

I met his fervor with my own, fingers tangling in his hair, feeling the silk of it between my fingertips as he backed me into the desk. The papers we had worked so hard on crumpled beneath us, utterly forgotten.

He exhaled a quiet curse against my lips as his hands gripped my hips tighter, and I—I didn't stop him. I arched into him, into the warmth, the danger of it.

And then—it happened.

A tether snapped into place.

Invisible, undeniable, unyielding.

My entire body locked up as a force stronger than anything I had ever known latched onto my very soul. The bond—a mating bond—solidified between us like molten steel cooling into iron, a force so absolute it stole the air from my lungs.

No, no, no.

I stumbled back so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet, my hand flying to my lips as if I could erase what had just happened.

Eris reached for me, eyes wide, something dangerously close to awe written across his sharp features. "Wait—"

But I didn't.

I turned and ran.

I ignored the way his voice followed me, calling my name, ignored the way my heart thundered in my chest, the way my mind screamed at me that this was impossible, that it couldn't be real, that it shouldn't be real.

Because if it was—if it was real—then it meant I was bound to him. To him.

Not just the male who had been slipping under my skin, infiltrating the cold emptiness I had built to protect myself. But Beron's son. Beron's heir. A Vanserra. A High Lord.

By the time I reached the servantry quarters, my breaths were ragged, my hands shaking as I shoved my door closed behind me, locking it with trembling fingers.

I pressed my back against the wood, squeezing my eyes shut.

This couldn't be happening. It was a mistake. A trick. A cruel, cruel joke.

I was nothing.

A courtier, a servant.

I did not get to have mates.

And certainly not him.

I curled onto my cot, my hands gripping the fabric of my dress as if I could anchor myself back to reality. I forced my breathing to slow, willed myself to forget the feeling of his lips, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the way his hands had fit so perfectly against my waist.

I did not sleep that night.

I had been avoiding him.

Days had passed, and I hadn't stepped foot in his study again. I hadn't so much as looked in his direction, even as the court whispered about me, about us, about the undeniable scent of a bond snapping into place.

They all knew.

I could feel their stares, the pity in some, the amusement in others. I knew what they thought—that it was only a matter of time before I bent, before I folded myself into the neat little role fate had carved out for me at Eris's side.

I refused.

I stayed tucked away, keeping to my duties, bowing as I always had when in his presence, keeping my head low, silent. I had done it for years under Beron. I could do it again.

Or at least, I thought I could.

The bond had other plans.

It had been clawing at me, a sick, twisting thing in my chest, gnawing at my ribs every time I kept my distance. The more I ignored it, the worse it became, a restless, aching pressure that built until my hands trembled with the need to do something—run to him, scream, sob. I didn't know which.

I was too caught up in my own mind, too focused on fighting the invisible thread tethering me to him, that I didn't notice the male approaching me until it was too late.

"You've been rather elusive, haven't you?"

I turned sharply, expecting him, expecting Eris—

But it wasn't him.

It was Kyden.

My stomach twisted.

Kyden Vanserra had always taken the most after Beron compared to the rest of his brothers, cruel for the sake of cruelty, sneering down at those he deemed beneath him. Which unfortunately included me.

His smirk was slow, predatory. "I almost mistook you for one of the nobility, standing there all stiff and proper. But then I remembered—you're just a servant, aren't you?"

I forced my body not to react, not to let the memories claw their way up my throat. He had that same look in his tawny eyes that Beron always had on one of the particularly hard days.

Kyden stepped closer, voice a lazy drawl. "And yet, despite your lowly position, you managed to ensnare a High Lord." His lips curled, eyes gleaming with something dark. "Or rather, the bond did. Funny, isn't it? How fate makes fools of us all."

I kept my chin high, my hands at my sides. I would not cower.

He leaned in, his breath brushing against my ear. "You reek of him."

I flinched. Kyden chuckled. "It's amusing, really. Eris, of all people, shackled to someone like you." His gaze flickered over me, assessing, and I knew that look—I had seen it before, a lifetime ago, picking apart my worth, deciding how best to use me.

"What do you think he'll do?" Kyden mused. "Surely, you don't believe he'll actually keep you. A High Lord's mate should be powerful, worthy." He tutted. "You are neither."

The words hit their mark, sinking into my skin like tiny blades, because deep down I knew he was right. This is why I've been avoiding Eris, avoiding having that confrontation that will only result in rejection and sorrow.

"I wonder," he continued, tilting his head, "how long it will take before he grows bored of you. Before he realizes you're nothing more than the same little courtier Beron used to—"

A deep, guttural snarl split the air.

And then Kyden was no longer in my space, no longer crowding me like a looming shadow.

Eris had him by the collar, dragging him back, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl beside his brother's throat.

"Say another word," Eris hissed, voice like fire crackling over dry wood, "and I will tear out your fucking tongue."

Kyden, to his credit, did not flinch. He only grinned. "Touched a nerve, did I?"

Eris's fingers tightened, the flames in the nearby sconces flaring wildly.

"Walk away, Kyden," Eris said, voice quieter now, deadlier. "I raised you better than this."

A beat of silence. Then Kyden huffed a laugh, shoving Eris off him with a roll of his shoulders.

"As you wish, brother." He turned to me, and there was something smug in his eyes, something knowing. "See you around, little courtier."

And then he was gone.

Eris exhaled harshly, running a hand through his hair before turning to me.

"Are you—"

I shook my head, stepping back. "Don't."

His jaw tensed.

I couldn't do this. Not here. Not now.

The hallway was silent except for the distant clatter of pots and the hushed murmurs of servants slipping past us, their eyes darting away the moment they caught sight of Eris. I could still feel the ghost of Kyden's words slithering over my skin, the way he had looked at me, spoken to me. But more than that—I could feel the weight of Eris's gaze, burning into me as if he were unraveling every thought in my head.

I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to feel the way I did when he looked at me.

His amber eyes flickered with something unreadable, something heavy and tense. He hadn't moved since Kyden left, his hands clenched at his sides, as if he was still fighting the urge to chase his brother down and finish what he started.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. We stood nearly a yard away from each other in the servants' passages, the house was so vast that to get from place to place quicker in the manor there were secret paths to take. It was odd for the High Lord to even know about them.

I swallowed hard, then whispered, "Why are you here?"

Eris blinked, as if startled by the question. And then, with the ghost of a smirk, he drawled, "It's my house, isn't it?"

I narrowed my eyes. "You know what I mean."

More silence.

His smirk faded.

"I was looking for you," he admitted finally.

I stared at him, heart hammering against my ribs. "You could've called for me."

His expression darkened, and he took a step closer. "Would you have come?"

I said nothing.

He huffed a bitter laugh. "That's what I thought."

I clenched my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. "It's my job, Eris," I whispered.

His jaw flexed. His fingers twitched—like he wanted to reach for me, wanted to touch me—but he didn't. Instead, he just stood there, looking more defeated than I'd ever imagined a Vanserra could.

"Can we go somewhere more private?" I asked, my voice quieter now, because we were standing a distance apart with maids and cooks scuttling silently past us, pretending they weren't listening, pretending they couldn't see the invisible string between us.

Eris studied me for a long moment, then nodded. Without another word, he turned on his heel, leading the way.

I followed.

The room he brought me to was small, tucked away in one of the unused wings of the estate. A study, maybe, or a reading room—the kind of place someone could go to disappear.

He shut the door behind me, and then we were alone.

Eris exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "Are you alright?"

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "I don't know."

His jaw tightened. "Kyden—"

"I don't want to talk about Kyden."

He stared at me for a moment, then nodded. "Then talk to me about something else."

I let out a breath. "About what, Eris?"

He stepped closer, slow and careful, as if I were something fragile. "About why you've been avoiding me."

I scoffed. "You know why."

"I want to hear you say it."

I met his gaze, and the heat in his eyes sent a shiver down my spine. "Because this—" I gestured between us. "—isn't supposed to happen. Because you're a High Lord, and I'm a servant, and this bond—" I swallowed hard. "It's cruel."

Eris's expression was unreadable, but his fingers twitched again, and I wondered if he even realized he kept doing that—kept stopping himself from touching me. "You think the Mother is cruel?"

I hesitated. "I think fate is."

Eris exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Do you hate it that much?"

I didn't answer.

Did I?

Hate was easy. Hate was something I understood, something I could hold onto. Hate had kept me alive under Beron's rule, had hardened me, protected me.

But this? This tether between us, this thing that hummed in my chest, that made my body ache to close the distance between us—

I didn't have a name for it. And that scared me more than anything.

Eris watched me carefully, as if searching for something in my expression. He let out another sigh and retreated, taking a seat on the small leather couch adjacent to the popping fireplace. I watched him silently, still standing by the door.

"I never wanted this either," he admitted, voice softer now. "I spent years ensuring I would never be bound to someone who could be used against me. And yet..." His lips quirked into something bitter. "Yet here we are."

My throat felt tight. "Do you hate it?"

His amber eyes burned. "No."

The breath I took was unsteady.

"You never answered?" he looked up at me.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Shook my head. "I don't know."

Eris nodded once, as if that answer was enough.

Silence stretched between us again.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You don't have to accept it," he said. "Not now. Not ever, if that's what you choose." He met my gaze, something like resignation flickering in his eyes. "But I won't apologize for it."

He wanted to keep it? Wanted me to accept it?

I swallowed against the lump in my throat.

He tilted his head, considering me. "So what now?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. "That's twice now."

I scowled. "Shut up."

He chuckled. "I suppose I should be grateful I got anything out of you at all."

I rolled my eyes, but there was no bite to it.

Eris studied me again, quieter this time. "I meant what I said," he murmured. "I was looking for you."

I looked away. "I know."

Silence settled between us again, but it was different now. Less suffocating.

More dangerous.

Because I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep pretending I didn't want him to find me. I approached his side quietly and sat.

The leather couch was cool against my skin as I sank into it beside him, the silence between us thick with unspoken words. The bond thrummed like a second heartbeat, relentless and inescapable.

The son of the man I loathed most in this world was the one I was expected to love beyond reason.

Fate was a sick, twisted thing.

I sighed, tired of thinking, tired of fighting, tired of everything. Slowly, hesitantly, I tilted my head, letting it rest against his shoulder. His body stiffened for a fraction of a second before he relaxed, exhaling a breath I might've imagined.

It was enough for now.

"I'm High Lord," he said after a beat.

"Painfully aware," I murmured.

"Meaning—there are rules of the Autumn Court that I can... simply get rid of."

I huffed a soft, tired laugh. "You're a lord, not a king."

"Mm, true," he mused, tilting his head back against the couch, "but if Rhysand can bend the rules to marry his mate, so can I."

I hesitated. "His court is much more pliable. Autumn is notorious for its... old-fashioned ways."

"Well, the Autumn Court has a new High Lord." His voice was steady, sure. "Let's just hope I'm changing it for the better."

I smiled faintly, my eyes fluttering shut. "You are, 'Ris."

The name slipped out before I could think better of it, before I could remind myself that familiarity with him was dangerous.

His body went still beneath me.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he looked down at me, amber eyes burning with something I couldn't name.

We stared at each other for a long moment, really seeing each other.

And then, quietly, almost reverently, he murmured, "I'm going to kiss you now."

I nodded.

And then he did.

His lips pressed against mine, slow and deep, as if we had all the time in the world. As if the bond wasn't something to be feared but something to be savored. His hand lifted to my jaw, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone before sliding into my hair, tilting my face up, pressing deeper.

I sighed into him, gripping the front of his tunic as the bond pulsed between us, as the warmth of his body and the scent of campfire and rainy mornings wrapped around me like something familiar, something I could fall into.

It should have scared me.

But all I could do was kiss him back.

Eris pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my lips. My heart pounded, my thoughts a chaotic mess, but the bond hummed in quiet contentment—as if it had known all along that this was inevitable.

His fingers stayed tangled in my hair, his other hand still cupping my jaw, holding me there, keeping me grounded. "We'll figure this out," he murmured, voice low, steady. Sure.

I let out a slow breath, my hands still fisted in his tunic. "You make it sound so simple."

"It doesn't have to be complicated."

I swallowed hard, my mind already spinning with the realities of what this meant, what it could mean. But as I looked at him, at the quiet determination in his gaze, at the warmth that had nothing to do with the firelight flickering around us, I found myself wanting—just for a moment—to believe him.

So I nodded, just barely.

His lips brushed my temple, lingering there for a heartbeat before he leaned back, his hand finally slipping from my hair. "One step at a time, my dear."

I exhaled, my pulse still thrumming in my throat, and echoed, "One step at a time."

And maybe, just maybe, we'd find our way through this. Together.

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mahalachives · 3 months ago

Text

Part 7: The Night He Wept

Warning: This chapter contains emotional trauma, grief, and one (1) deeply depressed shadowsinger who is Not Doing Well.

Reader discretion advised for intense emotional moments, ambiguous consent regarding mating bonds, rejection fallout, and scenes of vulnerability that may be triggering for those sensitive to abandonment, entrapment, or quiet men crying silently in the garden.

Azriel is having a time. You might, too.

Please take care of your heart. And maybe keep tissues, and a therapist nearby. 💔🕯

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

Winnowing was a strange sensation at the best of times.

The world folding around you, compressing to a single point before expanding again.

But this was wrong.

The darkness stretched too long. Your body felt too light, then impossibly heavy.

The pain in your shoulder flared so violently that a scream tore from your throat, though you couldn't hear it through the roaring in your ears.

When reality finally reassembled itself, you were sprawled on unfamiliar ground, Lucien's arms still around you. Rain pelted your face, mingling with the blood that seemed to be everywhere now.

"Stay with me," Lucien commanded, his voice tight with panic. He shifted you in his arms, his face swimming in and out of focus above you.

The trees overhead blurred into a canopy of indistinct shapes.

Not the Dawn Court.

This was still Autumn territory, though not anywhere you recognized.

"Something went wrong," Lucien muttered, more to himself than to you. "Winnowing wounded... shouldn't have risked it."

You tried to answer, to tell him you were fine, but your mouth filled with a metallic taste.

Blood. Your blood.

"Nerissa's cottage is close," Lucien said, his pace quickening as he carried you through the rain. "Just hold on."

The world tilted sickeningly, darkness encroaching at the edges of your vision. The bond in your chest pulsed weakly, like the fluttering of a bird's wings.

The ash tea still burned through your system, keeping the full force of the bond at bay, but doing something else too. Something worse.

"Lucien," you managed, your voice a thread of sound beneath the rain.

He looked down, his mismatched eyes wild with fear. "Don't talk. Save your strength."

But you needed to say it, needed him to understand. "It's stopping me from healing."

His jaw tightened, a flash of understanding and horror crossing his face. "The ash," he whispered. "It suppresses magic."

Including the magic that might have kept you alive.

The cottage appeared ahead, a small structure nestled among ancient oaks. Smoke curled from its chimney despite the rain, lamplight glowing in the windows. Lucien kicked at the door, not bothering with courtesy.

"Nerissa!" he shouted. "I need help!"

The door swung open to reveal an elderly faerie with skin like autumn leaves and eyes of deep, shifting amber. She took one look at you and stepped back, gesturing them inside.

"Put her on the table," she instructed, already moving to gather supplies.

Lucien laid you down gently. You could feel the blood pooling beneath you, soaking into the rough wood. Too much blood.

Nerissa worked quickly, cutting away your sodden clothing to reveal the arrow wound. It had gone straight through, leaving entry and exit wounds that should have been survivable. But the arrow had been tipped with something. You'd seen it glinting green on the arrowhead before it struck you.

"Poison?" Lucien asked, hovering anxiously.

"Yes." Nerissa's voice was grim. "But that's not the worst of it." Her fingers traced the veins spreading outward from the wound. "What has she taken?"

"Ashwood tea," Lucien admitted. "To dampen a mating bond."

Nerissa's hands stilled. "Foolish girl," she breathed. "The ashwood neutralizes all magic, including healing magic."

"Can you help her?" Lucien's voice cracked on the question.

The healer pressed her palms to your wound, closing her eyes in concentration. You felt a warmth trying to penetrate the cold that had settled into your bones, but it was like water sliding off oiled cloth. Nothing took hold.

"The ash wood is blocking me," Nerissa said, frustration evident in her voice. "I can't reach her system to purge the poison."

"There must be something," Lucien insisted. "Some way to counteract it."

"Perhaps..." Nerissa hesitated, then moved to a chest in the corner of the cottage. She rummaged inside, pulling out a small box inlaid with bone. "This is old magic. Before High Lords, before courts."

Your heartbeat stuttered in your chest, each pulse weaker than the last. The pain was receding now, replaced by a spreading numbness that should have terrified you but instead felt like relief.

"Hurry," Lucien urged, his hands pressed to your wound, trying to staunch the bleeding.

Nerissa returned with something cupped in her gnarled hands. "Blood magic," she said softly. "It works outside the normal channels."

"Whatever it takes," Lucien replied without hesitation.

The healer nodded, sprinkled a mixture of herbs and dark powder around your body, forming a circle on the table. "But it requires payment."

"Name it."

"A memory," Nerissa said, her amber eyes fixed on Lucien. "One you value."

Lucien didn't hesitate. "Take it."

She nodded once, then placed her hands on either side of your face. "And from her, we take the poison."

The world started to fade around you, consciousness slipping away. As Nerissa began to chant in a language older than Prythian, your mind drifted free from your body.

And suddenly, you were elsewhere.

A hospital room. Sterile. Bright.

The rhythmic beeping of machines, the soft whoosh of mechanical breathing. And there. A body in a bed. Your body. Tubes and wires connected to machines that kept it alive.

"...no change in brain activity, though the patterns are unusual," a male voice was saying. A doctor. Human.

"What does that mean?" Another voice, your aunt's, thick with tears. "Is she in pain?"

"We don't believe so," the doctor replied gently. "But I'm afraid there's been no improvement since the accident. The coma is stable, but deep."

Coma.

The word registered with a jolt of understanding. Your human body had been in a coma all this time, while your consciousness wandered in Prythian.

"It's been three months," your aunt said, voice breaking. "You said if there was going to be improvement..."

"I know this is difficult to hear," the doctor said, "but at this point, we've done everything medically possible. The rest is up to her. She has to find her way back."

A sob escaped your aunt. You tried to scream, to move, to give any sign that you were there, that you could hear them. But nothing happened.

I'm here! you shouted inside your mind. I'm right here!

But she couldn't hear you. No one could.

Her hand closed around yours, warm and achingly familiar. "Baby, if you can hear me," she whispered, "please come back to us. Please don't go."

And you couldn't. You were trapped between worlds, neither fully in Prythian nor fully in your human body. You wept without tears, screamed without sound, as your aunt's fingers gently stroked your unresponsive hand.

"I'll be back tomorrow," she promised, her voice thick with grief. "I love you. Always."

As she moved away, your awareness began to fade, the hospital room growing distant. The beeping of the heart monitor receded, replaced by a different sound. Nerissa's chanting, Lucien's desperate pleas.

You were being pulled back, drawn inexorably toward the body dying on that wooden table.

Back to Prythian.

Part of you wanted to resist, to stay with your aunt, in your world. But your human body was beyond your reach now, your consciousness tethered to this new existence whether you wanted it or not.

The cottage materialized around you, time seemingly frozen in the moment of your almost-death. Lucien's hands pressed against your wound, his face contorted with grief and determination. Nerissa stood with palms outstretched, her blood magic pulsing in crimson waves that fought against the ashwood in your system.

As your consciousness settled back into your dying body, the cottage snapped into focus, time resuming its normal flow.

Pain flooded back, the poison and blood loss and failing heart. But something else came with it. Nerissa's magic, dark and ancient, finding pathways the ash tea couldn't block.

"There," she whispered, triumph in her voice. "The blood accepts blood."

Your back arched off the table as your heart lurched painfully in your chest, giving one strong beat, then another. Blood that had been sluggishly seeping from your wound slowed, then stopped entirely as the wound began to close under Nerissa's touch.

"She's returning," Nerissa said, watching as color crept back into your cheeks. "But changed."

Lucien sagged with relief, his hand finding yours and squeezing tight. "Thank the Cauldron."

"Don't thank anything yet," the healer warned. "The poison is gone, but the ashwood remains. It will be days before it leaves her system entirely."

"And the bond?" Lucien asked quietly.

"Muted, still. But present." Nerissa's amber eyes fixed on your face with uncomfortable intensity. "Though I sense there is more to this bond than meets the eye. It stretches... elsewhere."

You wanted to weep, to tell them about the other world, about your aunt sitting by a hospital bed, about the life you might never return to. But exhaustion pulled you under, the trauma and magic and sheer weight of your double existence too much to bear.

As consciousness faded once more, one terrible certainty remained.

You weren't going home.

Not to your aunt. Not to your real body.

The bond had claimed you for Prythian.

And somewhere far to the north, a shadowsinger flew through rain and darkness, driven by a golden thread he couldn't ignore and didn't understand coming to find what belonged to him, whether either of you wanted it or not.

You drifted in and out of consciousness, the bitter taste of Nerissa's medicine lingering on your tongue. The cottage was quiet save for the steady patter of rain on the thatched roof and the occasional crackling of the hearth fire. Night had fallen, turning the windows into black mirrors that reflected the warm glow within.

Voices pulled you from the edge of sleep hushed, tense, just beyond your door.

"You should have taken her straight to Dawn," came Eris's voice, pitched low but sharp with anger. "Not stopped at this hovel."

"She was dying," Lucien replied, his tone equally tense. "The arrow had pierced clean through, and she was losing too much blood. I made the call I had to make."

"And now five fae are dead."

Your breath caught. You kept your eyes closed, feigning sleep while straining to hear.

"What are you talking about?" Lucien asked.

"Your little escape from the estate didn't go unnoticed," Eris said. "Word travels, even in rain and darkness. The shadowsinger found the burning ruins."

The bond in your chest gave a sudden, sharp tug at the mention of Azriel. You ignored it, focusing on the conversation.

"Impossible," Lucien breathed. "He couldn't have tracked us that quickly."

"He didn't need to track you," Eris replied, disgust evident in his voice. "He simply followed the chaos you left behind. And when he found your little mess, he found the hunters who survived the fire."

A pause. Then, "He killed them all, Lucien. One by one."

"They tried to kill her," Lucien said, but there was uncertainty in his voice. "They deserved-"

"That's not the point," Eris cut in. "The point is the way he did it. Cold. Calculated. My source said he was completely composed."

"Bond-sickness should have driven him to madness by now," Lucien said, confusion evident in his voice. "Especially after her injury. He should be feral, uncontrolled."

"But he's not," Eris replied, something like reluctant respect in his tone. "It's as if the bond has given him clarity rather than chaos. He's more focused, more deadly than ever."

The bond pulsed again, stronger this time, sending a wave of heat through your veins despite the ash tea still lingering in your system. You pressed your hand to your chest, willing it to be quiet, to let you hear.

"You sound almost impressed," Lucien said with disbelief.

"I can recognize a dangerous opponent without liking him," Eris replied. "And the shadowsinger has become something… formidable. The bond hasn't weakened him as it should have. It's strengthened him, focused him."

"What does that mean for her?" Lucien's voice had an edge of concern now.

"It means he won't stop," Eris said simply. "Not for borders or laws or High Lords. Not until he finds her. And he will find her with a determination that even Rhysand might find disturbing."

"She's not some possession to be claimed," Lucien said.

"I don't think that's what he sees anymore," Eris replied thoughtfully. "My source said he moved differently, spoke differently. Not like a male hunting a possession, but like one seeking his other half. There was purpose there, not just obsession."

You shivered despite yourself, remembering the cold precision of Azriel's rejection. The harsh words. The shadows that nevertheless had caressed your cheek with strange tenderness.

"We need to move her to Dawn Court as soon as we can," Eris continued, his voice urgent now. "We leave at first light."

"And when she's healed?" Lucien asked. "We can't keep her hidden forever, even in Dawn Court."

A longer silence fell. When Eris spoke again, his voice was softer, almost resigned.

"No. Eventually, she'll have to face him. But on her terms, not his. When she's strong enough to make her own choice."

"And if she chooses him?"

"Then we respect her decision," Eris said. "But it will be her choice. Not the bond's. Not his. Not even ours."

The bond gave another insistent tug, as if in agreement with their words. This time, you couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped your lips as golden light briefly pulsed beneath your skin.

The conversation outside your door immediately ceased. Footsteps approached, and you quickly closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to even out.

The door creaked open. You could sense them both standing there, watching you.

"She shouldn't be moved tomorrow," Lucien said quietly. "She's still too weak."

"The alternative is waiting for the shadowsinger to find her," Eris replied. "And I promise you, brother, he's already hunting."

You expected to hear the door close, but instead, footsteps approached your bedside. The mattress dipped slightly as someone sat beside you. A warm hand gently brushed the hair from your forehead a touch so unexpectedly tender that you nearly gave yourself away by opening your eyes.

"I'll check the perimeter again," Lucien said softly from the doorway. "Make sure Nerissa's wards are holding."

The door closed with a quiet click, leaving you alone with Eris. His hand remained on your forehead, a comforting weight that felt strangely familiar, as if your body remembered a touch your mind did not.

"I know you're awake," Eris said quietly, no anger in his voice, just weary resignation.

You opened your eyes, meeting his amber gaze. In the dim light of the single candle, his normally harsh features seemed softer, more human.

"How much did you hear?" he asked.

"Enough," you whispered. "Five dead."

Eris nodded, his hand still resting on your forehead. "The shadowsinger is… not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"A rabid animal," he said frankly. "Bond-sickness usually breaks a male, especially one who has rejected the bond initially. It should have driven him mad."

"But it didn't," you said, the words a question more than a statement.

Eris studied your face, his expression unreadable. "No. It changed him, but not in the way I anticipated. It's as if…" He paused, seeming to search for the right words. "As if he's found his purpose."

The bond hummed quietly in your chest, neither painful nor insistent, just… present.

"Are you afraid of him?" Eris asked, surprising you with his directness.

You considered the question, truly considered it. "I don't know," you admitted. "I should be. But…"

"But the bond tells you differently," he finished for you.

You nodded, unable to deny it. "Does that make me a fool?"

A ghost of a smile touched Eris's lips. "No more than any of us who have been touched by the Cauldron's whims."

His hand moved from your forehead to take one of yours, his grip firm but gentle. It was such an unexpectedly brotherly gesture that tears sprang to your eyes. "Why are you trying to protect me."

"You're still my sister," he replied, as if that explained everything. And perhaps it did.

He squeezed your hand once before releasing it. "Rest. Tomorrow will be challenging enough without you exhausting yourself eavesdropping. The journey to Dawn Court will test your strength."

As he rose to leave, you caught his sleeve. "Eris."

He paused, looking down at you.

"Thank you."

He didn't smile you weren't sure Eris truly knew how but his expression softened slightly. He placed his hand briefly on top of your head in a gesture so familial, so protective, that it made your heart ache. Then, in a movement so quick and gentle you might have imagined it, he bent down and pressed a kiss to your head.

"Sleep, little flame," he said quietly, using what must have been a childhood nickname. "Your brothers are watching over you."

It lingered like a blessing, so unexpected from the cold, calculating male you'd come to know. It spoke of a past you couldn't remember, of a bond deeper than politics or court alliances.

Then he was gone, the door closing silently behind him, leaving only the faint scent of cinnamon and smoke to prove he'd been there at all.

You turned your face to the pillow, confused tears slipping down your cheeks. The bond sang its golden song in your blood, but now another bond one of family, of blood and choice and unexpected protection wrapped around you as well.

Tomorrow you would leave with your newfound brothers, flee to Dawn Court, continue fighting against the bond that tried to claim you.

But tonight, in the darkness where no one could see, you allowed yourself to wonder about the male who had found clarity rather than madness in your connection. Who sought you not as a possession, but as his missing piece.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, there might be a choice that didn't require you to run from one bond to preserve another.

You were barely conscious when you arrived at the Dawn Court. The journey had taken what remained of your strength, Lucien and Eris winnowing you through multiple points to throw off any trackers. Your vision had tunneled to pinpricks of light, voices coming to you as if through water.

“She needs immediate attention,” someone said, their voice musical yet commanding. “Bring her to the eastern chambers.”

Hands lifted you onto something soft that floated beneath you, carrying you through corridors scented with jasmine and morning light. You tried to focus, to thank whoever was helping you, but consciousness slipped away again. Replaced by a different scene entirely.

The hospital room. The beeping monitors. Your aunt’s voice, thick with tears.

“It’s been over three months now, and the doctors say… they say we should consider…” Her voice broke. “I can’t give up on you. I won’t.”

You tried to reach for her, to tell her you were there, that you could hear her, but an invisible barrier held you back.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could only watch as she pressed her forehead against your unresponsive hand.

“Come back to us,” she whispered. “Please come back.”

The scene dissolved, replaced by a Dawn Court ceiling painted with a perpetual sunrise. Healers moved around you, their hands stirring gentle currents of air that smelled of herbs and magic. You let yourself drift, caught between worlds, belonging to neither.

Days passed this way. Sometimes you were in Prythian, vaguely aware of people tending to you, speaking about you as if you couldn’t hear.

Other times you were in the hospital room, a prisoner in your own unresponsive body, watching your family grieve.

You never fully woke. Never fully slept.

You simply existed in a gray space between, the mating bond a dull ache in your chest. A tether to a world you hadn’t chosen but couldn’t escape.

On the fourth day. Or maybe the fifth; time had become fluid, unreliable, you heard Eris’s voice.

“Is there improvement?” he asked someone you couldn’t see.

“Her physical wounds are healing,” came the reply, a female voice, likely a healer. “But she remains unconscious.”

“And the bond?” Eris’s voice was carefully neutral, revealing nothing.

“Stable, but stressed. The separation isn’t helping.”

“It’s necessary,” Eris said firmly. “Beron has every tracker in Autumn searching for her. He’s even approached the Spring Court for assistance, claiming she was abducted.”

“Lord Thesan understands the situation,” the healer assured him. “Our wards will hold.”

Their voices faded as you slipped back into the liminal space, pulled toward your human body once more. The hospital room seemed dimmer this time, night having fallen. A different family member. Your cousin, sat beside your bed, reading aloud from your favorite book as if you might hear and find your way back through the words.

You drifted again, caught in the riptide between worlds.

When awareness returned, Lucien sat beside your Dawn Court bed, his metal eye whirring softly as he studied your face.

“You need to wake up properly,” he said quietly, as if sensing you could hear him even in your half‑conscious state. “Ember and Sizzle are terrorizing the servants. Yesterday they set fire to Thesan’s favorite tapestry, and the day before that they somehow got into the kitchens and charbroiled an entire week’s worth of pastries.”

As if summoned by their names, you felt two small, warm weights settle on either side of your pillow, your flame‑bunnies, who had apparently appointed themselves your guardians in this strange, suspended state.

“Troublemakers,” Lucien continued, his voice fond despite his words.

You wanted to respond, to reach out, but the pull of the other world was too strong. Back in the hospital, a doctor was speaking to your aunt, using words like persistent vegetative state and difficult decisions ahead. You tried to scream, to let them know you were there, trapped between lives, unable to fully claim either.

Fragments of conversation drifted through the fog of days.

“Beron grows more desperate. He’s threatened the Summer Court with retaliation if they don’t assist in the search.”

“Why is he so fixated on finding her? He never showed such concern before.”

Eris sighed, after a long pause, “Because she defied him. Beron doesn’t care about her, only about making an example of her. He intends to show what happens to those who defy the High Lord of Autumn.”

The words pierced the haze. Rage and wounded pride, nothing more. The bond flared at the thought, golden light flickering beneath your skin.

Your eyes opened properly for the first time since arriving at Dawn Court. The chamber around you was beautiful in a way the Autumn Court could never manage. Soft light and gentle curves, crystals catching and amplifying the eternal dawn.

Ember and Sizzle, dozing on your pillow, perked up, their tiny flame forms brightening with excitement. They hopped around your head, chirping happily and leaving small scorch marks on the luxurious bedding.

“Look who’s finally decided to join the land of the living,” Lucien said from the doorway, arms crossed yet visibly relieved. “Just in time, too. Your little fire hazards were about to be banished to the fountain for their own good.”

Ember looked deeply offended. Sizzle, indifferent, continued exploring, leaving paw‑prints of ash on silken sheets.

“How long?” you croaked.

“Nine days,” Lucien replied, pouring water from a crystal carafe. “You’ve been… elsewhere.”

You drank gratefully, but kept your secrets close. “It feels like I’ve been dreaming. Strange dreams.”

Lucien’s metal eye whirred faster. “Trauma often sends the mind searching for escape.”

“And the bond?” You pressed a hand to the golden thread pulsing in your chest.

“Still there,” he said. “What it means… we’ll see.”

Eris appeared, amber eyes widening at the sight of you upright. “Just in time for the latest crisis.”

“What crisis?” you asked, reaching for Ember, who hopped into your palm with a contented chirp.

“Beron has discovered your location or suspects it,” Eris replied grimly. “He’s petitioning Thesan for a formal search of Dawn Court grounds.”

“Will Thesan agree?”

“No,” Eris said, confident. “Thesan’s no friend to Autumn. But we must strengthen your protection and plan for a swift departure.”

“Why is Beron so determined? Is it really just because I defied him?”

“He’s furious,” Eris said. “When you ran, you humiliated him. Our father sees you as property, not a daughter.”

“But we won’t let that happen,” Lucien added. “Get your strength back. We may need to move soon.”

Exhaustion washed over you as they left to make arrangements. Ember and Sizzle curled against your side, warm and comforting.

“What am I doing?” you whispered to them. “Caught between worlds while my human body lies dying in a hospital? I can’t tell them. They’d never understand.”

Ember shrugged—a strangely human gesture—and you laughed despite everything.

You slept properly for the first time since arriving at Dawn Court. When you woke, actual sunlight. Not the court’s perpetual glow—streamed through your windows. You’d slept through an entire day and night.

A tray waited. Fruit glowing from within, bread still warm, tea perfectly steeped. You ate ravenously, surprised by your appetite.

Feeling stronger, you explored your chamber. Elegant furniture seemed to grow from the floor; crystal windows refracted light into rainbows; a bathing pool steamed with jasmine‑scented springs.

A knock interrupted. A Dawn Court servant bowed. “Lady, Lord Thesan requests your presence in the eastern garden when you feel strong enough. Your brothers await you there.”

Brothers. The word still felt wrong. They shared blood with this body, but were strangers to the consciousness within.

“Thank you,” you said. “I’ll come now.”

She left a simple, beautiful gown of pale gold that captured dawn‑light. You dressed quickly, surprised by your regained strength. Ember and Sizzle followed as you walked the corridors; servants stared at your flame‑pets as tiny scorch marks dotted the polished floors.

The garden embodied Dawn Court restraint: pale‑barked trees with glowing blossoms, crushed‑white‑stone paths, fountains singing as water leapt from tier to tier.

Thesan waited by one fountain, his copper skin glinting under the gleaming light.

“Lady of Autumn,” He greeted, kindness warming his ancient eyes. “I’m pleased to see you recovered. Your unconscious state caused us concern.”

“Thank you for your hospitality and protection, Lord Thesan,” you replied, bowing your head. “I’m sorry for any trouble my presence has caused.”

“No trouble,” Thesan assured. “Dawn Court is a place of healing and transition.” His gaze flicked to Ember and Sizzle, currently scaling the fountain with disastrous enthusiasm. “Though your companions have provided some… unexpected excitement.”

“They’re impossible,” you said, stifling a smile as Sizzle slipped into the water with a hiss of steam. “But they mean well.”

“Indeed.” Thesan’s expression sobered. “I hope your stay, however brief, brings peace. Dawn Court lives in the moment of transition between night and day. A reminder that no state is permanent, only change.”

You wondered if he sensed your divided nature, but his face revealed only polite welcome.

“Thank you, Lord Thesan,” you said. “I hope to enjoy what Dawn Court offers for as long as I may stay.”

As talk turned to mundane matters of accommodation and security, the hospital surfaced in your mind, distant now, faint. Your human family still kept vigil, but their voices reached you as though from a deep well.

The bond tugged you toward this world, this reality. Answers about Beron, the bond, and yourself, waited beyond Dawn Court’s perpetual sunrise.

For now, you would gather strength and keep your secrets close, navigating this strange existence between two worlds.

The Dawn Court's borders shimmered in the perpetual half light, a gossamer veil of magic that separated Thesan's realm from the rest of Prythian.

Azriel stood before it, unmoving as he had been for days now, his shadows writhing around him in agitated tendrils that reflected the turmoil within.

The sentries watched him warily from their posts.

The shadowsinger of the Night Court had arrived five days ago, taking position at the eastern border where the magic was thinnest. He'd made no move to cross, no attempt to infiltrate.

He simply... waited. Watching. Sometimes pacing, but mostly standing in silent vigil, his haggard appearance growing more concerning with each passing day.

"He hasn't eaten since yesterday," one sentry murmured to another as they changed shifts. "Barely sleeps either. Just stands there, staring."

"Should we report to Lord Thesan again?"

"Already did. He said to continue observation only."

Azriel heard them, of course.

His Illyrian hearing could pick up a whisper from across a battlefield. But he gave no indication, his focus turned inward to the golden thread that pulsed in his chest sometimes painfully bright, sometimes a dull ache, but always pulling him toward the heart of Dawn Court.

Toward you.

His wings, normally immaculate, showed signs of neglect the leathery membranes dull rather than gleaming. Dark stubble shadowed his usually clean shaven jaw, while circles beneath his eyes gave his already severe features a haunted quality.

The shadows themselves had changed.

Those who knew Azriel well would have noticed immediately they no longer moved with calculated precision, no longer seemed like tools under his absolute control. Instead, they reached, they yearned, stretching toward the border before being pulled back to coil around their master like protective serpents.

When the Dawn Court emissary finally approached, Azriel's eyes sharpened with predatory focus, though he made no move toward the slender fae who approached with hands raised in peaceful gesture.

"Shadowsinger," the emissary greeted formally. "Lord Thesan acknowledges your presence at our borders and invites you to an audience."

Azriel's voice, when he finally spoke, was rough from disuse. "When?"

"Now, if you're willing."

Azriel gave a single, sharp nod.

The emissary gestured toward the border, which parted like silk curtains to admit him. The moment he crossed, he felt the weight of Dawn Court wards settle around him not hostile, but watchful, ready to neutralize any threat.

As they walked through forests bathed in perpetual sunrise, Azriel's shadows retreated closer to his body, as if uncomfortable in the gentle light. His hand drifted occasionally to the hilt of Truth Teller at his hip not in threat, but from habit, seeking comfort in the familiar weight.

The golden thread in his chest pulled harder with each step toward the palace, almost painfully tight now.

Somewhere ahead, you waited.

Somewhere ahead, the other half of his soul lived and breathed, perhaps hating him for the cruel words he'd spat at you when the bond had first snapped into place.

"I reject you," he had told you weeks ago, the memory flashing unbidden through his mind.

Your face had crumpled at his coldness, the bond between you shuddering with your pain. He had turned away then, unable to face what he'd done.

The Dawn Court palace rose before them, its crystalline spires capturing the eternal sunrise and fracturing it into rainbows that danced across polished facades.

Even in his state of agitation, Azriel could appreciate its beauty so different from the shadowed grandeur of the Night Court, yet magnificent in its own way.

They led him not to the grand audience chamber, but to a smaller, more intimate garden terrace where Thesan waited alone. The High Lord of Dawn studied Azriel with ancient eyes that held no hostility, only careful assessment.

"Shadowsinger," Thesan greeted. "You've caused quite a stir, maintaining your vigil at my borders."

Azriel inclined his head slightly, the closest he could manage to courtly manners in his current state. "I meant no disrespect."

"None was taken." Thesan gestured to a seat across from him, but Azriel remained standing. The High Lord didn't press the issue. "Your appearance suggests you have not been caring for yourself."

Azriel made no reply.

His state was obvious enough the weight he'd lost, the gauntness in his face, the shadows under his eyes that had nothing to do with his power.

"Why have you come, Shadowsinger?" Thesan asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

Azriel's gaze lifted to meet the High Lord's, and something in that gaze the raw emotion, the quiet desperation seemed to soften Thesan's expression.

"I don't demand to see her," Azriel said, the words clearly difficult. "I don't demand anything."

"A refreshing approach," Thesan noted. "Most males in your position would be tearing apart my court stone by stone."

Azriel's jaw tightened beneath the dark stubble. "Is she well?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The simple question, asked with such carefully restrained concern, seemed to surprise Thesan, who studied the shadowsinger with renewed interest.

"She is recovering," the High Lord finally replied. "Both physically and... otherwise."

"The arrow wound?" Azriel's shadows twisted anxiously.

"Healed, for the most part. Though there were complications."

Azriel nodded once, his gloved hands clenching. "Has she been able to rest? To eat properly?"

"She's regaining her strength," Thesan answered, watching Azriel carefully.

"And her flame creatures? They're with her?"

A slight smile touched Thesan's lips. "They've caused quite a stir among my household staff. Very protective of her."

Relief flickered across Azriel's face. "Good. That's... good." He paused, then asked, "Is she safe here?"

"As safe as anyone can be in these turbulent times," Thesan replied. "Though Beron's interest in her whereabouts grows more aggressive by the day."

"Has Beron threatened her directly?" Azriel asked, shadows darkening. "Are his agents watching the borders?"

"Your concern is noted, Shadowsinger," Thesan said evenly. "Though I assure you, Dawn Court is quite capable of protecting its guests."

"I don't question your capabilities," Azriel said quietly. "I only wish to know if there's anything I can do to help ensure her safety."

Thesan's eyebrows rose slightly. "You offer assistance to Dawn Court?"

"I offer whatever is needed to ensure she's protected," Azriel replied, the words a quiet vow. "I only ask permission to remain here... at a distance. To help ensure her safety without intruding on her peace."

"And if she doesn't wish you to stay?" Thesan asked, watching him carefully.

"Then I'll go," Azriel said immediately. "But I would station myself at your borders, with your permission."

Thesan studied him for a long moment. "The bond has changed you."

"She has changed me," Azriel corrected softly, then fell silent, as if he'd already said too much about himself.

Thesan's expression showed genuine surprise, then approval. "That is a rare understanding, even among those far older than yourself."

Azriel looked toward the eastern wing of the palace, where the golden thread in his chest pulled insistently. "I don't ask to see her. I don't deserve it."

"And if she chooses to never see you again?" Thesan asked, his tone gentle but probing.

"Then I will protect her from afar," Azriel replied without hesitation. "Whether she claims me or not, she has my dagger, my shadows, my life if needed."

Thesan was silent for a long moment. Then, "You speak of choice, yet you've been at my borders for five days, barely eating, barely sleeping. The bond drives you still."

"The bond drives me to ensure her safety and happiness," Azriel corrected quietly. "Not to possess her."

Something in his words seemed to satisfy Thesan, who nodded slowly. "Rest here tonight, Shadowsinger. Food and quarters will be provided."

Azriel stiffened. "I don't wish to impose-"

"It is not," Thesan interrupted gently. "It is a High Lord's hospitality to a warrior who has clearly reached his limits."

Before Azriel could respond, a flicker of movement caught his attention a flash of fire from a nearby corridor, there and gone in an instant. His shadows surged in that direction, sensing rather than seeing, and Azriel went completely still.

You were near.

So close that the bond sang between you, golden light briefly visible beneath his skin. His wings twitched with the instinct to move toward you, but he held himself rigidly in place, refusing to push, to intrude.

Thesan rose, "A room will be prepared for you. Food brought. I suggest you accept both, Shadowsinger, before you collapse."

As if his body had been waiting for permission, a wave of exhaustion swept through Azriel. He inclined his head in acceptance, shadows swirling tiredly around him.

"Thank you," Azriel replied, the words raw with genuine gratitude.

As a Dawn Court attendant led him to guest quarters, Azriel felt the golden thread in his chest ease slightly, as if knowing he was under the same roof even floors and corridors away was enough to soothe its constant pull. He followed quietly, each step taking enormous effort now that the adrenaline of meeting with Thesan had faded.

In his room, food had already been laid out fruits that seemed to glow from within, bread still warm from the oven, and a carafe of wine that caught the light like liquid rubies.

Azriel could barely remember the last time he'd eaten properly. The days at the border had blurred together, hunger and thirst secondary to the need to be near you, to know you were safe.

He ate mechanically, his body demanding sustenance even as his mind remained focused on the bond connecting him to you. It felt different here less painful, more... anticipatory. As if the bond itself knew that separation couldn't last forever, one way or another.

After eating, he moved to the balcony that overlooked gardens awash in perpetual dawn light. He breathed deeply, letting his shadows expand and contract with each breath. Somewhere in this palace, you were making your own choice. Whether that choice included him or not, he would honor it.

His gloved fingers absently rubbed at the stubble on his jaw as he stared out at the Dawn Court's eternal sunrise. He didn't care about his haggard appearance, his exhaustion, or his hunger. He cared only about one thing.

That you were safe. That you were healing. That you had everything you needed.

The rest including whether you ever forgave him was entirely your choice.

And for the first time in his long life, the shadowsinger surrendered completely to a power greater than his formidable will.

The choice was yours.

The healing chambers of the Dawn Court became your sanctuary.

After weeks of recovery, you found yourself drawn to the eastern wing of Thesan's palace where injured fae came seeking help.

At first, you simply observed, fascinated by the Dawn healers' methods so different from Autumn Court magic, which focused on destruction rather than restoration.

"You have a natural aptitude," remarked Alis, the chief healer, as you handed her crushed herbs for a poultice.

Her amber eyes studied you with interest. "Your touch calms the patients."

You shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. "I'm just trying to be useful."

"Nonsense," she replied briskly. "Your energy has healing properties. I suspect it's always been there, just... misdirected in Autumn."

The work gave you purpose, a reason to rise each morning despite the persistent ache of the bond in your chest.

The ash tea's effects had finally worn off completely, leaving you with the full strength of the mating bond, a golden thread that tugged constantly toward the western edge of the palace grounds.

You ignored it. Deliberately. Fiercely.

Instead, you threw yourself into learning. Into living. Into rebuilding a life that was wholly your own.

"The lavender infusion needs straining," you told one of the younger healers as you moved through the sunlit chamber, checking on patients.

The Dawn Court's perpetual sunrise streamed through crystal windows, bathing everything in a golden glow that enhanced healing magic.

As you reached for fresh bandages on a high shelf, you felt it again the sensation of being watched.

It had been happening for days now, a prickling awareness that raised the fine hairs on your neck. You turned sharply, scanning the room, the doorway, the windows.

Nothing. No one.

Just as there had been nothing the day before, or the day before that.

You pushed the feeling aside. Dawn Court was full of secrets and hidden watchers perimeter guards, palace attendants, the Peregryn warriors who served as Thesan's elite force. Any of them might have reason to observe an Autumn Court refugee with unusual healing abilities.

It meant nothing.

"You look tired," Lucien commented that evening as you joined him for a simple dinner in your private quarters.

Eris had already departed another brief visit concluded. His position in Autumn Court required maintaining appearances, which meant he couldn't stay long in Dawn without raising suspicions. "The healing work is draining you."

"I'm fine," you replied, helping yourself to roasted quail and honeyed vegetables. "It's good to be useful."

Lucien studied you for a moment. "You've settled in quickly."

"The Dawn Court suits me," you admitted.

The constant sunrise felt like hope made manifest neither trapped in darkness nor exposed to harsh daylight. Just endless possibility.

Later that night, as you prepared for bed, you noticed something on your balcony a small parcel wrapped in midnight-blue silk, secured with a silver ribbon.

Your heart beat faster as you approached it warily. It hadn't been there earlier. Someone had placed it there while you dined.

With cautious fingers, you untied the ribbon.

Inside lay a delicate silver bracelet, each link shaped like a tiny flame that somehow captured the dawn light and reflected it in golden hues. It was beautiful understated yet distinctive, nothing like the ostentatious Autumn Court jewelry you'd seen.

A small note accompanied it, written in an elegant, angular hand.

For protection and healing.

No signature. None needed.

You knew instantly who had left it, just as you knew who had been watching from the shadows.

Azriel.

Anger flared hot and sudden. You stormed from your room, bracelet clutched in your fist. The bond pulsed wildly as you marched through the Dawn Court halls, following its pull like a compass.

You found Lucien in the library, browsing ancient texts by lamplight.

"You knew," you accused, throwing the bracelet onto the table before him. It clattered against the polished wood. "You knew he was here."

Lucien didn't feign ignorance. "Thesan granted him sanctuary three days ago."

"Why wasn't I told?" The flames in the nearby hearth flickered higher, responding to your anger.

"Because you're still healing," Lucien said carefully. "And because he specifically asked not to disturb your peace."

"That's not your decision to make," you snapped. "Or his. Or Thesan's."

"No," Lucien agreed quietly. "It's not. But the damage he did to you when the bond first appeared-"

"Is between him and me."

Lucien studied you. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Why is he here? What does he want? How long has Thesan been sheltering him?"

"Let's find Thesan," Lucien suggested. "He can explain better than I can."

The High Lord received you in his private study despite the late hour. His golden-brown skin seemed to glow with the same light as the perpetual dawn outside, his eyes keen as he gestured for you to sit.

"I expected this visit sooner," Thesan said, pouring three glasses of pale wine. "The shadowsinger arrived at our borders five days ago and simply waited. No demands, no threats."

"Unlike most males in his position," Lucien added.

"Why is he here?" you demanded.

"For you," Thesan said simply. "Though he claims he expects nothing in return. He stood at our borders for days, barely eating, barely sleeping."

"The bond drives him," Lucien explained.

"No," Thesan corrected. "He believes the bond drives him to ensure your safety and happiness, not to possess you. His words, not mine. He offered his services to Dawn Court as additional protection against Beron's growing interest in your whereabouts."

You scoffed. "How convenient."

"I'm not asking you to forgive him," Thesan said. "But I thought his approach unusual. Most fae males, especially warriors of his caliber, would have demanded access to you, claimed ancient rights. He asked only to know that you were healing well."

"The gifts?" you asked.

Thesan's expression softened. "Those were not my idea, nor did I explicitly permit them. But I saw no harm."

"He's a shadowsinger," you said flatly. "Of course you didn't catch him."

"I see more than you might think," Thesan replied, unruffled. "The question is, what do you want done? I can send him away if that's your wish."

The question caught you off guard. You'd been so focused on your anger at being kept in the dark that you hadn't considered what you actually wanted.

Your chair scraped harshly as you stood. "He's not welcome anywhere near me."

"Very well," Thesan began. "I'll inform-"

"No." You cut him off, walking toward the door. "You don't get to play matchmaker, Thesan. Neither of you do. You had no right to keep this from me."

"That wasn't our intent," Lucien said.

You paused at the doorway, not looking back. "I'm not a piece in whatever game you're playing."

You left without waiting for a response, your anger a living thing inside you. But beneath it, the bond hummed, carrying an emotion that wasn't entirely your own, relief, perhaps, that you now knew he was here. That there was no more need for shadows and secrets.

You hated how your body responded to that knowledge, how the pain in your chest had eased slightly despite your fury.

"What is this, Medieval Instagram?" you muttered to yourself later, staring at the bracelet.

You set the bracelet aside, ignoring the insistent tug of the bond in your chest.

After a moment's hesitation, you didn't throw it away, but placed it in a drawer instead.

Out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.

The gifts continued over the following days.

A small pot of healing salve appeared on your balcony, its properties more potent than anything in the Dawn Court's extensive collection. Alis marveled at its efficacy, asking where you'd obtained it.

You couldn't bring yourself to tell her.

Then came a set of delicate crystal vials for holding medicinal tinctures, each stopper carved in the shape of a different healing herb. Next, a rare book on ancient healing techniques, its pages clearly carefully selected to align with your growing interests.

You placed each gift in the drawer with the bracelet, refusing to use them, refusing to acknowledge them in any way.

Yet you found yourself opening that drawer each night, running your fingers over the items, wondering what might appear next. The gifts felt like messages, each one saying. I see you. I know you. I'm sorry. Words the shadowsinger wouldn't couldn't say to your face.

One evening, you discovered a small wooden carving of a flame bunny on your balcony, so detailed it captured Ember's mischievous expression perfectly.

You ran your fingers over the intricate workmanship despite yourself. You placed the carving with the other gifts, trying to ignore how perfectly it fit in your palm, how the weight of it felt oddly comforting.

The next day, as you walked from the healing chambers to your rooms, you felt the familiar prickling sensation of being watched. This time, rather than ignoring it, you stopped abruptly in the middle of the corridor.

"I know you're there," you said quietly, not turning around. "Following me like a shadow. Very original, by the way. So this is the Fae version of sliding into my DMs?"

No response came, but the air seemed to thicken, darkness gathering in the corners despite the eternal dawn light streaming through the windows.

Did the shadows just... ripple? As if caught off-guard by your strange reference?

"This is childish," you continued, still facing forward.

The shadows stirred, a whisper of movement that might have been mistaken for a draft if you hadn't been listening for it.

"Nothing to say for yourself?" You finally turned, scanning the seemingly empty corridor. "Fine. Keep hiding."

As you continued to your rooms, the sensation of being watched gradually faded.

By the time you reached your door, you felt alone again the bond still tugging insistently, but the immediate presence gone.

That night, no gift appeared on your balcony.

Nor the next night. Nor the one after that.

You told yourself you were relieved.

That the game, whatever it had been, was finally over. Yet each evening, you found yourself glancing toward the balcony, expecting perhaps even hoping to find another small token.

"This is why we can't have nice things," you muttered to yourself, annoyed at your own disappointment.

Ember and Sizzle seemed agitated, pacing the balcony each evening, their tiny forms of rosy-pink flame flickering with what seemed like disappointment when they found nothing new. They'd grown oddly attached to investigating each gift, sniffing and circling the items with inexplicable interest.

On the fourth night without a gift, Ember hopped onto your vanity table as you prepared for bed. His pink flame form flickered restlessly as he pawed at the drawer where you'd stored the shadowsinger's gifts.

"Stop that," you said, shooing him away. "It's nothing. My own personal Edward Cullen with wings sends his regards," you said with an eye roll that would have confused any purebred Fae.

Ember made a soft, crackling sound not words, but clearly displeasure. He continued pawing at the drawer until you relented and opened it, if only to prevent him from scorching the wood.

"There. See? Just trinkets," you told him firmly.

A soft chirp from the balcony drew your attention. Sizzle stood at the doors, her pink flame form brightening as she squeezed through the small gap you always left open for their nocturnal explorations.

"Sizzle! Get back here," you called, alarmed. She'd never ventured outside alone at night before.

Ember seized the opportunity created by your distraction to grab the wooden carving of himself, following his sister through the gap before you could stop him.

Moving to the balcony doors, you hesitated, then pushed them open fully, stepping out into the cool night air. The balcony was empty.

They must have scrambled down the ivy that covered this section of the palace wall. You leaned over the railing, trying to spot two tiny points of pink flame in the gardens below.

Nothing.

Without thinking, you grabbed a shawl and hurried from your rooms, making your way through the quiet palace corridors toward the gardens.

The bond in your chest seemed to pulse more insistently with each step, as if approving your destination even as you remained ignorant of it.

The night air carried the scent of Dawn Court roses as you entered the gardens, their blooms glowing faintly in the perpetual twilight. You called softly for your companions, listening for the distinctive crackle of their flame-steps on the gravel paths.

A flicker of movement caught your eye not the pink of your flame bunnies, but a deeper shadow among shadows near a secluded bench beneath a flowering tree.

Your steps slowed as you recognized the silhouette seated there, two tiny points of pink flame dancing around his feet.

The traitors had found exactly who they were looking for.

Azriel sat perfectly still as Ember and Sizzle circled him, emitting excited little crackles of flame. In the shadowsinger's gloved hands lay the wooden carving of Ember, which he appeared to be showing to the real thing.

His wings were folded tightly against his back, his expression hidden in shadow. The leather gloves he always wore seemed particularly dark against the pale wood of the carving.

You could have retreated should have retreated.

He hadn't noticed you yet, focused entirely on your flame companions. But your feet carried you forward instead, drawn by equal parts irritation at your pets' betrayal and the insistent pull of the bond.

You approached silently, eyes fixed only on your flame bunnies, deliberately avoiding looking at the shadowsinger.

"Ember. Sizzle. Come," you commanded, your voice neutral, as if speaking to empty air.

The flame bunnies looked up, their pink forms brightening at your approach, but neither moved to obey.

Sizzle even had the audacity to hop closer to Azriel's boot.

You continued as if speaking into a void, still not acknowledging the male's presence. "We're leaving now."

Azriel's shadows swirled around him in agitation, clearly sensing your deliberate dismissal. His head lifted, hazel eyes finding yours, but you looked right through him, focusing on a point beyond his shoulder.

"They see me," he said, his voice a broken whisper. "Why can't you? Or is it that you won't?"

You continued as if you hadn't heard him, as if the words had been merely the rustling of leaves. "Ember, Sizzle. Now."

The flame bunnies remained stubbornly in place. Ember even hopped onto Azriel's knee, pink flame brightening as he settled in like he belonged there.

Something inside you snapped.

A cold anger washed through you, and without thinking, you summoned the magic that tied these creatures to you. Fire blossomed in your palm not the gentle warmth you typically used with them, but a sharp, commanding heat.

"Come," you said one final time, infusing the word with power.

The flame bunnies froze, their pink forms flickering uncertainly. Then, as one, they vanished with twin pops of displaced air.

Azriel visibly flinched at the display of power, at the finality of it. His shadows recoiled around him as if struck.

"Please," he breathed, the word ragged with desperation. "I know I don't deserve your forgiveness. I know my words cut deeper than any blade. But this silence," his voice cracked, "is worse than any torture I've endured."

You turned without a word, without a glance, and began walking away.

"I dream of you," he called after you, voice raw with emotion. "Every night, I dream of a world where I didn't fail you."

You didn't slow, didn't turn.

"It doesn't change what happened," Azriel's voice followed you, breaking on each word. "But please... just look at me once. Just once. So I know there's still a path back to you, however long it might be."

You didn't slow, didn't turn, didn't acknowledge the words in any way.

But as you reached the edge of the garden, your peripheral vision caught his expression a flash of such raw pain that it momentarily stole your breath.

His face, usually so carefully controlled, had crumbled into naked hurt, shadows writhing around him like physical manifestations of his agony. A single tear escaped, sliding down his cheek, glinting silver in the eternal dawn light before dropping to the ground.

The shadowsinger of the Night Court feared, revered, impenetrable wept for what he had lost.

You kept walking, spine straight, eyes forward, pretending you hadn't seen. Pretending the image of his devastated face wouldn't haunt your dreams.

The walk back to your chambers felt endless. Each step required focus, determination not to falter, not to let your mask slip.

Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, nearly drowning out the persistent hum of the bond that seemed to vibrate with the shared pain between you.

When you finally reached your door, your hand trembled slightly as you pushed it open. The moment it closed behind you, your carefully constructed composure shattered.

You slid to the floor, back against the door, as the first sob tore from your throat. The tears you'd been holding back rushed forth in a torrent, hot and unstoppable. Your shoulders shook with the force of your grief, grief for what might have been, grief for his pain, grief for your own.

"Why did you have to look at me like that?" you gasped between sobs, your voice breaking on each word. "Why did you have to cry? You don't get to cry after what you did."

You pressed your palms against your eyes, trying to block out the image that refused to leave you.

Azriel's face, that single silver tear tracking down his cheek. The shadowsinger of the Night Court, powerful and feared across Prythian, brought to tears by your rejection.

"I hate you," you whispered, but the bond flared painfully in your chest, as if sensing the lie. "I hate that I can't hate you."

The bond pulsed in your chest, a golden thread connecting you to him even now, carrying echoes of his anguish alongside your own. You wanted to sever it, to cut it away, but the harder you tried to ignore it, the more insistently it tugged.

"It's not fair," your voice cracked, barely audible through your tears. "It's not fair that I can feel you breaking when all I want is to be free of you."

You curled into yourself, arms wrapped around your knees as if physically holding yourself together. The sobs that wracked your body felt endless, each one torn from somewhere deeper than the last.

"You don't get to haunt me," you choked out. "You don't get to make me care after you threw me away."

You didn't know how long you sat there, tears flowing freely as you mourned something you'd never actually had. Something you'd rejected before fully understanding what it meant. The bond had been a violation, an intrusion but the male himself...

"I could have loved you," you whispered, the confession torn from your very soul. "That's what hurts the most. I could have loved you so easily."

Eventually, the tears subsided, leaving you hollow and exhausted.

You dragged yourself to the washbasin, splashing cold water on your face. In the mirror, your reflection stared back eyes reddened, face blotchy. You barely recognized yourself.

"Get it together," you told your reflection. "Tears doesn't erase what he did."

But even as you spoke the words, you knew they were a lie.

Because the pain you'd glimpsed in Azriel wasn't manipulation or self-pity.

It was raw, genuine agony the pain of someone watching their last hope walk away.

Your fingers slipped into your pocket, touching the silver bracelet you'd taken from the drawer earlier that day. Its weight felt both lighter and heavier than you remembered.

The metal caught the eternal dawn light streaming through your windows, reflecting it in golden hues that matched the bond pulsing in your chest.

"It doesn't change anything," you whispered, echoing his words.

But as your fingers closed around the bracelet rather than putting it back in the drawer, you wondered if that was truly still the case.

Azriel carefully eased the small leather bound journal from his pocket, unable to suppress the hiss of pain as the movement pulled at the wound in his side.

Fresh blood seeped through the hasty bandage he'd applied before leaving the battlefield at the Autumn Court border, the metallic scent mingling with the perpetual dawn sweetness of Thesan's realm.

Three more of Beron's assassins would never report back to their master.

Three more threats to you eliminated.

He'd have done it a thousand times over. Would bleed out a thousand times if it meant keeping you safe.

The journal's pages were worn from constant handling, the first half already filled with his neat, precise handwriting. This small book had become his most treasured possession over the weeks in Dawn Court an archive of you.

Or rather, the strange, fascinating things you said that no one in Prythian seemed to understand.

Today's entry made him smile despite the fire burning through his veins.

"That's about as useful as a screen door on a submarine." [Sketch of what appears to be a metal tube with a door made of crossed lines] Note: What is a submarine? Some kind of underwater house? Why would anyone put a door with holes in it underwater? Filed under: Makes no sense but I understand completely.

He'd overheard you muttering it to yourself when a haughty Dawn Court healer suggested an ineffective treatment for one of your patients.

The sunlight had caught in your hair as you'd said it, turning the strands to living flame. Even in your irritation, you'd been beautiful.

Azriel had no idea what a "submarine" was, but the imagery was somehow perfectly clear something meant to keep water out being rendered useless.

The phrase was so distinctly you.

The journal contained dozens of these oddities.

"Well that escalated quickly." Note: Usually said when Thesan's fussy assistant starts crying after simple criticism. "Not my circus, not my monkeys." [Small sketch of what might be monkeys with question marks] Note: No actual circus observed in Dawn Court. Does she have a secret circus? Must investigate. "Plot twist!" Note: Shouted when discovering her patient had been faking symptoms to stay longer. "Houston, we have a problem." [Sketch of a star with a question mark] Note: Who is Houston? Some kind of authority on problems? Have checked all records of Prythian nobility. No Houston found. "This is giving me major déjà vu." Note: Correct pronunciation: day zhah voo. Sounds Continent based but she has no accent. Used when entering Dawn Court's west wing. Why? What happened there? "Sweet baby Jesus, that hurts!" Note: Unfamiliar deity? No known religion in Prythian worships infant gods. "That's what she said." Note: Said after completely innocent comment about "it's too big to fit." Makes everyone uncomfortable for reasons unclear. "I'm going to need coffee for this." [Sketch of a steaming cup] Note: Unknown beverage. When I asked kitchen staff, they were confused. Apparent withdrawal symptoms observed in mornings. Addictive substance?

Azriel traced a gloved finger over today's entry. Someday, perhaps, he would ask you about them.

Someday, when you finally acknowledged his existence again, he would show you this collection of linguistic curiosities and watch your face as you explained their origins.

If that day ever came.

The thought sent a fresh wave of anguish through him, sharper than the poisoned blade that had caught him in the skirmish hours earlier.

His shadows recoiled as if physically struck, curling protectively around him before lashing out at nothing, responding to his pain in ways his face never would.

He carefully returned the journal to his inner pocket, close to his heart, where it always remained.

Dawn was approaching as Azriel made his way to Lucien's quarters with his latest intel. Blood dripped steadily down his side, each step leaving faint scarlet drops on the polished marble, the trail quickly dissolving into shadow behind him.

What was physical pain compared to the hollow ache of being unseen by the one person whose gaze he craved?

"You look terrible," Lucien said by way of greeting, his metal eye whirring as it took in Azriel's pallor and the blood soaked leathers.

"Beron has deployed his elite guard," Azriel reported, ignoring the comment as he handed over maps marked with troop positions. His voice remained steady despite the room tilting sideways. "They're converging from three directions. The attack will come within two days, possibly when Thesan's power ebbs slightly."

"And his objective?"

"Extraction," Azriel said flatly. "He wants her alive."

Lucien studied the maps with a frown. "How reliable is this intel?"

"I extracted it personally." The words were emotionless, but the shadows around Azriel churned with remembered violence, briefly taking the shapes of the assassins he'd interrogated before ending their lives.

Lucien's gaze flickered to the steadily spreading bloodstain on Azriel's side. "You need a healer."

"It's nothing."

"It's poisoned," Lucien countered. "I can smell it from here."

Azriel's expression remained impassive. "I'll handle it."

"She's on duty in the east wing healing chambers," Lucien said carefully. "The best healer we have for poison."

The shadows around Azriel contracted violently, betraying the control he maintained over his face. One shadow tendril reached briefly toward the east wing before he brutally reined it back. "She doesn't see me, remember?"

"Perhaps if-"

"No." The word was final, though it cost him dearly to say it. "I'm not asking for her help when she's made her position clear."

Lucien sighed, running a hand through his russet hair. "Your pride will kill you."

"It's not pride," Azriel said quietly, shadows writhing. "It's respect for her choice."

He left the maps with Lucien and retreated to his small quarters at the edge of the Dawn Court grounds.

Today's gift for you was already prepared a small vial of rare Night Court starlight distilled into liquid form. When applied to wounds, it accelerated healing without scarring. Rhys had sent it at Azriel's request, no questions asked, though his High Lord surely wondered at the urgency.

Azriel wrapped the vial in midnight blue silk and penned a simple note.

For the burn patient in the east wing. Three drops in her evening tea will ease her pain. -A

He would leave it where Alis would find it. The head healer had become his unwitting accomplice in these deliveries, recognizing the value of his gifts even if she didn't understand their source.

Before that, though, he needed to tend to his wound.

The small chamber he'd been assigned was spartan, but he'd added one indulgence. A carved wooden stand beside the bed, displaying each of the gifts you had returned.

The silver flame bracelet. The healing salve. The rare book of ancient techniques. The carved flame bunnies.

Each one delivered back to his doorstep, sometimes within hours of your receiving them.

Each rejection a fresh wound, deeper than any blade could reach.

Yet still he created new gifts, still he left them where you would find them.

What was insanity, after all, but doing the same thing repeatedly while expecting different results?

Azriel removed his armor with careful movements, a strangled sound escaping him as dried blood made the leather stick to his wound. The gash along his ribs was ugly, the edges tinged with a greenish black that spoke of powerful toxins.

The vile magic of Autumn Court assassins designed to kill slowly, painfully. He cleaned it as best he could, applied what healing salves he had, and wrapped it in fresh bandages.

It would have to do.

His shadows whispered of your movements through the palace a benefit of the bond that remained even when you refused to acknowledge it.

You were finishing your shift in the healing chambers, tired after treating a particularly difficult case. Even exhausted, you moved with a grace that mesmerized him. The way your hands worked, sure and steady. The slight furrow between your brows when you concentrated. The scent of you healing herbs, dawn light and something uniquely, perfectly you.

Foolishly, pathetically, he wondered if you ever asked about the source of the mysterious gifts that continued to appear.

If you ever suspected they came from the same male who hunted in the night to keep Beron's assassins from your door. If you ever felt the bond tugging you toward him, as it constantly pulled him toward you.

The mating bond pulsed in his chest, a golden thread that stretched across the palace to where you worked. Once, he had feared it. He had rejected it with cruel words that he would spend eternity regretting.

Now, it was his only comfort, his only connection to you, even as it tore him apart from within.

When darkness fell, Azriel slipped through the palace to leave the vial where Alis would find it. His wound protested every movement, sending waves of agony through him with each heartbeat.

The shadows helped hold him upright when his own strength began to fail, weaving a cocoon of darkness around him that hid the worst of his deterioration.

The healing chambers were quiet this late, only a skeletal staff remaining for emergencies. Azriel's shadows guided him through blind spots in the guards' rotations, past dozing attendants, to the small office where Alis kept her records and supplies. The familiar scent of healing herbs surrounded him, but underneath was a trace of you you had been here recently.

He was placing the silk wrapped vial on her desk when a voice behind him froze him in place.

"Still leaving your little presents?" The words were sharp as winter frost.

Your voice.

For a moment, Azriel couldn't breathe, couldn't move. His shadows contracted around him in shock, then flared outward in response to the sudden hammering of his heart. Several tendrils reached instinctively toward you before he yanked them back.

Slowly, he turned.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest like a shield. Your face was carefully blank, but your scent betrayed you. A volatile mix of anger, sorrow, and something sweeter, something that matched the golden bond still pulsing between you.

Even now, even refusing to look directly at him, you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The way the eternal dawn light caught in your hair. The stubborn set of your jaw. The slight tremor in your hands that you tried to hide by gripping your own arms tighter.

"I told Thesan to send you away," you said, your tone clipped and final. "Yet you linger like a ghost."

Azriel remained perfectly still, afraid any movement might shatter this moment the first time you'd spoken directly to him since that night in the garden.

"I know they're from you," you continued, your voice flat and empty of emotion. "All of them."

His shadows curled inward, as if trying to shield him from the blow. "They help your patients," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

"I don't need your charity." You picked up the vial from the desk and tossed it back at him. He caught it instinctively, though the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his side. "I don't need anything from you."

"Beron has dispatched his elite guard," Azriel said, unable to keep the urgency from his voice. "Three strike teams converging on Dawn Court."

For a moment, something flickered in your expression annoyance, perhaps even contempt.

But your scent shifted, betraying a flash of genuine fear quickly suppressed. "I don't need your protection either."

"I already informed Lucien," he added quietly, even as the room began to tilt alarmingly. His shadows condensed around him, helping him remain upright.

"Then your usefulness has ended." You stepped aside, a clear dismissal. "You should go. Permanently."

Azriel didn't move. His side throbbed viciously, the poison working deeper with every heartbeat.

"Why do you say things no one understands?" The question escaped before he could stop it.

Your eyes narrowed, briefly flicking to his face before returning to the wall.

In that split second of eye contact, the bond flared painfully between you, and Azriel couldn't quite suppress his slight intake of breath.

"I don't owe you explanations."

"Screen doors on submarines," he said quietly. "Not your circus, not your monkeys. Houston having problems."

Your jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath your skin. Your scent changed again surprise mingled with something almost like embarrassment. "You've been spying on me."

"Protecting you," he corrected.

A shadow tendril escaped his control, reaching toward you before he could stop it. It brushed against your ankle for the briefest moment before he yanked it back, a silent apology in his eyes.

You tensed at the contact, the first crack appearing in your mask a flash of something that might have been recognition, might have been longing. It disappeared so quickly he thought he might have imagined it.

"I never asked for that." Your voice was ice, but your scent had warmed slightly. "I never asked for any of this."

Your gaze dropped momentarily to his side, where blood was now seeping through his leathers despite the fresh bandage. Something that might have been concern flashed across your face, quickly replaced by calculated indifference. But your fingers twitched slightly at your sides, a healer's instinct to help warring with your determination to remain distant.

"You're bleeding on Thesan's floor," you observed.

"It's nothing." The room spun again, and Azriel leaned imperceptibly against the desk.

"It's poisoned," you said flatly. "The servants will have to clean up after you. Again."

Those words cut deeper than the physical wound.

Azriel's face remained impassive, centuries of discipline keeping his pain from showing.

But his shadows betrayed him, contracting violently before lashing out at nothing, leaving frost patterns on the nearby window. "I apologize for the inconvenience."

"Don't apologize. Just leave." Your voice was final, brooking no argument. But your eyes darted again to his wound, lingering longer this time.

Azriel inclined his head slightly, accepting the dismissal.

He moved to leave, his shadows wrapped tightly around him like a shield. As he passed you in the doorway, careful not to let even his shadows brush against you again, a wave of dizziness struck. The poison reached his heart in that moment, sending a surge of burning agony through his entire body. He stumbled, one hand bracing against the wall.

For a heartbeat, your hand lifted slightly, an aborted gesture to help him. But you caught yourself, forcing your arm back to your side. Your scent shifted again concern fighting with resolve.

"The book of healing techniques," he said quietly, fighting to remain upright. "The section on poison extraction. Page ninety four."

"I don't need your advice on how to do my job," you replied coolly. But beneath the ice, there was a note of something else a question unasked.

Then he was gone, slipping into the darkness of the corridor, his shadows barely concealing his increasingly unsteady gait. As he rounded the corner, a small leather object dropped, landing silently on the floor. His journal, dislodged when he stumbled.

You watched him go, your expression never changing, your posture rigid and unyielding. Only when he had disappeared completely did you let your shoulders slump slightly, one hand rising to press against your chest where the mating bond pulsed. Only then did your mask slip, pain and conflict washing across your features.

You moved to follow the trail of his blood, something in you unable to let him die, no matter what he'd done. But as you stepped into the hallway, your foot caught on something. Looking down, you saw the small leather bound journal.

You picked it up, intending to leave it on the desk for him to find later.

But it fell open in your hands, revealing page after page of your strange sayings, carefully documented in his precise handwriting. Not just the words themselves, but observations the way your eyes lit up when you said certain phrases, the musical quality of your laugh, the exact pattern of your movements.

It wasn't the journal of a spy. It was the journal of someone who saw you really saw you in a way no one ever had before.

You slipped it into your pocket, your face returning to its mask of indifference as you made a choice. Not forgiveness not yet. But something close to understanding.

Back in his quarters, Azriel collapsed onto his bed, the toll of the night's injuries finally claiming their due. The missing journal was a distant concern as darkness closed in.

His skin burned from within, the poison reaching every extremity now. His shadows swirled helplessly around him, unable to fight an enemy they couldn't touch.

He wondered, as consciousness slipped away, if you would ever look at him truly look at him again. If you would ever ask him about submarines and Houston and all the other mysteries he'd collected like precious gems. If there would be a next gift at all, given the poison now burning through his veins.

The door to his quarters opened, letting in a shaft of perpetual dawn light.

A figure stood silhouetted there, familiar and beloved.

"You're an idiot," came your voice, still cold but now threaded with something else. "And this doesn't mean I forgive you."

His shadows swirled toward you, reaching, yearning, before he could stop them.

"But I won't let you die," you continued, approaching the bed with your healer's kit. "Not like this. Not before you find out what a submarine actually is."

His shadows curled protectively around him as he surrendered to unconsciousness, carrying his final thought like a prayer.

The cruelest part of immortality, he breathed, is knowing I might spend eternity remembering the moment I lost her.

we’ve got trauma, blood, reluctant healing, repressed feelings, and one journal full of submarine-related confusion. no one is okay. especially not me.

Author’s Note:

hi besties! :) welcome back to the emotional battlefield 💕 in this chapter: azriel cries (again), your flame bunnies commit light treason, and the bond is out here acting like a clingy ex with GPS.

please hydrate. scream into a pillow. tell azriel to stop bleeding on things. and remember: just because he’s broody and poetic doesn’t mean you have to forgive him. yet.

do I regret writing this chapter?

yes.

will I do it again?

also yes.

see you next chapter for more romantic pain and possibly an accidental kiss or full emotional collapse. who’s to say. 🫶💀🖤

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#acotar #azriel #azriel x oc #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #lucien vanserra #eris vanserra #thesan acotar

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prythianslibrary · 1 year ago

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This is @prythianpages. You can find my writing here. I made this little slide blog for all the fics I read & love so I can go back to them ❤️

Heads up, I do reblog things from other fandoms from time to time. I also tag all my posts so if you're looking for something particular, click on the links below:

A C O T A R

Rhysand | fluff | angst | smut | personal favs

Lucien | fluff | angst | smut | personal favs

Tamlin | fluff | smut

Helion | fluff | smut

Tarquin | fluff | smut

J J K

Kento Nanami | fluff | smut | angst | personal favs

Saturo Gojo

Toji Fushiguro

O T H E R S E R I E S

Aaron Warner

divider by @cafekitsune

#acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #acotar x oc #azriel x reader #cassian x reader #rhysand x reader #eris x reader #lucien x reader

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acotarxreader · 8 months ago

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Vicious little thing

Eris x Reader

Synopsis: Dressmaker for the Inner Circle was the dream job turn mundane nightmare, all in Court you could never quite warm to. A chance encounter with the infamous son of Autumn leaves you wondering if there's more to life than what it seams (get it lol cause seams not seems)

Warnings: Flirting, banter, Eris pissing Cassian off, angst, descriptions of injury, two males being creepy (but don't worry protective Eris on the scene), jealous Eris, a lil violence and torture, Lucien being an MVP as always

A/N: You guys!! I just have not been in the headspace for writing but I had this written awhile back and I just want to shout out and thank @ninthcircleofprythian @pit-and-the-pen @lady-of-tearshed for helping me out! Let me know as well guys if you have any requests, might get my brain going

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Of all the places in Night you had accompanied the Inner Circle to, Hewn City was comfortless to you, a specific cold that followed you throughout the Court only amplified off the the dripping stalactites. The slippery cobblestone streets echoed as you moved with slight tension in your steps, fresh supplies tucked under your arm. You practically counted the seconds to when you would reunite with your home deep within the House of Wind, the only place in Night Court with any ounce of warmth for your bones.

A loud bar leaked patrons onto the street, all desperate to escape their daily drivel at the bottom of a keg. Two somewhat large males leaned against the entrance, shouting loud slurs of profanity you ignored while passing, hoping to fade into the background and evade any attention. Unfortunately, you were unsuccessful and soon after felt the eyes of distorted drunken desire bore into your back as your pace quickened.

“Hey, gorgeous where’s the fire?” The voice of pure rust and smoke made the hair on your neck stand up, their footsteps getting louder with the shrinking distance.

“Oh, no manners baby? How refreshing” The other let a slimy sick laugh leave him as his knotty hand finally caught hold of your forearm, whipping you back to face them, the beautiful fabric sailing to the floor to mop up a muddy puddle.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” The lines on your forehead deepened with disgust as you bent down to retrieve the dripping material.

“Or…” The ever so slightly taller one caught you more roughly by the arm before hauling you forward, dragging you into the mouth of an alley, the other acting as reinforcement.

“Let go of me!” Pure panic left your voice, your head darting side to side for an out as your back was pressed into crumbling brick under your vibrating bones.

“You have to give us a few things first baby” One leaned forward into you as you braced, your wrist being crushed by the other fae, their movement suddenly halting with the addition of a new voice.

“I don’t think she’s interested fellas” The three of you found your gaze darting towards the tall figure at the end of the alley, a shoulder resting against one wall, hands casually in his pockets as if he wasn’t about to witness a crime against nature. The grip was released on one of your wrists, the taller male unmoving from in front of you while his accomplice began to square off to the still slightly obscured fae.

Your eyes dropped cautiously down to your side to your bag, trained nimbleness in your hands had you retrieving your fabric sheers, launching them immediately into the thigh of your current captor. A near-deafening roar was released alongside your other arm, the figure at the end of the alley instantly floored the other male with a wave of unseen power.

You scurried down the alley in the opposite direction of the three, your hands covered in a fine layer of blood that you wiped on your trembling thighs. A flush of heat came from behind you as you reached the mouth of the alley. A curious glance had you witness your perpetrators turned to mounds of ash, the sight turning your stomach into waves of unease. The thought of meeting a similar fate had your feet moving again, only to come flush against a wall-like figure.

“Where are you going? No thank you?” Eris towered in front of you, a self-satisfied smile scanning unbeknownst to you for any sign of injury.

“I-um-than-k thank you, General” The words were a rush of syllables followed by a deep curtsey, before you move down the street again, eager to get away from the infamous male. You heard Eris scoff a laugh before he spoke again.

“Well okay then Ice Princess, maybe next time I’ll leave you?”

“Do you want a medal or something for doing the right thing?” Once again your tracks were stopped but this time by your own brazen words and the silence from behind you. Turning on the ball of your foot you reluctantly faced the future High Lord, his hands still in his pockets, lips pursed in thought. He could kill you for your insolence and no one would challenge him, you were not even sure anyone would notice you missing until their trousers reached their knees.

“Huh, cute-” He smirked, closing the distance between you in a few long strides “-maybe I do want a medal” You found yourself scoffing at his words, a small blaze seemingly igniting in his eyes at the sound.

“Get in line, General” A certain playfulness danced in his eyes at your teasing tone, normally not the response he’d elicit from others. You could feel something subtly different in the air, something missing from the mountain’s mist. “Please, call me Eris, or Savouir, lady’s choice” He outstretched a hand you somewhat hesitantly took, not going unnoticed by the son of Autumn. You realised on contact that it was the everpresent chill that you felt that had made its exit from you, flushes of warmth heating your cells gently. Eris turned your hand over in his, scanning over the callouses and their tinge of fresh maroon.

“A street fighter?” He laughed, eyes tracing the hardened skin. “Dressmaker, for the Night Court” You smiled, taking your hand back, missing the steady pulse of heat his fingers supplied.

“Laborious crowd” His laugh returned the missing warmth to your skin and you found yourself smiling back at the towering male.

“YN?” Your whole body shook at Lucien’s voice across the street, his arms full of freshly purchased supplies for his small apartment in the city. You looked between the two males as Lucien crossed the street to join your side, Eris’s smugness only growing. You and the Prince of Foxes were relatively new friends, his exit from the Spring Court required a whole new wardrobe that you skillfully made.

“Stay away from her Eris” “Oh brother, save us the martyr act” He sighed in almost boredom, amber gaze landing back on you where you could have sworn it softened, no matter how brief. That gentle element died when Lucien’s arm snaked around your waist, pulling you closer to his side.

“Is that blood on you YN?!” the closer proximity opened you to Lucien’s full mother-hen inspection.

“Yes it is but not hers, quite the vicious little thing you have here” The air of self-righteousness returned to Eris, his best shield to whatever was bubbling deep beneath.

“Thimble, what happened?” You noticed Eris subtle flinch at Lucien’s pet name for you as he attempted to ignore his brother's presence altogether. You hated the nickname, it made you feel small, and inexperienced, despite being older than Lucien. It began when he remarked on the coarseness of your hands on his skin during a fitting, suggesting a thimble may stave off further damage. You would never see the point in covering what your years of experience had rewarded you with, the scars on your hands were evidence of a master at work, and a thimble would only hide away your efforts although that was a recurring theme for you in the Night Court you felt.

“Thimble seems an odd nickname, aren’t they supposed to protect you from pricks? And yet here you are Lucien” Your head lowered slightly to hide the deep smirk growing across your face at Eris’s dig, Lucien unable to continue to ignore him.

“I’ll have you kn-” “-Lucien, we have to get back, I’m not finished with a dress” You cut across any possible rebuttal, eager to get out of the thick air between the two brothers, Lucien smiled softly at you before glaring back at Eris. You tilted your head to Eris again in an almost bow, twisting Lucien’s stomach as you began your fruitless journey back to Nesta.

“Very good little lapdog Lucien, I’d watch her around scissors” He called after the two of you, his own amusement radiating from his voice.

The ball was organised chaos at best, swelling music and overserved fae had you hiding out in the corner of the venue. Not your normal scene however Nesta had begged you to come, if only to witness your beautiful work in action. You had sacrificed one of Feyre’s many dresses as donor fabric to patch together what you could of Nesta’s outfit, neglecting to tell her that of course.

“YN, this is so borrrrring” Nesta found you through the crowds, sneaking away from her role at the dais alongside her sister. It had been a few hours since the incident, a glass of wine only taking a sliver of the tension you felt about it from you.

“Don’t worry Nesta, hopefully it won’t be much lo…” you trailed off, your eyes snagging on Eris across the vast dance floor as he both dazzled and terrified the participants in the conversation he held.

“At least he’s not bad to look at” Nesta tilted her head to the side, inspecting her mission with curiosity as he glided through the crowd.

“Lucien says he’s torturous”

“Bet he’s good in bed” You elbowed her for her comment as she laughed, the whole conversation making you feel like giddy children.

“Perhaps he’ll make a good pallet cleanser from Cassian” she added. “Cassian who’s trying to melt him with his eyes right now, right?” You grinned, Nesta taking a stolen glance at the slowly boiling Illyrian. When Nesta wanted something, she got it and this very core defining personality trait of hers terrified you. You had been on board with the plan up until your own encounter with the heir and yet now you found yourself empathetic to Cassian’s jealousy, no matter how unfounded you felt it may be. The very voice that saved you earlier pulled your attention back into the room.

“Hello again YN, I was wondering-” “-Who your friend is? Eris, have I really to remind you of my person” Nesta tone leeched a pure sultry decorum you would never be able to mirror. Her body stood slightly in front of you, a hand extended to reacquaint herself with the High Fae, new beats of jealousy pulsed in your veins as they made contact. Your skin crawled and boiled all at once, further tension only being added by Cassian's surveying across the floor.

“Go find something to busy yourself with YN” Her voice was firm but said with a smile, forever toeing the line between friend and employer. You watched as Nesta masterfully led Eris to the dance floor and began to light the room ablaze with her ease of movement. The room watched on as the two slotted into one another like a lock and a key, your eyes landed on your shoes, anywhere but on the scene in front of you.

“C’mon dear friend, let's see your moves” You looked at the unfurled hand of your dear new friend in front of you, Lucien’s soft smile accompanying it. You laughed lightly as you allowed him to lead you to the dancefloor.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather dance with Elain?”

“But I’d miss you stepping on my toes” he teased as your head tilted back and laughed, despite knowing the answer to your question was of course yes. Now and then while being swirled by the Prince of Foxes, your eyes would cross the path of Eris’s before Nesta stole back the attention. A successful mission up until Cassian’s jealousy could no longer be snuffed out.

—--------------------------------------------------

The gentle pitter-patter of drizzle off the window pane of your workspace filled the room, your hands busy at work, humming along to a tune you heard weeks ago while dancing with Lucien. Back home in the warmest of colds available to you, squirrelled away in mounds of fabric and projects.

Your hands stilled at the din of distant shouting many floors up through the house. Often you’d ignore any rumblings from upstairs but the familiar sound of a male you’d spent your time trying to forget had your curious feet wandering in the direction of the source.

“You’re incredulous!” “No, you are!” You peeked through the gap in the huge door that led to one of the grand dining rooms, the two brothers in a stand-off across the large oak table, Rhysand glaring between the two.

“And you couldn’t have stopped our dear darling father from travelling to Briallyn’s continent?!” Lucien barked, the table shaking slightly. Cassian matched Lucien’s scowl towards Eris, who only allowed a sickly laugh to leave him.

“And expose myself and this little alliance? I don’t think so little brother! Alec, our father's dear advisor is already getting too curious.”

“Oh no, nothing to inconvenience yourself!” You flinched slightly at Lucien’s razor-like tone.

“I have inconvenienced myself every day for you!” Eris’s hand shot forward in a dramatic gesture, knocking the large goblet of wine across the table, soaking Lucien as he leapt up from the cold.

“Fuck! You did that on purpose!” He reached for his napkin to blot the deep stain with no success, Eris now also standing in his own defence.

“It was an accident, much like your birth, do as I did and make peace with it!” Eris grinned until Lucien swished a wrist, a small ball of flame leaving his fingertips, singeing the jacket and waistband of Eris’s immaculate suit.

“Lucien!”

“It was an accident” Lucien mimicked, Rhysand now finding his own feet, feeling grateful not to have had any biological brothers.

“Enough! We must leave to meet the other High Lords in an hour and you two are squabbling like children! Lucien, go home and find a new pair of trousers-” Lucien very much looked the role of scolded schoolchild as he winnowed out before further reprimanding “- and you-” Rhysand turned full attention to Eris, who only rolled his shoulders back to accompany a raised eyebrow “-you go and find a curtain or something to wear because if you fuck this meeting up, I will kill you where you stand”

“Aww do you promise-” Eris batted his eyelashes in faux excitement “-I don’t take orders from you”

“Fine, go smelling like a bonfire, see if Rhys and I care” Cassian shot out.

“Perhaps I left some clothes here after I visited with Nesta the other night” Cassian practically leapt from his chair, Rhysand catching hold of his forearm leaving Eris unshaken.

“Eris, go be anywhere but here”

“I’d suggest down on your deathbed, I can help you” Cassian chewed out accompanying Rhysand’s order.

“The only place I’d go down on is the lovely Nesta” Rhysand released Cassian in an instant, springing the warrior over the table, your instinct having you whip the door back on its hinges, the entrance stilling Cassian in confusion as he caught Eris’s collar.

“I’ll help make something!” You rushed out, unsure of why you were eager to rescue Eris even if it gave away your eavesdropping.

“YN, know your place” Rhysand warned.

“I mean- c’mon S-sir you have to leave soon and let's be honest, there’ll be questions about why a lord of fire is-is emm burned…or why his face is in pieces for that matter” You watched Cassian release the wrinkled collar, exhaling deeply and jump from the dining table to the floor before striding over to you.

“At least stab him a few times with pins”

“Deal” you laughed before standing aside in the doorway for Cassian and Rhysand to pass.

After arriving at your workroom, a flush of self-conscious energy rushed you at the mess you had been living and working in, now under the scrutiny of the son of Autumn. Towers of discarded and active projects cast shadows along the stone of the space, his eyes inspecting the smaller details of the room as you pulled out fabric rolls from the wall. You couldn’t help but notice the warmth in the tall shadows not there previously, its addictive nature nipping at your skin.

“Jacket” You ordered, a hand out to take the sooty material, Eris obliging wholeheartedly, surprising even himself. He watched you inspect it closely, attempting to hide his wonder of you as you sighed. He thought how he would very much love to watch you work, how he may very well do anything you asked of him and how foreign that very feeling was. “Sloppy stitching, conjured I suppose not handmade?” He nodded in confirmation to your question, doing his best to hide his amazement at your assessment.

“I don’t think this is your colour-” “-Excuse you, this green is one of my court colours, how can it not be my colour?” Eris' anger startled you, snapping you out of your dressmaker autopilot, remembering your company. “Sorry-I emm- not your tone shall we say” Your panicked voice was only silenced by a laugh from Eris.

“Just kidding YN, I’m not offended” “Just a prick” You whispered to yourself as you slipped a pin cushion over your wrist, Eris smiling from behind you. You pointed at the step riser in the corner of the room for Eris to stand on as you gathered your treasure trove of supplies.

“Take off your trousers” You threaded the soft measuring tape through your fingers from behind him.

“Not going to buy me dinner first?” He raised his eyebrow to you with a grin you felt that maybe not everyone got to see, his hands undoing what was left of the waistband before he shook off the fragile fabric, leaving him in his undergarments. You took a deep quiet breath before sinking to crouch alongside him, measuring the length of his leg.

“On your knees so soon” You stood instantly again, pushing him playfully, stilling almost as soon as you had moved.

“Sorry I-” “-I won’t bite you YN, not unless you ask” he winked, causing you to bite the inside of your cheek begging your body not to grin back, instead just resuming your measurements. “I should have let Cassian kill you” You whispered by his calf as he looked down at you.

“There she is, there’s who’s fun to play with” You could hear his smile, just as you took a pin from the holder strapped to your wrist, poking him into his ankle. He hissed, rolling his ankle slightly away from you as you stood again.

“That was for the Nesta comments” You put the pin into the cuff of your sleeve, retrieving your scissors and cutting strips of a deep red fabric without the measure, all the knowledge within your head accompanied with years of skill.

“I was just bored and the big bat is an easy target. I have no intentions of pursuing Lady Death, don’t be jealous” He watched you in the mirror as if afraid to blink and you’d disappear. You forced your focus closer to your cutting, Eris slipping from the step to stalk closer to you.

“Why would I be jealous? I don't even know you” “Odd, I feel like I know you… but regardless, I’d imagine you’d be jealous if your relationship with my darling brother isn’t all you want it to be” You whipped around to him in shock, scissors still in hand. Eris put his hands up in faux surrender while glancing at the scissors, your eyes rolling again, placing the instrument behind you.

“What? Me and Lucien?” You laughed wholeheartedly, Eris tilting his head to the sound, stepping from the riser.

“No?” “Now who’s jealous?” he only scoffed at you in reply.

“Heirs do not get jealous, they get what they want” His somewhat serious tone sent a shiver down your spine, the distance seemingly shrinking between you.

“And what does this heir want?” “Hmm” he hummed leaning forward into the gap, that tempting heat pulling you towards him, every cell screaming for the temperature in your skin to increase, to meet with his, to reach inferno.

“YN, do you have a spare-what’s going on in here?” Lucien stood in the doorway, his suit jacket in his hand, a missing button by the collar.

“Ever the best for timing dear brother” Eris squared his stance, turning to face his kin as you wished the earth to swallow you whole.

“Let's not get into it in front of the Lady.-” Lucien rolled his shoulders back, unshaken by the sharp tone of his brother “-Thimble, please could you reattach this button? It was the one I used magic to affix and you were right, it didn’t hold” You gave a soft smile, taking it from his hands, reluctantly crossing the path between the two.

“Come, dear brother, leave my lovely YN to work” Lucien stood back in the doorway to leave space for Eris to pass. A rush of intense heat radiated from Eris at his brother's endearment towards you, his knuckles cracking as fists formed.

“Won’t you need me for the rest of the fitting?” He looked at you, eyes asking you to beg him to stay.

“I-” “-YN is used to finishing projects down here without the muse, she works better alone right YN?” You nodded slightly at Lucien, his voice no longer toeing the line between friend and employer, the latter taking full effect. You sank back to your work table, tacking together the fabric as Lucien guided Eris away from you, Eris slipped back on the remnants of his trousers before reluctantly leaving. The cold rushed to your bones again as the faint sound of their bickering filled the halls.

—-------------------------------

Two weeks later

Thoughts of Eris crossed your mind while looking down on the vast woodland of coppers and bronze through a window taller than him. The flickers of rust and chestnut hues pulled you towards them like a moth to flame. You had never been in an environment like it, so famously cold but surprisingly warming to your inner world. Beron had insisted on holding a dinner with Night Court in his home, still believing his trip to Briallyn’s continent was undiscovered.

“Okay, we go, we hear what nonsense he’s peddling and we compare notes when we get home?” The Inner circle nodded in agreement to their High Lord as he knotted his cufflink into place before outstretching the same hand for you to adjust. Just as quick Nesta called for your attention as Azriel covered a more specific game plan. Nesta had insisted you accompany her, and help to ready her for the meeting, no matter how many times you reminded her that that was very much so not part of your job.

“It's fine YN stop fidgeting!” She snapped at you, tugging the end of her dress from your grip before she leapt from the riser to take Cassian’s arm as they moved to leave for dinner. You knew she didn’t mean to take you so sharply, she was just stressed, they were all stressed. They were always stressed, they never meant to snap at you, or at least that's what you convinced yourself of.

“We should have left you home where you would be safe” Lucien said softly, pulling you from the step riser again, his thumb sweeping over the back of your hand. You couldn’t help but notice how different his touch was from Eris, and how you wished it was him with you now not Lucien.

“Stay here YN, I hate it here as much as you, I’ll be as quick as I can back to you” He gave another smile before following the Inner Circle, closing the heavy door behind him. Did you hate it here, you wondered as you wandered around the room at the edge of Forest House, secluded away as you always were in these venues.

You couldn’t help but listen to a vibrant voice in the back of your mind, beckoning you to come out and play.

The distant echos of grandeur filled the halls from the dining room at the opposite end of the hall as you crept down the stoneway in the opposite direction. Before realising it, you step to a servant entrance of the grand house, whispers of Autumn guiding you through a place so new yet familiar. Your fingertips hardly made contact with the bronze of the handle before a large weight was thrown deep into your side. Overwhelming, almost suffocating heat swallowed the screams you shrieked, accompanied by a heavy hand as all pulled you from the hallway to an adjacent hallway pantry.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” Eris released his hold on you, a flicker of flame leaking from his hand illuminating the closet. You doubled over, arms swaddling your stomach as you caught the breath shocked out of you. Eris's characteristic ironing-board-like posture softened at the sight.

“I-I didn’t mean to frighten you”

“What-what the-” Eris’s hand reached for your arm, worry radiating before you cut off the action “-what the fuck is wrong with you?! You don’t just grab someone like that!” You righted yourself again, hands finding your hips as the oxygen found your lungs again.

“Oh, you’re okay, I thought you lost your damn fucking mind coming here!” unfamiliar sharpness crossed his tongue as you scoffed at his heated whisper.

“I’m here working” “Working? Those morons have no idea what bringing you here could cause!” His hands ran through his hair in frustration, the light flickering with the movement.

“I won’t cause anything!-” You watched him drag his hands from his hair down his face in pure exasperation “-except it seems a headache for you” You grinned and as much as he fought it, he mirrored you.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the dinner?” “And aren’t you supposed to be in your cave of endless fabric?” You rolled your eyes at his rebuttal, moving to pass him only to have a soft touch take hold of your arm. The thud of a palm-sized book tumbling out of his pocket had both your gazes dropping. Surprisingly, you were first to retrieve the ornate book, its cover decorated with expansive drawings of the wood surrounding the Forest House.

“Your diary?” You grinned, offering it back to him.

“It’s actually…it’s actually nothing” You pulled it back into you at his ever so slightly panicked tone.

“So it is your diary?” You laughed gently, a slight rush of red growing across the Prince of Autumn's cheeks.

“Its-its a collection of..of poetry I’m working on” He admitted, fighting his way through growing embarrassment as his eyes fixated on the leather in your hand. You smiled down again at the cover, at the idea of a softer Eris locked behind these pages, a glimpse into his world.

“We have to get you out of here” He said abruptly, as if eager to shift topics away from his hidden hobby. “Fine, I’ll ask Lucien to bring me back there” A pulse of heat radiated between you.

“I’ll bring you”

“Won’t that impact the whole double agent incognito thing” You smirked, trying your best to not look down towards his gentle hold on you.

“I’m sure if I murdered Lucien that would impact things more”

“Remember Eris, I told you that shade of green wasn’t your colour” Silence swaddled the forgotten closet.

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name” The sound of his moniker sent Eris’s grip tightening slightly on your arm. “I’m sorry, was it saviour you preferred?” You hardly whispered, the swift movement that followed had your back pressed into the adjacent wall, Eris’s hand resting above your head, trapping you in the addictive warmth.

“As long as I’m the one you call for, I don’t care what you call me” he allowed himself to confess.

“This feels like a mistake”

“So was trying to hurt you, I enjoyed every lick of flame that torched those males YN and if it had been any other male other than my brother to dance with you that night they would have met a similar fate” Eris’s smoky voice admitted quietly, amber eyes trapping you in their heat. A warm palm found its way to your waist, ushering you closer to the High Fae behind the walls of an enemy Court.

“So you were jealous?” “Shut up and let me kiss you” Every drop of your blood was heated with the perfect pressure that met your lips and your hand instinctively took a fistful of his shirt pulling him tighter into you. You felt his fingers knot deeply into your hair as his other hand tightened its grip, your mouths slotting over one another in perfect synchronicity.

“You’re so delicate YN, your Court’s best kept secret and this world's greatest beauty, I feel like a moth to your flame-” Eris’s voice came out husky, starved for your touch “-I couldn’t explain it to myself why I felt like walking around that cursed city that day, the Mother must have known I’d meet you, that I would be drawn to you, that I burn for you” his thumb brushed over your cheek as you rested your head in the palm of his hand. A rush of cold met your skin as Eris fully pulled from you, your balance rocking slightly.

“Did-did I do something?” Eris sighed at your words, a hand tracing through his hair before he turned to face you, eyes ablaze.

“I-I really feel like you may be worth every risk in this entire world but I am not and I will not risk your safety for my own desire”

“I can protect myself Eris” “Not from what would seek you out because of me” The both of you stayed in studied silence for a moment, just observing one another and the energy shift between you both.

“My court will protect me” a low sound growled from Eris's throat in response to you.

“You mean my brother will protect you? The others care not for anyone but those in their precious inner sanctum”

“That’s not true, I’m their friend!” You snapped back, your voice rising above a crackled whisper in anger. The words pinged an idea directly into Eris’s head, his way to push you away. “You’re their employee! They take you for granted! You can’t honestly say they treat you well can you? Do you think they’d keep you around if you lost your use to them? Their loyalty is conditional, they can’t be relied on!” A truth you frequently ignored washed over you, too much to take.

“You’ve been away from the table too long General, I must return to work” You offered the almost forgotten book in your hands back to him, his eyes only moving from the binding to your eyes. You scoffed again before moving as quickly as he had brought you to this secluded closet, rushing your away from the heat you wanted to be swaddled in forever. You tucked the tiny book into your sock beneath your dress, perhaps that was his goodbye gift to you you thought. Your path was then interrupted around the corner of the secret haven by the feeling of your body crashing into the solid pushback of metal, your hips meeting the plush carpet.

“What do we have here?” You looked up through your eyelashes at the striking male, his broad shoulders shrouded in thick copper metal, the Autumn court of arms across his breast.

You pushed up off the ground, doing your best to ignore your bruised tailbone. The broad, older male scanned you, his eyes snagging on your Court’s emblem stitched into your sleeve.

“And tell me, what would a member of the Night Court be doing out of the designated area?”

“I-I was looking for-for the bathroom” He towered over you, the smell of soot and tinder filling your airways, thick enough to choke on. He stretched out a gloved hand, lights flickering in his eyes like a sparking fire. Before you could take his hand, they curled around your wrist, hauling you forward.

“And yet, I don't believe you” razor words said with a razor grin nicked at your nerves beneath your uniform.

“Would-would I lie to you sir?” You sank into the lowest curtsey you could manage while still tethered to the burly male. You could feel your fingertips turn blue as the gloved hand took a tighter hold, your voice fighting not to croak as you spoke again.

“I-I must return to my High Lord”

“I don’t think so, this little exploration of yours must be reported” Alec snarled down at you, flicking his wrist sending yours back in a conflicting direction, a small yelp leaving your throat. “YN?” The two of you looked to find Lucien, stunned expression turning steely as he looked towards the hold a member of his former Court held on your wrist. He made short work of the distance between you, his warmed hand taking your opposite wrist.

“Unhand this Lady!” He barked.

“Lady? She is staff, staff that was where she shouldn’t have been!” Your head dipped at the ever-present reminder of your differences. Lucien scanned you briefly, a subtly deep intake of air had the scent of Autumn wind and campfire flooding his senses, his brother's scent on you.

“I perhaps agree with you for once-” Lucien whispered down to you, words tainted with disappointment “-but regardless, she will come with me and her High Lord will take care of matters” Alec's grip only tightened further as Lucien attempted to pull you to his side, another wince decorating your face.

“Not before my High Lord has a chance to examine what she may have learned”

“What was I going to learn in the bathroom, his Lordship's haircare routine?” Your words surprised you as much as anyone but not as much as the feeling of cracked leather meeting the side of your face, knocking you down to the plush carpet, out of Luciens hold. The side of your cheek felt as though it instantly began to swell, it matched your eyes as tears threatened to fall over the rim. You didn’t stay down for long, Alec hauling you back to your feet by your cracking wrist joint. You could feel the blood run from your lips, your skin fighting to stitch together and failing. Black blotted your vision competing for the greatest pain with your wrist.

“This female is to be brought before the Lord of Autumn. You have no authority here, run along to your master, she comes with me” That’s all you could hear before the black blots overtook the beautiful brass and copper of the Court of Autumn, no longer able to support your own weight.

—-----------

The low crackle of a cruel flame filled your ears as an unnatural chill stretched from the icy flame. Your eyes flickered like the fire across from your cell, doing your best to come around from the sadistic male’s brutality. The cracking of brickwork met your back as you leaned into it, uncurling your legs from the ball of protection you had attempted to make. The depth of Forest House, far far away from the kind forest spirit voices that beckoned you to play, now replaced with the pained groans of other enemies to Autumn.

“Wakey wakey” You rolled your head along the stone, supporting its weight as you looked to see the ever-feared Lord of Autumn standing on the other side of the brass caging. The metal shuddered as the guards opened them for their master. You lowered your head slightly, trying to win any favour with Beron, his low laugh your reward.

“Anything to say for yourself?” You looked back up, fear stealing your voice as he stepped in closer, your bones rattling lowly off the stone beneath you.

“No? Funny, you seem to have plenty of thoughts to write about” “Ex-excuse me, Lord?” You said quietly, your eyes then landing on the pocket-sized notebook in his cruel hands. You looked between it and its new holder, evident panic on your face, quickly exchanged for pure pain as the Lord of Autumn suddenly shot forward, pressing your body into the cold stone, his grip clutching your throat.

“Beautiful sonnets and poems and prose, all with the very strong theme of escaping my beautiful court, destroying my beautiful legacy, running off with a beautiful forbidden creature, an accomplice of yours?” His even tone of pure ice contradicted the flaming heat beating through his hands to your throat. He’d kill his heir for his words, destroy him, torture him, make him beg, the idea of any of those outcomes unthinkable to you.

“Do not, DO NOT try to deny it” He tried again, crushing some air from your windpipe free.

“Father!” Eris bellowed suddenly from behind, a small ease in pressure on your skin.

“Make yourself scarce Eris, I’m busy” His blackened eyes didn’t leave your bloodshot ones.

“What are her charges?” Eris tried his best to keep the desperate tone at bay, Beron only held out the tiny notebook to his side, his other hand still gripping you. You watched as Eris turned practically to match the colour of your own oxygen-starved skin.

“And she-she has admitted to that being hers?” “She was about to before your interruption!” He barked back at his eldest son, before allowing enough air into your lungs so you may speak. You looked over his shoulder to the Heir of Autumn, his eyes sunken in from worry or lack of sleep or both, you weren’t sure. You weren’t even sure how long you had been down there, how long before your Court would come for you if they even would come. These questions plagued you endlessly and now you were finally about to meet your end, your answer of who would come if you really needed help answered right in front of you in the russet eyes of a male you took stolen moments with. The male who believed himself not worthy of anything other than pain. You would not die with him believing this.

“It’s min-” Your rasped lie cut off a flush of heat pulsating around the entire cell, Beron’s gaze snapping back to his son, a full release of pressure met your throat, your body sank to the ground, muscles screaming out for the rush of returning oxygen. You propped yourself up on your well-worn hands, fighting away blurry vision. Eris stood, shoulders settled back, flames like globes in his hands.

“Alec, that’s Alec’s, there's more in his quarters. Go search them and you’ll see, no need to declare war with Night Court by slaughtering one of their courtiers” Pure confidence beamed from Eris, a grin then decorating his face as his father tilted his head in thought.

“Think about it Father, it has to be someone with more access than a dressmaker? Someone with the intelligence to weave plots into poems, do you really think that a female would be capable of such?” Your heavy breath remained down towards the brick floor you looked down to, its small stones breaking away and burying into your palms and knees. You knew he saw you as more than that, and you trusted that he saw you as more than your court saw you as. You trusted him you realised. You heard Beron hum in quiet contemplation before looking back towards you, your hair matted in knots, uniform in tatters, the perfect image of weakness he believed all females had. Beron gestured quickly with his chin, his armed guards launching into action to search the quarters, no doubt going to find carefully planted prose and poems, damming in their divinity.

“A dressmaker?” Beron questioned you once again, his head tilting as you nodded gently towards the stone, unable to lift your dizzying head.

“Useless skill” He spat down before sinking a heavy, steel-soled boot flush with your right hand. Blood rushed to your ears as the little oxygen in your lungs escaped as a deafening roar, drowning out the sound of your breaking bones. The ring of bruises gifted to you by Alec on your other wrist clutched your shattered hand into your chest.

“You may finish her off Eris, your reward for your observant nature, I must see to the search” He smirked at his son who fought to keep his mouth from hanging open and flame from fleeing his fists. Beron sank into the fire, leaving his heir and his prisoner. Eris crashed to your side, his warm hands supporting your shoulders as you cried out.

“I’m sorry YN, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry” He whispered into your hair, your sobs drowning in his chest. A swirl of comforting flame swaddled you both as Eris pulled you both through the heat to the outskirts of the wood surrounding Forest House.

The Forest air was as refreshing as any of the elements as you landed gently in the clearing, Eris’s arms supporting your weight as he clung you into him.

“They’ll be here soon my love” He gave a small saddened smile into the crown of your hair, causing you to pull back to look up at him.

“What?” You managed, the movement of even speaking amplifying the pain in your digits. Another whoosh of air filled the clearing, Lucien quick to your side accompanied by Azriel, colour draining from the Shadowsinger’s face at the overly familiar sight of your hands.

“Go with them YN, they’ll protect you” Eris attempted another smile as you looked from him to his brother, who tried and failed to hide his worry.

“I want- I want to stay with you Eris” “Look at what happens when you stay with me YN, nothing good ever comes from this place” “But you came from this place” You cried out, your legs trembling again, Eris’s arm slipped around your waist again, Lucien unfamiliar with this side of his brother.

“I told you I’m only going to bring you pain” “And I-I told you green wasn’t one of your colours, we can both be wrong sometimes” You laughed lightly through your tears, fighting your instincts to look down at your hands. Eris brushed a thumb over your cheek, keeping a stray tear from falling before pressing his lips to your forehead.

“I have to leave you YN, I have to make sure Alec learns his lesson, the same one I will teach my father one day and anyone who dares to harm you” He searched through your eyes before stepping back, allowing Lucien to wrap his arm around you to support your body, Azriel placing a small cloth over your hand to shield you from the full extent of the damage. Eris traced the rings of bruising on your uncovered wrist, further cementing his decision. Azriel’s eyes scanned, watching for signs you had all been discovered and finding the distant sounds of guards beginning to storm towards them.

“We have to go” Azriel ordered, Eris and Lucien both nodding.

“Eris, please, please come with us” You begged through sobs.

“One day YN, one day I’ll show you this Court when it’s something I’m proud of, I’ll show you all of who I am, when it’s something I’m proud of” He brought the back of your hand to his lips, only to have you suddenly pull it back before launching forward towards him. His lips on yours felt like a warm hearth, like home, his soothing heat warming the world you always thought was meant to be cold.

“I was jealous” He admitted with his signature smirk as he parted from you, his hand running down your tangled hair receiving a light laugh from you as Lucien reluctantly pulled you back.

“We have to go, they’re close” Azriel took your weight, hesitantly taking you some distance away from Eris, leaving Lucien and Eris with some space between them.

“I will look after your mate brother” Eris only nodded in return before stealing another glance at you and sinking into flame.

--------------------------------------------------

Whatcha think? Hehehehe

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lavendel081 · 4 months ago

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Elliott Episode

#stardew valley #stardew cope #sdv #sdv elliott #stardew valley elliott #stardew elliott #stardew valley fanart #stardew fanart #elliott sdv #sdv farmer #stardew oc #stardew eris

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nocasdatsgay · 2 years ago

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From the Ashes, The Wildflowers Grow

Chapter 1: Family

Word Count: 2675

CW: IDK a baby? None

Chapter Summary: Eris and his wife, Celeste, hold a family get-together to introduce their new child.

Also read it on A03 Here

MasterPost and full fic summary here

First time posting chapters on tumblr AND ao3 so comments, likes, etc are welcome and appreciated.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Waiting in his chambers with his mother, Eris felt the wards break. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and watched the magic simmer. He then watched as they immediately repaired themselves.

“Your son is here,” he said, with a sigh to his mother. He stood from his chair. “Dramatic as ever.”

Not even a moment later, the doors to the chambers opened. No knock; his brother never knocked. There was a squeal of a female and golden blonde hair rushing to him.

“Eris,” Elain said, hugging him. Eris took a moment to realize what happened and hug her back. She pulled away and looked towards his mother. She gasped. “Is that the baby?”

“Good to see you Elain,” he said with a slight chuckle.

She left him quickly with her lilac dress twirling around her feet, and went to the couch his mother occupied. She murmured her greetings and his mother handed her the babe swaddled in a green blanket. Elain sat beside her and he could hear his daughter’s little grunts from being shuffled around.

“Oh Eris, she’s beautiful.”

Eris felt another presence beside him. “Where’s your wife?”

He looked toward his brother. Eris was surprised to see him in a tunic and trousers, and not in day court attire. Coupled with Elain’s dress that meant they must have come from Spring.

“She’s napping. I’d rather not wake her. She refuses to rest. So when she does, I don’t disturb her.”

“Sounds like Celeste.” Lucien walked over to his mate.

“You know you can't keep breaking the wards, Lucien.” Eris crossed his arms. “You’ll start a war because you’re too lazy to walk in.”

“I keep telling him that,” Elain said. “But he doesn’t listen.”

Lucien himself replied by dismissively waving a hand and giving his mother a hug. He then peered down at the bundle in Elain’s arms. “Oh thank the cauldron, she looks like her mother.”

“Careful,” Eris frowned. His mother didn’t suppress her laugh.

Lucien only smiled at him. “Have you named her yet?”

Eris didn’t answer him. He heard familiar footsteps to his right and tried not to scowl as his wife rounded the corner. She had changed into a red knit sweater and brown trousers. He was at least happy she didn’t feel the need to put on something more formal. Her brown hair looked hurriedly put into a bun, loose strands framing her face. The dark rings were still under her eyes. He wanted to tell her to go back to bed but he knew not to argue in front of family. She gave them all a smile and Lucien walked over to her to hug her.

“I was just telling your husband what a blessing your child looks just like you,” he teased.

“I heard,” she replied with a little yawn. “But she does have his hair.”

“She’s beautiful, Celeste.” Elain told her with a smile.

Celeste said her thanks while Lucien stepped back and looked her over. Eris glared but didn’t say anything. He knew it was ridiculous, but he refused to feel guilty for being jealous and protective. Even if they’d been married for nearly a century.

Lucien frowned, “Eris was right, you still need rest. You look absolutely terrible.”

“Lucien,” his mother hissed from the couch.

Eris didn’t bother to cut his eyes to his brother. Celeste smacked him on the arm for the both of them. Eris chuckled when he saw Elain, still holding the babe, glared over for a brief moment before schooling her features.

“Elain, come get your mate,” she laughed. “It’s been over a week. I’m fine.”

“She refuses to let me help,” Eris interjected. Celeste rolled her eyes. “It’s the truth. I practically have to steal my own child to bond with her.”

“Now that is a lie if I ever heard one,” Celeste came over and took his hand. “If I’m not holding her, he is. Edith said it would spoiler her.”

“Nonsense,” his mother replied. “She’s always said that. What she didn’t tell you is when she was my healer, she coddled every single one of my boys.”

Celeste grinned. “I think she says it mostly because Eris also takes her to all his meetings even if she’s sleeping.”

He brought her hand up and kissed the tops of her knuckles. He held her gaze tightly. “How can I not? I love to show off your work.”

Lucien made a gagging noise. “Please get a room.”

“These are our rooms,” Celeste replied.

Eris pulled her to him and kissed her cheek, then her lips. He was very pleased with the way she hummed in response, kissing him back.

“Disgusting,” Lucien grumbled.

Elain, ever the polite one, changed the topic. “Did you name her?”

Celeste pulled away, and turned towards her. “We have.” She looked back at Eris.

She asked him a silent question and he nodded. He saw the brief sadness in her eyes and he gripped her hand tight. He knew it would be hard for her, especially with Lucien present, but he stood by her decision when she asked before the baby was born.

He watched her look over to Lucien. Her voice cracked a little when she said, “Her name is Andrea.”

Realization washed over Lucien and his eyes widened. He looked to Eris but Eris only shrugged. Their mother, who had been watching quietly, stood and went to Lucien, squeezing his arm. Elain looked confused.

“That’s a lovely name,” their mother replied.

Celeste let go of Eris’s hand and she went to Elain to retrieve their child. “She’s named after Andras,” she said softly to her. “He was a dear friend,” she turned to Lucien. “A very dear friend to the both of us back in Spring. He gave his life for us to be free. I wanted to honor him.”

Lucien was still eyeing Eris. “And you’re fine with that?”

Eris glowered. “She could have named her Tamlin and I would be fine with it. Truly Lucien, that’s the first comment you want to make?”

Celeste thankfully took no offense and laughed. “Would you let me name your child after my former high lord?”

Eris bristled a little at the reminder. “You labored for two days, as long as it wasn’t Morrigan I was fine with anything.” He swore he heard Elain snort at that remark.

Lucien nodded and looked him over with a grin. “Just checking. You are the jealous type. But I should have guessed Celeste gets whatever she wants.”

Eris only looked to his beautiful wife again, holding their child. He didn’t bother to change his expression into something other than the adoration he felt. “You say that as if it’s a terrible problem to have.”

Another knock came to the door. His other brothers, Piran, Asher, and Cillian filed into the room; followed by Celeste’s mother.

“These three were loitering in the halls,” she stated with great humor before curtsying towards Lucien, Elain, and his mother. “Something about how my daughter’s husband would murder them if they woke her.”

Eris didn’t hide his grin. “I can’t fathom where they heard such an outlandish story.”

“Eris,” Celeste shuffled the babe in her arms so she could smack his arm gently.

“It was kinder for me to kill them if they woke you than to let them suffer your wrath.” Eris retorted. “Everyone in this room knows you’re a monster to wake up.”

Celeste scoffed, dramatically looked very offended. “You wound me deeply.”

Piran stepped around them to greet Lucien and Elain. “Good to see you both.” He turned his head to Lucien. “You keep breaking the wards, Lucien and I’m going to have you banned from Autumn again.”

“I repaired them, didn’t I?” Lucien replied.

“Boys,” their mother said with a tone of warning. “Lucien, promise to your brothers you will stop breaking the wards.”

“You treat me as if I’m a youngling.” He rolled his eyes.

Asher spoke up from near the door. “That’s because you act like one.”

Everyone laughed, including Elain, which made Lucien scowl. She finally cut him a look and he replied. “Fine, I promise I won’t break the wards again.”

Cillian said from beside Asher, “this room is a bit crowded. We came to fetch you all.”

They all filed out the chamber and Eris took Andrea from his wife. He still wasn’t used to it; holding the little being the cauldron blessed them with. She was still so new to the world, for any stark features to truly stand out other than the red hair, pale skin, and her blue eyes. Her little face scrunched as she settled in his arms while he walked down the hall. He smiled down at her for a moment and glanced at his wife walking beside him. He’d probably never understand what he’d done to earn this kind of happiness.

They all reached the conference room that was refurbished as a sitting lounge several decades ago. Once Andrea was placed in the cradle, he sat with his brothers to continue talking. Even Lucien joined them. Eris would never admit how much that meant to him. His mother and Celeste’s mother were off to one side chatting. They offered to sit close to the cradle to keep an eye on the baby. Elain and Celeste went to the far side of the room. Eris could hear his wife talking, catching bits of gossip from Spring and how Elain was bullying the Tamlin into letting her redo the flowerbeds during her visits. He did catch the shift in Elain’s tone that had him worried for only a moment.

“I started that book you sent me. You are just as terrible as my sister,” Elain said. He could see the blush on her face from his seat. “You did not warn me about chapter 33. You told me it wasn’t that bad.”

Celeste laughed loudly. “It’s not! But if that made you blush, then skip 40. It’s nothing but-”

He instantly knew exactly what they were discussing and immediately blocked them out. His wife’s reading habits was something he decided a long time ago was none of his business. He glanced over and his gaze caught Lucien’s. Apparently he was doing the same thing, from the look he shared. Eris bit back his laugh and focused on what his other brothers were saying. It wasn’t long before a knock came to the door, stifling the conversations in the room.

Rowen, the captain of the guard, poked his head in. “Lord Helion is here. Shall I escort him in?”

Eris looked at his brothers. Unspoken words were exchanged between them with a look and Eris stood.

“I’ll go.” When he got to the door, he looked at Rowen and nodded to the room. “Go in and visit.”

Rowen looked at him skeptically. He ran a nervous hand through his dark hair. “Are you sure?”

“You’re family, aren’t you?” He patted his friend’s shoulder. “Go meet the baby. You haven’t even seen her yet.”

Eris understood his hesitation. Rowen was a good leader but very reserved. Asher was always the more outgoing one and Rowen gladly let his husband take on those responsibilities. He watched Rowen stare into the room for a moment. He then gave Eris a nod and went through the door. He took a shortcut to the main hall and found Helion waiting near the front entrance.

“Afternoon Helion.” His greeting was short. Even after all the time that passed, their relationship was still complicated.

“Eris.” Helion gave a little nod. “Apologies for running late. Congratulations. I know your mother is excited to have a new youngling around.”

As if summoned, footsteps echoed in the hall. Eris turned to see his mother and wife walking towards them, his wife holding their daughter.

“You look well.” Helion said to Celeste as they approached.

Celeste scoffed. “Don’t flatter me, Helion. Lucien’s already told me I look worse for wear.”

He frowned. “Did he?”

Eris replied with a little pride, “she handled it.”

Helion cut his eyes to Eris’s mother, who nodded. He looked back to Celeste. “You look like you have a new babe keeping you up at night, but that’s expected. All that considered, you do look well.”

“Eris helps.” Celeste readjusted the baby resting in her arms. “Would you like to hold her? Her name is Andrea.”

Helion nodded and Celeste handed her over to him. He grinned as he took her, part of the blanket falling to the side as she squirmed in his hands. She seemed more awake, her legs shuffling under the white gown they’d dressed her in. Helion cooed a greeting to her and Eris could see her yawn.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” His mother sighed and leaned onto Helion’s arm.

Watching them awe over his child made Eris wonder if somehow, in another life, that would have been how they looked at their own babe. Would that have been how they looked at Lucien? How they would have looked at him? He must have let his emotions show. Celeste slipped her arm around his and took his hand. She weaved her fingers around his own and she squeezed gently. With a blink, he squeezed back.

The moment didn’t last for long, however. Eris knew instantly by the quick little movements his daughter was making that she was about to start screaming. As if on cue, her face scrunched up. Celeste moved first, holding out her arms as Andrea let out a little cry. Helion thankfully wasn’t offended, letting out a soft chuckle.

“And she’s hungry,” Celeste quickly took the wailing babe. She held her close and looked at Eris. “I’m going to feed her and drag out Elain. I left her alone talking with my mother and she was trying to needle out of Elain her cinnamon bread recipe,” she added, making a face.

“I’ll go with you.” His mother told Celeste and stood on her toes to kiss Helion on the cheek.

Eris caught her gaze for a brief moment. He knew she was leaving them alone on purpose. He didn’t hide annoyance on his face. His mother flashed her eyes in a way that told him to behave. Eris crossed his arms. He and Helion turned to watch them retreat for a moment. Eris could taste the awkward silence hanging between them.

Helion finally turned to Eris. “You know you’re welcome at my court, Eris.” Eris could only nod. “I do mean that. Next time Celeste visits, you should join her. I know your mother wants to see more of you. Especially with the baby-“

“I am aware.” Eris finally snapped back. He said it more harsher than he intended to. Helion frowned and Eris continued. “What I mean is, when Andrea is old enough to handle winnowing, I will send notice.”

That softened the Day High Lord’s demeanor. “There is a lot of bad blood between us. I’m not asking for a miracle; I’m merely asking to start making amends. We are family.”

Eris nodded again. He knew he needed to try harder. It had been over a century. He was at least trying. Even if it pained him.

Helion didn’t let the silence lapse for long. “I spoke with your mother and we both agreed there will be Pegasus waiting for her when she’s old enough.”

“That’s hardly necessary,” Eris replied, taken aback.

Helion shrugged, wearing a smirk eerily similar to Lucien’s. “So was giving us two smoke hounds as a mating present.”

Eris rolled his eyes. “Again, hardly. Aspen and Jora missed my mother dearly.”

Helion didn’t seem to buy it but also didn’t further argue. “Shall we?” He asked, looking toward the hall.

“Of course,” Eris nodded.

He told himself one day he would be used to the family he made and acquired, just like he had gotten used to the peace. For the time being, he would try to enjoy it for what it was and accept the happiness the cauldron and Mother granted him.

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acis-arts · 10 months ago

Note

Hey I'm curious, in the swap au how are the other lamb bishops as followers? And will there be any unique interaction between them and narinder's family?

It's not really a big difference between them and the original Bishops as Followers. In the beginning, they also become difficult to deal with since it's hard accepting your mortal body again as a former God.

These are the only interactions with Narinders family that I thought about so far:

The last one was a joke at first, but it would be funny to make Sahmat a hypocrite.

#thanks for the ask!#art #doodles #cotl #cult of the lamb #cotl swap au #swap au #cotl leshy #cotl oc #eris #sahmat #cotl kallamar

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2thestars-andbeyond · 9 months ago

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Little Rabbit

Summary: Y/n is the youngest Archeron sister. While training with Rhysand, she winnows herself to the Autumn Court by mistake and finds someone she can't seem to get off her mind..

"Just close your eyes and try again." Rhysand told me, sternly. I'm sure he was getting pretty fed up with me and my training. Plus we'd been at this for a good three hours now. "Close your eyes and concentrate."

"That's what I've been doing Rhys! And its not working!" I took a deep breath trying not to lose my temper. "I just end up five feet from where i'm standing."

Winnowing was hard and learning how to use the power was draining. Taking a seat on a near by stump, I wiped away a stay tear that started to roll down my cheek.

"Winnowing is a power not all Fae have. It takes a good deal of concentration and strength. try again Y/N. Try to think of another spot in the woods."

All the woods looked the same. Every tree the same type of maple. Every blade of grass the same shade of green.

I rolled my eyes at Rhys. "I'm not sure why you have so much faith in me winnowing anyway. I'm obviously not that good at it so i'm not sure why it matters so much."

Rhys took a deep breath and ran his hand down his face. "Y/n, I know you can do this. Close your eyes and try again. Focus on the tree that Azriel is standing next to."

Az just nodded at me. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I always loved being in the woods especially during autumn. All the colors and cool breezes. Soon, in my minds eye, the tree behind the Shadow Singer had vibrant orange leaves and a cool breeze blew my hair. I ripped my eyes open.

"You've got to be kidding me." I whispered in disbelief. I had done it. I had finally winnowed, right into the Autumn Court...

"I knew that asshole was up to something" Rhysand had been trying for the past week to get me to winnow. I hope he's happy now.

"I know you can do it" I mocked my brother in law as I walked through the unfamiliar forest of Autumn. I knew it was a matter of time before Beron's sentries found me. Rhysands "I know you can do it" is probably going to get beheaded or whatever they do to trespassers in this Court.

I heard shuffling in the nearby bushes. I stopped so abruptly I almost fell. "Please don't be a bear or a wolf."

I let out a sigh of relief as a squirrel jetted out of the bush.

"Are you lost little rabbit?"

I whirled around and bumped right into a red haired male.

"Shit." I murmured under my breath, finding it hard to find my voice.

He smirked. "You are far from home. Don't worry. I already informed Rhysand."

I had never met this male before. So how did he know who I was? He took a step around means continued down the path.

"I do have to say that it is pretty impressive that you winnowed this far away from Night. nearly four courts away. Come. We will meet your high lord somewhere safe. Beron has eyes and ears everywhere. Sometimes I fear the creatures are on his side as well."

I ran to catch up with him. "Wait so you aren't going to turn me in?"

He chuckled. "Why would I do that? Hmm?" His amber eyes met mine.

His gaze was intense and nearly took my breath away. "I-it's just that i'm trespassing, correct? I was sure that would be punishable in such a cutthroat Court?"

"Oh, it is. Usually anyway, but I told Beron i'd check out the breech in the border."

We walked for what seemed like forever. Passing by tree after tree, all of them different it seemed, unlike the forest back home. Every tree different shades of Autumn colors. More vibrant than I had ever seen back in the night Court or the human lands for that matter. Before I knew it we had reached a clearing.

"Take my hand" The male told me. "Rhysand waits for you in the clearing."

I gave him a skeptical look, "Ahh. I don't see anything inside the clearing"

"Just trust me." He replied offering me his hand.

"How do I know I can trust you? I don't even know you."

"I would never let any harm come to you, Y/n." I gasped as he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into his chest. The smell of crackling fire and spice engulfed me as he winnowed us into the clearing.

Rhysand, Feyre and Az appeared before me. Azriel, noting how close the male held me, drew his knife.

"Calm down Shadow Singer, she is unharmed. Aren't you little rabbit?" He asked, bringing my chin up so that my eyes met his again.

Azriel growled. but the male let me go. Taking one more look at his face, I ran into my older sisters arms. "I'm okay. " I assured them.

"Thank you Eris for keeping her safe." Rhys stated.

"It is strange though. That she winnowed so far from home." Eris mused. "Makes one wonder what drew her to a court she had never stepper foot into." With that, he disappeared.

Shocked was an understatement. The male that had saved me was the Heir of Autumn. the male every one talks so much shit about. And all I could think about was how his warm hand felt wrapped around my wrist. How his finger had gently raised my chin, how his amber eyes seemed to darken as they bore into mine.

#eris vanserra x reader #acotar fanfiction #eris vanserra #acotar x reader #acotar x oc #acotar

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tovibeornottovibe · 4 months ago

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Before Someone Misses You

Eris Vanserra x Healer!Fem!OC (Cleo)

As a result of his father's heavy-handed parenting style, Eris is mere moments away from death. He can't think straight; the faebane and the blood loss is making him delirious. With what little strength he has, he winnows to Cleo's backdoor and practically collapses into her arms. Unfortunately for him, his usual restraint is severely impeded and yeah, he's so fucking in love with her, even if he can't admit it to himself. [4k words]

warnings: implied/referenced torture, swearing, implied sexual situations, mentioned Beron Vanserra (yuck)

Prefer to read on Ao3?

part 2 here! | part three! | part 4!

“Eris, Eris, you need to breathe. Just look at me, okay?”

He’s trying. Really, really trying. His eyes don’t seem to want to stay open, his head feels full, heavy, and his saliva is thick in his mouth like molasses; he can’t swallow it. He can’t tell if he’s going to throw up or pass out. All he knows is that he’s bleeding on Cleo’s floor and leaving a gory trail behind him as she props him up and leads him to her sofa. And now he’s bleeding on her sofa too.

Shame. The cream-coloured cushions suited her living room so well.

Eris is vaguely aware that she’s positioning him so she can get access to all of the lacerations across his torso, and that her dog is sitting patiently beside him, out of the way but close enough, worrying after him. He winces when she grips his chin and moves his head, lets out a ragged, wet breath when he tries to shift.

“Don’t move,” she says. He figures she talks like this with the fae she treats on the daily. Very to the point, but with a touch of tenderness. Delirium has hit him so hard that he manages to convince himself that she might actually save said tenderness just for him. Well, it’s a nice thought to go out with if this does turn out to be his last day alive. Ah, and he still had so much more to do.

“You need to stay awake. Can you do that for me?”

Cleo has a soothing voice. It’s rich and has none of that sycophantic tartness that the females of his own court tout at every opportunity. When she berates him for not taking care of himself—namely, for not seeing a damn healer immediately, for the love of the fucking Mother—she might as well be singing a lullaby…

“Please, Eris.”

He hums what he thinks might be some kind of response and makes the effort to open his eyes. Sometime between him falling into her arms and him falling onto her sofa, she had removed his shirt and started cleaning his wounds. They’re mostly cuts from a knife, but it’s the faebane making him feel so fuzzy. He can feel how his magic putters out in his veins. Courtesy of his father. Something, something, researching the effects of high dosages. What little he had managed to regain in the hours between being dumped in his rooms and now had been used up winnowing to Cleo’s doorstep at daybreak. The Dawn Court is further away than he thought and it had felt like wading through mud.

Usually, her cleaning him up hurts. The alcohol she uses burns but it’s effective and the blinding sting helps keep him focused. This doesn’t even register. He can’t feel where she’s pressing the cotton to his skin. Can’t feel where she’s holding him down to keep him from thrashing. Doesn’t even know if he’s capable of thrashing.

The dark waves of her hair fall over her face and she uses her bloodied hands to brush it out of the way. She hasn’t had it cut for a while and the length suits her. It probably reaches her mid-back now.

“What did he give you?” she asks, that slight tenderness hidden beneath a roiling, constrained kind of anger which makes him equally pleased and sickened. If it were anyone else, them seeing him in this state would have been mortifying, worthy of threats and promises never to tell a soul, but it’s Cleo, so it’s fine.

Eris attempts to form the word faebane, but his lips won’t do what he tells them and his teeth are suspiciously static. Whatever he chokes out registers with her, and she leaves him for a moment, presumably to dig through the cupboard under the sink where she keeps miscellaneous substances like selenium solution. Keenly, he feels her absence. He closes his eyes.

This is a quaint, little middle-of-a-terrace house in a quiet part of Thesan’s city, mostly untouched by Amarantha. Small, but comfortable. A kitchen made for no more than three, a dining table with tasteful chairs, a clean living room, artfully furnished and perfect for her. Though he has never been upstairs, he imagines her bedroom is similarly decorated with classy, understated furniture. There’s a patch of a back garden where she grows herbs and her dog, Dartagnan, can bound about in the sunshine. Here, even he can see the benefit of seasons. He’d go as far to say it's idyllic.

Perhaps she’ll construct a funeral pyre for him somewhere nearby. Dart will find sticks for her to add to the pile. The birds will sing while his body burns. It could be worse. He could be at home.

Nudging at his hand which hangs off the sofa limply—his muscles aren’t doing much for him at the current moment—has his head lolling to the side and his eyes fluttering back open again. Dart is sniffing at the blood on his forearm. He slowly pats him on the head, running his fingers through his fur, and even in his state, he can hear his tail start to swish against the floor.

Dart makes for a good distraction, and Eris stays awake until Cleo returns and kneels at his side.

“Am I going to have to force this down your gullet?” she asks, though a response doesn’t come to mind. Anything she says right now feels like coming in from the cold and sitting in front of the hearth. “Fuck, okay, fine.”

She pulls his jaw and opens his mouth and he lets her. One of these days, she’ll cup his face and it won’t be to pour medicine down his throat. Even when she’s treating him, particularly if it’s his face that needs healing and she gets so close to him that he can feel her breath against his neck, he thinks about whether or not she’d let him seduce her. Eris knows she’d suit burgundy. He wonders if she knows how to dance. If not, he could teach her—ack!

As soon as the foul-tasting antidote hits his tongue, he feels his magic begin to purge the faebane from his veins, burning it out of his system, and for the first time since yesterday afternoon, he can breathe properly. He lets out a sharp sigh which catches in his throat. He flexes his hands, bends his knees, the feeling coming back to them, and manages to sit himself up despite the stinging of his wounds. At that, Cleo’s relief becomes evident on her face and she sits back on her calves, looking up at him. Dart, visibly brightening from Eris’ movement, rests his chin on the sofa cushion and nudges his side again. He goes back to fussing him.

“If you had left it another hour, you would be dead. You understand that, right?”

For a moment, he pauses. His imminent death isn’t even top five on his list of things to worry about.

He flicks his attention to her, and her short-lived relief has been replaced by a quiet, seething kind of rage which somehow makes him feel guilty. It’s not something he’s used to and he decides that he fervently hates it. Cleo is so open with her emotions. She has no mask. No ulterior motive. She just is who she is. They would eat her alive in Autumn, but here, in Dawn, it’s normal not to exploit your neighbours’ weaknesses. You wouldn’t even gain anything but a sour reputation if you tried.

“It’s a good thing I came when I did then, isn’t it?” he says without any of his usual sneer. She would kick him out of her house. Has kicked him out, on more than one occasion, for being an asshole.

“Yes, very good,” she spits, pushing herself up, gathering the bloodied rags littered across the sofa. “You need to get inoculated if your father is going to keep poisoning you.”

He can’t do that and she knows it in the same way she knows not to heal his wounds, only to stop them bleeding or getting an infection, because his father likes to see the results of his handiwork. She’s smart enough to have worked that out without him needing to tell her. She’s smart enough to be able to do a lot of things and he wishes he could steal her away for himself, kids himself that he wants her only for her mind. If only he could convince her that she’s wasted here, but even he knows that she isn’t. Cleo does good work. Cleo helps people. Cleo is far too good a person to be in his consistent company.

“I doubt he’d use the same poison twice,” he says. Dart huffs at him as he swings his legs over the edge of the sofa, almost relishing the subsiding ache in his joints. He leans back against the cushions while she cleans her equipment with a flick of the wrist and sends him a glare.

“One of these days, he’s going to kill you,” she says gently, like she was breaking some bad news he wasn’t already aware of. She perches in front of him on the coffee table and tilts her head, assessing the way he moved in case she needed to heal some unseen injury. Internal bleeding is a favourite of his father’s. “Or else you’re going to die on my sofa and trust me when I say that will be a difficult one to explain to the guards.”

“Shall I provide you with a note to let them know it isn’t your fault?” he drawls, but it’s tinged with something sincere. All of this frank discussion makes Eris uncomfortable. The idea that she might actually be upset if he died sits uneasily in his chest and makes his stomach flip.

Dart hops up on the sofa, which he isn’t allowed to do, and rests his head in Eris’ lap. When Eris scratches behind his ears, his tail starts again. His smokehounds would eat him alive too. Or else protect him within an inch of each of their lives. Softie.

Cleo drags a hand through her hair, pulling at the tangles she finds. In turn, he shakes the thought that, even when she’s worried, annoyed, angry, she is incontestably beautiful. These are unhelpful things for him to spend his time on. He shouldn’t even be sitting here. He should have already winnowed back to the Autumn Court. Should be preparing to make a miraculous appearance at breakfast and scare his father into thinking that he can truly recover by himself. Should be attempting to reassure his mother that no, he really is fine, no need for concern. Alas, he’s here, lavishing her dog with attention and ignoring the fact that he likes the smell of her living room now that the coppery tang of blood has been cleared away with her magic.

Eris Vanserra considers himself to be many things, but a fool isn’t one of them. Perhaps he should start reevaluating.

She winces when he shifts and it pains him. “You don’t need me to lecture you,” she says, “but for the love of the Mother, Eris—”

“—see a healer immediately. Yes. I know,” he finishes for her.

With the haze of the faebane gone, his body recuperating however much blood he lost, he can look at her, really look at her. The tan of her skin seems a little deeper compared with the last time he was here. The definition in her muscles is just a bit more pronounced. She wears a frown which he wants to wipe off her face, and a matching set of a pale green vest and pair of shorts which reveals so much skin he reasons that she simply cannot be meaning to wear that in public. In Autumn, just the fit of her shorts around her waist would be indecent, let alone the cut of the vest. Truly, Dawn Court fashion confounds him.

“You’re in your pyjamas,” he says. He needs the normality of a conversation before he can steel himself to go home.

She raises a brow at him and he takes that as a victory. No more of that frown. “You’re shirtless.”

His state of undress suddenly becomes very, very apparent to him. It’s so pleasantly warm in here that it doesn’t make too much difference to him. It must be summer in the Solar Courts. “I take it my shirt is thoroughly ruined?”

She shrugs. “I’m told ‘tattered and bloodied’ is very in at the moment.Torture-chic.”

He huffs a laugh despite himself; Cleo has that kind of morbid, absurdist humour which appeals to him. It probably has something to do with the fact she deals with dying fae every day.

“Do you want another one or are you planning on scandalising your servants?”

“Firstly,” he says, emphasizing his point by putting up a finger, “they’re maids.” She rolls her eyes as if to say, like that makes any difference. “Secondly, I don’t think any of your shirts will fit.”

The corners of her lips tip up into a ghost of a smile. “Ah. Hang on.” She stands and Dart promptly does the same, meaning to follow her around like a lost puppy as usual. Eris, for just a second before he gets a hold of himself, misses the comfort. In his absence, his cuts start to throb. Cleo calls that the placebo effect and it is infuriating that he’s susceptible to it (“Everyone is, Eris. That’s why they did research on it. If it was only the case in insufferable, idiotic, half-dead—” “Okay, enough. No need to injure me further.” ). She stretches and he averts his eyes from where her vest rides up and shows her midriff. “I’ll be back in a mo’,” she says.

And she disappears upstairs, Dart padding after her. Unequivocally, he does not watch her go, busies himself with taking in the full-extent of what his father subjected him to. It’s not a pretty sight, and though Cleo cleaned him up as much as she could, he’s going to gain some more fairly unpleasant scars. By his guess, it’s going to take a week, maybe more, for these to heal. It was either him or Caelan, and he somewhat finds Caelan tolerable, so he took the knife for him. He had better remember that when the time comes, he thinks.

Though Cleo knows far, far too much to be safe, she doesn’t know anything about his plans to overthrow Beron, and she certainly doesn’t know it’s mere months away. With the coming Autumn equinox, he will crown himself High Lord. Dramatic intent never hurt. After that, he can visit her any time he likes. Maybe she could even come to him…

Cauldron, he’s fucked, isn’t he?

This is all for afterwards. He can’t think like this now. Not when his freedom is so close he can almost taste it and one wrong move will spell not just his death but those of everyone who is counting on him to depose his father. Every spy, every guard in his employ, every maid, cook, and gardener who warn him of his father’s whereabouts and look after his mother when he can’t. Every damned faerie in his damned Court who are sick of Beron’s rule. And Cleo. They’ll probably come for her too for daring to be kind to him all those years ago.

So, failure isn’t an option.

Eris is broken from his reverie by a white shirt hitting him in the face. He might hate himself for noticing, but it smells like her: freesias and ginger. It is concerning that he has that piece of information tucked away in his brain somewhere.

He pulls the shirt off his head and glares at her while Dart settles himself next to him. She shoots him the kind of smile that would make his heartbeat dangerously fast if he had the blood to spare. Just as he’s about to pull the shirt over his chest, he hesitates, because this is another male’s shirt. He swears if Cleo has some horribly charming and horrendously attractive partner/lover/whatever else in her life he is going to—

“Relax,” she says, drawing out the word. “It’s my brother’s. He left it here a couple of months ago.”

Damn her for reading him so well.

Damn himself for being so obvious. And damn the Mother Herself for making him feel so happy about it. He’s the Heir to the Autumn Court and a general threat to anyone stupid enough to cross him—it’s a wonder no sentry of Thesan’s has picked up his presence in the Court—he cannot and will not carve out time in his day to feel content.

Instead, he starts doing up the buttons and stands, maybe just a little too close to her to be friendly. The slight height advantage he has makes it so she has to look up at him. He enjoys the angle more than he cares to admit.

“You shouldn’t go around telling members of other Courts when Thesan’s council members sleep on their sisters’ sofas,” he says, working out the roughness in his voice.

“Why?” she laughs, then she gasps. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on kidnapping my brother and holding him for ransom.”

Eris leaves the top two buttons of the shirt undone. “I hadn’t been,” he says, “but now that you mention it…”

“He’s always wanted to see the Autumn Court, you know.”

“Yes, he’ll get a splendid view from a dungeon cell.”

“You had better give him the finest rags money can buy.”

“They’re all woven from the finest jute, I assure you. The rats who chew the holes have three square meals a day and the shackles are covered in the most exquisite rust that only severely cuts into the skin.”

“Excellent,” she says. “I’ll be sure to tell him you have a surprise for him next time I see him.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

Frankly, Cleo’s brother is a prick, so, if she wanted him put in a dungeon, he would do it for her. Not that he’s offered. Yet.

She lets out a little chuckle and some kind of irresistible impulse wracks through him.

They’re so close he can see the flecks of green in the blue of her eyes.

If he doesn’t leave soon he’s going to do something stupid like leaning down and kissing her. Then, if he got that far, he might do something even worse like slipping his hand under that fucking vest and finally, finally finding out what she feels like, tastes like, sounds like if… No. So what if he finds her attractive? So what if he hasn’t had a dalliance in years because he can’t stomach the thought of it? It won’t matter if his father kills him or scents her in his hair and goes to great lengths to find her and make him suffer for opening himself up, for being weak.

He tamps down every lingering, heated thought his brain bombards him with and tightens the defenses Cleo so easily pulls down every time he sees her.

“I should return before anyone notices I’m gone,” he says, but he doesn’t quite reach his desired level of harshness. In fact, he almost sounds disappointed.

It irks him that he can’t tell if Cleo feels the same. Instead of perhaps confessing her undying love for him, or calling him some profane name he’s never thought to imagine, she slips past him, straight to the backdoor which leads out to her garden, and gestures outside. “After all this time,” she says, “you’d think you’d know where the door is.” When she opens it, the songs of early-morning birds float through.

The walk feels too short, and he’s finding himself on the threshold of the house far too soon.

Eris takes a deep breath, inhales the pleasant scent of mid-summer in the Dawn Court, of the flowers which border the back wall of her house and the wisteria tree which hangs over the brick separating the garden from the alleyway in cascading violet.

He turns back. Slightly. Doesn’t fully turn his body. Their eyes meet.

“Thank you,” he says. Any other words die on his silver tongue.

Cleo leans against the doorframe. For a moment, she flicks her gaze to the garden, then back to him. She swallows. “You know you don’t have to thank me, Eris,” she says softly, then she smiles again. “Just bring a good bottle of wine next time maybe?”

“You say that like I plan on these visits.”

She exhales a laugh and crosses her arms. “You know what I mean. Now, go, before someone misses you.”

Right.

Mask on. He wears his ego like armour and his arrogance is sharp like the finest blade in his repertoire. Anyone who makes the mistake of being in his way, of impeding his progress, meets the business end of his endless influence, and no one will find the skeletons in his closet unless he wants them to. He takes what he wants and makes no apologies. He’s a Vanserra; blessed by the Mother with fire and the coppery hair to prove it; he’s born to scheme and lie and cheat his way to the top; he’s built for blood, to betray, betray, betray until he gets what he—

“Eris.”

Cleo’s hand wraps around his arm before he can take a step.

This is… they don’t do this. There’s rules for touching each other within the exclusive context of making sure he survives the night. On her sofa, there are no boundaries. Cleo does what she needs to and he lets her because he knows what’s good for him and she’s terrifying when she’s disobeyed. But, this, her hand, on his arm, stopping him, this is stepping over the line. The heat of her seeps through the shirt and it takes a lot of effort not to shiver from the contact.

“I meant what I said,” she continues, her touch lightening a fraction. “Be careful.” He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. “Promise me you won’t get yourself killed.”

Oh.

Someday, not today, but sometime in the near future, she’s going to say something like that and he’s going to kiss her senseless. For now, he’s settling for her hand on his arm.

So much for taking what he wants.

“Do you truly think I’m stupid enough to—?”

She narrows her eyes at him and he shuts his mouth. He shuts his eyes like the idea physically pains him.

“You really want me to promise, don’t you?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs a long, heavy breath. Composes himself.

“I promise you,” he says, leaning toward her slightly, his voice low, “I won’t get myself killed. Happy?”

Whatever she searches for on his face, she seems to find. Satisfied, she lets go of him. The lack of pressure around his bicep feels wrong.

“Very,” she says. “Okay. Go.” A nod to the little wooden door that leads to the alleyway and out of the wards which surround the house. “And take pain tonics if it gets too much. I don’t care if they’re illegal in Autumn. That’s a shit law and you should repeal it.”

He plans to.

They don’t say goodbye. They never do. Some traditions will never change. There’s too much finality in the word, and they settle for no farewell at all, like the next time they see each other will simply be a continuation of the previous meeting. On-going. A constant in the background.

With every step, he rebuilds his mask. By the time he’s home, it’ll feel normal again. Like second nature.

Even as he enters the alley, Eris doesn’t look back. Still, he knows she’s watching him go, and she won’t go back inside until she’s sure he’s winnowed away.

a/n: am i potentially going to make this a series of one-shots? maybe

#eris vanserra #eris vanserra x oc #eris acotar #eris vanserra x reader #eris x reader #eris x oc #eris x you #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra fluff #eris fluff #eris fanfic #me? writing an eris fic? it's more likely than you think

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