Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wings. The boy’s Illyrian wings will get stuck in your Fae body during the labor, and it will kill you both. Your mate ordered everyone not to inform you of the truth.

Before she knew where she was going, Feyre was out the door and down the steps, her feet pounding out a desperate rhythm as she ran from Amren’s apartment.

I will die. My baby will die. Rhys will die.

And he knew. He knew.

Feyre ran silently, swiftly, but inside she was roaring with fury and desperation. Not my baby. Not my son.

She touched her hand to her belly, promising, I will find a way to save you. I’ll do whatever it takes.

Tears flowed down her face, knowing the promise was empty. Rhys would have thought of everything. With his powers, his magic, his knowledge, he would have figured something out by now. It must really be hopeless.

Rhys had been preoccupied, moody lately — now she knew why. He hid this from me. That fucking bastard, he let me think everything was fine.

But he’d told everyone else — all her friends had known. Her cheeks flushed at what a fool she’d been. They’d let her babble on about her plans for the nursery, about carriages and toys and books, as though any of that mattered.

As though her son had a future.

Would she get to hold her baby, even once? Would she feel his soft, warm skin, look into those beautiful eyes? Would they go together into the darkness, meet somewhere on the other side?

Feyre stifled a gasp as Cassian swooped down and scooped up her sister, who’d run out a few moments before — hopefully taking her to safety, far away from Rhys and his wrath. He would be angry at Nesta, of course. The one person she could count on to tell her the truth.

It was ironic that, of all the people Feyre had grown to love and think of as family, only Nesta had thought to treat her like an adult, capable of handling the truth. Nesta, who she’d locked away in the House of Wind, who understood what it was like to have no control over your life or your body. Feyre’s cheeks burned with shame as she ran, as she watched Cassian disappear over the mountains with her sister dangling in his arms.

I owe Nesta an apology and much, much more.

Feyre shook her head, dashing down a side street and emerging into a crowded marketplace. She pulled her hood over her head and pushed her sleeves down, desperate to blend in with the crowd. She’d never felt unsafe around her mate or her friends before, but if they were willing to lie to her about her own body, about her own baby, what else might they be willing to do in the name of her safety?

Feyre. Feyre darling.

No.

Feyre slammed her mental shield firmly into place — black adamant, hard, immovable.

Rhys’s talons scraped at the boundary of her mind, seeking her, begging her to let him in, to let him explain. She ignored him. Then continued to ignore him as he threw himself against her shield, desperate. Distraught. Frantic.

She considered telling him to fuck off, but he didn’t deserve even that.

She’d allowed his beautiful, seductive voice in her mind to lull her into complacency. She’d let him chip at her freedom, her autonomy, a little bit at a time, until she was more firmly controlled than she’d ever been in Tamlin’s manor.

It had started during the war, she realized — when she’d felt like she had to lie to Mor in order to slip away and find the Suriel. Why had she felt the need to do that? Once Rhys had goaded her to slip into the Weaver’s Cottage just to retrieve a fucking ring, but when she was really needed, when Hybern had the upper hand, what had Mor said?

Rhys will kill me if I leave you here.

Feyre had been too preoccupied at the time to process that. Had brushed it off. But it made no sense that she would need Mor to guard her — was she not a High Lady, capable of wielding the powers of all seven High Lords? Had she not fought in battles before?

Feyre had totally failed to notice how she was slowly being herded away from the front lines, from opportunities to make a difference, from any risk at all.

Rhys was becoming controlling, even then. And recruiting his friends — my friends — to help him.

And since she’d become pregnant, he’d only gotten worse.

He’d put a shield around her so impenetrable that her own family and friends couldn’t physically touch her.

He’d convinced her to lock up her own sister, supposedly for Nesta’s own good.

Worst of all, he’d lied to her about her own body. About her baby. About the risk to her life.

He was going to let me die without telling me. They all were.

Feyre’s tears flowed freely, for her baby and for herself. She wouldn’t let herself cry for Rhys, too — not just now, not when he’d broken her trust in such a basic way.

She fled from one street to the next, insensible of where she was going, but knowing she couldn’t go home. Couldn’t go anywhere Rhys or the others would find her. She needed to be alone, to think clearly — maybe for the first time in years.

But where could she go?

She suddenly wished they hadn’t bulldozed Nesta’s apartment in the seedy section of town. It would have been a perfect hiding place.

Feyre slowed down, clutching her belly. She’d been told that exercise was fine, that moving her body would help keep her in good condition for the labor, that the baby was healthy and strong — but now she wondered if she could trust anything Madja had told her. 

She only said it was risky. She didn’t tell me I might die.

Feyre looked around at the crowd in the market — blithely going about their business, shopping or strolling or chatting — and frowned when she didn’t spot even one pregnant belly amongst the throng. She’d been told having babies was difficult, that it could take years to get pregnant, that younglings were prized and rare. But now it really hit home.

She could have cried from the loneliness alone.

Feyre didn’t know one other pregnant person, or anyone who’d been through that experience who could relate to what she was going through. She’d been the youngest of her family, so she had no memory of her mother being pregnant or giving birth. She certainly didn’t know anyone who’d had to make the sort of heart-wrenching decisions that she now faced.

Suddenly Feyre missed her mother terribly — not her actual mother, to whom she’d never been close, but the idea of having a mother, of someone loving her the way that she already loved her son.

Feyre darling, please. Please.

No. No.

She angrily shoved him away. She was too angry to even think of talking to him right now. And she certainly wasn’t going to give him a chance to spin his mental circles around her, muddying her reasoning until she was tempted to excuse his controlling behavior.

He lied. He tried to keep me sheltered, like a fucking child.

She’d left Tamlin for treating her this way — had left Rhys once, lying in the mud, for keeping her life’s secrets from her. Yet he was going to let this happen without even giving her a chance to properly say goodbye.

Feyre cast her magic out across Velaris — seeking somewhere she could go to get some space, figure things out. Rhys controlled everything and everyone in this city, would be able to find her too easily if she went to any of their homes or usual hangouts. 

She sucked in a shaky breath, willing herself to be calm, to face this new challenge with courage and a clear mind, and winnowed.

Chapter Text

Tamlin leaped up from his chair, talons springing from his fingers, as the manor’s wards pulsed once, then twice. “Wait here,” he growled, striding purposefully from the table, letting his fork clatter to the floor.

Outside, the afternoon had turned midnight black, as though night itself had descended upon them, and an oppressive, wordless wailing rocked through the walls and ceilings.

“What the fuck,” his guest sputtered, but the High Lord was already out of the dining room, stalking towards the front door.

“Stay inside,” Tamlin barked over his shoulder, picking up speed as the wards pulsed for a third time.

Oh no you don’t, you fucking bastard. Not this time.

An earth-shattering roar rocked the house, scattering the remaining glass panes of all the first floor windows and cracking the stones.

Go on, destroy it all. Tamlin welcomed it. Craved it. His world had crumbled to ruins, why not this house too?

Tamlin flung the front door open and lunged through it, fangs bared and talons extended, and shifted fully into his beast form as he tackled the High Lord of the Night Court to the ground.

Rhys went down snarling and snapping, ripping at Tamlin as he shifted into his beast form. They rolled into the garden, crushing bushes and flower beds and anything else in their path.

“Where is she,” Rhys roared, shoving Tamlin away from him and pouncing, claws out, straight for Tamlin’s face. Tamlin dodged, sending Rhys tumbling into the snarl of brambles that had once been his mother’s rose garden, then flung out his magic at Rhys before he could slice his way through the thorn-covered vines.

Rhys let out a feral howl, eerie and bone-chilling, and burst through Tamlin’s magic, sending out a wave of night-kissed power that withered the brambles and surrounding grass into dust. 

Tamlin swore and shielded. “Get out,” he snarled.

“Not without my mate,” Rhys howled, lunging forward, fangs bared.

“She’s not here, asshole,” Tamlin snapped, forcing him back, gripping his wrists and twisting hard, wringing a groan from the bastard before he could wrench free. “Your mate hasn’t stepped foot in these lands since she toppled my court.”

Rhys hissed, “Bullshit,” but he made no move to attack again, instead whipping his head around and turning in a circle. As if searching.

Suddenly the implications hit Tamlin forcefully, and he laughed — a guttural, bitter, feral bark. “Oh. Oh. She’s left you, has she?” He shifted, then crossed his arms over his chest and gave Rhys his best cocky grin, though he was too angry and out of breath to truly pull it off. “And you thought she came here?”

“You… bastard,” Rhys panted, but admitted, “We’ve looked everywhere else.” 

Then he shuddered and shifted, but he looked more disheveled, more askew, than Tamlin had ever seen him. His jacket was rumpled, his hair sticking out in random directions, his dark shadows leaking from him. His wings shifted in and out of view, as though he couldn’t control whether they appeared.

He looked so pathetic, Tamlin almost couldn’t bring himself to gloat. Almost.

Not after all the times he haunted this place to flaunt his success at my expense, not after all the gloating he’s done.

“So, she finally realized what you are,” Tamlin rasped. “That you’re not the dark knight in shining armor you pretend to be.”

“Watch it,” Rhys seethed, taking a hard step forward. His voice was rough, jagged, like he’d been screaming for hours. “I’ve been itching to kill someone all day, and you’ll do nicely. I’d be doing the world a fucking favor.”

“Why don’t you, High Lord,” Tamlin shot back. “You’ve made it your mission to destroy me and my court, yet you’re too much of a fucking coward to finish the job.” He grinned unpleasantly, showing too many teeth. “I’m sure you’ll win back your mate that way.”

“Feyre wants you dead too,” Rhys muttered, but he sounded less certain now.

“Is that why her harpy of a sister was here, threatening to rip my head off?” Tamlin asked. “Is that what passes for Night Court diplomacy these days?”

“Shut. Up,” Rhys gritted out.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “I don’t have time for this shit.”

“No, you don’t,” Tamlin shrugged. “Best be on your way to… what is it you’re planning on doing?”

“My mate is missing,” Rhys hissed. “I need to find her. Now.”

Tamlin paused. “She… vanished?” He shifted uncomfortably, concern for Feyre creeping in. “Is she hurt?”

Rhys shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Aren’t you —“ Tamlin twirled his finger by his temple. “You don’t sense her?”

“She’s blocked me out,” Rhys said tightly.

Tamlin whooshed out a breath, his anxiety easing. “Then she’s just pissed at you, not in danger.”

“She’s my mate, and she’s carrying my baby,” Rhys snapped, wings flaring as he took another step towards Tamlin. “I don’t know if she’s in danger. I don’t even know where she is.” He raked a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “You’re sure you haven’t seen her.”

If I had, I sure as shit wouldn’t tell you. But Tamlin said, truthfully, “I haven’t seen her since the War ended.”

Rhys’s hand dropped limply to his side, and his shoulders slumped. “Then where the fuck is she.” He sighed and took a step back, wings tucking in, then squinted up at the manor. “Since when are your wards so strong?”

Tamlin smirked. “Your emissary didn’t feel safe sleeping at the manor unless it was properly defended.”

Rhys’s violet eyes sparked. “Right. Lucien. Where is he?”

“How should I know? He’s yours now,” Tamlin shrugged, clawing back the bitter edge that had begun to creep into his voice. Losing Feyre to Rhys had been heartbreaking, infuriating — but losing Lucien on top of that had felt like a true betrayal. His romance with Feyre was a brief, intense whirlwind, but he’d known Lucien for centuries, and relied on him more than he cared to admit. “Don’t tell me you’ve misplaced him, too.”

Rhys snarled viciously. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I don’t enjoy things,” Tamlin said.

When Rhys just glared at him, he huffed a sigh. “The last I heard, Lucien was in the human lands.” He waved his hand vaguely to the south. “He plays house with that human queen and the general. I think he prefers their company to anyone else.”

Rhys cocked his head to the side. “Maybe I’ll pay Vassa and Jurian a visit. It’s been a while.” He tugged on his tunic, straightening out the wrinkles and brushing off garden dirt. Then he bowed mockingly to Tamlin. “A pleasure, as always, old friend. You are a charming host.”

Tamlin decided not to dignify that with a response. Rhys was volatile, raw, more than he’d seen since that night he descended on the manor like a whirlwind of death, bellowing and slaughtering, taking his revenge.

So he just blinked, then sighed with relief as Rhys vanished in a cloud of shadows and smoke.

“What the fuck was all that?” came a voice from behind him.

Tamlin stared out at his ruined garden, not bothering to turn around. “Eris. I thought I told you to wait inside,” he grumbled.

Eris snickered. “Oh, I did. I watched you two beasts from the window. You didn’t tell me you were expecting Rhysand to drop by for a brawl.”

“I wasn’t expecting him. You felt it — he tried to shatter the wards and barge in.” Tamlin sighed and ran a hand through his hair, frowning at the knots and tangles he encountered. “It seems he’s had a lover’s spat.”

“Good. I hope she gave him hell,” Eris said.

Tamlin turned and gaped. “Aren’t you buddies with him now?” He gestured toward the flowering trees. “That wasn’t you conspiring with his general and the Archeron witch?”

“We’re allies. Not friends,” Eris said pointedly. “It’s not personal, High Lord. It’s in my interest to cultivate alliances with all the courts. I thought we agreed—”

“Relax,” Tamlin sighed, “I gave my word.”

Tamlin had been startled to find Eris, Nesta Archeron and the winged general having a meeting on his property, but had quickly decided it wasn’t worth stirring up trouble by sticking his nose into their business or informing anyone. Though he’d been tempted when Feyre’s sister spewed vitriol at him and threatened his life, in grand Night Court tradition. All they know how to do is frighten and kill.

But once the general had flown the witch away, he and Eris had had a more civil conversation. Eris had apologized for the intrusion and thanked him for protecting Lucien for all those years. “I wish he’d stayed with you. I don’t like him in that pit of vipers,” he’d said.

It turned out Eris was gathering his allies, laying the groundwork for when he was High Lord. They’d discussed it over lunch today, and Tamlin had readily pledged his support. It was an easy choice, even though he didn’t have much to ask for in return. Eris would make a much better High Lord than Beron. 

And Lucien could finally go home.

“Anyway,” Eris said, snapping Tamlin out of his reverie, “why the fuck did he come here? No offense, but this is the last place Feyre would likely be.”

“He said they’ve looked everywhere,” Tamlin shrugged. “He said he was heading to the human lands next to check with Jurian and Vassa.”

Eris stiffened. “Lucien’s manor?” Flames sparked in his amber eyes. “You don’t think she’s hiding there, do you?”

Tamlin said, “I really wouldn’t know.”

Eris’s brow crinkled. “Maybe I should pop in, myself. You’re sure he’s there?”

“Not really,” Tamlin admitted. “But it’s either there or back at the Night Court.”

Eris nodded, considering. “I hear Velaris is lovely at this time of year.” He eyed Tamlin carefully, then said, “If he does show up here, with or without Feyre, you’ll hide him, won’t you? And you’ll send word?”

Tamlin nodded. “Of course.”

“Then that’s two favors I’ll owe you.” Eris sketched a bow that was almost sincere. “I’d better go find him before he manages to piss off every High Lord in Prythian.”

“I’m not pissed off —“ Tamlin objected, but Eris was already gone.

Chapter Text

Lucien scanned the bedroom one last time before snapping the satchel shut and hoisting it over his shoulder. That was the last room — all packed up. He sighed, regret and relief intertwining in his gut, and strode out, determined not to look back.

It’s for the best.

His mechanical eye clicked and scanned each room as he made his way towards the front door. He rarely stayed in this apartment, had never really settled in. It was as empty as his life in this city, at this court.

In the early days, when he’d held out a fool’s hope of wooing Elain, he’d lingered in Velaris. He’d visited its shops and cafés on his own, the occasional concert hall or museum, scoping out the best places to take her. He’d always returned here alone.

The city lights glittered, taunting him. Mocking him. There’s enjoyment and life here, but not for you.

So he’d stayed away. Rhys seemed fine with that, as long as he got his way where it counted — his alliances strengthened, and Tamlin tamed. Lucien tried not to spend the money Rhys paid him, hating the transaction, the dependence on the High Lord’s benevolence.

It’s not charity, you work for me, Rhys had chided him. But he still resented it.

Lucien didn’t want work. He wanted a home.

This sparkling city, this court, would never be that.

Oh, Feyre could pretend they were all one happy family — that he’d be welcomed if he stayed with them, that her friends would ever treat him with anything but faint amusement and contempt. That Elain wouldn’t slip out to hide in the kitchen, or the gardens, anytime he strolled in. He’d gladly endure Tamlin’s rages and snarls before submitting himself to that.

His mechanical eye zoomed out, lingering on the network of wards he’d woven around the windows. He’d have to remove them, leave the apartment as undefended as he’d found it.

Lucien sighed, slipping his hands through his hair, corralling the slim braids into a larger band. Stop it. It’s for the best.

He reached out to pluck the first spell, and unspool the rest.

But then the wards pulsed, and he staggered back.

His heart pounded in his ears as his gaze shot to the front door. Just visitors for the neighbors, he told himself. Just a delivery to the wrong address. He so rarely had guests, he doubted anyone remembered he was even supposed to live here.

The wards pulsed again.

He almost called out Sorry, you’ve got the wrong place.

But then Feyre’s voice echoed urgently in his mind. Lucien, it’s me. 

The sheer desperation, the agony in her tone, had him careening for the door. He flung it open, then strangled the yelp that rose up in his throat from the sight of her.

Feyre looked terrible. She was sweaty and disheveled, her face red and splotchy and tearstained, and she had a wild look of terror and fury in her eyes that made him scan the hallway and stairwell, hand clutching the empty space where he usually wore his dagger, to be sure she wasn’t being followed.

He almost yelped again when she launched herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck and breaking into fresh sobs.

Lucien twisted, snagging the door handle with his fingers, and managed to yank it closed, then held Feyre as she cried into his shirt, having no idea what had happened or why she’d come to him, of all people. The last time they’d been alone together had been all the way back on Winter Solstice, and they’d had a sour, nasty argument that had him wondering if they were even friends anymore.

Since then, he’d only seen Feyre sporadically, never long enough to have a real conversation. Or another argument. He’d told himself it was for the best.

But now, a creeping, icy dread spread through him at what might have been happening during all those months that he’d left Feyre to her happy family and circle of friends.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre mumbled into his shoulder.

“Gods, why?” he burst out, pulling back enough to look into her eyes. “Here, come in,” he added gently, gesturing to his couch. She nodded stiffly and followed him in, slumping into the cushions and closing her eyes, as though she might sink down and disappear.

“Tea? Water?” he asked stupidly, twisting his fingers.

But she shook her head and patted the cushion next to her. “Just… sit with me,” she said.

He obeyed, perching nervously on the couch. He tried not to stare at her belly, but couldn’t help but notice how she rested her hands on it, rubbing little circles as if she could soothe both the baby and herself.

Finally Feyre spoke into his mind, as though the words were too painful to say aloud. The baby has wings.

“Ah,” Lucien said aloud, then tried to push a thought back to her. Like Rhys?

She nodded, biting her lip.

He struggled to understand why she seemed so upset about it. He’d seen her use her shapeshifting gift to sprout wings. She’d even learned to fly.

I won’t be able to give birth, she clarified. The wings will get stuck when the baby comes out.

Oh. Lucien sucked in a breath, his mind stumbling over the implications. He had never contemplated the mechanics of such things, but from her tone, her level of distress, he knew the situation must be dire. And… there’s nothing they can do to save the baby?

Feyre shook her head sadly, fresh tears wetting her cheeks. Nothing at all.

Lucien reached for her hand and squeezed it. I’m so sorry to hear it, Feyre. I know how much you were looking forward to having this baby.

She gently caressed her belly again, and as the tears slid down her cheeks, Lucien put an awkward arm around her shoulder. It’s not just the baby. I would die too.

Lucien’s arm tightened around her, and he wrestled down his horror. Not Feyre, not again. He’d already watched her die once, at Amarantha’s cruel hands, but this seemed crueler still. He could see how much she loved the new life growing within her, how vibrant and alive she was, and to have it all snatched away —

For a long moment he couldn’t form words at all, couldn’t imagine that any words would help anyway. Feyre leaned into him, silent tears running down her cheeks, and his heart cracked open at the sight.

His mind began to spin, casting about for ways to fix it, angles to explore — but this was so far out of his experience that he didn’t know where to begin. She needed an expert. “What does your healer say about it?” he asked softly, then flushed and added, “Sorry, you don’t have to tell me, I just —“

“I don’t know, I haven’t asked her about it,” Feyre admitted, biting her lip. “I don’t think I can trust her.” Her voice reverberated in his mind again. She told Rhys, but not me.

“But,” he objected, cringing at the harsh sound. He took a shuddering breath, then concentrated on his thoughts instead. But why?

I don’t know. Feyre’s voice in his mind took on a bitter, angry tone. I had no idea it was so dangerous until Nesta said something.

“Nesta??” Lucien exclaimed, way too loudly, then clapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry,” he grimaced.

“Stop apologizing,” Feyre said crossly.

“Sorry,” Lucien blurted.

Feyre gave him a stern look, then started laughing. He grinned sheepishly, then swallowed, and tried again. “But… Nesta?”

“Nesta,” Feyre nodded. “She told me the truth, when no one else would. Apparently they all knew, and decided I shouldn’t. Cassian flew away with her, hopefully far away from Rhys’s fury, and I came straight here.”

Lucien froze, except for his mechanical eye, which started clicking rapidly. He hadn’t fully registered until now that she’d shown up alone, that she’d shown up here because she was avoiding the people she normally would run to. They were all in on the deception. They’d known her life was in danger, and chosen to hide it from her. How did they justify it?

His mind clicked a detail into place that had been floating around, unmoored. “Rhys’s fury… Rhys wanted to break the news himself?” he asked carefully.

Feyre’s face twisted with rage. “Rhys wasn’t going to tell me at all.”

Lucien swore.

Rhys wasn’t going to tell her.

What the hell was he thinking?

Feyre spat, “Rhys told the people he trusts, but ordered them all to keep it from me.” Her hands balled into fists.

Lucien flushed, remembering how angry Feyre had been back at the Spring Court, when he’d lied about how he’d gotten injured. Don’t tell her about the naga, Tamlin had ordered, it’ll just upset her. But it had upset her more that he’d hidden the truth.

That was always Tamlin’s thing. Don’t mention the monsters. Don’t bring up Hybern. I’m going to ask Helion to break her bargain, don’t tell her.

Stupid Tamlin had tried to shelter her, keep her in a safe, ignorant little bubble, and she’d ended up hating him for it. And she’d hated Lucien too, for being complicit.

Lucien grimaced. He’d obeyed Tamlin out of a misplaced sense of duty, and a healthy dose of fear. But he’d honestly thought that Rhys’s Inner Circle had more pull with Rhys than he’d had with Tamlin, between their own powers and their strength in numbers. But in the end, they’d all fallen into line, just as Lucien once had.

But not Nesta.

Would Rhys really hurt her? He shuddered at the thought. Lucien had always disliked Nesta, always resented her for her habit of guarding Elain, but she was still Feyre’s sister. The idea that Rhys would threaten her… it crossed a line.

Lucien took several deep breaths, struggling to calm his pounding heart.

He looked carefully at Feyre — with all her powers, with her position as High Lady, he sometimes forgot how young she still was. His own mother probably hadn’t been much older when she’d been pregnant with Eris, and he wondered if it had been like this — if the healers spoke only to Beron, if everyone else knew more about her body than she did, if she got to make any decisions at all.

I’m comparing Rhys to Beron. The thought made him murderously angry at both High Lords.

“Does… Rhys know where you are?” he asked nervously.

She didn’t reply. It was answer enough.

Cauldron, if he comes here looking for her — 

Lucien’s heart leaped into his throat, but he turned back to Feyre, swallowing down his panic and forcing calm into his voice. “What can I do?”

Feyre looked at him earnestly. “I just need some peace and quiet, away from the fucking assholes who thought I couldn’t handle the truth.”

She huffed, sliding delicate tattooed fingers through the loose strands of hair that had collected around her face, plastered to her cheeks and forehead. Lucien quietly tugged at one of his own braids, loosening the golden thread that he’d used to keep it in place, and handed it to her. She took it, wrapping it around her hair, then closed her eyes.

She’s exhausted.

“Stay here, then,” Lucien said. “For tonight, and as long as you want. It’s nothing fancy, but —“

“It’s perfect,” Feyre said decisively, patting the pillow behind her back. “This is surprisingly comfortable.”

“Nope. You take the bed,” Lucien said, gesturing past them towards the bedroom.

“It’s fine, I just barged in and —“

“You’re my guest. You get the bed,” Lucien said sternly.

Feyre rolled her eyes, but acquiesced. “Mother hen.”

Lucien rolled his eyes back at her, and tried to smile.

Feyre rose from the couch. “Well, I’m going to go clean up. I’m a mess.” She headed towards the back of the apartment, then paused and gripped his forearm. “If anyone comes looking for me, tell them to go away.”

He nodded, shoving down his misgivings. He wasn’t sure how long he could stall a determined Rhys, if he darkened his door. He gazed at the ceiling, studying the apartment’s defenses. He’d crafted the wards to keep out intruders, but doubted they would withstand a High Lord. Time to fix that. At the very least, I need to hold Rhys off long enough for her to winnow out.

He looked down at his satchel and other bags, abandoned on the floor, and sighed again.

He rummaged through the largest one, fishing out the towels and sheets and blanket. The rest could wait.

Lucien slipped into the bedroom and remade the bed, then went back to the front door to check the locks and start strengthening the wards. 

Feyre emerged from the bathing chamber, face red and freshly scrubbed. He opened his mouth to ask what he could get her, if she was hungry, but she said, “Don’t fuss. I’m fine.” Her eyes slid to the bags on the floor, then back up to him. She looked at him for a long moment. “You were leaving.”

He paused, leaving the ward spells dangling unfinished as he turned back to her.  “Well,” he stammered.

“Lucien,” she said, gently scolding, “you didn’t tell me.”

Lucien shrugged, lowering his eyes. “After we argued, I thought…” He tugged at one of his braids, as though he could summon coherent thoughts that way. “It’s not important right now.”

“Yes, it is,” Feyre said. “Lucien, I don’t know how much time I have. I can’t leave anything unfinished.”

Lucien gaped at her, horrified. “Feyre, you don’t know that for sure—“

“Yes, I do,” Feyre said. “I have to face it. I can’t put anything off, big or small.” She twisted her fingers, making the swirls of her tattoos seem to dance. “I never made things right with you.”

Lucien swallowed hard. “I never did, either.” He tugged his braid again, then said quietly, “I regret a lot of things where you’re concerned. How I treated you when we first met. How I didn’t intervene more with Tamlin. That day in the forest…” He shuddered. “And don’t get me started on Hybern.”

“I blamed you,” Feyre said. “Not just for your own actions, but for Tamlin’s. So I didn’t think twice about sabotaging your life right along with his.” She shook her head. “You’ve been miserable ever since.”

That’s not your fault. You can’t make Elain want a mate, Lucien almost said. He flushed and looked away.

Feyre tugged on his braid, pulling his gaze back to her. “We’ve both been dishonest. That’s going to change. I don’t have time for anything but the truth.”

Lucien nodded wordlessly, but she tugged on his braid again, saying, “Promise me.”

“I promise,” Lucien said.

“Good,” Feyre breathed. “I promise, too.” She sighed heavily, closing her eyes.

Lucien gently took her shoulders. “Do you want to go rest?”

She nodded, but added, “I can’t decide if I’d rather go lie down, or go find Rhys and punch his lying face.” Lucien flinched, but she said, “He knows how I feel about being kept in the dark, about being lied to. After all this time, after all we’ve been through together, why didn’t he tell me?”

Lucien couldn’t answer that. “I gave up trying to understand Rhys long ago.”

Rhys guarded himself so thoroughly, put up so many walls and wore so many masks, that Lucien never knew which version of the High Lord he would encounter. Usually the Rhys he got was the cruel, callous one with the vicious sense of humor, though he’d seen Rhys be friendly and understanding with others.

He’d always hoped that Rhys would at least be gentle with Feyre’s sisters, though if he was willing to threaten Nesta… No. Elain is innocent. With her, he’d be kind.

“I thought I understood him,” Feyre said. “I thought I knew him, inside and out. I’ve been in his mind, Lucien — he’s shown me memories, innermost thoughts. I thought we were a partnership. That day in the War…” Tears slipped from Feyre’s eyes. “That was the worst moment of my life.”

Worse than your own death? he wondered.

Yes, her voice echoed in his mind. Worse than that.

She trembled, and he squeezed her.

He came back. You both did, he reminded her. And you will again.

“You think so?” she asked, voice wobbly.

“Yes. I do,” Lucien said resolutely. “You’re stubborn as hell, Feyre. You’ll fight this, like you’ve fought everything else.”

Feyre pulled back and looked at him, determination sparkling in her eyes. But then they flickered uncertainly. “I don’t know anything about giving birth.”

“Neither do I,” Lucien said. “But… I know someone who does.” His mechanical eye whirred. “Getting in touch will be tricky, but I’ll find a way.”

Feyre nodded. She took a step toward the bedroom, saying, “I’m going to crash for a while. Maybe wake me if you make lunch?”

He nodded. “I’ll scrounge something up.”

“Sounds delicious already,” she deadpanned, then added more seriously, “You’re sure we’re safe here? He can’t… barge in?”

He patted her shoulder. “I’m warding this place up like a fortress. Rhys is strong, but he’s no spell-cleaver.”

“Thank you,” Feyre whispered to him, pecking his cheek before padding off to the bedroom, hands cradling her belly as she slipped behind the door.

Lucien went back to weaving his wards, then collapsed onto the couch, pondering his next move. Feyre needed a safe place to stay, accurate information, and a healer she could trust.

Until he could form a plan, he could only give her one of those things. But it was a start.

Chapter Text

He died, and went into the darkness.

She begged and screamed and clung to him, and he emerged. Back to the light, to life, to her.

And now she was gone, and it was dark — as dark as cold, black, endless death.

He was the darkness, the cruelest unrelenting night, the endless rage, the turbulent scream that shook the mountains, cracked the earth.

He tore through the land on a phantom wind, winnowing into flight above the morning of the glittering city. But on that morning, the sun did not rise.

The storm rolled in with thunder and ice, sending the people screaming and scurrying, barring their doors, huddling away from the shattering windows. Birds plummeted from the sky, pelted with freezing rain and hurled on angry winds. The mountains shook with his rage, dislodging boulders that tore through the trees, and the seas churned with great cresting waves.

Where. Where. Where, his heart pounded out.

He would tear the mountains apart stone by stone, rip trees up by the roots, crumble buildings into gravel, but he would find her, or there would be no light, no joy, nothing once he was through with this forsaken world.

Gone, she’s gone, she’s gone.

A shield of shining red light rippled across the city, and he hurled himself against it, roaring his fury to the skies. He bashed and battered, throwing his whole might against its power, then shrieked as a winged angel tackled him, knocking him backwards, blazing a blue trail as they plummeted towards the river.

The frigid waters of the Sidra grabbed him, ripping the air from his lungs, and then he was wrestled onto the banks, shivering and snarling and cursing as hands seized his legs and arms, shoving him flat on his back, pinning his wings to the ground.

“I don’t care where, just get him out,” a deep voice barked.

Then he was taken in shadows, dragged into the dark.

* * * * *

Feyre. My Feyre, where have you gone —

He twisted, gripping fistfuls of grass in his palms, and shoved at his captors, straining against their hold until his wrists ached and his muscles burned. He bellowed at them, hurling threats and curses until his throat was raw, until his strength was sapped and his cheeks were soaked with river water and tears.

No. No. I can’t be held here. Find her, protect her, help her —

He wrenched his arm free and ripped at the red siphon closest to him — let’s see you fight me without it, let me feel that raw killing power — but blue light exploded around him, knocking him back, and a voice growled, “Knock him out again.”

“No — no,” he howled. 

Cassian’s furious face swam in his vision, dripping sweat, nose bloodied, as he snarled, “Then stop this, now.”

Rhys stared up at his brother, lit up in blue and red, took in the snarled hair, the bruised eyes, the cut lip. Then his other brother looming behind him, grim and silent, pinning his wrists to the ground with strong, scarred hands.

Then at the mountains, shrouded with mist, and the sheer drop from the cliff that would end this all for him, if he had the courage to rip himself free and plunge off. Would he spread his wings near the bottom, or let the hard ground break him?

“Whatever you’re thinking, you can forget it,” Cassian snarled, hand pinching Rhys’s cheeks and twisting his face away from the cliff’s edge.

“She’s gone, Cass,” Rhys rasped, “she’s gone. And my baby with her. Dead. Lost.”

“She’s alive, asshole,” Cassian spat. “But if you die, she dies.” His fingers shook as they clenched Rhys’s face. “And we are not letting that happen.”

Alive. She’s alive.

Rhys jerked his head, twisting away from Cassian’s calloused fingers. “Where,” he gasped. “Where is she, Cass? Where is my mate?”

“We… still don’t know,” Cassian said hesitantly.

Rhys growled viciously, blood roaring in his ears, demanding that he find her, eliminate any threat to her and the baby, punish and destroy and rage. There will be no light in this world until I find my mate again.

Cassian exchanged a worried look with Azriel.

Afraid. They’re afraid of me. Of what I’ll do.

They should be.

But the fight had gone out of him, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back, letting the cold dew seep into his scalp and neck.

There was a thud as another pair of boots crunched on the hard ground, and Cassian swore, “Fucking finally.”

“You’re here,” Azriel said, hoarse. Relieved.

Rhys opened his eyes, and Mor’s shining face stared down at him, radiant and terrible.

The light of truth. Mor rarely used her full power, but Rhys knew it was going to hurt like hell.

Rhys shrank back, blinking rapidly, shying away from it. He didn’t want the light. He didn’t want the truth. He wanted the darkness, the violence, the rage. He wanted Cassian and Azriel to wrestle him, fight with him, punch him bloody. Anything but this.

“Look at me,” Morrigan commanded.

His gaze snapped to her, and he fell still.

Morrigan’s voice echoed through the mountains, bounced from the stones, and inside his mind, clear and low. You are destroying everything and everyone you love.

“No,” he whispered, but his soul whispered, Yes.

You must make amends for violating her trust. You must regain control, or all will be lost.

“Lost,” Rhys wailed, “she is lost. Our baby, lost.”

Tears streamed down his face and he squeezed his eyes shut, but Mor’s slender fingers clenched his shoulders, clawing him back from the edge, keeping him anchored. When she spoke again, it was the gentle voice of his sweet cousin, but the truth still rang in his ears. “Not yet, Rhys. There’s still time.”

There’s still time. Still hope.

Rhys took ragged breaths as he lay limply in the grass, exhausted, soaking wet. His brothers watched him warily, siphons glowing faintly, ready to take him on again.

I must regain control, or all will be lost.

He’d been frantic, half out of his mind, since the moment Feyre left. His rage was bent towards Nesta first — that fucking harpy, that bitch, whose angry outburst had ruined everything — but when he realized Feyre was missing, that he couldn’t feel her anywhere, he’d begun to panic. Anything could happen to her, anyone could attack her, take her, take their baby, and he wouldn’t even know.

She’s not defenseless, Rhys, they’d tried to tell him, but they didn’t understand how dire the situation was. Feyre couldn’t use magic, couldn’t shape-shift, couldn’t fight back as usual — not while she was pregnant. She’d protect the baby before herself, so she’d hold back, and he wouldn’t be there to shield and protect her. She was vulnerable, and she was gone.

He’d once told her he’d tear the world apart to get her back. And so he had.

He’d been scouring Prythian nonstop, desperate to find her. To pick up her scent, or the spent magic from when she’d winnowed. But there was nothing. He’d traced her as far as a marketplace in Velaris, then no further.

They’d fanned out anyway, checking at every court, even the ruins of Spring. He’d almost misted Tamlin when that bastard began to gloat. Tamlin, who let her wither and waste away, who warded her up inside his manor — that male had no right to judge.

I should have told her.

He’d wanted her to be happy for a little while — to savor the pregnancy while he bore the terror, alone. It would be his sacrifice for her, his last gift, to let her have that joy, rather than fill her dwindling days with fear.

But a sweet life of false happiness wasn’t for Feyre. She was his mate, equally fierce and powerful and courageous, and she hated lies.

You must make amends for violating her trust.

She might not forgive me this time.

He swore and tried to sit up, but found himself blocked. He grimaced and looked at Cassian, then Az. “I’m fine,” he grumbled, then speared a thought into both their minds. I’m sorry. You can let me up.

Cassian and Azriel exchanged one more significant look, as if debating whether to take the risk, then nodded and released their hold, watching him warily as he pushed up from the grass. He swiped at his face, frowning at the blood — his and his brother’s — staining his hands. He desperately hoped it was the only blood he’d spilled.

Mor reached for his hand. “Come on. Let’s go get you cleaned up.” She tugged at him, but he made no move to stand.

“No,” he muttered. “Leave me.”

“Don’t be a selfish bastard, you’re no good to your family like this,” Mor snapped.

Cassian hissed, “Mor, maybe don’t —“

“No. She’s right,” Rhys said, hand shaking as he shoved back his hair. “I was selfish. I couldn’t handle Feyre being upset and afraid. So I hid the truth from her, made choices for her that I had no right to make.” He sighed, letting his hand flop down to his side. “Even if she survives this, she’ll never forgive me.”

“She will,” Cassian declared. “She’ll understand.”

Mor pressed her lips into a thin line, but said nothing. She knows better.

Azriel spoke. “My shadows have news.”

Rhys whirled around, staring down his brother with desperate hope. Azriel’s shadows pulsed around him thickly, a cloud of swirling black, and he wondered what it sounded like when they whispered in his ear, when they sang a song only Az could hear. News. Mother help me, please let it be that she’s home, that she’s all right.

Mor came and crouched beside him, but Rhys felt Cassian hovering at his back, ready to grab him if the news was bad. But he wouldn’t let himself lose control like that again. I must regain control, or all will be lost.

“The city center took damage during our fight,” Azriel said. “The marketplace, promenade, and the residential quarter.”

Rhys cursed himself and the dark power that roiled in his blood. He’d given everything to protect Velaris, only to almost destroy it. “I’ll pay for everything,” he swore. “I’ll rebuild it all myself, stone by stone.”

“All buildings but one,” Azriel went on. “One block of apartments, in the center of town.” The shadows swirled, and then he said, “This one building was utterly undamaged.”

“How? Was it shielded?” Mor asked.

“No,” Rhys breathed, clenching his fists. “If she used magic, if she shielded —“ Fresh tears sprang to his eyes. “Madja said she shouldn’t, that it would be too risky.” He started shaking. “If she was in the city, if she was in that building, and she had to protect herself — from me —“

I did this. I made her use her magic. She’ll lose the baby, and it’ll kill her, I’ll lose them both —

Cassian gripped his arm in warning. “Keep it together, brother.”

Rhys took a gasping breath, then another. Control. I’m in control. I’m going to help her.

“It could have been shielded, but we won’t know until we look,” Azriel said.

“What else could protect a building like that?” Mor asked.

Azriel shook his head, but Rhys said, “Wards.”

Your emissary didn’t feel safe sleeping at the manor unless it was properly defended.

Rhys leaped to his feet. “I’m going to kill that fucking bastard.”

“Who are you talking about?” Mor exclaimed, jumping up as well.

“Lucien,” Rhys snarled. His mind was racing, piecing the details together. No wonder he couldn’t find traces of her at any of the other courts — she’d never left the city. She’d gone to gods-damned Lucien, that sly little asshole.

“You’re sure?” Mor asked.

“Oh yes,” Rhys said. “He wasn’t with Tamlin, or the humans. He was here, in my city, keeping my mate and baby from me.” The ground rumbled beneath their feet as he bubbled over with rage. “The fucking nerve.”

“Wait,” Cassian barked, clamping his hands down on Rhys’s shoulders. “Think. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that,” Rhys snapped. He fixed his gaze on Azriel. “Get me the address.”

Azriel’s cold eyes blinked. “You’re going to calm down first.”

“He’s got my mate,” Rhys shouted, lunging forward and grabbing Azriel’s arms. “I am not going to just stand here and —“

“Yes, you are,” Mor said, gently but firmly, tugging him backwards by the arm. “That’s exactly what you’re going to do. You are going to leave this to us.”

Rhys whirled around to glare at her. “He won’t let any of us in, and you know it.”

Azriel said, “There is one person we could send.” He looked at Cassian. “Though Nesta would probably object.”

“Nesta’s meddling is done,” Cassian said. “She won’t interfere again.”

Azriel nodded solemnly, then laid out his plan.

Chapter Text

Lucien stared at the door.

Not a knock. Just the wind, a remnant from the freak ice storm that had pummeled the city early in the morning.

Thud. It sounded again, louder, more insistent.

Feyre was still in bed — mercifully undisturbed by the whistling winds and crashing debris that had wrenched him from his fitful sleep on the couch — so he tiptoed to the door, and peered through the peephole.

Then swore.

“No,” he barked.

An exasperated sigh from the hall, then a drawled, “No? Don’t you want to hear my news, little brother?”

Lucien puffed his cheeks out, then huffed a sigh and relented, flinging the door open with a shake of his head. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“Good to see you too,” chuckled Eris, rolling his eyes dramatically as he strode past Lucien. He tossed a folded piece of parchment onto the side table and plopped down, crossing leg over knee, smirking, “From your little human friends. I must say, that queen is a real spitfire.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Lucien snapped, snatching the letter and shoving it into his jacket pocket, then crossing his arms and leaning against the wall opposite his brother.

“Think about what?” Eris asked, all innocence. “Oh — oh. Why, what a dirty mind you have, brother. But I rather think dallying with humans is more up your alley.”

Lucien ran a weary hand over his face. “What do you want, Eris?”

Eris uncrossed his legs and sat up, leaning forward, all amusement gone. “What I want is to slap some sense into you, you little asshole.”

Flames sparked at Eris’s fingertips, and Lucien shoved off the wall, blood heating.

“Is this some kind of sick game for you?” Eris asked bitingly. “Are you trying to get yourself exiled from every court, or killed outright? Or is pissing off High Lords just a hobby?”

“What the fuck are you talking about,” Lucien seethed, though cold dread pooled in the pit of his stomach.

“I am talking about Feyre Curse-breaker,” Eris hissed, flinging out an arm toward the back of the apartment. “Rhysand’s gods-damned mate. Do you have any idea how pissed he is that she’s missing? Or what he’ll do with you when he finds her here?”

“She’s not —“ Lucien began, but Eris leaped up and stormed over to him, grabbing his shoulders and shoving him into the wall.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, I can smell her and her babe,” Eris snarled, flames blazing in his amber eyes. “Not on you, at least. Thank the Cauldron for that. You had enough sense not to fuck Rhysand’s mate —“

Lucien’s fist connected with Eris’s nose, and his brother staggered back, cursing and fingering his lip to check for blood. Then Eris flung himself forward, knocking Lucien back into the wall, jolting pain through the back of his head and down his spine, and shoved a forearm against his neck.

“You listen to me,” Eris growled, “because I’m taking a big risk coming here. I can’t protect you if Rhysand decides to gut you, or shatter your mind. After what I saw at Spring —“

“Wait. Spring?” Lucien croaked, peeling Eris’s arm away from his neck and taking long, gulping breaths.

“Yes, you reckless idiot. I was visiting Tamlin. I had to do damage control after Nesta threatened him.” Eris’s angry expression eased, and a teasing smile settled back onto his lips. “Now that’s a female worth pursuing. Imagine what she could do with Father’s courtiers —“

“No,” Lucien said sourly.

Eris smirked. “Suit yourself.”

“I have a mate,” Lucien grumbled.

Eris cocked his head to the side. “Do you?”

You fucking bastard. A ball of flame sparked in Lucien’s palm, and Eris barked a cruel laugh. “I hit a nerve.”

“Focus, Eris,” Lucien snapped, hating that he’d let Eris rile him. He snuffed the fire out and clenched his fist shut. “When you were at Spring, you saw Rhys?”

“I saw a beast,” Eris said. “A fucking beast with black armored scales, straight out of the pits of hell. Even more terrifying than Tamlin.”

Lucien clenched his jaw. “They brawled?”

Eris nodded. “Tamlin warned me to stay inside. Like I needed to be told. Unlike some people, I don’t go seeking to get myself killed.”

“Did Rhys,” Lucien said, “did Tamlin…?”

“They’re both fine,” Eris said, waving a dismissive hand. “Physically, anyway. Tamlin is a pathetic mess, but he pulled it together for my visit. He’s a clod, a bit simple, but he was a loyal friend to you. I still don’t get why you left him.”

“Hybern was overrunning Spring. Feyre saved me, so I owed it to her to help her escape. And Rhys had my mate,” Lucien said tightly.

“And now you have his. So you’re even,” Eris retorted. “I hope you’re happy, because he’s torn the city apart, looking for her.”

“That storm… that was Rhys?” Lucien whooshed out a shaky breath. “Mother spare us.”

Eris brushed an invisible wrinkle from his tunic. “Like I said, you’ve got a death wish —“

“Fuck off, Eris,” Lucien said irritably.

You idiot, he scolded himself. This is your one chance to get a message out. Ask him.

“Gladly. I don’t want to be here when Rhys bursts in and finds his mate in your bed.” Eris strode to the front door, hand lingering on the knob. “Consider yourself warned.”

Swallow your pride. Feyre doesn’t have time for this shit.

Lucien twisted his fingers. “…Wait.”

Eris paused, his shoulders hunching and then dropping. “I fucking knew it.”

“It’s important, Eris,” Lucien said pleadingly, striding to the door and bracing his hand on it.

Eris eyed him warily. “You’ve got my attention.”

Lucien sucked in a deep breath, and said, “Feyre is going to die in childbirth.”

Eris stared at him in stunned silence, so he plowed ahead. “I have to help her, but I’m trapped here. I can’t leave her alone in the apartment, undefended. And I can’t risk contacting anyone who might tell Rhys where she is.”

“You want me to play messenger —“ Eris began.

Lucien said, “She needs a healer. A good one — the best. And she needs to talk to someone who’s given birth before, so she knows what to expect.”

Eris paled and took a step back. “No.”

Lucien’s fingers snagged in his brother’s sleeves, yanking him forward. His voice came out raw, raspy. “Eris. Please.”

Eris tried to shake him off, snapping, “No. Cauldron, no. It’s far too risky. You know Father would never allow it.”

“Even if she could write Mother letters,” Lucien said. “You could —“

“I can’t.” Eris’s face was tight, pained. “You know why.”

Lucien’s face burned. He hadn’t been able to get a single message to his mother since he was forced to flee from Autumn, not even through intermediaries. His father was determined to destroy everything he loved, or at least deny him access.

He swallowed down his longing and shame. Focus on Feyre.

“The healer, then,” Lucien begged. His hands shook, but he forced himself to keep talking. “I can’t have any more deaths on my conscience. Please, Eris.”

Eris sighed, but said nothing. He’s considering it.

Lucien added quietly, “If Rhys’s mate and babe survive because you were willing to help —“

“He’ll owe me a favor? Perhaps. More likely, he’ll make me trade my help in exchange for not wringing your neck,” Eris snapped. “What am I supposed to do with you? I can’t take you back to Autumn. You’re not safe with humans, even with that firebird guarding you. I could stash you back at the Spring Court —

“You’re not taking him anywhere,” Feyre snapped, poking her head out from the kitchen. Cauldron boil me, she’s still got the huntress in her. She snuck up on both of us.

“Sweet Feyre, if I leave him here, your mate will make Amarantha’s handiwork look like a paper cut,” Eris said drily. “Even Thesan and all his tinkerers couldn’t craft enough moving parts to fix him up.”

Feyre glared at Eris, hands on her hips. “No one touches Lucien.”

Eris sputtered, “Your mate —“

“My mate can go to hell,” Feyre thundered.

Eris’s lips sprouted a wry, cruel smile. “Feisty as ever.”

“Eris,” Lucien said warningly, looking nervously between them, “maybe don’t —“

Feyre stormed over to Lucien and snagged his arm, dragging him away from Eris and toward the kitchen. “We don’t have time for this bullshit. We have to talk.”

I can’t put anything off, big or small.

“My request — at least think about it,” Lucien called over his shoulder, dodging the kitchen door as it swung shut behind him.

“Sit,” Feyre ordered, and he reached for the chair with a shaky hand, suddenly feeling like he had been called in for a scolding. He eased himself down, willing himself to be calm, and found a cup of tea pressed into his hands.

Feyre angled herself into the chair next to him, maneuvering her belly so that it fit under the table. “What is Eris doing here?”

Pissing me off.

“He came to warn me,” Lucien said. “He’s worried about Rhys.”

Feyre flinched. “How did he find out —“

But at that moment, Eris poked his head into the kitchen. “Someone’s at the door,” he said. “Should I answer it?”

“Unless it’s my sisters, tell whoever it is to fuck off,” Feyre said.

Eris rolled his eyes. “I’m sure that will go over fabulously with your mate and his friends.”

Lucien started to rise, saying, “Don’t bother, I’ll get it —“

Eris stalked in and shoved him back into the chair. “You do not go near that door, you idiot,” he hissed. “I don’t care how strong your wards are, I don’t care if you’re shielded — if they grab you, you’re finished.” Then he headed for the kitchen door, grumbling, “Keep him in here, Curse-breaker, I’ll deal with it.”

The door swung shut behind him.

Feyre was frowning at Lucien. “He’s not wrong, though. You’ve risked your life. I shouldn’t have come here —“

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare,” Lucien burst out.

“It’s true, though —”

“I don’t care. I’m going to help you,” Lucien insisted. “I was just trying to convince Eris to fetch our mother’s healer. I wanted him to bring Mother too, or at least you could exchange letters. If it weren’t for my fucking father…” He broke off, and swallowed hard.

“Your father. Beron,” Feyre said.

“That heartless bastard,” Lucien fumed, “won’t let Mother leave the Forest House. Or receive my letters. Or even see Eris, if she’s been disobedient.”

Feyre gazed at him with a mix of sadness and… something else. There was a strange glint in her eyes that made him tense up. Lucien swallowed, his throat rough, then took a big gulp of his tea.

“Your father,” Feyre said again.

“Fucking asshole doesn’t deserve the title,” Lucien grumbled.

“You’re right,” Feyre murmured. “He doesn’t.”

Lucien opened his mouth to speak again, but she slid a warm hand over his. “What if I told you he might not be your father?”

Chapter Text

Elain debated knocking for a third time, but before she could lift her hand again, the door cracked open.

A sneering male voice drawled, “Are you one of Feyre Cursebreaker’s sisters?”

Elain gasped, not expecting Feyre to be among male strangers at such a desperate time, but managed to squeak out, “Yes?”

A short pause. “Are you sure about that?” Then, “Because if you’re not, I’m supposed to tell you to fuck off.”

Elain glared at the closed door, affronted at such vulgar language. “Yes,” she said, more firmly. “I need to see my sister.”

“Do you, now,” the voice crooned. “Which of Rhysand’s little friends sent you? Because I doubt you’d have come here on your own.”

Who is this insufferable jerk? Elain snapped, “That’s none of your business.”

“Probably not,” the male conceded brightly. “Except I’m the one who’s going to let you in, or not. So forgive me for being curious.”

Elain balled her hands into fists. “You’d better not be hurting her in there.”

The voice laughed — a smooth, rich laugh one might hear in a ballroom or fancy party. “You’ve got some imagination, little sister. Who do you think sent me to the door in the first place?”

Elain opened her mouth and then shut it again, flummoxed as to how to respond. Be polite, but firm, they’d told her. Don’t let him turn you away.

Him. They meant her supposed mate that she hadn’t seen in months, not since Winter Solstice — and she’d taken pains to avoid him even then. She hated the fluttery feelings his mere presence could provoke in her, that infernal tug in her body that drew her towards him as though she had no choice in the matter. She hated feeling his sadness, the frustration and longing. Hated the impulse to go to him, to end his misery.

He had no right to make her feel that way, no claim. Whatever the Cauldron had woven between them had no meaning for her. She hated the Cauldron most of all. That alone made her want to avoid him.

Still, Elain’s cheeks flushed as she thought about what Feyre might be doing in his apartment — what they might be doing together. They were friends, she told herself, just friends. Feyre was mated to Rhys, and seemed to love him passionately, sometimes a little too publicly for Elain’s comfort. Could she really be sharing another male’s bed so quickly? And not just any other male, but him?

She shook off the scandalous thought, and focused her irritation on the male behind the door, the one who definitely wasn’t her so-called mate. She would recognize his voice, the pull of that thing that he called a mating bond. Besides, he would never speak to me that way.

“Well, I am her sister. So you’re supposed to let me in,” Elain told the insufferable male, trying and failing to use the same intimidating tone that her sisters deployed to such devastating effect.

The response was a mocking singsong. “Say please.”

Elain crossed her arms, hating the feeling of being treated like a petulant child. “No.”

The door swung open, and Elain nearly bolted for the stairs.

The silken red hair, the well-tailored clothes, the long slender fingers — so much like that other redheaded male, her heart twisted.

Yet this faerie was pale and freckled, not warmly tanned. And two amber eyes gazed shrewdly at her, rather than one of russet and one of gold. There was no kindness, no gentleness — this one was ultra-polished, cruel, cold.

“Well?” the male said, tapping a foot. “You coming in?”

Elain stomped in to the apartment, sorely tempted to shove the rude male aside. She was regretting coming here already, especially as the tug in her ribs pulled tight. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Stop it, she scolded herself. I’m here to save my sister.

“Where is she,” Elain said flatly, glancing around the living room for any sign of Feyre. Just an empty couch, a few tables, bare bookshelves. That surprised her — she’d have thought her so-called mate was more of a reader.

The male jerked his head towards a closed door. “Having a private conversation.” He shut the apartment door behind him, folding his arms across his chest. “I suppose you can wait out here.” He waved a hand at the couch. “Sit, or something.”

“I suppose you’re his brother,” Elain said.

The male nodded, his flame-red hair glinting under the ceiling lights. “Eris. And you are?”

Elain bit down on her answer, not wanting to share it. She’d heard that name mentioned. Eris — cruel, mean, callous. Everything his brother isn’t. But she drew herself up stiffly, and said, “Elain.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed on her. “It’s just the three of you? Nesta, you, and Feyre?”

“That’s right,” Elain said. “How many were you expecting?”

“Well, I’m one of seven.” His forehead crinkled, and he regarded her disdainfully before saying, “Then it is you. I thought as much.”

“What’s me,” she breathed, but she already knew.

Eris stalked toward the bookshelves, frowning, then towards a pile of bags strewn on the floor. He grunted, heaving a bulky bag off the one underneath, then rummaged through it until his hand emerged around a heavy book. “Stupid bastard should just unpack,” he grumbled to himself, then hefted onto the couch with a resounding thump against the pillows, and made a big show of cracking the book open to the exact middle and starting to trace his finger over the words.

Elain stared at him. The longer she watched him pretend to read, the angrier she got. “What’s your problem?” she snapped.

Eris hummed and pointedly flipped a page in the book, not deigning to respond. 

Elain looked at the closed door he’d indicated. She could feel that male behind it, sure as she could feel her own pounding heart. He felt panicked, fearful, raw, and she wondered what they were talking about — No. I don’t care. I’m just here to help Feyre.

She studied the apartment door, wondering if she could lunge for it, if this obnoxious interloper would block her. Had they locked Feyre in the back room to keep her away? She fidgeted. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Elain whirled back around to Eris, who loudly turned another page. She wanted to rip that stupid book out of his hands, especially since he obviously wasn’t reading anyway.

She stiffened her spine and lifted her chin — Nesta’s I will slay my enemies pose, as Cassian had once teased. “Are all the males in your family as obnoxious as you?” she huffed.

Eris’s fiery amber eyes flicked up to hers. “All but one. And we all know how you treat him.”

Elain hissed, “What is that supposed to mean?”

The book snapped shut, and Eris swung one leg over the other, apparently settling in for a proper argument. “I think you know perfectly well what it means. I think you know exactly what you’re doing to him.”

Elain’s face flushed, from her ears to her neck. “It’s none of your business,” she exclaimed.

“Hmm. Probably not,” Eris agreed, smiling coldly.

“You’re vile and arrogant.”

Eris shrugged. “Vile, no. Arrogant, certainly. I am heir to the Autumn Court. A future High Lord.”

“Feyre is High Lady,” Elain hissed.

He laughed, that smooth courtier’s laugh that grated despite its cultured tones. “Feyre is playing house, or she was. If she thinks she can rule a land she’s barely lived in or even visited, and knows almost nothing about, she will soon realize her mistake.”

Her anger must have shown, because Eris tsked, “Don’t get riled.” His lips twisted in amusement. “Be flattered that I’m bothering to tell you the truth. The rest of them you’ve got fooled, my brother included. He’ll probably kill me for not coddling you like some delicate flower.”

“What do you know about it? You’ve never met me before,” Elain said accusingly.

Eris set the book down and stood up gracefully, leaning a hand on the back of the couch in a casual pose. “That was my first clue, how you’re kept under wraps. You’re never in meetings or present at court. Your name isn’t mentioned. It’s like you’re too precious to lay eyes on.”

Elain opened her mouth to retort, but he added, “Lucien never speaks ill of you, even to his friends. But they have their own opinions of what’s happening here. They see what he’s like after visits, how he leaves with gifts and returns empty handed.”

Elain bristled. “I don’t owe him anything.”

“You owe him basic respect,” Eris snapped. “I know that’s a foreign concept at Rhysand’s court.”

“You’re an asshole,” Elain breathed.

“What else would I be? Kind? How do you think I’ve survived this long in my position?” Eris sneered. “If I let people treat me like you and yours treat Lucien, what kind of High Lord would I be?” He chuckled darkly. “A dead one, that’s what.”

Elain glanced towards the front door and nervously touched the side of her neck, feeling the chain of her necklace. Now, while he’s ranting.

“I’m not nice, little sister, and I’m not stupid,” Eris went on, glancing towards the door as well, then turning back to her with a raised eyebrow. “I know how these bastards think. They needed someone who seemed weak and innocent to worm their way in here, and they chose you.” He noted her outraged expression, and challenged, “What was the grand plan? You infiltrate first, then open the door for the others?”

Elain stifled her gasp, but it was too late.

The male’s lips quirked up. “Not bad, as plans go.”

“How dare you,” Elain shouted, storming across the room to jab her finger in the male’s smirking face. “She is in danger.”

Eris snorted, “Put that finger elsewhere, little sister. Don’t take your cues from Nesta.” He gestured out the window. “As for danger, have a look. Your dear High Lord had quite the temper tantrum. Has it occurred to you that your sister was right to hide from him?”

Elain did not look. She had seen the damage already, had shut it out. Focus on Feyre. Worry about the city later.

“Danger,” Eris scoffed. “Have you met your sister? She creates her own danger when there’s none to be found. She singlehandedly toppled an entire court to get revenge on her ex-lover. So whatever danger you think she’s in here, I assure you, she can handle it.”

“But the baby,” Elain protested. “Feyre can’t use her magic.”

Eris barked a harsh laugh. “Says who? My mother birthed seven sons and never stopped using her powers.”

“I don’t know!” Elain shouted. “That’s what Azriel said.”

“Ah. The illustrious spymaster and torturer,” Eris sneered. “I didn’t know he was a healer.”

Elain fumed. How dare he — “Shut up! Don’t talk about him.”

“Why not?” Eris looked her over appraisingly.

“Azriel rescued me,” Elain burst out. “He is good. He is kind. Everything you’re not.”

Eris cocked his head to the side. “Hmm, I can’t decide.”

Don’t take the bait. Don’t let him get under your skin — “Decide what?” Elain snapped.

“Whether you’re stupid and oblivious,” Eris retorted, “or you know exactly what you’re doing. Maybe you enjoy torturing as much as he does. You certainly don’t mind torturing my brother.”

I might actually slap him.

Eris noted her shaking fists, her gritted teeth, but he didn’t smile. “Don’t act all outraged with me, little sister. Not when you specifically came here to betray him.”

“I came here to help Feyre!” Elain shouted.

“Feyre is here because she wants to be. My brother is an idiot, not a kidnapper,” Eris shouted back, flames sparking in his eyes. “You let Rhysand’s goons in here, and Lucien will sacrifice himself to help her escape. So all you’re really doing is signing his death warrant.”

Elain protested, “They wouldn’t kill him —“

“I assure you, they absolutely fucking will,” Eris declared, “your spymaster and your sadistic High Lord. Maybe that brute of a general too. They’ll carve him up nice and slow, give him the most painful death possible. Rhysand will turn his mind to goo —“

“Stop it!” Elain wailed, bursting into tears. They won’t. But her insides roiled as the truth sank in — They will.

A door banged open, angry shouting filling the room.

Elain didn’t process it. She barely registered the commotion, the roaring anger and furniture crashing, as her sister’s arms wrapped around her, as she was herded away. Then she was in the kitchen, Lucien’s furious “What did you say to her” ringing in her ears as the door slammed shut.

“Here, sit,” Feyre murmured, guiding her to a chair.

Elain sat, burying her face in her hands, hot tears stinging her cheeks.

“Fucking Eris,” Feyre fumed. “Do I want to know what that asshole said to you?”

Elain swiped at her tears with the sleeve of her dress, then looked up at her sister. Feyre looked fresh, well-rested, faintly glowing, as she rested her hand on her beautiful belly. What did I expect her to look like?

“Does Azriel torture people?” she stammered.

Feyre frowned at her. “Yes. Why…?”

Elain squeezed her eyes shut. He was right about that. What else was he right about? “I didn’t know,” she muttered.

Feyre shrugged. “It’s no secret.” She drew an arm around Elain. “But you didn’t come here to ask me that.”

“I needed to see if you were all right,” Elain said. “You disappeared. We were all so scared.”

“I’m fine,” Feyre assured her, pressing a hand over hers. “I’m furious, and I’m frightened for the baby. But I’m safe, and I’m getting help.” She smirked toward the kitchen door. “Though Lucien might kill Eris before he can deliver my message.”

“That jerk is helping you?” Elain exclaimed.

Feyre nodded. “He’s helping Lucien. And Lucien is helping me.”

Elain flinched.

Lucien will sacrifice himself to help her escape.

“You really don’t want to go home, do you,” Elain said.

Feyre shook her head. “No, I don’t. I need some space to clear my head, and to be around people who won’t hide things from me.”

“Rhys and Amren said not to upset you —“ She stopped abruptly, noting Feyre’s irritated expression.

“I’m pregnant, not fragile,” Feyre snapped. “I’ll do anything to save my baby. I can’t afford to be coddled and shielded from reality.”

Be flattered that I’m bothering to tell you the truth.

Elain began to tremble. “They’re waiting out there. For my signal.” She reached into her gown and gingerly pulled out a tiny gold necklace. It was tiny enough to be dismissed as ordinary jewelry, a small, flat rose of stained glass. “I’m supposed to press this once to summon them, twice if I’m in danger.”

Feyre’s jaw tightened, and her arm slid from Elain’s shoulders. “Summon them? To do what?”

“To… help you,” Elain stammered. “To get you out of here. I was to signal them, then open the door.”

Feyre leaped up, yanking the necklace from around Elain’s neck with lightning speed. Elain yelped, feeling the bite of the metal chain as it snapped against her skin. “No one is getting me out of here,” Feyre thundered. “I’ll leave when I want to, and no sooner.”

“I’m sorry,” Elain sobbed, clutching miserably at the folds of her dress. “They said you needed my help, and I — I trusted them.”

The door banged open, and she clutched at her ribs as she felt Lucien’s presence behind her.

“Is she —” he gasped.

Feyre barked, “She’s fine.”

I’m not fine. I haven’t been, not in a long time.

Elain stared miserably at the kitchen table, at the discarded tea cups and plates of crumbs. Your sister needs you, they’d told her. She’s confused. She’s in danger. We’ll bring her home, we’ll take care of her.

She banged her fist on the table, rattling the dishes. They have no idea how Feyre feels, or what she needs.

“What’d you do to Eris,” Feyre was asking Lucien, who was hovering in the doorway with his fists clenched.

“Nothing yet,” Lucien gritted out. Furious. She’d never felt such rage from him, not since that first moment she’d been dumped from the Cauldron, out onto the floor, cold and wet… For me.  He wants to protect me.

Elain flushed, warmth settling in her chest, even as her mind revolted against the idea. I don’t want him. I don’t care.

“Check the wards,” Feyre said. “They know we’re here. They’re waiting for her —“ Feyre jabbed an accusing finger in Elain’s direction — “to summon them, then open the door."

Lucien fell silent, but Elain could feel the spike of disappointment, the sorrow that rushed over him. But he only said quietly, “I’ll go make sure,” and slipped back out.

Elain twisted her hands nervously. “Will they kill him?”

Feyre’s voice was cold and hard. “Who.” When Elain hesitated, she barked, “Will they kill who?”

“Lucien.” Elain’s heart stuttered as she said his name. Lucien. Lucien. “Will they hurt him?”

“No,” Feyre said firmly.

Elain sighed with relief — his asshole brother was wrong, he’s safe here — but then Feyre added, “If they try anything, I’ll tell Eris to blast them.”

Feyre twisted loose strands of hair around her finger, and Elain bit her lip when she spotted a strand of gold thread — the same thread Lucien used in his own hair. Why did Feyre have it? What else has she helped herself to that belongs to him?

Elain mentally kicked herself for having such thoughts. I don’t care. I don’t care.

“But it won’t come to that,” Feyre added. “Lucien’s magic protects this place. None of them will be able to cleave the wards.” She gave Elain a significant look. “And no one is opening that door.”

Elain nodded, straightening. “I don’t want to help them. You’re my sister. I came here to help you.”

“Then stay,” Feyre said gently, reaching for her hand.

Elain took it, but then remembered whose apartment this was, who else would be a constant presence here, and she hesitated. “But where would I sleep?” she finally asked.

Feyre waved vaguely towards the back wall. “The bed’s bigger than the one at the cottage. We’ll share.”

Elain almost yanked her hand away, alarmed at the thought of sleeping in Lucien’s bed. “But where will he — that is —“

Feyre looked at her blankly, and she was forced to clarify. “Where will… Lucien be?”

His name still felt strange on her tongue, and she blushed as Feyre raised an eyebrow at her. “He slept on the couch. Where did you think?” Her other eyebrow rose when Elain didn’t answer. “Is that what you all thought? That I would… that he would…?” Her eyebrows furrowed. “He is the absolute last male who would ever do something like that.”

“I know,” Elain said. And she did. She felt it, deep in her bones.

“The last time Lucien and I ran away was from the Spring Court,” Feyre said. “We slept in tiny caves in the mountains. We were cold and miserable and couldn’t risk a fire, and we had to huddle together for warmth.” Her voice rose angrily. “He never once tried to take advantage, never once made me feel unsafe. All he wanted was to get me safely through the woods, and get to you.”

Elain shook her head and stood up, wanting out of this conversation, but Feyre gripped her arm. “He gave up everything. His best friend, his home — everything but the clothes on his back. And I let everyone treat him like shit.”

She let go and stepped back. “And speaking of shit, I’m going to go make sure he’s not killing Eris.”

She stalked out of the kitchen, leaving Elain alone with her thoughts.

Chapter Text

“What if I told you he might not be your father?”

Everything Lucien knew, every truth he took for granted, shattered under the weight of that revelation.

Lucien had spent his life fearing and hating Beron Vanserra, that cruel, sadistic piece of shit who had dominated Lucien’s life, broken his mother’s spirit, killed his love, cultivated cruelty and callousness in his sons. He’d desperately tried to escape Beron’s wrath, his painful punishments, his jeering disappointment and condescension — and he’d never been Beron’s to begin with.

No wonder he hated my guts.

But as Lucien’s mind frantically spun out in all directions, fitting pieces of the puzzle into place, he began to flounder. There were too many unknowns, mysteries, that he had no context to understand.

How had Feyre known?

Why hadn’t Beron killed him?

Who was his father?

Who am I, really?

Feyre squeezed his hand, her palm warm and comforting against his chilled, trembling fingers. She watched him and waited, as if she could hear the melee of wild thoughts and clashing emotions rocketing through him.

Finally he whispered, low and hoarse, “How.”

Feyre tapped her temple. “Can I?”

Lucien looked at her with alarm. “You’re going to… go inside my mind?”

Feyre flushed and eyed the table, then met his gaze again. “Not exactly, but… I’ve actually done that, a few times.”

His cheeks heated as he contemplated what awful thoughts she might have seen in there, but Feyre squeezed his hand again and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. The first time, I didn’t know what I’d done until — someone — explained it to me.” Rhys, he supposed, cringing at the way she’d carefully avoided saying her mate’s name. “The second time was in the caves in Autumn, and my power was starting to trickle back. I half thought it was a dream.”

Lucien’s hand lingered near his temple, as if he could locate a hole where she’d slipped through. “I never noticed.”

Feyre cleared her throat. “One time I did go in on purpose. We’d told you to wait to see Elain, to avoid places in the House of Wind where she’d go, and you —“ She cut off and frowned. “You waited ages, after going through all that hardship, after fighting your own brothers. And I still didn’t trust you around her. I don’t know what was wrong with me.”

Lucien bit his lip. He couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t waste energy on all the disappointments and cruelties that he’d tried to ignore, not when Beron Vanserra was not his father, and he hadn’t known.

“I was trying to help my sister, but I invaded your private thoughts to do it. I shouldn’t have gone in without permission,” Feyre was saying apologetically.

“You didn’t hurt me,” Lucien said. “I didn’t even feel it. Not like that time Rhys grabbed me…” He trailed off, sucking in a shaky breath. Was my real father there, Under the Mountain? Did he see those tortures, what was done to me? Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked softly, and he pressed his fingers to the scars below it.

Don’t think about Under the Mountain. You’re out. You’re free.

Feyre frowned at him. “It was still a violation.” She shook her head, then said, “I could bring you into my mind. I can show you what I know, let you see for yourself.”

Lucien grabbed his cup and took a very deep sip of tea.

“What do I have to do?” he asked.

“I’ll guide you,” Feyre said. “Just, once you’re in, hold a small space open, so you know you can get out.” She chuckled at his expression, which must have looked utterly confused. “Don’t worry about that. Just hold still.”

Lucien eyed her warily, but nodded. Then closed his eyes.

He felt Feyre tug him forward, even though his body hadn’t moved. He was flying, spearing towards a shining black wall, a fortress of adamant.

Feyre, he said, then realized he hadn’t moved his lips, that he had no mouth to speak with. He was but a thought on the wind, a wisp of awareness. He’d left his own body, he was trapped, he was spinning—

But before he could panic, Feyre’s voice echoed around him. Go through the gate.

Lucien nodded, then aimed.

But a shattering, heartrending howl shook him, shook the shining wall.

Feyre, it roared. Feyre, let me in.

Lucien’s focus whirled, and he shrieked wordlessly as a powerful scaly beast, claws and fangs glinting, barreled towards him, wreathed in shadows, flapping giant wings.

Rhys.

You, it roared at him.

Lucien felt Feyre grab him, yank him out of Rhys’s reach. I’m not ready to talk to you. Leave us alone.

The beast reared up, then charged.

The gate slammed shut behind Lucien, and the beast that was Rhysand slammed into it, bellowing, sobbing Feyre, Feyre, please.

If Lucien had had his body, he would have trembled. Would have shivered, would have covered his ears. Instead, he watched in horror as Rhys clawed and bit and flung himself at Feyre’s mental shield. He shrank back as Rhys growled and shrieked, begging Feyre over and over to let him in. Feyre, my Feyre, just talk to me. Don’t shut me out. I can’t take it. Please…

Then the world spun around Lucien, and he was looking through Feyre’s eyes at a beautifully decorated palace suite, Dawn Court if he had to guess. Rhys’s desperate howls faded into the distance, and Lucien’s mind settled with relief.

Cauldron, Feyre. That was awful. Has he done that before?

Every so often.

Lucien’s heart ached for his young, courageous friend, who could slam her mental gates shut against that level of power, and shrug it off. How she was this brave, this strong…

Hush, Lucien, Feyre’s voice chided him. Let me show you my memory.

Feyre’s awareness shifted, and Lucien was pulled along with her, watching as she fluttered through the Night Court’s suite in Thesan’s private residence. He relaxed as he took in the familiar view, the twittering birds, the peaceful, soothing atmosphere that had once comforted and calmed him in those first painful days after he lost his eye.

Even in memories, Thesan’s court is healing.

But he sensed Feyre’s uneasy feelings — she was keyed up, jittery, furious with Tamlin and Eris and Beron, worried about her display of powers —

I really missed a party, he thought dryly.

I’m glad you weren’t there, Feyre’s voice chuckled. But, more contemplatively, she added, Your mother was looking for you.

Mother. He hadn’t properly seen her in centuries. He’d gotten glimpses Under the Mountain, though he couldn’t get close enough for a real conversation. His father — his supposed father, he reminded himself — carefully guarded her, and his obnoxious brothers were always lingering around to do the job when Beron was occupied. This occasion would have been no different.

There was a knock on the door, and in walked Helion Spell-Cleaver.

Feyre’s memory-thoughts swirled around him, noting Helion’s physique and his witty banter, but Lucien could only stare.

He’d seen the High Lord of Day before, but never like this — never up close. And never in his full splendor, only in Amarantha’s cavernous halls, robbed of his power.

Even in Feyre’s recollection, Helion was resplendent, radiating a thrumming, insistent hum of magic that rolled through Lucien like a tremor. It called to him, yanked on some deep part of him that had long been buried, and he thought yes. Yes, this feels familiar.

It felt awkward, wrong to stare so long, like he was being rude. But this was only Feyre’s memory, so he examined Helion’s face closely. Like a mirror of my own.

It was so plain, so clear. How had this been hidden? How had he never known?

He tried to tune out the jokes and innuendo, the sultry glances between Helion and Rhys’s cousin, Rhys and Feyre’s mental flirting, and just watched his father — his father — discuss troop movements, and politics, knowledge spooling off his tongue easy as breathing. Helion was analytical, cunning, brimming with information.

Lucien was burning to ask him questions, about magic and spells, about the Wall and the Middle, the history of Prythian. Imagine what he could have taught me.

Feyre tugged on him, and his thoughts quieted. The conversation turned to the previous war, and Lucien realized with a jolt that they were discussing his aunts’ tortured deaths, and his mother.

She ran and ran, but Hybern’s beasts were still faster. They cornered her at a ravine, where she became trapped atop a ledge, the beasts snapping at her feet.

Lucien’s mind began to rebel. He didn’t want this memory, this graphic description of what his mother had suffered. But his awareness was trapped, barricaded in Feyre’s mind, and he felt a hint of her power swirl around him. Stay. Listen.

Helion stared right at Feyre — at Lucien, taking in the scene through Feyre’s eyes. I tore the beasts apart with my bare hands.

Lucien shoved down his panic. That was long ago. She survived. She’s all right.

They didn’t give her a choice before they sold her to Beron.

He couldn’t hear this. He couldn’t stand it. He hated his family too much already. His mother couldn’t have been any older than Feyre was now, forced into a marriage with that fucking asshole who dominated their lives.

The lady was all brightness and smiles before that. And after Beron was through with her … You saw what she is.

Lucien’s mind thrashed, wanting out, but he had nowhere to go. Hold a small space open, so you know you can get out. He hadn’t done that. All he’d wanted was to hide from Rhys.

Please, he begged Feyre. Show me something else. Anything else.

Beron is a High Lord, and she is his wife, mother of his brood. She chose to stay. Chose.

No. Lucien recoiled. His mother hadn’t had a choice, not a real one. Would she have fled, run to safety, to happiness, but abandon her sons? Beron would never allow his boys to be taken from Autumn — they were his to abuse and despise, his to wield as leverage to keep their mother in line. Did Helion truly understand what Beron was, the lengths he would go to?

Lucien yanked his mind away, blocking out the rest of the conversation. Feyre, let’s go. I’m grateful, truly, just overwhelmed.

He was hurtled out of the memory, slamming back into his own body, breathing hard, silent tears streaming from his good eye. He was frightened, confused, angry — but mostly relieved. 

Helion is my father. I’m not a Vanserra. I’m not Beron’s.

Beron had suspected. He’d refrained from outright killing, but inflicted centuries of punishment.

Lucien furiously swiped at his tears. My mother suffered because of me.

Feyre nudged the cup of tea toward him, and he obediently picked it up and drank it, taking sips until it was drained.

“Well,” she said gently. “What do you think?”

Lucien whooshed out a breath. “I think —“

A wail pierced the air, and he clutched his ribs. Elain. Elain is here. Elain is wailing —

Lucien leaped up. “I think I’m going to fucking kill Eris.”

Feyre was right behind him. “I’ll get my sister.”

Lucien’s blood roared in his ears as he shoved through the kitchen door and raced into the living room, spearing straight for his brother. He crashed into a side table, knocking it over.

“What did you say to her,” he roared, shoving his brother, then clenching his fingers in Eris’s collar and yanking him forward.

Eris laughed — that fucking bastard. “Not much. Just the truth.”

“Just the truth?” Lucien scoffed. “Since when do you tell the truth?”

Eris grabbed his wrists and twisted hard, but Lucien refused to let go. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Eris snapped, his voice strained. “What are you talking about?”

“I am talking about Helion Spell-Cleaver,” Lucien snarled, shaking his brother.

Eris’s fingers tightened painfully around Lucien’s wrists. “No.”

“You knew,” Lucien said, digging his fingers into Eris’s collar, “didn’t you?”

Eris sighed deeply, the fire in his eyes dimmed. “I knew. Cauldron damn it, I knew.” He pried Lucien’s fingers away, then began to pace angrily around the room. “You were not supposed to find out. Not until Fath— until Beron was dead. Until it was safe.”

“You let me believe a fucking lie —“

“To save your life, and Mother’s.” Eris’s face was pale and furious.

“I could have kept a secret,” Lucien hissed.

“Maybe. But I couldn’t take the risk. The walls at the Forest House have ears,” Eris said. “I almost told you after you left for Spring. But I’m glad I fucking didn’t. Amarantha adored torturing you. If she’d ordered Rhys to shatter your mind— imagine if he’d let the secret slip.”

Lucien sighed, conceding the point, but glared at Eris. “Amarantha’s dead, asshole.”

“And you aren’t,” Eris argued. “You survived, despite your best efforts.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. Eris never took any risks, at least not out in the open. He was cautious and careful, sneaky and underhanded, and couldn’t understand why Lucien wasn't.

“What did you say to Elain, exactly?” he prodded.

Eris huffed a sigh. “I told her what would happen if she went through with her little plan.”

“Her what?” Lucien rasped.

“She was going to open the door and let them take you both. I’m not letting that happen,” Eris declared.

Lucien’s mind stumbled over that. Elain would have no qualms about him — she had made it clear she felt nothing for him, less than nothing — but her own sister? “I don’t believe it.”

Eris jerked his head toward the door. “Go ask her.”

Lucien hesitated, but he could feel Elain’s despair, her sorrow, like a knot against his ribs. She was upset again, crying, and he found himself yanked towards the kitchen.

“When you’re done getting your heart broken,” Eris drawled from behind him, “I’m going to head back to Autumn, if you want me to smuggle a message.”

“I’ll be right back,” was all Lucien said. 

But what he thought was, Tell her I know. And that I’m glad.

Chapter Text

Hello, sweetheart. Are you awake?

Feyre rested her hands on her belly, giggling when she felt the soft pad of a foot against her fingertips. There you are.

She slid her hand down to the side, then poked gently, giggling again when the answering foot — or hand? she wasn’t sure — poked back. She waited a moment, then pressed a different spot, delighted when her baby responded in kind.

Feyre hummed softly, out of tune, and the baby kicked, hard. Ow, darling. You’re strong.

The baby kicked harder in response — as though he understood.

Perhaps he does.

Feyre gingerly rolled on her side, sliding a pillow underneath her belly so it wouldn’t flop too far over, straining her back. She’d been mostly comfortable sleeping these days, as long as she kept her growing belly propped up properly. And now that the nausea and sleepiness had lessened during the day, all her energy was back, though the mere smell of coffee could still send her scurrying, and most spicy foods burned her throat for hours after eating.

This baby is going to come out enjoying all the sweetest things.

Feyre sighed contentedly, then directed her thoughts back towards the little one prodding curiously at her from the inside out, asking for another game of hide and seek. She obliged, pressing random spots on her belly and waiting for his little foot to push back against her fingers.

What should we do now, darling? Lie in bed a little longer, or are you hungry?

The baby drummed a steady beat against the inside of her belly, and she chuckled, settling in on her side of the bed, feeling too cozy and warm to consider getting up. Besides, her movements always lulled Nyx to sleep, and she craved feeling his little flutters and jabs, which always reassured her that he was all right.

At least for now.

No. Don’t think like that.

She shifted her legs, careful not to kick Elain, still curled up on the other side of the bed. She knew Elain felt weird about sleeping in Lucien’s bed, even with him nowhere near it. Feyre had pointed out that if Elain refused the bed, Lucien would insist she take the couch, which he’d slept on the night before, which would be no different than the actual bed, except less comfortable and closer to the front door. So Elain had relented.

When it comes to her mate, she can be almost as stubborn as Nesta.

Lucien was huddled on the couch in the other room, definitely not sleeping comfortably. Feyre knew he was worried about her, about the baby. And now that Elain was here, he was in agony, trying to make her comfortable and happy, but afraid to spook her by talking too much, but not wanting to seem rude by not talking, and…

Feyre sighed. Exhausting.

The baby’s foot grazed her ribs, as if asking what she was thinking about. So she pushed an image towards his little mind. This is your Aunt Elain. She’s sweet, and loving. She’ll sing you songs and show you all the flowers in her garden. And this — she conjured up another image — this is Uncle Lucien. He’ll keep you laughing with stories about every court in Prythian, and his adventures on the continent.

Feyre laid her hand flat on her belly, as close to touching her baby as she could from out here, and a small smile graced her lips as she showed Nyx his family. Here is Uncle Az, who’ll teach you to fly, as long as you don’t mind crashing into a few trees. And here’s Uncle Cassian, who’ll help you swing your first sword. And Aunt Nesta, who’ll teach you to read, and dance so well that whole ballrooms will stare. She closed her eyes, picturing her very first Starfall, how she’d danced with Rhys for hours, painted with spirit-dust on his hand. And this… this, my love, is your father.

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she thought about Rhys, their family. How happy they’d been. Had it all been a lie?

Don’t make the same mistake you made with Lucien. Put the blame where it belongs, on the High Lord, not his underlings.

But Uncle Az had been the one to suggest that Elain come visit under false pretenses, then open the door so they could burst in and grab her. Uncle Cassian had flown Aunt Nesta away to who knows where — and had told the group that she wouldn’t be meddling anymore. Elain hears a lot more of their talk than they realize.

She wouldn’t hand her child over to anyone she couldn’t trust completely. It’ll be a while before swords and flying lessons.

She loved her Inner Circle — her chosen family. She’d cooled down over the last two days, had tried to come to terms with their dishonesty. But they didn’t seem to understand what they’d done wrong, still sided with Rhys implicitly.

Feyre blinked back tears as she caressed her belly. She couldn’t blame it all on them, or even Rhys. She was the one who’d banished Nesta to the House of Wind, trapping her miles in the air. She’d never asked Nesta what she wanted, or needed, or why she drank so much in the first place. Feyre had just assumed that she knew what was best for her sister.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care. We—everyone, I mean—had multiple conversations about this. About you.

Feyre’s eyes burned. How foolish she’d been. How arrogant, how blind. She’d thought herself so kind and benevolent, having conversations with her family about Nesta. But they’d been having conversations about her pregnancy, her body. They thought I could decide Nesta’s fate, but not my own.

You’re going, even if you have to be tied up and hauled there.

Feyre shuddered. Those had been her words. To her sister.

A few months as a High Lady, and I was becoming a tyrant.

She sighed and wiped her eyes, then laid a comforting hand on her belly. Things are going to change. I’m going to make this court better for you. For all of us.

Nesta would come through this. Nesta was the strongest person she knew. But where had Cassian taken her? She’d assumed he was just carrying her sister to safety, not stashing her out of the way or punishing her. Nesta and Cassian were almost certainly mates, how could he do anything but help her? Wouldn’t he stand up for her, even against his friend and brother?

Against Rhys. Her mate. Her love. Her baby’s father.

She’d underestimated how badly this separation would hurt Rhys, how desperate he might become. He’d been hurling himself against her mental shields, begging for a chance to talk to her. But Feyre couldn’t bring herself to let him in — not yet, not now, when she felt so raw. And not when he kept ignoring her requests to let her be. When he actually listens to me, I’ll consider it.

She wouldn’t keep Nyx away from his family. She wouldn’t deprive him of knowing his father, of understanding that part of who he was, his heritage and powers. She’d seen how much it pained Lucien, would never want her own child to have to go through that.

But I won’t let Rhys make all the decisions, or hide any part of Nyx’s life from me.

The Bone Carver had shown her a son that looked so much like Rhys that it made her heart hurt. That little boy had been so beautiful. But no wings. Why did you have to grow wings?

She sucked in a breath, then patted her side, stifling a giggle when Nyx kicked her hard in answer. Your wings will be beautiful, sweetheart. Just inconvenient, right now. You’ll probably love to fly, just like your father and grandmother. You can go anywhere. You’ll be free.

If she could figure out how to give birth safely. If not…

No. Don’t think like that. We’ll find a way.

Eris had gone home last night, with hopes of returning with his mother’s healer, and with an offer to find them a place to go outside of the Night Court. “Not Autumn,” he’d added quickly, catching Lucien’s look of horror. “Not while Beron’s in power. But I could reach out to Dawn, perhaps, or Summer. I’d ask Kallias, but he’s got his own pregnant mate to consider. And I know there’s bad blood there, but Tamlin promised —“

“Not there,” Feyre had said quickly. “Not ever.”

Eris had just shrugged, as if he expected that answer. “Suit yourself.” Then he’d turned to Elain. “A pleasure to meet you, little sister.”

Lucien, to his credit, did not throttle his brother.

Nyx’s kicks had become light flutters, as though he’d tired of the game, or could sense she was distracted, lost in thought. So Feyre closed her eyes, drifting towards sleep.

Until she felt the telltale scrape of claws against her mental wall, and a deep voice purred. Feyre darling, you’re up late. Or early.

Feyre double checked the strength of her shield — impenetrable, as always. Indeed, she’d been thorough, for Rhys went on, Are you alone tonight, darling? I don’t sense that little fox or his mate.

They’re not your concern, she shot back, tempted to sever the connection. It was none of his business who stayed with her — whether it was her friends, or her sisters. She double checked her shields around Lucien and Elain, just to be certain.

I’d much rather talk to you, anyway, Rhys’s voice crooned. Are you well? Are you resting?

I’m fine. So is the baby.

Feyre bit back the urge to say more, to ask him questions, and waited. He was calmer than he’d been in days, more in control. Maybe now he’d be able to see her perspective, understand her anger. She’d thought Rhys understood her, got how deeply it upset her when she was lied to, kept sheltered.

I must admit, I’m surprised you’re with Lucien. I thought you didn’t trust him.

Feyre crinkled her brow at that. He’s proven his loyalty to me many times over. You’re the one who doesn’t trust him.

It looks like I was justified.

Feyre bristled. Why, because he gave me help when I asked for it?

She sighed sadly to herself. Obviously Rhys had learned nothing. I’m going back to sleep now.

Please. I didn’t mean to upset you.

Then don’t lie to me.

Please, Feyre darling, I just want to talk —

Don’t Feyre darling me. I’m done talking for now.

It’s your choice, of course. She could tell Rhys was struggling to control his tone, that he was frustrated but trying to keep it together. All I ask is that you let Madja come see you.

Feyre considered that, but then answered, Madja lied to me.

Madja is the best healer we have. I want her to help you —

No. I don’t trust her.

Rhys was silent for a moment. She needs to see the baby.

I’ll find someone else. Someone I can trust to be honest with me, who won’t spy for you or feed me only what you want me to hear.

The ground rumbled, and Feyre shot up to her feet. Next to her, Elain whimpered in her sleep. In the other room, she could hear Lucien jumping up too, alert to the threat.

You’re refusing to let the healer see my baby, he thundered.

Don’t you dare throw a tantrum, Rhys. Haven’t you destroyed enough of this city? Feyre angrily closed the connection, before he could answer.

She fumbled in the dark, fingers alighting on an old sweater she’d filched from one of Lucien’s suitcases, and slipped it over her head before striding out to the kitchen. She flicked her fingers at the faelights, then jumped back in surprise to find Lucien at the stove, blinking in the brightness.

“Sorry,” they both blurted, then chuckled.

“Was that Rhys?” Lucien asked, waving his hand vaguely at the floor.

Feyre grimaced, and nodded. “I tried to talk to him. But he still doesn’t get it.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked. “I’m not surprised.”

Feyre sighed, flopping into a chair at the table while Lucien scoured the cabinets for ingredients. “I guess I shouldn’t be, but I am. He’s always talked about how things are my choice, my decision. But now, with the baby, he’s forgotten.”

Lucien’s hand snagged on a small jar of pink salt, and he set it down on the counter before turning to her. “I think he tries. But when the mood strikes, he can be as controlling as Tamlin.” He sighed, fiddling with the lid of the jar. “Maybe it’s too tempting to have so much power.”

Feyre tilted her head, considering. “I don’t know, Lucien. You’re a High Lord’s heir. I doubt you’d be like either of them.”

“I’m not a —“ Lucien began, but then interrupted himself. “You didn’t mean Autumn.”

Feyre bit her lip, suppressing her urge to smile at his befuddled expression.

“Well,” Lucien stammered. “We don’t actually know that. Helion might have other children.” He turned back to the cabinets, pulling doors open. “I wish I knew more about Day, whether I’m the heir or not.”

“If only there were libraries you could consult,” Feyre deadpanned. “Or a thousand of them.”

Lucien threw her a smile — a lighter, happier smile than she’d seen from him in a long time. He is going to love it there.

All I have to do is give birth safely, then protect him long enough for him to make it out of Rhys’s territory. Feyre cringed at that thought, of Lucien having to flee from yet another court.

The smile on Lucien’s face slipped as he closed the kitchen cabinets. “We’re running low on supplies. I thought I was leaving Velaris, so I didn’t stock up.”

Feyre frowned. “What about Eris?”

“He may be in Autumn for some time,” Lucien said. “I should have thought to ask him before he left.”

“Elain?” Feyre suggested.

Lucien looked horrified. “We can’t put her at risk.”

Feyre’s heart warmed to see how much he cared for Elain. But of course he does. He always has.

Lucien ran a pensive hand through his hair. “If I —“

The wards pulsed, and Lucien swore.

“Bedroom,” he barked, rapidly scanning the ceiling and walls. “It’s the most secure.”

“What about you?” Feyre asked, grabbing the edge of the table as the wards pulsed a second time, as the floor shook. A bellow reverberated through the walls, raw and fierce.

“Feyre?” Elain called, her voice high pitched with alarm.

Lucien’s eyes shot in her direction, and his fists clenched — like he was battling with himself. Then he grunted, “Go. I’ve got to shore up these defenses.” When Feyre hesitated, he added, “Go — please — protect her, and yourself.”

Feyre nodded, and ran.

Chapter Text

“Get them out,” Helion barked, leaping down from his throne, his strides eating up the distance between the dais and the hallway. “The cooks, the cleaning staff, the courtiers, everyone. Do you understand?”

His messenger nodded nervously, trailing behind him, twisting his fingers. “Yes, my Lord —“

“Have the stable boys take out the Pegasi and exercise them. Not near the palace,” Helion added over his shoulder, yanking all of his braids back into a single knot and fastening them with golden thread, like he always did before battles. He checked the hallway — clear. “I want the palace empty, Phoebus. I will face the intruder alone.”

Another unearthly wail shattered the quiet of the early morning, scattering flocks of shrieking birds past the windows, and Helion steeled himself, marshaling his magic.

“Go, Phoebus,” Helion boomed, and his messenger took off running.

Helion waited until Phoebus’s frantic footsteps had faded into the distance, then winnowed to the main entrance, power and dread building up inside him.

He emerged into the courtyard, his binding spells primed, when a dark figure, leaking shadows and dragging wings, flung itself down at his feet, howling, “Helion — Helion, please —“

Helion yanked his power back before he could unleash himself. “Rhysand?”

The intruder’s head shot up, and Helion stifled his gasp. The High Lord of the Night Court was sprawled out on the ground, tears streaming freely down his cheeks, eyes red and puffy, burns on his palms and fingertips and jacket sleeves. “By the Cauldron,” Helion exclaimed. “What’s happened?”

“Feyre, the baby —” Rhysand was gasping, voice hoarse and jagged like he’d been screaming for days. “I’ll do anything. Give you anything. Please, please, save my mate.”

“We talked about this,” Helion said gently, leaning down and grasping Rhysand’s arms, hauling him up and setting him on his feet. Rhysand swayed, and Helion caught him, frowning at the male’s torn shirt and bloodied skin beneath. “My scholars are doing everything—”

“It’s not that,” Rhysand rasped, shivering. His skin was unnaturally cold and clammy, and Helion took his arm more firmly, determined to get him to the infirmary. “It’s Feyre, she’s — I can’t get to her.”

Helion’s brow furrowed as he scanned his guest for spells, glamours, or charms — anything that would explain his haggard appearance and frantic demeanor — and he took in the jagged shards of shredded warding spells, poking out of Rhysand’s skin and dangling haphazardly from his clothes. He puzzled over the spent magic sparking from them, familiar and yet foreign.

Who did this to him?

“First let’s get you cleaned up, then you can tell me everything,” he assured Rhysand, and winnowed them directly into the infirmary wing of the palace.

It was empty, of course — Phoebus had seen to his job with his usual thoroughness. Better this way — no witnesses.

Helion guided Rhysand to a bed, firmly pressing the male down when he balked. “Now stop that,” he scolded his patient when he tried to push up off the bed again. “Don’t fuss.”

“But Feyre,” Rhysand wailed.

“You’re no good to her like this. If I don’t get these shards out, the magic will keep digging in.” Helion threw a light containment spell over the bed, not an outright bind, but thick enough magic to slow Rhysand down in his confused state.

Rhysand gave in, laying still, taking shallow, shuddering breaths. Helion approached cautiously, careful not to trigger another outburst. He braced one hand on Rhysand’s shoulder while he began coaxing the remnants out from where they’d dug into the skin.

Rhysand grimaced as the spells unwound, hissing when Helion got to the ones embedded in his burnt palms and fingertips. But he visibly relaxed as Helion unspooled them, neutralizing the residue of magic and laying the inert threads carefully aside to be examined later. The spells were crude, unpolished, but cleverly woven, and radiated power.

Why does this magic feel familiar?

He murmured, half to himself, “How did you get tangled up in these in the first place?”

“I was trying to get to my mate,” Rhysand snarled, his violet eyes flashing with sudden rage.

Helion took a hasty step back, raising his hands as if surrendering, but flicking one finger to boost the power on the containment spell. He knew he couldn’t hold Rhysand for long, would only be buying himself minutes if the High Lord entirely lost it, but it was enough time to reason with him, talk him down.

“Easy, friend, I’m here to help,” Helion said soothingly. “The remnants are out, so you’ll start to heal.” He folded his arms across his chest, twisting his snake armband so it wouldn’t dig into the muscle of his bicep. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

Rhysand’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “I couldn’t shatter the wards, so I tried to claw them apart.” He turned his palms over, frowning at the burns. “He kept weaving in more as I was shredding through them.”

“Who,” Helion asked.

“That fucking Vanserra,” Rhysand growled, leaping up from the bed, his face twisted with fury.

Vanserra. Helion’s hands curled into fists. How he loathed that name, that family. “Whatever Beron’s done, he’ll pay,” he vowed.

“Not Beron. His cursed spawn,” Rhysand spat. He paced about the room, plowing through the lingering containment magic like it was nothing, his steps thundering on the floor. “He’s barricaded himself in there with her, keeping me from my mate, my baby. I can’t even get in a healer to see her. You know how precarious her situation is, what could happen.”

No wonder he’s distraught. Helion knew the angry terror of having a mate in peril. He swallowed down his bitter rage at his memories of Áine’s screams. I tore those beasts apart with my bare hands. But I couldn’t rescue her from the beast she chose to stay with.

“Beron’s sons are just like him. Vicious, vindictive, callous,” Helion said, recalling his disgust at that gaggle of redheaded goons kissing Amarantha’s ass Under the Mountain. Even Áine’s loving guidance could not overcome their father’s corrupting influence. And she’d sacrificed her happiness, her life with him, for their sake.

It wasn’t like one of Beron’s brood to make such a colossal mistake. Those blasted whelps learned guile and cunning at their father’s knee. Recklessness like this wasn’t the Autumn way. Who would be so bold and stupid as to steal a High Lord’s pregnant mate?

I would have, if Áine had asked me.

Instead, he’d been told to stay away. It broke his heart, tested his resolve, but he managed to obey.

But as strong as Áine was, Feyre was nearly unstoppable — Helion had seen her in action, pummeling Beron with a dizzying mix of powers, enough to kill him if she’d kept going. He doubted she could be overcome by any High Lord but her own mate, certainly not a mere princeling.

Rhysand had been concerned about Feyre’s use of magic, that it might harm the youngling. But Helion had been with Áine during her many pregnancies, and never saw signs of her power weakening. Would Feyre Cursebreaker, slayer of the Wyrm, High Lady of the Night Court, let herself be captured?

Helion’s fingers grazed the edges of the broken wards. No mere Vanserra could weave spells like this.

I’m missing something.

“Helion, I’ll do anything,” Rhysand pleaded, tears rushing down his cheeks as he sank to his knees. “Help me reach her. Cleave the wards.”

“Get up, my friend,” Helion said uneasily, tugging at Rhysand’s arms. “Don’t kneel to me.” When the sobbing male balked, he pulled harder. “Up, Rhysand.”

“Say you’ll do it,” Rhysand cried. “Come back to Velaris with me.”

Dangerous, getting involved this way, tangling with one of those wretched Vanserras. Áine will never forgive me if I hurt one of her sons, and Beron…

Helion flicked that thought away. Rhysand had given his life to save Prythian, and so had Feyre. He could shatter a few wards to repay the favor.

If Feyre and their baby are truly in danger, I must act.

Helion awkwardly patted his shoulder. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

Chapter Text

“Out,” the healer snapped. “Everyone, out.” Her bag thumped to the floor, medicine bottles and implements clanging together. She crossed her pale arms and glared at Beron Vanserra, who was pacing beside the bed. “You too, High Lord. Give me room to work.”

Beron whirled on the healer, eyes blazing with fury, and opened his mouth to hurl some vile abuse in her direction. But the healer drew herself up to her full height. “Do you want this baby to be born or not?”

Beron growled, but stomped towards the door.

Áine breathed a sigh of relief, but he tossed out over his shoulder, “If it’s really stuck, just kill it. She can always bear another.”

“ Out ,” the healer barked, and the High Lord huffed a contemptuous, wordless retort before retreating. The door slammed shut behind him.

“Well, that’s better,” the healer said brightly, her lilting tone coming out like a singsong. She leaned over Áine, smoothing out the hair plastered to her forehead. “How close together?

“I lost count — Oh,” Áine gasped. She gripped the sheets, throwing her head back and wailing as another contraction engulfed her.

“Right, I’ll take over,” the healer said briskly, pulling over a bowl of warm water and speedily washing her hands in it. Áine blew out a harsh breath, then another, riding the contraction until it released her, and then collapsed back against the pillows.

“Don’t kill my baby,” she begged. “Don’t — you can cut me open, but —“

The healer’s back was turned, as she was rummaging through her bag, but she scolded, “Now, none of that.” She popped back up, brandishing a pair of scissors. “There won’t be any killing, unless the High Lord barges back in. If he does, I’ll stick this in his eye.”

Áine gasped, then looked about nervously. “You mustn’t say such things.”

The healer laughed. “Or what? He’ll throw me in the dungeons while you lie here unattended?” A hint of fire blazed in her eyes. “Your High Lord can dispense death, but can he give life?”

Áine squeezed her eyes shut as another contraction ripped through her. When she opened her eyes, the healer was close, guiding a small glass vial to her lips. “Drink. It’ll dull the pain.”

Áine shook her head weakly. “I can’t… The baby…”

“… is already on his way,” the healer assured her. “But if you’re too weak to push, he will get stuck. So drink, and rest. Save your strength, Lady.”

“Áine.”  When the healer just looked at her blankly, she added, “Not Lady. Áine.”

The healer gave her a gentle smile. “Eileithyia. Now, are you ready to meet your baby?”

“Mother?”

Áine leaped up, rushing towards the door, her heart pounding. “Eris.”

Her firstborn stood in the doorway, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, and she didn’t give him time to protest before she yanked him into a hug, savoring the silken red hair that brushed against her fingers, the smooth skin of his cheek. Some things haven’t changed.

“I was just thinking about you,” she said, pulling back and looking him over carefully. “Are you well? How are things?”

“Let me come in, and I’ll tell you,” he said gruffly, but there was no bite in his words.

Áine stepped back, clasping and unclasping her hands as Eris dispensed with his jacket, then unraveled his scarf from around his neck and smoothed out his rumpled collar. How long had it been since she was allowed a visit? She’d stopped counting the days.

Áine frowned at Eris, noting how pale he looked, how his brows seemed permanently furrowed.  His bad news look. He wears it too often. “Something’s wrong,” she said gently. It wasn’t a question.

Eris heaved a sigh, casting his amber eyes suspiciously around the room. “Are we alone?”

Áine’s two attendants, huddled together on the sofa by the fireplace, stiffened. “We’re… under orders,” one of them stammered. Hebe, she remembered, Lord Young’s daughter. Not much older than I was when I came to court. Beron’s supply of spies must be wearing thin.

“Here’s a new order, then, go take a walk. A long one,” Eris snapped.

Áine hushed him disapprovingly. They’re little more than younglings, no need to be so imperious. “Hebe, Phaenna,” she said gently. “The Lord Eris would like a moment alone with me.”

“But Lady,” Phaenna stammered. “Lord Beron said specifically —“

“Lord Beron isn’t here,” Eris snarled. “I am. And if Lord Beron finds out about this conversation, I’ll know exactly who told him.”

Áine thought rapidly. It wasn’t fair to put these two young females in this position, having to disobey either the High Lord or his heir. The problem must be grave indeed for Eris to speak so bluntly.

“I require medicine for my headaches,” she said, flitting to her desk drawer and pulling out a little purse of coins, presenting it to the young females with a respectful incline of her head. “Would you be so kind as to walk to the village for me? Eileithyia will know what I need.”

Phaenna and Hebe exchanged nervous glances. “Lord Beron would be most grateful that you took care of it for me,” Áine lied, hating how easily her mind could sprout falsehoods. It was a skill she’d had to learn, being married to Beron Vanserra, but she despised it all the same.

Eris suddenly added, “As would I. In fact, tell Eileithyia I need to consult with her. Have her come back with you, when she is available.”

Hebe pouted, but the petulant expression slipped from her face when Eris’s haughty stare lingered on her. “And if she is attending a birth, my Lord?”

“Then wait on her, and fetch the water,” Eris said smoothly, but Áine noticed how his fingers tightened. Something’s going on.

Phaenna nudged Hebe, and they both curtsied. Áine held out the coin purse, saying, “Buy yourselves something sweet with the money left over.”

That won their cooperation. The two maids curtsied again, then rushed out the door, giggling to each other about new ribbons and hats, and caramels from the sweet shop.

Eris blew out a breath and stalked into the parlor, sliding into his usual chair with easy grace. So elegant, like a dancer.

Áine slid back into her armchair, drinking in the sight of him. She loved all her children, but Eris was her first — her sweet reward for those awful days in labor. He was so small, so perfect, from the first moment his tiny fist had curled around her finger.

Her only regret was having to share him with Beron — having to watch him endure Beron’s lessons. Beron had been determined to have a strong, ruthless heir, and she cringed to think of the cruelty and coldness that Eris had had beaten into him. As his mother, she still saw that essential kernel of goodness, even if others didn’t, but understood that he would be marked for danger if he failed to keep it hidden.

Beron had taken her other sons, twisted them fully into his creatures, rotten and jeering and cruel. But Eris was hers, even if he couldn’t risk revealing it. They’d survived together, from those earliest moments she’d thought they would both die during his birth. He’d come through for her when she had been the most desperate, when she’d almost had to flee from her home while pregnant. Only Eris’s quick thinking had prevented her exile and death, as well as Lucien’s.

Áine waited a few beats, wanting to be certain that the maids wouldn’t come bursting back in, having forgotten their cloaks or their heavier boots. Once she was confident that they were truly alone, she turned to her son. “Why ask the healer to come, Eris?”

“She’s needed,” Eris said quietly. He tapped his slender finger on his knee, as if considering his next words carefully. “I actually came back to Autumn to fetch her.” When Áine just looked at him quizzically, he added, reluctantly, “To attend a birth.”

Áine blinked, not understanding. In all the years that Eris had involved himself in court politics, in positioning himself as Beron’s heir, he had never gotten involved in such intimate domestic details as a birth before. Could it mean… “My son,” she breathed, hardly daring to think the words, or entertain any hope, “have you… is it… are you…?”

Eris spared her the trouble of trying to form the words. “No, Mother, it’s not my baby,” he chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’d be invited to the wedding?”

Áine bit her lip, determined not to shed any tears or betray any sadness. But she thought, Knowing your father, probably not. He probably wouldn’t even tell me it happened.

Eris noted her pained expression, probably guessed what it meant, but went on, “I’m to bring her to the Night Court, for Feyre Cursebreaker.”

Áine shuddered. The last time she’d seen Feyre Cursebreaker and her cursed court had been an unmitigated disaster. She would never forget the High Lady’s raw fury, the blast of white hot flame that left a scar, when Feyre had attacked Beron. Áine had been so terrified that she couldn’t even process it. She knew intimately how ruling bred violence, how having too much power led to temptation to overuse it, but she hadn’t ever seen another female lash out so recklessly, much less get away with it.

And that was after they’d attacked Eris — knocking him down, strangling him right in front of everyone, including her, his mother. She knew he’d provoked it, had expected an argument and maybe even a brawl, but she’d been shocked at the overreaction.

Beron isn’t the only one who punishes mere talk with violence.

“You and your brother, why do you tangle yourselves up with those awful faeries?” she mused. “They are utterly savage.”

Eris threw her a long look. “Well, until now, I was cultivating Rhysand as an ally. Now I’m just trying to save Lucien’s skin.”

“What?” Áine cried, leaping up from the chair, twisting her fingers in the fabric of her gown. “What’s happened to Lucien?”

She tried to shove down her panic. Not my baby. Not again.

My poor Sunshine. He’d been through too much, suffered too much. It seemed that misfortune always found him — or he invited it upon himself through his recklessness and his insistence on following his pure, stubborn heart.

Áine had hoped that with the death of Amarantha, Lucien could settle in to a peaceful life at the Spring Court. She hated that she couldn’t see him, couldn’t exchange letters, but at least Tamlin was a loyal friend, and he’d developed a strange kinship with Feyre Cursebreaker, like he’d adopted her as his sister.

She’d been devastated to learn he’d fled for his life with Feyre, that Beron had ordered them hunted, that her sons had brawled, ending with Eris wounded and Lucien captured — not by Autumn, but by Rhysand’s warriors. Áine wasn’t sure which was worse.

It had been a relief to find out that Lucien had gone willingly, that he wasn’t a prisoner, that he’d found his mate, Feyre’s sister, and had risked his life to be with her. Áine kept expecting to hear of their wedding, or at least some news of their new life together.

Instead she’d heard nothing more of her son or his mate, not until the War, when the female stabbed the King of Hybern. Then… nothing. No news whatsoever.

Áine tried to tell herself that love took time, that the War was over and the young couple could get to know each other at their leisure. But when she’d heard that Lucien was living with the human queen and general, and not his mate, she didn’t know what to hope for.

Her heart ached for her youngest, her sweetest son, but now it pounded with terror.

“Nothing yet,” Eris said quickly, standing up and striding to her, clasping her hands. “I’m figuring out a plan. He’s not hurt, not this time, I promise.”

Áine clutched Eris’s hands, willing herself to be calm. “You’re certain? You’ve seen him?”

“Just yesterday,” Eris assured her. “I left the little asshole in perfect health —“

“Eris,” Áine scolded, swatting at him.

Eris chuckled, but said more seriously, “He’s managed to get himself tangled up in another of the Cursebreaker’s messes. I told him what I thought of it, but he’s determined to protect her. And if we can ensure she has a healthy childbirth, I’m hoping she’ll return the favor.”

“Protect her?” Áine asked. She couldn’t imagine that fearsome High Lady needing protecting from anyone, especially with such a powerful mate. “From whom?”

Eris rolled his eyes. “That piece of shit she calls a mate. He was so pissed off she left, he trashed his own city.”

Áine clapped a hand over her mouth.“She left her mate?”

Eris nodded solemnly, no hint of amusement or gloating in his eyes. “I didn’t get the full story, as I was a little busy trying to talk my brother out of endangering himself yet again for her sake.”

Áine said, “It must have been serious. Leaving one’s mate is always risky, but she’s carrying his babe. That loss could drive him crazy.”

“It already has,” Eris said. “She’s in hiding.”

“That poor female.” Áine shuddered, knowing full well what it felt like to fear one’s husband, to feel the need to hide and flee. “She is still so young, so new to her fae body. And carrying her first baby.”

“The baby is the other problem,” Eris said. “She can’t deliver safely.”

“Oh,” Áine gasped, feeling a pang of sorrow for the young High Lady, but then said hopefully, “Eileithyia can help her. She saved both our lives, and has only gotten more experienced and skilled since then.” She smiled wistfully. “This is good of you, Eris.”

Eris’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if he didn’t want to accept the compliment. So she said it again. “This is good, Eris. You are good —“

“Mother,” he growled, turning away from her. “Don’t.”

“No,” she huffed, tugging at his shoulder, whirling him around to face her. “Listen. For you to help Feyre —“

“I’m not doing it for Feyre,” Eris hissed, shoving her hand away. “This is for that innocent babe, and for my stupid brother. He’s shielding her in his apartment. I’m sticking my neck out for him, against my better judgment. And now that his mate is with them —“

“His mate? You’ve met her?” Áine exclaimed, her heart fluttering hopefully. He’s with his mate. Perhaps I misjudged the situation.

Eris sighed. “Oh yes, I met her. Beautiful, and heartless. She pretends to be soft and innocent - that’s how she manipulates situations. Lucien’s friends had plenty to say about how miserable she makes him.” Áine’s disappointment must have shown, because he added, “Perhaps if she surrounded herself with nicer people, she’d learn to treat him better. I told her as much.” He chuckled ruefully, fingering his stretched-out collar. “He didn’t like that.”

Áine couldn’t answer, especially as Eris went on, getting louder and more angry as he ranted, “If she’s going to ignore him, leave him alone to suffer, she should just reject the mating bond. It can’t be worse than what he’s going through now, and it would be more honest. But she seems to want him in thrall to her, even if he can never have her.”

Áine turned, unable to stop the tears then. Her heart hurt for her son, for the pain that an unfulfilled mating bond would cause for him.

But she also smarted at the criticism, though it was directed at another.

Heartless.

It wasn’t that simple. Some mating bonds couldn’t be fulfilled, no matter what personal feelings cried out for.

Helion was wise. He understood, though she knew it must pain him.

She seems to want him in thrall to her, even if he can never have her.

She shoved her uneasy feelings down. He’s not in thrall to me. He makes no secret of how vigorously he chases his pleasure.

Eris nudged her. “Mother?”

Áine made her face a mask of calm acceptance as she turned back to her eldest. “So,” she asked, with false lightness, “when do you head back?”

“As soon as Eileithyia’s ready, we’ll leave for Velaris.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes with his hand, and she thought how young he looked, how innocent despite everything he’d experienced, all the horrors he’d seen. “I wish you could come with us.”

Áine didn’t answer right away. She rarely left the Forest House at all, much less the Autumn Court. She’d been thoroughly punished for her infidelity, terrified of what Beron might do to her sons, trying to prevent him from hurting Lucien. But in the end, Beron did what he wanted anyway.

Your High Lord can dispense death, but can he give life?

She could have run away, like Feyre Cursebreaker. She could have fled to Helion, asked him to protect her. But she had her other children to consider. She’d been trying to protect them, protect Autumn, protect Helion from almost certain war. There’d been enough death and destruction already, after Hybern.

So she’d stayed, and told herself it was for the best - and told Helion to stay away. She’d spent centuries carefully managing Beron, calming his rages, taking his punishments, withering away.

My sons are all grown now. And I couldn’t protect them, anyway. Áine’s heart squeezed for her youngest, especially. Lucien might soon be beyond her reach, perhaps exiled entirely from Prythian — if she didn’t see him now, she might never have the chance again.

Áine was lightly guarded these days, with the threat of war lessened. Beron was on the continent, wrangling some new alliance, and her other sons were preoccupied with the war recovery effort and shoring up the Spring border. She could feed her two little maids a cover story, give them a few more purses of money, or send them back to their father with apologies, saying Lord Beron had decided his wife had been disobedient and didn’t deserve their company.

Eris gave her a wary look. “Mother… You’re plotting something.”

“Hmm?” she asked innocently. “What makes you think so?”

Eris’s lips quirked up into an exasperated smile. “Lucien always gets that look when he’s about to do something stupid.”

Áine laughed — a rare thing. Her laugh sounded harsh, barking, foreign to her ears. It had been so long since she’d had any reason to laugh at all.

“I’ve heard Velaris is beautiful at this time of year.”

Chapter Text

Lucien was everywhere.

Everywhere she turned, she was confronted with his belongings, his furniture, even faint traces of his scent. Elain felt his warm presence lingering, watching her, and she didn’t know how to explain herself, or what to say. Something essential inside her had settled in, even as her mind rebelled, protesting that she was trapped with him.

“Much more peaceful now,” he said tentatively, gesturing towards the windows, keeping a respectful distance, as always.

The High Lord had tried and failed to claw his way in, shaking the building and waking the whole city with his piercing wails and unnatural howling. She’d huddled in the bedroom with Feyre, clinging to her pregnant sister, biting her lip until it bled to keep from screaming, while Lucien fought to keep them safe with his magic.

He’s more powerful than I realized.

She’d seen him fight on the battlefield, knew he could winnow and wield fire, but until this morning she’d had no idea he could weave spells. His magical shield had held, and Rhys had eventually departed, cursing and sobbing. The whole episode had left her feeling drained and wobbly with panic.

So this is what mates do. The possessiveness, the fury, the violence — all driven by that wicked bonding magic. It made her even more determined to stay away from the mating bond, avoid that fate for herself.

So she ignored Lucien’s attempt at conversation, and got busy washing yesterday’s dishes.

He seemed to sense her discomfort and averted his gaze, but she felt his pang of loneliness, of sorrow. She hated this part, how she could feel his disappointment at the rejection. She liked it much better when he lived with his human friends, far away enough that she wasn’t forced to feel his emotions, or guilt at having caused them.

I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want it.

Elain thought of retreating to the bedroom again, but couldn’t stare at those walls or the crumbling buildings out the window, or lie down in his bed for another minute.

Her fingers lingered at her neckline, seeking the chain of that tiny amulet Azriel had given her. Azriel, her winged savior, who she’d thought was so much like her — quiet, thoughtful, patient. She’d known he did work for Rhys, secret work, but hadn’t realized it involved torture. Elain knew there must be good reasons for using violence, that it was for their safety. But the thought of him using that dagger, drawing blood and screams as he sought his answers, made her shiver.

They’ll carve him up nice and slow, give him the most painful death possible.

Elain gave a little gasp, then cringed as Lucien’s gaze shot to her. “Are you all right?” he murmured, taking a few steps towards her.

No. I don’t want his comfort.

Even if she did, she couldn’t very well admit she’d been contemplating his death by slow torture.

So she shrugged noncommittally and turned back to the kitchen counter, at the groceries she’d started to organize and put away. She could feel Lucien’s eyes lingering on her, feel his fluttery confusion and uncertainty, but she resolved to say nothing, let the moment pass, let her own heart stop racing.

“I was surprised to see your sister this morning,” Lucien said.

Elain shrugged again, though she’d been more than surprised — shocked would have been a better description. She’d thought Nesta was gone from the city, wouldn’t be able to meddle, but she should have known better. Nesta was unstoppable when it came to protecting her.

Her cheeks flushed. I failed to do the same for Nesta. I let them lock her away in that mountain fortress. I helped them do it. She’d gone to her sister’s apartment and packed up her belongings, telling herself it was like when they’d left their ramshackle cottage for their new estate, and not like she was sending Nesta off to prison.

She’d been so flustered when Nesta showed up at the apartment laden with groceries, she hadn’t even thought to apologize.

“Nesta looks well,” Lucien was saying.

Elain tensed, irritated that he was still trying to draw her out despite her hints for him to leave her alone, but then Feyre answered, “She does, doesn’t she?”

When did Feyre slip in here? Even with Elain’s sensitive fae hearing, she hadn’t noticed her younger sister.

He wasn’t even talking to me. For some reason she didn’t want to think about, it rankled her.

Feyre was chuckling. “Apparently she scared the shit out of everyone at Windhaven.”

“What’s Windhaven,” Elain asked, then mentally kicked herself. Don’t involve yourself in his conversations.

“The Illyrian camp where Rhys, Cass, and Azriel trained,” Feyre replied. “Cassian dropped her off there after Rhys freaked out.”

“Isn’t that far?” Lucien asked, pulling out a chair next to Feyre at the kitchen table, and snagging a muffin from the tray.

Feyre shrugged. “Not when you have wings. And they were already up in the mountains.”

Elain angled her body to peer at them over her shoulder — two close friends, relaxed and chatty, hanging out over a pot of fresh tea and a huge tray of muffins. She felt out of place, even though Feyre was her sister. But she couldn’t be easy around Lucien, wouldn’t let herself be drawn in.

I don’t want a mate. I don’t want him.

Feyre rolled her eyes, dumping a spoonful of sugar into her tea and swirling it around. “Cassian got it into his head to take Nesta hiking.”

Lucien laughed - a rich, hearty, warm sound that made Elain flush from her ears to her neck. “He what?”

Feyre laughed with him, then gave a delighted gasp as she looked down at the hand resting on her belly. “The baby thinks it’s funny too. He’s kicking up a storm.” She snatched Lucien’s hand and pressed it to a spot on her belly. “Feel that? Those little flutters?”

Elain whirled around, staring at the groceries on the counter. She did not see Lucien’s glowing smile, did not pay any heed to him leaning down towards Feyre’s belly, did not feel tingly or tight or jealous as his fingers grazed her sister’s body. 

“He’s kicking me,” Lucien said wonderingly.

“Technically, he’s kicking me,” Feyre said.

Lucien asked, “He can really hear us?”

“Say something. See if he answers,” Feyre said.

Elain snuck another look. Lucien was leaning down to Feyre’s belly, rumbling, “Hello, little stranger. Are we being funny? Would you like to meet your scary Aunt Nesta?”

Elain quickly turned back around, biting her lip to keep from grinning.

Feyre swatted at Lucien playfully. “Troublemaker.”

Lucien leaned back and laughed again. “Don’t mistake me. I’m grateful she’s scary.”

“Lord Devlon wasn’t,” Feyre said. “He’s never wanted her near his camp. Not that he had a choice. Cassian dumped her at the cottage and raced back here when Rhys lost it. He thought he could leave her there for a few days.”

“Obviously Nesta had other ideas.”

“Nesta’s friend Emerie has a clothing shop,” Feyre said. “She decided to stay there instead of Rhys’s house. She found out about the city damage when a delivery arrived.”

Lucien cringed. “Word spreads fast.”

Feyre nodded. “Nesta marched right into Lord Devlon’s tent and demanded that one of his warriors fly her back here. None of them would do it — superstitious bastards. Well,” Feyre amended, chuckling, “Nesta did tell them she’s a witch. But still.”

Elain turned around, abandoning her pretense of ignoring the conversation. “So who flew her?”

“There was a small crew of visiting warriors from another camp,” Feyre explained. “One of the males, Balthazar, volunteered to bring her back.”

“So that’s who that Illyrian was,” Lucien said. “I saw him from the window.”

“He flew her all the way back to Velaris,” Feyre said. “I sensed her return, and filled her in on our situation.”

“So that’s how we ended up with half the market’s produce in our kitchen,” Lucien said, smiling with amusement.

Feyre snorted. “Nesta doesn’t do things halfway.”

“Will Nesta and Balthazar get in trouble?” Elain asked. 

“Not at all,” Feyre said. “No one is getting in trouble for helping me.” And she looked meaningfully at Lucien.

Elain winced.

Lucien will sacrifice himself to help her escape.

His stupid brother, getting me all upset. It won’t come to that. But she felt a little pang in her gut, all the same.

“Well,” Lucien said, a little too quickly, glancing nervously in Elain’s direction, “I’d better get cleaned up. I’m a sweaty mess after all that exercise early this morning.” He leaned down towards her sister’s belly again. “Now you be good, little rascal.”

Feyre giggled. “He kicked when you said that.”

Lucien grinned and turned to go, his smile fading somewhat as his eyes caught Elain’s. His metal eye clicked, and he inclined his head to her before he slipped out of the kitchen.

Elain sighed, not entirely with relief.

Feyre sipped her tea, then said, “This is awkward, isn’t it.”

Elain approached the table, carefully avoiding the chair Lucien had been in before sliding into a seat on the other side. “Very.”

“He’s trying,” her sister said gently.

“I wish he wouldn’t.” Liar.

Feyre eyed her carefully. “You really don’t like him.”

Elain reached up to fiddle with her necklace chain, then remembered she wasn’t wearing it. So she twisted her fingers nervously in her hair as she said, “It’s nothing to do with him. I don’t like having a mate.”

Feyre raised an eyebrow. “You keep rejecting him, not the mating bond.”

Elain huffed, “Why should he care so much what I think anyway? What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Feyre said emphatically. “You’re his mate.”

“I’m a stranger,” Elain said, her cheeks heating. “He barely knows me.”

“And whose fault is that?” Feyre said pointedly.

“He moved away,” Elain pointed out, though she knew full well why he’d done it. Avoiding me, avoiding the pain I keep causing him.

That thought made her angry, and before she could think better of it, she blurted, “If he’s so great, why don’t you take him for yourself?”

Feyre looked horrified. “Elain!”

“You’re all cozy with him. You’re wearing his clothes,” Elain snapped, unable to stop the torrent of angry words rushing out. “You’ve got his threads in your hair. You’re putting his hands on your body —“

“That’s enough.” Feyre pushed back from the table, her chair hitting the floor with a bang. “Lucien is my friend — my brother.” She stormed towards the door.

“Wait,” Elain called after her. “I didn’t mean it.”

Feyre paused in the doorway and said quietly, without turning around, “I can’t tell you what to do, Elain. Cauldron knows I don’t have all the answers. But don’t use me as your excuse, either.” She walked out, letting the kitchen door slam behind her.

Elain sucked in a shaky breath. Steady. Don’t let it get to you.

On the other side of the door, she could hear Lucien asking, “Is she all right?”

Then Elain buried her face in her hands, and started to cry.

Chapter Text

Lucien stiffened when the knock came, fingers splaying out as he reached reflexively for his magic. Then he curled his fists back up again. Not Rhys. Rhys wouldn’t knock.

He waved Feyre away, motioning for her to wait in the bedroom, but she stood stubbornly in the living room, smiling enigmatically at him.

So he padded to the door, willing steadiness into his voice. “Who is it?”

A voice on the other side drawled, “What have I told you about staying away from the door? Do you want to be captured?”

Lucien rolled his eyes, even as he sighed with relief. “It’s Eris,” he announced.

Feyre tapped her temple. “I know.”

“Of course you do,” Lucien muttered, then flung the door open.

Then burst into tears.

A moment later, he was in his mother’s arms, too overwhelmed with happiness to care that he was sobbing in front of everyone.

Distantly, he heard Eris grumble, “Don’t block the door,” and then his brother was nudging them, herding them inside the apartment.

His mother laughed through her own tears. “Hello, Sunshine.”

“You’re here,” he blurted stupidly, frantically swiping at his wet cheek. “I didn’t think — I didn’t let myself hope —“

“Shh,” his mother said, smoothing out his hair, then stepping back to look up at him, ghosting a hand over his scars. “Let’s not waste time on all that.”

He nodded, biting the inside of his bottom lip to keep the tears from starting again.

“This is Eileithyia,” his mother said, motioning to the petite auburn-haired female next to Eris. “She’s the most skilled healer in Autumn.”

Lucien nodded politely. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, we’ve met, little one,” Eileithyia said with a wink. “You were the quickest of all your mother’s births. And the loudest.”

Lucien was sure he would turn as red as his hair, especially as he spotted Elain hovering near the kitchen door, cautiously watching.

Keep it together. They’re here for a reason.

“The High Lady of the Night Court, Feyre Archeron,” Lucien said, motioning formally. “And her sister, Elain,” he added, carefully holding his voice steady.

Áine bit her lip — nervous, Lucien realized with a frown. He puzzled over the odd reaction, wondering if they’d met before. But the healer just smiled and said matter-of-factly, “Shall we have a look, then?”

Feyre fidgeted, suddenly nervous herself. “Bedroom?” she asked.

Lucien turned to his family. “Kitchen,” he suggested.

Elain glanced nervously between him and her sister - unsure where to go, he realized. Feyre and the healer were already heading to the back of the apartment. He opened his mouth and then closed it, certain that Elain would decline any invitation he made, simply because he made it. The thought stung, but he had to face facts.

Don’t dwell on that heartbreak now, not when Mother’s here.

But he couldn’t leave Elain standing there, forlorn, alone.

It was Eris who came to his rescue. “Come on, little sister,” he said briskly, striding towards the kitchen like he owned the place.

Elain glared at him, but took a few halting steps towards the kitchen.

Lucien couldn’t bear it anymore. He flung himself forward, pushing past Eris into the kitchen, busying himself with teacups and plates and rummaging through the fridge, which was now bursting with groceries, to put together a tray of snacks.

“What a cozy place,” his mother said kindly, approaching him with outstretched hands, ready to help. He shooed her away, motioning to the table.

Eris yanked out one of the chairs and slid smoothly into it, quipping, “It would be, if Lucien unpacked.”

“So it’s true, you’ve been living with your human friends?” his mother asked.

Lucien’s cheeks flushed. “I was splitting my time between here, Spring, and the human lands. Things have been — tense here for a while. Before Feyre showed up, I had decided to leave for good,” he admitted.

To his surprise, Elain spoke up from the doorway. “You never mentioned that.”

You never cared.

“I… Well,” he said stupidly, biting back his sour reply. He swallowed hard, then turned around with the tray. “Fruit?”

Eris flicked his fingers, igniting and then extinguishing little flames on each fingertip. “Sit down, little brother.”

“Sunshine,” his mother said, giving Eris a stern look before extending her hand to him, “I haven’t seen you in so long. Come sit by me.”

He obeyed, setting the tray down with shaking fingers and then sliding into the chair next to her.  Now that the initial shock of seeing his mother had worn off, he looked at her carefully, noting her red-tinged eyes, her frown lines, the hint of a fading bruise at her collarbone, only partially hidden by a carefully placed scarf.

“Mother,” he gulped, then ran out of words. After all this time, he had too much to say, and nowhere to begin. He began and discarded a string of sentences in his mind, each more desperate and preposterous than the last.

Finally he blurted out, “I never delivered your letter to the Martens. I was going to, but I had it in my pocket when I had to flee, and, well, I kept it. I didn’t have anything else that you’d given me, and I figured you could write another one, and…” He suddenly trailed off, shrugging apologetically.

Eris made a small, incredulous noise.

But his mother patted his hand and said, “I know, Sunshine.”

Lucien curled his fingers around hers, mechanical eye clicking softly, as she said, “I wrote you others, you know. Ones that were actually meant for you. But your father wouldn’t… well.”

My father. Lucien shook his head at that. Beron Vanserra was not his father. He kept me from everything and everyone that I loved, and he had no right to be in my life at all.

Eris cleared his throat. “Do you want to take this? Or should I?”

Áine’s russet eyes swept towards Eris, suddenly wary. “Take what?”

Eris, for once, seemed to be grasping at words. “His father,” he said finally, then cringed at Áine’s look of frozen panic.

Lucien had seen Eris cringe only once in his entire life — the day Amarantha had taken his eye.

Lucien quickly said, “It’s all right, Mother. I’m relieved, actually.”

A cup of steaming tea appeared in front of Lucien, and he reached for it without processing where it came from. He drank deeply, then nearly spilled it when Elain swept around to his mother’s elbow and placed another cup of tea on the table. He stared at her, entranced all over again at her glowing golden-brown hair, her rose-tinged cheeks, and she hesitated for a beat before depositing a third cup in front of Eris, carefully withdrawing her hands before Eris could reach for it.

Then she was gone, out of his line of sight, but he could feel her hovering behind him, watching him. What does she see, he thought nervously, but then his mother squeezed his hand, and he refocused back on the conversation. Right. Father.

“Does he know?” Lucien asked gently. “About me, I mean?”

Áine shook her head, blinking her eyes rapidly. “I couldn’t risk it. There would have been war, Sunshine. Or the Blood Duel. I couldn’t let him… I had to keep it secret.” A tear slipped down her cheek, and Lucien’s heart lodged in his throat.

“You did right,” Eris said softly, vehemently. “You did what you had to do.”

Áine shrugged. “That’s what I told myself.” She gave Lucien a long, plaintive look. “You’re so much like him, you know.”

I don’t know. But Lucien just smiled, and said, “Tell me?”

* * * * *

“First rule of giving birth, you must relax,” the healer chided gently, noting Feyre’s white-knuckled grip on the bedsheets. “Don’t fight your body. It knows what to do.”

Feyre blew out a breath, willing herself to calm down. The healer had carefully washed and warmed her hands and was gently examining her, humming softly, explaining what she was looking for and describing where and what she was touching before she did it. But Feyre couldn’t be calm, not when she knew the baby wouldn’t fit.

The healer chuckled at her reaction. “It’s no use, is it? Commanding someone to relax.”

Feyre smiled, despite herself. “I tend not to do what I’m told.”

“Perhaps not usually, except when it comes to him.” Eileithyia laid a gentle hand on her belly, dry and warm. “It seems you’ve been following your healer’s advice to the letter.”

I’ll do anything I can to help my baby.

“How long have you been assisting deliveries?” Feyre asked.

“Oh, I trained for a spell,” Eileithyia said casually. “I apprenticed with other healers for a hundred years or so. The Lord Eris was one of the first babes I delivered on my own.” She noted Feyre’s shocked look, and chuckled. “He was a stubborn little thing, even then.”

I’m going to call him that from now on.

Feyre asked, “Have you ever seen a babe with wings before?”

The healer slid her smooth hands along Feyre’s belly, gently prodding. “Among the Lesser Fae, certainly, there are wings aplenty.”

Nyx jolted, as if he were tumbling and dancing, and Eileithyia drummed her fingers on Feyre’s skin. “There’s your little one. Vigorous and strong, like his mother. A good sign.”

A tear slid down Feyre’s cheek as she rested her hands on her belly. He’s fine as long as he’s in here, but what about when he has to come out? He can’t stay in here forever.

“Why don’t you sit up, get dressed,” Eileithyia said, “get comfortable.”

Feyre nodded, not bothering to hide her tears, and shifted on the bed, pulling herself together while the healer discreetly turned her back, rummaging through her bag of clinking vials and implements that she had set on the bedside table.

“Ready,” Feyre said. Or as ready as I’ll ever be.

The healer regarded her carefully, head tilted, considering. “I think we’re looking at a magic-assisted delivery.”

Feyre immediately protested, “I was told my magic could harm the baby.”

Eileithyia clucked disapprovingly. “Early on, yes. There was a risk, while his little heart and limbs and wings were forming. That’s always the most delicate time.” She shifted on the bed, taking one of Feyre’s hands in hers. “There’s always risk, you understand. There’s risk in doing too much, but also in doing nothing.”

Feyre nodded, swiping stray tears from her cheeks.

“In this case,” the healer went on, “doing nothing is the riskier option. It’s a fact that he’s got wings, no amount of waiting or hoping will change that. The only thing to do is to prepare your body accordingly.”

“But if I shape-shift,” Feyre said nervously, “I could hurt him, couldn’t I?”

“Well,” Eileithyia said, cocking her head thoughtfully, “must you shift all at once? When females give birth, we dilate a little at a time, over hours or even days. Could you control it that much, shift a small amount each time?”

Feyre confessed, “I’m actually not sure. I’ve never tried.”

“Try it,” Eileithyia urged gently. “While you’re both strong. If you feel anything you don’t like, just stop. You’ll sense if your little one is handling it.”

Feyre bit her lip, but nodded. “I can sense his mind. Not words, of course, but… feelings.” She caressed her belly, smiling as she sent Nyx an image of herself with the healer. We’re talking about you. Making a plan.

Nyx poked her with an elbow, and she laughed heartily.

“He’s not shy with his opinions,” Eileithyia smirked.

“He’ll fit right in around here,” Feyre said, suddenly missing Rhys, missing her friends. She felt them in the city, lingering nearby, watching over her, though she couldn’t let them in. Not now, not with the healer here, not when they hadn’t even tried to apologize.

“We’ll get you a diagram of Illyrian anatomy,” Eileithyia said. “And an Illyrian healer, to make sure you’re doing it accurately. A small amount each day, from now until delivery. Now, if you go into labor suddenly, we could —“

Suddenly, the ceiling and walls glittered and sparkled, as every ward surrounding the apartment sizzled to life. Feyre shrieked, grabbing the bed linens as the spells began to unravel.

No. Cauldron, no. 

I sensed them here. I should have known. But Rhys couldn’t get through the wards before.

The bedroom door burst open, and her sister rushed in, followed by the Lady of the Autumn Court. Feyre gaped at them both. Elain was shaking and crying, while Lucien’s mother clutched her ribs, looking stricken and pale.

“He’s here,” the Lady whispered.

Feyre didn’t need to ask. She had already sensed his presence, had already guessed from the elegant, smooth way the wards were unspooling. But Elain stared at her, wide-eyed and confused.

“Helion Spell-Cleaver,” she said quietly, shoving down her panic. “He's helping Rhys. We have to go.”

Chapter Text

“Let me go,” Lucien pleaded, thrashing against the hands pinning him, dragging him backwards.

“Absolutely not. I am not leaving you to them,” Eris growled in his ear, his grip tightening around Lucien’s arms.

Lucien wailed, “I’ve got to do this, Eris. Let me go.” He wrenched an arm free, elbowing Eris in the ribs. “Every ward in this place is going to unravel if I don’t fix it right now.”

“It’s too late. We’ve got to leave,” Eris insisted stubbornly.

“And go where? Autumn?” Lucien scoffed. “I’m dead, either way.”

His mechanical eye clicked rapidly, scanning the ceiling and walls, and he blanched at how quickly the wards were unraveling. He planted his feet, digging in against Eris’s efforts to pull him away, and began weaving in new wards to replace the broken ones, biting his lip as he struggled to think of ways to strengthen the network against a much more skilled opponent.

I wanted to meet my father, but not like this.

“You asshole,” Eris hissed. “There are other places. Spring —“

“Feyre won’t go to Tamlin, and you know it,” Lucien said, shoving his brother away again.

“Lucien —“

“Listen to me, Eris.” Lucien kept both eyes firmly fixed on the wards, which were coming apart faster than he could weave them back together. We don’t have time for this argument. “Get in the bedroom. I’ll shield you all as long as I can. Talk to Feyre, make a plan, then get them out.”

“What about you?” Eris blurted.

“Don’t worry about me,” Lucien said firmly, gritting his teeth as the wards around the front door began to peel away. He flung his power out wildly, plastering the holes closed again. Sloppy. My clumsy wards won’t hold out long. “Protect our mother. Protect Feyre, and the healer. Protect my mate.”

Eris swiped at him, trying to grab him again, and he forcefully shook his brother off. “Take them to Autumn, or wherever. I’ll hold the wards as long as I can.”

“But —“

“Please.” Lucien didn’t dare look at his brother, didn’t dare take his eyes off the disintegrating wards. He was sweating, knees wobbling under the strain of holding off Helion’s superior magic, and he swore as flames sparked at his fingertips.

I’m losing control.

“Go, Eris,” he shouted.

Eris swore viciously, then threw himself into the bedroom and banged the door shut.

Lucien sighed with relief, then stumbled, reeling as a wave of power rocked through the room, grabbing his muscles, yanking him off balance.

Binding magic. I’m out of time.

He swore and twisted as he went down, landing awkwardly as he threw out one last warding spell towards the bedroom. Then he turned his magic on himself, frantically cleaving the spells that were wrapping around him, pinning him down.

Not like this. I won’t let it end this way.

The front door shook with Rhys’s power.

Lucien’s mechanical eye rapidly scanned the binding spells, searching for weaknesses. He flinched and struggled, then forced himself to breathe deep.

Like at Hybern. Don’t think, just shatter them.

He closed his eyes, concentrating, letting the power build up, and then shredded the magic in a burst of glowing light.

The door burst open.

Go, Feyre, he pleaded silently, hoping she could hear his thoughts, wishing desperately he could reach out to other minds the way that she could.

Tell my mother I’m sorry. Tell Elain to be happy. Tell your little one —

Rhys roared Feyre’s name, shaking the walls.

Lucien grabbed hold of the light, threw it forward, blasting towards the door.

The blast of light bent, curving towards Helion Spell-Cleaver’s outstretched palm, as Rhys’s darkness flooded the room, driving Lucien to his knees.

He shoved against it, gasping for breath, forcing his muscles to move, but the darkness grabbed him, clawed at him, as though it would shatter him to pieces. He writhed, fighting it, cursing as his power gave out against the onslaught.

“My mate,” Rhys bellowed, “where is she?”

“With the — healer,” Lucien rasped, throwing out another haphazard blast of light, fire sputtering out along with it. But Rhys’s power suffocated it, slamming Lucien to the floor. He sprawled on his side, wincing as pain barked through his left shoulder and arm. He balled his hands into fists, tried and failed to get up.

“Fucking liar,” Rhys snapped. “I’ll rip the truth from you.”

Lucien winced as Rhys’s talons scraped at his mind, waited for the fracturing.

“Sly little bastard,” Rhys snarled, “you’ve got your mind shielded.”

“Not — me,” Lucien gritted out, pushing up to his knees.

Feyre. She’s shielding me.

Lucien’s heart sank at that realization. They didn’t get out in time.

Lucien cringed as Rhys prowled toward him, certain he would crumble under the onslaught of the High Lord’s power. He was thoroughly trapped, unable to push against Rhys’s paralyzing magic that seized at his muscles, strangled the air from his lungs. He steeled himself for the blow that would kill him, the shattering of his bones, or the raw gash of Rhys’s lengthening claws.

But the moment passed, and no death blow came.

The engulfing darkness relented. Lucien panted, breathing again.

His good eye was shrouded, but his mechanical one clicked, detecting a faint glimmer in the darkness - a shield. He tried to reach out for it, but his muscles wouldn’t budge.

Rhys lunged for him, and Lucien squeezed his eyes shut.

But Rhys was shoved back, repelled by the shield

Rhys cursed, low and vicious, then tried a second time, again bouncing off the shield, which rippled around Lucien soundlessly, absorbing the energy of the strike.

“Helion,” Rhys growled. “Don’t you block me.”

“Pull back, Rhysand,” Helion’s deep voice said.

Rhys hissed, “My mate is here.”

“My mate is, too,” Helion said, gently but firmly. “And this one is her son. Pull back.”

Rhys let out a choked sob. The darkness eased enough for Lucien’s good eye to see again, though the magic lingered oppressively in the room. 

Lucien breathed, staring at the glittering net of spells around him, a barrier so firm even Rhys’s darkness couldn’t easily muscle through. It felt familiar, like a blanket of his own magic, only much, much stronger. He couldn’t tell whether it was protecting him, or trapping him. Possibly both.

He tested it, flicking a finger, tugging a bit on the golden threads, and felt it ripple around him — loosening, letting him move, but not unraveling.

“Hmm,” Helion said, taking a few steps into the apartment, radiating a warm glow amidst Rhys’s darkness. His eyes roved over the room, resting on Lucien. “Interesting.”

Rhys threw his back against the bedroom door and slid down. “Helion, please. My mate is in there. My baby.”

“And a healer, at least according to what I heard,” Helion said thoughtfully, striding in further. “Don’t frighten them. Let them be.”

Rhys began to protest, but Helion added, “The containment spell is holding. No one’s going anywhere. Let’s question this one, find out more about what’s been happening here.”

Rhys rose up, snarling at him. “I trusted you to help me, not block me.”

Helion took a defensive step back, then said to someone behind him, “I may need your help, if he decides to challenge me.”

“Don’t you dare,” Rhys cried. “Don’t any of you try to stop me.”

“What will you do, my friend?” Helion said softly. “You can hurt us, even kill us all with that overwhelming power of yours, but then what? Will that bring you peace? Do you suppose your mate will want to come out of her hiding place?”

Rhys glared at him, then snarled, “I’ve had enough of this. We’re wasting time.”

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then Rhys collapsed back against the door again. “I can’t — She’s shielded all your minds.” He slumped, running a hand through his hair. “She really doesn’t want to see me.”

“Feyre has your powers, and mine,” Helion said reasonably. “She could have broken out of here if she so desired, or forced this one” — he motioned to Lucien — “to do her bidding, if he tried to oppose her.”

“He could have tricked her,” Rhys said, but his resolve was wavering.

“Perhaps. But I remember this one from Under the Mountain,” Helion said, his gaze flicking over Lucien again. “His loyalty to Feyre almost got him killed, more than once. Including by you, as I recall.”

Rhys bristled. “You know what I was doing. And why.”

“I do. Nevertheless, you were seconds away from shattering his mind,” Helion said darkly, staring down at Lucien. What does he see?

Lucien stared up at him, dumbstruck, then marshaled his strength, pushing up from the floor. He managed to get one knee off the ground before the spell-net around him tightened, pinning him back down. Annoyed, he tugged at the spells again, then shoved to his feet before the net constricted around him, holding him still.

Helion’s deep brown eyes sparkled with amusement, despite his solemn expression. “You’re a reckless one, aren’t you.”

Lucien tried to speak, but couldn’t make his mouth work. Stupid binding spells.

Rhys snapped, “He’s meddled for the last time.”

“Rhys.” Morrigan stepped out from behind Helion, approaching her cousin. “We should go.”

“No,” Rhys growled. “I’m not leaving until I see the baby is all right.”

“Feyre doesn’t want to see you right now. You’re going to have to trust her to do what she needs to do, to take care of herself and the baby,” Morrigan argued.

Lucien stared down at his body, at the glimmering threads of spell-work that held him, scanning for a weak spot.

Helion noticed, and smirked. “You want to test my magic? Let’s see you try it.”

Lucien’s blood heated at the challenge in those words, the implied condescension in the tone, and he released a blast of power, shredding through enough of the spells to break himself out, freeing his voice.

Helion’s smirk slipped, but Lucien quickly looked towards the other High Lord — the one he had to convince not to kill him.

“She’s all right,” he gasped, making Rhys whirl around. “The baby’s strong. I felt him kick. And the healer is the best we could find. She delivered all my mother’s—“

He was abruptly cut off as Helion’s magic whipped around him again, locking his arms to his sides and strangling the rest of his words in his throat.

Cauldron damn it.

His eyes shot to Helion, who was standing with his arms folded across his broad chest, eyebrow raised in challenge.

He didn’t want to hear about my mother having Beron’s babies.

Lucien balled up his fists, shoving uselessly against the binding spells, then forced himself to go still, to focus on shattering them instead.

Rhys was still glaring at him. “How interesting that I’m supposed to believe you, when you’ve been hiding my mate and babe from me,” he growled.

Morrigan stepped into Rhys’s path. “He’s telling the truth.”

Lucien yanked on the golden threads, hard, and unspooled the section trapping his arms and neck. “Feyre does what she wants. She’s far more powerful than I am,” he said pleadingly.

“And your mate? How did you end up talking her into staying?” Rhys said. “Last I checked, she couldn’t even bear to be in a room with you.”

Lucien’s heart began to pound with anger and shame. Before he could check himself, he retorted, “Then we have that in common—“

Helion fired more magic at him.

Later, Lucien would wonder if Helion was trying to prevent him from saying something truly stupid, from setting off a murderous rage. But at the moment, Lucien was livid at being silenced again — it was bad enough to be insulted and belittled and threatened constantly by Rhys and his circle, but in front of his father, who didn’t know what was true and what wasn’t —

Lucien exploded with a blast of power, a strange mix of white light and fire that threw sparks into the air. The spells scattered, raining down around him.

“I was all packed to leave this court forever, until Feyre came to me,” Lucien said, breathing hard, trying to regain control. “I’m still packed to go. I could be on my way —“

“Like I’m going to let you waltz out of here, after the shit you’ve just pulled,” Rhys snapped.

Helion interrupted smoothly, saying, “Feyre may have something to say about that.”

Morrigan said, “Rhys, we should leave for a bit — let everyone calm down. If Feyre wants to see us, she’ll come out.”

Rhys nodded, but then turned back to Lucien. “Let’s go, little fox.”

Lucien’s blood ran cold. “Where?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever properly shown you the Hewn City,” Rhys said. “You can be my guest there. I’ll set you up in your own special room.”

He strode toward Lucien, as if he might grab hold and winnow them away, but at that moment, Helion lashed out with his magic again.

Lucien was too distracted to react this time, and the spells wrapped around his wrists and forearms like ropes, yanking him forward. Lucien yelped, thrown off balance, and stumbled. Helion caught him by the shoulders, twisting him around and away from Rhys. Lucien stared up at him, stunned into silence.

“Now hold on,” Helion said to Rhys. “I have questions of my own.”

Calm. Be calm.

Every time Beron laid hands on him, pain was guaranteed to follow.

He isn’t Beron.

“How can you cleave spells like that?” Helion asked.

Lucien blinked nervously, unsure of how to answer, but he tried to keep his voice even. “I can see the threads. I used to think it was my mechanical eye, but sometimes I can still sense them with my eyes closed.”

Helion studied Lucien’s face intently, as though the answers to all his questions would be written there. “Who taught you this magic?”

“No one,” Lucien said, his mechanical eye clicking softly.

Helion murmured, “Why should your magic feel familiar, little Vanserra?”

Lucien forced himself to meet Helion’s eyes — his father’s eyes — and speak matter-of-factly.

“Because I’m not a Vanserra.”

Chapter Text

A child of Áine’s, but not a Vanserra. A child with familiar magic. My magic.

Helion’s mind, which had been casting about tirelessly, trying to piece this strange puzzle together, raced at lightning speed as the final detail clicked into place.

When she told me to stay away… this is why.

His heart twisted, rage and despair and elation warring within it, and his fingers trembled as he grasped his son’s shoulders. A son. I have a son.

He studied the male before him, this brash young lordling. So much like Áine, with that fiery red hair, the russet eye, the sparkling intellect behind it. Yet looking at his face was like looking into a mirror, so similar were their features. It would have been clear to anyone who saw them together.

And his magic — it called to Helion’s, as though it were one and the same.

Helion had admired the wards around the apartment, how he’d had to expend effort to unspool them, had wondered how a Vanserra had managed it. And that blast of his own light power — he hadn’t known how to process that.

This was Áine’s youngest, her last pregnancy. The last time he’d seen her… yes, the timing matched up perfectly.

He willed himself to be steady, but it was an effort. He was furious with Áine, and with himself. He’d obeyed her wishes to stay away, had told himself it was for the best, and had gone on with his life without her. Had forced himself to stop asking why now, why this latest pregnancy should have been different from any of her others.

She hid him from me, kept this secret for centuries.

He wanted to scream and rage. I should have known something was going on. I should have insisted, should have pushed.

But then he glanced over at the High Lord of the Night Court, who was slumped against the wall, head bowed, dark shadows leaking from him, torn apart with rage and thwarted desire.

Would I have been any different, if I’d known she was carrying my babe? Would I have been strong enough to respect her wishes, stay away, truly let her go, not interfere?

Helion had struggled for long years to make his peace with losing Áine — the distance helped, until it didn’t. He had guessed that Beron must have found out about their long affair, and he was furious with the bastard brute, and fearful for her safety.

He’d been angry with Áine too, for choosing to stay with Beron in the first place, for acquiescing to the marriage. She always chose her family over me — first her parents, then her children. But he knew she wouldn’t want war or violence, so all he could do was respect her wishes.

So he stayed in his own court, and tried to forget her. Like I could ever forget my Áine, my love.

Áine was never far distant from his thoughts, ever present in his memories and desires, and sometimes he imagined he could still feel flashes of her through their long-dormant bond — flashes of despair, longing, terror.  Helion kept himself submerged in pleasures and diversions, walled off his own yearning for his mate until he’d convinced himself he’d mastered it.

These last years had been the hardest, particularly Under the Mountain, when they were forced to ignore each other, to avoid triggering Beron’s suspicions or risk drawing Amarantha’s attentions. Áine had weathered that as she always did, carefully suppressing all emotion and shrinking into herself in Beron’s presence. They’d managed until Tamlin’s arrival Under the Mountain, and the last of her sons with him. Then, she’d become frantic.

Helion had shrugged it off as a natural reaction to Amarantha’s cruelty and concern for her youngest boy, but now he realized that on top of all that, she’d been dreading this very encounter — the moment he and his boy faced each other, and recognized what they were.

But Feyre Cursebreaker’s arrival had made such a meeting impossible, had put his son in constant danger, so that such a casual meeting could never happen. The poor thing been interrogated, then whipped, then nearly crushed and incinerated during one of the bitch queen’s little spectacles.

If I had known he was mine then, what would I have done?

Helion forcefully shoved those memories away, and focused back on the male before him, his strange golden eye clicking rapidly. Nervous. He’s unsure of me.

I did just help Rhysand break in here, and bind him with my magic. I’d be nervous, too.

“You,” Helion said quietly, grasping for words, utterly failing to form a coherent thought. He swallowed, and tried again, schooling his tone to be non-confrontational, gentle. “How long have you known?”

“I found out yesterday. Feyre showed me a memory. The High Lords’ summit, before the War.”

Feyre Cursebreaker. Helion tried to imagine what that day must have looked like through her innocent eyes. She was so new to Prythian, so naïve in some ways. With only a short time in her fae body, with her powers, and so little opportunity to visit other courts, he wondered how much she knew about the issues they’d been there to discuss.

It hadn’t mattered, anyway, because stupid Tamlin had shown up, and made their diplomatic summit all about their breakup.

“After the meeting,” Lucien went on, “you were all together, talking about Hybern and my mother. You explained how you’d saved her, how you spent… time together, and they figured it out.”

They.

It took a moment, but only a moment, for Helion to grasp the implications.

He kept his grip firm on his son’s shoulder as he whirled towards Rhysand. “You knew?”

Rhysand’s head shot up at the question, suddenly alert. “I suspected.”

Helion swallowed down the curses that he wanted to rain down upon Rhysand’s head. He is calm. Keep him that way.

But he was too angry to let the matter drop. “You utterly failed to mention it. At any point,” he seethed. “Including when you asked me to help you break into my son’s apartment.”

Rhysand collapsed further against the wall, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“You still aren’t, if you think that’s an excuse,” Helion thundered. “I could have killed him. You were so focused on your son that you almost murdered mine.”

“Lucien is unharmed,” Rhysand snapped, though he was too exhausted to put much energy into his retort.

“Because I shielded him,” Helion fumed, “and because Feyre guarded his mind.”

Rhysand groaned softly at the mention of his mate’s name, and closed his eyes.

“I defended you, as an ally and a friend,” Helion said quietly. “I’ve vouched for you, your good intentions, when others were suspicious. I trusted you. Clearly I was wrong to do so.”

“Old friend,” Rhysand said wearily, “You know what I am. I’m a monster when I have to be. I’ll do anything to keep those I love safe and protected. I’ve never pretended otherwise.”

“You are a High Lord,” Helion said tightly, flummoxed by Rhysand’s stubbornness. “And not just any High Lord, but the most powerful among us. You cannot simply guard your own loved ones, your own handpicked interests, at the expense of all others. You cannot become that monster, or you will be a tyrant.”

“I can’t just let my loved ones die, or suffer,” Rhysand cried. “I’ve already lost my mother and Branwen. I couldn’t take it if something happened to my mate, or my son, or Mor, or Az or Cassian. I won’t let that happen.”

“For their sake? Or for yours?” Helion kept his voice gentle, even as his indignation rose. “Who are you really protecting?”

Rhysand snarled, “You have no right to criticize. Just because you let your mate languish at the Autumn Court with Beron —“

Helion’s hands clenched into fists, but before he could respond, Lucien lunged forward, blurting, “Don’t you bring my mother into this. What’s your obsession with her, anyway?”

Helion gripped his arms, yanked him back — brash young thing wants to get himself slaughtered — but his blood started to roar as Rhysand pushed up from the wall, sneering, “If you are referring to that one comment —“

“The one about making the whole Autumn Court bleed? So you do remember saying that. How did you put it? ‘Especially its darling Lady,’” Lucien snapped.

Helion wrestled the bile back down his throat, shoved down the blast of power that vibrated in his bones, demanding to be released.

Rhysand’s eyes went wide. “Helion, I — I didn’t know she was your mate,” he said pleadingly. “I thought she was Beron’s.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Helion snarled at him. “Threatening an innocent female is beneath you, Rhysand.”

“It wasn’t unprovoked. Lucien pulled a sword on me,” Rhysand pointed out.

“Because you barged in to threaten us. Because you were threatening Feyre,” Lucien shot back.

“I was trying to scare Feyre away, to save her!” Rhysand wailed. “I didn’t want my mate in Amarantha’s clutches!”

“But you had no problem threatening my mate and son in the process,” Helion shouted. He clenched his jaw, settling himself. “You are gods-damned lucky that I’m not like you, or you would be a splatter on that wall right now. “

He forced himself to turn away, before he proved himself a liar. But he said, over his shoulder, “If I were you, Rhysand, I’d leave. Go home. Think long and hard about what kind of male you want to be.”

Rhysand didn’t answer.

It was Mor who stepped forward, pulling Rhysand to his feet. “We’re going. And Helion,” she added softly, “I guessed about Lucien, and I didn’t mention it either. I’m sorry.”

Helion turned his head just in time to see them winnow away.

Helion turned to his son, his son, who was staring up at him with a more settled expression. “And I’m sorry I helped him.”

“You thought you were doing the right thing,” Lucien shrugged.

Helion shook his head emphatically. “I never stopped to get Feyre’s side of the story. I should not have assumed that she needed to be rescued.”

To his surprise, Lucien’s lips sprouted a sheepish smile. “I once made exactly that mistake.”

“Of all the things to have in common.” The bedroom door had opened, and a lovely, glowing Feyre Cursebreaker came sauntering out.

Helion carefully kept his eyes on her face, and not her curvy pregnant body. He’d always loved Áine’s pregnancies, how soft and sweet and radiant she was, and he couldn’t afford to think of any of that now, not when he could sense her in the next room, their mating bond tugging frantically at his ribs like a clawing, living thing.

Don’t go to her. She wouldn’t want it. Let her lead the way.

He didn’t want to consider the possibility that she wouldn’t want to see him, but he had to face facts. They’d spent so long ignoring each other that she might find it too painful, too raw, to do anything else.

Lucien broke away from him and ran to her, carefully looking her over. “Feyre! Are you all right?” He looked past her, into the bedroom. “And all the others?”

“All unharmed,” Feyre assured him, then fixed her steely blue eyes on Helion. “I should be angry with you. But you did get him to leave voluntarily.”

Helion began babbling apologies, but she waved him away. “No need for all that. I liked what you said to Rhys. I hope he listens.” She turned to the bedroom, calling, “Come out, everyone. The coast is clear.”

Helion only had a moment to steel himself before his mate, the mother of his child, his beautiful Áine, walked through the door.

Chapter Text

Elain crouched in the corner of the bedroom, eyes squeezed shut, arms wrapped around herself, but she couldn’t stop the trembling, the icy cold sluice of terror in her veins. She softly sobbed as the house shook, as bursts of magic pulsed through the room.

Not soldiers. Not Hybern, she thought frantically.

But she could almost feel the bite of scratchy ropes being yanked on her wrists, almost hear Nesta’s shrill screams and the soldiers grunting from her sister’s struggling. She cringed away from their meaty hands slipping around her waist and pinching her side and —

“Hush, girl. It’s going to be all right.”

Elain’s eyes flew open to see the kindly, ancient face of the healer peering down at her. “Wherever you went just now, you’re not there anymore.”

Elain nodded tearfully, allowing the female’s warm, dry hands to grip her own and swiftly pull her up from the floor. “Come sit with us,” the healer said briskly, bundling Elain towards the set of chairs at the small table.

Elain let herself be led, but twisted around to find her sister, praying that this situation wouldn’t frighten her, wouldn’t hurt the baby. Feyre sat on the bed, perfectly still. Her hands rested on her belly, eyes softly closed, brow furrowed in concentration. Elain was afraid to speak to her, to risk interrupting whatever she was doing, but she marveled at how calm her sister looked, how in control.

“She’s shielding us,” the healer said matter-of-factly, tugging an armchair out and motioning for Elain to sit in it.

Elain slid into the chair obediently. “Shielding?”

Another voice growled, “Fucking Rhysand is a daemati. He can control our thoughts, even kill us with his mind if he wants to.”

Eris. She’d forgotten that blasted male was with them. He was hovering between the table and the door, fire wreathed around his palms — guarding them, she realized with a jolt.

“Hush, child,” the healer snapped at him, totally unfazed by the power radiating from him. “Don’t talk so. Be calm.”

Eris whirled around, his hair whipping around his head like a rippling flame. “Be calm. My stupid fucking brother is out there alone, getting himself killed or worse, and I’m supposed to be calm.”

Elain gasped, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Killed or worse. What could be worse?

“Darling, don’t do this to yourself. It won’t help,” pleaded the other female at the table, the beautiful redheaded Lady of the Autumn Court, Lucien’s mother. She was perched at the table, regal, sitting tall, but Elain saw how one of her hands was pressed to her ribcage, how it shook every so often.

Elain’s own chest felt like it would burst, like she would be torn open from the pressure of being pulled so forcefully toward the door. She knew Lucien was on the other side, could feel his frantically pounding heart, his frustration, his terror, and she wanted to claw the door open and throw herself through it.

And what would I do then?

Her hands clenched and unclenched, aching to touch him, grab hold of him, drag him out of danger.

I’m just concerned for his safety, like I would be for anyone in that situation.

Eris ran a hand through his hair.  “I told the little asshole this was too dangerous. He could have left days ago, gotten himself to Spring or the human lands. But he’s got a fucking death wish —”

“Eris,” his mother exclaimed.

“Watch your mouth, child, or I’m giving you a sleeping potion,” the healer snapped at him.

Eris kept pacing, little sparks of flame forming at his fingertips. “I promised him I’d protect you all, get you all out,” he fumed, then jerked his head towards Feyre on the bed. “But she’s the only one who can fucking protect him, so I can’t even do that much.” 

The lady glanced at Feyre nervously. “We are fortunate he has such a powerful friend.”

Eris scoffed, “Friend. She’s the one who keeps putting him in danger in the first place.”

“Eris,” the lady hissed. “Do not anger her. You’ve seen what she can do.”

Elain blinked at that. Was Lucien’s mother afraid of Feyre?

Eris must have seen her look of confusion, because he snapped, “Ask my mother how she got that scar on her arm.” When Elain failed to respond, he went on, “Your sister thought it would be fun to assault my father at a diplomatic conference, with his innocent wife sitting right there.”

“I’m sure it was an accident,” Elain cringed.

Eris shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I would have been happy for Feyre to kill my father. But she has a habit of endangering the innocents around her, whether she means to or not.” He smiled grimly. “She should take a lesson from your Shadowsinger. When he attacked me at that very same meeting, at least he had the sense to use his bare hands.”

Azriel’s hands — those beautiful, gentle hands that had grazed her neck while putting the necklace on her — could be brutal, even murderous. As obnoxious and annoying as Lucien’s brother could be, she shuddered at the thought of Azriel squeezing the life out of him.

“Don’t enjoy that fantasy too much, little sister,” Eris drawled.

“Darling, this is hardly appropriate,” the lady murmured.

Eris sighed exaggeratedly. “It’s just a distraction.”

The building shook, and Elain shrieked.

Lucien is out there, alone.

The lady reached across the table and gently took her hand. “I know this is frightening.”

Elain bit her lip, flushing with embarrassment. She knew she didn’t need to explain herself, but found herself saying, “It’s just that I-I was kidnapped once. By Hybern.”

She cringed at that cursed name, expected the lady to murmur some vague apology. But the lady squeezed her hand and said softly, “Hybern killed my sisters.”

Elain choked back a sob, and the lady continued, “They insisted I leave them. Insisted I run. I knew it was wrong, that we should die together, but I listened. The Hybern beasts chased me, until he —“ Then she cut off abruptly, eyes growing wide, and her head whipped toward the door. “He’s in the apartment. Cauldron save them both.”

A wave of power pulsed through the room, heavy, stifling. Elain cried out, feeling it wrap around her, blanketing her, muffling her senses.

Eris cursed, low and vicious, and raised his fingers - the flames were gone. “A containment spell. He’s trapped us.”

“Who?” Elain cried.

“Helion Spell-Cleaver,” Eris gritted out, flicking his hands, snarling in frustration when nothing happened. “He’s spelled the whole house. We can’t winnow or use our magic.” 

“But Lucien,” Elain protested. “Won’t he get hurt?”

“That depends.” Eris shot a look towards Feyre, then sighed with the slightest bit of relief. “She seems unaffected. Must be that kernel of power he gave her when she was Made. Lucien has Helion’s powers too. Maybe he won’t be defenseless.” Then he asked his mother, “Has Helion ever suspected?”

Silent tears were running down the lady’s face. “Helion has no idea who Lucien is. He’ll never forgive me. Never. If he kills our son—” She broke off, burying her face in her hands.

The healer moved to put her arm around the lady’s back, whispering something soothing and quiet, then handed her a handkerchief.

Elain watched miserably, no idea what to do. This was none of her business - she didn’t even know the lady’s name, had only met Eris a few days ago, and had spent most of her time avoiding Lucien rather than trying to get to know him. Now, she felt like she was drowning in Vanserras and their family dramas.

She’d barely followed the conversation in the kitchen, but understood that Lucien’s father was not the High Lord of Autumn at all, but a different High Lord from another court. It had been a great secret, even to Lucien himself.

Until recently, Elain would have been scandalized by such a story, would have thought how terrible it was for a son to be hidden from his father. But now, cowering in the bedroom with her pregnant sister, she understood the need for hiding.

Eris yanked at the door, but was unable to make it budge. He huffed, then stalked towards the window, giving it an experimental shove.“Sealed, of course. We won’t be getting out.”

“Well,” the healer said, “at least no one can get in.”

The lady relaxed a fraction, delicately patting her face with the handkerchief. “You’re right. Maybe he’s protecting us.”

Elain squirmed in her seat, looking nervously between her sister perched motionless on the bed, the impatient male hovering at the window, the healer blithely rummaging through her bag, and the regal lady at the table. She looked distraught, eyes suddenly squeezed shut, hands clutching at her chest, and Elain whispered, “Do you need — are you unwell?”

The lady’s eyes flew open, and she regarded Elain with a pained expression. “Oh. Thank you, dear. No, I’m well enough. It’s just…” She smiled wanly, her pale skin flushing a bit pink. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt it so strongly.”

“The mating bond?” Elain asked softly.

The female nodded, her beautiful face relaxing into a ghost of a smile. “This is the first time in centuries that I’ve encountered my mate without my husband hovering around. Usually I have to carefully conceal the bond so as not to aggravate him, or tip off others. I’d forgotten how intense it can feel.”

“Forgive me,” Elain stammered, “but I was human until recently, and I-I don’t know much about such things. Is it not usual to marry one’s mate?”

The lady nodded sadly. “My marriage was arranged, and I got pregnant with my first baby —“ here she motioned to Eris, who was sulkily staring out of the window — “almost immediately. There was no way to leave the marriage and keep my son. And I couldn’t just leave him to his father.”

Elain shuddered, thinking about Feyre’s predicament. No matter what happened between her and Rhys personally, she would always be tied to him through their son — and he would insist on being intimately involved in every aspect of their lives.

“You could have rejected the bond,” Elain said.

More tears slipped down the lady’s cheeks, and Elain’s gut twisted with shame at having caused her distress. “I’m sorry, my lady —“

“Just call me Áine,” the lady said. “And don’t be sorry. It’s the truth. I could have rejected the bond, set Helion free.”

It was too personal to ask, but Elain blurted, “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m cruel,” Áine said.

Elain’s mouth fell open in shock, but she quickly recovered. “No, surely that’s wrong,” she protested. “You don’t seem cruel at all.”

“I am cruel. And selfish. I’ve devoted my life to my family, but this bond — this is mine. Just for me,” Áine said. “It’s kept me going all these years, no matter how bad things got, no matter how much pain or despair or hopelessness I felt. Just knowing he was out there somewhere, that we have this connection.”

“That doesn’t sound bad. It’s lovely,” Elain insisted.

“It’s awful. Because while it’s kept me going, it’s only hurt and stifled him. It would have pained him at first, but he’d have been better off if I let him go,” Áine said quietly. “He is miserable whenever he thinks of me, and spends a lot of time and energy distracting himself so that he can avoid it. As long as the bond is there, even unfulfilled, he won’t marry someone else, commit to a future without me in it.”

“But that’s his choice,” Elain pointed out.

“Yes and no. Would you marry a partner who had a mating bond with someone else?” Áine said.

Elain shrugged, conceding the point. She suspected that Azriel hadn’t been more aggressive in courting her because of her lingering bond with Lucien — either because he found it personally worrisome, or because he’d been warned away by his friends.

“In any case, he has not married. Has not had a family,” Áine went on. “And I could not even tell him about the son we have together. He missed out on Lucien’s entire life. Once he finds out I’ve hidden that secret from him, he’ll despise me.” Her shoulders slumped, and she smoothed back her hair with trembling fingers. “He’ll realize that he’s wasted centuries of his life on me. Maybe he’ll finally ask me to break the mating bond, and be free of me at last.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be free,” Elain said, her cheeks flushing. She tried not to think of anything, or anyone, except the poor female in front of her, who’d suffered so much and carried guilt that Elain thought was entirely undeserved. “He could have asked you to break it already, or broken it himself, couldn’t he? That’s not what he wants, or you would know, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Áine said hoarsely. “We haven’t talked in so long, I don’t know what he thinks anymore. I get vague impressions sometimes, little whispers, only enough to reassure me he’s still alive.” She pressed her ribcage, squeezing her eyes shut. “He’s so close now — I feel everything. Oh, gods, he’s furious.”

She bit her bottom lip, looking at Elain with wide eyes. “I haven’t felt so much anger from him in a long time.” She took a shuddery breath. “Anger, and intense regret. Cauldron knows what’s happening out there.”

Elain winced, but pressed a hand to her own chest, trying to get a sense of what Lucien was feeling. The terror had receded, replaced by a fluttery anxiety, a rush of anger, but also a sense of deep relief that had her breathing easier. Whatever was happening, the emergency seemed to be over. “I think it’s going to be all right.”

Eris gave a startled yelp, and Elain’s head whipped around. Feyre was up off the bed, striding purposefully to the door. “What happened?” Elain cried.

“Rhys left. I want to see if it’s safe for us all to come out,” Feyre said matter-of-factly, reaching for the knob.

“There’s a containment spell —“ Eris began, but Feyre casually touched a finger to the doorknob, and Elain gasped as a pulse of magic rippled along the doorway and the walls. Feyre tossed Eris a careless grin, making him grumble, and then flung the door open.

Áine murmured, “Is she always so fearless?”

“Yes,” Elain said. “I’m afraid so.”

In the other room, she could hear Lucien saying, “I once made exactly that mistake.”

“Of all the things to have in common,” Feyre declared, disappearing into the living room.

Elain flushed, cold dread washing through her body. What in the world could they have been talking about?

Áine stood up stiffly, apparently having had the same thought. “Mistake?” she murmured. “Yes, that’s what this all was.” She sighed, smoothing out her dress, then started for the door.

Eris said, “Mother, you don’t have to go out there—“

“Of course I do,” Áine said. “I have to face him. I owe him that much.”

Eris looked ready to argue the point, but his mother gave him a long look that had him clamping his mouth shut.

“Come out, everyone,” Feyre called from the living room. “The coast is clear.”

They all stared at the door, to the room beyond it.

“Might as well get this over with,” Áine said, squaring her shoulders, and walked out.

Chapter Text

Let him go. Set him free.

Áine would finally make things right. She would do what she should have done centuries ago, the day she submitted to marrying Beron. She would let Helion go, let him find happiness with a partner worthy of him, have children he could actually raise, live a full and honest life.

They’d had their moments of joy — she would cherish those. She would savor those memories, those stolen days and nights of passion and companionship. She would dream of him, of the life they could have had together, but she wouldn’t burden him further with her distance, with that lingering ache that could never be soothed so long as their bond lay between them, chafing, unfulfilled.

Áine would retreat to her quiet seclusion in Autumn, her days hollow, resigned to Beron’s cruelty. But she wouldn’t pile on guilt for each day that she kept Helion trapped in pointless longing and sorrow.

At least one of us can be happy. At least one of us can move on.

She stepped into the room, and oh, this was going to be impossible.

She felt him before she saw him, a golden shining beacon drawing her forward. Her heart leaped and writhed in her chest, her stomach fluttered, at the way his warm presence beckoned to her, surrounded her.  She felt the pull of the mating bond as strongly as ever, demanding that she run to him, touch him, hold him, feel his strong hands on her.

He won’t want to touch me, not after all I’ve taken from him, the secrets I’ve kept.

Áine willed herself not to tremble as she approached him, one final time. She allowed herself a last look at his radiant dark skin, his muscled arms and torso, his powerful body, and those deep eyes that betrayed an even more powerful intellect hidden behind his perfect features. She forced herself to meet that glowing endless gaze, not avert her eyes in pretense of ignoring him as centuries of habit had ingrained in her.

She felt his tumble of emotions, his rage and surprise and sorrow all mixed together. And nearly stumbled, nearly lost her poise, because there was an ache in him that called out to her, sparkling, alive — Helion’s love for her, his desire.

Áine nearly gasped aloud as the warmth of it, the tingling glow, washed over her, threatened to engulf her and wash away all her intentions.

Don’t give into it. Don’t be selfish.

Helion’s gaze simmered, his fingers clenching and unclenching, though he held himself still, deceptively silent and collected. He stood quiet, still, waiting — for her.

He’s spent too long waiting for me.

Áine took a step forward, mouth dry, centuries of bitter regret and longing strangling all the words in her throat. She wanted to pour out her shame and heartache to him, though Cauldron knew he didn’t need that burden. She didn’t deserve forgiveness, not from him or anyone, and she wished he would rail and rant rather than stare with quiet patience.

She needed to tell him she was sorry, that she’d been horrid, that she’d deprived him of centuries of knowing Lucien, that she’d hoarded their son’s love and affection and laid his tender heart bare to Beron’s cruelties. She’d known no other way to avoid the bloodshed and war that would have taken them all, and innocents with them, but she’d deprived Helion of that decision, of centuries of decisions that he deserved to make.

He was a smart, steady male — had the self-control and wisdom to avoid needless tragedy. But she had been so panicked, so distraught, that she had acted on instinct - taken on the burden alone. Only Eileithyia, her healer, and her eldest son had learned the secret, and both through their own observation and cunning at that.

Why hadn’t she trusted him? That was the worst part, the basest betrayal of all.

“Helion,” she said, his name delicious poison on her tongue.

Just saying his name threatened to undo all her good intentions, unravel her resolve. She could drown in him all over again, lose all sense, which was exactly how Lucien had been conceived in the first place — Beron gone to Montesere, no reason to order the contraceptive tea, and Helion entwined with her, driving her wild and losing herself in their pleasure. How she’d screamed his name, whispered it, breathed it in his ear, uttered it as an answered prayer.

She never said his name anymore, didn’t dare to even think it — always careful to substitute High Lord of Day like she didn’t know every inch of his body, didn’t care. But now it crashed through her like a dam had burst open. Helion. Helion. Helion —

Áine yanked back those thoughts, stomped them out, extinguished that flame. Let him be free. Let him move on.

So she said his name one final time, bidding it farewell. “Helion, you’re here.”

Helion was pulled taut, practically vibrating with leashed energy, but only took a single step toward her, cautious, tentative, like approaching a wild pegasus. He thinks I’ll get spooked and bolt. But there was nowhere to run anymore, not when her betrayal had been laid bare.

“Áine,” he said softly, his deep voice vibrating through her, making her body go tight and loose all at once.

She shivered, but forced herself to stay still, pretending she still had her dignity, her composure. “You’ve met your son. Discovered my deception.”

His eyes sparkled, some strange mix of sadness and exhilaration dancing within them. “To have a son with you — Áine, it’s beyond my wildest dreams.” He smiled, warming her, cracking her resolve further, though she could see how tense he held his shoulders and jaw. “But you should have told me sooner.”

“I should have done a lot of things,” she said, feeling the tears starting to threaten, digging her nails into the skin of her palm as she often did when Beron scolded her. No tears. No weakness. Not now.

But Helion strode forward, gently taking her hand in both of his, opening her palm and massaging his thumb over the scarred skin where she’d dug in, and bled, so many times. Every touch of his fingertips jolted her, sent shivers up her arm. She’d forgotten how well he knew her and her habits, the myriad ways she buried her grief and pain, managed her emotions to avoid or weather Beron’s rage.

Helion never once frightened her, never once gave her cause to shrink away. He kept his voice low, even when they argued, knowing how often she was shouted at and how it made her heart pound and muscles quiver. It was why he spoke softly now, why he didn’t vent his fury on her, as he murmured, “I’d like to think I could have helped you, that we could have gotten you and Lucien through this together.”

Áine pressed her lips tightly, willing the tears pooling in her eyes not to fall, as he added, “I’d like to think I would have respected your wishes, if you really wanted me to stay away.”

“I didn’t want you to stay away,” Áine said hoarsely, conscious of his warm palm on her cheek, his fingers brushing over her freckles — he always loved my freckles — and then the tears did escape, a cascade of them, and she let them show, for once unafraid of being scorned or slapped for them. “I needed you to be safe, not die in a duel, not go to war.”

“I’d like to think I could have avoided violence,” Helion said, “that I wouldn’t have ripped that bastard limb from limb the first time he raised his voice in anger, or slapped my boy.”

He did much worse than that, Áine thought darkly, but forcefully shoved those memories away. She’d been powerless to stop Beron’s abuse of all her children, but Lucien’s had been by far the worst, for aside from suspecting Lucien’s true parentage, Beron knew how it broke her heart to see her youngest hurt, in pain. Ever since Lucien had fled to the Spring Court, Beron had never found an equally effective punishment.

I should have sent Lucien to Helion to begin with, and spent the last centuries lying to Beron instead. 

The thought of missing Lucien’s whole childhood, of never knowing him, made her heart seize up. Yet I expected Helion to endure it.

“You must despise me now,” she told Helion through her tears. “I should never have let this happen.”

“Sweetheart,” Helion said, his strong hands sliding to her shoulders, her arms, her elbows, gently drawing her closer. “You gave me a son. Protected him, raised him. I could never despise you for that.”

Áine’s vision blurred as the tears flowed, as she let Helion’s golden warmth envelop her, his arms pulling around her in a comforting embrace. “I am angry,” he murmured into her hair. “Disappointed. Hurt. Guilty that I failed you so thoroughly.”

“You did not,” she protested, but he pulled back from her, cool air rushing over her skin as he held her at arm’s length, his face tight and pained, his own tears beginning to fall. “Helion, no,” she said more firmly, reaching up to brush each tear away with her fingers. His eyes closed, as if the sensations were all too much, and she could feel how his heart pounded and squeezed, how so much pent-up emotion was coiled up inside him, screaming to be let out.

“Rhysand was right. I let you languish,” he said, his words coming out strangled and hoarse. “I left you vulnerable, undefended. What kind of mate am I?”

“The kind that respected my decisions,” Áine said firmly. They’d had this discussion before, many times in fact, and she wondered if this was what had made her decide to keep Lucien’s secret guarded, lest Helion find it too tempting to leave his mate and child unprotected. She slipped her hands around Helion’s neck, stroking his skin and twining one of his braids around her fingers. “The kind that understood my need to be with my children.”

And, of course, Beron had kept her in that state for ages — always pregnant, always nursing, always busy with childrearing. Another form of control, for Cauldron knew he didn’t want the competition, resented the boys when they were too close with her or when their powers challenged his. Only Eris seemed to escape that scrutiny, due to how easily he parroted Beron’s cruelty. Beron had no idea Eris was hers, that he had failed to turn his firstborn the way he had all the others.

And Lucien — in that way he’d been lucky, for Beron had never wanted him. He was the runt of her litter, his golden skin deemed too dark for a Vanserra, his parentage suspect, his heart too pure and soft.

“What of my need to be with my child,” Helion reproached her gently, hands encircling her wrists. “What of my son’s need of me?”

Áine winced. She’d made the choice to sacrifice that, without ever discussing it with him, without ever giving him a chance to figure something out. “It was wrong of me,” she said quietly. “This was all wrong. All a mistake.”

She sucked in her breath on that word, the one she’d heard them use, the one that chilled her heart with fear. She waited for him to pick it up, to tell her what a mistake she was, what a mistake their bond had been. But he just waited, for what she didn’t know.

“You deserve so much more than what I can give you,” she said finally, remembering her intention, though every time she looked into his eyes, her resolve melted away. She was too weak to do this, too weak to really let him go. She looked at the floor, at how the fae lights reflected off his golden sandals, as she said, “It’s sustained me all these years, this bond of ours. It’s made me happy when I didn’t have anything else. I’ve held onto it, cherished it, but I’ve been unfair. You should be free—“

“No,” Helion said firmly, more forcefully than how he usually spoke to her, and her eyes shot to his in alarm. His jaw was set, his neck muscles straining, his dark eyes glittering intensely. “No. Do not free me. Please.”

She tried again. “But Helion —“

“Please,” he repeated, his hands starting to tremble. “If I can sustain you from afar for another three centuries, or however long I have, then let me. Let me do that one thing, if I can’t have you, if I can’t make you happy any other way.”

“Darling,” Áine whispered, taking shuddering breaths, “what about you? When will you be happy? Wouldn’t you be better off —“

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, his thumbs stroking the insides of her wrists, his grip tightening. “I’m happy enough. I have a good life. I have a son. I never expected that, never even hoped for it. It’s enough to sustain me.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then seemed to notice how he was holding her and let her wrists go. “But I mustn’t tell you what to do. You have too much of that in your life already.”

Áine reached for him, intertwining her fingers with his. “You’ll forgive me?”

Helion nodded, smiling softly. “I will.” He raised an eyebrow. “But no more secrets, darling, at least not my secrets. Trust me that much.”

Áine stood up on her tiptoes, heart fluttering violently, and brushed the barest kiss to his lips. “I do.”

Helion gazed down at her with such longing, such love, that she threw her arms around him and kissed him again, drawing a groan from deep in his throat. It had been so long, so very long, but her body remembered everything, exactly how they fit together, how quickly their restraint could unravel.

Helion broke their kiss, breathing hard, and murmured in her ear, “Careful, darling. We’re in our son’s apartment.”

Áine’s face burned as she glanced around. The room was suspiciously empty — like everyone else had known they needed privacy, and cleared out.

Helion’s laugh was low and rich in her ear. “I’ve warded the room, though I can’t guarantee how long it will keep our son out. He is quite skilled for a lad who’s never been taught.”

Áine laughed too, remembering Lucien as a mischievous youngster. She yearned for Helion to know Lucien like that, as a carefree little scamp, before it had all gone wrong — before life had stolen so much of his joy, given him so many scars. She said pensively, “I wish you could have known him growing up — even from afar.”

Helion kept one strong arm banded around her back, stroking her cheek with his other hand, and she leaned into the touch, soaking up every moment.

Then he said, “Maybe I can.”

Áine frowned, not understanding, but he clarified, “Lucien said Feyre brought him into her memory. Like he was seeing it through her eyes. Do you think she could do that for us?”

Áine looked up at him. “Such a thing is possible?” She smiled at the thought, but fretted, “We would be letting a daemati into our minds.”

Helion nodded. “She can be a little reckless. But Lucien was willing to try it.”

“He is the most reckless of them all,” Áine grumbled. But the idea of letting Helion see even a few moments of Lucien’s childhood, making up for a tiny fraction of that lost time, was too tempting to ignore. If Lucien trusted Feyre Cursebreaker, if Helion trusted her, perhaps Áine could too — just a little.

Helion chuckled softly. “You are getting that look again.”

“Hmm?” she asked innocently.

“That look you always get, when you are about to do something reckless,” he said teasingly, leaning in to kiss her again.

Áine leaned in to her mate and kissed him back, feeling very reckless indeed.

Chapter Text

Every part of him ached, from the relentless pounding in his skull to the frozen tips of his wings, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the biting wind as he swooped lower, desperate to land. He’d been flying for hours, pushing himself to go faster, farther, and now that he was nowhere, with nowhere to go, he needed to catch his breath, ease the burning in his muscles, slow his pounding heart.

Why bother, some deep, tired part of him wondered. Just keep going until you drop like a stone, just disappear.

But he couldn’t do that. His infernal bargain with Feyre demanded he continue to exist, or he would be dooming her along with himself. It was foolish, stupid, shortsighted — one of the many mistakes he had lived to regret.

The mountains rose up to meet him, jagged, forbidding, glittering with frost in the afternoon light. They guarded a dense carpet of trees, a valley beyond that, but he saw no chimney smoke that would indicate towns or outposts, or an Illyrian camp.

Good. He had no energy to pretend to be the High Lord now, wanted no witnesses to his misery and shame.

Rhys swooped sideways, clearing the mountains, then soared low over the forest canopy. The beasts of the forest were still dormant, awaiting nightfall, but he knew they were there, always lurking, waiting to pounce. He could be one of them, let out his talons and claws, prowl through this forest like the beast he truly was.

But he bypassed the forest and alighted in the valley, plummeting too fast when his wings snagged on the last of the tree branches before the clearing, and he cursed as he landed hard, the rough ground scraping his palms and the leathers on his forearms and shins. He panted, taking big gulps of the richer air of the valley floor, humid and thick compared to the crisp mountain wind.

Odd that there were no camps here, no settlements. The valley was well protected, buffeted against the ravages of the fiercer storms by the mountain sentinels, the clusters of trees. There would be good hunting here, a clear stream.

But as Rhys planted his palms and hoisted himself up, he understood why the land was empty - the ground here was black and craggy, a lava field. He raised his eyes to the horizon, to the distant mountains in the other direction, and saw the mangled remains of the eruption’s path, a dark stain on the steep slopes, bare patches around it as though all life had been burned away.

Rhys frowned, nudging the dried lava with his boot, then staggered forward, seeking more hospitable ground.  He used the last dregs of his magic to make his wings vanish — no point in having them out, he wouldn’t be rested enough to fly for hours and they would only slow him down — and swore with relief as the bare basalt gave way to thick, springy moss. He flung himself down and rolled onto his back, splaying out, letting the ground receive him, letting himself sink in.

He breathed slow, shuddering breaths, beyond thoughts, beyond tears. He was no one and nothing, a weary husk of a spirit borne by the breeze, and he gazed through aching eyes at the tops of the distant trees, the clouds swirling and changing above them, the mountains raising their pointed fingers at him in reproach, the bare forbidding patch where the lava had flowed.

Rhys’s fingers dug into the moss, sinking into the spongy depths, wondered if it would grow over him if he lay still enough, if he would become part of the earth, if he would disappear like the volcanic rock somewhere below, crumbled to fertile soil by the plant roots, the once fierce power broken and cold.

It was said that there were hot raging depths beneath Illyria’s mountains, that the peaks shifted and groaned and grew each year as the lava roiled beneath, seeking the surface. But in all his years, Rhys had seen that fire only once —

He jolted up, heart pounding. No.

He tried to leap up, take to the air, but his wings stubbornly refused to appear, his exhaustion so complete that his body rebelled. Rhys scrambled and stumbled, his feet sinking into the pillows of moss, and he swiped at his face, furious at the tears that wet his cheeks.

I caused that eruption, cursed that place.

He sank back down, grabbing moss by the fistful, sucking in shaky breaths. This isn’t it. It’s not the same.

But there was the stream, the quiet clearing between the forest and the mountains, the perfect place for a tucked-away outpost. Comfortable, secure, secreted away.

Unless the location was betrayed.

Rhys squeezed his eyes shut, not that it mattered - the images flooded his mind, overwhelming him, slamming into him with gale force and knocking the air from his lungs.

No. I can’t see them like that.

He ran, slipping and sinking into the moss that tripped and caught him, pounding his fists into it as he fell forward, roaring and cursing, shivering despite the warmth of the valley.

Mother. Branwen.

His knees dug into the soil soaked with their life force, his arms cradling his mother’s broken body, tears streaming freely and mingling with his mother’s and sister’s blood on his hands. His sweet mother, his joyful companion in flight, his comfort and listening ear. Not her, not her wings — her prized, liberating wings —

But there she was, or what remained, and his sister too. Mangled, broken, left to rot.

A keening wail ripped from his throat, raw, screeching, desperate.

This wasn’t real, he wasn’t too late, he hadn’t let them die, he hadn’t failed. But his hands were slick and red, his gut churning with bile, his ears ringing with shouts and curses as the soldiers swarmed the valley, barking orders, hunting Tamlin’s father and brothers. 

Rhys’s roar of fury shook the valley, the trees, the rocks, and the hot molten heart of the mountains rose in answer, exploding and raging and tearing a destructive path. It would cover this cursed ground, plow through everything, burn and destroy. The mountain glowed orange, ominous, fiery, as he lashed out with his power, plunged the valley into deepest night.

He was the rage, the vengeful fury, the darkness. He would hunt them all down, destroy them all, and he would curse this place for a thousand years. Let it all burn, turn to ash.

“It should be bare,” he wailed, ripping at the moss with his filthy hands. “There should be no life here. Nothing should grow.”

This place of death, this black pit of despair, had no right to grow soft things that sought the light. It should be barren, forever scoured of life, forever dark like the deeds that tainted it.

I should have been here. I was too late.

They’d told him it wasn’t his fault, that Tamlin and his fucking family were to blame, but he was the one who trusted Tamlin, the one who had given this location away. He should have been cunning enough to see the threat, should have known better than to reveal his secrets.

Rhys learned his lesson, what a carelessly shared secret could lead to. He’d learned to guard his facts like treasures, hoard information, keep the truth locked away where it couldn’t be twisted and used against him. Never again would he be blindsided, never again surprised. He would always know more than his opponents, keep the upper hand.

The most cunning High Lord. The most devious, the most sly.

To hold on to what he loved, he’d lie with abandon. To keep his family safe, he’d sacrifice the truth. He’d throw up an impenetrable shield of falsehoods and deceptions, ensure his enemies could never get to them — could never hurt anyone else.

But even he had his limits. Despite his power to destroy and shatter, despite his mastery over minds and his ability intimidate enemies, to inspire terror, he couldn’t keep a firm hold on everything. He hadn’t been able to best Amarantha, had never figured out how to maneuver around her. It had been Tamlin, not him, who’d stumbled into the loophole, and his mate who’d been the key to unraveling it.

His face burned at the memories of Under the Mountain — how he’d been fucked and used like a plaything, how his powers had been turned in sick and twisted ways for the bitch queen’s satisfaction. How he’d dealt death and humiliation to those he encountered, telling himself he was glad to do it, that he would be a monster to protect what he truly loved. And he’d done it, chosen every time to play the game, telling himself he had a truth worth hiding, a family and a city to secret away.

The night they’d cut off that faery’s wings and dumped him at the Spring Court — that one had almost broken him.

Better his wings than Azriel’s, or Cassian’s.

Let them call him selfish. He didn’t care.

And Feyre. Cauldron, what he’d done to her. What he’d told himself he had to do. Their relationship had been born in terror, of manipulations and lies.

For one brief moment, on Calanmai, she had thought him beautiful, called him her rescuer. He should have told her everything then — should have really rescued her. Instead he’d left her to Tamlin, to fall in love with the bastard. And when he’d come to Spring to taunt Tamlin and found her, he’d only traumatized her.

That fucking Lucien had her stashed behind him — always getting in my way, even then — and Rhys had gone out of his way to hide the truth, frighten her away. He’d frozen her blood, seized her muscles, taunted and insulted her.

To help her, he told himself. Even though it felt awful.

But he’d done it again, many times over. When she’d come Under the Mountain, he’d never even considered dropping the pretense, confiding in her, telling her the plan. Instead he’d twisted her broken bone, taunted her about her death if she didn’t accept his bargain, called her his belonging, made her his plaything, doled out helpings of humiliation and cruelty along with his protection and caring. To keep up the pretense, to maintain the lie.

Somehow she’d forgiven it. Forgiven him. He didn’t know why.

Even after he’d taken her from Tamlin, saved her from an awful marriage, he’d papered over every discomfort with half-truths and deflections. He shook his head at himself, at all the ways he’d deceived her — sending her into the Weaver’s Cottage to fetch her ring from that ancient death goddess, dangling her like prey before the Attor, telling her he didn’t care if she fucked Tarquin or Cassian.

The final straw had been her finding out about the mating bond, that he’d known and withheld it, using their bargain as cover. She’d left him sick and wounded in the mud, too hurt to spare a thought for him in her intense anger.

He should have learned from that. Should have known how deeply she craved the truth, how she hated being kept in the dark, that his need to keep secrets would tear them apart. But she’d become so much more cunning and crafty herself, spinning her own lies and deceptions. He’d been lulled by that, thought she was coming around to his methods.

But Feyre was still Feyre — brash, fearless, not one to shy away from reality. And when he’d hidden the truth about her pregnancy, he’d broken her trust in him. Perhaps permanently.

He didn’t even know why he’d done it, why he’d insisted on her not knowing. Had he forgotten how strong she was, how brave, how resourceful? Had he dreaded her tears, her panic, her sorrow? Was he trying to cheat death by denying it, somehow? He’d always told her she had choices, yet he’d tried to take those choices away. He had lost his damn mind, shown her exactly what kind of monster he could be.

Even if we survive this, I’ve lost her, well and truly.

Rhys lay back against the ground, craving the sharp lava and not the soft moss against his body. He didn’t deserve this comfort, not after he’d attacked the apartment, not after he’d given into his feral rage at being denied access to his mate. He’d blamed it all on Lucien, even though Feyre had been the one that wanted to separate.

He’d lived too long since the day of the murders, gained too much power and too little wisdom. He loved his family, his cousin and brothers, but he was their leader, their High Lord, and he’d been throwing his power around too much since the war ended. After all those years Under the Mountain, alone, he’d forgotten how to trust others, if he’d ever known how to begin with.

Think long and hard about what kind of male you want to be.

I want to be the male who saved my family.

If only it had been him, here, not his sister and mother. If only he’d been the one whose head and wings they’d taken. He’d been sacrificing himself ever since, making himself and others suffer. He’d made his choices, earned scorn and hatred, but this was the one choice he could never undo — he could never get here in time to save them.

Rhys sat up, wiping a hand roughly over his face, cursing the day he’d decided to lie to Feyre. He didn’t know what to do now, with her gone, with this aching void where her love and understanding had been. He felt lonelier and more forlorn than ever, knowing he’d had that glorious connection, that mating bond, and squandered it.

The bond had gone cold and silent. Not since she’d been dosed with faebane had he been so cut off from her, and he hated it. He hated not knowing if she was all right, if she was worried or happy or in distress. He hated not joking with her, teasing her, provoking her, hearing that low sultry voice of hers calling him a prick or an Illyrian baby. His body ached to hold her, to slide a hand over her belly and feel the baby kick.

We should be enjoying our last days together, before the birth comes around and claims all three of us.

That thought jolted him — his son, his innocent boy, his little life ended before it even began. His mate, snuffed out so soon, when she was so young and should have had centuries of enjoyment and love to look forward to.

I can still help them. I have to try.

If only he knew a way.

He sighed, standing up, stretching his aching muscles, and took a last look around the valley, at the verdant green of the moss as far as his eyes could see. Life where no life should have been, taking root in spite of it all.

Then he stretched his wings, and took off for home.

Chapter Text

The tug was so light, Eris almost didn’t feel it.

He was wrung out, exhausted, sick of this stupid apartment. He felt useless and in the way, but dreaded going back to Autumn. He could only hope his mother’s absence had gone unnoticed, that Helion had spells to hide his scent on her, that Beron wouldn’t throw him in the dungeons for too long or torture his mother for good measure.

Eris knew torture. He’d made friends with the bite of his father’s whip, with the rusty shackles of the dungeon floor, with scabs and scars carefully placed to be hidden under clothes, with peeling burns he was forbidden to heal. He’d learned to stay silent and stoic, or scream on command, whatever was required to satisfy his father’s whims. Eris thought of it like an improvised dance, a performance, an art form.

He never complained about his treatment, never tried to worm his way out of interrogations, not when he could use them to gauge his father’s intentions, catalog his worries and preoccupations, throw him off with half-truths and misdirections. Eris learned more from his father’s hissed questions than Beron ever did from his bullshit answers.

But if the fucking bastard hurt his mother — that was one of the few things that could break him.

So far, he’d managed to hide that little tidbit from his father, but he always wondered when his luck might desert him.

Eris shifted to sit cross-legged, straightening his back against the wall. He’d been offered various chairs, but had chosen to perch by the door. Lucien’s puny apartment was bursting with visitors, and Eris was finding it difficult to avoid overhearing juicy arguments not meant for his ears.

He didn’t want to know about Feyre Cursebreaker’s miserable childhood hunting in the forest, or Nesta’s tangling with that bastard brute Cassian. Even his brother’s little mate was spilling out confessions, shedding tears. Eris grimaced as the tense conversation boiled over from the kitchen, snippets of accusations and recriminations assaulting his ears.

So he sat as close to the door as possible, sullenly watching the healer fuss over Lucien, who was sprawled on the couch, barely conscious. The lucky little asshole was a disheveled, sweaty mess after his bout with Helion Spell-Cleaver and Rhysand. Eileithyia had been busy for a solid hour plucking shards of spell-work from his flesh, teasing apart stray golden threads still wound around his wrists and arms like he’d blundered into a spiderweb.

Lucien’s skin glowed faintly, but Eris didn’t know what that meant - perhaps his power fully awakening in response to Helion’s, or some kind of happiness that Eris would never understand. 

Like from having a father who’s not a sadistic piece of shit, who would never hurt our mother no matter how angry he gets.

Eris quickly quashed the cold jealousy and wistfulness that was creeping into him. You don’t need a caring father. You are the heir to Autumn. You are a Vanserra.

Helion and Áine were huddled together in the corner on the loveseat, talking earnestly, catching up on old squabbles and memories. Eris chose not to notice how close they sat, how deeply they looked into each other’s eyes, how frequently their hands wandered.

He was so busy not noticing that he almost didn’t notice the tug.

Eris looked down, at the shadows curling underneath the door like tendrils of smoke from an extinguished fire. One had curled around his right wrist and was tugging gently, as if beckoning him. He frowned at it, then at the door.

“Very subtle, Shadowsinger,” he crooned, leaning his face down towards the crack in the door.

The shadows skittered into dust and vanished, except for the one curled around Eris, which thickened and swirled around his wrist, then tugged again.

“What does your little pet want?” Eris wondered aloud. “Is it house trained?”

“Quiet. Your brother needs to rest,” Eileithyia scolded him, without turning around.

Eris huffed a sigh, then stretched his legs out and rose to his feet. The shadow unfurled and slipped under the door, as if it had completed its mission and was reporting in.

If that bastard wants to play games, fine. I can play games, too.

Eris’s hand moved to the door handle. “If I open this door, are you going to barge in here? Because that would be a spectacularly bad idea. Even if I didn’t blast you with flames on sight, you’d have Helion to deal with, and he is not in the mood for your court’s antics.”

No reply — not that he expected one.

He shrugged, and opened the door, slipping out and slamming it shut behind him, the wards rippling as though they were angry at being disturbed. He knew they were spelled to allow specific people in and out, so he wasn’t actually worried about the Shadowsinger breaking in.

But Rhys’s spymaster didn’t need to know that.

The shadows parted, and his opponent stepped forward, wings tucked in tight, his sharp face expressionless and cold, lit up by his blue gems, which glowed faintly against the dark of his warrior’s leathers.

But this was a different type of battle, with a different set of weapons.

Eris did not reach for his dagger, did not tense or avert his gaze, as the Shadowsinger loomed before him. Every movement he made was a clue to his intentions, to what he knew or didn’t, and he didn’t intend to give anything away.

“Eris,” the Shadowsinger said flatly. 

“Shadowsinger,” Eris replied, cocking his head to the side. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

The spymaster’s expression didn’t change, but he raised an eyebrow as if to say, Isn’t it obvious?

But Eris waited, watching carefully, looking for the telltale signs that the spymaster was talking to Rhysand mind to mind, or weighing his words in answer. Was the High Lord or his Inner Circle considering another attempt to break in? Would they try again to get at Lucien? Eris wondered at the point of this little game — what were their intentions?

“I wanted to check in about my High Lady. How she’s doing, if she needs anything,” the Shadowsinger said, too casually. Like he’d just been strolling through the city and popped in for a cup of tea.

“Feyre is well,” Eris said. “And quite capable of summoning help, if needed.” He would never admit it to anyone, especially not Feyre herself, but Eris greatly envied her daemati powers.

“Who is governing Autumn in your absence?” was the Shadowsinger’s response. Typical deflection.

Eris shrugged. “Who says I’m absent?”

“So your father doesn’t know you’re here. That’s taking a risk, isn’t it?”

Eris flashed his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “If Beron finds out, I guess I’ll know who told him.”

The stoic face of the Shadowsinger barely twitched, but Eris knew he’d scored a point. The Night Court needed his alliance, especially now with his father allying with the human queen and the death-lord. They wouldn’t risk his safety by running to Beron, who already hated them.

He waited to see if his mother would be mentioned, if her presence had been detected. But the spymaster only said, “When does Beron return from the continent?”

Eris huffed a sigh. “He didn’t see fit to share his itinerary with me.”

The male’s blue gems seemed to glow a little brighter. “Our sources report another week, or less.”

He fancies that a victory, that he knows something I don’t. But Eris just shrugged — intelligence was intelligence, regardless of its origin. Why would he object, if the Night Court’s spies could track his father for him?

“Lucien mentioned a healer,” the spymaster said casually. “Who is she?”

“Eileithyia, the most skilled healer in Autumn,” Eris said. “She’s been delivering babes for centuries.”

“She’s not Illyrian,” came the pointed reply.

“Neither is Feyre,” Eris said casually.

The shadows swirled around, suddenly jumpy. “Then you don’t know about the baby’s wings.”

“I know the delivery will be risky,” Eris said, deciding not to think too deeply about Feyre Cursebreaker’s pregnant body. He’d seen his own mother give birth to his youngest brothers, and that was enough for a lifetime. “They had been discussing bringing in an Illyrian healer to consult with before somebody decided to storm the apartment.”

A look flashed across the spymaster’s brutally chiseled features — sadness, perhaps, or regret. It was there and gone before Eris could process it. “That was a mistake.”

“Your High Lord assaulted my brother,” Eris said tightly. “Mistake doesn’t cover it.”

“Your brother has a habit of wearing out his welcome,” the spymaster said, his voice dropping lower.

Eris smirked. “Lucien was never welcome here, and you know it.”

“He’s running out of courts to flee to,” the spymaster sneered, the fingers of his right hand creeping toward his belt. Reaching for his dagger.

Eris had no dagger, but no matter. He lobbed a weapon of his own. “I hear Day is lovely at this time of year. Much more sunlight, better for gardening —“

Suddenly he was shoved backwards, clanging against the wall with such force that his teeth rattled, and the spymaster was snarling in his face, pressing his dagger against Eris’s neck, his flat demeanor replaced with cold rage.

So it’s true — he does covet the Archeron girl.  

“So you’ve moved on from Morrigan?” Eris asked, as casually as he could with the cold edge of the metal biting into his skin. “That is good. She’s strung you along for centuries.”

“Shut. Up,” the male hissed in his ear, shoving his other elbow against Eris’s chest.

“Or what, you’ll kill me in cold blood?” The spymaster pressed the dagger further in, growling softly, but Eris committed to his line of attack. “Sweet little Elain wouldn’t like that.”

Pain sang through Eris’s scalp as the spymaster yanked his hair back, exposing his neck further to the dagger, staring coldly at him. “Get her name out of your fucking mouth.”

Eris met that lethal stare, and smiled.

“Let me explain something to you, Shadowsinger,” he drawled, flicking his fingers. Tiny flames ignited on each fingertip, and he held them up, letting the fire dance along his skin. The spymaster flinched, just long enough for Eris to maneuver out of his grip and give the male a hard shove away from him. “I was willing to overlook your little outburst at the High Lords summit, but now you’ve crossed the line. That goes for you, your High Lord, and all your little friends. You come at me or my brother again, and this alliance is finished.”

The male started to lunge toward him, and Eris drew the tiny flames together into a fireball. “Does your pretty jewelry shield against fire? Let’s find out.”

Both of you, stop this.

Eris frowned, annoyed at the voice that suddenly echoed in his mind. The Shadowsinger shrank back, apparently having heard the same command.

You’re not my High Lady, he thought back irritably.

But his fun had already been ruined, for the spymaster stood stock still, listening intently to whatever Feyre was saying in his mind. Eris tugged on his power, and the fire hissed as it extinguished from his fingers. Too bad. He’d really wanted to see what the male would do.

A moment later, the door flung open, and an exasperated Helion Spell Cleaver grabbed Eris by the collar, murmuring, “Get in here, you brat.”

You’re not my father.

But he let Helion yank him inside anyway.

His mother was hovering anxiously near the door, and she clasped his arm as she drew him into the apartment, fretting, “Was that the same one who attacked you—?”

“It was fine,” he said, waving the concern away. “I got what I needed.”

She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”

“They’ve been tracking Father,” he said gently, inwardly wincing at the frozen look of fear that crept over her shining face. “He’s coming home in a week. We need a plan.”

Chapter Text

“You’ve been in the House alone all week? But you’ve been coming and going. Don’t tell me you’re doing the steps every time,” Feyre said incredulously, eyeing Nesta as she piled the bags of food, herbs and supplies on the kitchen counters.

“Definitely not,” Nesta said, a bitterly triumphant edge to her tone. “The steps go on for miles. It takes hours to get up or down, and I’ve almost killed myself slipping on them. No, the House created an indoor passageway for me.”

“The House,” Feyre repeated dumbly, not understanding. “You say that like it’s alive.”

“It is,” Nesta said, continuing to unpack, as if this was no big deal.

Elain looked up from the dough she was kneading, her hands and forearms covered in flour up to her elbows, and protested, “I thought it was just the magic, automatically giving us whatever we asked for.”

Feyre shifted uncomfortably in her chair, adjusting her legs wider so her belly could rest comfortably between them. Nyx was continuing to grow every day, her body swelling and changing along with him. She rested a hand on her abdomen, seeking the telltale flutters that meant he was awake and kicking. “I thought that’s all it was,” she confessed. “That’s what Rhys said. I thought he’d know best, since the House has belonged to the rulers of the Night Court for hundreds of years.”

“Not anymore,” Nesta smirked, plopping the last of the bags onto the counter and turning around, folding her newly muscular arms across her chest. She looked healthier, more robust, filling out the contours of her elegant gray dress, like she was finally taking care of herself again. “The House chose me. It’s rearranged the interior to make it easier for me to get in and out, and it’s modified the wards. Unless I give permission, no one enters.”

Elain asked incredulously, “Not even Rhys?”

“Especially not Rhys,” Nesta snapped, and Feyre shuddered at the hint of silver flame that flashed in her sister’s eyes. “He threatened to kill me. I will not live in any dwelling that he can just barge into.”

Feyre sucked in a sharp breath. Rhys had threatened to kill her sister? She shuddered, clutching her belly more tightly. I didn’t think I could be any more angry with him. How could he do such a thing? After his own sister was murdered, he would threaten mine? I knew he’d be furious, but to sink so low?

Elain gave a little gasp, her hand fluttering to her mouth. “How awful!” She looked at Feyre, eyes wide with fear. “Would he really do that?”

Feyre gulped, “Apparently so.”

Rhys normally kept himself tightly leashed, carefully controlling his powers, manipulated situations with cunning and careful thought. It wasn’t like him to be like this — lashing out wildly, giving in to his impulses to rage and destroy, turning his anger on the vulnerable people under his protection.

Nesta isn’t vulnerable any more. Maybe he sees her as a threat.

What did he expect? That they would train the steel and fire out of Nesta, put her in her place? Is that what helping her had been about?

“Well, that’s all of it,” Nesta said brusquely. “The herbs the healer asked for, and the extra supplies. Let me know if you need anything else, and I can come by tomorrow after my shift at the library.”

“You’re going already?” Feyre asked, furrowing her brow. Nesta had come to the apartment several times now, but had never lingered. Still angry with us, and rightfully so. “At least stay for lunch —“

“No.” Nesta’s reply was clipped, icy. She carefully avoided meeting their eyes as she headed for the door.

Feyre swallowed hard. “Nesta, wait.”

Her sister stood ramrod straight in the doorway, her head held high. “What.”

“Please,” Feyre said, grasping at any coherent words she could find. “We should talk about all this. Everything.”

“What is there to say,” Nesta huffed, but she made no further movements toward the door.

Elain nervously slapped her hands together, brushing off the excess flour in a cloud of white powder that settled on her forearms and apron. Nesta turned fractionally, eyeing her, and Elain quickly said, “Sorry.”

“Are you?” Nesta said, her face expressionless, flat. Feyre hated when Nesta did that, when she blocked off all emotion so completely. She knew she did it sometimes too, especially when her anger ran hot, when she felt like she might lose control.

Elain was teary, wiping at her face with a powdered sleeve, smearing flour across her cheek and nose. “Of course I am.”

Nesta turned fully, staring at Elain with that inscrutable cold expression still on her face. But Elain was looking at Feyre now, tears flowing freely, carving paths through the flour. “I thought if I just did as I was told, if I went along with it, cooperated, it would make things easier. I didn’t want to cause trouble or rock the boat. But that was wrong. I see that now.”

Feyre shook her head. She could never stay angry with Elain for long. Her sister was so pure, so good. “We all make mistakes, Elain. I make them too.”

Nesta snorted at that.

Feyre whirled on her, barking, “What was that for?”

“You say mistake like the words just slipped out,” Nesta sneered. “Like you threatened me by accident.”

Feyre bristled at that. “I didn’t threaten you.”

“Like hell you didn’t.” Nesta’s eyes flashed with anger, and Feyre again noticed the silver fire raging within them, that unfathomable power her sister had ripped from the Cauldron. “You told me I would be tied up and hauled to Windhaven if I didn’t go willingly.”

Feyre winced. She had indeed said that. Tough love, that’s what she had told herself at the time. She’d been trying to rescue Nesta from her slow self-destruction. “I was wrong,” she said quietly. “I knew I was being heavy handed, but I thought once you started training, once you settled in, you’d start to heal, and you’d appreciate it, in the end.”

“I am healing. But not because I was imprisoned and controlled,” Nesta snapped.

Feyre felt the tears forming, made no effort to stop them. “I’m so sorry, Nesta. Of all people, I should have understood how it felt to be locked up, to have all the details of my life dictated by others. I hated Tamlin for doing that to me, yet I did it to you.”

Nesta dipped her chin, acknowledging the apology. “None of you even asked what I was going through, why I made the choices I did. You just decided you knew better.”

Elain said haltingly, “Well, you were drinking too much.”

Feyre blurted, “Elain —“

Nesta shot her a look, as if to say I’ve got this. She turned to their sister, her face a calm mask. “Not that it is your business, or anyone else’s, but I guarantee that Mor drinks more than me. The rest of your precious Inner Circle aren’t far behind. And don’t get started on my… relationships. I know for a fact that all of them, except Amren, have been with many partners, and didn’t think twice about it.”

Elain cringed, but managed, “You would have found that disgusting when we first arrived.”

Feyre hissed, “Elain —“

“No, let her,” Nesta said hotly, her mask slipping. “For once, she’s saying what she actually thinks, not trying to act all sweet and kind. Because that’s what you always do, isn’t it, Elain? You hide behind that innocent façade, make everyone think you’re so meek, so delicate. So no one ever calls you out on your shit. Isn’t that right?”

“Stop it, Nesta,” Elain wailed.

“It’s clever, really. You get away with everything,” Nesta hissed. “No one asked you to train as a warrior, even when you weren’t eating or sleeping and kept wandering too close to the balcony’s edge. No one insisted you work, or practice your magic, or do anything. And you never get scolded like I have for things that happened when we were still children.”

“I was sick, Nesta,” Elain shouted. “I was miserable! You can’t hold that against me.”

“I’ve been sick and miserable too, and you all held it against me. All of you,” Nesta fumed.

“Stop,” Feyre breathed, but neither sister heard her.

“I didn’t take out my problems on everyone else,” Elain said, furiously swiping at her face, smearing more flour across her cheeks.

“You didn’t have to,” Nesta argued. “I was there. I ran interference for you. I guarded you. I made sure you weren’t bothered, whether it was those Illyrian brutes or that fireling.”

“Fireling?” Elain looked confused, then her eyes widened. “You mean Lucien.”

“Lucien. Whoever,” Nesta said contemptuously, flicking an errand strand of hair from her shoulder as though she were physically dismissing him. “You didn’t have to deal with any of it.”

“I never asked you to do any of that,” Elain breathed, taking gulping breaths, drawing herself up.

“You didn’t have to ask. It was obvious you weren’t handling it,” Nesta scoffed.

“Now who’s the controlling one?”

“Stop it,” Feyre thundered. “Both of you.”

Both sisters whirled to face her. “Don’t order us around,” Nesta snapped, “High Lady.”

“Where was all this zeal when we were starving in the cottage?” Feyre cried, before she could stop herself. “Where was this energy? This desire to protect and help each other? You never felt that way about me.”

“What do you mean, Feyre?” Elain exclaimed.

“Don’t be oblivious. You know what I’m talking about,” Feyre said with irritation. “You let me go out into the woods every day alone, hunt and kill for you so you could eat, never once offered to come with me or help me clean up afterwards. I had to nag you to do basic things like get water or firewood —“

“You wouldn’t have wanted our help,” Nesta said.

“How do you know?” Feyre seethed. “You never offered.”

“It shouldn’t have been any of us. It should have been Father,” Nesta insisted. 

Elain looked horrified. “He was wounded!”

“I hurt myself in the forest. Many times,” Feyre said, trying to rein in her temper, sensing the rising discomfort in the other rooms of the apartment. They can all hear us. She forced herself to use a quieter tone, though she was still furious. “You never showed any concern for that.”

“Because you’re strong, Feyre,” Elain said tearfully. “You were always the most powerful one, even before we all became fae.”

“We don’t know that,” Feyre said tightly. “We have no idea how powerful you are. You haven’t accessed your powers.” She turned to Nesta. “And all you do is suppress yours.”

“So I don’t get us all killed,” Nesta snapped. “Like during the war.”

“You didn’t —“ Feyre protested.

“I did. The Cauldron targeted Cassian’s legion because of me. And snatched Elain.” Tears were running down Nesta’s face, but she carried on without wiping them away. “The King killed Father because of me.”

“No.” Feyre shoved her chair back from the table and strode to her sister, grabbing her shoulders“The King killed Father because the King was a piece of shit. You will not take the blame for his actions.”

Nesta stood firm, her chin high. But Feyre added, her voice hoarse, “The King took you both because of me. Because I told Tamlin’s High Priestess about you.” She grimaced as the baby gave her a hard kick in the side. She patted her belly, then went on sadly, “I suppose the whole thing is really my fault. If I’d just stayed with Tamlin, he never would have gone to Hybern, and all of this could have been avoided.”

“What?” Elain sputtered from behind her, and Nesta grabbed her shoulders, hissing, “Stay with that beast? Are you crazy?”

Feyre shrugged. But Elain came up behind her, putting an arm around her back. “You can’t be serious, Feyre. You were miserable with him.”

Feyre said, “Lucien’s mother stayed with Beron Vanserra, and he’s an abusive bastard. Far worse than Tamlin would ever be.”

“She was a fool,” Nesta said disdainfully.

“No, she wasn’t. She knew there would be war, that innocent people would be killed, so she did what she had to do.” Feyre tried not to think about Áine sitting in the other room, held lovingly in Helion’s arms, knowing she had to return to Autumn, back to the sadistic jerk who kept her isolated and in fear.

“What a disgusting idea,” Nesta spat. “Her asshole of a husband is the one who would have been responsible, not her.” She looked sternly into Feyre’s eyes, and Feyre resisted the urge to look away. It was rare that they made eye contact at all, and Nesta’s silver flame unnerved her. But she forced herself to meet her sister’s gaze with equanimity. “You do whatever the fuck you want. Whatever makes you happy.”

“And what about you, Nesta?” Feyre asked softly, drawing one of her arms around Elain, bringing her in close with them. “What will you do? What will make you happy?”

Nesta closed her eyes briefly, looking pained, then opened them. The flames were gone, though her fierceness and determination remained. “I don’t know yet. I don’t know anything about life in Prythian except the little I’ve seen of the Night Court.”

Feyre sighed. “Believe it or not, me neither. I feel like I never got a chance to experience anything on my own. I was always with Tamlin, or with Rhys, or their courts.” Her lips quirked up in a sardonic grin. “Except for that week Lucien and I ran for our lives through Autumn.”

Elain shuddered, but said, “We all need a change of scenery. We should go somewhere, alone.”

Feyre smiled at that idea — Elain had always wanted to travel — but Nesta said, “You’re carrying Rhys’s babe. He won’t want you leaving his territory.”

Feyre sighed, resting a hand on her belly. “You’re right.”

She didn’t regret her baby — not for a second — but being a mother would complicate things. Especially because she would have to deal with Rhys, whether she wanted to or not.

Don’t think about him. Not now.

Suddenly she tensed, sensing a disturbance outside the apartment. “Someone’s at the door.”

“Probably Azriel,” Nesta said. “He helped me carry the bags. And offered to fly me back to the House when I was finished.”

Feyre frowned, trying to reach out with her daemati powers. Azriel’s shadows were obscuring her ability to see clearly, but she gasped when she sensed Az’s panic, and an image of tiny flames. “Eris.”

Nesta rolled her eyes. “That fucking prick.”

Elain exclaimed, “What’s he doing?”

“They’re fighting, I think,” Feyre grumbled. “I’ve got to deal with this.” She patted both her sisters’ arms. “We can talk about where to travel over lunch.”

Then she speared a thought towards both of the males outside the apartment door. Both of you, stop this.

Enough arguing for one day.

Chapter Text

Lucien refilled the tea kettle for the third time that morning, wiped the counters yet again, and sighed.

I’m not used to guests, and now I have an apartment full of them.

He couldn’t go into any room without encountering at least one Archeron or Vanserra, and Helion Spell-Cleaver’s dynamic energy suffused any space he was in, like he was in every room at once. It didn’t help that Lucien had to keep averting his eyes from his mother and Helion. I should have rented a place with multiple bedrooms.

Only the Autumn healer seemed content to sit quietly at the corner table in the kitchen, peeling leaves from the fresh herbs Nesta had brought and humming softly to herself — everyone else seemed to be wound up with tension, and the apartment wasn’t big enough to hold it all.

Feyre and her sisters were arguing, tearfully reconciling, then arguing some more. Years of recriminations and pent-up grievances were pouring out, everything from Nesta’s drinking habits to who used to chop more firewood.

He’d often observed how uncomfortable Feyre was confronting people directly, how she tended to speak in riddles or avoid subjects completely. They’d spent an entire week fleeing through Autumn, and she’d barely said a word to him, studiously clamming up every time he tried to discuss their situation or get answers to his questions. Now, faced with her own mortality, Feyre had decided to confront every lingering issue, wrap up every possible loose end, and the change was dizzying.

Lucien felt Elain’s fluttery distress, her anxiety as the fighting settled into a lull only to start again. He heard her tears and protestations, her sisters alternately defending her and lobbing accusations, and his heart ached at how difficult her short life had been, how much trauma she’d weathered. He clutched his own ribs as she was flooded with emotions, anger and sorrow and fear, and frowned as Elain kept shoving the feelings away, as if trying to suppress them. There’s one thing she and Feyre have in common.

Lucien breathed in deeply, savoring the aroma of Elain’s baking bread. Long ago, in another lifetime it seemed, he’d fondly hoped she might prepare food for him one day — this was a mockery of his dreams, having her bake delicious bread in his own kitchen, but not for him.

Eris stalked into the kitchen, letting the door slam far too loudly. “When’s lunch?”

Lucien blinked at him. “You’re awfully pleasant today.”

“I’m always pleasant, asshole,” Eris grumbled.

Lucien felt a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Is it Helion?”

“Hmm?” Eris scrunched his brows in seeming confusion.

“It’s not weird for you, seeing them together?” Lucien clarified. He felt oddly comfortable with it, if only because Helion’s magic felt so damn familiar, so much a part of him. It was as if Helion had always been part of their family, returned after a long absence. But Eris — he wasn’t sure Eris would sense it.

Eris huffed a sigh, his face darkening. “Let her be happy for a little while. I’m just worried about what will happen when we have to go home.”

Lucien stiffened. He hadn’t had much chance to think about that. He’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his mother couldn’t stay indefinitely, that she was on borrowed time, that both her safety and his brother’s depended on their absence not being noticed.

No wonder Eris was cranky.

“We’ll have to discuss that,” Lucien agreed. “At lunch, with Mother and Helion. Make a plan.”

Eris hummed in answer, but he was uncharacteristically quiet. Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked as he looked his brother over, noting how his usually immaculate jacket was creased, his hair tangled around his shoulders, a faint jagged line of red blooming across the pale skin of his neck. “What happened out there?”

Eris’s eyes glowed eerily, the flames rising close to the surface. “I was getting information.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow. “He kicked your ass.”

Eris’s lips curled into a sneer. “I put up a better fight than you managed against Rhysand.” Lucien shrugged, readily conceding the point, and his brother continued, “I would have gotten more out of him, had Feyre not interfered.” He ran his fingers through his hair, frowning at the knots that he encountered. “Interesting, isn’t it. I wouldn’t have thought Rhys’s circle would still obey her, now that they’re separated.”

Lucien considered that. “She’s still High Lady,” he said thoughtfully. “Her authority doesn’t come from being Rhys’s consort. At least in theory, she’s still got the right to rule just as much as he does.”

Eris’s sneer opened up into a look of shocked surprise. “Does she know that?” He stared off into space for a moment, processing the implications. “She’s in for a rough time, if she decides to press her claim. Keir, for one, will not recognize her authority without a fight.” He rolled his eyes disdainfully. “Apparently the first time she visited the Hewn City, she was dolled up in one of those silky nothings that Rhysand loves so much. He had her sit on his lap and fondled her like they were at a pleasure house.”

Lucien winced. “Like Under the Mountain?”

Eris nodded. “It made quite the… impression.”

Lucien shuddered. “If Rhys intended to elevate her to a position of power, why would he put her in that situation?” Then he shook that thought away. “Feyre must have agreed to it. Though after what he put her through at Amarantha’s court, I can’t figure out why.”

Eris scoffed, “I can’t figure any of it. But that’s beside the point. High Lady or no, Feyre won’t be able to command the Darkbringers. And Illyrians are backwards when it comes to females.”

Lucien frowned. “That’s the bulk of the military.”

“She’s better off reconciling with Rhysand,” Eris said. “At least for now. It’ll take time to consolidate her authority, visit the territories, make inroads with the major court families.” He wiped at his neck, shrugging at the smear of blood that came off on his fingers. “They’re all backstabbing bastards, just like Autumn. I’ve got a handle on Keir’s court now, but it’s taken me centuries.”

“You could help her,” Lucien suggested.

“You could help her,” Eris retorted. “You’re far better positioned than I am. With her sister as your mate, you have an actual reason to be here. I have enough problems of my own.”

Lucien barked a laugh. “You’re joking. As soon as she gives birth safely, I’ve got to flee. I’ll be lucky to make it back to the human lands.”

Eris smiled knowingly. “We’ll see.”

* * * * *

“You baked this? It’s delicious,” Áine said to Elain, patting her hand.

There was something so stirring about seeing his mother and his mate sitting next to each other, sharing a meal at his table, smiling and chatting in such a familiar way, that Lucien flushed with warmth from the tips of his ears to his cheeks.

Eris snorted. Enjoying my discomfort, the stupid bastard.

Lucien did not bother to turn his head. He knew Eris would be wearing a sarcastic smirk. In front of my mate and my father. He kicked his asshole brother under the table,

“Thanks, it’s my grandmother’s recipe,” Elain was saying. “Though she never had the advantage of ingredients from the faerie lands.”

Lucien blinked at that. It was so easy to forget that the Archeron females had been human, that they were still so new to life in Prythian.

A tiny burst of flame shot across the table, igniting the scraps of lettuce on his plate. Fucking Eris.

“Show off,” he muttered, drawing on his own fire magic, sending a burst back towards Eris’s plate, incinerating his slice of bread.

Helion flicked his fingers, and Lucien yelped as golden threads whipped toward him, pinning his hands to the table. “Behave, you rogue.”

Eris chuckled, then cursed as Helion fired his magic his way. “You too.”

Lucien shredded through the binding easily, then laughed heartily at Eris’s murderous expression at having his hands trapped in place.

“Now, darling,” Áine said reproachfully.

Helion relented, tugging on the spells around Eris’s hands until they unspooled.

“I should blast you for that,” Eris growled at Helion.

“Not in my kitchen, please,” Lucien said hastily.

Helion looked at Eris appraisingly. “You’ve never learned to counteract spells?”

Feyre, presiding at the head of the table, drawled, “Helion is a good teacher.”

Eris muttered something under his breath that Lucien didn’t catch, but Helion apparently did, because he threw back his head and laughed. “That’s not what your mother thinks.”

“Darling!” Áine exclaimed, in mock consternation.

“So!” Lucien exclaimed, far too loudly, jumping up so fast that he knocked his tea cup over. He grabbed it before its contents could dump all over the tablecloth, heart pounding. How ironic, to survive my murderous brothers, Amarantha, and the war, only to die of embarrassment. “Who’d like more sandwiches?”

“It’s all right, Sunshine,” his mother said. “Sit. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Lucien’s throat tightened as he lowered himself back down.

Helion was staring at him, suddenly serious. “That’s your name for him?” He ran a hand across his face, nudging his gold diadem so that it sparkled in the light.

Is he crying? Feyre’s voice echoed in Lucien’s mind.

Lucien twisted his fork around a charred piece of lettuce, studiously avoiding looking at anyone. I don’t know, but if someone doesn’t change the subject, I might set my own plate on fire.

“So, how long are you planning on visiting?” Feyre asked Áine.

Thank you, Lucien told her, though he cringed at the choice of topic. He knew his mother would have to go back to Autumn, but the thought of her having to settle back into that isolated, anxious life, subject to Beron’s cruel whims, cut off from her mate and from Lucien — he hated it. I hope Eris stages a coup sooner rather than later. I’ll stick the ash dagger in Beron myself.

“Eris and I have to head back tonight,” Áine said sadly. “Eileithyia can stay, but if Beron comes home and I’m not there…” She trailed off.

“Why not just stay here?” Elain asked. “You’d be protected.”

“Or Day,” Helion said quietly.

Lucien’s heart squeezed as his mother answered, “Dear one, it’s not me I’m worried about.”

Eris cleared his throat, all snark gone. “I’m the problem. If Father comes home to find Mother’s gone, it’ll rebound on my head.”

“Why not leave,” Nesta said flatly, spearing a tomato with her fork. “Why put yourself in that position?”

“If I’m to take the throne from my father, I’ve got to be there,” Eris said. “I wouldn’t last long as High Lord without the support of the noble families and the soldiers. My father’s courtiers, his commanders, his money collectors, his guards — they must all be turned, and that takes time. I’ve got to play the game, and I can’t do that from exile.”

“It sounds exhausting,” Elain spoke up. She looked at Feyre. “Is that what being a High Lady is like?”

Feyre looked pensive. “I haven’t done any of that.”

Eris cleared his throat. “You should start. If you want to keep your title, that is.” He leaned his forearms on the table, crumbling the burnt piece of bread on his plate into a neat pile of ash. “They all see you as an extension of Rhysand right now. If you’re to rule in your own right, you’ve got to step out of his shadow.”

Nesta objected haughtily, “Feyre is High Lady, not just a consort.”

Helion’s eyes shot to Áine, as though he was concerned for her, but Lucien knew his mother wouldn’t be offended. As Lady of the Autumn Court, she had no power at all - wasn’t even referred to by her name. She had no pretensions of being a High Lady, or anything other than Beron’s wife and mother of his brood.

Eris said, “That’s what they’ve been told. But you’d be surprised what they say when your High Lord and his bats aren’t around.”

Feyre shifted in her seat, making room for her belly underneath the table, then said to Eris, “As Keir’s ally, I suppose you would know.”

Eris laughed softly. “I’ve made it my business to know, whether Keir is my ally or not.” He sat back, folding his arms. “Forgive me for saying so, but you’re new to this, High Lady. And if I were Rhys, I would be counting on that little fact right about now.”

Helion cut in, “What are you suggesting?”

Eris motioned towards Feyre’s belly. “You’re High Lady, and you’re carrying Rhysand’s heir. That will either make you vulnerable, or make you powerful. Everything you do from this point on will tip the balance one way or another.”

Feyre whooshed out a breath. “You’re right.” She looked nervously at Elain, then at Nesta, and then at Lucien. “I can’t count on Rhys anymore. He’s unstable right now, and I can’t trust him to tell me the truth. He can’t go around making all the decisions, asking me for my opinion or judgment only when he feels like it. Especially where our son is concerned.”

Nesta snorted. “Good luck with that. This court is full of overbearing busybodies who think they can run your life better than you can.”

Feyre didn’t disagree. “Assuming I survive this birth, I’m going to need people around me I can actually count on.”

Helion said, “How about the people at this table, for a start? I can’t tell you what to do with your own court — that’s not my place, and I don’t know enough about the inner workings of the territory, anyway. But you have an ally in me, if you ever need one.”

“And me,” Eris said. Lucien stared at him, dumbfounded. “When I’m High Lord, you’ll have Autumn’s support. All I ask is you support me when I make my move. And you keep this one” — here he pointed at Lucien “—from getting killed.”

Lucien held up his hands. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Feyre.”

He felt a tiny flutter in his ribs, as though Elain had suddenly become anxious. But he didn’t have time to process it as Feyre barked, “What are you talking about?”

Chapter Text

Feyre barked, “What are you talking about?”

“Well. Well, I’ve got to leave,” Lucien stammered, suddenly anxious himself. “I won’t be welcome here, not after — all this.” He waved a hand vaguely, hoping his words were making sense.

“You think you’re leaving?” Feyre asked, her voice low.

“Yes?” Lucien said stupidly, looking at her with confusion.

“Where will you go?” Lucien blinked in surprise at the question, which had come from Elain.

“Well, there’s Jurian and Vassa,” he began. “Our manor, in the human lands.” The Nolan estate — where Elain would have lived, if she’d married that prick Graysen. The irony hadn’t been lost on him. “But I wouldn’t want to put them in danger. If Rhys gets it in his head to track me there, I don’t want them in the crossfire.”

“That’d be politically stupid of him,” Eris said dryly. “He’d cause a major diplomatic incident.”

“Probably,” Lucien said. “But realistically, what would Vassa do to retaliate? Her options are limited.” He cringed, thinking about Vassa in her firebird form, descending on Rhys’s territories in all her magnificent fury. That’s the last thing we need.

“You’re right. You need to be somewhere he’d actually think twice about barging into,” Eris conceded. “I wish I could offer Autumn, but I can’t. Beron wants you in chains even more than Rhysand. Tamlin would welcome you back —“

“No,” Lucien said quickly. “He’s got enough problems. He doesn’t need Rhys harassing him.”

Eris started laughing, and Lucien frowned at him. “Why is that funny?”

Eris waved a finger towards the other end of the table. “Remind me to tell you what sweet Nesta here did to Tamlin the other day.”

Nesta speared another tomato, unconcerned. “That beast had it coming.”

Cauldron boil me, I don’t want to know.

“What about Day?” Helion cut in.

Lucien’s eyes shot to his father. Helion was leaning forward, eyes glowing, his expression utterly sincere. Next to him, his mother beamed.

“I,” Lucien said, grasping uselessly at words, “I didn’t want to presume.”

“Presume away,” Helion said. “Day is yours. You have a home there, anytime you need or want it. Whether it’s for a few hours, or permanently.”

You have a home.

Lucien’s mechanical eye started to whir uncontrollably, and he clamped his eyes shut to regain control. The thought of having a home — a permanent home, a real home — was almost too much to think about. He’d given up on that dream long ago.

He’d once thought that the Spring Court might become his home, that Tamlin would be like his family. It wasn’t the same as having his mother, as belonging somewhere, but he’d told himself that was good enough.

But in the end, it hadn’t been. Tamlin had become unhinged after the trauma at Amarantha’s hands, had listened to Ianthe far too often, had become increasingly frustrated and hostile and controlling, his snarls and barked orders occasionally spilling over into outright violence. And then there had been Feyre — what a mess that turned out to be.

Lucien still felt guilty about leaving the way he did, not explaining things to Tamlin face to face, but there hadn’t been time. Feyre had been ready to leave without him, and then he’d have no way of getting to his mate, no chance of ever seeing her again. Maybe that would have been better. 

But the pull of the mating bond was too strong, too insistent to ignore. He’d have never forgiven himself for letting the chance slip away. He couldn’t have known it would turn out like this. And Feyre had saved him from Ianthe and the Hybern twins — he owed it to her to get her out safely. So he’d followed her, abandoning Tamlin and the mockery of home that Spring had become.

Lucien had never once fooled himself into thinking that Rhys’s court would ever be anything but dangerous. His plan was to see Elain, but he’d never figured out what he was supposed to do next. He had no plan for what he’d do if Elain wanted him, no home to settle her into. He couldn’t separate her from her sisters, regardless. And even when she didn’t want him, even when she loathed his very presence, he had nowhere else to flee to.

So he’d surrendered himself to the Night Court, despite the risks. He’d bet on Rhysand finding him useful enough to keep around, rather than shoving him into a dungeon to rot or just shattering his mind. At least that calculation had been correct. At least, until now.

Coming here was stupid and impulsive, all the way around.

But looking around the table now, crowded with family and friends, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Would I ever have found my father, if not for this crazy situation?

He forced himself to look at Helion, but no words would come out. He couldn’t explain how lost he’d been, how hopeless, and how he’d never even hoped for a safe place to live, much less a home and a father. Thankfully, Helion just nodded, seeming to understand.

“You’re all welcome in Day, of course,” Helion said, his voice rough. “All of you, at any time.”

Eris mumbled something to himself, and Helion’s gaze turned on him, glowering, stern. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. I said all. That’s you too, whether you like it or not.”

Lucien gaped as he watched his eldest brother — cold, cruel, collected Eris, who never broke — curl in on himself, hiding his face, the tips of his ears bright red.

Helion’s eyes sparkled, and he drew an arm around Áine, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Lucien knew he should speak up, thank Helion, say something, Cauldron damn it. But as he struggled to compose his thoughts, Feyre turned back to him. “Luckily, Day isn’t far at all,” she said breezily. “You could even split your time between the two courts, if you wanted.” Her eyes flashed, her expression suddenly turning serious. “But I still want to know why you think you’re leaving.”

“Rhys…” Lucien stammered.

“Rhys,” Feyre snapped, “will control himself. I let him threaten you when you first arrived, after you did nothing but risk your life to help me. I should have set him straight immediately, but I was so overwhelmed at being back, at finally seeing him again, and I was still leery about disagreeing with him publicly. That’s going to change.”

“But I don’t want you to fight on my account,” Lucien protested, sure that his ears were burning as brightly as Eris’s. His eyes drifted to his mother, and he was momentarily lost in a sea of awful memories, of all the beatings and scoldings his mother had endured because of him. All I do is cause danger for the people I love.

Eris’s head snapped up. He looked shaken, haunted, and his normally smooth, pale skin was blotchy and red. “That bullshit stops now,” he snarled.

“I agree,” Nesta suddenly declared, and everyone at the table turned to gape at her. She stood up, stiff and haughty as any queen, eerie silver fire flashing in her eyes. “I’ve had enough of High Lords throwing their power around. I made that clear to Tamlin, and I’m happy to tell anyone else who needs to hear it.”

Lucien flinched at the raw power pouring forth from her. Like Death frozen over. He felt a spike of fear through the bond, and looked at Elain, who was shrinking back, staring up at Nesta in horror. She’s never seen her sister’s power, never felt what it can do.

Lucien had once feared Amren — that ancient, unfathomable, unworldly power. Now he wondered whether Nesta had been squirreled away at the House of Wind with Cassian because her power was even deadlier, even more raw than Amren’s had been. Rhys would want to control it, leash it, harness it if he could, or suppress it if he couldn’t. But Nesta was free now, a force to be reckoned with. 

With Nesta supporting her, Feyre will be unstoppable.

He risked a glance at Elain, wondering what might be lurking beneath her gentle exterior. Was it possible that two sisters would be so formidable, and not the third? Perhaps she was just better at hiding it — strategic, given what had happened to Nesta and Feyre. Elain probably heard things her sisters didn’t, lulled Rhys’s Inner Circle into a false sense of security. I shouldn’t underestimate her.

“You could stay,” Feyre said to him, her voice echoing in his mind as well as in the room, tugging his awareness back to her. “Be my emissary, my strategist.”

“I’m already the emissary —“

“Not for the Night Court. For me,” Feyre clarified. “Eris is right. I’m new to all this. I don’t understand politics or diplomacy. But you do. You’ve been to all the courts, and you’ve worked for three of them now, plus Vassa.”

Lucien almost laughed at that. “I don’t work for Vassa.” He felt a hard tug in his ribs, wondered what it could mean. Jealousy? No. Elain wouldn’t be jealous. But he added, “Vassa is a friend.”

Eris snorted. “I bet she is.”

For fuck’s sake. “Vassa is with Jurian,” Lucien said in exasperation.

“Kinky,” Eris drawled.

Lucien snarled, “The next fireball I aim won’t be at your lunch.”

Eris smirked, glancing towards Helion, who chuckled, “I’m not going to stop him this time.”

He tried not to look at Elain, told himself he didn’t care what she thought anymore, she’d never given him a reason to care, but oh, who the fuck am I kidding.

Vassa was beautiful, fierce, lively, all qualities he admired. In some other lifetime, if he were younger and freer, if there was no Jurian to betray, if she didn’t remind him so much of Jesminda that it made his heart ache, he could see it. But he knew it was pointless to think like that. Vassa is not my mate.

“So you’ll stay,” Feyre said firmly, like it was all settled.

“For now,” Eris cut in pointedly. “You’re not the only one who will need an emissary, you know.”

Helion said nothing, but Lucien saw the question in his eyes — when his heir would take his rightful place at his father’s side.

Lucien took a deep breath, then another. He felt pulled in too many directions. I thought I was an exile, that I had nowhere to go. Now I have too many options. It was a good problem to have, more than he probably deserved, but he didn’t know what to do about it.

His mother saved him. “Why don’t you think about it, Sunshine. You don’t have to decide anything on the spot.”

The anxious ache in his ribs settled, but he didn’t want to think about what that meant.

“The baby wants dessert,” Feyre suddenly announced.

Áine laughed lightly. “They always do.”

Lucien jumped up, ready to play host, but found Elain already at the counter, blocking his way. “Let me,” she said. “You barely ate.”

He glanced nervously towards his plate, then back to her. “Eris fried my salad.”

She reached for a stack of dessert plates in the cabinet, but said quietly, almost too gently for him to hear, “Try the bread.”

He flushed, willing his heart not to pound. She doesn’t know. She wasn’t raised as fae. “I… can’t.” He felt the spike of hurt, disappointment, and quickly added, “I’m sure it’s delicious, just, ask Feyre to explain.”

He made a beeline for his seat at the table, almost knocking over his chair in the process, before she could ask him any more questions.

Helion leaned over, murmuring, “She’d like it in Day.”

She would, wouldn’t she.

Lucien swallowed down the sarcastic response he wanted to make, along with a forkful of burnt lettuce. Instead, he asked, “How do you stand it?”

Helion seemed to understand what he meant. “You must know my reputation.” Lucien nodded, and he went on, “It’s well-deserved. The distraction doesn’t fix things, doesn’t fill the void, but…” He shrugged his broad shoulders, bare and gleaming under the fae lights, then added, “Everything’s going to be different now.”

Lucien sighed. Well, that’s certainly true.

But different how — he still wasn’t exactly sure.

Chapter Text

“Mama!” Nyx wailed, kicking and flailing ineffectually. His cries pierced Feyre’s heart sharper than any blade, like she was being sliced from the inside out, and she lurched forward, desperate to get to him. Cassian’s huge hands were gripped around Nyx’s thin arms, the boy’s new Illyrian leathers too shiny and clean. Just like Rhys’s had been, the day he’d been dumped in that war camp, and he’d been pummeled for it.

“Put him down,” Feyre commanded, marshaling her most commanding voice. She was High Lady. Her word was law.

Cassian’s gaze shot to her, his fingers loosening fractionally, ready to obey. But Rhys’s powerful voice cut in. “Cass, he’s going.”

“No, he isn’t,” Feyre hissed, lashing out with a tendril of power — only a little, not enough to hurt Cassian, her dear friend and her sister’s mate, who was only following orders.

But Rhys’s dark shadows settled around her, stifling her, locking around her muscles. She fought them, flinging her powers against them, wrenching herself free only for Rhys to grab her into a tight embrace, hands clamping around her wrists, pinning her against him.

“Feyre darling,” he growled in her ear, “I’ve already explained this.”

“I never agreed to it,” she snarled back.

“It’s the Illyrian way. Our son must be strong,” Rhys insisted. “He’ll be hunted his whole life, threatened because of who he is. Don’t make him weak.”

“He’s eight, Rhys! It’s too soon,” Feyre cried, shoving at him ineffectually. He’d held her like this Under the Mountain, so tight she’d been certain her bones would shatter, and she swallowed the bile that rose up in her throat. “He’s calling for me. He’s scared. Let me go to him,” she begged, staring into Rhys’s unyielding face, “one last time.”

Nyx’s boot slammed into Cassian’s shin, making the warrior grunt, but he simply twisted his grip, maneuvering the boy out of striking distance. “Uncle, get off me,” Nyx shrieked, and Azriel stepped forward as well, snatching up Nyx’s ankles, leaning away to avoid getting kicked in the face.

“Don’t make him do this,” Feyre pleaded, tears streaming down her face. “You remember what it was like for you. They’ll only abuse him, break his spirit. There’s other ways to train him.”

Azriel had gone still, watching her with an odd gleam in his eye. It was unusual for the Shadowsinger to show any emotion at all, unusual for him to hesitate. He agrees with me. Cassian, too, had stilled, contemplating her words.

“My Nyx,” Feyre sobbed, twisting around, then elbowing Rhys hard enough that he grunted, though he still wouldn’t release her. “You won’t take him from me.”

Rhys sounded pained. “I understand, darling. Truly. If I thought there was another way —“

“It isn’t up to you,” Feyre exclaimed. “He is our son, to raise together.”

“Darling,” Rhys said smoothly, “of course you’re right. But you must trust me in matters like this one. I’m five centuries older than you are, I was raised here my entire life, and I know this territory and its people far more than you do.”

“Right. You had centuries to make things better,” Feyre shouted. “And you haven’t. Young males still die in the Blood Rite by the dozen. Females are still getting their wings clipped, doing chores instead of training. Warriors are still spitting on your generals because their mothers were raped.” She flashed an apologetic wince at Cassian and Az. “And don’t get me started on the Court of Nightmares.”

Rhys said wearily, “Change takes time.”

“And effort,” Feyre snapped. “And new ideas. And not raising another generation of leaders the same old way.”

“Papa,” Nyx pleaded, his voice high and wobbly, “please.”

The fact that her son had to plead like that pissed her off mightily.

“You shouldn’t have to beg your father,” Feyre said angrily, “and neither should I.”

“If you want him to be strong enough to counter me,” Rhys said icily, “or throw off his opponents, he should be trained.” He cocked his head towards the door. “Cass, Az, go.”

The two warriors gave her sheepish looks, but obeyed. They scooped up her son, who had gone still and limp — Rhys must have done that mind-to-mind, she realized with a jolt — and carried him out.

“I hate you,” Feyre screamed, whirling on Rhys, lashing out at him, determined to make him pay for what he’d just done.

“I know,” Rhys murmured, even as he held her tightly against his chest, “I know.”

* * * *

“Feyre! Feyre, please,” Elain sobbed, tugging at her sister, who was thrashing around in the bed, tears streaming down her face. “Wake up, Feyre. You’re having a nightmare.” She threw a pleading glance at Eileithyia, who had been roused from her cot and rushed to the bed. “Can you give her something?”

Eileithyia laid an elegantly wrinkled hand on Feyre’s sweaty brow. “First, she must wake.”

“She’s not,” Elain wailed, shaking Feyre again. Feyre’s face was contorted in pain, eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth twisting and opening as though she were trying to scream. “Is this Rhys? Is he attacking her?”

Eileithyia shook her head gravely. “I don’t believe so. Daemati victims don’t have control of their muscles.”

“She’s a daemati too,” Elain pointed out, her terror rising with every moment that she watched Feyre writhe on the bed. “She could be fighting it.”

The door creaked open, but Elain barely registered it. She shook her sister’s shoulders, crying, “Feyre, fight it. Whatever it is, fight it!”

“Rhys,” moaned Feyre. “No, don’t take him!”

Eileithyia squeezed Feyre’s hand. “Wake, child. It’s all right.”

“Nyx!” Feyre screamed, then jolted upright, panting. Her eyes shot to Elain, then to Eileithyia, and then to the door. Belatedly, Elain realized that Lucien had rushed in, disheveled from sleep. She quickly averted her gaze, determined not to take in the broad muscles of his chest peeking through his nightclothes or the concerned frown on his handsome face.

“It’s all right,” Eileithyia repeated smoothly, laying a hand on Feyre’s brow. She turned toward Lucien. “Fetch water, please.”

“Hot or cold?” he asked.

“Cold, dear,” Eileithyia said calmly, and the door creaked as Lucien rushed through it.

“He took Nyx,” Feyre moaned, her hand gripping Elain’s so tight that she winced. “Cassian — Azriel — they took him away —“

“No, Feyre,” Elain said soothingly, looking worriedly at the healer, then down at Feyre’s pregnant form. “No one took Nyx. Here, feel him.” And she guided their hands to Feyre’s belly, hoping the baby would kick.

Feyre cradled her belly, weeping with relief. “He’s here. He’s here.” Then she looked up at Elain, her tear-stained face crumpling. “As long as I’m pregnant, I can protect him, but once he’s born…” She didn’t have to say the rest. Elain understood.

The door swung open again, and Lucien handed the healer a bowl of water. “What happened,” he asked, voice sounding strained.

“Nightmare,” Feyre breathed, slumping back on the pillow. “They kidnapped Nyx, hauled him off to Illyria, to train in one of those war camps.” The healer gave her a wet compress, which she absent-mindedly plastered onto her forehead as she kept talking. “I told Rhys he was too young, that I didn’t want him abused like that, and he wouldn’t listen!”

“They take away children?” Elain asked quietly, mouth dropping open.

Feyre nodded. “Rhys was eight. Cassian was younger.”

The healer held out a vial to her. “This is calming.” When Feyre hesitated, she added, “It won’t hurt the baby. It’s just lavender and honey, mixed with sugar water. Your sister helped me prepare it earlier.” And she gave Elain a smile.

Elain had been grateful to sit with Eileithyia after lunch, helping her chop herbs and mix tinctures, while the rest of the apartment bustled with tense, emotional conversations. She’d stayed well out of the way of Lucien’s family, sensing they needed privacy to make plans and say their goodbyes.

When the moment came, it was quick and quiet — whispered words, hugs near the door. A family accustomed to sneaking moments in the shadows, not drawing attention. Still, Elain saw how Lucien’s arms trembled as he embraced his mother one final time, how Eris gritted his jaw so hard that his teeth must ache, how Helion’s radiant gaze dimmed to a dull, faint light. He’d lingered a bit afterwards, talking quietly with Lucien, then rechecked all the wards one last time before departing.

But Áine herself — Elain had been shocked to see how she smiled. How her eyes blazed with inner fire. She was going home stronger, with more resolve than ever.

“Eight is too young for a lad to be torn from his mother,” the healer was grumbling, wringing out more washcloths in the bowl of cool water, then handing them to Feyre to place on her body to help cool her down. “They’ve got it all backwards.”

“They’re the fiercest fighting force in Prythian,” Feyre said glumly. “We wouldn’t have won the war without them.”

“Or Elain,” Lucien said, then caught her eye and flushed, quickly adding, “…and Nesta.”

Elain felt her cheeks redden, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. She had always hated violence, had always loathed weapons and blood and other such frightening, vulgar things. But in that moment, she’d acted — she still didn’t know how.

She knew the others found it strange, that on a battlefield of great warriors, immortals, death gods and monsters, Elain had struck the pivotal blow against the King. Only Lucien had mentioned it directly to her, asked her about it.

Eileithyia dipped her head to Elain. “Ah, child, I didn’t know you were the Kingslayer.”

“Not me,” Elain said quickly. “I didn’t slay him. That was my sister.”

As if sensing her discomfort, Lucien changed the subject. “Does Rhys really want to have your son train in the camps?”

“I don’t know,” Feyre said, lower lip trembling. “We haven’t discussed it. But what if he does? What if he insists?”

Lucien’s eye clicked, then he said, “You two seem to love making bargains, why not about this? Or any other area where you disagree on Nyx’s upbringing?”

Feyre paused, considering that. “We’d have to word it very carefully.” She grimaced. “I’ve made that mistake before.” But she seemed to cheer up at the idea, regardless. “All I have to do is decide what to ask for.”

Lucien nodded, grinning. “Good practice for all that negotiating you’re going to do, High Lady.”

Elain breathed a long sigh of relief.

“Do you know what this means?” Feyre asked, softly rubbing her belly. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I’m dreaming of Nyx’s future. It means he’s going to live — that I’m going to live.” Tears rolled down her cheeks again, but this time they were joyful tears. “I hadn’t really thought that was possible before, but now I have hope.”

“You’re a fighter,” the healer said. “You won’t give up. That’s the most important thing.” She plucked the washcloth from Feyre’s forehead, dunked it in the bowl of water, and handed it back to her. “I’d still like to consult an Illyrian healer on helping you shape-shift, and we’ll need to decide where you’re giving birth. But not right now. Now, you should rest.”

“Oh, there’s no way I’m sleeping now,” Feyre said cheerfully. “I’m going to make a list of all the things I want to include in my bargain with Rhys.”

“Mother spare him,” Lucien quipped, and they all laughed.

Chapter Text

Mor waved away the offered wine, then leaned back on her onyx gilded chair. Not the throne - she never sat there, no matter how often she presided at the Court of Nightmares. She suppressed a shudder every time she glanced at Rhys’s cruel throne of carved beasts, those echoes of the feral, ancient monsters that once prowled Prythian before it was Prythian, haunting the dreams of the fae who were prey to the Wild Hunt.

She chose not to think about who haunted the dreams of the fae who lived down here — whose snarls and punishments kept them awake at night. Order had to be maintained, the wicked ruling families kept firmly in their places. Fear and intimidation were tools, weapons to be wielded with precision and grace.

Her hand wandered to her abdomen, and she quickly withdrew it, choosing not to think about that either. She was not that vulnerable young female anymore, not squashed under Keir’s thumb,  not sneaking through the back halls and corridors of this airless, lightless tomb of a city. She was the Morrigan, keeper of truth, the dreamer who escaped the horror and sought the sunlight.

But here, she was vengeance and bitterness, cold beautiful death, pitiless and unyielding. She ruled the Hewn City, kept a lid on the evil scheming and cruelty.

Mor had promised Rhys she could do it, that she could take care of any problem. Had told him in no uncertain terms not to come here, that he had to regain control before he could be trusted around his subjects. Rhys was a shell of himself these days, shattered and raw, snarling threats and leaking darkness. He needed to recover from the shock of losing Feyre, come to terms with it.

She refused to blame Feyre for leaving - she believed in true freedom for females, the absolute right to make their own decisions. But she wished Feyre might forgive him, might see his essential goodness, his desire to make his mate’s last days joyful and free from worry. There were many kinds of truth, Mor reflected, and Rhys’s impulse to protect his mate was an expression of that.

Mor had lied too, and she knew her High Lady was furious, just as Mor herself had been furious at Feyre’s deception that day on the battlefield, when she’d slipped away to find the Suriel. But Mor had understood the need for discretion. She had obeyed Rhys’s request, as had Amren, as had Azriel and Cassian. Only Nesta had wielded the truth as a weapon, destroyed Feyre’s peace for her own spiteful reasons.

That Eris Vanserra, of all the unworthy bastards, had been allowed to see her, while Feyre’s real family and friends were barred from the premises, galled Mor to no end.

A shadow tracked along the wall, and she marked it, flicking a tendril of power towards the dark corridor leading out of the ballroom. She’d commanded the courtiers to eat and dance, seeking to break up the hushed conversations, the whispered spread of rumors. She would not have Rhys’s reputation maligned by these slithering wretches, who heaped scorn and disrespect on the half-breed’s name when left too long unchecked.

Her power found its mark, drawing a startled, high-pitched yelp from the hall, and Keir’s cursed blond head whipped around, seeking the source of the disturbance. Mor stalked off the dais, her blood-red gown trailing sparkles behind her, determined to get there first, deny Keir a chance to flex his influence. He’d become too lordly again, too nosy, too enmeshed in the noble families’ affairs — perhaps keen on rebuilding forbidden alliances, fomenting discontent.

Her heels clacked on the obsidian floors, sharp and certain, but she drew up short when she entered the shadowed hall and found the prone figure of a cowering female.

“Who are you,” Mor said flatly, gazing down at her.

“H-Hesperia, my lady,” the female stammered, remaining on her knees, bowing her head low. “I’m sorry, I know I’m not meant to be in the halls, but I just wanted, well.” She broke off, wiping nervous tears from her flushed cheeks, brushing back her lustrous, pale blond hair. 

“Hesperia,” Mor pronounced slowly, frowning. “Get up. Who are you? Who is your family?”

“Lord Thanatos is my father,” the female said hesitantly, rising awkwardly to her feet, twisting her slender hands together. “I’m not disobeying him, honest, I just —“

“What is happening here?”

The powerful voice was low, but sweet — a midnight song. Mor knew that voice, felt shock and hope and confusion at hearing it, and she whirled around, too shocked to speak.

Hesperia collapsed back to her knees, gasping, “High Lady.”

“Rise,” Feyre said softly, commanding but kind. Mor gaped at the sight of her — dressed not in a silken paneled gown like what she usually wore to the Court of Nightmares, not one of the gilded gowns from her trousseau, but a simple soft gossamer gown that flowed around her like rippling water, one Mor had never seen before.

Feyre’s visits here were always announced with earth-shaking power, with harshly barked orders to the crowd, with bowing and scraping, with cruel red-lipped smiles and implied or stated threats to behave. It was the way of the Hewn City, expected of its rulers, and Mor almost cringed as Feyre stepped forward on feather-light feet, smiling kindly at one of her subjects. We must not show weakness, not make them think they can get away with anything.

Hesperia had begun to babble again. “High Lady, I only wished for a bit of air, I know I’m unattended, don’t blame my mother or sisters, they don’t know I’m here, and —“

“What,” Feyre said softly, grasping Hesperia’s trembling chin with her slender fingers, “what are you talking about?”

“Please, don’t tell my father,” Hesperia begged, curtseying hastily. “That is, if it pleases you, your Grace.”

Feyre’s eyes flicked to Mor, revealing no hint of familiarity or friendship — just questions. When Mor just stared at her, still overcome by shock, she turned back to the quivering female. “Hesperia,” she said softly, “come sit with me. I wish to know more.” She motioned towards a stone bench, then smoothly glided to it and arranged herself.

Hesperia stood frozen in the hallway, eyes wide. The prospect of sitting with the High Lady, and not cowering at her feet, was evidently beyond her imagination. But Feyre said, a bit more forcefully, “Your High Lady commands it,” and then the female was moving, darting rapidly to the bench, then impulsively grabbing and kissing Feyre’s hand before sitting nervously beside her.

“Now, what is all this about being unattended,” Feyre asked gently.

Hesperia’s eyes lowered to her lap. “I’m an unmarried female,” she said, “at least until tomorrow. I must walk these halls with my sisters, or my mother, or some other chaperone. For my own safety, of course,” she added quickly, stealing a nervous glance at Mor.

As if I made that rule. Mor bristled, remembering her own anxious days pacing in her rooms, desperate to get a change of scenery, only to be scolded not to bother her mother or aunts. 

“Why would you not be safe in these halls?” Feyre murmured, casting her gaze about the dark, cavernous space.

Hesperia looked shocked, flushed a dark pink as she stammered, “W-well, a female’s virtue must be guarded until marriage, of course.” She averted her gaze from Mor, as if suddenly remembering the tale about Mor’s failed betrothal, and Mor swallowed back the bitter taste in her mouth.

“Guarded from whom?” Feyre asked sharply.

“Well,” Hesperia said in a small, scared voice, “unscrupulous males, I suppose.”

“Then it is the males who need chaperones,” Feyre snapped.

Hesperia barked a nervous, scraping laugh, then clamped her lips together when she saw Feyre’s stern expression. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, falling from the bench to her knees, clasping a startled Feyre’s hands, “I didn’t mean to laugh, I just —“

“Up,” Feyre commanded, and Hesperia scrambled back to her feet. “No more kneeling. You need not fear me.”

Tears streamed down Hesperia’s lovely face, and Mor’s gut twisted, hard.

Fear. It was how they’d always ruled, how they’d kept this court from spreading its oily wickedness out to the rest of the territory. Fear was how they kept these awful people in line. Mor, Cass, Az, and Rhys — they inspired fear, cultivated it. The fact that they only did so at the Hewn City had always sustained them.

But looking into Hesperia’s tearstained face, how she stared adoringly at Feyre, how her chin wobbled at the suggestion that she need not fear — it made Mor question everything.

“You said you are unmarried,” Feyre prompted her gently. “Who is your betrothed?”

“Geryon, Lord Chrysaor’s son,” Hesperia said.

“You don’t sound very excited,” observed the High Lady, tilting her head.

“It was arranged, as all marriages are in my family,” Hesperia explained. “He is…” She lowered her voice to the barest whisper. “Well, there are rumors.”

Mor stiffened, but forced herself to relax again. She knew some of the families still arranged marriages, of course. Knew the betrothed partners couldn’t always be thrilled by the matches. Yet she’d never figured out how to intervene, stop the practice.

I went through the worst pain of my life to avoid such a fate for myself.

She didn’t need to ask what rumors there were of this Geryon. She knew this court and its ways well enough to guess.

Feyre grasped Hesperia’s trembling hands. “Would you like to leave, Hesperia? I could arrange it. No female should be trapped in a marriage. When you marry, it should be someone you wholeheartedly desire.” Her eyes glimmered for a moment — thinking of Helion and the Lady of Autumn, Mor guessed. Or herself.

Hesperia bowed her head. “High Lady, I am so grateful for this offer. But my sisters — I couldn’t leave them.”

“Then you may bring them,” Feyre declared.

“But they’re married already, their husbands would never agree to it,” Hesperia said miserably. “Then there’s my cousins, my friends and neighbors. We depend on each other.” She drew in a shaky breath, then said, “No, I must do as best I can, as we all do.”

“We don’t,” Feyre said, with quiet fortitude, “not all of us. Some of us can do better.”

And she looked at Mor, whose knees nearly buckled from the truth of it.

“When I am here on official business, you will attend me,” Feyre told Hesperia, “give me news of this court, any issues I should know about. Things are changing, for all of us, but I can only address the problems I’m aware of. Would you do that?”

“High Lady, I would be honored,” Hesperia breathed, standing up and curtseying again.

“Then you may return to your family,” Feyre said, rising. “Go with my blessing. If you are accosted by anyone in these corridors for being unattended, I will deal with them.”

“Thank you,” Hesperia gushed, clasping Feyre’s hands and kissing them again. She took a few backward steps, careful not to turn her back on the High Lady, then turned toward Mor. Her expression turned wary, fearful, as she curtseyed respectfully, and Mor inwardly cringed at it.

Then the young female took off down the corridor, her footsteps retreating until silence fell again.

Mor had to avert her eyes from Feyre, from the had no words for what she wanted to say. Instead she stared at her reflection in the black marble tiles, overcome with shame and awe, a thousand inadequate apologies dying on her lips before she could speak them.

“Tarquin is the most idealistic of all the High Lords,” Feyre said abruptly, and Mor’s head jerked up to take in the High Lady’s determined face, her steely blue eyes. “I remember thinking, when I visited Summer, how naïve he was compared to Rhys, how he was too kind and considerate to understand someone like me, how that passion made make him vulnerable.”

Mor stayed silent, not understanding, until Feyre added, “But then we were at war. And I saw him drown a whole battlefield of Hybern captives. I realized that he is good, not weak.” She took a few steps towards Mor. “It is good to be ruthless with one’s enemies. But only one’s enemies, I think.”

Mor stammered, “I hope I’m not your enemy.”

“I hope that, too,” Feyre said softly. “Because Nyx will rule here, when he is old enough, when he is ready, and he will need your guidance.”

Mor’s heart sank — Feyre was inviting her back in, not for their own friendship or any bond they’d shared, but for her son’s sake. It would take a lot more to truly win back Feyre’s trust, any part of the love she’d once extended to the whole Inner Circle.

But she caught Feyre’s other meaning, too. Nyx will live.

Mor had not let herself truly contemplate what it would mean to lose Feyre — to lose Rhys, due to the rash bargain they’d made. But if they died, leaving their child alone in the world, who would rule? Who would inherit their power? Mor had never allowed herself to consider that it might be her, that she might be High Lady, a title she hoped to never have, a responsibility she did not want.

And who would raise Nyx, if his parents were gone? Who would dry his tears, cuddle him, teach him what he needed to know? Who would tell him stories of his parents, of the sacrifice they’d made to give him life?

Feyre must have sensed Mor’s sorrow, her anxiety, for she said, “I do not intend to die. But he will need you — all of you — either way, and I need to know that you are able and willing.”

“We are,” Mor said immediately. “All of us.” She added silently, thinking of Rhys, Or we will be.

Feyre nodded, apparently satisfied, and held out a piece of paper. “Will you give this to Rhys?” 

Mor took it, willing her hands not to shake, not daring to ask what it was. Instead, she blurted, “We were wrong, Feyre. We know that. And we’re sorry.”

Feyre looked at her for a long moment, and Mor quickly added, “We don’t have to discuss it now. But please — we want to apologize, all of us. In person. Or if not —“

“Tomorrow,” Feyre said. “Not here. At Lucien’s apartment.”

“Rhys?” Mor asked, though she already knew the answer.

Feyre shook her head firmly, though there were tears in her eyes. “Not Rhys.”

Mor nodded, quickly saying, “I won’t tell him until afterwards. He’s not in the city.”

“I know,” Feyre whispered. She stared off into the gloom for a long moment, then pulled herself up straight and gathered her billowing skirts. “Tomorrow, then. Lunchtime?”

“We’ll be there,” Mor said resolutely.

Some of us can do better.

She just prayed it was true.

Chapter Text

The knock came at noon precisely.

Feyre had sensed them waiting outside the door long before the knock sounded, could feel their nervous energy, their dread and anticipation coiling up inside them. She felt something similar, if she was being honest. She wanted to throw the door open and throw her arms around them, welcome them in, and she wanted them to sit and stew in the stairwell for hours, feeling wretched about how they’d lied to her. Feyre didn’t know if she would be able to look into each of their faces and keep her own face appropriately stern and angry.

Don’t just forgive them. Don’t dismiss what they’ve done.

It was how she’d gotten into this mess in the first place — how she’d ended up in so many messes, starting with her disastrous near-marriage to Tamlin. She’d chosen to overlook how he terrified and threatened her family, threatened to kill her on the spot if she didn’t come to Prythian, pinned her against the wall on the night of Calanmai and bitten her, then said she was at fault because she disobeyed him. There had been so many clues as to his true personality and temper, but she’d loved him, so she’d ignored or excused them.

She didn’t know where she would have gone, who she would have turned to if she’d decided to leave Tamlin. If she’d come to her senses back then, she never would have broken the curse, or saved Prythian. And afterwards, she’d needed Rhys to get her out of the manor, had come to think of his forced bargain and kidnapping as saving her.

Rhys — gods, Rhys. What he’d done to her in the name of helping her. She couldn’t reconcile their deep soul connection, their friendship, with how he’d been Under the Mountain. She’d told herself that she and Rhys were the same, that they were both dreamers who’d been forced to use violence, embrace the darkness, become unapologetically cruel and vicious. To protect each other, their chosen family, their beloved city, she’d told herself.

Feyre couldn’t regret loving Rhys, not for a second. But now that he’d violated her trust yet again, and all the things he’d done after…

And what of the Inner Circle? She expected nothing from Amren, who was not of this realm, who had her own odd idea of morality. She’d had no trouble lying and stealing, even reveled in it, but had suggested Nesta be put in the dungeon for her so-called transgressions. Feyre respected Amren, appreciated her sacrifice deeply, but had no illusions that she would truly understand Feyre’s perspective.

But Mor? Mor had been her first real friend, the female she looked up to, the one whose advice she’d taken. Mor had inspired her to truly be herself, to stop caring about how others saw her, to embrace her own power and autonomy.  Mor was kind, and warm, and loving, and honest. It made her decision to hide this truth all the more puzzling.

Cassian and Azriel she understood better. They were Rhys’s brothers first and foremost, would be loyal to him regardless. Still, she’d thought they would call him on his shit, knock some sense into him, prevent his excesses.

What I wanted Lucien to do with Tamlin.

Saying no to a High Lord is always dangerous.

It was why she was Rhys’s mate — why she was so important. She was his equal, his counterpart, the only one who could truly stand up to him. Their lies had deprived her of that power, had made her vulnerable, someone to be manipulated rather than listened to and respected.

“Should I get that?” Lucien asked, glancing at the door with apprehension.

She wondered at his hesitation — it was no secret guests were expected — but then remembered the hissed warning from Eris. You do not go near that door, you idiot. If they grab you, you’re finished.

“I’ll get it,” Elain said, surprising both of them.

“You don’t have to be here for this,” Feyre said to Lucien. “If you’re uncomfortable —“

“It’s all right,” Lucien assured her, though his metal eye clicked so rapidly that he had to close it.

Feyre braced herself as the door creaked open.

Elain stepped back, pulling the door with her, and there was Cassian, the rest of the group huddled in close behind him. He was dressed casually for once, out of his leathers, siphons on his hands but no visible weapons. His eyes scanned the room rapidly, probably searching for Nesta, who had deliberately chosen to wait in the kitchen. His gaze settled on Feyre, his hazel eyes brimming with pain and desperation, and he quickly lowered them.

“Come in,” Feyre said, not unkindly. “All of you.”

Cassian strode in, the room instantly feeling smaller. He nodded to Lucien, then gave a small smile to Elain that didn’t meet his eyes, then stared back at Feyre, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her belly. The baby’s grown bigger since they’ve seen me. He opened his mouth, as if to comment, then seemed to think better of it.

Azriel slid into the room behind him, silent and stealthy despite his shadows being nowhere in sight. Feyre didn’t miss how Elain tensed, how her eyes crept towards him, then towards Lucien, as if she were comparing them. Feyre had often thought how beautiful Az was, how he and Elain would fit so well together, and she wondered if Elain thought the same, if she’d ever act on the interest she’d shown on occasion. For his part, Lucien regarded the Shadowsinger warily, as if he perceived a threat.

Mor came in next, oddly subdued though she wore one of her usual sparkly dresses, and then Amren, who was staring intently at the walls and ceilings, perhaps trying to analyze the apartment’s network of wards and defenses. Lucien and Helion had worked on them side by side, the High Lord of Day passing along his favorite tips and techniques to his son, and it had warmed Feyre’s heart to see them together.

But Amren had given up that particular power, along with most of her others, or Feyre would never have invited her anywhere near the apartment. There would be no more battles here, no more unraveling wards, no more conflict.

There was a long silence as they all watched Feyre closely, as she watched them in return. Feyre took steadying breaths, willing herself to be calm, collected.

“Lunch is ready,” she said coolly, motioning towards the kitchen.

Then they were all at the table, crowding in. Between the Illyrians’ wings, and the sheer number of guests crowding in, Lucien’s poor kitchen seemed to be bursting at the seams. Eileithyia just bowed to the group and then slipped out, apparently deciding to avoid the unpleasantness, but Nesta sat stiffly in between Feyre and Elain, gaze never straying to any of the newcomers, not even Cassian.

Elain, Cauldron bless her, broke the silence. “Try the bread, it’s fresh baked,” she said eagerly, gesturing to the serving platter. Feyre could have sworn her sister’s gaze strayed to Lucien, who went blank, working hard to not show a reaction.

It won’t trigger the mating bond if she offers it to everyone, Feyre said into his mind, but she knew he wouldn’t take that risk.

Told her to ask you about it. I guess there hasn’t been time, was his pained reply.

Everyone else dug in eagerly, murmuring compliments.

The tension in the room eased little by little as food was passed, drinks were poured — though not wine, to avoid flustering Nesta. Not that she would show it in front of anyone, but Feyre knew her sister better than ever now that they were having honest conversations. She knew how hard Nesta had worked to claw back control, to find other ways to deal with her trauma and soothe her unsettled magic. Feyre winced to think of all the times they’d gotten drunk in front of Nesta, or talked and joked about it, then scorned Nesta for her habits.

“That was the healer?” Mor asked, motioning to the kitchen door, where Eileithyia had slipped out. “She’s staying here?”

Feyre nodded. “She’s delivered babes with wings before. Not Illyrians,” she added hastily, seeing the confused expressions, “but still. She’s very experienced. She’s been delivering babies for 600 years. Including Lucien and all his brothers.”

Lucien muttered what sounded like a prayer to the Cauldron.

“So she’s from Autumn,” Azriel said thoughtfully. “I just came from there, actually.”

Elain seemed to perk up at that. “Did you see Áine?” When the spymaster looked at her, confused, she clarified, “The Lady of the Autumn Court.”

“From a distance,” Azriel said. “It’s rare she’s in public. I hadn’t seen any sign of her since the High Lords Summit.” He threw a look to Lucien that was almost apologetic. “She was much more lively, even smiled a few times.”

Lucien’s fork scraped against his plate, and he muttered, “Sorry,” blinking rapidly with his good eye while his mechanical one clicked away.

Relief flooded through Feyre. She’d wondered how Áine would manage, if she would get caught by Beron’s wrath, if having to separate again from her mate and her youngest son would drive her to despair. But it sounded like the opposite — that their family reunion, though painfully brief, had given her strength.

“And Eris?” Elain asked.

Mor looked shocked that she would even ask. “What about the bastard?”

“I was just wondering if you happened to see him,” Elain said resolutely, and Feyre was momentarily stunned by it. Lucien, too, was now openly staring at her.

Azriel looked distinctly uncomfortable. “I always watch Eris.”

“Can we not talk about that fucking prick?” Cassian grumbled.

“By all means,” Nesta drawled, and all eyes shot to her. “Let’s talk about you.”

Cassian’s fork clattered to his plate. “What does that mean?”

“I think you know,” Nesta said, fixing Cassian with a stern glare, then turning her gaze on the others. “I think you all do.”

“Don’t push your luck, girl,” Amren snapped, eyes flashing.

Here we go. 

“Nesta is right,” Mor said slowly, as though the words were stuck in her throat. “We did not come here to talk about Eris. We came here because,” and here she paused for a long moment, “because we made a mistake, and we want to correct it.”

Amren looked ready to argue with her, but Azriel cut in. “We regret what happened. And our role in it.”

“Do you regret what you did? Or that she found out?” retorted Nesta.

“I’ll speak for me. I hate this whole fucking thing,” Cassian burst out, pushing back from his chair. “I hate that you’re in this shitty situation with the delivery. I hate that Rhys didn’t tell you from the beginning. I hate that I listened to him and didn’t tell you. And I fucking hate that my first instinct was to punish Nesta for telling you the gods-damned truth.” His voice wavered as he said her name, his hands clenching into fists. “I was a fucking asshole to you both, and I’m sorry.”

Feyre’s heart twisted as she took in the pain etched on his features, the guilt haunting his eyes. Cassian crossed the room to lean against the countertop, forearms pressed to the granite, his head in his hands.

“We’re all sorry,” Mor said. “We felt it wasn’t our place to interfere. When Rhys said to keep it private —“

“He was wrong,” Feyre cut her off. “Maybe he doesn’t trust me with my own body, or respect my decision making ability, but you all should.”

“We see that now,” Mor said, a bit defensively. “But —“

“But nothing,” Feyre fumed, getting angry all over again. “Would you ever lie to Rhys, keep information from him?” She glared at Mor, then at Amren, who’d been suspiciously quiet, and then Azriel. “Is this how you’d treat a High Lord? Or just a High Lady?”

“With all due respect,” Amren said defiantly, “fear and panic could harm the baby.”

“So could me not having any idea the baby was in danger,” Feyre exclaimed. “Once I found out about the risk, I got a second opinion. I’ve started making preparations, putting my affairs in order. I’ve been writing Nyx letters in case I’m not here to tell him —“

She suddenly broke off, overcome by sorrow, and started sobbing.

Elain got to her first, throwing her arms around her sister, while Lucien hovered behind her, awkwardly patting her shoulder. Cassian was there too, all arms and wings, and Feyre could feel that the others wanted to offer her comfort, wanted to comfort each other.

Amren said bitterly, “This is what Rhysand wanted to avoid.”

“What, feeling sad?” Feyre barked, peering past Lucien to glare at Amren. “Crying? If such things make you uncomfortable, you can leave. Those who are strong enough to handle it can stay.”

She pulled back from Elain, wiping a tear from her sister’s cheek. “I need to know who I can trust. Who is courageous enough to be honest with me, to face difficulties head on and not try to deny that they’re happening.”

“We all want to earn your trust back,” Mor said. “This will not happen again.” She approached Feyre tentatively, wincing as she got close. “I’m so sorry, Feyre. Truth is my gift, and I withheld it from you — held myself back in that essential way. I know I need to work on that.” And she looked guiltily at Azriel, who looked back at her, expressionless. Azriel never shows what he’s feeling, perhaps not even to himself.

“i want to trust you all,” Feyre said. “But it’s going to take time. I need to see that you really are my friends, that you won’t just side with Rhys whenever our interests clash.”

“If you gave him a chance to explain —“ Amren suggested.

Nesta snorted. “Since when does this court give people a chance to explain?”

Amren hissed at her.

Cassian was across the room in a moment, positioning himself between the two females. “Nesta,” he said pleadingly.

Nesta folded her arms across her chest, eyeing him warily. “What.”

“I —” Cassian began nervously, then cleared his throat and tried again. “Can we talk? Outside?”

Nesta nodded stiffly, then stalked out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind her.

“Mother spare him,” Lucien muttered, “she is pissed.”

“So am I,” Feyre reminded him, then almost chuckled when his metal eye buzzed and clicked at her. “Not at you.”

“For once,” Lucien quipped.

Cassian grimaced, then turned to Feyre. “I meant what I said, Feyre. But you don’t have to believe me right now. I’ll prove it.” Then he pushed the door open again, following Nesta out.

“We are all sorry,” Azriel said quietly. “Even Amren, though she may not want to admit it.”

Mor stood looking plaintively at Feyre, like she wanted to give her a hug but wasn’t sure it would be welcome. “We are here for you, Feyre. Whatever happens.”

Feyre nodded tearfully. “It’ll take time for me to believe that. But I’m willing to give it a chance.”

She could see the unspoken question in Mor’s eyes. Will you give Rhys a chance, too?

Feyre wasn’t ready to answer that, or even think about it as a question. Her anger at Rhys was still too raw to even consider it.

Instead, she said, “That girl at the Hewn City — how is she?”

Mor cracked a smile. “I convinced her father to call off the wedding.” Then she added ruefully, “But I wasn’t in time to help her sisters.”

“Neither was I,” Feyre said. “That’s going to change.” She added softly, “We need to earn their trust, too.”

Mor squared her shoulders. “Then we have our work cut out for us.”

Feyre nodded, patting her belly, and chuckled when Nyx kicked back. “Yes, we do.”

Chapter Text

“So that went well,” Lucien said to Feyre, swatting her hands away when she tried to reach for the pile of dishes he was precariously balancing on the table. “You sit and rest, I’ve got it.”

“I’m pregnant, not helpless,” Feyre grumbled.

“Of course you’re right, but you’re still my guest, High Lady,” Lucien argued. She huffed and sat back down, conceding the point, and plopped her feet up on Lucien’s chair. He gathered up the rest of the lunch dishes and carried them to the sink, dreading having to do yet another round of dishes. I should open a restaurant.

“I thought it did go well,” Feyre said. “They get it. Well, three out of the four do. Don’t know what I expected from Amren.”

“All I want from Amren is for her not to kill me,” Lucien said, his hand not trembling as he turned on the sink water.

“She doesn’t have her powers anymore,” Feyre chuckled, “and she wouldn’t have killed you, in any case. She once told Rhys that he should kill your father and install you as High Lord.”

“Cauldron forbid,” Lucien blurted. “Eris can have Autumn.”

“She also said you were handsome,” Feyre teased him.

Lucien felt all the blood drain from his face, and she burst out laughing. “Don’t look like that. She’s not that scary. Varian told me recently —“

Lucien cranked the water up as high as it would go, drowning out the rest of the sentence. Varian was always reckless.

“Feyre?” Mor poked her head in the kitchen doorway. “Cassian’s back. We’re ready when you are.” Her eyes rested on Lucien. “Are you joining the meeting?”

Lucien gestured toward Feyre. “Whatever the High Lady wishes.”

Feyre asked in his mind, Do you need a break? You’ve been going almost nonstop ever since I got here.

Lucien did not need a break. He needed several nights of uninterrupted sleep in a real bed, at least one meal where he could just eat without fussing over guests, a sink empty of dishes, a chance to sit and think about the crazy upside-down world he now inhabited.

I’ll join you in a bit, if that’s all right, he thought back to Feyre. Let me get these dishes done and stare off into space for a few minutes.

Feyre said to Mor, “We’ll talk about the Hewn City situation first, and call Lucien in when we get to inter-court politics.”

Mor nodded, then withdrew.

Lucien waited until her footsteps retreated, then asked, “Any response from Rhys yet?”

“It’s too soon. Mor delivered the letter only this morning,” Feyre replied evenly. Lucien was relieved to see that she didn’t flinch or balk at hearing his name, as she had after their split first happened. “Thank you for your help with it.”

“Oh, I didn’t do much, just a little polishing here and there,” he protested. “Your ideas make sense. If Rhys is at all reasonable, he’ll agree to it.”

That was the big question. Would Rhys be reasonable?

“He feels calmer,” Feyre said, “more subdued. But we can talk it over with the Inner Circle, then maybe they can help convince him.”

We. Lucien wondered at that. He had not formally accepted Feyre’s offer to be her personal advisor and emissary, but she was already giving him assignments, asking his advice on sensitive matters, and now including him in private meetings. Rhys had never allowed him such free access to the Court’s secrets or decision making process.

Lucien didn’t know if he wanted to stay at the Night Court at all, but he wasn’t about to leave Feyre at such a sensitive time, when she was only just establishing her own government. But he worried about how his presence would be taken by the others, especially now that he was known to be the heir of a different court. They had never trusted him to begin with, but now he had a true conflict of interest. I wouldn’t trust me, either.

Feyre seemed to sense his discomfort. “Don’t overthink things,” she said airily, plopping her feet back on the floor and rising to her feet. “Join us if you feel like it. But don’t push yourself, or I’ll order you to take a nap.”

“Yes, High Lady,” Lucien deadpanned, bowing gallantly, and she chuckled as she swept past him, heading out of the kitchen and into the living area, where her Inner Circle awaited. Through the doorway, Lucien saw Mor and Azriel on opposite ends of the couch, distant and silent — something’s going on there — while Amren had taken his usual armchair, and Cassian was leaning against the far wall looking like an absolute wreck, clothes and hair disheveled, cheeks flushed, eyes glowing.

What did Nesta do to him?

Lucien couldn’t help but grin. Cassian was the head of Rhys’s armies, but Nesta was forming a new fighting force, the Valkyries, that would be loyal to Feyre. He smirked at the idea of Cassian and Nesta meeting on the battlefield to solve their leaders’ disagreements in hand to hand combat.

Suddenly Lucien was jolted from his reverie by the sound of dishes clinking together. Elain was at the sink, though he hadn’t seen her enter. He should have been used to her slipping in and out of rooms unnoticed, as she often used to do to avoid him. She’s stealthy enough to be Feyre’s spymaster.

“You don’t have to do those,” he said quickly, a warm flush creeping from his ears to his neck. After the past four days of being in such close proximity to Elain, he’d thought he might have gotten used to her presence.

But whenever he caught a hint of her scent lingering in his rooms, or thought about her sleeping in his bed, it left him breathless.

Elain’s hands kept moving, kept washing dishes, as Lucien hovered feet away in awkward silence. He wondered if he should leave her to it, if she resented him being there. She hadn’t wanted to stay with him — she was only here for Feyre. The fact that she’d spoken to him here and there, that she seemed to like his mother, just meant that she was tolerating him.

Don’t get greedy. Just be glad she isn’t shunning you.

Lucien had never had trouble attracting females, had been a bit of a rogue and a flirt in his younger years. He’d fallen far since then, if the best he could achieve was an occasional awkward conversation.

Lucien hated the mating bond, hated how it pulled him towards Elain. It had been nothing but trouble, a vulnerability that others used to manipulate him. It was why he’d ended up here in the first place, why Feyre probably thought he’d capitulate and agree to serve her instead of moving to Day.

She’d like it in Day, his father had said. And Cauldron damn it, he was right.

Elain was sunlight. Elain was life, and growing things. The Night Court was too cold for her, too dark, too depressing. The irony was not lost on him that she would have loved Spring. Not Spring now, but Spring as it had been in better times. Before her sister toppled it.

He wouldn’t blame Feyre entirely for that — it was Tamlin who’d been unable to let her go, who’d torn himself and the manor apart. But Feyre was the one who’d set out to destroy it, and had succeeded all too well.

To ensure the Night Court didn’t suffer the same fate — that was the other reason he needed to stay.

But Elain could go to Day, he mused, whenever she wished. She didn’t need a mate as an excuse to leave one court for another, as Feyre had. Elain should be free to do what she wished, regardless of him, and if that meant he stayed with Feyre while she traveled Prythian, so be it.

Elain piled dishes in the drying rack, and Lucien dried them with his magic, idly pondering whether he should join the Inner Circle in the living room, when she asked, “How are you doing that?”

“Well,” Lucien said, a bit embarrassed, “it’s my Autumn Court power.”

“Oh. Like Eris,” Elain said.

He gritted his teeth at that. Somehow, his brother had managed to break the ice with Elain — Eris, of all the fucking people — where he’d utterly failed. It pissed him off that he’d been nothing but polite and accommodating, trying to be thoughtful and considerate and respect her boundaries, and then Eris had come along and insulted her, and made her cry, yet somehow she seemed to prefer him.

Because he doesn’t have a mating bond with her.

Lucien wanted to laugh out loud at the fucking irony of it all. If Elain rejected the bond, she might actually grow to like him. If he didn’t go mad first.

Jurian had once asked him why he didn’t break the bond himself, why he was waiting around for Elain to do it. I could also pluck out my other eye, make a matching pair, had been his indignant response.

It had been a shitty thing to say to Jurian, who knew all about having one’s eyes plucked out. But the general had simply laughed.

Lucien hoped his letter had made it to the manor by now, that Jurian and Vassa would understand. Another place I left behind without saying goodbye. Maybe I’m the asshole, not Eris.

“Yes,” he said to Elain, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt, “like Eris.”

“Why don’t they like him?” Elain asked, plunging her hands back under the running water to wash the suds away.

Because he’s an arrogant piece of — “Long ago, Eris was betrothed to Mor,” Lucien explained. “She didn’t want the marriage, so she, ah.” He fumbled around for a way to put it. “She decided to spend the night with Cassian, and that made her family angry, and they hurt her and left her in the Autumn woods. Eris found her, but couldn’t risk bringing her to our court.”

Elain withdrew her hands from the water and wiped at them with a towel. “Why not?”

Lucien knew she would find the truth shocking. Disturbing. But he was done pretending, done tiptoeing around. “Father has a habit of killing females he considers unworthy of his heirs. Not Helion. I meant Beron. The High Lord of Autumn,” he added hastily, feeling her intense revulsion through the bond like a punch to his gut.

Elain’s eyes crinkled, like she was trying to hold back tears. “He would have killed Mor?”

Lucien clenched his jaw. “Eventually.”

Elain clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified tears springing to her eyes. “Would he really? Did he ever —“ she gasped.

Lucien nodded, words failing him. He spun around, grasping the edge of the counter, shoving down the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him, then stood up stiffly, fighting to regain his composure, cursing his own weakness.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Elain said nervously, and he suddenly realized she was next to him, a hand ghosting over his shirtsleeve, like she would comfort him, but couldn’t quite bring herself to risk touching him. Her hand fluttered in the air, like a bird too spooked to land, and he hated it.

Jesminda would never have hesitated.

Jesminda loved him. Wanted him. She would never have slipped out of rooms to avoid him, or set his Solstice gifts aside as though they weren’t worth opening. Jesminda wouldn’t have made him feel like he wasn’t worth touching. With her, he’d been whole. With her, he’d been something.

Elain had always treated him like nothing. Worse than nothing.

It made her almost-comfort now all the more distressing.

“I’m supposed to be in the meeting,” he said abruptly, trying to shrug nonchalantly. Like that would fool anyone.

Elain stepped back, her hands twisting in the folds of her dress, and a deep pang of guilt echoed through him. It wasn’t her fault Jesminda was gone, that she couldn’t love him as Jesminda did. Elain had never asked for a mate, especially not someone so broken and scarred as him.

Lucien’s ears burned as he strode to the doorway. He was a selfish piece of shit. He’d been haunting Elain for years when what she needed was freedom, a chance to figure out who she was as a brand new fae, in a brand new place. I should have left her alone. I should have stayed in Spring.

He could leave now. He was still packed. He could grab his things and winnow straight to Day, hole himself up in his father’s palace and —

Lucien. Are you okay?

He swatted away Feyre’s voice in his mind, his stomach twisting in knots. If he stayed, he’d be forced to encounter Elain like this — but if he left, he’d be abandoning Feyre right when she needed him most. Imagine Feyre asking me if I’m okay, when she’s the one whose life is on the line, whose baby could still die.

His mechanical eye whirred in a dizzying circle, and he stopped abruptly as the world spun, clamping his eyes shut, trying to get himself and the stupid contraption under control. He’d meant to visit the Dawn Court, get the damned thing tuned up, but there never seemed to be time.

Lucien. Go lie down. I’ll fill you in later.

Lucien took another step toward the door, the dizzy haze slowly clearing. Mor and Azriel were sitting on the couch he was using as his bed, and there was no other seat large enough to accommodate him.

Use the bed, Feyre clarified.

But you sleep in it, he protested. Elain sleeps in it.

She’s not sleeping now.

You know what I mean.

I do, and I don’t care. She’ll get over it. Go lie down before you fall and hit your head.

I can’t —

I’m ordering you to do it. Lie down, and don’t get up until you’re feeling all right.

Lucien winced. When was the last time he had felt all right, truly?

Want me to get Amren to tell you a bedtime story?

You win, he grumbled back to Feyre. I’m going, I’m going.

He could sense Elain still behind him, watching him, wondering. So he turned, just enough to take in her pale face, her concerned expression, and said, “Sorry to trouble you.”

Then he strode out, before he could say anything he might regret.

Chapter Text

The door to the cottage banged open, and Rhys groaned. His head was already pounding, a relentless ache building up behind his forehead and in his temples, and any loud noise or too-bright light felt like being stabbed in the eyeball. He buried his face in the couch cushion, wishing he could just sink into the pillows and disappear.

“We brought dinner,” Mor said brightly.

“Go away,” Rhys growled.

“No.”

Rhys twisted just enough to see that Cass, Az, and Amren were all with her. Of course I’m outnumbered.

“Later,” he grumbled.

No way dinner would stay down. The last time he’d had a meal, whenever that was, he’d thrown up what felt like everything he’d ever eaten, felt like his insides had been scoured raw.

“Now,” Mor said firmly.

“Can’t,” Rhys moaned into the pillows, throwing his arms up over his head and ears.

That did nothing to muffle the sound as his cousin stalked closer, scolding gently, “You haven’t moved since I was here early this morning. Get up. Eat something.”

“Can’t,” he said again. It would take too much effort. Why bother? He would feel just as wretched whether he was lying down or sitting up, whether he was on the couch or in the bed or at the table.

“Help him up,” Mor said.

Rhys didn’t have time to protest before Cassian’s hands were grabbing him, tugging him from his sprawl on the couch. He didn’t resist as Azriel came to his other side, as they yanked him up between them, then plopped him back down in a sitting position. He squinted at the bright light, shielding his eyes, swaying slightly as a wave of nausea rolled through him.

Suddenly he remembered that he had powers, that he could summon darkness, and he shrouded  his head with tendrils of it, sighing with relief.

“You look terrible,” Amren said.

Is that meant to be helpful?

A cup was pressed into his hands, and Rhys recoiled from it, but then Az’s warm, rough hand was on the back of his neck, holding him steady. “It’s just water.”

“Don’t want it,” Rhys gasped, but then the cup was tipping into his mouth, and he gulped the coolness down, some of the liquid dribbling down his chin. A towel came from somewhere, rubbed across his face, then disappeared.

“We should put him in a bed,” Cassian said from somewhere behind him. He sounded worried — worried for me. Rhys grimaced, hating that his friends were seeing him like this, that he was worrying them. I don’t deserve that.

“He’s been lying there all day. He needs to move, and eat something, and clear his head,” Mor argued.

“Go,” Rhys croaked, taking another sip of water to clear his rough throat. “Away.”

Mor slid onto the couch next to him. “We will,” she said sweetly. “After we eat, and talk.”

Talk. Rhys clutched his pounding head, wishing he could weave shadows inside his brain too, block out the piercing pain. The last thing he could handle was talking.

Amren hovered above him, tapping his forehead with a finger. “Get it together, boy,” she snapped. “You’ve got a territory to run, and a pregnant mate who needs you sane and strong. Stop punishing yourself. Use your healing magic.”

Rhys sucked in a sharp, irritated breath, hating that she was scolding him, and hating that she was right. He let his eyes close, let his power loose, and sighed with regret and relief as the blinding ache behind his eyebrows ebbed away.

Then he jolted upright. Pregnant mate.

“You’ve seen Feyre,” he gasped, turning to his other side, gripping the front of Cassian’s shirt, which indeed smelled faintly of Feyre - pear and lilac, and a hint of something else. My baby’s scent. The realization sent a flush of warmth through him, set his heart pounding.

“Is she —“ He struggled for words, so many questions fighting to come out of him all at once. “Tell me everything.”

“She looks great,” Cassian said, gently extricating his fingers from the shirt. “Practically glowing. Babe’s gotten bigger, too. Not that I was staring,” he added hastily, not failing to catch the low snarl that escaped Rhys’s lips.

“Rein it in,” Amren barked at him. “Fight those fae instincts. You might have a chance to fix this mess, if you can control yourself. Don’t squander it.”

“Sorry,” Rhys mumbled to his brother. Cassian waved the apology away. He knew what it felt like — he had a mate of his own.

Whom I threatened to kill.

“Really, I’m sorry,” he repeated, tugging at Cassian’s sleeve. “Tell Nesta, too.”

Cassian’s lips pressed together. “She’s not going to want to hear it from me.”

Rhys would rather fight the entire population of the Prison without weapons or magic than humble himself before Nesta Archeron, but he nodded. It would be just one humiliating spectacle among many, given how many people he’d hurt and pissed off lately. Cassian’s grim expression told him that his brother had struggles of his own.

“Is Nesta staying with Feyre?” Rhys asked.

Cassian shook his head. “Nesta’s back at the House. It answers to her now. Did you know it was sentient?”

Rhys cocked his head to the side. He’d never heard of that, in all the stories he’d studied about his ancestors and the building of Velaris and the House of Wind. “You’re certain?”

Amren warned, “Nesta is a force to be reckoned with, Rhysand. If handled incorrectly, she could be a threat.”

“Like you were?” Cassian snapped. “Would you treat her the way you were treated? With hatred and suspicion?”

Amren bristled, but said nothing.

“Elain is staying with Feyre. Nesta comes and goes,” Mor clarified, frowning at Cassian and Amren.

“There’s a healer staying there too,” Azriel added, settling into a chair across from Rhys with a rustle of his wings. “Not Madja — an Autumn female, a skilled midwife.”

“That’s what Eris was doing there,” Mor said, her lips curling in disgust around the male’s name. “Actually made himself useful for once.”

“Are we talking about Eris Vanserra?” Rhys laughed despite it all. “Feyre hates the bastard.”

He hadn’t sensed Eris in the apartment. Feyre must have been shielding him.

Azriel’s shadows pulsed. “They made an alliance.”

“What?” Rhys barked, jumping up a little too quickly, bashing his shin into the table. Gods, I’m a clumsy wreck. That’s what comes of not sleeping for a week straight.

He sat down again, sending a pulse of healing magic into his smarting leg. “Eris is already our ally.”

“You didn’t read her letter,” Mor said, stretching out to pluck the folded paper from the side table and dangling it in front of him. Rhys took it, savoring the faint lingering scent of Feyre on it, and carefully pried it open.

His family watched him, tense but silent, as he scanned Feyre’s neat handwriting, feeling a little pinprick of longing for those early days when he’d insisted she learn to read and write, when she’d copied his stupid sentences.

But as he read through what she’d written, his nostalgia was driven out by surprise and indignation.

“Did that little fox put her up to this,” he demanded, crinkling the paper between his trembling hands as he glared at Mor.

“Lucien advised her, but he didn’t write it. She told us he suggested tweaks — some of them in your favor, so don’t start,” she added pointedly, noticing his increasing anger.

“Still. Should’ve locked him in the dungeon from the beginning,” Rhys muttered.

“He has his uses,” Amren said. “If you ever need leverage over Helion or Autumn.”

Cassian swore. “That is some stupid bullshit, Amren. Feyre would be livid you suggested it.”

“I’m just saying,” Amren shrugged, tossing her hair back. “And watch your tone, brute.”

Cassian gave her a mocking grin that showed too many teeth. “Make me.”

“Stop it,” Mor snapped. “We can’t afford any distractions.” She gave Amren a significant look. “And no threatening Feyre’s friends, ever. She is our High Lady, who we all swore to serve and protect, and that includes her people.” Her eyes narrowed on Rhys. “I wouldn’t mention the dungeons again.”

“Eris was very clear about not harming Lucien, if we want his alliance,” Azriel said. “And we can’t afford to piss off Helion more than he already is.”

Helion. Rhys cringed.

“I screwed up with him.” Rhys shook his head. “I was so wrapped up in my own shit, I didn’t stop to think what would happen when he encountered Lucien. He was right to call me out on it.”

“Helion pledged his support to Feyre, too,” Azriel said. “And given his relationship with the Lady of Autumn, and Lucien, he’ll likely ally with Eris.”

Rhys barked a laugh. “Feyre is awfully good at getting results, for someone new to politics.”

“Don’t underestimate her, Rhys,” Cassian said. “She may be young, she may be new to all this, but she is not stupid. She’s your mate, after all. Your equal.”

“I never limited her,” Rhys shot back. “I included her. I consulted her —“

“But you were still holding the reins,” Mor pointed out. “You were still the gatekeeper. And there were times you made decisions and sprung them on her.” She folded her arms. “Like when you agreed to let Keir into Velaris.”

“He still hasn’t been there,” Rhys said defensively, though he knew Mor was right.

“That’s not the point. You didn’t tell me, which I was pissed about, but I’m not High Lady. I get it. But you also didn’t tell Feyre,” Mor said in exasperation. “You didn’t give her a chance to object, because you knew she wouldn’t like it. I know you had your reasons, but it’s still bullshit.”

“Feyre’s not going to put up with it anymore,” Cassian said. “She made that very clear.”

Rhys waved the letter in his hand. “I’m seeing that.”

“It’s a good plan, what she came up with,” Azriel ventured to say, idly swirling one of his shadows around his fingers. “You should consider it.”

“She wants sole rule of the Hewn City,” Rhys exclaimed, still not quite believing it. “It’s the Night Court’s seat of power. I can’t just cede it to her.” That would make some statement.

Smart of her to ask for it.

“But you would get Illyria,” Mor pointed out. “And Nyx would inherit both parts of the territory, unless you have other children.”

“Let’s see if we can survive having one,” Rhys said wearily.

“She could have asked for Velaris,” Cassian said. “But didn’t. It would be neutral ground, a place for both of you, and Mor would rule it.”

Mor beamed. “It’s perfect. If I’m in Velaris full time, I can make sure Keir and his fellow assholes can’t ruin it.”

Rhys tapped the letter. “Look at all these demands. Zero tolerance for wing clipping. That’s going to end in bloodshed, sap our military strength.”

Azriel said, “We discussed that at the meeting. She asked Cass and me what we thought of it.”

Rhys bristled at the thought of them having an official court meeting without him, but only said, “And?”

“And, we let dozens of young warriors get killed in the Blood Rite every year, when they’ve done nothing deserving of death. That saps our strength, too,” Azriel said. “So we should be willing to aggressively prosecute actual crimes, even if death is the result of it.”

“The older folks won’t see it that way,” Cassian warned.

“They’re stubborn assholes,” Azriel said. “That shouldn’t stop us from doing what’s right.”

“Same thing at the Hewn City,” Mor agreed. “Feyre wants to make a lot of changes. Things we should have done centuries ago, but didn’t.”

Rhys sighed. “She’s young and idealistic.”

“You are, too,” Amren reminded him.

“I try to be,” Rhys said. “But there are limits.”

“I’m sure she’ll struggle,” Mor said. “But she could make a real difference.”

“She already has,” Cassian said. “She’s powerful, Rhys, as your mate should be.”

“She’s toppled one court already,” Amren said thoughtfully. “Don’t push her into a position where she topples yours, Rhysand.”

“I’m not stupid like fucking Tamlin,” Rhys retorted indignantly.

“Good. Then you’ll make the bargain,” Mor declared, tapping the list with a slender finger. “If you want to make any changes, we’re to make notes on this list and bring it back to her.”

Rhys tried to school his features so that his disappointment wouldn’t show. “She still won’t see me.” It wasn’t a question.

“She will. At some point,” Mor said vaguely, averting her eyes to a spot on the wall — one of Feyre’s murals. He’d been surrounded by them in the cabin, felt all the eyes she’d painted boring into him accusingly. She’d meant the art to show how connected they all were, how much she loved her family. It ripped his heart out to look at the table where they’d accepted the mating bond, all the places they’d explored each other. Too many memories. I shouldn’t have come here.

“I can agree to the rest of this,” Rhys said, scanning the handwritten list. “Equality for all fae, protection of the weak. More active efforts to help the displaced and injured. Joint decisions where our relationships with other courts are concerned, and our son’s upbringing. Where he’ll live, who will train him.” He looked up from the paper. “She really thinks we’re all going to survive this.”

“She does,” Mor said, smiling hopefully. “But she knows there’s still a big risk.”

Rhys shuddered. “Gods. I can’t take the thought of it.” He swallowed hard. “But yes. We need to appoint guardians for Nyx, if Feyre and I —“ He broke off, forcing himself to breathe deeply to calm his pounding heart. “— if we don’t make it.”

A long, melancholy silence fell over the room. Rhys grabbed the glass of water and started sipping again, more to have something to do rather than because he was thirsty. But his mind felt clearer, his heart less heavy.

His gaze rested on each of his companions in turn — his brothers, his cousin, his old faithful friend, all steadfast and strong for him. And for his mate and son, too.

“We’ll work it all out,” he assured them. “Hand me a pen? I have a few suggestions.”

Chapter Text

Feyre clutched her belly, moaning softly. The healer’s hands slid across the bare skin, firm and comforting, but Feyre couldn’t help the spike of panic that jolted up her spine. Too soon. It’s too soon.

“Where do you feel it?” Eileithyia asked, low and calm.

“There,” Feyre panted, indicating her left side.

“Hmm.” Eileithyia probed with her fingertips, crouching next to where Feyre was sprawled out on the couch, then patted Feyre’s belly reassuringly. “It’s just your round ligament. Did you move suddenly?”

Feyre nodded, unclenching her jaw as the pain eased. “I just shifted a little. Less than an inch, like you said.” She took a deep breath. “I was worried I did something.”

Eileithyia nodded sagely. “It’s not from that. Your belly’s expanding to accommodate the baby. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Thank the Mother,” Elain cried, untwisting her hands from her long skirt and rushing forward from where she’d been pacing by the front door. “So she’s not going into labor?”

Eileithyia stood up, reaching for her bag of vials. “That’s right. A warm bath and some gentle stretches will help ease the discomfort.” She rummaged around in the bag, pulling out a small jar. “Some salve for your dry skin, too.”

Feyre nodded and hoisted herself, rearranging her long tunic over her belly again. “Thank you, Eileithyia.” The healer just nodded and retreated back to her usual table, where a pile of tangled leaves and stems was waiting for her to chop and grind.

Elain was frantically wiping tears away, and Feyre reached for her sister’s hand. “Sit with me. It’s going to be all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Elain stammered. “It’s just…” She trailed off, staring at a spot on the floor. “Oh, Feyre. I was so worried.”

“Me too,” Feyre said gently. “Every little twinge and ache makes me anxious that something’s wrong.” She squeezed Elain’s hand. “All this waiting around is making me jumpy. I’ve got to do something before I go crazy.”

Elain sighed. “Me too. I hate being cooped up like this.” She paused for a long moment, as if mulling over what to say next. “Things have calmed down with Rhys, haven’t they?”

Feyre whooshed out a breath. “Mostly. I’m waiting for his reaction to the letter I sent.”

She felt a pang of sorrow, thinking of Rhys. She could sense him distantly, his overwhelming guilt and despair, and although she was still furious with him, she hated how badly he was suffering. She missed their intimacy, their mind-to-mind teasing and conversations, their physical closeness.  She longed to reach out to him, to check in at least, but squashed that impulse quickly.

Don’t let him off the hook. Remember what he’s done, and threatened to do.

Elain furrowed her brows. “Will you move back to the river house?”

Feyre looked around Lucien’s small apartment, emptier now that her friends had left, and sighed. They were imposing on Lucien, she knew that. The poor thing was collapsed in bed, exhausted, distressed, though Feyre couldn’t figure out what exactly had set him off. He’d seemed tolerably happy even after Rhys fought him, even after Áine had left — the joy of finally seeing his mother again, of spending time with his real father, had sustained him. But then the Inner Circle had shown up, and his mood had crashed.

This is stressful for him. We should let him have his space back.

But she couldn’t imagine being in the bedroom she shared with Rhys all alone, surrounded by his scent, his belongings, their shared memories and possessions. She needed to work through things with him first. She’d gotten the rest of them to listen — even Amren, to some extent — so she felt safer, almost secure. But when she was sleeping, at her most vulnerable, she wanted the insurance of Helion’s wards.

“Eventually,” she said to Elain. “Not just yet.”

She looked her sister over, suddenly remembering how awkward this was, how Elain hated being thrown together with the mate she’d taken such pains to avoid. They’d had one tense argument about him already, and she didn’t want another.  “If you want to move back to the river house, or the townhouse,” she began.

“No,” Elain said quickly, sitting up straighter, “I want to stay.”

“Are you sure? I know this is weird,” Feyre said.

“It’s fine,” Elain said, in a tone that suggested it wasn’t.

Feyre waited, wanting to respect her sister’s privacy but hoping they would talk about it. They’d been making an effort to share their feelings more honestly, even if it was uncomfortable sometimes. If the last few years had taught Feyre anything, it was that she wasn’t guaranteed time to talk about things later. She still regretted putting off contacting their father, never getting to say goodbye. And with her own life hanging in the balance as she waited to give birth, she had no patience for holding back.

“I think he doesn’t want me here,” Elain suddenly said, glancing nervously towards the closed bedroom door.

“Who?” Feyre asked. “Lucien?”

Elain nodded, biting her bottom lip, her pale cheeks flushing pink.

Feyre wrinkled her forehead. “You think so?”

Elain shrugged, her shoulders slumping a little. “I make him uncomfortable. I… feel it, sometimes.” Her fingers strayed to her ribcage, pressing gently.

“Have you talked to him about it?” Feyre asked, and nearly burst out laughing despite herself when Elain’s eyes widened in horror. “He’s not that scary.”

“He’s not scary at all,” Elain pouted. “It’s just, I don’t know what I’d say. I don’t know what I think about all this. I don’t have any answers.” She buried her face in her hands. “I didn’t want a mate.”

“No, you wanted a husband,” Feyre said, drawing an arm around Elain’s shoulders. “You were all set to be married, to start a new life with Graysen.”

“That jerk,” Elain fumed. “I’m glad I didn’t marry him.” She raised her head. “That’s part of the problem. I chose him, and he turned out to be awful. I got lucky that I found that out. But what if I choose wrong again?”

Feyre chuckled. “You’ll end up like me.”

Elain gasped at that. “I didn’t mean — I’m sorry —“ she stammered.

Feyre’s chuckle bubbled over into a laugh. “I’m not offended. I know what everyone says about my choices across Prythian.” She really did, too. If she had a copper for every idle opinion someone had about her love life, she could buy a whole stable of Helion’s pegasi. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ll choose wrong, Elain. But if you do, you’ll deal with it. That’s what I’ve had to do.”

“I’m not as strong as you,” Elain said quietly.

Feyre smoothed back Elain’s curls. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” When her sister shook her head, she went on. “You were in the Cauldron, Elain. You were Made. You had to be strong to handle that.”

Elain’s soft brown eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t handle it.”

“You did,” Feyre insisted. “It took time, and help, but you most definitely did. You survived it, and all the changes that went with it.”

“I still get scared, when I think about it,” Elain admitted. “I still have nightmares.”

“Anyone would,” Feyre assured her. “That has nothing to do with being strong. I still have nightmares. So does Rhys.” She motioned vaguely toward the bedroom. “I bet Lucien does too.”

“He does,” Elain said. “I feel them.” She shifted uncomfortably, then asked, “Am I awful, Feyre?”

“What?” Feyre squawked, then winced as she remembered that Lucien was in the next room, sleeping. She lowered her voice as she asked, “What do you mean?”

Elain twisted the fabric of her skirt. “Just some things Eris said.”

Feyre scoffed, “Don’t listen to him. He’s obnoxious and cruel.”

“I know,” Elain said. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she flicked it away. 

Feyre frowned, but said nothing, just rubbed Elain’s back and waited for her to say more. She silently cursed Eris, hated that he was so abrasive. But then Elain said, “At least he’s honest.”

Honest was the last word Feyre would have used to describe Eris Vanserra, but Elain explained, “Your friends all saw me at my worst, when I was raw and couldn’t handle anything. Everyone protected me, especially Nesta.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Feyre asked.

“It was. Until it wasn’t,” Elain said. “I don’t want to be pitied or protected. I want to be an equal. I want to be able to handle truths, however unpleasant.”

“And Eris did that,” Feyre guessed.

Elain nodded. “He told me exactly what he thought of me. How I’ve acted.”

Feyre thought about the past few days, about what she’d managed to glimpse of Elain amidst the chaos. “Is that why you’ve tried to talk to Lucien more? Be friendlier?”

“It started like that. I thought I could make up for all that time I spent ignoring him,” Elain said. “But I don’t think it’s working. If anything, I think it upsets him.”

“You don’t owe Lucien anything, Elain,” Feyre protested.

“You’re right. Just basic respect,” Elain said. “And I didn’t give him that. I was so afraid of encouraging him that I went too far the other way.” She frowned. “Now that he’s actually seeing me, maybe he doesn’t like me anymore. Maybe he’s realizing it was all a mistake.”

“I very much doubt that,” Feyre said. “Why do you think —“

A knock sounded on the door, and Feyre reached out with her powers. “It’s Azriel.”

Elain’s eyes widened. “I — I’ll go clean up in the kitchen.” She was up and through the doorway before Feyre could respond.

Something’s going on there. 

But Feyre didn’t have time to figure it out. Instead, she hoisted herself up — slowly, carefully, wanting to avoid any more odd pains for one day — and padded to the door.

Azriel stood in the doorway, silent and deadly and beautiful as always.

“Hey, Az,” she said brightly. “Come in?”

“Can’t stay,” he said. “Cass and I are heading to the Hewn City. After what we discussed about unscrupulous males, we thought our presence would be helpful.”

“Indeed,” Feyre said with approval. “I hope you don’t find any.”

“I hope we do,” Azriel said, “if there are any to be found. Which there certainly are.” His shadows swirled around his neck and shoulders. “We’ve let Keir have the place to himself far too often.”

“Scare the ones who need scaring,” Feyre advised him. “Let the innocents see that you’re protecting them.”

Azriel nodded, then held out a folded piece of paper. “From Rhys.”

Feyre accepted it, curling her hands around it protectively. She remembered the days when she and Rhys sent each other teasing messages, their papers magically appearing and disappearing — not borne through intermediaries. So awkward. So distant. “Thank you, Az.”

The Shadowsinger dipped his head in farewell, then vanished into smoke, winnowing away.

Feyre sighed and shut the door, then plopped heavily back onto the couch. Her hands were surprisingly steady as she unfolded the paper, which was her own letter with Rhys’s handwriting interspersed throughout. She ran her fingertips over the impressions made by his pen, sighed again, then settled back into the cushions to read.

Dear Rhys, I hope this letter finds you well.

Not really, but that’s my own fault.

She raised her eyebrows at that. She knew he’d been furious with Nesta, and with Lucien, but now it seemed like he was starting to accept some responsibility.

She scrolled down the page to the next comment.

I don’t know what’s going to happen, she’d written. But I intend for us all to survive this. We need a plan going forward for how we share responsibilities, both with our realm and with our son, and we need to swear on it as a bargain to ensure that we can both trust that it will be carried out. I don’t want to leave it all to chance, and I don’t want to be blindsided.

Keeping secrets is an old habit, he’d responded. A way for me to control the outcome of situations. It gives me power over others, including you. I should have trusted you more than that.

“Damn right,” she muttered, flipping the letter over to the back, where she’d penned her list of proposals. She scanned through the list several times, trying to find all the little comments and notes he’d written.

Need to discuss the Dread Trove items, new and old.

Get Nesta to agree to consult us both before making more.

Access to House of Wind?

Access to the Hewn City dungeons?

Process for settling disagreements?

How to handle the Prison.

United front with other courts, Hewn City and Illyria.

Nyx residence in Velaris and naming guardians.

How to properly apologize for being an ass.

How to make it up to you and others I’ve hurt.

How to earn your trust again.

Feyre’s breath caught, and she crumpled the paper against her chest, squeezing her eyes shut.

She felt Rhys’s absence like a physical ache, and she hated it.

She missed Rhys so much that it made her angry with him all over again, for jeopardizing the bond they had, the life they’d built together.

She’d wanted this baby desperately, had wanted to start the process of conceiving thinking it might take years and lots of effort, but she hadn’t counted on what it might do to Rhys, how it might stir up his instincts to be aggressive, secretive, and controlling. They hadn’t had time to discuss all the issues involved in raising a youngling, much less an heir to the most powerful court in Prythian — she’d just assumed they would work it all out, that she and Rhys would come to some magical agreement, as they always did.

She hadn’t realized just how much agreeing she did, how much of their ruling involved her just signing off on Rhys’s decisions. At the very least, that would change, regardless of what happened with their relationship.

How to earn your trust again.

She had no idea what to say to that.

Feyre wanted to work things out, wanted to be happy with Rhys again, but she didn’t want to go back to the same old pattern. She was done with secrets, done with being left out of decisions, done with threats and intimidation of her family and friends.

She carefully folded up the letter and put it on the table.

I’ll answer him in the morning. For now, she needed food, and rest.

Chapter Text

Lucien snarled and thrashed, elbow jamming into his captor’s throat, but more pairs of hands seized him, twisting his arms painfully, and he was shoved forward, the cruel laughter of the monsters hissing in his ears. His vision blurred, the cavernous halls fading to darkness as he struggled. He dug his feet in, catching the cobblestones with the toes of his boots, knowing it was pointless, knowing he would only make it worse for himself, but he would not go willingly. The creatures yanked on him, trying to compel him to walk, then gave up and dragged him, their pointy nails digging into his arms.

“She’s not done with you yet,” the Attor cackled, its claws pinching the back of his neck as he was forced to his knees, then slammed hard against the dungeon floor. Pain clanged through his chin and jaw, and he gritted his teeth at the snap of cold iron against his wrists, then lashed out with his legs, wrenching a grunt from some foul creature behind him as his foot connected with something soft. Hopefully its vile fucking face.

“Hold still,” the Attor hissed, its claws digging in, drawing blood. More hands pinned his legs, holding him still.

“Or what? You’ll chain me?” Lucien snapped, tugging uselessly at his shackled wrist, the metal biting and scraping his skin.

“You might live,” the Attor drawled in his ear, its foul breath wafting across his face like a poisonous cloud, “but if you don’t cooperate, I’ll kill you after.”

Lucien shivered as more shackles were snapped to his ankles, and he looked away, a sick, cold, helpless dread spreading through his muscles. But he made the mistake of looking up — to the spiked ceiling, glowing faintly red, and suddenly he knew exactly what was about to happen.

Lucien wrenched at the chains, humiliation and pain and anger building inside him as he struggled to lift himself. He was stretched out, pinned to the ground, but he could lift his head just enough to see the metal grate separating him from the other end of the pit, from where Feyre would be led in.

“Still feisty,” a coy feminine voice cooed above him. “That’s what makes you such good entertainment.”

He clenched his jaw, willing his face to go blank. Don’t give her the satisfaction of seeing you squirm.

Lucien’s stomach dropped as the Attor reappeared, the human girl in tow. “No,” he whispered.

Because it wasn’t Feyre at all, but Elain.

Not her. Anyone but her. 

“Stop this,” Lucien burst out, frantically yanking at his chains.

“My dear Lucien,” Amarantha crooned, her cruel blood red lips curling into a satisfied smirk. “You should be happy. Your sweet mate has come to rescue you.”

“Let her go,” Lucien growled, shaking with fury, making the iron shackles scrape discordantly against the stones.

“I’m not his mate,” Elain declared, folding her arms across her chest.

The room burst into raucous laughter, and Lucien squeezed his eyes shut against it, biting the inside of his lip to keep from screaming. As he craned his neck to see better, he caught sight of Eris, a satisfied leer plastered across his face, even as his amber eyes burned with rage. Helion and Áine stood nearby, his father’s radiant light dimmed as he looked on somberly, his mother softly sobbing in her mate’s arms.

And next to them, Rhys posed casually, hands in his pockets, violet eyes twinkling with amusement. He’d told Feyre his behavior Under the Mountain was all an act, but as Lucien stared up at that cruel smirking face, he wasn’t so certain.

“Did you hear that?” Amarantha cried to the crowd. “Look how deep that human sense of loyalty and love runs. She denies him!” She turned to Elain, her voice dripping with disdain. “The Cauldron says otherwise, my pet. You are his mate, and his fate is in your hands.”

Elain was pale, clearly frightened, but she glared at Amarantha with surprising strength. “I didn’t choose him,” she said. “I didn’t want a mate. I don’t owe him anything.”

A spike of agony pierced Lucien’s heart, but he forced himself to raise his head and growl at Amarantha, “You’ve got no bargain with her. Set her free. Unharmed.”

“Oh, I can’t set her free,” Amarantha purred, “only she can do that.” Her ebony eyes glittered with malice. “Reject the bond, girl, and you will go free.”

Lucien didn’t wait for Elain to react. “Do it,” he gritted out, shoving against the shackles. “Free yourself. Please.”

Elain’s deep brown eyes had gone wide, and she was gaping at him. She seemed paralyzed, frozen in confusion.

“What are you waiting for?” Lucien howled, jerking against his restraints.

The Attor’s long, bony fingers curled around Elain’s arm, shoving her toward the pit with him. “Too late.”

Lucien bit down hard on the inside of his lip, the metallic taste of his blood coating his tongue. At least Elain can read. At least she’ll be able to answer the riddle.

“I won’t do it,” Elain declared.

She reached up and pulled at her ears until two tiny shining objects came loose — pearl earrings, he realized. My Solstice present.

She tossed the earrings into the pit, followed by the gardening gloves she was wearing.

Lucien’s heart sank as his Solstice gifts hit the floor, the pearls skittering across the stones and disappearing, the gloves laying in a useless heap.

The crowd laughed again.

Amarantha pouted. “Little human doesn’t want to play my game? Get her out of my sight. I’ll deal with her later.”

“Elain,” Lucien groaned, but she had already been herded away. He strained and fought, then collapsed against the ground, unable to fight anymore.

“This is starting to bore me,” Amarantha drawled. “Finish him.”

Then the spiked ceiling began to lower, and Lucien screamed.

* * * * 

Hands shook him, and Lucien shrieked, flailing in the bedsheets. “No. No.”

“Lucien,” came Feyre’s voice, and her hands were on his cheeks, forcing him to focus on her.  Her steely blue-gray eyes were sharp with concern as she stared at him, commanding, “Lucien, wake up.”

He breathed hard, fingers curling into the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut to stop his mechanical eye from spinning.

“Let me,” another voice said, and then a cup of liquid was hovering near his mouth, and a warm dry hand was on his neck, bracing him as he was coaxed to drink. The liquid was cool and sweet, tasting of honey and flowers, and he gulped it down, tears continuing to stream from his good eye, adding a salty tang.

“Amarantha,” he gasped, shivering despite the sweat slicking down his back. A wet compress was pressed to his forehead, dripping rivulets of cool water into his brows and down his temples and jaw. “She killed me, she’s going to kill —”

“No, Lucien,” Feyre said firmly, gripping his shoulders and lightly shaking him. “You were dreaming. Amarantha is dead.”

“Dead,” Lucien moaned, closing his eyes again. “I was dead.” He clutched his ribcage, feeling a spike of panic. Elain’s panic.

That snapped him out of the daze of terror and confusion he’d woken up in. He jolted upright, nearly knocking the cup of elixir out of the healer’s hands, and looked frantically around the room. He was in his own bedroom in the Velaris apartment, and Feyre was kneeling next to him on the bed, Eileithyia perched on his other side, and Elain…

Elain was in the doorway, eyes wide, staring at him.

His gut twisted, knowing he was scaring her, that he was putting her through more pain that she didn’t deserve.

He clamped his eyes shut, but the image of those pearl earrings rolling around on the stone floor kept replaying in his mind, the gloves he’d given her flopping uselessly on the stones.

I’m not his mate. I didn’t choose him. I don’t owe him anything.

His stomach heaved.

It was a dream. Just a dream. 

“Drink more, dear,” he heard the healer urging, and he obeyed, the sweet taste turning bitter in the back of his throat.

“Sorry,” he croaked out, coughing as the healing liquid went down wrong.

“Hush,” Feyre said sternly. “You’re all right.”

“I’m not,” he murmured. His eyes flicked to the doorway again, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he glimpsed Elain still lingering there.

“You have nightmares often?” the healer asked him, withdrawing the cup and handing him a towel, which he swiped across his face, as though he could wipe away his nightmare, his memories. “I could give you a tea. It won’t prevent them, but it might take the edge off, help you relax.”

He nodded, though he doubted that anything could help him, really. “Thank you.”

“You slept most of the afternoon and evening,” Feyre said, climbing off the bed, hand braced underneath her belly. “It’s late. We should eat dinner.”

“I couldn’t,” Lucien began to protest.

“Nesta just dropped off stew,” Elain spoke up from the doorway. “From Sevenda’s.”

“My favorite,” Feyre squealed, patting her stomach. “The baby’s favorite, too.” She reached for Lucien’s hand, tugging him forward. “At least come sit with us, and have a taste. Sevenda’s dishes are perfectly spiced. Her food was the first in Velaris that I really enjoyed.”

Lucien looked down at her hand holding his — not the Attor’s leathery claws, not Amarantha’s cruel talons — and he swallowed roughly, wincing at the rawness of his throat. It’s just Feyre. I’m safe.

Then he looked up again.

Elain had disappeared.

Lucien sighed and shifted on the bed, letting Feyre pull him up to standing, and frowned down at his rumpled clothes. “Give me a minute,” he said. He reached up and felt the knotted snarls in his hair. “Make that five minutes.”

“You can have ten. But you’re not getting out of dinner,” Feyre scolded him, then patted him on the arm and slipped from the room with the healer, leaving him alone.

Lucien ducked into the bathing chamber to douse himself in cold water and freshen up. He avoided glancing at the mirror, knowing full well that he must look a fright, and yanked out the knots in his hair with his fingers, rapidly tugging all his hair back and rethreading it into a single long braid.

He dressed quickly in a fresh set of clothes and stepped out, then drew up short, nearly yelping, as Elain appeared in his path. She gave a little yelp of her own.

“Sorry,” Lucien blurted.

“No! I just, Feyre told me to tell you that she’s heating up the stew,” Elain went on, her eyes straying from his face to his hair, following his braid down to where it dangled down his back. When he just looked at her, unable to form a coherent response, she added, “She thought that was important, for some reason.”

“Ah,” he said uncomprehendingly, then realized what Feyre must have meant by it. Safe for me to eat, won’t accidentally mate me to someone who doesn’t want me. “Yes. Thank you.”

Elain’s hands twisted in the tulle of her long skirt — a nervous habit of hers, he’d noticed. “You had a nightmare?”

He nodded, trying not to fidget in place. She was blocking the doorway, and one half of his brain was screaming at him that they were alone in the bedroom, while the other half was scolding the first half that Elain wanted nothing to do with him or his bedroom, and he should slip out before he did or said something irretrievably stupid.

“I was Under the Mountain,” he said finally, suddenly aware that Elain was waiting for a response.

Elain grimaced. “Feyre’s told me about that.”

He shuddered to think what Feyre’s stories must have been like, what horrors she had to recount that far exceeded his own. The thought of Elain in that miserable place, exposed to Amarantha’s gleeful cruelty, toyed with and tortured as her sister had been…

You are his mate, and his fate is in your hands.

Suddenly he couldn’t look at Elain, couldn’t speak at all. He stared at the floor, at an invisible spot between them, his stomach flip-flopping. He wanted to scream at Elain to reject him, reject the bond, before anyone could use her against him, as Jesminda had been used against him, as Feyre had been used against Tamlin.

“Lucien?” she asked quietly, her sweet voice and the sound of his name on her tongue sending tingles down the back of his neck. Had she ever said his name before? He would do anything to hear it again.

He forced himself to look up, to meet her searching gaze. She was near enough for him to feel her warmth, take in her scent, and it delighted and terrified him in equal measure. But he couldn’t be dragged under, couldn’t let himself get carried away in the moment. Years of disappointment and unfulfilled longing had taught him that.

“I’m bothering you. I should go,” Elain said abruptly, whirling around and heading for the door.

“You’re not,” he called after her. Please, please don’t leave. “Elain. I —“ She paused, and he grasped at words, trying to decide how much she could handle. “You’re not bothering me.”

Elain turned fractionally, warily, and said, “I am. I make you uncomfortable.”

Lucien’s heart was racing so fast that he thought he might pass out. “I make you uncomfortable,” he said incredulously, failing to keep the edge out of his voice.

Stop it, he scolded himself. Wretched fool. Say something charming.

I’m not his mate. I didn’t choose him. I don’t owe him anything.

He blurted out, “And why do you care if I’m uncomfortable? You’ve never liked me.”

Elain whirled back around, eyes blazing with anger.

Now you’ve done it.

“I was trying to be considerate,” she snapped at him.

He tried to ignore how her cheeks flushed with color, how she seemed to glow in the dim light of the room. “Don’t bother,” he retorted. “Don’t spare my feelings now, not after all this time.”

She took a hard step toward him, her fingers curling up into fists. He had never seen her angry before. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Cauldron damn it, she’s even more beautiful when she’s scolding me.

“It means, you’ve made it very clear that you want nothing to do with me,” he said angrily.

She shook her head, her golden brown curls rippling around her shoulders and arms like water. “And? So what if I did?”

He threw up his hands in frustration. “You can do whatever you want. Obviously. But don’t come in here and act like I’m the one who’s bothered.”

“I’ve been trying to be nice,” Elain cried, her lower lip quivering. Gods, if she starts crying, I’m sunk. “You’re the one who can barely look at me.”

“You don’t want me to look at you,” he scoffed.

She folded her arms across her chest, but he kept his eyes carefully trained on her lovely face, on her angry scowl and quivering lower lip. “You don’t know what I want.”

“How would I,” he breathed, daring to take another step closer.

She was breathing quickly, staring up at him, but didn’t answer.

“Well, Elain?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “What do you want?”

Chapter Text

“Well, Elain? What do you want?”

Elain’s heart was beating frantically, the tug in her ribcage pulling almost painfully tight, and she hugged her arms against her torso, trying to hold herself together. She was unraveling, losing control, burning up with anger and indignation and something else that she couldn’t name. 

The nerve of him, putting it all on her like that. Don’t spare my feelings now, not after all this time. As if she’d set out purposely to hurt him.

A small part of her wondered if she had.

Being mated was a fae thing. And Elain Archeron was not fae. She’d told herself she would never be fae, not really. She might look like one of them, she might have their heightened senses, their healing and long life, but it had come at an unacceptable cost. She would not allow herself to be torn apart, remade, and given to some fae prince.She hadn’t wanted a mate, no matter how handsome or kind or brave he was. So she’d avoided Lucien, perhaps knowing deep down what would happen if she ever allowed him near her, how her resolve would crack. And maybe she’d taken it out on him, just a little.

“Do you really want to know?” she challenged, her voice coming out nearly breathless.

He took another step toward her, his russet eye blazing brighter, flames and light roiling in it. His golden eye unfurled and clicked. “Yes. Cauldron, yes,” he said, his voice rough.

She looked at him then — really looked, as she rarely allowed herself to do lest he notice her doing it. She let her gaze sweep across his handsome face and lower, taking in his lithe muscled form, his faintly glowing skin. She let her eyes linger on that brutally beautiful scar that added a savage touch to his otherwise polished features, that spoke of suffering so at odds with his perfectly tailored clothes and gently teasing manner.

But she saw how he was looking at her, too — drinking in the sight of her, like he might never see her again. Steeling himself for the moment she would cut him down at the knees, reject him forever, shatter his heart once and for all. And she hated it.

“I’m afraid,” she said, surprised at herself for even daring to say it.

“Afraid? Of me?” he burst out, looking horrified at the idea.

“No, not of you,” she said quickly.

“What then? The mating bond?” He swallowed hard. “You don’t want it.”

You don’t want me, was what he meant.

It had nothing to do with him. Couldn’t he see that?

“I wasn’t raised fae,” Elain protested. “It was a shock to me that I could be connected to someone I didn’t know, who didn’t know me. You’ve had your whole life to get used to the idea. It’s easier for you.”

“Easier,” Lucien spat, “easier.”

Elain gaped at him, surprised at the vehemence in his tone. Is he angry with me?

Lucien took a long, shuddery breath before continuing, and when he spoke again, his words were full of despair. “I thought my mate died centuries ago. Murdered by my fucking family.”

Father has a habit of killing females he considers unworthy of his heirs.

Gods, is that what he was hinting at earlier today? No wonder he’d felt so despairing, walked out so suddenly. Elain’s heart twisted at the thought of that pain and sorrow.

“They held me, made me watch. I saw and heard everything.” His metal eye clicked and then shuttered, closing out completely as though it refused to see whatever Lucien was recalling.

Elain’s throat burned, and she swallowed her revulsion down. He’d watched his love die violently right before his eyes, had been unable to save her.

“So, no. Discovering I had a mate, and it wasn’t her, was not easier,” Lucien went on, an accusing edge creeping back into his tone. “I didn’t deserve her, and I sure as hell don’t deserve you. So if you’d rather just —“

“What?” Elain yelped, and his golden eye unfurled again, clicking and narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about me. Scarred. Broken. A curse on everyone I meet.” He dug the toe of his boot into the floor.

“Surely you don’t mean that,” Elain sputtered.

Lucien ran a hand through his hair, teasing some strands loose that fluttered around his face, tickling his cheeks and jaw. Elain suppressed the urge to tuck them back into his neatly tied braid as he snapped, “Do you know what I dreamt, just now? That you were subjected to those horrors Under the Mountain, because of me.” He bit his lip, as if he didn’t want to say more.

“Like Feyre, breaking Tamlin’s curse?” she asked.

“No.” He laughed mirthlessly, bitterly. “Feyre chose to follow Tamlin Under the Mountain. You were dragged into it, just like the Cauldron, and the mating bond, and all of it.”

His shoulders sagged, and she had a sinking sense of dread as he went on, “You rightly told them you wanted none of it, that it wasn’t your choice.” He gave her a look that was pure pain, and she inferred the rest — he had dreamt that she left him to die, chose not to save him. Horror coiled in her gut.

“That’s what you really want,” Lucien was saying. “A choice.”

“Yes,” Elain said, with a rush of relief. He does understand. “I had a life I’d chosen, and I was kidnapped from it. I was ripped from my old body, shoved into a new one that overwhelmed me. I didn’t get to choose anything about what happened.”

“And I was part of that,” Lucien said glumly. “Because I was there, with Tamlin. You thought I betrayed you.” He clasped and unclasped his hands, looking at a spot on the floor. “I believed Feyre was under Rhys’s spell, that he’d manipulated her, made her believe things she shouldn’t. I distrusted Hybern, but I distrusted Rhys more. So I went along with it.”

He ran a hand through the front of his hair, dislodging more strands of it, but didn’t seem to notice. “I watched that fucking King force you into the Cauldron. I couldn’t save you, either.”

Elain hated the way he seemed to curl in on himself in shame. “I’m not that terrified human girl anymore,” she said. “And I won’t let that bastard win.”

“You certainly didn’t, King-slayer,” Lucien said, and she flushed, hating the nickname. He noted it, then said gently, “That’s not the right term for what you did. You struck him to save your sister, to save the rest of us.”

“Most people don’t remember that I was involved,” Elain said, shuddering. “Maybe it’s better that way. I never wanted to be a slayer.”

“Killing a bastard responsible for terror and suffering doesn’t make you a slayer,” Lucien said. “War forces us to do things we usually wouldn’t. Your sisters chose to be warriors — their powers run in that direction. But your powers are different.”

Elain looked at him in surprise. “No one ever talks to me about my powers. It’s like they’re afraid to ask me about it. Or they don’t want me to have it.” Even Azriel, who had been the first to understand she was a Seer, preferred her in the garden or the kitchen, safely tucked away.

“They think it might upset you,” Lucien guessed. “Like… other things about being fae.”

Like the mating bond she’d never asked for and thought she never wanted.

“They would have been right, before the War,” Elain admitted. “But I am fae. I’m still trying to come to terms with what that means.” She drew herself up. “I’m still new to all this, and I didn’t have a choice before. But going forward, I want to choose for myself.”

He nodded, looking away, and she felt his pang of sorrow. Wondered at it, until she understood.

I sure as hell don’t deserve you. That was what he’d said.

He thinks I’d never choose to be with him.

She took another step toward him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough to reach out and touch him if she dared. Lucien shuddered, his hands clenching into fists, as if he were fighting to keep them away from her.

A few more strands of his hair had sprung loose, and this time she did reach out and slip one strand back into place, the silky-softness of it surprising her. His breath hitched, as if just that simple touch were overwhelming.

“Lucien,” she whispered, wishing he would look at her. 

“It’s all right if you reject the bond,” he gritted out, though the words seemed to physically pain him. It would not be all right, and they both knew it, but he was saying it anyway. Making it clear that he would respect her decision, even if it devastated him.

“Lucien,” she said, more insistently.

“I never want to trap you or take away your choices,” he said hoarsely. “I won’t be like Beron.”

“You’re nothing like him,” she argued, frowning. How could he even think that? “You’ve always respected me. Never tried to force the issue. And you’d never hurt me or anyone I loved.” Like his real father, who respected his mother’s wishes, who’s waited for her for centuries.

“That’s a pathetically low standard,” Lucien grumbled, staring stubbornly at the wall.

“Stop it, Lucien,” Elain said impatiently. “Will you look at me.”

Elain put a hand on his cheek and gently turned his face back to hers, finding his skin warm and smooth against her fingertips. His eyes riveted on hers, growing wide, and she almost dropped her hand, embarrassed at her boldness.

He reached for it, gently curling his fingers around hers, brushing a calloused thumb over her knuckles. Her fingertips tingled where they touched his, and a soft warmth spread through her — whether it was the bond itself, or Lucien’s feelings, or her own, she couldn’t tell. It seemed more intimate to her than any kiss or touch Graysen had ever given her.

Lucien’s other hand rose to her shoulder, his fingers gently grasping a curl of her hair and sliding along it, and he murmured, “Must be dreaming again.”

Elain almost laughed, but thought about his last dream he’d told her about — where she’d abandoned him to die Under the Mountain — and squeezed his hand a little tighter.

The fingers of his other hand brushed her hair back behind her shoulder, then smoothed the wrinkled fabric of her sleeve, ghosting over her exposed collarbone. The phantom warmth, the almost-touch, make her shiver.

There was a knock on the door behind her, and Elain stiffened. “Aren’t you coming in?” Feyre called. “Dinner’s been ready for ages.”

Lucien groaned softly, and his hand slackened, but didn’t quite let go.

“Just a minute,” Elain called back over her shoulder.

Feyre’s footsteps retreated, and she turned back to Lucien, suddenly feeling shy. “We should probably go out there.”

He nodded, looking at her intently, with something like wonder in his gaze.

She turned to the door and tugged at his hand, as if to lead him, but he said quietly, “Elain.”

“Hmm?” she asked, turning back around.

“I.” He swallowed, then began again. “I don’t expect anything. Just so you know. I meant what I said.” His golden eye clicked nervously. “I don’t want you to ever feel uncomfortable here, or with me, ever. If you decide you want more space, I can go.”

“Go? This is your apartment,” she protested.

“You can have it. You and Feyre. For as long as you need,” he said. “It’s never been home to me, not until now. I’m packed already. I could —“

“Hush,” Elain said sternly. “You aren’t going anywhere, except the kitchen.” She pulled on his hand, tugging him towards the door, and he yielded, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

Chapter Text

Feyre had forgotten how bright the sun could shine, even in the Night Court. She squinted at the crowd of faeries gathered around her, wishing she’d thought to bring a hat to shield her eyes.

She hadn’t been outside in days, hadn’t felt the breeze or the chill morning mist off the Sidra, and she drank up every moment as she strolled through the residential quarter, Mor by her side. Feyre winced at the piles of rubble, splintered wood, shattered glass, that had been left from the ice storm. Cleanup was underway, teams of fae working together with muscles and magic, but they had a long way to go.

Hushed whispers and gazes followed her as she made her way from house to house, personally checking in with each family, inquiring after their needs and reassuring them that their repairs would be paid for. The citizens all noticed her pregnancy, gave her kind congratulations, but perhaps also wondered where Rhys was, why she wasn’t with him. She could have reached out with her powers to eavesdrop, but didn’t. She wasn’t sure her heart could take it.

Mor was a familiar face in Velaris too, but most citizens knew her as a fellow resident and frequenter of performances and dance halls, not as one who wielded power. She was at Feyre’s side today to change that — to establish her presence in the city as their protector and leader. Mor loved the city, and Feyre knew it would love her back, that her rule over it would be wise and compassionate.

Feyre glanced over to the row of apartment blocks she’d been calling home for the past week, caught a glimpse of two familiar faces kneeling over a bare patch of ground near the sidewalk. Mor disengaged her hand from a kindly older female with green skin and iridescent wings, who’d been gushing over her for the last several minutes, and turned in the direction that Feyre was gazing.

“Well, that’s different,” Mor drawled. “When did that happen?”

Feyre chuckled. Lucien, who’d spent the morning incinerating debris with his magic without getting one speck of dust on his immaculate suit, was digging his hands into the dirt, creating small holes in the ground under Elain’s watchful supervision. “Last night. Around dinnertime, I think.”

Elain held out her hands, and Lucien carefully scooped up a seedling from a nearby basket, handing it to her like he was presenting her with a newborn puppy. Elain took it from him, saying something low in his ear, and he threw his head back and laughed.

“I thought she didn’t like him,” Mor mused.

“I thought so too,” Feyre admitted. “But it was the idea of him, of having a mate, that she didn’t like.”

“You Archerons,” her friend chuckled, patting her shoulder. “You’re not won easily.”

Feyre laughed at that. It was true. Her current issues with Rhys aside, she certainly hadn’t fawned over him, hadn’t accepted the mating bond just because it existed. After her sacrifice Under the Mountain, she’d assumed her mate would be Tamlin, that the bond hadn’t snapped into place yet because they were too traumatized and broken. Despite all he’d done and failed to do, she’d felt guilty leaving him.

Then she’d spent months teasing Rhys, and fighting with him, and slowly falling in love with him, and the revelation they were mates and he’d known all along — it had taken time for her to process that, and forgive him.

Nesta had hated the idea of mates, had fought with and avoided Cassian over the years, had finally taken him to her bed — Feyre had declined to hear details, protesting that Cassian was like her brother — but still hadn’t formally accepted him. Feyre wondered if it would happen, if Nesta had forgiven him, if they’d worked through all the ways they’d hurt each other. Cassian seemed utterly in love with her sister, determined to keep trying.

Elain had been utterly determined to keep her mate away, but now that they were spending time together, Feyre had to admit that Lucien suited her sister. He was no warrior, though he could fight bravely when needed — his strengths were in observation, intellect, diplomacy. He didn’t quite fit in at the Night Court, seemed to find it shocking and brutal, and as much as Feyre wished otherwise, Elain felt the same way. Whether they ended up as mates or as friends, she couldn’t say, but they seemed well matched in either case.

Lucien handed Elain another seedling, their fingers brushing, and Feyre said, “I’m happy to see them getting along.”

Mor said carefully, “Az will be disappointed.”

“Azriel?” Feyre furrowed her brows incredulously, turning toward her friend. “What about him?”

Mor sighed, flipping one of her long curls over her shoulder. “It’s complicated. You know my history with him. I’d always hoped he would move on, find someone else. But I’ll admit I was startled when he actually did.”

Feyre’s mind was racing to catch up, the thoughts spinning out wildly. “I thought Elain was acting weird when he came to the apartment.” She glanced back at her sister again, practically glowing in the sunlight, a neat row of seedlings rising gracefully from the ground in front of her. “I’ve seen them together, thought what a cute couple they would make. But I never thought they’d act on it, not unless Elain rejected the bond with Lucien.”

As though he’d heard his name, Lucien looked up towards them and waved.

Feyre waved back, feeling conflicted. She’d wished on more than one occasion that his mate would choose someone else over him, had wanted herself and her sisters to be mated to the three Illyrian brothers. Az was beautiful, inside and out, and deserved to be understood, loved, and cherished. And kind, gentle Elain, despite being his opposite in some ways, had seemed perfect.

Mor said, “I guessed something was going on, but didn’t want to say anything. I keep my own romantic life secret, so I figured Az would be the same.”

Feyre sighed. “Poor Az.”

Mor agreed, “He must have known this was a possibility, however unlikely. The pull of the mating bond can be a powerful thing.”

Indeed it can.

“Things have been… weird, lately,” Mor said. “Especially with you and Rhys both gone. We haven’t been a smaller group like this since Rhys was Under the Mountain.”

Feyre cringed, thinking about that awful time, how much Rhys’s family must have missed him while he was in Amarantha’s clutches.

“Rhys is still at the cabin?” she asked.

Mor nodded. “I winnowed up there this morning, delivered your answer. He seemed… better. More himself.”

“That’s good,” Feyre said, her heart clenching. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about him, worry about him, in her fury at being lied to. She’d seen how distraught he was, felt his despair and rage and hopelessness, and had been frightened at what he might unleash on the world because of it. The damage all around them was just a hint of that.

Mor said, “I’ve got a meeting with the governors in a few hours, so I’m going to read their proposals and prepare. You’ll be okay here?”

Feyre nodded. “Good luck with that. Rhys was always bored to tears in those meetings.” She’d never gone to one — had never taken an interest. She’d always known, in the back of her mind, that Rhys would take care of it.

These people deserve leaders who will give their best effort.

Feyre loved Velaris, but she found the administrative tasks ill-suited to her temperament. She was a fighter, hot-tempered and passionate, and issues like trade policy and affordable housing needed more nuance and patience. Velaris was a jewel that had already been cut and polished, only needing loving maintenance.

But the Hewn City — there, Feyre could make a difference. There would be a fight there, a tough one, and she relished it.

Mor gave her a tight hug and kissed her cheek, then patted the top of her belly, and winnowed away.

Feyre smiled, feeling Nyx’s telltale flutters, and underneath that, his precious little mind reaching out to hers. She had no doubt he’d be a daemati, that he’d be smart and curious, and she couldn’t wait to finally meet him. If she could just manage this birth…

Her smile slipped a bit, but she quickly shoved the anxiety away. She’d started a regimen of shifting a small amount each day, so that by the time she started labor, her body would be prepared. All her other pregnancy symptoms were very normal, Eileithyia had assured her. Feyre knew there were still risks, as there always were even when no wings were involved, but was determined to think positive.

She headed back for the apartment to elevate her swollen ankles, shift another inch, and wait. Soon, my love, she told Nyx. Grow a little more. I’ll try to be patient.

* * * * *

Lucien handed Elain another seedling, letting her talk about plant varieties and soil types wash over him. He’d never imagined that it could be so complex, knew he’d be hopeless with all the details, but luxuriated in hearing her voice sweet and lilting in his ear, lulling him into a pleasant trance, and he had to close his eyes to fully take it all in. The sun warmed his back against the breeze in the air, and Elain’s hair seemed to shimmer and sparkle in the golden light.

He’d barely gotten through dinner last night, couldn’t think straight, and he was just as bad today — struck dumb at the sight of Elain, the feel of her slender hand holding his, the rush of excitement every time those eyes met his. He’d been relieved when Feyre suggested venturing outside to help with the cleanup, so he could work off some of his pent-up magic, clear his mind, set things on fire.

Then Elain had snagged him, asking him to help her replant the tracts of soil along the road, something about erosion and nutrient balances, and he had never been happier to kneel on the ground, get his clothes and hands filthy.

“I’ve missed being outdoors,” Elain was saying, fluffing out the leaves on the seedling she’d just planted. Lucien reached into the basket for another one, carefully cradling the delicate roots like she’d shown him. “I’ve missed the sunshine.”

“Me too,” Lucien said, grinning to himself. Sunshine was his mother’s nickname for him, but he’d only recently learned why. “When Feyre’s settled with the baby, you should take Helion up on his offer to visit Day. You would love it. You could go on your own, or take Nesta, or… whatever.” He smiled a little helplessly, his unspoken offer settling in the air between them.

Elain’s shovel paused in midair as she contemplated it. “I’ve always wanted to travel,” she said. “You’ve been everywhere — the other courts, the continent.”

“There’s always more to see,” Lucien said, “and places change all the time.” Not always for the better, he added silently. He shuddered to think of what Adriata was like these days, after the ravages of Hybern, and Spring… he wouldn’t think of that now, not with Elain next to him, scooping the seedling out of his hands, her fingers leaving little tingles where they brushed his.

“What’s your favorite,” Elain was asking.

“I’ve always liked Summer,” Lucien said. “I spent a lot of time there as a youngling.” And it’s the most like Day, with all that sunshine. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but he’d been seeking the other half of his power, a part of him he hadn’t known was buried. “The princess Cresseida is an old friend. She’s got her hands full right now, between the damage to the city and all the human refugees, but when things settle down, I could introduce you.”

Elain’s shovel tilted, and dirt flew upwards, splattering his tunic and cheeks. She gasped, “Oh! Your shirt —“ She began brushing at his clothes, pushing the dirt in further rather than cleaning it. “Stop moving, let me clean it,” she complained, curling her fingers into his tunic as she tried to wipe at the stained fabric.

But Lucien was laughing, reaching for her hands to pull them away. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’ll be the new style. Maybe draw some blossoms?”

Elain was giggling as well, reaching down into the dirt and squishing a bit between her fingers, then smearing it down his nose before he could stop her. “Now you look fierce,” she proclaimed.

Lucien’s grin turned wicked as he snagged a bit of soil on his own fingers, then waggled his finger near her face. “My turn.”

She squealed and swatted at his hand, and he caught her wrist. “Don’t trust my artistic abilities?” he teased, chuckling when she ducked out of the way, and he dared to tug on her arm, pulling her closer so that he could adorn her blushing cheeks with little smudges. “I’ll admit, I’m not as skilled as Feyre, but —“

He broke off, startled, when Elain grabbed the water pail and dumped it on him, splashing water down his shoulders and chest.

“There, you’re clean now,” she said breathlessly, half grinning mischievously, half gaping as if she were suddenly worried she’d gone too far. Lucien couldn’t suppress the delighted laugh that bubbled out of him, and her face relaxed with relief.

Elain was staring at his wet shirt, which was starting to stick to him, her deep brown eyes gleaming. He suddenly shivered, but not from the cold. Is she looking at my muscles?

Lucien bowed his head to her in mock gallantry. “Much obliged, my lady,” he said, waving a hand over his sopping wet tunic and drying himself with his magic.

Elain’s eyes rose back up to his face, and she pronounced, “You look almost presentable,” as she reached past him into the basket.

His lips quirked up into a wry grin. “Such high praise.”

Elain leaned in, and he watched her, transfixed, as she began pulling blooms off the leftover flowers and tucking them carefully into his braids. “Hold still,” she said, and he obeyed, though it was an effort when she was so close, and all he wanted to do was gather her into his arms.

Her scent wrapped around him, accented by the fragrance of the flowers, and his eyes drifted to her rosy lips, parted slightly in concentration as she worked.

“Now you look like a real fae prince,” she said finally, pulling back to admire her work.

“I’m sure I look perfectly ridiculous,” Lucien murmured.

Her smile was dazzling. “Flowers suit you. You should wear them more often.”

“I’ll wear anything you give me,” he assured her, raising a hand to his head, feeling around for the blooms she’d planted, arranged in a semi-circle like a crown.

“Careful, you’ll crush them,” Elain scolded, grabbing his hand and pulling it away.

“I would never,” Lucien protested, daring to reach for her other hand, bringing them together and pressing his lips to them. Her honey lavender scent mingled with the earthy aroma of the rich soil still scattered across her fingers, and he turned her hands palms up, brushing away the dirt and then pressing a kiss to the center of each one. Elain giggled nervously, her fluttery excitement tickling him through their bond.

He was about to pull her closer when a shadow fell over both of them, and Elain’s head shot up, anxiety creasing her beautiful face.

Lucien froze, feeling the echo of power pulse around them, sensing who it was without turning around.

“Hello, little fox.”

Chapter Text

Lucien let his eyes linger on Elain, memorizing her features, her loveliness, for a long moment before turning around.

“Rhys,” he said, forcing his voice to be steady and calm, his expression blank. Not frightened. He would not be frightened now. Not even in the face of that overwhelming darkness, that terrible power that could crush his bones, shatter his consciousness, dissolve him into mist with half a thought. He would not cower, would not beg. He had never backed down from Rhys before, and wasn’t about to start.

But Elain — Elain was behind him, fear rippling down the bond in a flood, gripping his forearm so tightly he could feel her nails digging into his skin through his shirt. He would be damned if he let harm come to her.

Rhys stood over them, and it was the Rhys he saw in his nightmares, the smooth, confident High Lord who was perfectly in control, hands in his pockets, cruel amusement twisting his lips into a mocking smile. “Walk with me,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t tried to kill Lucien the last time they’d met.

Elain’s grip tightened, and she said, “Lucien is busy.”

Lucien’s head whipped back around, and he took in her narrowed eyes, her brows knitting together, an angry flush creeping across her pale cheeks, her mouth pressed into a tight line. She’s not afraid for herself, he thought with a shock. She’s afraid for me.

The force of that realization hit him so hard that he forgot to breathe.

He hadn’t allowed himself to hope for anything from Elain except studious avoidance, a few stray phrases exchanged on formal occasions. Certainly not this. Certainly not caring. And yet, here she was, staring down the High Lord of the Night Court on his behalf. It filled him with irrational joy, even as he wished she wouldn’t risk herself like that.

If Rhys is going to kill me, at least I can die happy.

“That’s a neat trick,” Rhys drawled, and Lucien looked down at himself, suddenly realizing that he was glowing, that golden light was radiating gently from his skin, easing back Rhys’s darkness. Elain made a little gasp, some of her fear easing. “If I didn’t know you were Helion’s, I would now.”

“What do you want, Rhys.” Lucien tried and failed to sound bored. Dismissive.

“Told you. We’re taking a walk,” Rhys said, his violet eyes glittering as they flicked to Elain, then back to Lucien. “I don’t want to do this in front of an audience.”

“Do what?” Elain snapped, tugging Lucien back toward her.

Cauldron, please don’t tell her.

All Lucien wanted was to get Elain out of Rhys’s sight, back to the safety of the apartment. Then Rhys could trample him with glee and scatter him like dust on the wind all over Velaris. He didn’t care. He’d done what he could for Feyre, met his real father, seen his family reunite, and finally made a connection with his mate. That would have to be enough, if — if —

Lucien shoved down his roiling emotions and faced Elain fully, aware that he was turning his back on Rhys, which wasn’t wise, but he slipped a comforting hand over hers and smiled. “It’ll be all right,” he said, not at all sure it would be.

He let his hand warm up slightly, feeling a rush of energy from the two strands of his power combining, and slid his hand up her bare arm, stroking her soft skin with his thumb.

“It better be,” Elain said.

“It will be,” he promised, cringing inwardly, but resolving that he wasn’t going to freak her out, or spur her to do something that would put her in danger. No, he needed her with Feyre, safe behind his wards. “Tell your sister —“

He had no idea what he would have said next, for just then, Elain grabbed his face and kissed him.

All thoughts flew out of Lucien’s mind as his senses exploded, and he surrendered to the delicious soft taste of her lips, the closeness of her pressed against him. His arms came around her, his hand stroking her silky hair, and the bond between them grew warmer, alive, thrumming with energy.

Elain looked up at him, her eyes crinkling as she smiled, and she pushed on his shoulders as she stood up, facing down Rhys with silent determination. Lucien couldn’t take his eyes off her as she folded her arms, looking up defiantly at the High Lord, then turned on her heel and stalked purposefully away.

Rhys’s soft chuckle crawled up Lucien’s spine. “She is an Archeron, after all. I didn’t think she had it in her.”

Don’t talk about my mate, you fucking prick, Lucien almost spat at him.

Instead, he rose from his knees as gracefully as he could, suddenly aware that he was covered in garden dirt and water stains. But he turned to face Rhys with a courtier’s blank expression, gloriously bored and indifferent, as though half his mind weren’t blank with fear and the other half fogged over with desire.

“You’ve had a busy day,” Rhys said, smirking as he examined the top of Lucien’s head. Right. Elain’s flowers.

“Very,” Lucien said, resisting the urge to touch them, make sure they were really there.

“Well? Let’s go,” Rhys said briskly, wrapping a hand around Lucien’s wrist, plunging them both into smoke and shadows.

Lucien gritted his teeth, knowing better than to rip himself away while being winnowed, and steeled himself for — what, he didn’t know. A dungeon, or an empty field where no one would witness his demise, or —

Then he stood blinking in the sunlight, the Sidra sparkling a dark blue as its waters rippled with the afternoon tide.

They were in front of the River House, the estate Rhys had built with Feyre, and Rhys released his wrist as he stalked down the path that led past the manor.

“What are you —“ Lucien asked, thoroughly confused.

He stood frozen on the path, calculating how far away he would have to winnow to have a chance of actually escaping, when Rhys sighed with exasperation. “Stubborn to the last.” And a tendril of darkness shot out, snagging Lucien’s arm and tugging him forward.

On impulse, Lucien swatted it away, a thin curling light shooting from his finger, and Rhys chuckled. “Clever fox, always learning new tricks.”

Lucien just stood there, clenching his jaw.

Rhys extended an arm toward the trail, the dark material of his black suit seeming to swallow the afternoon sun. “This trail was Feyre’s idea,” he remarked idly. “I’m going to have it paved smooth, for Nyx’s carriage.”

Please, not with my ashes.

“Will you stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you,” Rhys said.

“Aren’t you?” Lucien blurted, little flames igniting on his fingertips. Don’t lose it. Stay in control.

Rhys clucked, “Don’t be tedious. I’m in deep enough shit with Feyre as it is. And if I piss off your mate, I’ll call down Nesta’s wrath on my head.” He ran a hand through his hair. “That’s power like I’ve never seen before. Like facing down the Cauldron itself.”

“You’re scared of her,” Lucien said wonderingly, his mind still stumbling over the revelation that he was going to live.

“Terrified.” Rhys shuddered slightly. “I’m headed to the House of Wind after I talk to you. I’m hoping she won’t toss me out on my ass, right down those ten thousand steps.”

That’s what you get for putting her up there, you vindictive prick. Lucien had never understood the House of Wind’s design — how Rhys’s non-Illyrian ancestors managed it. Or how he could have put Nesta and Elain up there in the first place, in those early days after they’d been turned fae. It seemed like justice that Nesta had turned the House to her own side, that it was now her ally rather than her prison.

“What could you have to say to Nesta?” Lucien asked.

“The same thing I’m going to say to you,” Rhys said.

Mother spare me. “And what is that?”

“That I’m sorry.”

Lucien almost fell over. He braced his hand on a tree, staring dumbly at Rhys, not believing what he was hearing.

“You’ve scrambled my mind,” he said. “I’m hallucinating.”

“Is it that unbelievable,” Rhys huffed, “that I’d apologize?”

“You’re really asking? Yes,” Lucien sputtered.

Rhys gazed upward and sighed, as if praying for patience. “You’re making this difficult. I guess I deserve that.” He strode back down the path towards Lucien, who stiffened his spine, willing himself not to balk or step back. “Just hear me out, at least.”

Lucien nodded.

“You know what I am,” Rhys said. “What I’m capable of. You’ve seen me at my most ruthless. I won’t apologize for all of it, for what I did to protect Velaris. As for my history with Tamlin — you know my reasons for it.”

“I know,” Lucien said, cringing at the thought of the war between those two powerful families, the innocent lives slaughtered out of petty jealousy and irrational fear. “He does, too. Though he won’t admit it.”

“You were loyal to Tamlin,” Rhys said. “Hurting you was a way to get to him. Even after you came  to live here, of your own free will, I was suspicious. I thought you might be out to sell our secrets.”

Lucien barked out a bitter laugh. “Like I’d sell out my mate’s family.”

“Your father would have,” Rhys pointed out, hastily adding, “I mean Beron. I didn’t know you were Helion’s until much later.”

“I know. I saw Feyre’s memory of that,” Lucien said. “And I get it. Backstabbing is the Autumn way. They make an art form of it.”

“I didn’t appreciate your use to us until you left for the continent,” Rhys said. “I was eager to get rid of you, actually. Thought you might get yourself killed, and out of my hair.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Lucien said dryly.

“You didn’t,” Rhys said. “That’s the trouble. You were too useful to get rid of. But there was always that little question of what you’d do once things resolved with Elain. Congratulations on that, by the way.” And his gaze flicked up to Lucien’s crown of flowers.

Lucien protested, “Things aren’t resolved, exactly.”

“She almost bit my head off just now,” Rhys observed, grinning slyly. “I’d say they’re resolving.”

“You didn’t bring me here to gossip about my love life,” Lucien grumbled.

“No. No, I didn’t,” Rhys said, tugging at his jacket sleeve. “I brought you here to apologize. For how I’ve acted this past week, especially.” He rubbed his face. “I lost my gods-damned mind when Feyre left. When I found out you hid her, well, that did it.”

“Just did what she asked me,” Lucien said.

“I know. It was stupid of me to blame you,” Rhys said. “I fell into that old thinking, that you couldn’t be trusted. I didn’t want to believe that she really left me, and it pissed me off when you warded the apartment.” He shook his head, tsking at the memory. “When the fuck did you get so good at that?”

“Something happened to me at Hybern,” Lucien said. “When I cleaved the King’s spells to get to Elain. I think it woke up my Day Court magic.”

“Let’s give Elain the credit, then,” Rhys said.

Gladly. Lucien’s insides glowed warm at the thought.

“I was an idiot,” Rhys went on, beginning to pace. “For hiding the truth from Feyre, then taking it out on you. I scared the shit out of the whole city and almost got you killed. Helion’s pissed as hell, and rightly so.”

“So is Eris,” Lucien couldn’t resist adding.

“Even better. Add him to my list of people to apologize to,” Rhys said. “Just keeps getting longer.”

“If you apologize to Eris, the shock might just kill him,” Lucien said.

“I’ll tread carefully then. We need his alliance,” Rhys said. “Shit’s going down on the continent. This whole mess has been a distraction. And if things go badly with the delivery…” He made a choking sound, stopping abruptly.

“Feyre’s a fighter,” Lucien reassured him. “You both are. So I’m sure your little one will be, too.” Rhys just stared off into space, saying nothing, so Lucien dared to take a step closer, placing a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “I mean it. If anyone can beat this, it’s Feyre.”

Rhys nodded absently, only half-listening, his face drawn with sorrow. “I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” Lucien said stubbornly.

Rhys turned back to him. “Thank you for helping her. I won’t forget it.” He cocked his head to the side, as if listening. “I’d better bring you back, before —“

A dark cloud swirled between them on the path. When it cleared, Feyre stood there, arms folded, glaring angrily at Rhys.

Chapter Text

Rhys was so overwhelmed by the sight of his mate that he almost went to his knees.

Feyre stood radiant, the sun glinting off her hair, her angrily folded arms doing nothing to conceal the alluring swell of her pregnant belly and the curvy shape it gave her. She glared at him with those stunning eyes that he saw in his dreams, sometimes adoring, sometimes sparkling with taunts and innuendos. Right now they were icy with fury, and the air around her glittered with a phantom frost.

Rhys shivered, not totally from the sudden chill. 

“You scared Elain,” she barked accusingly.

Rhys struggled to process that for a moment, then recovered his voice. “Feyre darling,” he said smoothly, though he couldn’t keep the worried edge from his tone. “I wanted just wanted to talk to Lucien privately —“

“Privately, my ass,” Feyre snapped, then turned toward Lucien. “Are you all right?”

She looked so angry that Lucien took a step backwards. “I’m fine. Honest,” he stammered.

“Did he threaten you,” Feyre thundered.

“No,” Lucien said hastily, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “He apologized.”

Feyre looked at him skeptically, then whirled back to Rhys. “You’d better not have tampered with his mind.”

Is it that unbelievable that I would apologize? Rhys swallowed down his impulse to argue. He couldn’t be indignant at the accusation, not after how he’d acted.

Feyre turned back to Lucien. “Show me.”

Lucien went still, closing his eyes, and Rhys’s fingers curled into fists as he fought the temptation to slide into his mind, see what he was showing Feyre. For all his cleverness, his powers, Lucien had never mastered the art of shielding, never quite managed to keep Rhys out. But Rhys refrained, figuring that he was in enough trouble as it is without adding anything else to the list.

After a moment, Feyre’s shoulders relaxed, as if she’d gotten her answer.

“I’ll just go home,” Lucien said, his metal eye clicking as it whirred back and forth between Rhys and Feyre. “Maybe start dinner.”

Feyre nodded, and when she spoke, the anger was gone. “Could you stop at the market for Eileithyia? She was asking for more chamomile.”

“No problem. Elain’s out of bread flour anyway,” Lucien said, a slight flush creeping across his cheeks as he said his mate’s name.

Rhys’s heart ached at how comfortable they were, how domestic it all sounded, and he fought hard to bite back the rush of jealousy that made him want to throttle that little fox. It’s your own damn fault, Rhys reminded himself.

“I’ll be back later,” Feyre was saying to Lucien. “Don’t linger on your errands. Elain is frantic.”

“Then I’ll go home first,” Lucien said, his flush turning into an outright glow. Rhys bit back any number of sarcastic remarks he could have made. Don’t be sour. You and Feyre were that happy once. Maybe could be again, if you don’t blow it.

“Tell Elain I’m sorry for scaring her,” Rhys said, recalling why he was in trouble this time.

Lucien nodded, metal eye whirring softly, and winnowed away. 

That left Rhys alone with Feyre, outside the home they’d built together, staring helplessly at her, heart full of love and terror. He took a tentative step toward her, murmuring, “Feyre.”

And then he sank to his knees, overcome with seeing her again, with how close he’d come to ruining things forever, and he couldn’t meet her eyes as he said, “You don’t have to do anything — if you don’t want to talk to me I understand. I won’t ask for forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. I’ve been an idiot, and I broke your trust, took away choices you should have had.”

He could feel Feyre’s presence drift a fraction closer, the ice-kissed air lightening into a cool breeze rather than an outright frost. So he kept going, saying, “I should have told you about the wings being a problem from the beginning. We should have faced it together. I couldn’t bear the thought of you being so unhappy, but maybe I was the one I was protecting. I took it on myself to research options, and brood about it, and I deprived you of the opportunity to be part of that. To help me. Help yourself.”

“You told everyone else,” Feyre reminded him, her words clipped. Accusatory.

His cheeks flushed, and his lower lip trembled, but he managed to say, “Yes. I put the burden on them to comfort me, as well as keeping it secret. I wouldn’t have told your sisters at all, except for Cassian. He can’t keep things from his mate. I wish I’d been more like him,” he added ruefully.

“You trusted them with this information, but not me. How am I supposed to govern others, when I’m not even trusted with my own body?” Feyre snapped.

“I was a fool,” Rhys stammered, finally mustering up the will to raise his eyes to hers. “I should have trusted you completely. I know how strong you are, how fierce, how responsible. There was no reason I should have treated you as anything less than an equal, capable of making your own decisions.”

“I felt like an idiot when I did find out,” Feyre said, and her hurt and sorrow hit Rhys square in the chest, pummeling him through their bond. “There I was, blabbering about decorating the nursery and which carriage to buy, and everyone just nodded and smiled and let me talk when they thought the baby was going to die.”

“I know,” Rhys said hoarsely, “and I feel like an ass for putting you in that position. They do, too.”

Feyre just nodded. He knew she’d forgiven the others, even Amren, who wasn’t quite sorry, but could understand Feyre’s perspective in an academic sort of way.

“I never got to say goodbye to my father,” Feyre told him, her voice vibrating with anger. “I put it off until it was too late. And it almost happened again. I would have died suddenly, without knowing it was coming, without having a chance to put things in order or tie up loose ends.”

Rhys bowed his head. He knew that feeling of sudden loss all too well, of words left unsaid, of wishing he could go back and give his loved ones that extra hug, say one more “I love you” before it was too late. He wanted to say it now, wanted to scream it, wanted to wrap his arms around Feyre and the baby in her belly. We may not have much time, whatever this new healer says.

“And when Nesta dared tell me the truth,” Feyre cried, the air around them growing uncomfortably warm as her fire magic activated, “you threatened to kill her. Rhys, she is my sister. You know what it means to have a sister murdered.”

Gods. I do. Tears began to flow, and Rhys made no effort to stop them, or wipe them away. I sunk so low.

He didn’t think he would have gone through with it — he couldn’t kill his mate’s sister, his brother’s mate — but to even utter the threat was depraved, unhinged, and he knew it. He had killed many people over the years, had slaughtered on battlefields long before his mate was born, had carried out Amarantha’s orders telling himself he was doing it to protect his loved ones. But this? There was no excuse.

I’m the one who can’t be trusted.

Rhys knew his mental walls were down, that his mind was wide open and undefended, that Feyre could see everything if she cared to look. He didn’t dare speak, didn’t move, didn’t try to explain or justify his actions.

Feyre’s magic eased, and Rhys took shuddering breaths, savoring the cool air against his sweaty skin. He didn’t try to speak, but poured everything he had into their bond, all of his love and longing and sorrow and regret. 

I’ve been so angry with you, Feyre’s voice echoed in his thoughts, chiding him. Because we were happy. I’d never been happier. And I would have faced any obstacle with you, any danger, knowing we were handling it together.

And I ruined it. I destroyed what we had.

Feyre took another step closer, so near that he could have reached out and touched her, if he’d dared. But he didn’t.

Feyre’s hands moved in front of him, making the tattooed designs seem to swirl in the air, then rested on his head, fingers sinking into his hair. Rhys closed his eyes, shivering at the touch, surrendering to it, and Feyre said, “It’s not ruined, Rhys. But it’ll take time to repair.”

His eyes flew open, and he looked up at her — so regal, so powerful, it took his breath away. Feyre’s hands stroked his hair, his face, brushing the wetness from his cheeks. “I’ll do anything,” he vowed, tentatively reaching for her hands, sliding his hands around hers. “For you, and our baby. Whether you forgive me or not, Feyre. I want to make it right.”

Feyre’s hands slid to his neck, then his shoulders, and then she tugged lightly on his arms, coaxing him to stand. He rose nervously, slowly, afraid to break the spell that seemed to be woven around them, but Feyre’s hands clasped around his, guiding his palms to lay flat against her belly. “Nyx is saying hello,” she whispered, and Rhys stifled his gasp as a series of delicate flutters hammered against his hands. “I’ve shown him images of you. But it’s not the same as talking directly.”

“Can I,” he said brokenly, tears flowing again, “can I talk to him?” He stared at her belly, focusing his magic towards the little mind within it, and almost burst out laughing when a wisp of a presence latched on to him. There you are, little one.

Rhys’s hands slid around Feyre’s belly, and Nyx’s little kicks trailed after him, making him laugh. “He’s playing with me,” he said wonderingly.

“He’s missed you,” Feyre said, her sweet voice thick with emotion. “And so have I.”

His gaze shot back to her, and though he was too overwhelmed to answer, he knew she understood. He’d missed her more than anything, more than ever. Their bond had gone silent and still when she’d discovered his deception, and that was worse than her physically being gone — worse than when she was undercover at the Spring Court, for at least then he’d been certain of her love for him, her intention to return.

This had felt like a permanent loss. It almost had been.

And still could be, if he screwed up again.

“Feyre,” he whispered, her name like a prayer on his lips. “Feyre.”

Feyre’s hands slid around his wrists, taking his hands from her belly. She intertwined her fingers with his, murmuring, “Did you read my answer?”

“Yes,” he said. Many times, in fact.

“We should meet with everyone and talk about the plan,” she said, “before I — before it’s time for the delivery.”

Just in case something goes wrong, she didn’t have to add.

Rhys said, “I’m at your disposal.”

Feyre’s lips twisted into a grimace. “I’m not disposing of you, Rhys.”

He managed a wry smile. “It’s just an expression.”

“Tomorrow,” Feyre suggested. “It’s been a long day. We could meet at the apartment. But you could come by tonight, and meet the healer.”

Come by. Rhys worked to process what she was offering him. He’d take anything, be grateful for the opportunity, and only hope that things could progress back towards the life they’d once shared together, before he’d stupidly broken Feyre’s trust.

“I’d love to,” he said, trying to keep his voice light and easy.

“And dinner?” she asked.

Rhys cocked his head to the side, pretending to think about it. “Do I want to risk Lucien’s cooking?”

“Prick,” Feyre smirked.

He gave her a courtly bow, nearly shaking with relief. There’s the Feyre I know and love. He’d almost given up on ever being called a prick again.

“I’ll see you later,” Feyre said, and he froze as she leaned in and pressed the briefest, softest kiss to his cheek, so close to his lips that they tingled deliciously.

Then she was gone, winnowed away, and Rhys braced himself against a nearby tree, almost falling to his knees again.

I’ll see her again.

I have a chance.

He wanted to whoop for joy.

Chapter Text

Eris spat out blood, then laughed.

He’d been laughing for hours, at the fucking futility of it all. It was how he was staying sane through the searing agony of his father’s torture. And it stoked his father’s fury, kept him riled up and off balance, which was an added bonus.

“What I don’t understand,” Beron was seething, flames sparking at his fingertips as he paced back and forth across the freezing stone floor, “is what you were doing in Spring at all.” His boots, polished and heavy with buckles and iron-tipped toes, stopped inches from Eris’s face, but he refused to flinch or twist away. Not that he could go far, shackled to the floor, forced to hunch over as though he were helpless and groveling. Just how Father likes it.

“Ah, yes. I was trying to — What’s that mortal saying? ‘Stop and smell the roses,’” Eris sneered.

Beron’s boot clanged against his jaw, and Eris tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth again, his teeth rattling, and he laughed, an unhinged, scraping sound. “You need a vacation more than I, Father. I’m sure Tamlin would be happy to host you.”

“That beast belongs in a cage,” Beron growled, pacing around behind Eris, aiming another kick, this time to his ribs.

Eris sprawled sideways, his legs wobbling and then giving out entirely, but the shackles bit into his wrists, pinning him in place. Not that he would deign to scramble away, show fear of any kind. “You’ve always liked exotic creatures,” he couldn’t resist saying. “Like that new whore of yours, what’s her name? Briallyn? I didn’t think you would go for ex-human filth, especially that shriveled old crone, but there’s no accounting for taste —“

Beron’s meaty hand wrapped around his hair and jolted him upwards, blazing a fiery lick of pain through his scalp. “Watch your mouth, boy.”

“Or what, you’ll shackle me?” Eris asked sweetly. His left eye was swollen shut, his right eye almost as bad, but he winked it anyway, then laughed again as Beron’s fist connected with it, and he went sprawling back to the stones, scraping his elbows as he landed.

“Briallyn is a Queen,” Beron fumed, and Eris rested his right cheek against the slippery coolness of the dungeon floor, the pain dulling instantly on contact. Come on, Father, let’s hear all about Briallyn, he thought gleefully. He’d been goading Beron in this direction for a while now, and it was finally paying off. “Do not be fooled by her current appearance, which is temporary. She has a keen intellect and powerful allies, which is far more important.”

“Allies? But the King of Hybern is dead,” Eris protested, all shock and confusion. His gaze momentarily snagged on a shadow that was curling about, snaking across the floor, and then his lips twisted into a triumphant smirk as he realized what it meant. We have an audience.

“Shows how little you know,” Beron retorted contemptuously. There was a clatter at the far wall, and Eris forced himself not to tense, knowing what was coming.

So, he laughed. And laughed again, as his father’s ash-tipped whip cracked in the air before ripping right through his tunic, slicing a deep gash across his back. It always pissed off Beron that Eris’s skin healed so fast, that the whip didn’t leave more permanent marks.

“The Wall is down,” Beron proclaimed, grabbing a fistful of fabric from Eris’s shirt and yanking it loose, exposing more of his bare skin. “And there are opportunities there. Some of us have the will to take advantage.”

“Take advantage. Is that what the humans call it?” Eris wondered. “I’m grown, Father, you don’t have to be delicate with me. What does the Queen want from you, anyway? Besides getting fucked by a faerie.”

The whip cracked, then cracked again. Eris jolted, and bled, and rattled his shackles. And waited.

“Don’t be daft. She wants my alliance.”

“Of course she does,” Eris replied. “Still doesn’t explain what you get out of it.”

“It’s not Briallyn I want, you fool, but her territory,” Beron snarled. “And her alliance with the sorcerer-lord. If you weren’t so busy smelling the roses, you’d know that.”

Well, I do now. And so does the Shadowsinger.

Eris gasped for breath as he was slammed against the floor by another stomp of Beron’s heavy boot, and a tendril of shadow fluttered toward him, sliding against his hand and then up to his battered cheek. He nearly chuckled aloud at the tickling coolness, but instead lowered his voice to the barest whisper, which was thankfully drowned out by Beron’s heavy footfalls behind him. “Hello, little pet,” he crooned to it. “Hope your master’s enjoying the show.”

“You travel so much, one would think you’ve given up on Autumn,” Beron was saying, cracking the whip on the stones, only inches from Eris’s face. “You’re barely ever around anymore.”

“You were on the continent for almost a month,” Eris said blandly.

“Negotiating our alliances. Whereas you — I’m still unclear on what your goal was. Or why you felt bold enough to take your mother with you.”

Eris froze. Every inch of him went utterly still as cold dread spiked through him. Almost immediately, he realized his mistake. He hadn’t laughed.

“Áine was careless,” Beron went on, as though Eris hadn’t just given his heart and soul up to his tormentor. “She underestimated Lord Young’s loyalty to me. When she dismissed his daughters back to his household, he wrote to me immediately. Apparently she forged my signature, told him I’d found her disobedient. At least that part wasn’t a lie,” he mused.

No crack of the whip — no punches, no kicks. As though Beron knew this was torture far worse than any physical pain he could inflict, and was savoring it.

“No jokes to make? Nothing to say?” Beron leered, prodding Eris’s shoulder with the toe of a boot. “You’re finished, boy. You and Áine.”

“Get her name out of your fucking mouth,” Eris snarled, swallowing down the bile that was rising in his throat, struggling to master his panic and get his head back in the game.

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll get you both out of my life, for good,” Beron thundered. “Your brothers are mine — I don’t need you. And she’s disobeyed me for the last time.”

The shadow that had been hovering near Eris’s head began to slither away, and Eris hissed after it, “Wait — tell your master —“

Beron’s boots clomped towards his face, and then his father’s sour breath growled in his ear, “Wait for what? You’ve got real information for me? Out with it now, boy, or I’ll have your mother in here chained right beside you.”

Eris took a few shuddering breaths, willing his pounding heart to slow down, then said evenly, “She’s in her room. Fourth door to the left.”

Beron hissed, “I know where her room is, you clod.”

“Tell her I’m sorry,” Eris went on, his voice cracking. “Tell her I tried.” He yanked fruitlessly at his shackles, ignoring the scrape of the rusted iron against his wrists, the tears struggling to spill out from under his swollen eyelids. “Tell her it’s under my pillow.”

A boot slammed into his face, and he cried out as bone cracked. “Go, little shadow,” he breathed, before the edges of his vision went dark, and he collapsed.

* * * *

Fourth door to the left. It’s under my pillow.

Azriel’s shadows whirled around him as he materialized in front of a very startled Lady of Autumn, who clapped both hands to her mouth to avoid screaming, the glass she’d been holding shattering on the floor.

“Apologies, lady,” Azriel said, wincing at the way the female shrank from him. He remembered, too late, that the last she’d seen of him was the High Lord’s meeting, where he’d nearly strangled the breath from her son. “Eris sent me.”

The color drained from the lady’s face, leaving her a ghostly white. “Where is he.”

“The dungeon,” Azriel replied, “with your husband. I’m afraid he’s —“

The lady whirled around to the two young females behind her, and barked, “Go.” Both girls rose and fled from the room, slamming the door behind them.

Then she strode forward, fire blazing in her eyes, and declared, “No time to waste. What must I do?”

Azriel stared at her, startled by the power radiating from her. He shut his eyes quickly, mastering his aversion to fire, then spoke in a rush. “He wanted you to know that it’s under his pillow.” Whatever that meant.

The lady shoved past him with surprising strength, flying to the door and flinging it open, so hard that it banged against the wall. Azriel trailed her, deploying shadows ahead of and behind them, determined to get the jump on any guards or lackeys of the High Lord that might be about.

Three of them, around the corner.

Truth-Teller was unsheathed in his hand before Azriel had finished processing that, and he winnowed ahead of the running female, striking all three guards before they could react.

The lady drew up short, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Go,” Azriel told her, “I’ll cover you. When you’ve found it —“

“You’ll take me to him,” she said firmly, then dashed away.

He had been about to say I’ll get you to safety, certain that was what Eris wanted. What he would want, too, if it were his mother.

I couldn’t protect her.

Azriel would never have thought, in a million years, that he had anything in common with gods-damned Eris Vanserra, but the dungeons, the torture, his downtrodden mother — it sparked a rage in Azriel. It was too fucking familiar, too close to his own haunting memories.

His shadows drew him down another corridor, and he almost roared as he attacked, plowing down six more guards. Too easy. Too clean. He wanted the fight, wanted to bleed and draw blood. Anything to calm the clanging in his mind.

The Lady of Autumn emerged from a door, brandishing a shockingly long dagger with both hands. Azriel was shocked to see it was a blade of ash. Eris sleeps with that? It almost made him laugh.

His siphons blazed as more guards clomped toward them, but the lady was by his side — she’d winnowed, he realized — and she gripped his hand with surprising strength as she commanded, “Take me to my son.”

* * * *

Eris blinked, groaned, and tried to roll over, frowning when something yanked him back. He gingerly lifted his head, wincing at the wave of pain that sliced through him with the effort, and squinted his aching eyes to focus on the shackles still pinning his wrists.

This. I remember this.

His father loomed above him, a satisfied sneer twisting his face. “Had a nice nap?” he drawled, unfurling the whip again.

Eris tried to recall what had landed him here this time, but then his father added, “Your mother’s on her way.”

No.

Eris jerked upwards, hissing at the shackles holding him in place. “You won’t,” he gasped, “you won’t hurt her. Not this time.”

“Don’t you get it yet?” Beron snapped. “I’ve had it with both of you. Your scheming and plotting, your insolence. I brought you into this world, boy, and I can take you out of it.”

“Do it,” Eris challenged, “you’d be doing us all a fucking favor.”

If I’m gone, Mother can leave. She’ll be free.

He’d hoped to free her by becoming High Lord himself, by ridding the world of gods-damned Beron Vanserra, the same way Beron had cut down his own worthless brute of a father. But he knew the chances of that were slim. His only hope was that Rhys’s spymaster understood his message, got his mother out of her room in time, that his father’s lackeys would find her quarters deserted.

Beron swung the whip, and Eris cried out, caught off guard by the searing pain. His father had set the whip aflame, knowing Eris’s fire resistance was weakened by his injuries, and the acrid smell of his burning flesh choked and sickened him. He spat out bile and twisted his head back towards Beron, determined to get in one last taunt. “Fucking coward.”

Beron roared and brought the whip down hard, flaying Eris open, drawing a gasp of pain. He forced a laugh from his lips anyway, a last fuck you, and braced himself for the next blow, and the next one after that. 

“Worthless, weak, sniveling brat,” Beron spat at him, hurling the whip across the room. “You’re not worth the effort.” He rattled the cache of instruments on the wall, unsheathing some foul weapon with a metallic clang. “Where is Áine? I want her to see your death blow. It’ll probably be enough to kill her, but if not, I’ve got my ways —”

Eris screamed, and rallied every last drop of power left in his miserable aching body, blasting Beron with white hot flame. His father shielded, but too late — the smoke and stench filling the room told Eris he’d hit his mark. “Fuck you, Father,” he muttered, collapsing against the floor, too weak to move any more.

Beron let out an unholy howl, and Eris squeezed his eyes shut, unable to even brace himself for the blow that would surely put him out of his misery, end it all.

But the blow never came.

There was a clang, a high pitched shriek, a horrible wet gurgling, and then a heavy thud on the floor. Eris twisted around, trying to see, but the shackles yanked him back. He growled in frustration, then clenched his fists and screamed, shaking as a rush of delicious hot fire exploded through him, melting the shackles into puddles of steaming liquid.

Suddenly Eris was pulsing with power, his vision clouding red, and he leaped to his feet and roared his fury to the ceiling, rattling the weapons on the wall until they clattered to the floor in a heap, making the loose stones of the floor shake and dance. He whirled around, catching sight of his father slumped on the floor, and loosed a fireball of blazing colors at him, howling with delight as Beron failed to shield and the fire tore at him, crackling, air shimmering with blazing heat.

“Eris, my love,” his mother was wailing, flinging herself toward him, and he caught her in a tight embrace, confused to see her there. How had she gotten into the locked room? How had she known where he was? And why was she here and not escaping?

Then he looked again at Beron Vanserra, lying prone on the floor, wreathed in fire — Eris’s fire — with a dagger lying in a pool of his blood.

Then the pain cleared from his mind, sharpening his thoughts back into focus.

Father is dead.

Father is dead, and I’m —

“High Lord,” another voice murmured, and Eris’s head whipped to the sound of the Shadowsinger’s voice. Azriel was standing in the doorway, head inclined, his dagger glistening in the firelight, blood dripping from it.

So that’s why Father’s guards failed to protect him.

Azriel’s brutally handsome face was stony, unreadable as always, but Eris detected something different in the spymaster’s gaze — something almost like respect.

His mother sobbed in his arms, and Eris understood what she’d done, what she’d finally done after all these years of suffering. She’d taken that dagger from under his pillow, and protected her son — what she’d always done, what she’d sacrificed her life to do. She’d lingered here for years and years, well after her last baby was grown, watching Eris’s back, comforting him, caring for him when no one else ever did. Had she known it would come to this? Had she dreaded this moment, or hoped for it?

“Mother,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look down into her tear-stained face, taking in the new fire blazing in her eyes, the splatters of Beron’s blood on her neck and chest, and thought she had never looked more beautiful, or more like a queen.

Then he looked down at himself — filthy, battered, bloody and bruised — and felt the power of Autumn settle inside him, cleansing him from the inside out, and he’d never felt better.

So the new High Lord of Autumn threw back his head, and he laughed.

Chapter Text

Lucien laughed, a warm, rich sound that rolled through Elain and coaxed a smile to her own lips. “And then there was the time she trapped him in the garden. Set a snare in a tree. The gardeners told me he was dangling like a fish from a hook.”

Feyre hissed in mock protest, setting down her cup forcefully enough to make the sparkling water slosh within it. “He could have cut himself down at any time.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Feyre darling,” Rhys purred, scooping more mashed potatoes from the platter and pretending to ignore the irritated scowl she gave him. He placed the bowl back down and inclined his head to Lucien. “I didn’t realize she was such a menace even as a human. What else did she do to torment poor Tamlin?”

Lucien’s russet eye sparkled as he launched into another story, this time about how her sister had painted the High Lord of Spring’s portrait with a pig face, but Elain let the details wash over her. She ate, barely tasting anything, and stared at Lucien’s elegant fingers wrapped around his utensils, and his long silky hair glinting in the fae light, and —

“Don’t you think so, Elain?”

She dropped her fork, startled out of her reverie, and met her sister’s amused gaze. “Hmm?” she asked distractedly, flushing with embarrassment.

“Your sister is considering a new artistic endeavor,” Lucien said smoothly, coming to her rescue. “A series of paintings of us all as farmyard creatures.”

“Not us all. Just you and Rhys, because you’re pissing me off,” Feyre said pointedly.

“Make Rhys a rooster,” Elain suggested, and her insides tingled warmly when Lucien laughed heartily at that suggestion.

Rhys was unperturbed, quipping, “I rather thought a peacock. But a rooster would do wonderfully.” Mischief glittered in his eyes as he added, “And Lucien here?”

Elain pressed her lips together to keep the giggles from bursting out of her as she said, “A horse. With a long red mane.” She clamped her fingers around her fork to avoid reaching out and curling her fingers around his hair, especially now that everyone at the table was looking at it.

Lucien’s golden eye clicked as he turned to look at her, an amused grin lighting up his face, and then he turned back to Feyre. “Perfect. Just give me wings.”

“Pegasi are not farm animals,” Rhys said matter-of-factly.

“Maybe not at this Court,” Lucien shrugged, then turned back to Elain and winked.

Elain’s heart fluttered, and she smiled around another bite of her chicken. With every joke and silly anecdote, every smile Lucien gave her, her stomach unclenched a little more.

She’d been a nervous wreck all afternoon, ever since Rhys had shown up and whisked Lucien away. Logically, she’d known that he wouldn’t dare do Lucien harm, that he wanted Feyre’s forgiveness. But she couldn’t let go of the memories of him bursting into the apartment, and she’d made sure Rhys knew it.

Feyre had taken one look at her and demanded to know what happened, then poofed away in whirling smoke to go deal with it. So Elain had paced the apartment, trying not to bother the healer, telling herself again and again not to panic.

She’d practically pounced on Lucien when he returned, insisting on checking him for injuries despite his protestations that he was fine. The rest of the afternoon was calm and lovely — shopping at the market and cooking dinner together — but she’d gotten nervous all over again when Rhys showed up at the door. Lucien, too, was on edge, although he assured her that Rhys had apologized and everything was all right.

For her part, Feyre was in rare form, snapping at both males and taking every opportunity to crack jokes at Rhys’s expense. Elain was relieved to see that Rhys bore it well, even seemed to enjoy it.

Her eyes roamed back over to Lucien — really, it was hard to look away — and strayed up to the wilting flowers still adorning his brow. I’ll have to pick him new ones, she thought, and was making a mental list of all the blooms that would suit his coloring when all the wards in the apartment sizzled to life.

Elain gasped as Helion Spell-Cleaver materialized in a cloud of glittering mist in the kitchen doorway.

“Helion!” Feyre exclaimed, shoving back from the table, one hand bracing her belly while the other reached for the High Lord of Day.

He looked wild, frantic, his eyes wide as he rapidly scanned the room. He took Feyre’s offered hand, then burst out, “My apologies, I’d hoped — but of course not. She’s still in Autumn.”

“What’s wrong?” Rhys asked.

Helion stared at him for a long moment, as if surprised to see him, then looked at Lucien in silent question. Whatever he saw on his son’s face seemed to settle him, for he turned back to Rhys, saying, “Maybe nothing. It’s only a feeling.”

Lucien had gone pale, all traces of good humor gone. “Mother?”

Helion nodded tightly. “I felt panic. Then fury, like I’ve not felt from her in a long time. I don’t know what to make of it.”

Feyre frowned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Helion huffed a frustrated sigh. “If it weren’t for gods-damned Beron, I would go there myself and see what’s happened.” He shook his head, pressing his lips tightly together.

“It is gods-damned Beron, you can count on it,” Lucien said darkly. Elain could feel his rising anger through their bond and grabbed his hand, and he squeezed it. “What’s the bastard done this time?”

Rhys’s head whipped towards the door. “I think we’re about to find out.”

Feyre turned as well. “I’ll get it.”

“You daemati,” Helion said in exasperation, as Feyre flung the kitchen door open and strode into the other room. “I’ll never get used to it.”

Rhys shrugged amiably. “Comes in handy.”

Then Feyre shrieked, and Rhys leaped up, disappearing out of the kitchen before his chair hit the floor. Elain had never seen anyone move so fast, and her heart began to pound.

Suddenly Elain was in the living room without realizing she’d gotten up, her heart in her throat, and she swallowed down her own shriek as she took in the sight of Azriel, his face and leathers splattered with blood. An angel of death, cold and beautiful.

“What happened?” she cried. Lucien’s hands came around her shoulders, and she breathed in deeply, letting his presence steady her.

“Az just came from Autumn,” Feyre said, her voice trembling.

“He’s dead,” Azriel said.

Lucien’s grip tightened on her shoulders. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t have to — she felt his spike of panic as he choked out, “Not — Eris?”

Azriel’s eyebrows lifted. “No, no. Not Eris.”

“Then —” Helion strode forward, fists clenching and unclenching as he struggled to form words. “Please tell me it’s Beron.”

Azriel nodded.

Helion whirled around, letting out a whoop of joy, and then Elain yelped as he grabbed both her and Lucien into a hug, spinning them around as he cried out, “Thank the Mother.”

Elain let out a startled giggle, looking up into the High Lord’s gleaming face as he laughed and laughed. “I can feel it. There’s a lightness to her. Such relief. Oh, I thought the worst.” He suddenly seemed to realize that he was crushing Elain, and he pulled back with a sheepish smile.

Feyre yanked Azriel’s hand, pulling him further into the room. “Tell us everything.”

Azriel gazed at all of them, seeming uncomfortable at having such a large and impatient audience. He turned to Rhys first, asking, “Did you know Beron tortured his children?”

Lucien stiffened. But Rhys said, “I suspected.”

Helion sputtered, “That fucking asshole,” his hand sliding onto Lucien’s shoulder, as if he could physically protect him from long-ago punishments and abuses.

“Eris never broke,” Azriel said, his tone almost reverent. “He kept Beron talking.” He looked at Feyre and Rhys again. “Got him to reveal some interesting things I’ll fill you in on later.”

Elain squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the image in her mind of what Eris must have been suffering. Lucien’s arms went around her — comforting her while contemplating his brother’s torture.

“So then what happened?” Helion prompted impatiently.

“Then Beron threatened his mother,” Azriel said, barely registering the low snarl from Helion at that revelation. “He gave me a message through my shadows, told me where to find her.”

“You intervened, Az?” Rhys asked quietly.

Azriel stared down his High Lord with cold determination. “I wasn’t going to let Beron kill her.”

Lucien muttered, “Fucking hell,” at the same time that Helion burst out, “Thank the gods.”

“All I did was deliver the message,” Azriel went on, “and keep the soldiers from her.”

Soldiers. Beron sent soldiers after his own wife.

Elain couldn’t believe that there was such wickedness, such depravity in the world. But then she looked up at Lucien, at his golden eye clicking even as the rest of him stayed impossibly still. He’s seen too much, been through too much.

Feyre declared, “You did right, Az. We pledged to support Eris when the time came, and that’s exactly what you did.”

“Would’ve done it anyway,” Azriel said quietly.

“Please, I’ll explode if I don’t hear what happened,” Helion begged. “How did Beron die?”

Azriel’s siphons blazed momentarily, then guttered. “Eris blasted him with the last of his power. It distracted him long enough that he didn’t see the lady, or the ash dagger she was holding.”

“My mother killed him?” Lucien exclaimed, terror and pride surging through the bond.

“That’s my mate,” Helion crowed. 

“I never would have thought she had it in her,” Rhys said wonderingly.

But Elain knew better. She, too, had killed when her family was threatened. She didn’t doubt Áine had stayed in Autumn for centuries, protecting Eris, anticipating a moment exactly like this.

Feyre whooshed out a breath. “Thank the Mother you were there, Az. How were things when you left?”

“What you’d expect,” Azriel answered. “Transfers of powers are always chaotic. But Eris is handling it. Most of the soldiers and guards were already loyal to him, the rest will fall in line quickly. A few of Beron’s staunchest allies are fleeing for the southern border.”

“Someone should warn Tamlin,” Lucien said.

Azriel nodded. “Messengers were dispatched.” He dug into an inner jacket pocket and withdrew a rolled up piece of parchment. “This was the High Lord’s first official act.”

Lucien accepted the scroll with surprisingly steady fingers, then unraveled it.

“I’m in your debt, Azriel,” Helion said gravely, clapping the spymaster on the shoulder. “I’ll never forget what you did for my mate.”

Azriel looked at the floor. “It was only right. I’d want the same for my own mother.”

“Az, do you think —“ Feyre began.

But Elain didn’t hear the rest of her sister’s question, for at that moment she noticed that Lucien’s hands were trembling. She turned to him, brow creasing with concern, and saw that tears were flowing down his cheek. Gods, I hope it isn’t something bad. “What’s wrong?” she asked, tugging on his arm.

Lucien wordlessly passed the paper to her. It was full of flowery legal language that she struggled to understand. When she saw the word banishment, she frowned. “What does this mean?”

Lucien shook his head, too overcome to answer.

“Let me see,” Rhys said, smoothly plucking it from her hands. His violet eyes flashed as he scanned it rapidly. “Well, little fox. It seems your exile is over. You can go home.”

Go home? Elain looked at Lucien in alarm. He’s going to leave?

Feyre must have had the same thought, for she blurted, “He already has a home.”

Helion looked like he might chime in, but apparently he thought better of it. He’d offered his long-lost son a home in his court as well, but Lucien hadn’t seemed ready to make the jump — Elain wasn’t sure why.

Helion turned back to Azriel and said, “That was Eris’s first act as High Lord, was it? Mine was sending secret orders to protect our libraries from Amarantha’s minions. Beron’s was to have all his enemies executed.”

Azriel said, “Eris’s second act was to order the death of any soldier or guard who ever laid a hand on his mother.”

“I think that qualifies,” Rhys said quietly, his eyes growing dark. Feyre stepped toward him and squeezed his hand. Elain made a mental note to ask Feyre what that was about later, but right now she had other concerns. Like the male next to her with tears running down his face, who had gone still and silent, except for his trembling hands.

“Are you all right?” Elain whispered to Lucien, reaching out to wipe the tears from his cheek. His golden eye was shuttered closed, but it unfurled and fixed on her as soon as she touched him. She stroked his cheek and jaw, murmuring, “It’s a lot, isn’t it.”

“I’m just…” Lucien gulped, then started over. “It’s too much. I’m too happy.” His hands reached for her, trailed down the sides of her face, still shaking slightly. “Can you die from too much happiness?”

“Don’t you dare,” Elain said sternly, and he gave her a radiant smile. He seemed to be glowing from the inside out — a golden light shimmering just beneath his skin.

“We’ll have to send our official congratulations,” Rhys was saying to Feyre.

“Send them with me. I’m heading back,” Azriel said.

“Now?” Rhys asked.

“Now,” Azriel said. “To make sure everything goes smoothly.”

“Our treaty doesn’t go that far —“

“Don’t care,” Azriel said flatly.

Rhys looked like he might pursue the point further, but Lucien cut in. “I’ll go with you.”

He’s going home. Elain’s heart squeezed. Of course he’ll want to be with his family, but… what if he doesn’t come back?

Feyre said, “Are you sure?”

He nodded, golden eye clicking rapidly, then added, “Just for a few hours. I need to see my mother — make sure she’s all right. And Eris, too.” His gaze rested on Elain, and he smoothed back an errant curl that had fallen across her shoulder. “I won’t be long.”

She tried not to think too hard about how, not long ago, she would have felt relieved that he was leaving, maintaining the distance that she’d always kept between them. Now, she was actually relieved that he would return.

“Wish I could see your family too,” she said impulsively, and couldn’t help but flash a smile when she saw his surprised and pleased reaction. “And Autumn. It sounds lovely.”

“You will,” he promised. “Once Eris consolidates power, there’ll be a coronation. Right now might be… a bit tricky, during the transition.”

“But you’ll be all right?” she asked nervously.

Lucien nodded again. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re going with those flowers?” Rhys asked, in an amused tone, eyeing Lucien’s hairline.

Lucien chuckled, but made no effort to remove them. “I think they suit me.” His russet eye gleamed as he looked at Elain. “You’re the expert.”

“Lean down so I can fix them,” Elain said, and he obeyed, bowing his head so that she could get access to the flower crown. She carefully arranged each flower so that it sat neatly against his hair, then pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Say hello to Áine for me.”

“I will,” Lucien promised. He turned towards Helion. “Will you come with us?”

“Not this time,” Helion said wistfully. “Eris doesn’t need that headache right now. But give your mother a hug for me, too.”

Lucien accepted the hug his father gave him, then turned to Azriel.“Ready when you are.”

A moment later, they were both gone, dissolved into shadows.

I will never get used to that.

“Well!” Helion chortled delightedly. “I’ve got to get back. So much to do and plan. Diplomatic missions, and all that.” He kissed Feyre’s hand and clapped Rhys on the back, murmuring something low in his ear that Elain didn’t catch, but Rhys replied, “I really meant it. Thank you.”’

Then Helion strode toward Elain, his crown flashing as he crossed the room, and he leaned in conspiratorially as he said, “I must convince you to come visit Day. The sunshine would suit you wonderfully, you and your gardens. The fact that my son would surely follow you is an added bonus, but… you would love it, either way.”

“I won’t need convincing,” Elain found herself saying. “It sounds perfect.”

Helion beamed, then stepped back and winnowed away, waving a final farewell to them all.

“Well! That’s a relief,” Rhys said, shaking his head. “Beron richly deserved whatever he got, probably more.”

If only it worked that way, Elain thought. If only the bad fathers got killed and the good ones got saved.

But she only said, “There’s dessert if anyone wants it.”

Chapter Text

Áine tugged on her son’s shoulders, beckoning him to lean down so she could adjust the diadem of golden leaves perched atop his hair. “It’s crooked. Let me fix it.”

“It’s fine,” Eris said, his tone halfway between irritation and amusement, but bowed his head for her anyway. “You always fuss.”

“Humor me,” she said, tugging at the edges of the crown, drawing a hiss from Eris when it snagged on his hair. “Sorry.”

Eris clasped her wrists and drew her hands away from his head, saying with mock sternness, “Enough torture for one day.”

“Oh, Eris,” Áine gasped. She knew he was only teasing, but she couldn’t bear to joke about such things. She had been horrified to see her firstborn, her sweet boy, splayed out on the filthy dank floor of the dungeon, clothes in tatters, bloody and bruised. And then he had screamed, and her insides had gone fiery, and she’d lashed out on instinct, wanting to claw the eyes from the awful monster who’d done that to him. No one will ever hurt my son again.

“Cauldron boil me,” Eris murmured, drawing an arm around her, and she realized she was shaking. “He’s dead, Mother. He can’t hurt us now.”

Áine stared up at his pale face, ghosting a hand over the smooth skin, the bruises and fractured cheekbone that she knew were glamoured away until they could fully heal. Eris’s eyes glowed, the full power of Autumn simmering behind them, and she sucked in a sharp breath at how beautiful it was.

She had spent centuries hating that power, for in Beron’s hands it had been punishing and cruel, a way to keep people trapped and afraid, a way to inflict pain. But fire could warm, and protect, as well as destroy. She hoped Eris would be able to wield it that way, despite his father’s example.

“Go, Eris,” Lucien murmured, stepping up to her other side and embracing her, his warmth replacing Eris’s at her back. “We’ll wait together.”

“Weren’t you heading back to the Night Court?” Eris asked, stepping back and straightening his emerald green jacket, rubbing a thumb over a gold button until the light reflected off it. Always impeccably dressed, concerned about appearances. She understood why, feeling both pride and a twinge of sadness, that her children had to move through the world this way, always on guard.

“Told Feyre I’d be a few more hours,” Lucien replied. “I couldn’t miss your first official assembly, High Lord.”

“Ah, sweet Feyre. She’s got her claws in you, brother,” Eris drawled.

“She has claws?’ Áine murmured worriedly.

Lucien sighed. “Thanks, Eris.” He patted her hand comfortingly. “Only when she shape-shifts.” Áine must have looked horrified, for he added, “Feyre isn’t that scary, is she?”

Áine grimaced. “I suppose not.”

She’d been relieved to find Feyre Cursebreaker friendly and welcoming, a far cry from the vengeful female who’d unleashed her searing wrath on Beron. But she still put Áine on edge with her incredible array of powers, her hot temper, and the loyalty she commanded from Lucien. She’d even managed to win Eris over, though Áine suspected that had as much to do with checking Rhysand’s power as with the Cursebreaker’s merits.

Áine thanked the Mother that Lucien’s mate was gentler, sweeter than the other Archeron sisters. Feyre and Nesta were powerful warriors, unyielding and hard, but Elain had a different kind of strength, the kind that sustained all the others, that made the world a place worth protecting.

Áine knew things were still tentative, that Elain was wary of the mating bond, but she knew firsthand how the bond could bloom over time, how the initial rush of lust and madness could mature into a flexible, gentle, nurturing love that could span centuries. It might be too much to hope for that all her surviving sons would experience such joy, but if any of them might achieve it, it would be her youngest, sweetest son, who’d been born of that very same love, and who’d suffered for it.

She reached up and patted his crown of flowers, still carefully arranged amongst his braids, a few gleaming golden leaves interspersed among them as a concession to his brother’s new position. Only Lucien could pull off such a decoration and look handsome rather than ridiculous.

The door creaked open, and a guard came out and bowed. “Ready, High Lord.”

A satisfied calm settled over Eris, and he turned to them with a faint smile curling one corner of his lip. “That’s me.”

“Mother spare us,” Lucien deadpanned, but inclined his head respectfully, adding, “It’s about time.”

“Think about my offer, little brother,” Eris said, then turned and strode past the guard into the throne room. The hall fell utterly silent and still as he entered, and then the door snicked shut behind him.

Áine’s heart swelled with pride at the respect he commanded. She knew how hard Eris had worked, how he’d had to maneuver around Beron, and she wondered who else had noticed.

Then she processed his parting words, and turned to Lucien in question. “What offer?”

Lucien sighed, his golden eye clicking softly. “Eris wants me to be an advisor and emissary.”

“You’d be perfect for that,” she said, smiling softly.

“I can’t, Mother. Not when I’m the heir to a different court,” Lucien said.

She frowned at that. “Rhysand and Feyre don’t seem to object to it.”

Lucien was silent for a long moment, then said, “Elain is Feyre’s sister. They’ve got me there. They know I’ll never act against their interests.”

“And Eris is your brother,” Áine countered.

“Autumn isn’t like that, Mother, and you know it,” Lucien said, twisting one of his braids between two long, slender fingers. Áine suppressed a chuckle, for the gesture reminded her so much of Helion, and she felt a little zing of excitement when she thought about the High Lord of Day and how she might see him freely now, even establish a permanent residence there, though part of her would always want to stay in Autumn to watch over Eris.

“Not under Beron,” she conceded. “Now things might be different.”

“Perhaps. But that kind of change takes time. Right now the biggest threat to Eris is his family, his brothers especially,” Lucien said.

Áine nodded, her smile slipping. Her second oldest son was sitting in a cell below them at this very moment, having tried to flee Autumn when he got word of Beron’s death. And her other two surviving sons were already in the throne room, each newly appointed governor of vast territories in exchange for their loyalty. She hoped they would be content, and not stir up trouble.

“But you’re no threat to Eris, if you’re heir to a different court,” Áine pointed out.

“The magic says otherwise,” Lucien said quietly, twirling a small orange flame around on a fingertip. “Callan and Erawan are good warriors, but they’ve got very little power between them. And Killian, well.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Eris wants to make an example of him.”

Áine shuddered. Part of her had known this was coming, but hadn’t wanted to accept it.

“Eris was almost tempted to spare him,” Lucien added, his voice dropping barely above a whisper, “but then he talked to the healers while they were tending him. They treat everyone, you know. And apparently, Killian’s had… incidents. With females.”

Áine’s stomach lurched, and she gasped, horrified. “That’s shameful.”

Lucien nodded gravely. “Beron never punished him. But Eris wants to make it clear that that sort of thing won’t be tolerated.”

Áine felt tears welling up in her eyes, both at the prospect of losing another son and the depravity of what he’d done, what Beron had cultivated in her boys. She’d been sick for days after finding out about the deaths of Tallon and Finn, after how they’d gleefully aided their father in murdering Lucien’s sweet lover and chased him from the territory. She’d never been able to look at Killian the same way again, knowing he’d been part of it too, only luckier than the others.

And now his luck had run out. No wonder he’d fled.

“So that leaves me as Eris’s heir,” Lucien was saying, with obvious distaste at the idea. “Unless there are other Vanserras we don’t know about.”

Áine shifted uncomfortably. “Beron had dalliances. It’s possible he fathered other children.”

“They’d be wise to stay away from the court, if any exist,” Lucien said. “For their own safety.” He fiddled with one of the flowers near his ear. “Though they might be emboldened by the fact that Eris hasn’t married or produced heirs of his own.”

“After that debacle with the Night Court princess, Beron saw no reason to push the issue,” Áine said. “And Eris never expressed strong interest in any female.”

“He’ll have his pick of partners now,” Lucien mused. “Unless the Cauldron has someone in store for him.” He smiled self-consciously. “I used to curse the Cauldron, you know. Thought it was playing a cruel joke on me.”

“Oh, Sunshine,” Áine said, clasping his hands. “I understand, but —“

The door creaked open, and the guard reappeared. “Lord Lucien. My lady. The High Lord requests your presence.”

Lucien offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

She nodded happily, resting her hand on him. “Let’s not keep the High Lord waiting.”

* * * * 

Everything hurt.

But Eris didn’t care. His mind was buzzing with the days’ events, his first full day as High Lord. He’d pushed aside the awareness of any pain from the healing gashes on his back, the dull ache behind his shattered cheekbone, in favor of pacing the halls of the Forest House with his mother and Lucien in tow, assembling the governors, rallying the troops, sending off missives to the other Courts announcing his ascension, scheduling meetings and all sorts of other things that blended together into a vibrating headache.

“Sit, darling,” his mother said gently. “The healers will be here any moment. I’ll settle Lucien into his room for the evening, and —“

“I can’t stay any longer, I promised I’d be back in a few hours, and that was almost a full day ago,” Lucien protested, his golden tan skin flushing a shade darker when Eris grinned wickedly at him and drawled, “Wouldn’t want your mate’s bed getting cold.”

“Not that it’s your business,” Lucien grumbled, glancing hastily at their mother, “but we are not sharing a bed.”

“Hm, makes sense, since Feyre Cursebreaker is sleeping there too. Don’t think Rhysand would appreciate that,” Eris smirked. “He doesn’t seem like the sharing type.”

“That’s vulgar, Eris,” Áine scolded, stepping in between them as Lucien snarled. “Don’t talk about Feyre Cursebreaker like that. And your brother’s mate either. Elain is a sweet girl. I knew the Cauldron would match him with someone wonderful.”

“The Cauldron has peculiar taste,” Eris mused, walking stiffly to the couch, wincing as he sat. “Don’t get me wrong, little brother, your mate is charming enough. But I find it interesting that it matches young females to much older, hardened males. Look at Feyre Cursebreaker. Was she even twenty when she was matched to Rhysand?”

“Feyre holds her own,” Lucien protested.

“He’s lived twenty five of her lifetimes.” Eris’s lips curled into a sneer. “Even if she’s got as much raw power, he’s had all those centuries to gather knowledge and personal connections, while she’s only had a few years of adulthood. You can’t tell me that’s balanced.” Eris turned to his mother. “At least you and Helion are of similar age and station in life.”

His mother said, “No one can help when or where they’re born, Eris.”

Lucien quipped, “Maybe we males just mature very slowly. Take you, for instance —”

There was a knock on the door, and Lucien strode off to get it.

“Lovesick pup,” Eris called after him.

“At your service,” Lucien said with a flourish, pulling the door open a small amount, then the rest of the way when he saw who it was. “Apollon, Iaso. It’s good to see you.”

Two healers strode in, and both bowed respectfully.

“Apologies for our lateness, we were just in the village attending a birth since Eileithyia’s away,” the older female said, her voice sweet and calming. “Goodness me, if it isn’t Lord Lucien. It’s been an age, dear one.” And she gave his hand a loving squeeze. “We never got a proper goodbye, did we.”

“Just Lucien,” the object of her attention mumbled, blushing. “And no, Iaso. I’m afraid we didn’t.”

“We were all sorry to hear what happened,” Iaso went on. “Jesminda was a dear girl. We never subscribed to your father’s wicked notions about so-called lesser fae, you know.” She turned, catching sight of Eris, and frowned. He was on the receiving end of that frown far too often, so he just grinned cockily at the old healer. “Look at you, High Lord. You’re in pain, don’t try to deny it. Have you been resting, as ordered?”

Eris waved the question away. There had been no way he could spend his first day in power convalescing. Can’t show weakness, not after all those years of Beron’s humiliations and shows of strength at my expense. “I can rest when matters are settled.”

The female folded her arms. “Drink this, then lie down.”

Eris accepted the vial of medicine, downed it in one gulp, then stretched out on the couch, stripping off his shirt to reveal the half-healed morass of welts, bruises and gashes that made the Lady’s face go pale and grave, while his brother just shook his head and pointedly looked away. Iaso fetched a pillow so that he could lay comfortably on his side. The two healers got to work cleaning Eris’s skin, and he hissed as the water from their washcloths made contact with his open wounds.

“You overdid it,” the younger male healer scolded Eris, “as you always do.”

“You’ll fix me up like new, Apollon,” Eris said blithely, “as you always do.”

Apollon rolled his eyes, for indeed this was a common occurrence. “You should have called us sooner.”

Eris said, “I wasn’t about to hide from my subjects on my first day in power.” He lifted his head and shoulders, suddenly remembering that he’d forgotten to schedule the agricultural council that was long overdue. The poverty in the surrounding towns to the Forest House had gotten worse during the War, and his proposal had been on Beron’s desk untouched for months. Finally, he could act without the stupid bastard obstructing him. He started to sit up, only to find Apollon blocking his way. “I have some business I need to attend to. We can do this later —“ Eris started to say.

“Lie down, High Lord.” The male gently pushed Eris back onto the couch, then kept a light hold on his shoulder as the older healer ghosted her hands over his body, grimly declaring, “You’ve reopened three of these wounds.”

“Eris! You didn’t tell us,” his mother cried.

“I didn’t realize. With all that new power, I guess I didn’t feel it,” Eris said, knowing full well how feeble the excuse sounded.

“You put on a brave face, but you can’t fool us,” snapped Iaso. “You push yourself too far. You’ll have to rest if you’re to heal properly.”

“The territory won’t run itself,” Eris argued.

“You’ll rest tonight, healer’s orders,” Iaso said, waggling a finger at him. He must have made a face, for she added, “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been patching your scrapes since you were a youngling. That time you leaped from the trees —“

“Please don’t remind me,” Áine winced.

“That was Killian’s fault. He pushed me. It was either leap, or plummet,” Eris reminded her.

Eris schooled his features to remain stoic as the healers began to smear ointment on him, though the pressure made his skin prickle and burn unpleasantly. He’d looked briefly at himself in the mirrors, noting how his lighter welts were already fading, but the deeper gashes still looked ugly and red against his pale freckled skin.

His mother gave a quiet sob, and he sighed inwardly at the unpleasantness of having to order Killian’s execution. But after what he’d done to Lucien, and all the other depredations he’d committed over the years, it was long overdue. Eris would never understand how his father allowed his sons to run roughshod over the population, lording their power over the common folk and taking liberties with the young females.

Áine must have looked sorrowful, for Lucien said, “It’s for the good of all, Mother. A necessary evil.”

“There’s nothing evil about it,” Eris said sternly. “He’s only reaping what he’s sown. Or have you forgotten how he wrestled you to your knees and held your head while Father —“

“I’ve never forgotten. Not for one fucking second,” Lucien snarled, then quickly added, “My apologies, Mother.” He bowed his head to the healer. “And to you, Iaso.”

That’s my brother, always the diplomat.

Iaso clucked, “I’m old, dear one. It’s naught I haven’t heard before. If I can stomach the mouth on this one” — here she patted Eris’s shoulder — “I’m sure I’m all right with you.”

“Careful, Iaso, he’s got a mate already,” Eris teased, half-grinning, half wincing as Apollon applied another layer of ointment to his back.

Iaso gave a high, gasping laugh. “Let an old female dream.”

Lucien looked like he might burst into flame from sheer embarrassment, until Apollon rescued him, saying, “This wound needs re-stitching.”

Eris cursed. He knew he’d flexed wrong, but hadn’t wanted to let on in front of the assembled crowd. “All right. Get it over with.”

“Lucien and I can go, if you need privacy,” Áine said, biting her lip to keep from crying. I’ll have to send her away when I carry out Killian’s punishment. I should write to Helion.

“I’m overdue back at Night anyway. But I’ll return when I can,” Lucien said. He nodded to Eris. “You had a good first day, I think.”

“It was good, wasn’t it,” Eris agreed, thankful that Lucien thought so. He’d been privy to enough courts’ inner workings that he would know. It was why Eris was determined to disentangle his brother from Rhysand and Feyre’s clutches, get him back at Autumn at least part time. It wouldn’t hurt to remind Callan and Erawan that they had competition, and he was tired of Night having the upper hand in every situation.

“I’ll walk out with you,” Áine said, discreetly wiping her eyes with her fingertips. Lucien produced a handkerchief from his pocket, and she dabbed her cheek with it, adding with a harder edge to her voice, “Then I’m going to burn all of Beron’s possessions.”

“That’s the spirit,” Eris said approvingly. Lucien’s metal eye whirred, seeming to agree.

Once they were gone, Eris settled back onto the couch, trying to ignore his discomfort as the healers worked him over. He’d been in this position far too many times, and he was weary of being patched up like new only to be ripped open again.

Not again. Beron is dead. He can’t hurt you now.

“Lucien works for the Night Court? I thought he was at Spring,” Iaso said.

“That was before the War,” Eris said. “He left when Hybern began to infiltrate. His mate was at the Night Court anyway. She’s a sister to Feyre Cursebreaker.”

“The Cursebreaker,” Apollon said reverently. “Have you met her? Is she beautiful?”

Iaso hissed, “What a question.”

“People say so.” Eris chuckled. “I didn’t know you liked females, Apollon.”

Apollon flushed bright pink. “I was just wondering.”

Iaso snapped, “Don’t embarrass him, High Lord. He’s a mated male.”

“Are you now? Congratulations,” Eris said, clenching his teeth harder as Iaso continued to stitch. “Think I met your mate once. It’s Hyacinthus, isn’t it?”

Apollon nodded, turning a darker shade of red.

“Now there’s a handsome male,” Iaso said. “You’re quite the pair. It was a beautiful ceremony.” She patted Eris’s shoulder, indicating that she was finished stitching. “Heard you had something to do with that rule change.”

“Father saw reason, once I pointed out that he would have more registered couples to charge the higher tax rate. With the war, we needed all the revenue we could get.” Eris sighed, gingerly shifting his body to a sitting position. “Which reminds me, I need to get in touch with all the governors and —“

“Not now you don’t,” Iaso said sternly, gathering up her supplies and dumping them back into her basket. “Now you rest.”

Eris opened his mouth to argue, but she added, “Go to bed, High Lord. No business before dawn. We’ll check on you tomorrow.”

Both healers bowed respectfully to him, and he waved impatiently at them. “None of that. Save it for when we’re in public.”

The healers departed, and Eris sank back onto the couch. He was finally alone, and he savored the quiet. The past twenty four hours had been a whirlwind, starting off with the terror of Beron threatening to torture his mother, and ending with his life’s ambition finally fulfilled. Only took five hundred fucking years. Who knew I could be so patient?

Now came the hard part — actually governing, doing all the things he’d spent his life planning and preparing for. He knew exactly how hard it would be, how much resistance he’d encounter. His father’s allies had done him a favor and left already, though they’d try to stir up trouble for him eventually. And he didn’t doubt his two fool brothers were scheming right now, calculating how to scoop up more influence for themselves. At least Lucien doesn’t want Autumn, he’s the only one who could hope to challenge my power.

Eris nearly laughed aloud. Never thought I’d see the day, but I’m glad Lucien had a different father.

He frowned, wondering when his mother would leave for Day. It was only a matter of time. He couldn’t expect her to stay, not after all the centuries she’d already sacrificed on his account. I should have done more to protect her. Should have insisted she leave sooner. But then she couldn’t have killed Beron…

Áine deserved to go. She deserved to be happy. Just because he would lose his staunchest ally, the one person he could really count on — he couldn’t be greedy. He had the power he’d always wanted, and no attachments in easy reach that could be used against him by his enemies.

Eris sighed, flicking off the fae lights, using a kernel of his power to light the fireplace. Then he settled into bed, in the shadowy darkness, hoping for a dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

No sooner had Lucien winnowed back into his apartment, exhausted and emotionally wrung out from spending the day at the Autumn Court, than something solid slammed into him, sending him backward several steps and knocking the wind out of him. He yelped, then chuckled, trying to hug Feyre back, though her grip on him, pinning his arms to his sides, made it difficult. “I haven’t been gone that long,” he quipped.

“You are in big trouble,” she scolded him, pulling back and looking him over critically.

“Well,” he stammered, his brows furrowing in confusion, “my note did say I needed a bit more time, my mother and Eris needed —“

“Not with me,” Feyre said, throwing a glance over her shoulder towards the kitchen. “With her.”

Oh. Lucien winced, then straightened his rumpled jacket as best as he could. “I… had better go talk to her,” he said.

“Yes, you better had,” Feyre said sagely. 

Lucien strode towards the kitchen, his heart starting to pound. He pushed the kitchen door open and slipped inside, and there was Elain at the counter, rolling pin in hand, flour up to her elbows, attacking a lump of dough.

“Baking bread?” he asked casually, carefully shutting the door behind him.

“Mmm-hmm,” she answered, without turning around, slamming the rolling pin against the dough forcefully. Then again.

“Well, I’m back,” Lucien said, then mentally rolled his eyes at himself. Stupid. She can see that.

“Are you?” Elain said, her words clipped. She tossed the rolling pin aside, then gathered up the dough with her fingers and began squashing it into a lump again.

Lucien found it difficult to form words, mesmerized as he was by her graceful rapid movements, but he forced himself to speak. “It took longer than I expected.”

Elain nodded, still keeping her back to him, and set the dough in the middle of her cutting board. Then she started pounding her fists into it, startling Lucien into a nervous laugh. But he cut off abruptly when Elain snapped, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

“Well, of course you are,” Elain said, aiming a punch towards the center of the dough, sending flour skittering into the air. “You were gone all day.”

Lucien dared a step toward her, holding out his hands in a placating gesture even though she was  pointedly not looking at him. “Things got hectic. I didn’t realize how late it was getting.”

Elain’s left fist drove into the dough so hard that it thunked onto the cutting board.

“You’re angry,” Lucien blurted.

She held her shoulders rigidly, her hand frozen in the middle of the dough, still staring away from him. “Why should I be angry,” she said flatly.

“I don’t know, but you are,” Lucien said, taking another tentative step toward her, then another. “I did send word I was running late. My notes to Feyre said —“

“Notes to Feyre,” Elain huffed, slamming her right fist into the dough, so that both hands were now buried in it. “Notes to Feyre.”

Cauldron boil me, she’s not… jealous? The very thought seemed so unlikely as to be ludicrous.

Up until a few days ago, he and Elain had gone months without even being in the same realm, much less in the same territory or building, and she’d avoided him on those rare occasions when they encountered each other. She liked him now, but he hadn’t dared to hope that she might actually miss him, or care who he wrote to. The idea that she’d be jealous of Feyre was alarming, and strangely thrilling.

“I thought she’d tell you —“ he protested.

“She did,” Elain said. “She told me. She gave me the message.” She yanked her hands out from the bread dough, waving them briskly in the air, flinging stray bits of sticky dough onto the counter, mumbling, “This needs flour.”

“I can do that,” Lucien said, striding forward and grabbing the sack of flour from the other side of the sink.

“Don’t help me,” Elain snapped, and he froze in mid-stride, clutching the sack in his fingers. After a moment, she huffed a sigh and turned her head, her braid whipping around her shoulder, and he almost dropped the bag when he saw that there were tears staining her cheeks.

“Cauldron, Elain,” he exclaimed, hastily plunking the sack down on the counter and reaching for her face.

“Don’t,” she choked out, shrinking back.

His hands dropped to his sides, and he swallowed hard. “Elain,” he gasped. “Please.”

“You made me care,” she said bitterly. “You made me care, and then you left.”

Lucien stared at her, at her large brown eyes filling with tears again, and said miserably, “It was only for —“

“—a few hours,” Elain cut in, swiping at her tears with her arm, smearing flour across her face. “That’s what you said it was going to be. You said you weren’t staying there.”

Lucien reached for his handkerchief to hand to her, then realized he’d given it to his mother. So he dared to step forward again, and touched her tears with his fingertips, smoothing them away, praying that Elain wouldn’t back away this time. Please, let me comfort you. “I didn’t think —“ he said feebly.

“No, you didn’t,” Elain said angrily, grabbing his wrist, pulling his hand away, then squeezing him tighter as she went on, “You didn’t think about me at all.”

“I did,” Lucien cried, reaching up his other hand to brush away another tear, and she grabbed his other wrist, gripping him so hard that her nails pressed into his skin. “I thought about you the whole time,” he told her, his own voice rising in desperation. “Every second.”

“Then why didn’t you come back?” she scolded, tugging on his wrists, lightly shaking him.

He stared at her, terror and longing mingling together, stammering, “My mother — Eris — they asked —“ He waved his hand vaguely, hoping she would understand. “I thought a few more hours wouldn’t matter. But I did come back. I’ll always come back.”

Elain’s fingers gentled, but she didn’t let go. “You sound like you’re leaving again,” she said accusingly.

“No!” Lucien said quickly. “I’m not. I won’t. Unless you want me to go. I’ll go if you want, or stay, or whatever you want, just tell me and I’ll—“

Elain cut him off, digging her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, yanking him down and kissing him.

Lucien’s hands flailed in the air for a moment as he reeled, overwhelmed by the rush of sensation of her kissing him. It wasn’t gentle and sweet this time, but angry, passionate, demanding, and his back hit the kitchen counter as Elain pressed against him. Then his hands slid down her shoulders, her back, drawing her closer, feeling her warmth, her softness, the curve where her waist met her hip.

“Elain,” he gasped, his breathing ragged, and then their mouths met again, and all words died away as she kissed him, and kissed him again, and every instinct he’d carefully suppressed and shoved away came roaring back, the mating bond squeezed almost painfully tight, clawing at him, dragging him toward her, demanding more, more, more.

Elain’s hands unfurled from his shirt and grabbed at his neck, his shoulders, then twined in his hair, tugging at his braids. She was breathing hard, clasping his cheeks in her hands, and she pulled back to stare into his eyes, searching for the answer to some unspoken question there. “Lucien,” she murmured against his lips, sending a shiver through him. “Lucien.”

“Yes,” he panted, not caring what she was asking, only that the answer was yes to whatever she wanted.

Elain’s pale skin was flushed rosy, her eyes sparkling. “You thought about me? While you were with your family?”

He almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of the question. “I always think about you,” he told her, smoothing her hair back behind her ears — her delicate pointed fae ears that she used to keep carefully hidden. His fingers trailed over the arch, the pointed tip, and then down to where she was wearing an earring. A pearl earring.

Something deep inside him stirred at that, at seeing his Solstice gift softly shining on her earlobe, and he ran a finger over it, gasping out, “Beautiful.”

Then he lifted her hair away from her other ear, revealing the other pearl gleaming under the kitchen lights, and he leaned close, pressing a kiss to her jaw, next to her ear, and he whispered, “I’ve never stopped thinking about you. Not even when it seemed hopeless. Not even when you hated me —“

“I never hated you,” Elain protested. “It was never about you.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him close, and he breathed in deeply, letting her honey and lavender scent settle around him. “I hated being fae. I hated the idea of it, and having a mate was part of that,” she said, stroking the back of his neck with those delicate fingertips. “And I knew what would happen if I let you come near me.”

He couldn’t resist asking, “What would happen?”

“I would feel things,” Elain said, her breath tingly against his skin. “Want things. And I wasn’t ready to feel or want anything. I was just trying to survive.”

“You suffered so much,” Lucien whispered, tightening his embrace around her. “I wish I could have been there to support you. Help you.”

“You helped me by giving me space,” Elain said, “giving me time.”

The gift of my absence. Lucien knew what she meant, but it pained him anyway. She was better off without me. He looked down at her, so near, so warm and soft and lovely, and he fervently hoped things were different now, that she wouldn’t decide that she really was better off without him after all.

Elain twined one of his braids around her finger, tugging gently, a little pang of sharp pleasure prickling at his scalp. “Hey,” she said, looking up at him, “what were you thinking just now? It felt sad.”

Lucien pressed a kiss to her brow, saying, “Just reminding myself not to take you for granted.” Then he winced, remembering how angry she’d been earlier. “Like I did today. I am sorry about that.” He squeezed her gently.

A smile bloomed on Elain’s lips, and she reached up to run her fingers along one of his braids. “You’re still wearing them.”

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the flowers she’d threaded into his hair. “They were the envy of the whole Autumn court,” he said, only half-joking. He knew he’d gotten more than a few stray looks from Eris’s courtiers, that he’d be the subject of whispers and gossip for weeks to come. Imagine if I brought Elain with me next time. He knew she’d charm everyone, have a dozen new friends by the end of the day, and double that many admirers.

The idea of Elain stepping foot in Autumn had once terrified him — the thought that she might fall into Beron’s clutches, that the bastard would find some way to use her against Lucien. Beron is dead. He can’t hurt us anymore.

“You can tell me all about it while you help me with this dough,” Elain said, sliding around him so that she was cuddled up next to him, arms slung around his middle. “With your muscles, I bet you could knead it in no time.”

Lucien’s ability to form words momentarily stuttered out, distracted as he was by the feel of her curves pressing into him, her talk of his muscles, but he managed to say, “My muscles are at your service. As long as you’re here to supervise me.”

Elain laughed, a delicious fluttery sound. “There’s a lot to do. You might regret saying that.”

“No,” Lucien assured her, rolling up his sleeves, “no, I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Rhys ducked, and a miniature pegasus flew over his head.

What the actual fuck —

“Nesta?” he called out, swiping a hand through his hair to be sure it hadn’t deposited any feathers or droppings on him. Then he sent out a tendril of his magic, seeking the eldest Archeron, but found that his power fizzled out rather than penetrating the House’s wards. 

Figures. She’s keeping me and my magic out.

Rhys grimaced. The House of Wind had been passed down from his ancestors for generations, only to wind up defecting. Nesta had Made it, or awoken it, and now it answered solely to her.

Maybe I shouldn’t be going inside, even if she invites me in.

The door opened, and a copper-haired priestess in a soft blue robe, brandishing a parasol in one hand and a broad-brimmed hat in the other, came rushing out, calling, “Calliope! Where did you fly off to?”

She skidded to a halt when she saw Rhys, and blushed deeply. “Oh! Um, I —“ Her gaze flicked around the terrace, still searching for the pegasus, which had alighted in the far corner and was happily munching on a stray patch of grass, which was somehow growing directly out of the sandstone.

What the hell has Nesta done to this place?

Rhys shook the thought off, and smiled at the nervous female in front of him. “Hello, Gwyn.”

Strains of sweet music wafted out from the opened door, and Rhys craned his head to see better, then was nearly smacked in the face by a stream of bubbles, each with a tiny bird fluttering inside. “What the — what is going on in there?” he exclaimed, shielding, letting the bubbles bounce off. He sensed that Nesta or the House itself would strike him down if he swatted at the delicate birds.

“We’re having a sleepover,” Gwyn said, in that lilting, musical voice of hers. “I just came out to get Calliope. And, well —“

Several frogs hopped through the opened door, then stood up on their hind legs and began to dance. Gwyn broke off, staring at the frogs, and stammered, “We… may have gotten a little carried away.”

Rhys dared a step forward, and almost burst out laughing when he saw the tables cluttered with bowls of whipped cream and raspberries, platters of cheeses and fruits, water and juices, fountains of chocolate, cookies, finger cakes, a pile of what looked to be thick books with pink and red covers — romance novels, he guessed — and a huge cake lit with candles. And, for some reason, three bathtubs.

I don’t want to know.

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets, trying to stay focused on his reason for visiting.

“It looks delightful,” he said, hoping to put the priestess at ease. He knew Gwyn’s history, that she rarely left the library, that she’d started training with Nesta because she had been victimized by Hybern and wanted to feel empowered and strong. A dancing frog hopped onto his boot, and he suppressed the urge to shake it off. “I was hoping to talk to Nesta for a few minutes,” he added.

A hint of crackling energy fizzed through Gwyn as she drew herself up, her teal eyes looking forthrightly into his. “I’m not sure about that,” she said, with a harder edge to her voice than she’d dared to use with him before.

“Gwyn?” An Illyrian female ducked her head out of the doorway, her diamond crown glinting in the moonlight, multiple strings of pearls dangling from her neck. “Nesta wants to know if — oh. Lord Rhysand!” And she inclined her head respectfully.

Rhys carefully averted his eyes from her scarred wings, reflecting that he deserved no such respect, not when he’d so thoroughly failed to protect her. “Hello, Emerie.”

Gwyn turned to her friend, sliding her absurdly large hat back on as she spoke. “Do you think Nesta…?” Her question trailed off as she glanced back to Rhys, and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. It was an unfamiliar sensation, being kept waiting, and he tried not to let his indignation or impatience show.

Remember why you came here in the first place.

Emerie’s eyes swept over him, then back to her friend. Then back to him.

I’m making them nervous.

“I can go, I’m obviously interrupting something,” Rhys said quickly.

“I’ll just check,” Emerie said carefully, then ducked back inside, the door snicking shut behind her.

“So… a pegasus,” Rhys commented.

Gwyn beamed. “She’s cute, isn’t she? Her name’s Calliope.” She giggled a bit, then fiddled with a bracelet of threads on her wrist. “And here I thought we’d need to string bracelets to keep ourselves occupied. I had no idea the House was so generous.”

Me neither.

Gwyn took a few steps forward, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Is it true what they’re saying, that the High Lord of Autumn is dead?”

Rhys nodded, startled at the abrupt change in topic. “Indeed it is.” He looked at her more closely — the coppery hair, the pale freckled complexion. “You’re from Autumn, aren’t you.”

“Indeed, both my father and grandfather. Whoever they were,” Gwyn shrugged. “I heard the new High Lord is haughty and cruel.”

“Among other things,” Rhys agreed, smirking at that description of Eris Vanserra, the clever bastard. Once Mor’s betrothal was broken, Rhys had never thought he’d have to deal with so many Vanserras on such a regular basis, but they seemed to be everywhere these days.

The door to the House opened on its own, and a cold chill crawled down Rhys’s spine as Nesta Archeron strode out.

“Come in,” she said, her voice flat and hard.

Gwyn threw Rhys a look that could only be described as pitying. “I’ll just… come, Calliope,” she called to the pegasus, who bounded over to her, then raced ahead of her through the door. Gwyn followed it, whispering something to Nesta on her way in.

Rhys cleared his throat. “Nesta, I —“

“Inside,” she barked, then strode back into the House, the room beyond instantly clearing as she entered it. Rhys followed, feeling the wards prickle and bite against his skin as he entered.

Gwyn and Emerie had disappeared behind another door, the tables of desserts and bubbles and bathtubs with them, and two chairs had appeared in the empty room. Nesta sat stiffly in the more plush and comfortable of the two, and Rhys willed his fingers not to tremble as he grasped the other and pulled it towards him. He had the distinct feeling that the House was displeased with him, that the air was too heavy and oppressive, and he had the sudden urge to spring his wings out, fly away, winnow, do something — but he felt stifled, trapped.

Nesta noted his discomfort, and leered, “Magic won’t work in here. If you want to leave, Rhysand, you can always take the ten thousand steps.” Her eyes flashed in challenge.

This place is a prison.

Rhys was struck forcefully by the overwhelming feeling of being confined — how impossibly far away Velaris was. How terrifying it would be to walk down those steps, with no safety net of wings to catch your fall or winnowing safely to the ground. How it would feel to know that if you fell, you would plummet and slide, smacking an elbow or knee or forehead on the way down, and that it would be miles in either direction to drag yourself out.

“Nesta,” he said, willing his voice to be calm, not fearful, but not confrontational either. 

“I let you in because Feyre asked me to,” she went on, each word clipped, precise, calculated. “But the House is ready to act, if you threaten me.”

“I won’t,” he said hastily, “I would never.”

“But you have,” she said, rising from her chair and folding her arms across her chest, the threaded bracelet on her wrist seeming to glow from the center. “You threatened to kill me.”

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, stumbling forward as the chair dematerialized from underneath him, dumping him onto his knees. “Nesta, I’m ashamed that I crossed that line. I wasn’t going to really do it, but I shouldn’t have said it —“

“Cassian took you seriously,” Nesta said, taking a step closer, towering over him like an angry queen. “He grabbed me and flew away like you were going to come chase after me.”

Rhys bowed his head. “I’ll apologize to him too. It was wrong. I was wrong.”

Nesta’s face was as stony as the mountain the House had been carved from. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be at the mercy of someone else’s overwhelming power, to feel like your life could be crushed at any moment at someone’s whim?”

The magic in the room began to pulse, and Rhys’s heart pounded along with it. He yanked back on his own power, rising up to counteract it, for the more he pushed against it, the more the room seemed to shrink around him, caging him in. Yes. I do know what it’s like, he thought, his memories of Under the Mountain threatening to rise up and engulf him. His eyes slid to the floor — the bare, plain floor.

This is the House of Wind. Not Under the Mountain.

She’s not Amarantha. She won’t — she won’t — 

He breathed hard, willing himself not to panic, his hands splaying out on the ground, and he gasped, “Nesta — if I ever made you feel like that — I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel that way.”

“Good,” Nesta said, and the room settled back into stillness, the air growing lighter, and Rhys’s breathing evened out. “Because I’m done feeling that way. Around you, and around everyone in your court.” She slid back into the chair, and Rhys cast his hands around without really seeing what he was reaching for. When his hands found the wooden legs of his chair, rematerialized next to him, he gripped it and hoisted himself back up, still focusing on breathing in and out.

“I know I’m a bitch,” Nesta declared, and his eyes shot up to hers in alarm. She laughed, a snorting, grating sound, so at odds with her elegant appearance. “I know I’m rude. Difficult. Ungrateful. But if I were one of your Illyrian warriors, rather than a female in a gown, you wouldn’t think twice about it.”

“You are Illyrian,” Rhys shot back, forgetting his fear. “It’s why it bothered me so much when you didn’t step in for Feyre all that time —”

“Unlike Elain, who can do no wrong,” Nesta snapped.

Rhys twirled his hand vaguely in the air. “Elain is… Elain.”

“She certainly is,” Nesta smirked, crossing one leg over the other, perching elegantly on the chair. “And I’m not suggesting that you go after her as you did to me. Because if you do —”

“Never,” Rhys blurted. “I won’t go after either of you.” He hung his head. “I don’t expect you to believe me now. Just, give me the opportunity to prove it? Make it up to you?”

“Just do right by my sister,” Nesta said, “and I’ll consider us even.”

“I will,” he said, nodding vigorously.

Nesta rose, then inclined her head. “Thank you, Rhysand.”

Suddenly he was back outside, with no idea how he got there, and he closed his eyes, breathing and breathing until he’d fully calmed. Inside, the music started up again, and he imagined that the tables of cakes and chocolate were back, and the dancing frogs, and the pegasus and all of it.

Rhys summoned his wings, nearly shedding tears of relief when they appeared, and took off into the night over Velaris.

Chapter Text

Tamlin yanked on a stubborn knot in his hair, debating whether to just cut it off entirely, when the wards of the manor glittered in the corner of his vision. Wasn’t expecting visitors.

“Rhysand,” he growled, thundering down the stairs towards the open front door, “if you’re here to brawl again, I’m warning you, I won’t hold back —“

“By the Cauldron, Tam,” a voice drawled, and he tensed as he recognized it. “That’s the one and only time I’ve ever been mistaken for Rhys. Should I be insulted?”

Tamlin drew himself up stiffly, in no fucking mood for witty banter. “Lucien.”

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Lucien muttered, and Tamlin took a step to the side, flinging out an arm to indicate that he could enter. Lucien’s mechanical eye roved around, clicking and whirring, as he strode into the room, remarking, “Looks better.”

Don’t need your fucking pity, Tamlin almost growled at him. Really, he was sick of this game, where people showed up on his doorstep pretending that they hadn’t thoroughly fucked him over, hadn’t actively schemed against him, betrayed him, abandoned him, then were shocked — shocked! — to find him struggling.

Oh, Lucien had explained. And explained some more. Of course he had to go where his mate was. Of course he had to protect Feyre on her oh-so-perilous journey. Of course he hadn’t had time to say goodbye, or thank you for all Tamlin’s help and protection over the years. Of course Tamlin would just forget all about it, ignore the fact that Lucien had defected, handed himself over to Tamlin’s worst enemy.

Tamlin was no diplomat, no courtier. He had no patience for pretending, for clever words. He got too angry, too heated, let his temper show. So he stalked past Lucien towards his usual chair, barely bothering to rein in his disgust.

Lucien followed, wary, calculating. Always calculating. Tamlin wanted to scream.

Instead, he said tightly, “I suppose this is about Eris. I got his letter.”

Lucien shook his head, though his skin seemed to glow faintly at the mention of his brother’s rise to power. “Actually, it isn’t. But what an early Solstice present.”

Tamlin nodded. On that, at least, they could agree. Beron Vanserra had been a miserable bastard, sour and cruel, and reminded Tamlin far too much of his own asshole father. It was always something worth noting when justice was served, even if it was centuries late. Even if all they could do was kill, deliver vengeance, not bring back the ones who deserved to live.

Tamlin might have relaxed, settled in to talk about shitty fathers and vengeance long delayed, and they could have had a civil conversation. But Lucien went on, “I’m actually here to talk about Feyre.”

Tamlin jumped to his feet, talons punching out of his fingers. “No.”

“Tam —“

“No.” He couldn’t take that, not just now. Tamlin strode to the door and flung it open, then whirled around to Lucien, gesturing to it. “Get out.”

“Tamlin.”

“I said no.” Tamlin scraped his fingers down the edge of the wall, leaving a long jagged trail of claw marks in his wake. “Now get out before I throw you out.”

Lucien sighed and leaned back, making no move to obey. “I suppose I have Rhys to thank for this. Eris told me what happened —”

“Get. Out,” Tamlin growled at him.

And Lucien growled back.

Tamlin was gobsmacked. He’s provoking me? “You’re out of your mind, if you think that’s wise,” he rasped.

“Oh, I know it isn’t,” Lucien snapped, “believe me. I’ve been on the receiving end of your temper enough times.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Tamlin asked, his voice rising. Don’t slash him to shreds.

“What it fucking sounds like.” The idiot was on his feet now, fire wreathed in one palm, glowing with a strange light Tamlin hadn’t seen before. “You want to snarl and snap at me? Fine. I’m still saying what I came here to say.”

“Lucien, do not test me,” Tamlin thundered. “Do not push me any further.”

Lucien set his mouth in a tight line. “You’ve threatened me for the last time.”

Tamlin gaped at him, anger and disbelief warring within him.

Lucien noted the hesitation and laughed, though it was hollow and bitter, not triumphant. “Did you know I’m the heir to two courts, Tam? Two. And I don’t want either.”

The fire jumped to his other palm, and he spun it in a circle, mixing in orange flames with yellow, then red, then a streak of blue. Tamlin yielded a step, stunned by the display. He’s never had that much magic before.

“But here I am. Too much power and nothing to do with it.” He snapped his hand shut, extinguishing the fireball, and smiled grimly. “Except have it out with you, once and for all. So come on. Tell me what you’re going to do to me if I don’t back down. Let me see you fucking try it.”

Tamlin felt the rage rising in him, felt his canines lengthening and an unholy snarl rippling from deep in his throat. “Come on, old friend,” Lucien goaded him, with a snarl of his own. “You’ve wanted this fight since the day I left this place.”

“Left this place,” Tamlin scoffed. “Like you left the manor. Not me.”

“There it is,” Lucien huffed. “Knew it. And you told Eris you weren’t pissed at me.”

“I wasn’t,” Tamlin gritted out. “Until you threw Feyre’s name in my face.”

“Can we not make this about Feyre, for once?” Lucien shouted in exasperation.

“You made it about her when you chose her over me,” Tamlin shouted, balling his fists up tightly before he was too tempted to take a swing at Lucien’s smug face. “And that was after she toppled my court, after she ruined everything I worked so hard to build and protect.”

“She and I have had our conflicts over that,” Lucien exclaimed, “believe me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Tamlin shot back. “Because you fucking lied to me.”

“Lied?” Lucien’s russet eye blazed with fire.

“Lied. Hid the truth. Whatever,” Tamlin persisted. “You must have known Feyre was up to something, yet you said nothing about it.”

Lucien threw up his hands. “What was I supposed to do? She held all the cards, Tam. They had my mate —”

“So you sacrificed this court for one female you barely knew,” Tamlin raged.

“No, Tam, you did that,” Lucien yelled back. “And not just your court, but all of Prythian.”

Tamlin roared, and charged.

He slammed Lucien down to the floorboards, snarling and snapping his teeth, then hissed as Lucien shoved him, hard, sending him tumbling backwards. Furniture crashed as they tumbled and rolled, shards of glass and splinters of wood flying as Tamlin’s bellow shook the room. Lucien’s flames burst out, singeing Tamlin’s hair and clothes, and he had to avoid grabbing Lucien anywhere with exposed skin so as not to burn his palms.

“Fucking — asshole,” Tamlin barked, swinging and hitting a solid wall of light.

“Selfish — bastard,” Lucien huffed, hefting a kick at Tamlin’s knees, almost sending him sprawling.

“Drop that shield and I’ll fight you properly,” Tamlin growled at him.

“Why, don’t think we’re even?” Lucien taunted him, scrambling back to his feet, dropping into a fighting stance as Tamlin approached.

“Oh, we’ll be even after this,” Tamlin promised darkly, staring into the furious face of the male he’d once called his friend. “After what you did to me —“

“Always with that fucking narrative. You’re almost as bad as Feyre was,” Lucien groaned, little flickers of light bursting at his fingertips. Tamlin stared at it, transfixed, having no idea where Lucien might come by such a power, or what it could do if it was aimed properly.

Then that weapon of words found its mark. You’re almost as bad as Feyre was.

“What is that supposed to mean,” Tamlin gasped, his talons clacking against one another as his fingers curled into fists.

“She punished me for every mistake we made, and some that were all you, High Lord,” Lucien cried. “And you’ve done the same gods-damned thing. You both sacrificed this court, for your own selfish reasons. I still don’t get what either of you were thinking.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, that single motion betraying exactly how tired he was, how much the fight had taken out of him.

Tamlin threw himself into a chair, slumping from exhaustion. “I was thinking that Rhys was controlling her addled mind. Just like she pretended at Hybern.”

“Is that what Ianthe told you?” Lucien asked, his voice suddenly deadly soft. Tamlin looked up to see that the male had collapsed onto the couch, still glowing faintly with spent magic.

“What’s Ianthe got to do with it?” Tamlin countered, though an uncomfortable feeling was prickling at the base of his neck.

“Hmm, let’s see,” drawled Lucien. “First she sold out Feyre’s sisters to Hybern. Then she let fucking naga into the manor, framing one of your sentries. Then she poisoned us all with faebane, and attacked me in the forest, and —“

“Wait. What?” Tamlin was out of his seat and perched over Lucien in a heartbeat, staring down at the male’s disheveled hair that still held the remnants of carefully picked flowers. Tamlin dismissed that, refocusing on what the male had let slip. Attacked me in the forest.

Lucien waved a hand in feigned carelessness. “She’s dead, it doesn’t matter —“

“What. Happened,” Tamlin gritted out, then realized he was looming over Lucien, throwing around his weight as High Lord again, and stalked a few paces away. Then he turned back around, forcing his tone to be gentler, less demanding. “Lucien, what did she do.”

Lucien flushed red, muttering, “She didn’t get to do anything. Feyre found me in time.”

When Tamlin just stared at him, thoroughly confused, Lucien made an exasperated noise in the back of his throat. “Your childhood friend, your holy High Priestess? She was a predator, Tam. She thought herself entitled to take anything she wanted. Or…” He swallowed. “Or anyone.”

Tamlin struggled to parse the hints woven into Lucien’s words, but came up empty. He’d thought Ianthe an ally, a stalwart friend when he’d been deserted by others, and this version of her that took things that didn’t belong to her… He had a queasy feeling that he shouldn’t ask, but that he’d missed something crucial, something shameful that she’d done.

“That hand she smashed,” he mused, scratching self-consciously at the back of his neck, as though that would relieve the tension that was building there. “I never found out how that happened.”

“Feyre made her do it,” Lucien said, shuddering at the memory.

Tamlin blanched. “Feyre can do that?”

Lucien laughed mirthlessly. “Feyre can do a lot of things.” But then he shook his head, saying, “She saved me from Ianthe. Then again from those Hybern snakes. They would have killed me, if she hadn’t been there.”

Now it was Tamlin’s turn to shudder. “And I invited them here.”

Lucien’s mechanical eye seemed to sparkle as it zoomed in on him.

“I didn’t know they were going to do that,” Tamlin protested, though it sounded ridiculous even as he said it. “I didn’t know any of it.”

“I know you didn’t. But I was in danger here. From them, from her, from all of it. And I needed to find my mate again, and…” Lucien shrugged. “Believe me, there were many times I regretted it.”

That part of the story Tamlin knew. How Lucien’s mate had dismissed him so thoroughly that he could barely stand to be in the same territory with her. It had given him some small vicious comfort, that Lucien’s betrayal had led to bitterness and rejection and public humiliation.

Just like mine.

But what suffering had gone on here, with a female Tamlin had implicitly trusted?

Tamlin said, “I would have dismissed Ianthe, made her leave, if I’d known she was — whatever she was doing.”

“Would you, though?” Lucien eyed him shrewdly.

Tamlin’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “I honestly don’t know.”

It wasn’t a good answer. But it was the truth.

“I left you,” Lucien said, with quiet vehemence. “But you left me first. You left all of us exposed to that Hybern filth, that fucking priestess. You used to run yourself ragged protecting this place and its people from harm, and you sold it all out.”

“I didn’t protect Feyre when it counted,” Tamlin said miserably. “She died Under the Mountain. Of all people, you know what that’s like. To see your beloved slaughtered right before your eyes.  And then to have her back, only to be stolen away by that monster — What wouldn’t you have done to save Jesminda, if you could?”

Lucien’s head tipped back toward the ceiling as he seemed to melt into the couch, whooshing out a long breath. “Gods, Tam, don’t ask me that.”

Tamlin sighed, running a talon up and down the length of his armrest, peeling off little curls of wood with each stroke. “Everyone’s forgotten what he did to her Under the Mountain. Or they don’t care. But I remember, because he did it to hurt me. He shoved it under my nose every chance he got.” He felt the bile rising in his throat, the hot rage threatening to engulf him, and dug his talon in harder, splintering the armrest. “Rhys likes to play the hero now, but he enjoyed that shit. Degrading her like that, to make me suffer.”

“I don’t know what he felt, but I’m not going to defend him,” Lucien said wearily, propping himself up on his elbows to look at Tamlin. “Your feud with him should have been settled long ago. Tangling Feyre up in the middle of it was all sorts of wrong.”

“And now she’s having his baby,” Tamlin spat.

“That’s what I came to talk to you about,” Lucien said, swinging his legs around so that his boots hit the floor, and he stood up briskly, withdrawing a folded piece of paper from his pocket.

Tamlin frowned at it, then up at Lucien. “A letter?”

“An offer,” Lucien clarified, poking the paper towards him. “An alliance.”

Tamlin sputtered, “A what?”

“From the High Lady,” Lucien said, slipping into a formal diplomatic tone. “She proposes a treaty.”

“You’re joking.” Tamlin’s mind was racing, trying to understand.

“No.” Lucien wiggled the paper in front of him. 

Tamlin snatched the letter from Lucien’s hand. He unfolded it with clumsy fingers, rapidly scanning the contents. “She wrote this?”

“She did,” Lucien said. “And if I were you, I’d consider it.”

Tamlin’s brows furrowed, and he let his hand with the paper drop into his lap as he fixed Lucien with a skeptical look. “She’s serious?”

Lucien nodded tightly.

“A formal alliance,” Tamlin breathed, shaking his head at it. “With a joint emissary.”

“You’d be stuck with me, I’m afraid,” Lucien joked. But his expression turned contemplative. “It’s really the best solution, if we’re going to maintain peace and our borders. Autumn has joined. So has Day. And I don’t see why the other courts wouldn’t.”

“How’d you get Day involved?” Tamlin wondered, suddenly remembering the strange light sparking at Lucien’s fingertips.

Lucien saw his confusion and smiled wryly. “Helion is my father.”

Tamlin fell into a shocked silence, and Lucien chuckled. “That was about my reaction, too. It’s good, Tam. You know what a bastard Beron was. It was a massive relief, not being his after all.”

“No wonder Eris let you live,” Tamlin said, regaining his ability to speak words, though his thoughts were still reeling. “He must have known it.”

“He did. And kept it secret.” Lucien’s mechanical eye buzzed, and he blinked a few times, reining it in. “I’ll tell you the full tale some other time. Suffice it to say, Helion now knows, and so do I.”

Tamlin rubbed the spot on the back of his neck again, trying to process all the implications. “This joint emissary position… You found a way to affiliate yourself with both your father and brother.”

“And Feyre,” Lucien said. “And you, if you’re open to it.”

“It doesn’t make sense, though. Why include me?” Tamlin asked.

“It was Eris’s idea, actually,” Lucien said. “You share a border. He wants a formal way to bother you about defending it. And apparently, you impressed him when you brawled with Rhys in the garden.”

Tamlin huffed a small laugh at that. “I had to completely replant it.”

“I bet you did.” Lucien’s russet eye sparkled with amusement. “But Feyre wants you part of it, too. She’s got her son to think about. She doesn’t want this bad blood between you all extending to another generation.”

Tamlin tried to steel himself, to think about diplomacy and borders, and not Feyre cradling a sweet baby in her arms, smiling warmly, humming lullabies from the mortal lands. It was a vision he’d had of her many times, but in all his dreams, it had been his babe, not —

“Fine,” he said curtly.

Lucien’s eye clicked at him. “Fine?”

“Yes,” Tamlin said, his voice straining as he shoved those emotions down.

“Don’t you want to know if —“

“No.” Tamlin shoved up from the chair and paced aimlessly around the room, using his magic to reset the furniture they’d toppled and shoved about during their argument.

“You wouldn’t have to deal with Rhys much, if that helps,” Lucien said, his tone conciliatory. “Only at the occasional summit.”

Tamlin stared out the window into the garden, without really seeing it. “If it means he stops showing up here to gloat and preen, so much the better.”

“I can’t make promises,” Lucien said. “But it’s likely.”

Tamlin turned to face him. “You’re really doing this.”

“You’re surprised?” Lucien reached up into his hair and tucked a loose flower back into place. He noticed Tamlin’s questioning look, and laughed softly. “Turns out my mate loves flowers.”

“She accepted the mating bond?” Tamlin asked, surprised that he hadn’t scented it.

“We’re not up to that. Maybe someday,” Lucien said carefully, as if trying to tell himself that as well as explain it to Tamlin. “For now, she’s tolerating me.” And he flushed with golden light in a way that made Tamlin’s heart clench.

He’s happy.

It was a profound relief, and a punch to the gut.

Tamlin kicked himself for the jealous reaction, knowing he should feel happy for Lucien, especially after all he’d been through. He’d often noted Lucien’s sorrow, buried deep under layers of irreverence and fatalistic humor, and wished he could do something about it. That had been before his own soul had been so thoroughly shattered, before he’d plunged down the path towards ruin and despair, chasing a cursed happiness of his own.

He said gruffly, “I hope she is… good.”

I hope she doesn’t take your heart and stomp on it, then throw it in your face.

“She is,” Lucien said reverently. Then he shook his head briskly, as if trying to clear his mind. “So, I can inform the others that you’re joining them?”

Tamlin nodded stiffly. “Send my thanks to Eris, especially.”

“You can thank him yourself, at his coronation,” Lucien said, retrieving a second piece of paper, a formal-looking scroll that must have been enchanted, because it was utterly unwrinkled or torn even after being in his pocket during their fight.

Tamlin accepted the scroll without looking at it. “I will.”

Lucien’s eye clicked again, and then he took a step back. “I’ll see you then—“

“Lucien.” Tamlin’s hand shot out and snagged his friend’s arm before he quite knew what he was going to say. Lucien made no move to shove him off, just looked up at him, his eye gleaming with some emotion that Tamlin couldn’t quite name.

So he kept talking. “I… regret what happened. With Hybern, and Ianthe, and all of it.”

Lucien swallowed, then said, “I’m sorry too. I wish things had been different.”

Tamlin’s lips formed what he hoped was something like a smile. “Maybe they still can be.”

Chapter Text

Keir shoved his way through the throng of dancers, gyrating to some pulsing musical monstrosity that he wished the musicians would forget how to play, and yanked hard on his wife’s arm. “Ernmas,” he barked, “what are you doing here? This is highly improper.”

To his shock, his wife laughed — laughed — and kept dancing, flinging her arms around her two friends, who were both writhing and shimmying along to the relentless beat. “Ériu’s just had a granddaughter,” his wife called carelessly over her shoulder, “and Fódla’s son is returned from his long imprisonment, and we want to celebrate.”

“What? After curfew?” Keir exclaimed, then suddenly realized they were in a crowd, many of whom had started to stare as the song ended and their argument grew louder. “Ernmas, come with me. Now,” he hissed, extending his hand as if he would grip her arm again and pull her along. When she didn’t comply, he sputtered, “You did not obtain my permission to be out of our apartments after hours, and —“

“Lord Keir, surely you’ve heard,” Fódla retorted, grabbing his wife and tugging her out of his reach. “Curfew was abolished.”

Keir could feel the blood draining from his face as he turned in a slow circle, taking in the sheer number of females on the dance floor, some in modest daytime attire, some in sparkling gossamer numbers that left little to the imagination. Some were dancing with husbands, a few with partners that Keir thought might be new betrothals, but many were in groups of females only, nary a chaperone or authority figure in sight.

This is an actual nightmare. I am dreaming.

“Curfew was not abolished,” he spat, glaring at Fódla, who’d always been trouble. He’d long suspected that it was her bad example that had debauched his daughter, that her persistent defiance and petulance had rubbed off on Morrigan. He’d forbidden his wife from seeing her many times, but always relented after Ernmas was suitably apologetic. “And what do you mean, your son has returned? I was not informed.”

The musicians struck up another tune, loud and heart-poundingly rapid, and Keir made a cutting motion with his hand to signal them to knock it off. The crowd groaned as the music cut off abruptly, then applauded as the same song started over again, though a bit quieter. Keir glared over at the musicians, who all seemed to be studiously reading their sheet music and wouldn’t make eye contact with him.

I’ll be having a chat with them in the morning.

“But it’s part of our new alliance, everyone knows about it,” Fódla said, jutting out her hips from side to side in time to the music. “It was one of the High Lady’s terms — a general amnesty for all prisoners held at other courts. My poor Cían has languished in Autumn’s dungeons for years, and oh! How wonderful to have him home.”

“All hail the High Lady,” cheered Ériu, and the surrounding revelers took up the chant.

Keir gritted his teeth and faced the group. “You are all violating our court’s longstanding rules. Your husbands will hear of this —“

“Our husbands are right over there,” another female in a glittery gown tittered to him, pointing a hand laden with rings at a sullen-looking group of males lingering by the buffet.

Keir inwardly cringed, knowing he’d have to go over there and find out what was what, and turned back to the bejeweled female, stating sternly, “Lady Thanatos, this is most unbecoming.”

Lady Thanatos threw her head back and laughed. “I’m not being a lady tonight. Call me Ceto.” She drew her arm around a much younger female, who shrank back when she saw Keir’s murderous glare, but then tsked, “Dear Hesperia, don’t be shy. You’ve met our friend Keir before.”

“Many times,” the younger female said meekly, lowering her eyes.

“Child! Come dance with us,” his wife cried out, extending both of her hands. “Don’t let my husband put you off. He’s always hated dancing.” And she tugged the younger female forward, the mother following close behind, pointedly turning her back on Keir as the group closed into a tight circle.

Keir couldn’t take it anymore. He stormed from the dance floor, straight to the males glowering from the buffet. When they saw him coming, they all surged forward at once, their voices layering over one another in outrage.

“ — says she won’t cover her shoulders —“

“ — dancing at midnight! The shame of it —

“Anything could happen to them in these dark halls —“

“ — taking after your Morrigan, she’s corrupted them all —“

“All right, all right!” Keir practically roared, waving his hands to get them all to quiet. Once they had stopped shouting, and merely glared at him expectantly, he said, “Will someone tell me what this is about?”

“This,” hissed Lord Thanatos, pointing at the dance floor in disgust, “is the direct result of your failure to lead. You’ve let your tramp of a daughter and her Illyrian dogs preside here too long —“

“Watch yourself,” Keir growled. As much as Morrigan’s antics disgusted him, he would not tolerate such overt slander from another male.

“It’s true though,” another male chimed in. Keir squinted in the dark to see him — Emrys, one of the minor lords, always keen to jump into any fight. “Did you know they emptied the dungeons, too? We’ll be overrun with whores and criminals, if you don’t do something.”

“Emptied the dungeons? Surely you jest,” Keir sputtered. Even his half-breed High Lord couldn’t be that stupid.

“Don’t exaggerate,” Lord Thanatos scolded. “It’s foreign prisoners only. Part of some exchange, I’m told. A new treaty between the courts.”

So it’s true then.

“Don’t knock it,” a younger male in the crowd spoke up. “You don’t know what it’s like in those Autumn dungeons.”

“Cían Ethlend, in the flesh. You got yourself captured during the War, while the rest of us Darkbringers carried the day,” Emrys scoffed. “Surprised you’d even show your face here, you half-breed.”

“Your High Lord is a half-breed,” Cían spat back at him. “And your mother.”

Emrys let out a vicious growl, and the two of them leaped toward each other, fists out. Keir flung a tendril of magic in between them, knocking them both back.

“No fighting in public,” he said firmly. “That rule’s not changed.” He looked at Lord Thanatos, who nodded in confirmation. Thank the Cauldron for that, at least. “In any case, altering our traditional rules without consulting us is unacceptable,” he said, straightening his sleeves. “Our sovereignty cannot be trampled like this. I will speak to the High Lord myself —“

“He won’t answer, it’s all the High Lady now,” Emrys jeered, his tone making it clear how much respect he had for the title. “We’re being led around by the balls by the half-breed’s whore.”

The males around him grunted in agreement, murmuring, “Knew she’d be trouble” and “That’s what you get, giving little girls power”.

Keir tried to calm down the group, suddenly mindful that they were all in public, and that this was seditious talk, best left for their private rooms, far from prying eyes, ears, and the spymaster’s shadows. “Don’t get your bootlaces in a bunch,” he told the males. “You know how they are. They lord it up here every so often, then abandon us for months at a time. They’ll lose interest or get busy. Just wait it out, as we’ve always done.”

“Not this time,” Lord Thanatos said. “Rumor has it the High Lady’s establishing a permanent residence.”

“You mean the palace atop the mountain? That’s been there for ages,” Keir said dismissively.

“No, a suite of apartments, on the main level,” Lord Thanatos insisted.

A cold sense of foreboding skittered down Keir’s spine. “The High Lady intends to live here?”

“That’s right, Keir,” a new voice said brightly, and every male stiffened, Keir included, as Feyre Cursebreaker strode up behind him, a low rumble of power radiating from her as she approached the group. It took everything Keir had to avoid stumbling, while the males around him all hastily bowed.

Cauldron spare us, she probably heard everything. Why wasn’t she announced?

“High Lady,” he said, schooling his tone into the best imitation of calm that he could muster.

“She’s pregnant,” Emrys hissed, and the males around him quickly shushed him.

“Why yes, I am,” Feyre said, sliding the silken panels of her gown aside to reveal the curve of her belly. Keir gaped at it, then realized he was staring and quickly averted his eyes. “The High Lord and I are expecting.”

“May I offer our congratulations,” Keir said, shoving down his disgust. The child of a former human and a half-Illyrian bastard was no cause for celebration. And it’s likely to be powerful — another thorn in my side.

The crowd mumbled their congratulations as well, some more sincerely than others.

“I hear you have some questions for me about the new policies,” Feyre went on, ignoring Keir entirely, which he honestly preferred to having to conjure up respectful answers. “Some concerns?”

The males eyed each other nervously, a few elbowing their neighbors, but no one spoke.

“Come now,” Feyre said, hands on her hips, “surely one of you is brave enough to speak?”

Keir shot Emrys a glare. Don’t even think about it.

But it was Lord Thanatos who spoke up. “High Lady, we gladly serve you and our High Lord. We just want our beloved wives and daughters to be safe. With the removal of the curfew, how can we assure that no harm comes to them?”

Keir breathed a quiet sigh of relief at the eminently reasonable phrasing. How could Feyre argue with keeping their vulnerable females safe?

“I’m touched at your concern for your families,” Feyre said, clasping a hand to her heart, “and I assure you, I feel it too. I’ve heard simply awful things about females being unsafe here. That is why we have doubled the lighting in every corridor in the city, and posted sentries at the most notorious corners.”

Lord Thanatos was nodding, almost despite himself. Feyre went on. “Any male found to be violating a female will face harsh consequences. I’ll see to it personally.”

The men seemed to accept this answer, but then she added, “And if I hear that any female is punished for being out tonight, for dancing, or for how she is dressed, I will see to that personally, as well.”

Emrys burst out, “That’s our affair. You’ve no right to interfere.”

“Don’t,” Keir warned, but the hothead had stepped forward, his face flushed with anger.

The High Lady said, “Are you implying I do not rule this court?”

As a group, all the males simultaneously stepped back from Emrys, as if fearing to be caught in the line of fire.

Emrys glared at her sullenly. “I’m not implying anything.”

“Perhaps some time to reflect on your words is in order,” the High Lady mused, beckoning Emrys forward with a single finger. The male stumbled forward, then fell to his knees in front of her, his eyes wide with shock. For a long moment, the High Lady said nothing, observing the male kneeling before her as he began to sweat, repeatedly opening his mouth. But his face twisted awkwardly, no sounds coming out. 

Keir watched, horrified, wishing she would just break his bones and get it over with. He’d endured that punishment often enough that he’d started to get used to it.

Instead, she said, “You will be silent, Emrys, until I give you permission to speak again. You will not communicate with anyone in any manner. You will sit in your private rooms and reconsider your behavior and your lack of respect. I will summon you when I see fit.”

Emrys was shaking — from fear, rage, relief, or some combination, Keir couldn’t tell — and the High Lady said, “Someone help him up, please."

For a long moment, no one stepped forward, but then Cían emerged from the crowd. “Yes, High Lady,” he said, without anything but respectful obedience in his words. He gripped Emrys’s arm and hoisted him up, none too gently, then spun him around and marched him past the group, out of the hall.

Keir watched them go, horrified at this turn of events. What devilry was this, that the High Lady would stop their very ability to communicate? A male would have no influence at all, no control over his household. He would be rendered unfit, superfluous.

He suddenly missed Rhysand’s little tantrums. At least those had been entertaining. This was something else, something more permanent — and infinitely more threatening.

“I do not do this lightly,” the High Lady was telling the crowd, which by now had swelled to a large number, as more folks drifted to the spectacle, driven either by the desire to see punishment meted out, or to gawk at her pregnant belly. “I believe in freedom. But those who trespass upon the freedoms of others will find their own freedom taken away.”

She gestured to the grand hall. “The night is still young. Dance to your heart’s content!”

And the hall erupted in cheers, particularly from the females and the younger males, as the music started up again.

The High Lady turned to Keir, her lips pulled back into an enigmatic smile that he couldn’t interpret. Was she mocking him? Gloating? “Report to me each day on Emrys. See to it that the others leave him be.”

“My lady,” Keir stammered, thoroughly confused. “I will, but I don’t understand —“

“Emrys is young. He will see reason,” the High Lady said. “He has not had the benefit of a good example.” She gave Keir a significant look. “See that he gets one.”

He heard the implied threat in those words, and bowed hastily.

“I must depart,” the High Lady said, patting her belly. “I must rest. But I will return tomorrow for a full report.”

Keir nodded, keeping his head down. He couldn’t look at her just now, not with her smiling like that.

“Enjoy the dance,” she said, and before he could conjure up any answer, she winnowed away.

Keir stood up, brushing off his tunic, breathing a sigh of relief, then almost jumped out of his skin when Rhysand drawled, “Impressive, isn’t she?”

Keir whirled around, nearly dizzy as he took in the High Lord of the Night Court, hands in his pockets, with a wry grin on that cruel face. “Is this the new fashion?” Keir asked, hoping the question sounded honest rather than petulant. “No more announcements? No rumbling the mountains?”

“I was slow to see the merits of this approach,” Rhysand admitted, “but you must admit, it’s much more fun this way.” He stalked towards Keir, who yielded a step, then another. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood next to Rhysand — certainly not since the male ascended to his current position — and he was still trying to wrap his mind around the High Lady’s actions.

Rhysand chuckled, sensing Keir’s confusion. “My High Lady is really something, isn’t she?”

Keir had no idea how to answer, so he just nodded dumbly.

“I’ll admit, I almost crushed Emrys like a bug, when he dared speak back to her,” Rhysand went on, his violet eyes flashing. “But, oh, I’m glad I didn’t.”

“You enjoy seeing other males kneel to your mate?” Keir said, then mentally kicked himself. Don’t be stupid.

But Rhysand’s smile grew wider. “Feel free to spread the word. If anyone else would like to challenge her, I hope I’ll have the honor of a front row seat.” He chuckled at Keir’s frozen expression. “Don’t look so shocked. You of all people should know about having powerful females in the family.”

Don’t remind me.

“Well, I’m going to go track down my mate,” Rhysand said. “See if I stayed out of it to her satisfaction. I hope this conversation doesn’t tank my performance.” He gestured to the dance floor, the females laughing and dancing together, and said, “You’re missing the party.”

Then Rhysand was gone, leaving Keir to shake his head at it all.

Chapter Text

Elain paced nervously back and forth, rushing to the healer as soon as the bedroom door opened. “Is she all right?”

Eileithyia nodded, clasping one of Elain’s hands between her own. “Fine, dear. Resting now.”

“Is the baby coming?” Elain asked breathlessly, peering around the healer towards her sister in the bed.

“Not just now. It isn’t time,” the healer said patiently, firmly shutting the door and steering Elain away, towards the living room.

Lucien leaped up from the couch when he saw them. “How is she?”

Eileithyia chuckled. “Mother hens, the pair of you. Relax. She’s all right. The contractions she’s having aren’t part of labor, but her uterus getting toned and ready.”

Lucien twisted a hand through the tiny braids in his hair, squirming a bit. “I’ll leave the details of Feyre’s uterus to you, Eileithyia.”

The healer chuckled heartily. “Probably for the best, little one.” She patted his cheek. “Your brother Eris was no different when you were born. I thought he might faint.”

“Who’d like breakfast?” Elain interrupted, since Lucien looked not far away from fainting himself.  Males, she smirked to herself. “There’s bread from last night.” When Lucien shifted on his feet, studiously observing the floorboards, she added, “The loaf we both baked.”

He looked up and gave her a pained smile, and her heart squeezed. Their mating bond made everything more complicated than it should have been. Lucien was so careful not to eat anything she prepared, lest it trigger the magic, that it sometimes felt like a rejection.

She knew it was the opposite, that he was trying to be considerate, that it bothered him to see others enjoying her home-baked treats while he had to abstain. But the situation rankled her all the same.

“I’ll get the table ready,” Lucien offered, and she nodded, unable to find easy words to say. She ghosted a hand in the air, not quite touching his back, as he slipped towards the kitchen.

Eileithyia watched him disappear behind the kitchen door, then turned to Elain with a knowing smile. Elain braced herself for the inevitable questions, the insinuations, but instead the healer just said, “Your sister is lucky to have such dear friends.”

Elain sighed in agreement, still staring at the kitchen door.

The healer went on, “I hope she’ll have just as much help after the baby arrives. Those first weeks and months are intense.”

Elain nodded. She didn’t doubt that all of them would be taking shifts with the baby, doing feedings and diaper changes — barring some magical diapers that cleaned themselves, which she fervently hoped was a real thing and not just her silly imagination — and anything else the new parents required. Elain’s life had been so hectic, so strange, that she hadn’t had much time to think about any of it, about what would happen when the baby finally arrived. There were so many unknowns, so many questions that she didn’t even know how to ask, much less answer.

“Elain? Are you out there?” Feyre called from the bedroom, and Elain snapped to attention, her gaze shooting back toward the door.

Eileithyia sighed resignedly. “Told her to sleep.”

Elain shook her head, already heading to the bedroom. “Feyre was never one for following orders.”

She pushed the door open gingerly, then creaked it open the rest of the way when she saw that Feyre was sitting up in bed, propped up by a half-dozen pillows, her long golden-brown curls that the sisters shared arranged neatly around her. In her shimmering nightgown, and with the glow of pregnancy illuminating her face and neck, she rather looked like a queen holding court.

“Come sit with me, we have lots to discuss,” Feyre said, holding out her hands.

Elain pushed the door closed with her foot and joined her sister on the bed, taking her offered hands with some trepidation. Why’s she acting so serious?

“The healer said everything was okay,” Elain said anxiously.

“Oh, it is.” Feyre gave her a tight smile. “So it’s a good time to plan, while we have time.”

Elain swallowed hard. While we have time?

Feyre sighed and rested a hand on her belly, briefly closing her eyes. “Last night, that false alarm, got me thinking. I’ve got to face facts. I’m doing all I can, but there’s still a chance the delivery might not — go well.”

“Oh, Feyre,” Elain cried, squeezing her hand. “Don’t think like that —“

“I intend to live,” Feyre said firmly, fixing Elain with a steely expression. “But I’m not leaving anything to chance. If something goes wrong, and I don’t make it, I need to know there’s a plan.”

Elain blinked rapidly, quelling her tears. She didn’t want to even consider the possibility, couldn’t face the thought that her youngest sister, so alive and full of ideas and dreams, would be ripped from their lives. She’d died once already, she simply had to cheat death again.

But Elain knew that it was responsible to be prepared, so she steeled herself, saying in a wobbly voice,“I suppose that’s wise.”

“Rhys and I made a bargain, after the War,” Feyre went on, stroking the back of Elain’s hand with her thumb. “We swore to leave this world together.”

A cold dread began to creep up Elain’s spine. “You mean… if one of you dies…”

Feyre nodded, grimacing. “The other will, too. Yes. That is our bargain.”

“But that’s terrible!” Elain exclaimed, glancing frantically about the room, as if some loophole were to be found there. This is even worse than I thought. She shifted on the bed, staring at her sister, clutching her arms. “Can’t you break it?”

Feyre shook her head. “We’ve asked Helion to look into it. If anyone can figure it out, he can. But bargain magic is risky. If it’s violated, the consequences could be catastrophic.”

Elain’s mind was reeling, struggling to accept the implications. Rhys and Feyre were forever bound together, dependent upon one another’s safety for their very survival. Every mission, every battle, every confrontation, could result in the death of both of them — and if Feyre died in childbirth —

“Nyx won’t have any parents,” she protested, tears beginning to escape. “He’ll grow up alone.”

“No, Elain. That’s where you come in,” Feyre said. “If something should happen, and I can’t raise my baby…” She broke off, her voice cracking under the weight of what she was asking. “If I can’t be there for him, I need to know there’s someone who can.”

Me. She means me.

Elain’s heart was too full, overflowing. That Feyre would trust her with her own child, her precious baby, made Elain feel all warm inside. But as she imagined rocking the babe through sleepless nights when he craved his mother, showing him paintings and telling him stories about people he’d never meet, taking him to lay flowers on his mother’s grave…

Elain swiped at her tears, though they were falling fast and hard. “Whatever you need, Feyre. Whatever Nyx needs. I’ll always be there for him, take care of him, whatever it takes.”

Feyre gave a small sigh of relief, her own tears starting to fall.

But Elain’s thoughts were still spinning, doubts creeping in. “I don’t know if I’ll be good enough.”

“Elain!” Feyre exclaimed, shocked. “What do you mean, good enough? Of course you are.”

Elain bit her lip as she struggled to put her concerns into words that made sense. “I won’t be able to tell him what he needs to know, train him, or anything. I don’t know the first thing about this court or what it means to be a future High Lord. I’m not even Illyrian.”

Feyre laughed, despite her tears. “You don’t need to know any of that, Elain, or be Illyrian. I don’t need you to teach him about politics, or how to fly. He’ll have an extended family, an Inner Circle to help him with those things. Nyx won’t lack for teachers. But I want him to live with you, be raised by you, if it comes to that. Before he learns to rule, or fight, I want him to love the world, see the good in it, as you do.”

“He’ll always have a home with me,” Elain promised. “I just don’t know anything about fae babies. I’m barely fae, myself.”

Feyre looked at her, startled, so she kept going. “When I was first Made, I didn’t want to be fae,” she said, “so I refused to learn a thing about them. Us,” she hastily corrected herself.

“I felt the same way, at first,” Feyre assured her. “I didn’t consider myself ‘really’ fae either. If anything, I’d say it makes you more qualified to be Nyx’s mother, since you and I share that.”

Elain shook her head. “You are his mother, Feyre. I could never replace you.”

“You don’t have to,” Feyre said quietly. “But you could tell him of me, of our human lives. How we struggled, and survived, as a family.”

“How you saved us,” Elain corrected her. “How you kept us going for all those years, when you were just a child yourself. And how you saved Prythian, though I don’t know that story as well.”

“Lucien can tell him that part,” Feyre said. “He suffered through it with me.”

Lucien. How would he fit in to all this?

She knew that Lucien could make an excellent father someday. But what they had was still so new, so tentative. Would he even want to raise Feyre and Rhys’s baby? What if he wanted children of his own?

Children with Lucien… She had never allowed herself to think of it before.

Feyre saw the confusion in Elain’s eyes. “Your life will still be yours to live. You won’t just be Nyx’s caretaker,” she promised. “You can still marry, or not, whatever you want. But I don’t expect you to give Nyx a father, even if you marry someone. He’ll have Cass and Az for that.”

Elain didn’t doubt the two Illyrian warriors would love Nyx to pieces, would be eager to train him and fly with him and introduce him to their way of life. But when she thought of fathers, she thought of her own gentle papa, sitting by the fire in the cottage, telling them stories of his travels, of the exotic places and people he’d seen.

Their father hadn’t been perfect by any stretch, though Elain knew he’d tried his best. Those years of starvation and ruin, his best hadn’t been good enough. But even when he’d been broken, shattered far beyond his ruined knee, he’d never lost faith in his daughters, no matter how hopeless their situation got.

If he could see them now — what they’d become. How they’d survived, and grown together.

He’d have loved to be a grandpa. 

“It’s so unfair,” she murmured.

“I know,” Feyre agreed, and held out her arms to embrace her sister.

A knock sounded tentatively on the door. “Did you still want breakfast?” Lucien’s voice called.

Elain flushed at the sound of that voice. “We’ll be right in,” she called back, trying and failing to sound casual.

Feyre chuckled, releasing her. “Poor Lucien, still having to play host to us. He’ll be so relieved to have the apartment to himself again, once we move back to the River House.” When Elain just stared at her, she added, “We’ve imposed on Lucien long enough. Rhys and I need space to work things out together, and the healer could have her own room with a real bed. You too. You’ve been putting up with my tossing and turning for days on end.”

“I don’t mind,” Elain said quickly, and to her surprise, she meant it.

“You should,” said Feyre. “We’re all exhausted. And don’t you want to get back to your garden?”

Elain’s jaw clenched. Why does everyone assume I want to live in my garden?

The truth was, she’d been using her gardening as an escape, a way to avoid difficult emotions and conversations. It was quiet out in back of the River House — too quiet, now that she’d gotten used to the bustle of folks in and out of Lucien’s apartment. Now that she’d gotten used to having Lucien around.

“Of course,” she said to Feyre. “I’m sure Lucien wants his space back. We’re a burden.”

“We can pack after you have breakfast,” Feyre said, laying back against the pillows. “I had a late dinner at the Hewn City, and the contractions kept me up last night. Just save me a few muffins?”

Elain nodded, smoothing her sister’s hair back from her forehead before slipping off the bed and out of the bedroom.

Suddenly she didn’t feel hungry, either.

Chapter Text

“How did you find Autumn, little one?” Eileithyia asked in between bites of her eggs. “It’s been a long time for you.”

Lucien nodded, taking a long sip of his tea. “It was refreshing, honestly. Like I could finally put old hurts to rest. Maybe I was just relieved for Beron to finally be gone, but the entire place felt lighter, more wholesome. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

The healer said, “There’s a theory — and I believe it — that the land reflects the High Lord’s heart. That a High Lord with a wicked heart creates a wicked territory, which makes the folk wicked, and so on. And Beron’s heart was warped, dark, and cruel.”

“Yet the magic still chose him,” Lucien said, shaking his head.

“The magic chooses whom it will,” Eileithyia shrugged. “None can say why.”

“Well,” Lucien quipped, “if Autumn reflects Eris’s heart, it might just freeze over.”

Eileithyia gave him a knowing smile, her eyes crinkling with some secret amusement. “Or it may burn hotter than ever.”

Lucien did not want to think about how Eris’s heart might burn, or for whom. Instead, his gaze shot to Elain, who was morosely spreading the same mass of jam around and around on her bread without any sign of eating it. Something’s bothering her. 

“I hear our Eris had a busy first day. Still pushing himself too hard, reopening old wounds,” Eileithyia was saying.

Lucien looked at her in surprise, and she chuckled. “My old friend Iaso complained all about it in her letter. He’s going to keep her far too busy if he doesn’t learn to rest once in a while.”

“That’s Eris,” Lucien shrugged. “Always working. Of all the High Lords, he’ll drive me the hardest.”

Elain’s knife dropped to her plate. “You’re going to work for Eris?”

Lucien’s gut tightened, sensing her confusion, her anxiety, even as his own heart warmed at the thought that she cared what he did, that she didn’t want him far away anymore. “I’m to work for all the courts. Coordinate between them, represent their interests to other territories. And mediate disputes, Cauldron help me,” he added, not relishing the thought of having to navigate the thorny relationship between Tamlin and Feyre, or Tamlin and Rhys.

I must have been crazy to agree to this, much less suggest it.

Eileithyia shook her head. “That’s thankless work.”

“I’m a glutton for punishment, apparently,” Lucien chuckled, though Elain’s sullen silence worried him. So he went on, “It’ll be a lot of correspondence, short trips. Occasional voyages to the continent and the other faerie kingdoms. But I can still live wherever I want.” And he looked at Elain hopefully.

Elain said quietly, “You’ll be happy to have your own space back, then.”

Lucien blinked at her, worried and confused. What does she mean by that? Is she unhappy, staying here? Unhappy with me?

Lucien grabbed his tea and tried to take a long gulp, frowning at the cup when he realized he’d already emptied it.

“Well! I’m going to head out to the market while the High Lady is resting, I need a few ingredients for my medicines,” Eileithyia said, far too cheerfully, and slipped out of the kitchen more quickly than Lucien would have thought possible for a faerie of such advanced age.

He stared at Elain, at her pale lovely face, so drawn and sad, and he couldn’t take it. “What did you mean by having my own space back?”

“Well, you must be sick of guests. We’re a burden,” Elain said, still eyeing her untouched breakfast. “You’re stuck sleeping on the couch, constantly preparing meals and doing dishes, dealing with comings and goings all the time. You can’t be doing that and working for every High Lord and Lady in Prythian.”

Lucien protested, “Oh, it’s no trouble. I’m happy to do any number of dishes, and sleep anywhere, for as long as Feyre needs.”

But that assurance didn’t cheer Elain at all. She slid another dollop of jam onto her already laden bread and spread it around, making slow circles with the edge of the knife.

“Elain, please, talk to me,” Lucien begged. “What’s the matter?”

“We’re moving back to the River House,” she said flatly. “I’m going to help Feyre pack up after breakfast.”

Oh.

Lucien had no idea what to say to that. He should have known this would happen eventually, that once Feyre and Rhys began to reconcile, she wouldn’t want to stay in his cramped apartment, away from her own home and belongings. He didn’t know if Feyre and Rhys were together, but at the very least, any possible danger had passed. Feyre didn’t need his wards or his clumsy hospitality now.

And of course Elain would want to sleep in her own bed again, not share with her sister. Of course she would go where Feyre went. He couldn’t expect her to want to stay with him, not yet. Flower crowns and kisses were one thing, but sharing a residence — a bedroom — was quite another.

A tear slipped past Elain’s long eyelashes, and he was out of his seat and crouching next to her in a moment, squeezing her hand. “Elain.”

“I’m fine,” she said dully, tugging half-heartedly at her hand, as if trying to pull it out of his grasp. But when he went to release her, she suddenly gripped his hand harder, as if deciding she didn’t want him to let her go, after all.

Lucien willed himself to be patient, to let her work through her feelings, but he wanted to scream. Elain’s first instinct was always to push him away, to block him out. She seemed to cope by denying her feelings, and anything or anyone that could trigger them.

Feyre had been the same way once, until she’d found Rhys. They could share their innermost feelings, experience each others’ memories, without having to resort to words. But though Lucien prided himself on being perceptive, though he could feel Elain’s emotions through their bond and guess the reasons for them, Lucien was no mind-reader. Words were all he had.

He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, making slow arcs back and forth, and murmured, “You told me you wanted to choose for yourself. Yet you don’t seem very excited about this.” Then he cringed, half-expecting her to react with outrage, or laugh outright, at the implication that she might want to stay with him.

Elain’s eyes lifted to his face, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Feyre needs me right now. I want to help my sister.”

“You already have, and you will, no matter where you live,” he pointed out gently. “But Feyre’s got a whole family to help her. What about you?”

Elain’s chin dipped, her gaze slipping back to the table. “Helping Feyre is how I contribute, earn my keep at this court. What else would I do?”

“Contribute?” Lucien asked, sliding a chair closer so he could sit beside her.

Elain took a deep, shuddery breath. “You know our story. How we were poor. How Feyre hunted in the woods so we didn’t starve.” She looked at him carefully for his reaction. Whatever she saw in his face seemed to satisfy her, so she continued, “Nesta and I let her risk her life and run herself ragged while we sat in the cottage and did nothing. I know it bothers her, she’s told me so. I know it bother the others, too. Cassian scolded Nesta over it, in front of everyone, the night we first met.”

“And lived? That is impressive,” Lucien quipped, despite himself.

Elain flashed him the barest hint of a smile, but quickly grew serious again. “Feyre never admitted it bothered her that I didn’t hunt with her, or get more involved, until the other day. But it did bother her, and I think it still does. And Nesta resents that I got away with it, while she didn’t.”

Lucien protested, “You were all children. None of you should have been put in that position. Your village leaders failed to help you, as did your neighbors and friends. And I know your father felt guilty that he couldn’t do more.”

Elain looked at him with a confused expression, so he clarified, voice rough with sorrow, “Your father was a good man, Elain. He loved you all so much. It pained him, how you suffered. How he couldn’t do more to protect you all.”

“Nesta hated him,” Elain sobbed, her tears falling faster. “And Feyre didn’t understand. She thought he just gave up, just wasn’t trying.”

“He thought so too,” Lucien recalled, remembering how startled he’d been to hear that particular confession. “But it never sat right with me. I know awful fathers — I had one. Beron would have been happy for me to suffer and starve, if it wouldn’t look bad for his image.”

“Papa wasn’t like that,” Elain said, swiping ineffectually at her tears. “No one knew how badly he suffered. Not just from his knee, either, but in his mind. I can’t explain it. It’s like he was clouded over, in a fog. He could barely get out of bed some days, barely ate or slept, couldn’t remember basic things.”

“Do you think he was ill?” Lucien asked.

“I don’t know,” Elain admitted. “He had no fever, no chills, no marks on his body. But his mind was ailing, I know that. I don’t know when it started — but I think it was even before we were poor. Before he lost his business, he was slipping.”

“It could be why he made those mistakes,” Lucien guessed. “I’ve often wondered about that. He was so sharp, such a fine negotiator, even Koschei listened. It’s hard to believe he couldn’t sweet-talk a few humans.”

“It was horrible, the day they shattered his knee,” Elain said, and he put his arms around her as she trembled, as if reliving the memory. “But his mind was shattered too. Many days I was afraid to leave him alone in the house, for fear he’d leave a candle burning and set the whole place alight, or fall down because he would forget he needed his cane. And I couldn’t get him up easily, and I thought he’d break more bones.”

“You took care of him,” Lucien said gently, stroking her cheek. “You were patient and kind. He told me that.”

“He remembered that, did he?” Elain asked, her lip quivering. “I’ve often wondered. Once he was cured, we didn’t speak of it.”

Of course you didn’t. That seemed to be the Archeron way.

But Lucien had heard all about his mate from her doting father, how nurturing and patient she was, how kind and loving. “I’m sorry you didn’t have that chance,” he said quietly.

“I’m glad he got to meet you,” Elain said. “Did you… tell him?”

“About the mating bond?” Lucien almost cringed as he said the words. But she just nodded. “Yes, I did. I told him about the Cauldron, and all that happened after. That you were safe, and recovering.”

“That was a lie. I wasn’t recovering,” Elain said bitterly. “I was a mess.”

“Elain, you were ripped from your home by force. Shoved in there against your will, your body broken and remade,” Lucien reminded her. “Then you were surrounded by strangers, far from everything and everyone you knew, missing your fiancé, mourning the loss of that life you thought you’d have. A few months is nothing after trauma like that.”

Elain began to cry again, deep sobs wracking her body, and he held her, miserable and guilty for having upset her. Her hands twisted in his shirt, her tears soaking through the thin fabric, and her muffled voice floated up to him.“You do understand.”

“I’ve lived in exile much of my life,” Lucien said, twining a hand through her hair, gently smoothing out the shimmering strands, hoping it felt comforting. “And I’ve known violence and fear. But what the Cauldron felt like, what it did to you? That part I didn’t fully appreciate, not for a while,” he admitted.

Elain tilted her head up to him. “What changed?”

“I asked Jurian about it,” Lucien said. “Of course his experience was different from yours. But he described it to me, what it looked and felt like in there — the pain of being shaped by it.”

“Jurian,” Elain said, as if trying to recall who he was. “The soldier?”

Lucien nodded. “The human general who doubled crossed Hybern.”

Elain’s expression darkened. “The one from Graysen’s manor. That day, when I tried to talk to him. The day he —” She abruptly cut off, as if dismissing the thought of Graysen entirely, then said, “Jurian was in the Cauldron?”

Lucien said, “His story is even more harrowing than yours. The Cauldron restored his body to him after it was, ah, taken apart by Amarantha. He was grateful for it, pleased with the results. But it still took months for him to recover after his experience under those cruel waters.”

Elain was silent, considering this new information, and Lucien gently wiped tears from her cheeks and jaw, and rubbed small circles on her back. He could feel her emotions roiling through the bond, raw and tempestuous, and he relished feeling them, the honesty and fullness of them.

“I’ve never spoken to anyone else who went through what I did,” Elain finally said, “other than Nesta. And she never wants to talk about it.”

Lucien did not make a comment about Archerons and their habit of avoiding difficult conversations. Instead, he said casually, “I’ve been meaning to pay Jurian and Vassa a visit. You could come with me, talk to them.”

“To the human lands?” Elain asked, her voice wobbling.

“Yes. To the Nolan estate,” Lucien said, wincing at having to say that cursed name again. “He gave it to Jurian and Vassa — to us. It’s where I’ve been living, all this time.”

Elain pulled back from his chest, a strange look on her face. “You’ve been living in Graysen’s manor?” she cried. “Where I was going to live, after I was married?”

Lucien’s cheeks heated. When she put it like that…

Elain started to laugh, startling the hell out of him.

“Well,” she gasped, “well, that is ridiculous.” And she laughed so hard that her fingers shook, still curled in the fabric of his clothing.

Lucien’s lips quirked up, and he started to laugh as well. “It is, isn’t it?”

Elain’s eyes sparkled as she laughed and laughed, as though all of the tension and sorrow were draining out of her. “Well, now I have to go visit. To see how you’ve redecorated.”

“It could be good,” Lucien said hopefully. “Like what I felt when I went back to Autumn. It took the sting out of some of the memories I had of that place.”

Elain’s fingers uncurled from Lucien’s shirt, and she frowned at it. “I’m always ruining your clothing.”

“Maybe I should just go shirtless,” Lucien blurted, then felt like an idiot.

But he was flooded with relief when Elain laughed again, and then desire as she eyed him curiously, as though she were imagining what he would look like shirtless.

“When are you going?” she asked.

“This evening, after sunset. Vassa will be in her human form then,” he said. “I was going to pack a few things, stay overnight. You could, too, if you’re interested.”

Elain’s eyebrows rose. “So I could pack my things… to go on a visit.”

And not necessarily because you’re moving out.

He smiled. “Indeed.”

Chapter Text

“Ready?”

Elain was not ready, but it was time.

She had to face this, put her past to rest once and for all. When she’d been whisked away to Prythian, soaking wet and in shock, she’d thought incessantly about her human life, until it had become mixed up with visions and regrets and powerful longings that left her weepy and drained. She’d spent many a day perched on the windowsill in their high fortress above the city, overwhelmed with loss and longing, wondering how to get back, how to make this all go away, to pretend that she’d not been given over to the Cauldron’s icy grip, that she wasn’t fae.

Then she’d felt the thin sunshine of Velaris on her back, the small tender green shoots of life in her backyard garden, the small pleasantries of whispered friendship and baking bread, and she’d put aside her human life, laid it to rest like a worn-out toy from childhood. She’d drifted, carefully avoiding any semblance of her former life, and she told herself she’d adjusted, that she was home.

But as she hoisted her satchel from the floor, packed for a night’s stay south of where the Wall once was, Elain wondered if she’d be dragged back under, if her carefully constructed calm would be ripped away, if underneath it all she was still that raw, wild, weeping thing that had been spilled from the Cauldron onto the cold stone floor.

Lucien stepped closer, and it was his eyes she remembered most from that day she’d been torn apart, his concerned face looming over her as he gathered her up from the floor. It was his face she saw in her nightmares of the Cauldron, his gentle arms gathering her up, the air around her becoming warm and comforting, before he’d been shoved away from her, disappearing along with the throne room in a puff of black smoke.

Winnowing, they called it. But to Elain, it had felt like dying all over again.

An irrational panic seized her at the thought of disappearing into that smoke, of what might happen if she was torn from him, where she would land, if she might be yanked from him as she was before.

“I-I don’t like winnowing,” she stammered, looking up into his concerned face.

He nodded, though his golden eye clicked, as it often did when he was figuring something out. But he didn’t press her about it, perhaps sensing that words were difficult, that her hesitation went beyond anything she could explain. “Why don’t we try a short trip at first?” he suggested, holding out his hands.

Elain offered her trembling fingers, and his strong hands slid around hers, warm and steady. “Close your eyes, if you’d like,” he said softly.

“I need to see it,” Elain whispered. “To see if I’m safe.” Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked rapidly. No. I will not lose it, not today.

Lucien’s thumbs brushed over the backs of her hands, drawing soothing arcs back and forth, and she managed to say, “The first time I was winnowed, I didn’t know what was happening. I thought I was dying. One moment I was in the castle with you, the next moment it was all black and I was floating, and —“ She broke off, swallowing down the panic that was rising again, and willed herself to keep talking. “I still don’t like it.”

Lucien said, his voice strained, “When they winnowed you away, I thought I was dying, too.”

Elain blinked at that.

“I was already half out of my mind,” he said, “because you were freezing, and scared, and there were soldiers and enemies all around us. I needed to get you to safety, get you into dry things, get you warm and fed and comfortable.” He shook his head sadly. “And then you were gone. Taken by people I thought were my enemies.”

Elain squeezed his hands, saying, “It turned out all right.”

“Did it?” His russet eye sparkled, but there was sadness behind it.

She stepped closer, pulling his arms around her waist. “Go on. Take me somewhere.”

Lucien’s hands pressed into her back, warmth spreading out from them, and then she was floating, the world swirling about them. Elain dug her nails into his arms, holding on tight, but then her feet touched gently to the ground, and warm sunlight spread out across Lucien’s features, as though drawn to him.

“Where is this?” she asked, gazing around them, taking in the gleaming white buildings, elegant columns, bright blue roofs. The sky was a sparkling yellow, the sun shining with an exuberant gleam that was almost too radiant, too alive.

“This is Day,” Lucien said.

“Your court,” Elain said wonderingly.

“Well.” Lucien’s golden eye clicked, and his smile was tentative. “Maybe.”

Elain smoothed out the fabric of his sleeve where it had bunched underneath her hands. I’m always messing up his clothes. “I thought we were going to the human lands?”

“We are, but it’s a long way,” Lucien explained, “and I wanted you to see this.” He kept his arms draped around her, nodding with his head in the direction of the larger buildings. “That’s Helion’s palace. He’s not in residence, or we could pop in to say hello.”

Elain took in the finely sculpted masterpiece of white stone glittering in the sun, thinking it looked more like a museum or temple than a residence. He’d offered to host them all there, she remembered, and wondered what it would be like to call a place like that hers, if it would feel like living in a work of art rather than a home.

Lucien himself looked like a work of art here, too, his golden brown skin radiant, as if shining from the inside out, and his handsome face seemed more sculpted, more refined, in the light of Day, like the light itself had polished him, smoothed out his ruggedness. Elain could feel the power tingling around them, sparking at his fingertips, and she imagined what he might look and feel like as a High Lord, with the full power of this land inside him.

But when Lucien spoke, it was his same familiar wry voice that she had come to know. “Shall we?”

Elain blinked a few times. “We’re leaving?”

“For now. If you’re ready,” Lucien said, shouldering his satchel a little higher. “Was it all right, winnowing? We don’t have to go far.”

“It was fine,” Elain assured him. And it was. She had barely felt it. “It didn’t seem as dark as before.”

“I don’t know much about how it works,” Lucien admitted, “though some library here surely has the answer in its vault. But I would think that my magic feels different than Feyre’s, or Rhys’s. Or Mor’s.” A shadow briefly crossed his face, and Elain guessed that he was recalling the moment Mor had winnowed her from Hybern. She brushed a hand down his cheek, and his eyes fluttered closed, his face relaxing.

“Where will we land this time?” Elain prompted gently.

Lucien’s eyes opened, resting on her. “Dawn isn’t far. Or we could stretch the distance out a bit, land in Autumn.”

“Oh! Autumn,” Elain said, her pulse quickening, from excitement or nerves at seeing the land she’d heard so much about, that held so many memories and nightmares for Lucien and his family. Or maybe it was just being held in Lucien’s arms, being this close to him, being alone with him with all of Prythian laid before them, there for the exploring.

“We couldn’t stay long,” Lucien said apologetically, “but I could give you a quick look at the Forest House. Eris will be busy, but you could see my mother again. Helion, too, actually.” And his lips curled into a soft smile.

Elain found that she was smiling, too, at the thought of Helion and Áine seeing each other openly. “I’d love that.”

Lucien nodded, and then they were floating again, the pure yellow light of Day fading, replaced by a cooler, crisper air, a hint of woodsmoke and apples prickling at her nose. Elain gasped softly as her feet crunched on a brilliant carpet of orange and red leaves, and then shivered from the sudden temperature change. Lucien’s arms drew more closely around her, and she felt a gentle warmth envelop her, as though she were wrapped in blankets around a crackling fire.

If Day was a polished, sculptured work of art, Autumn was a collection of rough-hewn gems, rustic and beautiful in a different way. A cool breeze tickled across her cheek as she gazed at the dizzying heights of the trees, tall and ancient and wise.

Lucien’s russet eye blazed, his red hair seeming to ripple like flame. “I never thought I’d get to see this place again,” he said softly, “much less show it to you.”

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, reaching up to brush a single tear that had slipped down his cheek.

“Now it is,” he agreed, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “That was a long distance. How did it feel?”

Elain tilted her face up to his. “I wasn’t scared at all that time.” Then she reached up to draw him closer, and kissed him, suddenly feeling very bold indeed.

* * * *

It was almost sundown when they touched down in the human lands, in the burned and blasted ruins of what used to be Elain’s village. They’d spent a lovely few hours with Lucien’s parents, Eris only popping in for a moment to needle his brother about some diplomatic matter and peck Elain’s cheek before disappearing again, trailing a line of chattering courtiers and, she could have sworn, one of Azriel’s shadows. She almost asked Lucien about it, but then the conversation moved on, and dessert brought out, and she was far too delighted to bother with questions.

Helion and Áine looked happy beyond anything, laughing and swapping stories over a delightful spread of steaming hot cinnamon tea and fragrant sweet rolls. Elain could have stayed much longer, strolling the woods, running her fingers through the clear streams, then warming herself by the softly glowing fireplaces and braziers that crackled in the crisp air.

But the day was getting on, and Lucien and Elain were expected, so she’d hugged Áine and Helion goodbye, several times each, agreeing to promise to visit both of their courts as soon as she could, and of course they would celebrate Solstice together, and naturally she would want to see all the sights and meet their courtiers, and certainly she would enjoy a ride on a pegasus when she came to stay in Day, and —

She gasped with surprise as Lucien swept both her and her bag into his arms, winnowing them with exhilarating speed.

They landed hard, Elain clinging to his shoulders and neck, shrieking with laughter. “Wicked creature, you stole me away,” she cried out. “What will your parents think?”

The grin that he gave her was wicked indeed. “They were never going to let you go, and I was getting jealous.”

“Rogue,” she cursed him, but he just pressed a kiss to her lips, and then another, and Elain melted into him, too caught up in him to care anymore.

Lucien felt bolder, hungrier than she’d ever experienced before. He’d been gentle with her, tentative, afraid of spooking her or seeming too eager. She knew it was her own doing, her relentless pushing him away. But she enjoyed him like this, felt drawn to the brazen confidence, the mischievous joy, that she recognized as intrinsically Lucien, that had been buried under an avalanche of doubt and sorrow.

Their bond, too, seemed to be warmer, to pulse more insistently inside her, drawing them more tightly together. The Elain of a few months ago might have been frightened or put off by it, but she found she didn’t care to fight its pull, didn’t feel the need to deny it or wish it wasn’t there. It had begun to feel like a lifeline that she could use to find her way, rather than like a set of chains keeping her trapped.

Lucien set Elain down carefully on her feet, away from the piles of rubble and broken glass. There were splintered remains of what had once been trees, crumbling bits of wall here and there, and Elain’s heart lurched to see the ruins of what had once been her home village. She hoped fervently that the people had been saved, that they were rebuilding lives somewhere else. Just like me.

She found Lucien’s hand and squeezed it, needing to ground herself as she took in the devastation, and the realization sank in that she’d been mourning a human life, a future, that never would have existed.

Lucien’s voice was low and soothing in her ear. “Jarring, isn’t it.”

She nodded, her voice brittle as she said, “It’s all gone.”

“Most of it,” he said sadly, adding, “Looks much like Spring.”

Elain squeezed his hand again, not knowing what to say. War was war, whether the land it ravaged belonged to human or faerie.

Lucien gestured towards a gray stone manor, still standing stalwart among the ruins. “There. That’s where we’ve been living.”

Elain blinked at it, trying to match up her memories with the reality of the imposing building before her. She couldn’t imagine living in such a place, not when there were places like the Forest House, and the shimmering stone palace in Day. Even the cold starlight of Velaris felt more like home than this drab fortress ever could.

Suddenly she shrieked as a huge bird zoomed overhead, golden and red feathers sparkling as if it were trailing flames in its wake. It swooped toward them, cawing loudly, and Elain threw herself against Lucien, burying her face in her hands.

Lucien chuckled as his arms drew around her. “Don’t worry, we’re just early,” he said.

The bird sailed back overhead, then around for another pass, and Elain yelped again as it flew up close to them, wings flapping majestically, then spread out its large feet and settled on Lucien’s shoulder. Lucien didn’t so much as flinch, though its talons were sharp enough that they could have shredded him.

“Queen Vassa,” he said evenly, “may I present Elain Archeron.”

The bird thrust its face close to Elain, cocking its head to the side. Then it cawed once, and lifted off again, its talons releasing Lucien’s shirt only at the last moment before it took flight. Elain clung to Lucien, afraid that the firebird might scoop him up and carry him away, and felt a sizzling heat before it abruptly dissipated, as Lucien threw out a shimmering golden shield, blocking her from the bird’s flames. Despite her fear, she reached out to touch it, gasping softly when the golden light curved and bent around her hand.

A low male voice behind them chortled, “What’d you do to piss her off?”

Lucien blew out a breath, not bothering to turn around. “Hello to you too, Jurian.”

Jurian. Elain shuddered at that name, having heard it spoken many times, always with a hint of revulsion and dread. She’d hated him at first, since he’d been there when she was thrown into the Cauldron, and she particularly resented his interference with Graysen. But he was Lucien’s friend, and had been in the Cauldron like her, and had led Feyre and Azriel to her the night she’d been captured by Hybern…

She straightened, keeping her hold on Lucien, and turned enough to face the tall, lanky warrior. Jurian’s face broke out into a surprise smile when he saw her. “Well, well,” he drawled. “Not hiding your ears this time.”

“Feel free to tell him to shut up,” Lucien murmured in her ear.

Elain simply shrugged, not deigning to dignify Jurian’s silly joke with a response.

“Come in, dinner’s prepared,” Jurian went on, unperturbed.

“Ready?” Lucien asked, gesturing towards the open door.

This time, Elain nodded confidently. She was ready, for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

“Will you sit down? You’re making me jumpy,” Jurian snapped, and Lucien halted in mid-pace to flop down onto the shocking pink sofa in the corner of the living room. “What’s got your bootlaces in a bunch?”

“Elain’s uneasy, I can sense it. Do you think dinner went okay?” Lucien asked, eyeing the closed door to the adjoining room where Vassa and Elain were currently sharing a pot of tea.

“I think so? You brought your little mate here to swap stories with me about the Cauldron, and that’s what we did.” Jurian shook his head. “A sweet young thing like her, snatched from her happy little human life to be plunged into the belly of the beast. And she survived. She must be stronger than she looks.”

Lucien raised an eyebrow at him. “She killed the King of Hybern, you know.”

Jurian laughed heartily. “Don’t remind me. Your little gardener struck the blow that I would have given my remaining eye for —“

“Don’t,” Lucien groaned. Jurian and his gods-damned eye jokes.

“Have it your way,” Jurian said, winking pointedly at him. Lucien’s mechanical eye clicked in response, and the general chuckled at it. “She seemed fine talking about it, though you can feel that more than me with that magical connection of yours. So what’s the problem?”

“It’s Vassa,” Lucien said nervously. “She didn’t say two words all during dinner.”

Jurian shrugged.  “So Vassa was quiet for once. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I just…” Lucien’s eye swiveled around aimlessly, and he blinked several times to rein it in. “I don’t think Vassa and Elain like each other very much.”

Jurian crossed an ankle over a knee and leaned back in his chair. “Whatever gave you that idea?” When Lucien just stared at him, the general huffed a sigh. “Look, you spent years trying to make inroads with her family and friends. Do you really think she should get to waltz in here and win us over after a few hours?”

“Why must she win you over? She’s my mate,” Lucien said crossly. “Shouldn’t that be enough?”

“Fuck, no,” Jurian said. “Not after how she shunned you for years. Or have you forgotten?”

Lucien blew out a breath. “No, I haven’t. But —“

“Well, we haven’t either,” Jurian went on, leaning forward on his elbows. “Especially Vassa, you know how passionate she gets about these things, but I can’t argue with her, for once. We both told you you shouldn’t bother, when all your so-called mate did was ignore you or avoid you altogether. And don’t get me started on the holidays —“

“Jurian,” Lucien hissed, “enough.”

Jurian leaned back, shrugging, “You asked. I’m telling you.” He fiddled with the dagger at his belt, wiping it off on his pants leg and then picking at his nails. “Elain is sweet and lovely, and she’ll always have my gratitude for sticking a dagger in that piece of shit king’s throat. And she seems to like you very much. But if she ends up breaking your heart again, don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Lucien opened his mouth to object, but his friend plowed ahead. “And don’t tell me she’s your mate, so she’s entitled to break you as many times as she wants. I don’t go for all that fae mating bond bullshit, and you know it.”

Lucien raised his hands in surrender. They’d had this argument enough times that he knew he wasn’t going to win. Like most humans, Jurian was disdainful of the whole idea of mates, as he was of all faerie customs and beliefs. But unlike most humans, he knew exactly what he was rejecting. After all he’s been through, after he fought for freedom from our kind and paid for it in such a horrible way, he can’t exactly be blamed for it. “Can we please talk about something else?”

“Sure. Did I ever tell you about the time Amarantha seduced the Crown Prince of Vallahan?” Jurian drawled. “You think you have scars? Well…”

Lucien sank further into the couch, groaning softly. I’m in for a long night.

* * * * *

Elain sipped politely from her tea, which was dull and flavorless compared to the selection she was used to back in Velaris. Even with the Wall down, everything seemed blander in the mortal world, from the colors of the sky, to the buildings, to the food, but it only made the fiery queen before her stand out even more.

Elain felt dull next to Vassa, who was radiant, with long flowing red-gold hair that curled around her like flames, and piercing blue eyes that seemed to bore holes in Elain whenever the queen deigned to look at her, which she didn’t do often. She was imperious and silent, far from the friendly, forward personality that Lucien had described.

“So, you’re from Scythia,” Elain commented, casting around for a suitable topic of conversation. “That’s far away, isn’t it?”

“I am not from Scythia, I ruled Scythia,” Vassa said icily, swirling her tea in her mug and then downing it in one long gulp.

“Ah yes… your Majesty,” Elain said nervously, cringing at her mistake. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, what does it matter,” Vassa murmured, “I’m in exile, anyway. I don’t rule anyone except myself, and only after sundown, at that.”

Elain didn’t know how it all worked, why Vassa’s curse turned her into a bird of flames, but she felt sorry for the exiled queen anyway. She knew what it was like to lose control of one’s body, to be kidnapped and wrenched away from the life she’d known. So she said, “Is there no way to break the curse?”

“None that we can tell,” Vassa sighed. “No amount of curse-breaking or ward-cleaving has made a dent in it. It’s in my blood, bound by some strange magic beyond any of your fae lords. Even Lucien.” She gave Elain a long look. “You do know he has magic, right?”

“Of course,” Elain stammered, wondering what was being insinuated, but she had dealt with fine ladies before, and figured a queen was used to spouting whatever she pleased without concern for the feelings of others. I mustn’t take it personally. “He defended my sister and me when her mate tried to break into his apartment. It was quite a fierce battle.”

Vassa was surprised enough to forget about being cross. “A battle? In his apartment?”

“Oh yes,” Elain said admiringly. “The rest of us were barricaded behind the bedroom door. Lucien defended us.”

Vassa eyed her appraisingly. “Is that what finally impressed you, then?”

“I beg your pardon?” Elain asked, frowning at the strange question. “Impressed me?”

“Well, you stomped on his heart for years, so this sudden change must be due to something,” Vassa replied.

Stomped his heart? Elain’s teacup rattled in her shaking hands, and she hastily set it down. “What are you talking about?”

Vassa put her cup down on the table as well with a resounding thunk. “Who do you think consoled him every time he came home from a visit to your insufferable court? Each time he was more miserable than the last. He would sulk for days afterwards, especially after your Solstice holidays. What do you have against getting gifts, anyway?”

“Nothing!” Elain felt her heart starting to pound, and decided that, queen or no queen, Vassa was not entitled to speak to her that way. “I don’t see how any of this is your business.”

“You know he agonized for weeks about those stupid earrings, and you put them aside without a second thought,” Vassa said, her eyes flicking to Elain’s ears. “I’m actually surprised to see you wearing them.”

Elain’s cheeks heated, and her right hand floated up to the pearl adorning her ear, as though checking to see that it was still securely attached. She loved the earrings, had loved them from the moment he gave them to her, and had put them aside because of the strong fluttery feelings she was having, not because she didn’t want them. And of course she hadn’t gotten Lucien anything, hadn’t wanted him getting ideas about what he meant to her. Her heart ached to think of it now.

“I didn’t ask for gifts, you know. I didn’t ask for any of this.” She took a deep breath.  “I didn’t get to choose what happened to me. You of all people should know what that’s like. I didn’t want to be fae any more than you wanted to be a firebird. And there’s no way I can magically change back.”

Vassa’s blue eyes momentarily flickered with flame. “None of that is Lucien’s fault.”

“I know. I blamed him at first, because he was there. I know that was unfair now. But beyond that, I wanted to choose my own partner, in my own time, regardless of what the Cauldron decreed. Lucien understands,” Elain retorted. “So why can’t you?”

Vassa huffed a sigh. “Wanting a choice, I understand. But why you felt the need to avoid and ignore him entirely, that is another matter.”

“I don’t expect you to understand, you don’t know what a mating bond feels like,” Elain said defensively. “I couldn’t be near him without falling into its pull.”

Vassa looked unconvinced. “But you strung him along for years, even when you couldn’t bear to be in his presence.”

“Things were complicated,” Elain said. Why am I bothering? I don’t have to justify myself to her.

“Your father led me to believe you were so caring, so kind,” Vassa said sadly. “He was so wise, it’s hard to believe he was wrong.”

“Don’t you dare bring my father into this,” Elain cried. “He would not have judged me.”

“No, he would have indulged you. That’s what he always did, isn’t it?” Vassa laughed bitterly. “He knew it full well. He told me all about your family, how things were. Your older sister was just like your mother, your younger sister was a wild thing. He couldn’t deny them much, as long as he had the means to provide it. But it was impossible to say no to you, for you were so innocent and lovely, the sweetest of the three.”

“You make it sound like I put on airs,” Elain protested.

“You do. You just don’t know it,” said Vassa. “This innocent act of yours is so good, even you believe it.”

Elain bit the inside of her lip to trap the indignant words that she wanted to retort with before they could fly out of her mouth. Don’t let her rattle you. “If Lucien has a problem with how I acted before we — got to know each other, he can tell me himself.”

“He won’t,” said Vassa, flipping her hair back behind her shoulders. “He’s so grateful you’re paying him any attention, he wouldn’t dare risk bringing it up now.”

“You don’t know that,” Elain insisted.

Vassa gave her a tart smile. “Don’t I? I’m surprised he’s not barging in here to scold me for upsetting you.”

Elain’s eyes widened. She remembered Lucien doing exactly that when she’d argued with Eris. “I can handle it,” she said resolutely. And she tugged on the bond between them, hoping he would feel it. Your fiery friend isn’t going to scare me away.

Vassa leaned back and sighed, her red hair rippling around her. “Look, you may think I’m overstepping. I probably am. Jurian and I consider Lucien to be part of our family, and though he’s a pain in the ass, we love him.”

“Well, so do I,” Elain burst out, then flushed deeply, realizing what she’d said.

Vassa gave her a searching look. “You love him?”

“Yes,” Elain breathed, though her mind was racing, and her insides were roiling, and she wanted to jump out of the open window before she said anything else.

I love him. I love him.

She felt ridiculous for not realizing it sooner, but it was true. She loved Lucien, had probably always loved him, long before she’d allowed herself to admit she had feelings for him at all. She loved his gentle heart, his wit, his bravery and kindness and loyalty, and his patient understanding for her, when she’d been protecting herself, closing herself off from him, denying he was anything.

It was so easy to fall in love with Lucien when Elain knew, had always known, that he loved her. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t said those precise words. He’d told her in a thousand other ways, and she could feel it through the bond, even when he didn’t say anything at all. Maybe he felt her love, too, but she hadn’t said those words to him. Hadn’t even said them to herself.

And here she was, telling Vassa. 

She straightened, determined to rein herself back in. “Lucien is lucky to have friends who care for him, but his opinion is the one that matters to me.”

“Fair enough,” Vassa said, a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth.

That queen, she riled me up on purpose. Was she testing me?

Elain sat back and took another long sip of her tea, mulling over their tense conversation. Then her mind cycled back to Vassa’s comments about her family, and said, “You knew my father well.”

“I did. I was lucky to meet him, for many reasons,” Vassa said, her golden brown skin flushing. “He was a kind and brave man, almost like a father to me. And what he did for me, the sacrifice he made, I’ll never forget it."

The skin prickled on the back of Elain’s neck. “Sacrifice?”

Vassa shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Have you never wondered what the bargain was, how your father convinced Koschei to allow my release?”

Elain gaped at her. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I just assumed that he explained how evil Hybern was, and Koschei decided to help us end the war.”

Vassa blinked rapidly at that, her thick eyelashes fluttering. “Koschei is a death-lord. He thrives on slaughter, on wars. They feed his power, make him stronger, though he still seeks a way to escape the lake so that he can unleash all that pent up force. He cares not for evil or good, as long as death is the result of it. That is why he assisted Hybern at every turn, even as he wove in plots of his own.”

“Then what happened?” Elain asked.

“I’m sure the prospect of my fighting in battle, causing deaths, thrilled Koschei, but it wasn’t enough. What your father gave him was far more.” Vassa sucked in a sharp breath. “His own untimely death, at the King of Hybern’s hands.”

Elain crinkled her brow. “Papa knew that would happen?”

“He offered himself,” Vassa said. “Giving his death to the King was Koschei’s idea.”

Elain recoiled. “Papa agreed to that?”

“Koschei wanted your deaths, the three of you sisters. That was not in your father’s power to give, nor would he have agreed to it.”

“Our deaths?” Elain gasped, horrified. “Why?”

“You are Cauldron-made,” Vassa explained. “You can wield weapons, magical objects, that threaten Koschei’s power. Briallyn, that treacherous queen, is the only other being who can, and she is under Koschei’s control.”

“Not Jurian?”

“He is still human,” Vassa said. “And grateful for it, in all respects but this one. He would fight Koschei with his bare hands, if he could, but he cannot wield the Trove.”

Her eyes flickered for a moment, and Elain wondered exactly what there was between Vassa and Jurian, but she made a mental note to ask Lucien later. She couldn’t think about that now, not when a death-lord wanted her death, and her sisters’.

“Are we still in danger?” she asked Vassa, thinking of Feyre’s pregnancy, her sweet innocent baby that was soon to be born, and Rhys’s life, hanging in the balance.

“We all are,” Vassa said. “But your father bought you a reprieve, both from Hybern and Koschei, through the bargain he made.”

“But,” Elain stammered, her eyes welling with tears, “why did it have to be Papa? Why him?”

“Koschei is wily,” Vassa said. “He sees much, though how, I do not know. His aim was to eliminate his opponents, any threat to his power. When he could not secure your deaths directly, he went for the next best thing — your beloved father. He thought it would weaken you, make you more vulnerable.” She saw Elain’s sorrowful expression and graced her shoulder with a light, comforting touch. “Did you not wonder how all three of you came to witness that moment?”

“I don’t know how I got to that spot in the woods,” Elain admitted. “I thought I just stumbled onto it.”

“It was ordained,” Vassa said. “You were meant to see it.”

“Then was I meant to kill the King of Hybern?”

Vassa chuckled. “I do not think that was part of Koschei’s plan. I think he meant to soften you up for the King’s killing blow, not the other way around.”

Elain shuddered. “Who am I to have such a powerful enemy? Why me?”

Vassa sighed. “I have often asked myself the same thing.”

Elain was silent for a moment, then dared to say, “I saw you in my visions, you know. Before the War.”

“I know.” Vassa smiled at her, a genuine smile that lit up her beautiful face. “You sent Lucien to find me, and made my reprieve possible. I don’t suppose I have ever thanked you for that.”

“Oh,” Elain blushed, “I can’t take credit. I don’t understand the visions I have, or control them. But I’m glad it happened, all the same.”

Vassa squeezed her shoulder. “Me too.”

Elain smiled. “Since you know Lucien so well, maybe you could help me with something.”

“Oh?”

Elain leaned forward conspiratorially. “I owe him several Solstice presents. Any ideas?”

Chapter Text

An overwhelming sense of relief raced through Rhys as he and Feyre arrived at the River House just after sunset. Feyre is home. My mate is home. And with Feyre, their sweet baby, tucked away safe in her womb. For the first time in many days, he felt like he might actually relax, might sleep peacefully, knowing he wasn’t alone.

“Cass just dropped the last of the bags,” Feyre said, motioning to the absurdly large pile in the front entrance. “Gods, am I tired. I’ve got to get these shoes off before they dig into my feet.”

“How about a bath?” Rhys asked, preparing a tendril of his magic to turn the faucets on.

“That sounds amazing,” she admitted. “But dinner first? The baby’s hungry.”

Rhys’s heart warmed at the thought, that the new life growing inside Feyre already had needs and desires and preferences, and she was already taking care of him so tenderly. Nyx and Feyre had a connection that went beyond anything, something so intimate and precious, while Rhys felt like an outsider looking in.

But he savored moments with the tiny consciousness that flickered in his awareness from time to time, feeling the little jabs of his son’s knees and elbows when Rhys rested his hand on Feyre’s belly. That would have to be enough until he could physically hold Nyx in his arms.

Soon, little one, you and I can catch up, get to know each other properly.

Nuala and Cerridwen were already whisking Feyre’s belongings away, setting out a late dinner, and showing the Autumn healer to her guest room, which was just off the kitchens, so that she could have easy access to running water and a cabinet for all her medicines. The older female was properly gracious and pleasant, saying it was no trouble for her to stay anywhere, but Rhys felt that he should give her accommodations at least as nice as what she would have had in the Forest House. The idea that she had made do with a cot in one corner of the bedroom in Lucien’s tiny apartment, not even a proper bed or her own private space, rather appalled him.

Lucien, that little fox. Rhys couldn’t help but be thankful for that troublesome male, who was stubborn and reckless enough to defy him, though it pained him that Feyre had felt like she had to run to Lucien in the first place. Rhys had made her feel unsafe, broken her trust, and had roped their entire Inner Circle in on his stupid deception, and he was gods-damned lucky she was giving them all another chance.

He couldn’t take his eyes off Feyre as she flitted through the house, finally flopping down onto a comfortable chair in their private sitting area. He trailed after her, ready to offer her a cold drink, or bring her dinner, or whatever she might require. After days of missing Feyre desperately, not knowing where she was and then not being allowed to see her, he was starved for her, and he wasn’t going to waste a single moment.

Feyre looked more radiant than in his wildest fantasies, glowing with pregnancy, curvy and soft, and Rhys had to work to rein in his desires, stay focused on their conversation, though he couldn’t care less in that moment about the new rules at the Hewn City and the few who’d dared challenge them. Feyre was powerful as well as fair, and she would take care of it, but all he wanted now was to take care of her, in all the ways she would let him. Things were still tentative between them, a bit distant and awkward, and he knew better than to try to rush rebuilding their relationship. Feyre was entitled to demand he earn her trust back, for as long as it took, and he only hoped that they would survive the baby’s delivery so that he might have the opportunity. 

Feyre was reaching down awkwardly to peel off her shoes, as her voluptuous belly, round and succulent with pregnancy, was making the task difficult.

“Allow me,” he purred, striding forward, and knelt to undo the buckles and laces, sliding his thumb across the top of her right foot as he slipped the offending shoe away, suppressing a wince as he saw that her foot and ankle were swollen.

Feyre said sardonically, “What’s the matter? Worried I’ll throw it at your head?”

Rhys grinned, cradling her foot in both hands as he rubbed little circles into the skin, then reached for her other foot. “I was actually thinking it’s been too long since I got on my knees for you, Feyre darling.”

Feyre’s breath hitched, and his grin grew wider, but he merely pried the shoe from her left foot and massaged the heel, then the sides, and then each toe. She lay back and closed her eyes, and he let his hands wander to her ankle, focusing on relaxing the muscles, getting her comfortable.

“I missed this,” she said. “Missed you.” In her anger, she had shut him out so completely that he’d felt nothing at all through their bond, a disorienting and lonely feeling that he hoped never to experience again. “We hadn’t been apart like that since I was at Spring.”

He grimaced at the mention of Spring and all the memories of those difficult days, when the bond had felt so sluggish, when he’d worried constantly at what could be happening with her so far away. “I’m sorry I made it necessary,” he said quietly.

Feyre hummed in agreement as his hands continued to massage, focusing on the sole of her foot. “The city is recovering well.”

“I’m glad,” he said, remembering the cleanup efforts that he’d seen underway. He’d done a fair bit of cleanup himself, and had directed Mor to take charge of dispensing funds to families and businesses that needed to rebuild. It had been a good first official act for the new governor of the city, and Mor had won many admirers from her constituents both for her patient listening and her willingness to open the royal coffers. But Rhys was ashamed that he’d caused the damage in the first place, murmuring abashedly, “I really lost it.”

Feyre held out her right foot to him again, and he switched back to it, letting her left foot fall onto his thigh. “I could have told you where I was. So you wouldn’t worry.”

“I didn’t deserve that consideration,” Rhys said, “not after I had just threatened your sister. You were well entitled to keep me away and tell me nothing. It was entirely my fault that I overreacted.” His grip tightened on her foot as he said, “I’m lucky to be here with you at all.”

Feyre was quiet, but he could feel her contentment through the bond, that she was willing to forgive him, that she was happy to be here with him, despite all he’d done. He kept massaging her foot and ankle, then switched back to her left foot again, enjoying the way she relaxed, resting her hands on her belly.

After a while, he dared ask, “How did you deal with it? The secret itself, I mean.” The news that we might die, that our baby might die, he added silently, through that sliver in her mental shield that she had left open for him. He still couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud.

“It took me a while to get over the shock,” she admitted. “Finding out we might have so little time. I wasn’t going to just accept it. And I realized I had so much unfinished business, so many things I was leaving undone and unsaid. I’ve been busy tying up loose ends.”

He gave her a rueful smile. “Is that how you ended up presiding over a Vanserra family reunion?”

“Actually, that was your doing,” Feyre said. “Eris saw you and Tamlin fighting when you were looking for me, and showed up to warn Lucien about it.”

“Smart male,” Rhys snorted. “Those Vanserras are crafty.”

Feyre didn’t disagree. “Since he couldn’t talk Lucien out of being involved, he decided to help. He brought the healer and Áine to the apartment.”

“And I brought Helion,” said Rhys, wincing as he recalled that unfortunate confrontation. Another person who forgives too easily.

“Maybe Lucien should be thanking you for attacking his wards,” Feyre joked.

Rhys’s hand tightened on her ankle. “I won’t take the credit. If he’d ended up dead at Helion’s hands —” He broke off, shaking his head. “Helion was right. I’ve been very willing to sacrifice everyone else’s loved ones for the sake of my own.”

“It’s only natural,” Feyre argued. “Of course you would want to protect your family before strangers.”

Rhys shook his head. “With our power, that isn’t enough.” He ran a hand through his hair, struggling to find the words to explain. “We’re the Court of Dreams, but we’ve dreamed too small. What you’re doing with the Hewn City is a perfect example. Who knows how many innocents were confined within those walls, deprived of hope, of sunlight, during those long years of neglect.”

Feyre said, “Things are changing for the better.”

“Indeed they are.” Rhys smiled admiringly at her. He pressed his fingers into her calf muscle, massaging more firmly, working out the knot. “You need more comfortable shoes.”

“Are you offering to take me shopping?”

“Just say the word,” Rhys said. “I’m not allowed to buy anything for the baby until he’s born, but I can pamper you.”

And one of his hands wandered further up her leg, daring to slip underneath the hem of her long dress.

“Rhys,” Feyre said, a bit breathlessly.

“Hmm?” he asked innocently, letting his fingers trail back down her leg. Gods, it felt so good just to touch her again, he didn’t care if he just kept massaging her feet all night. Any excuse to have his hands on her skin, to be close to her, he would take it. But there was a hint of arousal in her scent, a need for him, that had his heart pounding, his own arousal curling pleasantly inside him.

Feyre said, her voice low,“Do you think the baby will feel it if we’re intimate?”

Rhys bit his lip to keep from chuckling at the earnest question. “I rather doubt it. But if you’re uncomfortable with the idea, it can wait.”

Feyre said, “I could ask the healer.”

This time he did chuckle, low and sultry. “Let’s not bother her at the moment, at least not with that.” His hand moved back up her leg, on the inside this time, and she made a little sound when he reached her knee. “Does that feel good, Feyre darling?”

“Maybe,” she teased him, poking at his chest with her toes.

“Do you want to put your feet up?” he asked, coaxing her leg upwards and resting her ankle on his shoulder. “I thought I heard the healer say you should keep them elevated?”

Feyre said, “Hmm, indeed. To help my circulation.” But then her leg curled around his back, nudging him closer, and he silently thanked all the gods and the Cauldron at the invitation to keep going.

Rhys kept his pace slow and unhurried, stroking her legs as though he wasn’t ravenous for her, as though he hadn’t almost torn the world apart when she was gone, as though he weren’t still half-terrified that the delivery would tear her open, kill them both. He waited until she squeezed her legs, bringing him even closer, before he dared press a kiss to the inside of her knee, waiting until she moaned his name before he went higher.

Feyre’s hands were gripping the sides of the chair, her hold growing tighter as he moved up her legs, and then she twined her hands in his hair, tugging him towards her, murmuring his name.

“What do you want, Feyre darling,” Rhys asked, bracing his hands on her legs, waiting for her to say the word.

Feyre’s smile was sly. “How about some fun and distraction.”

You wicked, cruel delight. “I hear I’m good at that,” Rhys purred, and then got to work.

Chapter Text

Lucien burst into the darkened room, firelight flaring at his fingertips, cursing as his shin slammed into the hard edge of the low wooden bed. Get to her. Help her. Hold her —

Elain twisted in the sheets, wailing, and he flung himself onto the bed, shoving the covers out of the way, scanning her for injuries, calling her name, trying to keep the frantic edge out of his voice. She doesn’t need my panic on top of her own.

For it was panic that had come barreling through the bond, terror and horror mingled together with it, and he’d been out of bed and halfway to Elain’s room before he’d heard her strangled cry. Lucien knew the manor was secure, knew they couldn’t be under attack, but some primal, deep part of him had responded to the threat anyway, and he hastily let his dagger fall from his hand before Elain could wake up and see him brandishing it.

He leaped onto the bed and her eyes flew open, white and shining with some strange light he’d never seen before. “Elain?” he cried, flinging his arms around her and yanking her towards him, sliding his arms around her back and under her knees, cradling her against his chest, his heart pounding in his ears. 

“Feyre,” she gasped. “Rhys. Eris.” Then the light abruptly fizzled out, and she let out a gasping sob,  collapsing against Lucien, shaking and cold.

He held her for long moments, feeling miserable and helpless, as she shed frightened tears into his nightshirt, her hands snatching at the fabric like she could claw her way in. “I’m here, Elain, it’s just me,” he murmured into her hair. “You’re safe.”

Elain shuddered, and he pulled her tighter against him, her sweet honey-lavender scent tinged sour with fear, but he breathed it in deeply anyway, the mating bond curling tight in his chest, possessive, demanding. Now that he had her in his arms, her skin warm and soft against his, he didn’t know how he would be able to let her go again. He wanted to bundle her back to his apartment in Velaris, curl up with her behind his own wards, where he knew he could protect her. He wanted to hold her forever, feel her pressed up against him, and —

Don’t get distracted. Focus on helping her.

Elain’s sobs softened to sniffles and then stopped entirely, and then she was looking up at him with those wide chocolate-brown eyes, and he let her legs go so that he could reach up to smooth the tears from her cheeks, pressing gentle kisses to her forehead, then her eyebrows, her nose, and finally her trembling lips.

Elain grabbed for him then, kissing him with a desperation that startled him, as though she were grounding herself back in the here and now, reassuring herself that he was really there with her. He didn’t try to ask where her mind had gone, what she had seen with those white shining eyes, but surrendered to the kiss, letting the heat and taste of her, mixed with the salt of her tears, sink in deeply, infuse his memories.

Elain’s hands fluttered up to cup his face, and he waited, wanting to see if she would ask him to keep going, or stop, but then she declared, “They’re in danger.”

“Who?” he asked, sliding her hair back from her shoulders, letting his fingers slide down the side of her delicate neck, pale and lovely in the moonlight streaming in through the windows. The moon was nearly full tonight, and he knew they still had hours before dawn, but this couldn’t wait until then.

“Feyre. And Rhys, and the baby,” Elain whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “I saw it. Saw them. Feyre was bleeding, and the healer was there, and Rhys —“ She frowned, breaking off. “It wasn’t clear.” Her gaze drifted towards the window, and she murmured, “This isn’t right. The moon was full.”

“Was Feyre giving birth?” he prompted gently, stroking her cheek, wondering if this was a nightmare, or one of Elain’s visions, or something in between. He hadn’t heard any talk of Elain using her powers since the War had ended, and she certainly hadn’t brought the topic up to him. He cursed himself, that he hadn’t thought to ask sooner.

“It was hazy, I couldn’t see it,” Elain said softly. “There was a light — it was blinding — and Eris,” and then she broke off, squeezing her eyes shut. “Eris was screaming.”

Lucien fought to keep his voice neutral, though he was desperate to know more. Was Eris in danger, too? “Do you think it’s the future, what you saw?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand how this power works,” Elain wailed, tears starting to flow again. “I never trained in it. I thought maybe it was gone, that it would leave me alone once the War was over.”

“You speak of it like it’s not part of you,” Lucien said, wishing he had a handkerchief to offer her, settling for wiping at her tears ineffectually with his fingers.

Elain’s brows furrowed. “Is it part of me?”

“I don’t know,” Lucien admitted. “But if it’s anything like my powers, then yes, it is. You can bury it, or hide it, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s there.”

Elain looked so forlorn, so rattled by this information, that Lucien pulled her in closer. He savored their closeness, that she was allowing him to give her comfort, even as he hated that she needed comforting at all. He knew that he couldn’t shield her from this, that she needed to face it, that it would ultimately make her stronger, but he heartily wished she could have acquired her power a bit at a time, as he had as a youngling, rather than being slammed with it all at once.

“I’ve read about Seers,” he said tentatively, “not that there’s much written. And all the books are old, a thousand years old or more. But I haven’t consulted all of Helion’s libraries yet, just the archives under the House of Wind.”

Elain lifted her head, eyes shining. “You researched my powers?”

“I thought it might prove useful,” he said, adding nervously, “Is — is that all right? I didn’t mean to intrude, if it’s too private, but —”

“No one else wants me to use my powers, or even learn about them,” Elain said quietly, sliding a hand along his shoulder. “Just once, during the War, Feyre needed my help tracking the Suriel. But that’s all. They’d rather see me safe at home, baking and gardening, than dabbling with such things as visions. They all think it’s dangerous.”

“They might be right,” Lucien said, “but it could be dangerous not to use your powers, in a different way.” He gulped down his misgivings, and continued, “If I don’t use my power, it builds up, even discharges erratically if I’m not careful. And in the case of your Seer powers, it could be even more than that. There were suggestions in several books that the visions themselves are not random, that you’re meant to see them. That they’re important, in some way.”

Elain’s nails dug into his arm. “You mean, if I don’t use my powers, Feyre and Rhys will die?” Her lower lip quivered. “But I’ve never conjured a vision on purpose.”

Lucien said, “Do you want to try?”

“Do you think I should?” she asked plaintively, suddenly noticing that she was gripping his arm tightly, and withdrew her fingers. “Do you want me to try?”

“What I want doesn’t matter. You might feel better if you made the attempt, but only if you really want to,” Lucien replied.

This had to be her choice, and hers alone. He’d never forgive himself if he talked her into it and something terrible happened to her, or he talked her out of it and something terrible happened to their loved ones as a result. There was no good answer, and there was no one to ask — Elain was the only Seer he’d ever even heard of, much less met in person. Even the authors of the few books on Seers were all long dead.

“If I were to try to call a vision,” Elain said hesitantly, “how would I even start? They always come upon me randomly, when I least expect it.” She shifted to sit upright, and Lucien sat back to give her some space, though he couldn’t bear to let go of her entirely. He kept one arm draped around her back, comforting himself that she was here and all right, that he hadn’t lost her.

“The books mention sacred caves,” Lucien said, “not that we’re near any. And a few sources said the visions could be summoned by inhaling a special smoke, or drinking a potion brewed from leaves, or chanting to —“

“Leaves?” Elain interrupted, looking hopeful. “What kind of leaves?”

Lucien frowned, wishing he’d paid more attention to the details, or had thought to write it down at least. “I wish I knew.”

Elain’s eyes were bright now, her face lighting up with a hopeful smile. “What do the leaves do?”

Lucien closed his eyes, trying to recall the exact words of the passage he’d read. “They relax the mind, I think. Clear other thoughts away, to allow the vision to enter.” He shook his head in frustration. “There was a story about them. A myth, I think.”

“Try to remember it, it might have a clue,” Elain encouraged him.

Lucien racked his brain. “Something about a moon goddess, the goddess of the wild hunt and all its creatures. She presented the plants to a wise healer, who ground them up to cure an infestation of worms.” He shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry. I know that isn’t helpful, but —“

“Wormwood,” Elain blurted out.

“What?” Lucien stared at her in surprise.

“Wormwood. Of course,” Elain cried excitedly, leaping up from the bed. Lucien carefully kept his eyes on her face, far away from her thin nightgown and her glorious body underneath it. “Artemisia. Like the moon goddess, Artemis, from the old stories Papa used to tell.”

Lucien watched her incredulously as she rushed about the room, grabbing for a long robe that she threw over her nightdress, then a cloak over that. “It’s got silvery green leaves, and little yellow flowers. I grew it outside our old cottage, after a passing traveler painted some runes on our walls. He told Father it would keep unwanted visitors away.” Her face fell as she considered that. “Obviously that didn’t work.”

She was referring to Tamlin, he supposed — a most unwanted visitor, who’d frightened them all by bashing in their door.

But then Elain smiled again as she raced around the bed, snagging her shoes from the floor. “I can’t imagine that it all survived, but it’s quite hardy, it grows wild, and it drives away pests and weeds, and — you’re not getting ready,” she suddenly interrupted herself, noticing that Lucien was still sitting on the bed, watching her, transfixed.

“Ready?” he asked stupidly.

“Well, we’ve got to go get some. We can’t be far,” Elain said impatiently.

Lucien’s brain finally clicked her meaning into place. “You want to find plants? Now, at this hour?” He looked out of the window, at the ruins of the human village, deep black against the navy sky.

“When else?” asked Elain. “We should have plenty of light, with this moon overhead.”

“Light is no problem,” Lucien said, flicking his fingers to produce a tiny tendril of it. “I’m helpful there, at least.” He cringed, remembering the hovel Tamlin had described. “You’ll be okay, going back there? It might be in bad disrepair.”

“I won’t let it get to me. It’s to help our family,” Elain said firmly. “We won’t need much, if I remember correctly, wormwood makes a potent tea. Father’s healer mentioned it once, to just use a little, if his knee was acting up…”

Lucien let her continue talking, expounding on herbal properties and growing conditions, letting the details wash over him, as he pulled himself up from the bed and strode towards the door. He knew they were talking too loudly, that Jurian at least might want to get some sleep, but Vassa savored the hours in her human form and would surely be awake and available to help, should they need it.

“Just need my shoes and jacket,” he said, “then I can winnow us there.”

Elain nodded, her hands clasping and unclasping in excitement.

When Lucien came out of his bedroom, she was standing in the exact same spot, a look of dreamy wonder on her face. “Oh!” she gasped when she saw him, as though she’d forgotten he was coming back.

“Ready?” he asked gently, extending his hand.

Her fingers curled around his, and he tugged her close, allowing himself a small smile of satisfaction when she leaned against him. “Do you think it’s strange?” she asked.

He curled his arm around her. “What is?”

“That the plants I need for my visions are here. That I planted them long ago.” She peered up with him, her face so pale and lovely. “It’s like I knew.”

Lucien considered that. “Maybe you were a Seer all along?”

Elain giggled, then covered her mouth with her hand. “You were serious.”

“Was I?” Lucien grinned down at her, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Well, I don’t know. I’m not an expert in such things. But you were certainly magical. I saw you long enough before your dip into the Cauldron to know that.”

Elain regarded him quietly, then stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, murmuring, “Come on, let’s go pick some flowers.”

Chapter Text

A blinding flash of sunlight, the High Lord’s screams, shadows rushing towards him —

A glittering cave, an underground river, a pale blond female running through corridors —

A baby’s cry, a full moon, blood pooling on the towels, a healer whispering “just in time” —

Elain gasped, jolting upright, and strong hands caught her, easing her back down against a warm, broad chest, encircling her, holding her safe and warm. But her head was pounding, the bitter taste of wormwood tea coating her tongue.

“Water,” she gasped, needing to wash the foul taste out, and in moments a cup was pressed to her lips. She drank greedily, closing her eyes against the rush of images still pulsing through her, shuddering as the full weight of what she’d Seen washed over her.

A full moon.

“The moon was full,” she said urgently, grabbing at the air, trying to hoist herself up. “It was just in time.” The room swam around her, and she closed her eyes hastily, a wave of nausea rocking through her.

“Slow, sweetheart,” a low, comforting voice murmured in her ear. Lucien’s voice. She took a deep breath, relaxing into it, letting his presence settle her. “Easy. You’ve been out for hours.”

Elain looked up at him. He smiled reassuringly, his skin bronzed and glowing faintly in the morning light. Light. There was a blinding light —

“Eris,” she gasped, jerking upwards again. “I saw Eris.” She glanced around the room, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings, belatedly remembering that she was in the old stone manor, in the human lands, and not in Lucien’s familiar apartment. She blinked, trying to place the images of Eris among the others, to put it all into words that anyone else could understand. This had always been the worst part about the visions, the chasm that separated her from others, the knowledge that she sounded crazy, or just ridiculous.

Lucien’s fingers tightened around her arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t rush things, take your time. I’m here to listen, when you’re ready.”

He shifted, laying beside her, and she curled into him, leaning her head on his chest. He was waiting patiently for her to gather her thoughts, though she could see it was a struggle. He wanted to know what was to befall his brother, his friends, as much as she wanted to tell him. But he said nothing, giving her time, and she took breath after breath until the room stopped spinning.

“It’s all a blur,” she said. “Autumn, Velaris, and a place I’ve never been before — a city in a cave.”

“Just say whatever comes to mind,” Lucien suggested. “We can untangle it afterwards.”

Lucien drew her closer, holding her, while she squeezed her eyes shut, willing the images to replay slowly in her mind’s eye so that she could make sense of them.

“There was a battlefield,” she began, feeling the orange and red leaves crunch beneath her feet as she ran among the soldiers, all dressed in crimson with golden flames on their backs, shouting and cursing and brandishing swords and arrows. Ash arrows. “A rebellion, I think. Eris was burning, flinging fire at them, but there were just so many. And then there was a blinding flash, a searing hot light, and I couldn’t see.”

Lucien’s fingers splayed out on her back, the only sign of how this must be affecting him. Was he up all night, watching over me? She couldn’t recall much after they’d gathered the wormwood from around the ruins of the cottage, all broken open and overrun, as though the forest had started to reclaim it. Lucien had winnowed them back to the cottage, Elain clutching the oily pungent leaves in her hands, and Vassa had wandered into the kitchen to watch them work, crushing up the leaves to steep them in water.

And then there had been the taste of the brew, bitter and spicy, so revolting she had nearly thrown it up. After that —

After that, Eris was screaming.

“The light was so bright and piercing, it engulfed everything,” Elain said, shivering with the memory. “I heard Eris screaming, and then the shadows rushed in, and it was dark again.”

“Not — Koschei?” Lucien asked quietly. “The death lord?” In the corner of the room, she heard a low guttural curse, and a faint rustling. Lucien turned his head, snapping, “Hush. Patience.” Elain wondered if Jurian and Vassa were there, listening, and decided she didn’t care. Fewer people to repeat myself to.

“I didn’t feel anything like that,” Elain replied, “but I can’t be sure.” She thought about it. “No, it was just tendrils of darkness, blocking out the light.”

Lucien ran a hand over his face, taking this in. “Was there anything else? Did you see who was behind the rebellion? Any details about what they were wearing, or something that would help us identify them?”

Elain contemplated, picturing the rush of battle, trying to block out the shrieks and clattering of metal against metal, the twanging of bows. “The soldiers wore red and gold, with flames painted on their backs. And there was a banner, with the sigil of a fire-lit tree.”

“The Vanserra crest,” Lucien said, swearing softly. “Of course. One of our brothers, making a claim for the throne. And the golden flames, that was Beron’s personal seal. Eris will know what to make of that.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her lips, smiling reassuringly. “This is helpful, Elain. Truly. Anything else?”

“I slipped from Autumn after that,” Elain said, thinking carefully. “I traveled far, though it happened fast. It was dark then, so it was the Night Court, perhaps? There was a cave, a glittering river. And music, I think. Dancing.” She looked up at Lucien, crinkling her brow. “I’m sorry this isn’t making sense.”

“It will, in time. Just keep talking,” he assured her, swiping stray hairs from her forehead. “I’m in awe that you were able to get this much detail from a few leaves drowned in hot water.”

Elain had to smile at that. She had never had this much control over her visions before. If only the concoction wasn’t quite so vile. But perhaps it was meant to be bitter, as what she saw in her visions had been.

She quickly turned her focus back to the glittering cave, replaying what she had seen there. “I think it was the Hewn City,” she said, “but bright and beautiful, almost like Velaris. But instead of starlight, the crystals were glowing. And I wanted to look at it, but there was a female, running, beckoning me, saying there wasn’t time. I didn’t recognize her, but she was blond like Mor, and very beautiful, and I felt like I should know her, like she was someone important.”

Lucien asked, “What was she saying? Why wasn’t there time?”

Elain tried to conjure the female’s high pitched, sweet voice in her mind. “She took me through the corridors, and there were voices behind us, and we were running away. Something about Nyx, and a plot, how the phoenix must be caged, which I didn’t understand, but she seemed to think it meant something crucial. And she was going to warn Feyre, and —“

Elain broke off, the last part of her vision intruding in her memory, making her cry out. “Feyre. Oh gods.”

“Tell me,” Lucien said gently, lifting her carefully so that she sat more upright, encouraging her to drink more sips of water. “You saw your sister?”

Elain shuddered. “There was blood, so much blood, and —“ She frowned, grabbing at the tendrils of the vision in her mind, trying to bring them into clear focus.

A full moon over the River House, the city quiet, expectant.

Feyre crouched on the bed, Rhys gripping her hands, the healer behind her. Blood on the towels, blood and water, and the healer chanting, “That’s it — that’s it —“

“I feel him,” Feyre was shrieking, “he’s there, he’s right there.”

“Shift a bit more, just a bit more,” the healer urged her.

Rhys’s face was pale, so pale, as Feyre threw her head back, wailing, but he gritted his teeth and clung to her. “That’s it, Feyre darling, let it happen.” He glanced nervously at the healer, who was so terribly calm, hands pressed to Feyre’s hips, glowing with a faint white light. “What can you feel?”

“He is in distress, but he is almost out. We induced just in time —“

Just in time. Elain gripped Lucien’s shoulders, staring anxiously into his mismatched eyes. “When’s the full moon going to be?” she exclaimed. “The baby must be born then. The healer said they were just in time.”

Lucien’s golden eye clicked. “The full moon? It’s tonight, I think.”

“That’s it, then, it’s got to be,” Elain declared. “He must be born tonight, or it’ll be too late. He was in distress, she was trying to shift the rest of the way. Lucien, we must warn them!”

Lucien nodded solemnly. “We’ll get a message out right away.” He closed his eyes, seeming to concentrate, then swore softly. “I can’t do it, I’m depleted.” He tore his eyes from her to look at the corner of the room again, saying, “Could you get to Spring? Tamlin could —“

Jurian’s low laugh trickled out from the corner. “No way is that beast getting into Night Court territory, even if he’s sent by the Cauldron itself.”

A bird cawed, and Elain suddenly realized it was daytime, that Vassa was in her firebird form.

“Do you think —“ Lucien began, then broke off, seeming to consider. “I’d send word to Autumn, but I can’t guarantee you’ll find Eris quickly enough. Is Velaris too far?”

The bird cawed again, and Lucien extricated himself from the bed, murmuring, “Let me go take care of this. I’ll be right back.”

Elain closed her eyes, steadying herself, as Lucien shifted her back onto the pillows. She focused on breathing in and out, blocking out the low talking in the far corner of the room, and let the minutes drift by. Then there was sudden rush of dry warmth in the air, and Lucien was back on the bed, leaning over her, stroking her cheeks, saying, “It’s all right. We’ve sent word. They’ll get the message.”

Elain reached for him, tears slipping from her eyes. “You’re certain?”

“I promise.” He gently pressed his palms down on her, laying her down on her side, then curled up around her protectively, an arm slung over her stomach. “Now rest.”

“But Feyre —“

“You’ve done all you can for her, sweetheart. You’ve been up all night,” Lucien said softly, “and so have I. Magic still doesn’t work right here, even with the Wall down, and we’re both drained. We’ve got to rest, replenish our powers, or we’ll be of no use to anyone.”

She shifted on the bed, looking plaintively at him, but then relented when she saw his tousled hair, his handsome face haggard with lack of sleep. She remembered now — his hands steadying her, keeping her grounded, tugging her back when she strayed far into her visions, calling her home.

So Elain let herself drift towards a dreamless sleep, settling into Lucien’s warmth at her back, curling a hand around his wrist and tugging his arm closer around her, safe and relaxed.

* * * *

The firebird swooped upwards, the scroll of parchment securely curled up in its talons. Prythian lay far below, the pungent rot of Spring scenting the air, wild roses and decay. The wild lands to the north were ravaged by the war and by neglect, just like the strip of human territory where the Wall had once been, but the devastation here was even more complete, for where magic had once sustained unusually fertile growth and life, only a stark ruin remained.

The beast-lord of Spring roamed this land, would surely pluck her from the sky and shred her, if he could but reach. So she soared above the clouds, trailing a wake of red-orange fire as she passed over Autumn, the tops of its fiery trees rising to greet her, as though welcoming a long-lost cousin. This had been her dear friend’s home, a wicked land of cruelty and sorrow, but a fresh crisp breeze buoyed the firebird as she sailed overhead, and there was a surge of crackling energy that felt purifying and fierce and free, urging her onwards.

The firebird flapped her mighty wings, glittering golden smoke eddying out into the brisk air, as she veered towards the sea. She had to avoid the frigid ice-bound lands of Winter, which would surely melt in her wake, and the corrupted lone mountain and the putrid swamp of the Middle, the dark evil creatures that would seek to claim her, devour her bones and feathers.

It would have been more direct to fly west, but she would not venture close to Hybern, even now, for she had wreaked enough death upon that cursed people, and she would not feed Koschei’s power any more. So it was east she went, towards Dawn, trailing embers behind her like a shooting star, steam rising from the sea as she passed.

This was freedom, of a sort — the whole of the world laid before her, distant and small, though she longed to set her own feet down upon the earth in these lands, grasp their offerings in her human hands, use her voice to speak and sing.

Instead, she flew, and flew some more, sending the songbirds of Dawn tittering away, plunging through the soft pink-orange clouds, then veering west through the mountains, basking in the hot, pure light of Day.

The wildness of the Myrmidons called to the firebird, the vast arms of the mountains welcoming her, calling her to drink their cold clear streams, grace their jagged peaks with her ashes and flame, but she flew on, and on, seeking the jewel of the far west, where by the light of the full moon tonight, a baby must be born. Tonight. Just in time.

Sparks danced across her wings as she passed into Night, lighting the early morning sky over the mountains, and she soared towards the City of Starlight, following the ribbon of the river valley winding amongst the mountain peaks. The city emerged before her, sparkling in the rising sunlight.

The firebird descended towards the city, burning brightly like a second sun, the waters of the Sidra glittering orange and gold as she swooped down towards the house on the river. The people stared, pointing, marveling, while the High Lord and Lady came rushing out to greet her, understanding dawning.

Vassa opened her talons, releasing the parchment into their outstretched hands, along with one of her tail-feathers, a gift of protection for their son, and a death-promise to the death-lord, in honor of his grandfather Archeron, his sacrifice.

The firebird blazed upwards, a whirlwind of red and orange and white, then disappeared back over the cold dark mountains, and was gone, but her journey was noted all over Prythian, the herald of the birth of Nyx Sky-Fire, the Phoenix of the North.

Chapter Text

Feyre forced the bitter potion down her throat, suppressing the urge to gag, to spit it out. The healer patted her shoulder kindly, while Rhys rubbed circles on her back. She coughed a few times, then gasped, “Water.”

Rhys had the cup pressed to her lips in moments, while Eileithyia chuckled apologetically, “Bitter, isn’t it?”

Feyre swished the cool fresh water in her mouth, then gulped to swallow it. “Vile.”

The healer chuckled again, then plucked the empty vial from Feyre’s fingers. “It won’t win any culinary awards, but it’ll get the job done.”

Rhys was regarding the healer with a wary expression, and Feyre had to remind herself that he’d been out of the loop, that he hadn’t been privy to all the conversations and examinations she’d had with Eileithyia over the past week.

She’d quickly come to trust the healer, to stay relaxed as those dry warm fingers poked and prodded. Every question was answered forthrightly, every possibility considered. Madja had even visited the River House, confirming that Feyre was shifting her anatomy accurately, and the two healers had conferred for hours afterwards, swapping tips and stories.

Feyre also knew that the healer had been brewing potions throughout her stay in Lucien’s apartment, had asked Nesta to pick up fresh ingredients at the market every few days, as though she’d known all along that it would come to this. It was one of the reasons she trusted Eileithyia so completely, but she understood why Rhys didn’t. Trust didn’t come easy for him, especially where his mate and baby were concerned.

But Eileithyia was used to far worse, and was fearless in the face of it. She had felt no compunction kicking Beron Vanserra out of the delivery chamber during each of his wife’s seven deliveries, and Feyre had no doubt she’d do the same to Rhys if his behavior became obstructive.

“Now what?” she asked, cradling her belly, a ripple of nervous excitement coursing through her. Finally, finally, I’m going to meet my baby.

“Now we wait,” the healer said cheerfully. “Let the magic in the medicine do its work. Let your body get the process started.”

Feyre wouldn’t let herself think about the possibility of things going wrong, of Nyx getting stuck, of the blood and screaming from Elain’s vision, for they were just in time, the healer had assured her.  The potion would encourage her labor to start, she would shift, she would push, she would deliver Nyx safely. There was no other option — all three of their lives depended on it.

Soon, little one, she whispered into Nyx’s mind, hoping he understood, that he wouldn’t be scared, that it wouldn’t be painful for him. She wanted his entry into it to be as smooth and easy as possible, as though that could guarantee that the rest of his life would go smoothly as well.

Not that he’ll remember this. But I will.

Rhys’s hand splayed out across her back, the only outward sign that he was struggling to keep calm, that his legendary composure and control was slipping. “What can we do?” he asked, his voice authoritative, but Feyre could sense the slight wobble in it.

“Take a walk. Eat a light lunch. Stretch,” Eileithyia advised. “When the contractions start, keep track of how often they come and how long they last.” She took one of Feyre’s hands in both of hers. “Shift as you feel ready, but don’t deplete your magic. You may need a burst, at the end.”

The end sounded far too final for Feyre’s liking, though she knew the healer was fully confident of her chances to survive this. “How about a bath?” she asked hopefully, arching her aching back.

“Maybe later. It’ll relax you too much, slow the labor down,” the healer said.

Feyre frowned at that. “But I thought relaxing was good, to let the baby out?”

“It’s a balance. You don’t want to be so tense you lock up. But your muscles have hard work to do, and you can’t lull them to sleep,” Eileithyia explained. “It’s a balance.”

“Like shooting an arrow,” Feyre suggested, hoping she understood correctly. “You need the right amount of tension.”

Rhys chortled, “Feyre darling, only you would compare giving birth to hunting.” Feyre glared at him, and he held up his hands in surrender. “Far be it from me to argue, I’m not the one about to go into labor.”

“Damn right,” she muttered, massaging her belly, wondering when the contractions would start, how badly they would hurt. It was pain she would welcome, if it meant that she could get this over with. She could deal with discomfort, with pain, in service of a goal, but the waiting, the not knowing, was going to drive her crazy.

It was partly why she’d been secretly grateful for Elain’s vision, prodding them into action, although she’d been startled as hell to be awoken from sleep to see a fiery trail of orange-golden flames plummeting towards the River House, announcing Nyx’s birth day to all of Prythian.

Nyx is Rhys’s son, of course he’s going to make a dramatic entrance.

“You keep your magic handy too, High Lord,” Eileithyia advised. “If anything’s amiss, if she starts bleeding too much or she feels sick, winnow her right back here. I’ll have the room prepared.”

Rhys nodded tightly, not enjoying the prospect of either of those possibilities. “Our thanks, Eileithyia.” He turned to Feyre, his violet eyes twinkling with anxious excitement. “How about a stroll by the Sidra?”

The sky was streaked with brilliant orange and magenta when they emerged from the house, the lingering remnants of Vassa’s flight over Velaris. Feyre stared up at the vibrant colors, memorizing them to paint them later, though she wondered when she would get the chance.

She felt as if her life was ending, at least one stage of it, and a new life was opening up before her, as though she were being born along with her baby, and she squeezed Rhys’s hand to ground herself in the here and now, forced her legs to start walking, to feel the earth beneath her feet, steady and consistent and timeless.

Countless babies had been born on this earth, countless parents had labored and birthed and nurtured them, and she tried to imagine herself and Rhys as joining in, linking up with that chain of life that connected all of them together. It made her feel less alone, less nervous, knowing that every baby’s birth started like this, though she’d never witnessed one. It had been her lot to witness and deliver too many deaths, so that delivering a life felt new and startling.

“A thought for a thought?” Rhys murmured, his salt and citrus scent settling over her as he strode by her side. She’d missed his smell, his touch, during their days apart, though she’d been too angry with him to admit it.

Feyre sighed. “I’m thinking that everything is about to change. That I won’t be able to protect him anymore, not the way I could with him inside me. Elain’s vision made that clear.”

Rhys slipped a comforting hand through hers. “We knew it, didn’t we? That he would be hated, and hunted, simply for who he is, what he represents. My parents felt the same about Branwen and me.” His violet eyes were dark, the promise of retribution within them for whoever would dare harm his boy, and he was surely remembering what it had felt like to lose his sister, along with his mother, on that awful day. “It’s a vulnerable feeling when the ones you love are out in the world, surrounded by danger and enemies, and all you want to do is protect them.”

Feyre understood, but reminded him gently, “That desire can be an enemy too, if it leads to them being stifled. That’s dangerous in a different way. You saw that when Tamlin locked me in the manor. And when you tried to protect me by not sharing the risks of this pregnancy with me.”

Rhys’s jaw was tight at the mention of Tamlin’s name, and his own mistake being compared to anything that Tamlin had ever done, but he readily acknowledged it. “Nyx is your son, Feyre, and if he’s anything like you, he’ll be passionate about his freedom, not shy away from taking risks. I’ll have to remember to be as honest with him as I am with you, so we can face those risks together.”

“And he’s your son, so he’ll be a dreamer,” Feyre replied, gently caressing his face with her fingertips, trying to coax his jaw to relax. “And he’ll fiercely love his family.”

“What’s not to love,” Rhys murmured, tilting her chin up so he could kiss her lips.

Feyre leaned into the kiss, savoring the warmth and taste of Rhys, then gasped as all the muscles surrounding her belly squeezed.

“Rhys,” she hissed, clutching at herself, staring down at her body in wonder. “I think it’s starting!”

“Truly?” Rhys gently gripped her hands, cradling her belly along with her, then knelt and pressed his ear down to the top, as though he expected the baby to speak to him. Then he looked up at her, grinning widely, his eyes crinkling. “I feel it. Gods, it’s happening. We’re going to meet our baby.” He stood up, gripping her shoulders. “What should we do?”

Feyre sucked in a breath, grateful that the cramp had passed. “Keep walking, I suppose? I could go for some ice cream.”

Rhys nodded, wide eyed, his hands clenching tighter on her shoulders. “Okay. Okay, ice cream. And lunch? She said something about lunch. You’ll need energy for later, so we should get lunch, we could stop at Sevenda’s, unless you’d rather take it to go, or I could go get it, or I’ll get Cassian to get it, or —“

“Rhys. Slow down,” Feyre said, gently but firmly, encircling his wrists and tugging his hands away, entwining them with hers. “It’s going to be all right. It’s just lunch.”

“Right. Lunch,” Rhys said, squaring his shoulders, forcing himself to take deep breaths.

“Soup at Sevenda’s sounds lovely,” Feyre said. “We could sit outdoors, view this lovely sky. I have the feeling we won’t have many leisurely uninterrupted meals for a while after today.” Rhys looked a little pale, but nodded, and she went on, “Nyx loves Sevenda’s, he always kicks while I’m eating it. I can’t wait until he’s big enough to eat it on his own.”

Rhys said quietly, “I can wait. This is all going so fast. It wasn’t that long ago that you and I were at Sevenda’s, when you first came to Velaris…” He trailed off, eyes twinkling with the memory. “If you’d told me then that you would be my High Lady, ruling our realm, delivering our baby, I don’t know if I would have believed it.”

“Me neither. I was just trying to get through every day, find reasons to get out of bed in the morning,” Feyre admitted, then winced as the baby kicked, hard. She wasn’t sure if it was even his foot, for he had grown so large that he was all elbows and knees against her voluminous belly. “Nyx wants us to get a move on.”

Rhys laughed. “Impatient little rascal.” And he swept Feyre into his arms, shooting up into the air, making her yelp with surprise.

“I’m supposed to be walking,” she protested, though the sky around them was such a kaleidoscope of vivid color, the city below bathed in yellows and oranges and pinks, that Velaris had almost never looked more beautiful. Only Starfall could top a scene such as this.

“You can walk home, Feyre darling, but allow me this,” Rhys said, holding her close, his warmth and strength surrounding her. “I’m going to be a father today, I need to fly.”

She smiled and threw her arms around his neck, gazing up at him, and thought that he’d almost never looked more beautiful, either.

* * * *

“You’re certain?” Rhys asked worriedly, looking askance at Feyre. She was pale, trembling slightly, but nodded bravely. So he turned to the healer. “All right. Do what must be done.”

Whatever it takes for a safe delivery, to save Feyre and the baby.

“Lean back,” Eileithyia said kindly, motioning to the bed, which had been prepped with towels and a generous number of pillows for Feyre to prop herself up on. The healer had just finished washing her hands again — something she did often, which Rhys appreciated, despite the generally low risk of infectious sickness amongst faeries — and she infused a bit of Autumn heat into them, causing them to steam as they dried.

“Never touch a female with cold hands,” she said, and he couldn’t decide if she was joking, or really giving him advice, so he just nodded in agreement. She isn’t wrong, either way.

Feyre pushed herself onto the bed, moaning softly through yet another contraction, and Rhys rushed to help her, lifting her legs and assisting her as she arranged herself into the position Eileithyia had described. She spread her legs apart, hiking up her flowing skirts away from the lower half of her body, and asked, more calmly, “Will it hurt?”

“At the moment the sac breaks, it might,” the healer said matter-of-factly. “It’ll be a bit strange and uncomfortable for a few minutes, and then the contractions should pick up speed.”

“You’re certain we have to do this now?” Rhys asked again, aware that he was repeating himself, aware that he was probably in the way, that the healer shouldn’t be interrupted with all these questions, but the idea of anyone reaching into Feyre’s body, breaking Feyre’s water, was profoundly disturbing to him.

But the healer regarded him patiently, obviously used to anxious partners. “She’s taken the maximum dose of the potion to speed up labor, and has exercised and stretched her body as much as possible. With the sun nearly setting, and the contractions still so far apart, it’s time for the next level of intervention.”

“Trust her, Rhys,” Feyre said, her voice wobbly, but she was frowning at him intently, warning him to stop hedging. “She knows what she’s doing.”

“I know. I know,” he said, stepping back, not sure where to put himself, and the healer said, “Go stand by her shoulder, and give her your hand.”

Rhys rushed to obey. I’ll give her anything she needs. He would endure the pain for her, if he could, but the healer had been clear that pain is information, that Feyre needed to feel what was happening in her body so that they could react accordingly.

So he stood by Feyre, trying not to feel useless, watching her intently. He cast his mind out towards Nyx, who felt the same as always despite the contractions that Feyre had been having all afternoon, as if he was utterly unhurried and unaffected by what her body was doing. That’s about to change.

Eileithyia leaned down, disappearing between Feyre’s legs, and Rhys focused on his mate, his beautiful, brave, patient mate, who was gritting her teeth and squeezing his hand as the healer did things to her that he would rather not think about. Then Feyre gasped, wrenching his fingers hard, and the healer’s face popped up from behind Feyre’s dress, announcing, “It’s done.”

“Oh,” Feyre moaned, leaning her head back against the pillows, but a moment later her eyes opened, and she turned to look at Rhys saying, “It’s probably spilling everywhere, I’m going to make a mess.”

“I don’t care,” he said resolutely, deciding not to think about the towels and the fluids they were there to catch. It didn’t matter, because Nyx had to be born, and birth was messy. Not that he’d ever seen a birth before, but he had read about the birthing process, about what to expect.

I’ve seen plenty of blood and fluids on the battlefield. This will be easier than that.

“Rhys!” Feyre suddenly shrieked, going stiff, gripping his hand tight. Her other hand was clutching the top of her belly. She breathed in and out, and he held her, counting as the healer had instructed, until Feyre relaxed back on the pillows, saying, “It was much stronger that time.”

“That’s good, right?” Rhys asked the healer, who had stepped to the basin and was washing her hands again.

“Perfect,” she said, smiling. “You can get up, if you want. It might be easier if you walk around the room. Or you can crouch or squat, if you want to stay on the bed. You might not be able to chat through the contractions anymore, but don’t be afraid. It’ll get more intense, to get the baby where he needs to be.”

Feyre nodded, then almost immediately wrenched forward again, another contraction barreling through her. “So — fast,” she gasped.

“It’s progressing,” the healer said, sounding hopeful. “You should shift a bit more, just in case.”

Feyre nodded, scrunching her face in concentration, then whooshed out a breath as another contraction eased. “How much more do I have to shift?” she asked.

“We should check with Madja,” Rhys suggested.

When Eileithyia nodded in agreement, he cast out his thoughts across Velaris, then wider when he couldn’t locate Madja, finally finding the Illyrian at the Hewn City, patching up some miscreant who’d gotten into a brawl with a group of Darkbringers on patrol. He assured her that he would send Azriel or Cassian to follow up, then asked her to quickly come to the River House, to assist with Feyre’s delivery.

Feyre was scrambling up to her feet now, off of the bed, grimacing at the wet towels, tinged with red. “It’s going to get messier than that, isn’t it,” she murmured.

The healer said brightly, “Oh, yes.”

Rhys chuckled, waving a hand, dismissing the soiled towels and sheets with his magic. Then he caught Feyre, who had pitched forward awkwardly, and her hands splayed out, grabbing both at him and the bed. “Easy, darling,” he murmured. “Take it slow.”

“Oh,” Feyre groaned, clutching at her belly.

“Breathe through it,” the healer said briskly, coming to her other side. To Rhys, she added, “You’d better sit down.”

“Me? But —“ he protested.

“I don’t need a second patient. Sit before you faint,” she said sharply. “Or go lie down in the other room.”

No way in all the hells was Rhys leaving Feyre alone. So he grabbed for a chair, his hand shakier than he anticipated, though he kept a firm hold on Feyre from his seated position. She endured contraction after contraction, grimacing and breathing through each one, and he watched her with increasing awe. My mate, the mother of my baby, how powerful she is.

“How did Áine do this seven times,” Feyre groaned, whooshing out another long breath.

“It gets easier,” Eileithyia assured her. “By the seventh, she was practically pushing before I had time to get the bed prepared.”

“That’s Lucien, always rushing into situations,” Rhys quipped, and Feyre swatted at him.

But then she doubled over, groaning loudly, and Eileithyia ran over to steady her, while Rhys jumped up from the chair again, exclaiming, “Darling!”

“Rhys,” Feyre groaned. “I — oh —“

“It’s all right, dear. Just breathe,” Eileithyia said, bracing an arm around Feyre’s back as she limped back to the edge of the bed. “You’re in transition.”

“What does that mean?” Rhys asked, trying to keep his voice low and calm.

“It means she’s got to finish shifting, and get ready to push. The baby’s coming, now.”

Chapter Text

One moment, there was Rhys, and the healer, and the dusk settling pink and red through the windows, and the pillows, and her fingers twisted in the sheets.

The next moment, there was pain.

Sharp, hot, unrelenting pain cascading down her spine, sizzling down towards her pelvis, ripping through her, twisting, stabbing, breaking, shattering pain.

She was nothing but the twisting, the squeezing. She was the pain.

She was emptying out, scouring herself raw, pushing, pushing, pushing.

That’s it, some distant voice whispered, whether inside her or not, she couldn’t tell. That’s it.

What’s it, she didn’t ask. There were no words left, no sounds to make, nothing except the pulling and the pushing and the pain.

Blood roared in her ears as the moment passed, as she sagged back into Rhys’s strong hands, bracing her as she squatted on the bed, her belly hanging low and heavy between her trembling legs, and she leaned back into Rhys’s chest, cringing as the cold sweat soaking her back and shirt. 

“She hasn’t shifted fully yet,” a lilting, low voice said in a hushed tone. Madja, she realized. When had Madja arrived?

A gentle warm pressed into her hips, tingling and soothing, as Eileithyia murmured, “The baby’s doing great. You’re doing great.”

“I am not,” Feyre said weakly, forcing her fingers to release the bedsheets, realizing with consternation that she had ripped holes in them.

The urge was building up inside her again, the urge to push, but if she hadn’t shifted enough —

“Can you show her what to do, and where,” Rhys was asking Madja, his voice strangled with anxiety. “Please.”

“I’m going to press on the spot,” Madja said, and Feyre braced herself, wincing as the Illyrian’s cool fingers brushed against the ultra-sensitive skin. But she gritted her teeth, and focused, and then cried out as another wave of pain and nausea overwhelmed her, bearing down to push because there was nothing else she could do, and then screamed at the tearing searing stabbing squeezing —

“Shift,” Rhys’s voice growled in her ear, the dominance of the High Lord, and her magic rose up, fierce and swift, and the pain suddenly eased into a dull ache as she felt her pelvis widening, accommodating the baby.

“I feel him,” she gasped.

“Good,” Eileithyia said encouragingly, her healing magic light and soft, a sweet caress within a sea of sharpness and heat.

“Shift here,” Madja urged, pressing another spot, and Feyre squeezed her eyes shut, willing her exhausted body to obey.

“How much longer,” Rhys was asking. “How much more of this.”

“It’s hard to say,” Eileithyia’s voice replied. She was somewhere in front of Feyre, maybe next to her, or in another room for all Feyre knew, for at that moment her body began to scream again.

PUSH.

PUSH.

Come out, little one, that’s it —

Feyre threw her head back, nearly slamming into Rhys’s face, but he smoothly dodged, wrapping his arms around her waist, holding her up as she began to slip. “Can she lie down,” he snarled.

“This is better,” Eileithyia said. “She’s more open this way. Lying down, the baby could slide back.” And they didn’t want that, it had been too long, the moon was out, the baby was on his way. The healer squeezed Feyre’s hands. “You’re doing great.”

She wasn’t, but she had no strength to argue.

“Just here,” Madja said gently, pressing down, and Feyre cried out as her body squeezed, locking up tight, yanking, pulling, twisting —

“Is she supposed to be bleeding like that,” Rhys gasped.

Feyre’s legs were warm and wet, but she didn’t look, couldn’t look.

Feyre swooned, the room spinning around her, but the healer’s hands and Rhys’s firm body behind her kept her from falling. She breathed, and breathed, and gasped as another wave burst through her, out out out he needs to come out, please little one, please come out, out, out —

“That’s it,” Eileithyia murmured, “that’s it.”

“I feel him,” Feyre shrieked, stunned at the weight, the pressure, “he’s there, he’s right there.”

“Shift a bit more, just a bit more.” Madja was bracing both hands on her, as if she could physically yank Feyre’s body apart, make room for the baby to come out.

Feyre threw her head back, wailing, begging her body to obey, but she was so, so tired. She’d been laboring for hours, for the whole of the day, and her muscles were jelly, and her breathing was ragged, and she had nothing left, no strength, no will.

What if I can’t, what if I can’t —

I must. I can.

Open. Open. Shift.

Rhys was clinging to her, pleading with her through gritted teeth. “That’s it, Feyre darling, let it happen.” He addressed the healer, whose hands were pressed to Feyre’s hips and abdomen, emanating a faint white glow that reflected off the walls.“What can you feel?”

“He is in distress, but he is almost out. We induced just in time,” Eileithyia said calmly.

Distress.

No, he can’t be in distress, he can’t die now, he can’t, he can’t. Hold on, little one, hold on —

Feyre screamed, and her whole body tensed sharply as she shifted fully, Rhys leaping back as her wings sprung out, tearing through her flimsy shirt.

“Feyre,” he breathed, his voice reverent.

“Now,” Eileithyia commanded, her voice more stern and demanding than Feyre had ever heard it.

Now. Now.

Feyre let out a primal cry, rattling the bed and the walls, as her body pushed, and pushed, and a rush of relief flooded through her as her body stretched, and stretched some more.

“There’s the head. He’ll be out on the next push,” Eileithyia said, and Rhys’s arms trembled as Feyre leaned back into him, breathing hard. He pressed kisses to her back, between her wings, murmuring, “That’s it, Feyre darling, that’s it. Let it happen.”

Feyre screamed, and pushed again.

Come on, come on, come on —

She roared as Nyx emerged.

He’s out. He’s out.

She was beyond pain, beyond relief, beyond anything. She was empty, she was full, she was in her body and far above, she was in Rhys’s arms, she was here, she was done. He was out.

Nyx’s piercing wail rattled through her, slamming her back into full awareness, and she realized there were tears streaming down her cheeks, happy joyful tears, frightened tears, tears of exhaustion and pain and exhilaration.

My baby, my baby. “Where is he,” she gasped.

“Lay her down. Gently,” the healer was saying to Rhys.

“I want to see the baby,” Feyre barked, but Rhys was already lifting her, bracing her, gently sliding her wings aside so that she could lay on her back, and Feyre sank into the cool dry pillows, shaking, hand gripping Rhys’s shirt so hard that she yanked him forward. “I want my baby. Now.”

“He’s here,” Rhys said, his voice a choked sob.

Feyre’s vision blurred with tears as Eileithyia came forward, cradling Nyx, then laid him onto her bare skin. My baby, my baby is here.

She cried as Nyx’s warmth seeped into her, as his little soft red cheek pressed into her chest, his chubby arms splayed out across her skin. He made a little shuddery noise as he breathed, his eyes closed. He’s exhausted too.

She rubbed Nyx’s velvety soft back and wings, breathing deeply, and Rhys held them both, weeping softly into her hair. He was a wordless presence in her mind, her mental shields having long ago collapsed, his love and gratitude wrapping around her exhausted mind like a soothing blanket.

“He’s perfect,” Rhys whispered, reaching out to run a fingertip over the baby’s tiny hand, each little finger, and then the palm. They both smiled as Nyx’s fingers instinctively curled around his father’s finger, gripping surprisingly tight.

“Strong reflexes,” Eileithyia said admiringly. Then she patted Feyre’s shoulder. “You’ll be delivering the placenta soon, and I’ll have to put in a few stitches, but you can keep him here resting on you. Feed him, if you’d like.”

“Will it hurt,” Feyre asked.

Eileithyia looked at Rhys. “You can take away the pain.”

Rhys nodded, whooshing out a breath. “Finally, something I can do to help.”

Feyre leaned back, sighing with relief as Rhys’s presence washed over her, melting away the aching and squeezing she still felt. She focused on the baby, his perfect little body nestled on her chest, soft and tiny and beautiful, despite the red tinges of blood, the sticky fluid on his skin.

“We have to clean him,” Madja said, approaching with towels bundled in her arms, but Feyre begged, “Not yet.”

She needed to feel him, she needed him here, with her, on her. After all this time, carrying him, talking to him, cradling him through her muscles and skin, she needed to feel her baby next to her, needed him.

Rhys waved a hand, and the baby’s skin cleared. “Better?”

Feyre closed her eyes, reveling in the baby’s quiet breaths, the beating of his heart. He was here, he was alive. “He’s perfect, Rhys.”

“You’re perfect,” Rhys murmured, kissing her, then accepting a blanket from Madja and arranging it so that it covered both Feyre and the baby. “You were breathtaking.”

“We were in time, we were just in time,” Feyre said, tears beginning to flow again. “If it hadn’t been for Vassa — for Elain —“

“We’ll thank them properly later,” Rhys promised, stroking her cheek, wiping her tears away. “That little fox, too.”

There was a gush of warm wetness between her legs. “It’s just the afterbirth, you’re fine,” the healer’s voice called.

“I must be a mess down there,” Feyre grimaced. She didn’t want to think about all that blood, the mess —

“With your speedy healing, you’ll recover in no time,” Madja assured her. “For now, you should rest.”

Eileithyia stood up, her ancient face crinkled into a radiant smile. “Congratulations, to both of you.” She plunged her hands into a nearby bowl of water, swirling deep red eddies as she cleaned herself off.

Nyx gave a little shuddery cry, and Feyre’s heart lurched.

“He’s hungry,” Rhys said, his voice deep with wonder.

“Could I —“ Feyre felt frozen, unsure what to do. She had never properly held a baby before, never seen anyone feed one. Her breasts ached, full and sensitive, and she gingerly slid her hands under the baby’s armpits, afraid to move him too forcefully.

“Prop her up,” Eileithyia said briskly, and then she was by Feyre’s side, gently but firmly sliding the baby upwards and positioning him in the crook of Feyre’s left arm, demonstrating how to position the baby for feeding.

Feyre gasped as the baby’s mouth latched on to her nipple with a tiny pinprick of pain, then sighed with relief as he began to drink.

“She’s got to rest,” Rhys was saying to the healers. “What can I do?”

“Once he’s done feeding, he should sleep for a while,” Eileithyia said. “You can take a turn holding him skin to skin. And you should rest, too.”

Feyre said, “My sisters, Rhys — the others — can you tell them the baby’s born, and we’re all right? They’ll be worried.”

Rhys’s voice was a caress. “They know, Feyre darling. They can’t wait to see the baby.”

“In a little while, let me just have this time,” Feyre said, smoothing Nyx’s blue-black hair back from his forehead, marveling at his long eyelashes, his perfect pointy ears. “I don’t want to share him yet.”

“Whenever you’re ready,” Rhys assured her, brushing a kiss to the top of the baby’s head. She could have sworn that Nyx made a breathless cooing noise in response.

So happy. So comfortable, and safe.

Feyre wanted time to stop, wanted this moment to go on forever. Just her, and her baby, and Rhys by her side. She knew she would have to sleep, that she would wake to the baby’s cries, that she would have to hoist herself from bed to relieve herself and bathe away the sweat and blood and tears from her labors, that there would be diaper changes and feedings and many other things.

But now, just now, everything felt right.

She cradled Nyx, her Nyx, her baby, her son.

Welcome to the world, sweetheart. Welcome home.

Chapter Text

“Good!” Helion boomed, looming over Lucien, who was sprawled in the dust of the training ring, a binding spell tangled around his ankles. “Again.”

Lucien grinned, flicking a finger to cleave the pesky spell, then extended a hand for his father to help him up, chuckling, “You’re enjoying knocking me on my ass a little too much.”

Helion replied with mock sternness, “I’m enjoying showing off for your mother. The fact that I’m also knocking you on your ass is an added bonus.” Then he flashed Lucien a grin full of gleaming white teeth and gripped his hand, harder than strictly necessary, and yanked him to his feet.

Lucien laughed good-naturedly, trying not to wince at the viselike grip on his hand. “Making up for lost time, are you?”

“Yes, I am. With both of you,” Helion said, his expression contemplative, but he quickly snapped out of it. “Now, let’s go again.” His dark skin gleamed with sweat as he strode back to his corner of the training ring, all of his braids corralled into a single band that sparkled golden in the sun’s rays. Lucien watched him, awed all over again at his father’s muscular form, his versatile magic that could manipulate light and air, his cleverness with spells.

The afternoon was warm, the sun lavishing its rays upon their corner of the palace, with both the High Lord and his heir to shine upon, and the part of Lucien that loved the cool breezes of the Autumn Court felt like he would wilt under the intensity. But another, stronger part of him basked in the golden light, feeling energized, more alive and full of power than he’d ever been. 

He dusted himself off, then threw a wink to Elain, who was sitting on the nearby veranda, sharing a pot of tea with Áine. The sight of the two of them together, gossiping and keeping each other company, made him so happy that he didn’t even mind the fact that Helion was trouncing him in every sparring match. Hundreds of years of neglecting his Day Court power left Lucien as unpracticed as a youngling, but Helion wasn’t holding back. Lucien knew he would be sore for days afterwards, but he saw the wisdom of Helion’s approach.

The rest of the world won’t hold back, either.

Developing his Day Court power wasn’t just a matter of personal interest. If he’d understood Elain’s vision correctly, Eris’s life might one day depend on it.

Lucien straightened, preparing for another onslaught, curving the air around him as a shield, then yelping as a spear of Helion’s light pierced right through it. He threw out a hand, bending the light, flinging it back towards his father with blinding speed. Helion laughed and scattered it with a wave of his hand, but called out, “Good! You stayed on your feet that time.”

White hot sparks danced as Lucien’s fingertips as they squared off again, and he wondered how he might combine his powers, how he could use his dual heritage to his advantage. He’d have to ask Feyre about how she combined her powers, once she was fully recovered from her delivery and getting more than an hour of uninterrupted sleep each night.

He’d been relieved as hell to find out she’d given birth, that it had all gone as well as could be expected, and that Vassa’s flight over Velaris had produced awe and a pretty sunset, rather than rooftop fires and panicked stampedes in the streets and markets.

“Blast me with that fire, and I’ll make you regret it,” Helion warned him cheerfully.

Lucien promptly flung it at him, then went down laughing as his father tackled him.

Making up for lost time, indeed.

* * * *

“Males,” Áine sighed, rolling her eyes at the sight of her mate and her son tussling on the floor of the training ring. “They think they’re so impressive.” Then she smiled warmly at Elain, proffering the plate of cookies.

Elain rather thought they did look impressive, wielding so many different powers and using those strong muscles, but said, “I’ve never seen Lucien look happier.”

Áine winked at her. “I have.” She rested a hand on top of Elain’s. “When he saw you arrive at the palace. You must have seen how he was glowing.”

Elain had seen it, and it gave her a warm tingly feeling to think that she had that effect on him, that her presence made him happy. It was such a welcome change from the despair and regret she used to feel from him, even across realms and territories. “I can’t glow like that, but I’m happy, too,” she said softly.

Áine’s smile was radiant. “It’s all over your features. Both of you.”

Elain snagged a cookie from the tray, suddenly feeling shy about discussing her relationship with Lucien, especially with his mother. It was so fresh, so new, that she wanted to keep it guarded, all to herself, to savor and tend to in private. So she said, “What about you and Helion?”

“Oh,” Áine said, blushing faintly, “you’ll get a formal invitation soon.”

“Invitation to what?” Elain asked.

Áine absently twisted a new golden ring around her finger, the motif of a shining sun and an Autumn leaf decorating the band in delicate filigree. “Our mating ceremony.”

Elain followed her gaze, gasping at the arc of fire that shot out from Lucien’s fingers, and at the shield of air that Helion produced to counteract it. “Is that like a wedding?”

“That’s part of it, yes, but the mating bond goes much deeper than that,” Áine said, looking back to Elain knowingly, as if she were drawing her own conclusions about why Elain was asking. “We’ll take a few weeks to ourselves at Helion’s private palace afterwards, for the frenzy.”

“The what?” Elain blurted out.

Áine lowered her voice confidentially. “Once the mating bond is accepted, the couple goes off together to… enjoy each other. The desire for your partner can feel quite overwhelming. Insatiable. Some couples barely find time to take meals in between.”

Elain was suddenly feeling flushed in the afternoon heat. She and Lucien weren’t ready to accept the mating bond just yet, though she could feel that they were heading in that direction. But the thought of enjoying each other, being insatiable —

Lucien yelped, and her gaze shot back to the training ring, where her mate was sprawled out on the ground, a laughing Helion standing over him, arms crossed in satisfaction. “That’s what happens when you get distracted,” he drawled. “What were you thinking about?”

Lucien scrambled up, chuckling ruefully, “What you’re usually thinking about.”

Helion laughed heartily, slapping Lucien on the back. “Atta boy.”

Elain’s cheeks heated even further as understanding dawned on her. He feels what I’m feeling. She shot a mortified glance at Áine, but the female was laughing too, a healthy pink suffusing her freckled cheeks. And then she turned back to Lucien, a little frisson of excitement sizzling through her when their eyes met again.

“Well! I think that’s enough punishment for one day,” Lucien declared, mopping up the sweat on his forehead and neck with a towel, then tossing it at a still cackling Helion. He strode towards the veranda, a few of the sun’s rays seeming to follow him as he moved. “I’ve got to get cleaned up before dinner, then pack.”

Áine pouted at him. “Must you leave already?”

“I’ve kept Tam waiting for days,” Lucien said, wincing at the thought. “He’s finally getting his act together. I’m to help him organize the border patrols, coordinating with Jurian and Vassa’s sentries in the human lands.”

Áine nodded, accepting this very reasonable explanation, and turned to Elain. “But you’re staying, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I’d love to. But I’m still deciding,” Elain admitted.

Elain had been debating for days about what to do while Lucien journeyed south. She wouldn’t feel comfortable staying at the Spring Court manor, not in its current state, though she was sure Lucien could protect her. She didn’t want him distracted by that while he was dealing with the volatile High Lord, even if Tamlin was supposedly improving. She knew Feyre and Rhys would have strong feelings about her being around Tamlin, and they didn’t need that headache while they were so overwhelmed already.

Elain had thought about visiting Jurian and Vassa, so that she wouldn’t be far from Lucien while he was at the Spring Court, but she’d recently imposed on their hospitality, keeping them both up all night while she worked through her vision, and thought she should at least reciprocate and host them, before being their guest again.

The other option was to return to Velaris, take her turns holding Nyx so his parents could rest or bathe. And she could finish furnishing her new apartment that Rhys had insisted on gifting her, for helping Feyre during her pregnancy and especially for her vision. Elain felt it was wrong to take credit for magic she didn’t understand and barely controlled, but Rhys had practically begged her to let him thank her properly, to buy her something extravagant.

Elain had turned down jewels, and gowns, and all manner of pretty things, and had finally admitted that what she really wanted was a place of her own. Not large, not fancy, she’d stipulated. Certainly not a mansion, just a bedroom and a kitchen. “Like Lucien’s,” she’d finally said, when she’d given up trying to convey an image of what she had in mind.

Then Rhys had looked at Feyre, and Feyre had grinned back at him, and before she knew what was happening, Elain found that she owned an entire apartment building. And not just any apartment building, but the one that Lucien lived in.

“You’re the landlord now, what you do with it is up to you,” Rhys had said, violet eyes twinkling, even as exhaustion from sleepless nights with Nyx lurked within them. “You can keep all the units separate, pick the one you want to live in. Or at some point, you could knock the interior walls down, make it into one larger residence.” And then he’d winked at her.

“Maybe keep Lucien’s apartment as it is. I’ve grown rather fond of it,” Feyre had suggested. “And since we formed the pan-Prythian alliance in that kitchen, it’s a historical landmark.”

“I thought Lucien was planning to move out? He never unpacked his things,” Elain objected.

Rhys and Feyre both burst out laughing, like it was the most ridiculous joke they’d ever heard. “Oh, Elain. He’s not going anywhere,” Rhys snorted.

Elain had decided not to dignify their giggling display with a response. After all, they were both sleep deprived. But when she’d broken the news to Lucien, he’d started laughing, too.

“Cauldron damn Rhys and his damn ideas,” he’d chortled, russet eye sparkling as if he found the situation delightful. And then he’d raised a playful eyebrow at her. “Is my rent going to go up?”

Elain had ignored all that, saying, “You helped Feyre as much, or more, than I did. Didn’t Rhys give you a gift?”

“Oh, he did,” Lucien said, smiling widely. “He gave me a lovely new landlord.” Elain swatted at him, and he laughed again. “Actually, I told him I’d call in a favor at a later time. Right now, I have everything I could want or need.” And he’d taken her into his arms, and kissed her breathless.

Lucien was standing before her now, sweaty and disheveled from his training session, his thin shirt clinging to him in all the right places, still grinning at the distraction she’d caused him. “Join me?” And he held out his hand to her in invitation.

Elain didn’t hesitate, but took Lucien’s hand.

* * * *

Azriel hummed softly, the vibrations soothing the baby curled up in a ball on his chest. Nyx’s soft weight was strangely comforting, his chubby little cheek pressed into the thin fabric of Azriel’s shirt, and his hand ghosted over Nyx’s velvety wings, though he was careful not to actually touch them, not with these rough fingers.

Nyx had been up half the night ever since the night he was born, feeding every hour, and Rhys and Feyre were both too bleary eyed to object when Azriel showed up and announced he was taking a turn with the baby each afternoon, just for an hour until it was time to feed again, so that they could both bathe and rest. He quickly learned how Nyx liked to be cuddled while laying on his belly, that soft singing lulled him when he was fussy, that he liked the soft fabric of Azriel’s workout shirts, sometimes curling his little fingers into them.

A thin line of milky white dribbled out of the baby’s lips as he slept, and Azriel snagged a bit of his shirt fabric to wipe it away, not caring in the slightest whether his clothes got dirty. In his line of work, with the blood and gore and shit he came home covered in, a little milk or spit up was nothing. He winced, wondering if anything he owned was clean enough for the baby to rest on, if any amount of soap or cleansing magic could fully rid his clothing or skin of all the dark things he’d done.

Azriel’s shadows ventured close to the baby, but never quite touched him, sensing that Rhys and Feyre would be skittish. His shadows didn’t gravitate towards the young and innocent, and outright shied away when they knew they wouldn’t be welcomed. They’d been difficult to control lately, disappearing off to other courts without being asked, whispering outrageous things in his ears when they got back. He wondered if they were jealous of the baby, or if his own distracted state was causing them to act up.

Azriel stared down at the sleeping baby, safe and warm against his chest, and wondered if he’d ever been so tiny and innocent, if his mother had been allowed to hold him like this, if anyone had ever sang to him, or let his tiny hand curl around their finger. Had he ever slept like this sweet child, with both eyes closed, dreaming of lovely warm milk and hugs and kisses? How old had he been when he was left to the darkness, abandoned to the shadows that soothed him? Had he been scarred long before that awful day when the fire had devoured his hands?

Azriel had no one to protect him, and couldn’t protect himself, as a youngling. But he vowed to protect this baby, protect his brother and his High Lady, from any threat against them. He knew this path was closed to him, that someone who tortured and killed like he did wouldn’t be granted a mate or a family, so he would live vicariously through them, provide them the peace and security that he couldn’t have, taking on the dirtiest work so that their souls could stay bright and clean, sparing them the guilt and pain that came along with it. His cold heart warmed the slightest bit, thinking about that.

* * * *

Feyre shifted and sighed, relaxing into Rhys’s arms again, but cast out her mind to Nyx, comforted when she felt that he and Azriel were both sleeping. She was profoundly grateful for their family and friends for tending Nyx so she and Rhys could rest, for the feedings and crying seemed to fill each waking moment and frequently roused them from sleep as well.

Feyre’s breasts were achy and sore from the constant feedings, her lower body stretched out and torn from the labor, and she bled and cramped for days after the birth, particularly while Nyx was drinking from her. No position felt totally comfortable, though she was often too exhausted to care, and she couldn’t remember when she’d last bathed, or eaten, as all the hours of the day and night went by in a blur.

Rhys was half wraith, lurking around every shadow, eager to help whenever he could, but half stumbling with exhaustion as well. He couldn’t feed Nyx directly, so he cradled Feyre against his chest, propping her up, or reading to her, anything to keep them both awake. Rhys could tell when the baby was hungry, or uncomfortable, so it was rare that the baby cried. But when he did, the sound was so piercing, so heart-wrenching, that they would do anything to make it stop.

But Nyx was beautiful, and he was theirs, a tiny new soul they couldn’t tear their eyes from. He looked just like Rhys, the same raven-black hair, the same golden tan skin, but the eyes and mouth were pure Archeron, and Feyre’s heart ached that her father would never meet him. She had been shocked to learn what her father had done, how he’d given his life to Koschei so that the rest of them might live, and she thanked him again for making peace possible, for giving his grandson a chance to be born.

She should be sleeping now, taking this opportunity to close her heavy eyes, but Feyre had so little time to think, to be alone with her own reflections, and the house was mercifully quiet. Rhys was snuggled against her, in a deep dreamless sleep, and she studied his handsome face, peaceful and unworried for the first time in many, many days. He’d spent the days leading up to the birth apologizing to her, pampering her, and apologizing some more. She knew how much the past weighed on him, how loss and regret had taught him to keep secrets, and she knew how much he still had to cope with, how much his mistakes still haunted him. Feyre knew what it was to have made mistakes, to have caused the death of innocents and pain to the ones she cherished, to wish things had been different.

Feyre closed her eyes and let Rhys’s warmth envelop her, grateful for all of it and what it taught her. She knew there would be challenges ahead, that there would be those who wanted to harm her and her baby, and she would have to be ready.

But for now, for today, they had survived, and they were happy.