Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

. . .

Erawan stood at the edge of the blackened lake, his cold, gaunt fingers wrapped around a jagged stone. He tossed it into the still waters, watching as ripples fanned out across the surface, each wave distorting his reflection. His eyes followed the circles, growing wider, reaching farther—like echoes of a past he could never escape. The ripples bled into one another, until the lake’s surface was still again, but the memories surged within him, unstoppable, like a flood.

How had it all begun? He could hardly remember a time before the darkness. His creation was not a birth but an emergence, dragged from the depths, coated in the foul stench of black blood. Erawan, Orcus, and Mantyx—three brothers, shaped not by love, but by cruelty. He could still feel it, the sticky, cold blood that clung to his skin as he was pulled into existence, the way it suffocated every breath and silenced any chance for innocence. They had not been born; they had been *made*—made by their father, the Dark Lord Kàladín, a figure who loomed over their lives like an oppressive shadow.

Kàladín had called them his sons, but they had never been sons in any true sense of the word. They were tools, experiments, fodder for his twisted ambitions. The experiments had started early. Erawan clenched his fists at the memory, his nails biting into his palms. He could still hear the screams—Orcus, Mantyx, his brothers, screaming as Kàladín warped their bodies, twisted their minds, pushing them beyond the limits of mortality, all in the name of creating "higher beings."

Erawan had screamed too. He had begged, fought, clawed at his own skin to rid himself of the filth that clung to him after each experiment. But there had been no escape. They were Kàladín’s pawns, mindless soldiers in the war that he waged on life itself. His father had promised them power, promised them dominion over all, but at what cost? Erawan knew, in the dark corners of his soul, that something vital had been stripped from him long ago—something pure, something human.

His hands shook as he remembered the countless atrocities he had been forced to commit, the lives he had shattered, the innocents he had razed. Each act, each cruel command from Kàladín had broken him a little more, until there was nothing left but a hollow shell—a vessel for darkness. His soul had cracked and crumbled, bit by bit, until he was certain there was nothing left inside him but ash.

And yet, there had been one moment, one glimmer of light amidst the overwhelming blackness. Islywyn.

Beautiful, fearless Islywyn, who had not recoiled from him. Islywyn, who had seen the monster that Erawan had become, and yet, somehow, had seen something else within him—something worth saving. Erawan’s breath hitched as he thought of him. It had been the first time they met, the first time their eyes had locked, and he had been undone. In that moment, he knew he had fallen irrevocably. Islywyn had knocked him to the ground—literally, and figuratively—pinning him in the dust with a fierce smile on his lips. And Erawan had known, without a doubt, that he would never be the same.

He had begged for permission to court Islywyn. He, the broken, battered soul, had knelt before the one person who had ever shown him tenderness, and he had pleaded—time and time again, seventeen times before Islywyn finally relented ( Erawan has no rizz okay )

And when he had, Erawan had dedicated himself entirely, with a devotion he hadn’t known he was capable of. Every mission, every grim task his father sent him on, Erawan had returned with a trinket, a small offering—tokens of his love, symbols of a world outside the darkness.

Islywyn had been the balm to his wounds, the healer of his fractured spirit. He had whispered soft words, had held Erawan in the still of the night, had kissed away the memories of blood and pain. It was Islywyn’s gentle voice, so full of life, that had coaxed Erawan back from the edge. Slowly, the cracks in his soul had started to heal, piece by piece.

And when the time was ripe Erawan bore their children, two beautiful beings who embodied both their parents’ strengths. Aeryn, with the fire of life burning in her veins, and Yopheil, ice bending to her will, protecting her fierce, protective heart. Together, they had carved out a peaceful life, hidden away from the world’s eyes, raising their family in secret. For the first time, Erawan had tasted something that resembled happiness—something fragile, yet so precious.

But the darkness always finds a way back.

Erawan’s knees buckled as the memories turned darker. He had been away, forced to leave Islywyn and the children behind for yet another mission, another game played at his father’s hand. And when he had returned, he had found only devastation.

His home—their- home—was painted in black. The walls dripped with blood. Islywyn’s blood. Aeryn’s blood. Yopheil’s blood. His family, slaughtered, their bodies torn apart by the very darkness he had spent his life trying to escape. He had found them there, still and cold, lifeless, the warmth drained from their once-bright eyes. Erawan had dropped to his knees, cradling their small, cold forms in his arms, tears spilling down his face as he sobbed, "Please, not my babies… not my babies." But no matter how tightly he held them, they would never be warm again.

And it had all been his fault.

He had brought this upon them. His father had found them—found the one good thing in his life and had ripped it away. And Erawan had not been there to stop it. He had failed them. 

A broken sob tore from his throat, shattering the stillness around him. He crumpled to the ground, clutching the small necklace that hung around his neck, a memento of his family. Inside, encased in the pendant, were the last remains of those he had loved—ashes that were all that was left of Islywyn, Aeryn, and Yopheil. His fingers trembled as he brought the necklace to his lips, kissing the cool metal with reverence.

“My Loves, I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice raw, guttural. “I’m so sorry.”

Tears streamed down his face, carving lines into the dirt that clung to his skin. His sobs came harder, more violent, until he could hardly breathe. The weight of it all—the memories, the loss, the utter devastation—was too much to bear. He missed them. Gods, how he missed them. His heart was shattered beyond repair, a gaping void where his family had once been.

But even as the sorrow tore through him, something else stirred in his chest—a fierce, unrelenting resolve. He would never be whole again, never know happiness as he once had, but he could still honor them. He could still  do something. 

“I swear,” he choked out, clutching the necklace tighter. “I will end this. I will do whatever it takes… for you.”

And with that vow, Erawan wiped the tears from his face, though the pain lingered. The ripples on the lake had long since faded, but the memories would never leave him. His heart would remain broken, but he would carry on—for them. Always for them. 

. . . 

Chapter Text

. . .

Arobynn stepped into the bar, the soft clink of his leather boots barely audible above the low hum of conversation and the faint strains of a distant saxophone. His red hair, tousled but effortlessly styled, caught the dim light, and his leather coat hugged his frame, lending him an air of confidence that turned a few heads as he walked. He took his seat at the bar, settled onto a worn stool, and with a sly smile, he leaned forward.

“The rum is sweet tonight,” he murmured.

The bartender, a man with an unremarkable bowl cut and a face as nondescript as the peeling paint on the walls, nodded knowingly. He tilted his head slightly, and with a low voice that was almost lost to the ambient noise, he said, “Room on the left. Find the spade.”

Arobynn nodded, tossing back his drink in one swift motion before rising from his seat. He crossed the bar, his steps purposeful, and slipped into the room on the left. It was dimly lit, almost bare save for the shadows that danced along the walls. He found the spade hidden behind a dusty painting, pressing it with a quick flick of his wrist. The faintest of clicks followed, and a hidden hatch swung open, revealing a shrouded passage beyond.

As he crossed the threshold, he became someone else entirely. His gait shifted, the casual swagger melting into a deliberate, almost predatory stride. His voice, when he spoke, had deepened, roughened, taking on a gravelly timbre that resonated with authority. It was one of his many talents—the ability to change himself without the need for costumes or props, a skill honed from years of working in the shadows. He’d learned the art of transformation working as a delivery boy in the brothels, back when his world had crumbled, after his mother had taken her own life and his sister had been claimed by disease.

Arobynn took his seat at the long table, nodding politely to the gathering of the city's elite. The room was filled with cigar smoke and laughter, a private chamber where deals were struck over drinks and fortunes were both made and lost. Arobynn’s sharp gaze traveled across the group—a collection of silk suits, diamond rings, and eyes dulled by greed. These were the ones who owned the city, or at least, they thought they did.

The man next to him, rotund and flushed with drink, extended a hand. “Benedict Frost,” he introduced himself, his voice a booming echo in the close room. “You look like you might be new here.”

“A pleasure,” Arobynn replied, adopting a smooth, genteel accent. He leaned in, as if sharing a secret, and added, “New to this table, perhaps. But not new to the game.”

The others raised their eyebrows at this, some with interest, others with mild suspicion. But Arobynn knew how to disarm them. He flashed a charming smile, letting a touch of warmth filter into his eyes, just enough to put them at ease.

“So,” Benedict drawled, “you seem like the type who’s got something to offer. What’s your angle?”

Arobynn took a slow sip of his drink, as though weighing his words carefully. “Property,” he said finally. “I’ve got a few… prime investments. Properties with potential, but they need some well-placed backing to realize their value.” He let the words hang in the air, allowing them to envision golden returns and lands under their control.

“Oh?” said another man, a lean, hawkish figure with a gleam in his eye. “And where might these properties be?”

“Ah, a discerning question,” Arobynn replied, leaning back in his chair. He drew out a small, crumpled map, smoothing it out on the table before them. “You see these parcels of land on the eastern edge of the city? Newly rezoned. Right now, they're worthless, but I have it on good authority that there will be development there soon. An inn, a factory, perhaps even a market. It’s a gold mine waiting to happen.”

Benedict squinted at the map, running his fingers over the marked plots. “How much are you looking for?”

Arobynn raised an eyebrow. “Gentlemen, I’m not just looking for capital. I’m offering a stake. If you buy in tonight, you’ll have a say in the developments. Imagine the influence you could wield. This isn’t just about profit; it’s about power.”

Another man, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, spoke up. “You’re talking about a significant investment. What makes you so sure this area will be rezoned?”

Arobynn met his gaze evenly. “Let’s just say I’ve invested in the right people,” he replied, with a conspiratorial smile. “And they’ve given me every assurance that this is happening. Of course, if you’re uncertain, there are plenty of others who’d be happy to step in.”

“Now, hold on a minute,” Benedict interjected, his tone now dripping with interest. “You said a stake, not a share. What exactly are we buying into?”

Arobynn leaned forward, letting the tension build. “You’ll own a piece of this. But the rest is mine to manage. I take care of all the legwork—the permits, the contracts, the politics. You just enjoy the profits.” He spread his hands in a show of nonchalance, as if the whole thing were a done deal. “Unless, of course, you’d rather walk away.”

Benedict’s eyes narrowed. He looked to his fellow men around the table, each giving subtle nods of approval. The silver-haired man gave a curt smile. “Count me in,” he said, almost reluctantly, as if he could sense the con but was too enticed by the prospect of power to care.

One by one, they all agreed, and Arobynn passed a small stack of parchment to each of them. “These are your shares. Just sign here,” he said, tapping the line at the bottom. “I’ll have them registered by tomorrow.”

The men signed eagerly, and Arobynn had to hide his smirk. The papers were worthless—contracts that meant nothing, but looked official enough to fool them all. He collected the signed sheets, rolled them up, and tucked them into his coat pocket.

Benedict clinked his glass against Arobynn’s. “To future fortunes,” he toasted.

“To new ventures,” Arobynn replied, tipping his glass before taking a long, satisfied sip.

As they moved on to other topics, Arobynn slipped away from the table, nodding his goodbyes as he strode back through the hidden hatch. He left the way he’d come, his steps brisk, his heart beating with the thrill of success. He’d taken them all for fools, and none the wiser. Once outside, he breathed in the cool night air, his lips curving into a smile.

The city had a way of making men think they were invincible. Arobynn knew better. He walked off into the shadows, his pockets a little fuller, and the fools behind him, a little poorer, knowing that he had, once again, outplayed them all.

. . .

Chapter Text

. . .

The ballroom in Hybern’s castle was a sea of shimmering gowns and polished boots, a place where power simmered beneath the surface of carefully curated smiles. But for Beron Vanserra , the flames burning in the golden candelabras that dotted the room held more interest than the empty pleasantries exchanged between lords and ladies. He stood near the edge of the grand hall, his fingers idly manipulating the color of the candle flames from a warm amber to a deep violet, then to a rich, cobalt blue. A tendril of shadow, soft and inquisitive, wrapped around one of the flames, causing it to flicker and twist in response. Beron glanced at the playful dance between fire and shadow and allowed a small, private smile to grace his lips.

From the other side of the room, Keir, the Lord ( to be ) of the Hewn City, watched the same display, his brown eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. He strode over to the refreshments table, his black silk outfit whispering as he moved. With an effortless grace, Keir slid up behind Beron, his voice low and filled with wry humor.

“The flame and shadow seem quite... intertwined tonight,” Keir murmured, his lips curving into a mischievous smile.

Beron smirked, his fingers lazily tracing the edge of the flames before flicking his eyes to Keir. "Jealous, Keir? Or are you suggesting we could put on a better show?"

Keir’s gaze darkened playfully. “Oh, I’m sure we could give them something far more interesting to watch.”

They shared a knowing look, the tension between them thick with unspoken innuendos. Beron raked a hand through his tousled red hair, his eyes scanning the crowded hall. As his gaze wandered, he noticed the empty seat reserved for the crown prince.

Keir’s eyes swept the room as he raised a brow. "Where’s the center of attention? I thought the crown prince was supposed to be here, drowning in sycophants by now.”

Keir glanced at the empty chair and shrugged. “No idea. Perhaps hiding from the festivities, or something worse.”

Beron arched a brow. “We should find him before the Queen notices. You know how quickly her temper shifts.”

Together, they moved through the ballroom, sidestepping the chattering crowd with ease. Their silence was comfortable, shared over years of similar occasions where words were unnecessary. It didn’t take long for them to locate their quarry, though their search ended in a far more abrupt manner than expected.

A firm hand grasped both men by their arms and tugged them into a shadowed alcove, the heavy wooden door closing behind them with a dull thud. Turning swiftly, they came face-to-face with Drystan, the Prince of Hybern. Clad in ceremonial green robes that accentuated his onyx hair and piercing black eyes, he looked the part of royalty, yet his expression was anything but regal. He appeared… desperate, pleading.

“Please,” Drystan whispered, his voice cracking, “don’t tell anyone. I just— I needed some quiet, some peace.” His dark eyes darted between Beron and Keir, searching for understanding.

Beron exchanged a glance with Keir, their silent communication speaking volumes. With a resigned sigh, they both raised their hands, using their combined magic to lock the door and cast a glamour, shielding the room from any unwelcome intruders.

Keir, ever the tactician, moved first. He stepped closer to the prince, his usual sharp demeanor softening as he crouched beside Drystan, who had sunk down near the fireplace. Beron remained standing, leaning against the back of an unoccupied chair, his sharp gaze lingering on the tense line of Drystan’s shoulders.

Drystan let out a long, weary breath, the weight of the crown that wasn’t yet his looming over him. “You know I don’t want to be king,” he admitted quietly, his voice full of anguish. “My mother… she’s cruel, We had another fight today, Beron. She expects me to be just like her, but I can’t. I won’t.”

Beron’s eyes narrowed, catching a glimpse of something on Drystan’s arm as he shifted. The prince tried to pull away, but Beron was quicker. His grip was firm as he pushed up Drystan’s sleeve, revealing a dark brand etched into his skin. The mark of the Queen of Hybern, a vicious symbol of ownership and control, marred the smooth flesh of his beloved.

The fact that she had used his element to cause *his beloved* harm was enough motivation to wring her neck.

A growl rumbled low in Beron’s throat. “She dares mark you like this?” His voice was dangerously quiet, seething with restrained fury.

Keir’s brown eyes flickered with sorrow as he gazed at the mark, then up at Drystan’s weary face. “What can we do to help?” he asked softly.

Drystan’s hand trembled as he reached out, his fingers brushing Keir’s cheek in a gesture both tender and laden with vulnerability. “Just… stay. Please.”

The moment hung heavy between them, a silent understanding passing through the trio. Beron, his protective rage still simmering just below the surface, bent down and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the side of Drystan’s neck. The prince shivered under the touch, his breath catching as Keir’s lips met his in a kiss both gentle and fierce, a promise
of unwavering loyalty and love.

Their movements, though unhurried, carried an urgency—a need to remind Drystan of what he truly was beyond the crown, beyond his mother’s cruelty. They moved in tandem, perfectly attuned to one another, their focus entirely on the prince. Keir’s fingers trailed along Drystan’s jaw, tilting his face up as their kiss deepened, while Beron continued to brush his lips over the smooth column of Drystan’s neck, marking the sensitive skin with languid affection.

Breathless, Drystan let out a soft gasp as Beron lifted him with effortless strength, cradling him against his chest as he laid him down gently upon the bed. The ceremonial robes he wore bunched around his body, the green fabric a stark contrast to his raven-black hair. Keir moved quickly, gathering pillows and placing them beneath Drystan’s hips, adjusting him with a tenderness that belied the sharpness of his usual demeanor.

Beron, his amber eyes dark with emotion, leaned down and pressed a kiss to Drystan’s chest, just above the brand that marred his arm. His fingers brushed the mark reverently, a silent vow to protect the prince from further harm. Keir, not to be outdone, kissed the hollow of Drystan’s throat before murmuring softly against his skin, “You deserve more than this, Drystan. More than the weight she forces on you.”

Drystan’s eyes fluttered shut as he reached out, his hands finding both Beron and Keir, pulling them closer as their lips found him again. It wasn’t hurried or frantic, but rather a slow, deliberate reminder of the love they held for him. Every touch, every kiss, was a testament to their devotion, a silent promise to shield him from the cruelty of the world outside this room.

As the night deepened, the three of them moved together, their bodies aligning in a rhythm both familiar and profound. Drystan’s soft gasps and sighs mingled with the quiet rustle of fabric and the muted crackle of the fire in the hearth. The flames flickered in response to Beron’s magic, casting the room in a warm, golden glow, as though the very elements themselves conspired to protect their moment of peace.

Keir’s lips brushed Drystan’s temple, his fingers trailing lightly over the prince’s exposed skin, while Beron’s kisses left a trail of heat along Drystan’s collarbone, his hands firm but gentle as they held him in place. Their movements were seamless, the three of them entwined in a dance as old as time, a silent exchange of trust, passion, and care.

When it was over, they lay in the quiet, their breathing steadying as they basked in the warmth of each other’s presence. Drystan, nestled between them, let out a long, contented sigh, his body finally relaxing from the tension that had gripped him for days.

“You’re not alone,” Beron whispered into the stillness, his hand resting over the mark on Drystan’s arm. “You never have to face her alone.”

Keir’s voice was softer, almost a breath against Drystan’s ear. “We’ll always be here. Always.”

Drystan said nothing, but the gratitude in his dark eyes spoke volumes as he gazed at them both. In this room, hidden away from the prying eyes of the court, he could finally be himself—no longer a prince weighed down by expectation, but a man loved deeply and fiercely by two others who would stop at nothing to keep him safe.

Together, they drifted into a comfortable silence, the world outside fading into insignificance as they held each other close, their bond unshakable, their love unspoken but ever-present.

. . .

Chapter Text

. . . 

The cell was cold, damp with the scent of decay, and the stone walls seemed to press in on Feyre with each passing day. Her wrists ached from the iron cuffs, the chains rattling as she tried to shift into a more bearable position on the filthy floor. She had no idea how long she’d been there—time had become a cruel, mocking blur. 

The beast is slain, and with it falls the night,

Footsteps echoed from the hall, slow and deliberate. Feyre stiffened, her breath catching. She knew who it was before the door creaked open, the faint sound of laughter slithering into the darkness. 

Amarantha.

The High Queen of Prythian stepped into the cell, her silhouette framed by the dim torchlight outside. Her lips curled into a wicked smile as she sauntered closer, eyes gleaming with malicious delight. Feyre could barely make out the gold of her crown against her dark hair, a symbol of the power she wielded—of the nightmare she had become.

"My, my," Amarantha cooed, her voice low and smooth, "rotting away already, little huntress?"

The huntress screams, her voice a fractured cry,

Feyre gritted her teeth, refusing to respond. Her heart thundered in her chest, a mix of fear and fury boiling beneath her skin. 

Amarantha crouched down in front of her, too close, her presence suffocating. "It’s such a shame," she continued, her tone dripping with mockery. "Tamlin is dead, and here you are—forgotten, left to wither away in the dark. What do you think he’s doing? Pining for you, or perhaps… finding comfort elsewhere?"

For what remains when purpose takes its flight,

Feyre’s vision went red, rage exploding within her. She lunged forward despite the chains, screaming, "Shut up!" Her voice cracked, raw and desperate. "You don’t know anything!"

Amarantha’s laugh was soft, cruel. She clicked her tongue as if amused by a child’s tantrum. "Oh, but I know more than you think."

But hollow pain beneath a darkened sky?

Without warning, she reached out and grabbed a fistful of Feyre’s hair, yanking her head up. Feyre gasped in pain, her scalp burning as Amarantha pulled her face close to hers, their noses almost brushing.

The Unfading Flower bestows her wrath

Amarantha’s eyes gleamed with something dark, something twisted. "Still fighting, I see." Her grip tightened, making Feyre wince. "But I wonder… how much fight do you really have left, hm?"

Cruelty laced in every whispered breath

She tilted Feyre’s chin up, forcing her to meet her gaze, and there—there was the steel in Feyre’s eyes. The fire that hadn’t died, even now. 

She chains the huntress to her twisted path,

Amarantha’s laugh echoed off the stone walls, cold and sharp. She released Feyre’s chin only to trail her fingers down her cheek in a mockery of tenderness. "Such spirit, even now. It’s almost admirable."

A life of torment, endless as death.

Then, without warning, she crashed their mouths together. Feyre’s whole body went rigid, her mind reeling. She tried to pull away, to thrash, but Amarantha’s hold on her hair kept her in place. Feyre’s heart pounded wildly, and she struggled, her fists clenched as she tried to push the queen away, but she couldn’t. Amarantha’s lips were hard, invasive, and when her tongue forced its way into Feyre’s mouth, bile rose in her throat.

The huntress fights, her spirit burning bright,

Feyre wanted to scream, to claw at her, but her limbs felt like lead. She couldn't stop it. Amarantha’s magic slithered into her mind, pressing against her thoughts, invading her head with vile visions.

But all her arrows fall like autumn rain.

Suddenly, Feyre was no longer in the cell. She saw herself in the throne room, dressed in gossamer silk, seated on Amarantha’s lap like a cherished pet. She was feeding the queen sweetmeats, her hands trembling as she offered the morsels up to those cruel lips. Another vision flickered—Feyre, dancing in the dim light for Amarantha, her body moving at the queen’s command, her eyes hollow, enslaved to her will forever.

The Queen’s sharp talons, cold and full of spite,

The magic pressed harder, filling her senses until it felt real—so horribly real. The collar of chains around her neck, the weight of Amarantha’s hands on her skin, guiding her every movement. The utter, terrifying helplessness of it all.

Tear through her will, leaving only pain.

When Amarantha finally pulled away, Feyre was gasping for breath, her chest heaving as if she’d been drowning. The queen’s laughter was soft, satisfied, and she leaned in close, her breath warm against Feyre’s ear. "You’re turning to stone, little huntress," she whispered, her voice a venomous purr. "And soon, there will be nothing left of you but my obedient slave."

Her cries unheard, the forest weeps no more,

She released Feyre’s hair, letting her slump to the ground, broken and trembling. Feyre’s vision swam, the taste of Amarantha’s kiss still sour in her mouth, the echoes of the visions tormenting her mind.

The moon turns pale, its light too weak to care. 

With a final glance, Amarantha stood and turned, her gown trailing behind her as she left the cell. The door clanged shut with a heavy, resounding thud, sealing Feyre back in the darkness.

Where once she hunted, driven by a roar, 

Feyre curled in on herself, shaking, her chest heaving with silent sobs. The steel in her eyes, that last glimmer of defiance—she held onto it, but for how long? How long until even that was gone, until she became just another of Amarantha’s broken toys?

Now auburn smothers all, without repair.  

In the suffocating dark, Feyre fought to cling to herself, to the faint hope that somewhere, someone still remembered her. That she wasn’t truly lost. Not yet.

Bound in her chains, she learns the bitter truth—  

There is no hope, no dawn, no end to rue

. . . 

Chapter Text

. . .

The bell above the door chimed as Maeve swept into the Starbucks, her inky black gown swirling around her like a storm cloud, raven hair glinting under the dim lighting. Behind her, a string of infamous faces followed, each dressed as though they’d walked straight out of a courtly gala—or straight into trouble.

Erawan, the former dark king, towered in full black armor, the sound of his boots heavy on the tile floor. Amarantha floated in, wearing a deep crimson gown that made her look like she’d bathed in blood, her sharp grin cutting through the mundane atmosphere.

The barista’s eyes widened as the entire ensemble took their places at the counter. These people looked like they’d strolled in from another century—or from a Halloween party gone very wrong.

Either way, there was something decidedly unsettling about the way they carried themselves, as if the weight of their worlds sat upon their shoulders—and Starbucks, for all its familiarity, had just become a battleground of dark glamour.

Maeve was the first to step up, her presence casting a shadow over the counter as she stared at the menu with disdain. “What in the name of the gods is a ‘pumpkin spice latte?’”

The barista swallowed. “Uh, it’s a seasonal favorite…”

Maeve gave a long, tired sigh, as though the very concept of seasonal flavors was beneath her. “Fine. I’ll take it. Venti.”

The barista blinked, clearly overwhelmed by her icy beauty and commanding tone. “Sure thing. Name?”

“Maeve,” she said simply, as if the name alone should send tremors of fear down the barista’s spine.

Erawan, looming behind her, crossed his arms, his armor clinking as he leaned forward. “I want something black. Very black. The kind of black that can swallow souls.”

The barista, her hand trembling slightly, replied, “We have black iced coffee?”

Erawan smirked darkly. “Make it bitter.”

Next was the King Of Hybern, Drystan, dressed to perfection in a silver waistcoat and a long black coat that screamed wealth and vanity. He examined the menu as though it were beneath him. “I’ll take an espresso,” he said, flashing the barista a sly smile. “Strong. Like me.”

Arobynn Hamel, behind him, scoffed. He was already examining his reflection in the window, flicking his scarf back over his shoulder with an air of supreme confidence. “You’d do better with a shot of espresso and a sensible macchiato.” He winked at the barista, flashing his devilish grin. “But I’ll take the finest drink you’ve got—something with finesse, darling.”

Amarantha, sauntering up in her gown, glanced at the barista with an arched brow. “Your drinks are as weak as your species, I’m sure. But I’ll humor you. A white chocolate mocha… extra sweet, since mortals seem to live for sugar.”

Keir and Beron Vanserra followed, snickering at the absurdity of it all. “A vanilla latte,” Keir ordered, rolling his eyes. “It’s the only thing here that sounds remotely drinkable. And make sure it’s hot. I can’t stand anything lukewarm.”

Beron, ever the temperamental High Lord, raised an eyebrow. “Lukewarm, much like your ambitions, Keir?”

“Coming from you?” Keir quipped back. “You practically run your court like it’s on autopilot.”

Beron, ever the provocateur, leaned on the counter. “Something with a kick. Add whatever you think’ll burn on the way down.”

The King of Adarlan—dressed in his full regalia, a cloak of dark blue and gold over his royal armor—frowned at the menu. “What… is *matcha*?” he asked, looking genuinely perplexed.

“Green tea,” the barista offered, blinking at the surreal sight before her.

“Tea?” Nolan scoffed. “Fine. I’ll try your mortal concoction. Venti.”

Koschei, the death god, who had remained unnervingly quiet, finally stepped forward, dressed in flowing black robes that whispered of death. “Whatever is cold and sweet,” he said flatly. “I like contrasts.”

The group collected their drinks, exchanging sardonic glances. They looked utterly out of place, their towering presences somehow making the cheery, mundane Starbucks seem like the most unusual space on earth.

Maeve’s piercing eyes followed a woman outside, her stride commanding attention as she strutted by in red heels and a fur coat that screamed opulence. “Where,” Maeve asked the barista, “does one acquire garments like that?”

The barista, visibly shaken by the sight of these otherworldly figures ordering pumpkin spice lattes and matcha tea, stammered, “Uh, probably at one of the high-end boutiques down the street.”

Maeve set her cup down with an air of finality. “We’re going. Now.” Her voice was imperious, leaving no room for argument.

With an effortless flick of her hand, she beckoned the others, and they followed, each as dangerous and fashionable as the next. The Starbucks patrons gawked as the group swept out—Erawan’s armor clanking, Beron and Keir bickering about how bland the coffee was, and Arobynn adjusting his perfectly fitted coat as though Starbucks had dirtied his entire aesthetic.

They entered the boutique with a flare that made even the most glamorous of Earth’s stores seem drab. The attendant barely had time to greet them before they had fanned out, each immediately setting upon the racks like wolves eyeing their prey.

Maeve, with her sharp gaze, immediately grabbed a fur coat that mirrored the one she’d seen on the woman outside. She tossed it over her dark gown, glancing in the mirror with a critical eye. “Not bad. But it could use more darkness. Maybe some raven feathers.”

Meanwhile, Beron Vanserra held up a mini-skirt, laughing to himself as he examined it. “Do you think this screams ‘High Lord of Autumn’ or ‘casual weekend’?” he asked sarcastically, causing Keir, now trying on fishnet tights, to snicker.

“If nothing else, it’ll definitely distract your court from your... fatherly duties and impending midlife crisis,” Keir quipped, adjusting the tights with a grin.

Not to be outdone, Arobynn was engrossed in a selection of sheer shirts and coats, his gaze flickering with delight as he threw on a see-through blouse over his finely chiseled torso. “I must say,” he drawled, admiring himself, “I’ve always had an eye for the finer things.”

Amarantha strutted in front of the mirrors, having found a perfectly tailored tuxedo that gave her an air of lethal elegance. “Perhaps Earth mortals aren’t so tasteless after all.” She turned toward Maeve, her eyes gleaming. “Care to help me with the tie?”

Maeve, smirking, slid up to her, fingers grazing Amarantha’s arm. “Why bother with the tie when I can take the whole suit off?” And with that, she grabbed Amarantha by the collar and tugged her into the nearest changing room, the door slamming behind them with a resounding thud.

From inside, muffled voices and laughter echoed, but outside, the chaos continued.

Koschei had decided on something even more absurd—a coquette aesthetic, with frills and lace that seemed completely at odds with his deathly persona. “I look… unsettling,” he remarked to himself in the mirror, brushing his fingers over the delicate fabric. “Perfect.”

Erawan, on the other hand, had discovered his inner goth, trying on heavy eyeliner and a sleek pencil skirt. He admired himself in the mirror with a slow smile. “I look terrifying. I approve.”

At the other end of the store, the King of Hybern was parading around in short shorts and a lacey lingerie set, looking utterly unbothered. Beron and Keir exchanged a glance, both grinning like wolves.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Beron muttered.

Keir’s grin widened. “Oh, absolutely.”

Without warning, they pounced on Drystan, dragging him by the collar into a fitting room with them, their laughter echoing through the boutique as Drystan half-heartedly protested before giving in to the chaos.

By the time they left the boutique, clad in a hodgepodge of fur coats, mini skirts, see-through shirts, fishnets, and tuxedos, they looked more like a dark fashion show gone wrong—or perfectly right, depending on one’s taste.

And as they strutted down the street, their laughter dark and biting, they exchanged quips about Earth, fashion, and the absurdity of mortal life—each villain basking in the ridiculousness of their situation.

For just one day, they weren’t lords of destruction or puppeteers of fate. They were just divas, having the time of their wicked lives.

. . .

Chapter Text

In the dimly lit council chamber, the grandest, most feared villains of the SJM universe gathered—not to plot mayhem, but to lament a common foe that had broken them all: paperwork.

Maeve, seated at the head of the table, dark and regal as always, stared at the mountain of parchment in front of her with thinly veiled disgust. “I ruled worlds,” she began, her voice dripping with disdain, “I conquered the greatest warriors, manipulated entire realms, and yet…” She rubbed her temples. “Here I am, trying to authorize a simple shadow legion deployment. Why are there six different forms just to get one dark army to march? Six!”

Erawan grunted from beside her, his Valg-infused presence somehow diminished by the stack of papers he, too, was battling. “Six? I would kill for six.” He slapped the top of his pile. “Do you know what it takes to balance the Valg invasion budget? There’s inventory, conquest receipts, expenses for every soul-sucking creature in my army. Who thought that was a necessary detail? And taxes—taxes, Maeve! I can barely keep track of which kingdom I’ve conquered, let alone file quarterly reports for each one!”

Amarantha, leaning back in her chair with a dramatic roll of her eyes, twirled a lock of hair between her fingers. “Oh, please, you think that’s bad? Try overseeing the Under the Mountain Compliance Department. Do you know how many permission slips I have to sign just to torment someone? Feyre’s torture alone took an entire department of paperwork. I keep misplacing the soul-shredding request forms because, apparently, there’s a specific one for each type of torture. Nothing spontaneous anymore. By the time I’ve sorted through it all, the thrill is gone.”

The room filled with murmurs of agreement, though Koschei scoffed loudly. “At least you all have something resembling fun. I’m trapped in a cursed lake for eternity, and even I have to deal with the monthly budget meetings. Do you know how hard it is to explain ‘miscellaneous curse expenses’ to Hybern’s treasury? They made me create an Excel spreadsheet for my hexing plans. Excel, Maeve. Excel.”

Beron Vanserra, slouched in his chair, arms crossed and looking even grumpier than usual, spoke up. “You think your army is bad? I have six ungrateful sons who demand an itemized budget for every bonfire festival. Every. Damn. Year.” He sneered, flicking imaginary ash from his coat. “Do you know how long it takes to fill out 'Autumn Court Firewood Requisition Forms’? The paperwork required for ruling the Autumn Court is worse than being attacked by my own family. At least that I can handle with fire."

Arobynn Hamel, smirking, gave a slow, dramatic clap. "Congratulations, Beron. You've just described every family reunion I’ve ever attended." He leaned forward with a wicked grin. “I feel your pain. You all know I run the most feared Assassin’s Guild in Erilea, right?” He looked around for dramatic effect. “And do you know what really breaks an assassin’s will? It’s not death. It’s not a blade. It’s payroll. 'Arobynn, where’s my paystub? Arobynn, I didn’t get reimbursed for poisons'—reimbursements? We’re assassins! Hazard pay? Are they kidding me?”

Erawan leaned forward, his dark gaze locking onto Arobynn. “Assassins… with benefits?”

Arobynn nodded grimly. “Oh, it gets worse. I had one assassin file a formal HR complaint because they felt the job description didn’t accurately warn them about 'moral ambiguity.' I am this close to burning the whole guild down.”

Amarantha snickered, “I’m glad to know we’re all defeated by the same monster. I once tried to send a Fae to her doom, and I had to fill out a Doom Authorization Form. By the time I got approval, she escaped.” She crossed her arms, grumbling. “Killed my vibe.”

Keir, High Lord of the Hewn City, finally spoke, his face twisted with frustration. “You think that’s bad? Try managing the treasury and the Hewn City’s army. Every soldier I recruit needs three different approvals from the treasury. I tried deploying forces to aid in some ‘personal projects,’ and they made me justify every copper spent. As if I don’t have better things to do than argue over the cost of new armor.” He threw his hands up. “And don’t even mention the paperwork when Mor whisks half of my best soldiers to the Night Court. I have to write a detailed report on why they were taken!”

Vargas, the Valg general, muttered darkly, “HR complaints, armies, budgets... Try summoning a demonic legion and having your work stopped because the ‘Infernal Entities Permit’ wasn’t filed in triplicate. I lost half my army to Aelin while waiting on that permit.” He sighed. “The paperwork is endless.”

King Nolan, sitting in a corner, groaned, “At least you don’t need permits to wage war. I had to file an ‘Intent to Exterminate’ form with three councils just to start my campaign. Do you know how long it took? By the time I got approval, my enemies had already mobilized!”

Maeve raised an eyebrow. "At least you don’t have to deal with immortality claims from Fae soldiers. 'Oh, Maeve, I lost an arm during the last battle, does that count as a permanent injury?' And I had to fill out a 22-page form just to reject his claim!”

Erawan sighed, nodding sympathetically. "I once tried conquering an entire continent and the Adarlan Legal Council sent me a cease-and-desist letter because I didn’t have the right invasion permits. And do you know how hard it is to conquer and file an appeal at the same time?”

Arobynn, amused, leaned back. “You’d think assassins would be low-maintenance. But no. 'Arobynn, can I get my poison allowance raised?'” He mimicked a whiny voice, his dagger spinning idly in his hand. “I’m about to start assassinating the paperwork.”

Koschei groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can’t we all just admit it? We’re not defeated by heroes. We’re not stopped by rebellions. We’re brought down by bureaucracy. This—” he waved a hand at his towering stack of documents, “—is the true enemy.”

The group fell silent for a moment, each one stewing in their shared misery.

Finally, The King of Hybern, ever the brooding figure, grumbled, “I spent centuries planning to tear down the wall between human and Fae lands, only to be stalled by one thing. Paperwork. Who knew you needed permits to install magical barriers? And combining courts? That’s not just conquest—that’s merging departments. Do you know how many signatures that requires?”

Maeve, nodding solemnly, raised her goblet. “To paperwork, the true bane of our existence.”

Around the table, dark figures clinked their glasses in grim agreement. Even the most terrifying beings in existence, it seemed, had been brought to their knees by the cruelty of paperwork.

Koschei sighed. “Maybe I’ll just give up and open a bakery. Less paperwork.”

Arobynn snickered. “I’d give anything to see you filling out flour orders.”

Nolan groaned, slumping lower in his chair. "At least flour orders wouldn’t need three layers of approval."

And so, the most feared villains sat in shared, exhausted silence—temporarily united by their truest enemy: paperwork.

. . .