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“I must say I was…quite surprised when I received word of your arrival. We’ve never actually met formally, barring the meeting from Hel, as I’m sure you recall.” Elain barely heard the words as she strode through the great, ostentatious hall of the Forest House, stained glass windows framed by the wood of the massive tree the house itself was carved out of. Each one bore a colorful depiction of some previous Lord’s great conquest or act, and she wondered where exactly Beron Vanserra’s own piece of vanity lay. At the sound of a pair of door opening, her eyes darted back to face him, earning minute glances from the pair of guards before she they shut her in. “I confess,” he continued, deep voice echoing slightly from the great chamber they entered, ”I wasn’t on my best behavior then, but Rhysand and his…ilk, often bring out the worst in me—in all of us, I might suggest.” The High Lord of Autumn turned to face her, hooded auburn eyes sharper than the slight point of his beard, his sculpted chin blanketed in dark stubble. “So, apologies if I speak ill of your friends from time to time.”
Elain gave a simple nod, eyes still taking in the details of the room, adorned with a well-made half-moon desk, furnished seats made of natural wood and vermillion cushioning with candle-topped brass fixtures that lit he room. Her eyes fell back on him; he stood a head taller than her, garbed in a regal crimson doublet whose panels were emblazoned with the silhouettes of phoenixes mid-flight, gold buttons lining the center of his chest and his sleeves. One of them caught the light as he raised his hand.
“Only Azriel is a friend,” she replied, taking it and letting him kiss the knuckle. “The rest are…around.” Beron laughed at that, releasing her to round his desk to the large, imposing seat behind it, its wooden arm-rests and back carved in the shapes of coiling flames.
“Around,” he repeated, “You make them sound quite droll. I have no idea how you could tolerate such company for so long, although…family does have a way of forcing us to endure more than we can often bear.” Gesturing to the chair across from him, he settled into his seat, “Your sister Nesta is certainly a spitfire; probably the only reason I even considered aligning with the rest of Pythian’s fools against Hybern. Could be a queen in her own right, but I hear she’s…freshly mated, these days.” Elain nodded once more.
Freshly mated, and right back at arms-length for what happened, or rather what she had heard happened, with some girl traveling across world and Nesta giving up the mask. No one told Elain anything, but then again, they never had to. She could just peer into the universe, and bear witness herself if it truly interested her.
“As for your other sister,” Beron continued, wincing as he let his hand rest on his arm, right where Feyre had burned him during said meeting, “I worry for her. Truly.” He leaned in, cocking his head to the side. “I’m interested to know if they ever told you exactly what her mate did to her under the mountain.”
“I know little of this place before the war, not by choice.” Beron smiled at her answer, appreciative of both her clarity, and reveling in being the one to reveal such a topic. Anything to besmirch Rhysand.
“I—we actually, me and the other High Lords— we watched Rhysand parade her around naked and drunk during Amarantha’s reign, tormenting her for no reason other than to twist the knife she buried in Tamlin for almost half a century, metaphorically speaking of course. But,” he leaned back, “It looks like he’s broken her well and true now, enough to follow his every whim.” Elain shrugged.
“They’re happy,” she said, unsure if she even believed it. Feyre had been so quick to forgive Rhys for his lying about the pregnancy, that it made her truly take a step back and look at things clearly. The Feyre she knew would have torn him apart, Nesta as well, but one was plied with a bond and power and riches, while the other had been hammered, hewn, and bent to the will and wants of the Night Court’s Inner Circle. It was no surprise now that Nesta preferred to spend time with her friends, leaving her with Azriel, Nuada, and Cerridwen as the only company more often than not.
“I see you’re a woman of few words and great patience,” Beron complimented, letting a small flame dance in the spaces between his fingers. “So many forget that I was the first to offer my kernel of power to her, to bring her back to life for what she gave to us. I did the same for Rhysand as well. Mother knows he deserved it less than she, but they all judge Autumn so harshly, while we stand as one of the most stable courts in the realm. Prythian’s backbone if I may say so myself.” Elain suppressed rolling her eyes. “Spring is a ruin, Night collapses under its own weight, Summer was fooled out of an ancient artifact and nearly doomed us all, and Dawn plays at neutrality while the world goes on without it. Only Winter’s rulership is worth a damn, but their lack of exports keeps them small and lacking in influence.”
“And Day?” Elain asked, knowing Beron’s scowl before it even spread across his face. A hate long-tended slid into his voice, lips curling into smile that didn’t match.
“Day is ruled by a High Lord who I’m sure has more bastards than years he has lived, with no regard for anything but his own pleasure.” Beron toyed with a small fixture on his desk, “I’m sure that the nature of my wife’s…sordid affair has no doubt been gossiped at Rhysand’s tables.”
“I don’t care for rumors or gossip,” Elain replied, back straightening. “I prefer the truth.” Beron nodded, fingers flexing as he took her in. She was the shortest of the Archerons, face perfectly round and cherubic with shimmering, wide brown eyes, her chosen periwinkle dress exposing a lovely neck and slight collarbones, before ending right where her chest began. Waves of golden-brown framed her brow, tied in a simple low ponytail whose length draped over her shoulder, and Beron couldn’t help but feel his heart stir ever slightly at her curvaceous grace.
The cauldron did what it did best, taking the raw materials of a mortal and smelting, forging, and sculpting it into an elevated shape: a paragon of beauty. He wondered what such an experience would entail, if it was blissful, or if it was one’s bones trying to rip out of their own skin.
“Yes,” he finally said, eyes kept to her neck and mouth, “I’m sure you would. Lying to you wouldn’t be much good now, would it?” At that Elain shrunk slightly into herself, and Beron’s heart stirred just a little more. “A seer’s power is a rarity, and incredibly sought after.”
“Could have fooled me,” Elain muttered under her breath, thinking of all the times she offered to use her powers to help, only for Rhys and Nesta and Azriel and all the rest to shut her down, to tell her to go play in the garden or waste her time in the kitchen while they went out and shook the very world.
“I’m sorry?” Beron asked, Elain shaking her head.
“Nevermind.” The High Lord blinked, then continued.
“Well, contrary to what many say, I believe in capturing flies with honey rather than vinegar, so with that said,” Beron’s eyes lifted to hers, shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath, “How can I help you this day, Lady Archeron?”
Elain closed her eyes, knowing this was where things were going to get rocky. But it had to be done, if she was going to get what she wanted out of him.
“I’d like to know about Lucien.” Beron’s smile died instantly at the name, his loose, playful bearing immediately becoming tense.
“I’m afraid you chose the wrong person to go to for that, child.” Venom practically oozed from him, keeping on as he looked up to the chandelier above them. “If you want a glowing account of your dear mate, best to go and try to shake it out of my wife, or Tamlin, if he’s even if a form that can bother spouting out the words.”
“I don’t need a glowing account,” Elain retorted, Beron’s eyes flickering back to her. “Like I said, I want to know the truth, about what happened.” She could see that the High Lord wondered what she meant, and so she continued, “Feyre hurt your wife, then you, and Azriel hurt your son. I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t know how the politics here work, but in my lands, that would be grounds for war, and yet you haven’t pressed the issue.” Beron raised an eyebrow.
“Are you saying that I should muster my armies and reduce Night to ashes for what they did?” Elain sighed, shaking her head.
“No, I just…I want to try and make it right if I can.” Elain allowed a bit of power seep into her, letting white splash into the brown of her eyes like milk into tea. “I’m cursed to always see the path forward, so why not walk it straight down?” Beron smirked, his defensiveness lowering just a tad.
“You refer to my son, Eris, and his sneaking about with your frie—” he corrected himself, “Your cohorts. It’s funny how he thinks I don’t know, as if I wasn’t the one who taught him how to slink and scheme in the first place.” He smiled, “Your candor is appreciated, Lady Archeron, and so I’ll indulge your curiosity.” Beron reached across the table, collecting a decanter of wine and pair of glasses before pouring himself one. He gestured the bottle to her, and after a moment, she nodded, the High Lord pouring and sliding a drink over to her. “Helion, High Lord of the Day, is a whore of ravenous appetites, and he cares not for those he uses and discards. Simply put, he took advantage of my wife in a time of weakness, and centuries later, he has never come to claim the product of his union.” Taking a long sip, Beron sighed in pleasure through his nose. “Do you know how I know that our mate is not mine?”
“Stop calling him that, please?” Beron paused at Elain’s demand, watching as she sipped the drink and shuddered a bit. She must not be used to alcohol, or favor the taste, but he opted to be charitable and oblige her.
“It wasn’t just the obvious physical discrepancies, or the weak, craven demeanor, but did you know that parents can sense the mating bonds of their children?” She recoiled at the words—mating, bonds, all of it—but she asked for the truth, and Beron was perfectly willing to watch her squirm through his providing of it. “The connection reverberates, and when I look at him? At you? I see nothing. I feel nothing. Not a tick or tug, beyond our…present interaction. All these years, I had suspected, but I never had confirmation. There was no show of Helion’s magic in Lucien, but then you arrived, and I learned of your bond with him, and I felt nothing.” Beron’s eyes fell to his drink, staring into the dark, burgundy void of it. “It was…heart breaking, to say the least.”
“Was it?” Elain asked, a slight smirk forming on his face as he contemplated his glass, before his eyes returned to hers. He rose from his seat, rounding the table in slow, deliberate strides, and Elain took another sip as he leaned against the desk in front of her. She realized their eyes matched in color, his searching hers intently before he spoke.
“You took quite a risk coming here, little Archeron, being the mate of a son whose life is an insult to my rulership, to my marriage.” He gave another sip of his wine. “Such terrible things could happen to you here, if those with maligned intent were to…get their hands on you.”
Elain’s chin rose, finally finding the thread that she needed to tug. “My father’s dead, I’ve lost my fiance, my home, my wealth, and now, I see how everything ends. Everything.” She let that word fill the room like smoke, remembering the nightmares she would have of watching everyone suffer or die.
For Feyre, it was lying in a puddle of blood on the birthing bed; a casualty of Rhysand’s inability to treat her like an equal. Then it was her being slain by a band of Illyrian women, angered by her use of their wings while theirs were clipped, their birthright stolen from them while she flaunted it. It always changed, nudged and shifted by the acts of the people around them.
For Nesta, it was being devoured by some horrid monster at the bottom of a black, cursed bog. Then, it was the Illyrians in the Blood Rite making an example of her and her friends, leaving the remains for the beasts of Ramiel to feast on and for Cassian to find.
She swallowed, burying the predicted fates of the rest before they could play out fully in her mind. She had a High Lord to challenge, to intrigue. “If you were going to hurt me, Lord Beron. I would have seen it, and I’m sure you would have done it already, without me having to come here.” His eyes narrowed at that. “You don’t strike me as a male who likes to waste time.”
“Ah, but seers only see the world as it currently is, and that can always change with the actions we take in free will, does it not?” He pointed finger to her, as if he had gotten her in some trap, but it fell as Elain threw back the rest of the wine, shuddering at its taste before standing up. Stepping right up to him, her glass clacked on the desk as she placed it down, pushing closer until she was an inch or so away, putting herself right under his gaze. Her head tilted to one side, then the other, like a cat pondering something that caught its interest. Beron watched her throat flutter, even inching away slightly as she neared him more, her supple lips parting.
“All talk.” Beron scoffed at her taunt, turning away as he finally caught the scent she emanated. She was goading him, recklessly so, and she caught his body reacting to it, to the playfulness and the slight rebellion she bought.
A doe trying to tower over a fox.
“If you’ve come to seduce me, little Archeron, I’m afraid you’ll have wasted your visit.” Beron glanced back to her, “I will not forsake my wife for a mortal girl wearing the skin of a fae. I take my union seriously, enough that I let my sons take my place in the Great Rite. Their power is more than enough to spark growth for our Court.” The words were cruel, but true. He had a wife, and a duty, one he valued even if the Lady of Autumn spat on and stomped it into the dirt.
Beron felt a hand softly curl around his head, his eyes boring into Elain’s at her touch. “I suppose it’s easier to punish your wife every second of every day than it is to get even, or maybe, even try to find true happiness.” The High Lord placed his glass onto the table and stood, catching Elain’s hand in a firm grip. He wanted to be rougher, but even with her luscious figure, her eyes made it look as if she would break from even a tad more force.
“You dare try to convince me to sever my union with her?” he asked, fire dancing on each of his words. “You truly are as bold as your sisters, or as insolent.”
“All I’m saying is, why stay stuck?” she asked, keeping calm despite the feel of his hand around her wrist. Beron could immolate her with a thought, brand her with his hand prints and melt her flesh until it slopped off her bones. But she kept steady, trying to inch her way into the crack she had made, the chink in the armor. All she had to do was touch the malformed, broken tenderness her visions claimed to reside within the High Lord. “Why choose to be angry and unhappy?”
Beron’s eyes fled from hers, thinking on the question and barely registering the feel of her other hand at his back. Something long tepid filled into his gaze, his left thumb toying with the ring on his finger. “She didn’t want this—the marriage,” he revealed, “But I did. I thought that maybe I could make her love me, given time, but everything’s all but gotten rotten. She hates me, and sometimes I’ll trick myself into thinking that I still love her, only to hate her again when I think of that bastard of hers.” Beron let his hand leave her wrist, skating up her arm to feel the soft, velvety skin dotted with light freckles. “I killed his last love, made him watch, and she wasn’t his mate. Bedding you would crush him, not to mention it would bring down the wrath of the Night Court, of that little shadowsinger Rhysand has skulking about.” He pulled her hand up and kissed the inside of her wrist, “Do you not care about your bond at all?”
“I don’t, and Azriel won’t touch you,” Elain pledged, speaking so fast Beron had to pause.
“Is that a prediction, my dear seer?”
“An observation. Azriel’s a torturer, and a spy, and he has no right to me beyond what I allow.” As Beron’s hand rose to stroke her cheek, Elain remembered the conversation Azriel and Rhysand had months ago. They always forgot how she could be everywhere, could hear everything if she wanted, listening to Azriel claim. “How could the Cauldron or Mother give two of his brothers sisters as mates, and have one be given to another?”
She wasn’t some pawn, nor some kind of reward from the universe, and if he truly only wanted her just because she fit some perfect little mold with his brothers, then she wanted nothing to do with it. Even more so when she peered into what exactly he did with that necklace, gifting it to the female he and Nesta had been training with.
Gwyn. Let her have him. She seemed very kind.
“I heard you were the most beautiful of the sisters.” Beron’s words drew Elain back, surprised at the warmth she felt bloom in her chest at them. “Soft as silk with a face angels envy.” His thumb grazed her cheek, then the plumpness of her bottom lip. “For once, the rumors weren’t wrong.” Elain could feel the nervousness in him, like a flame being battered by the wind. The High Lord of Autumn’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath, standing and pushing away from the desk, and moving to slowly unbutton his doublet. “Take off your undergarments.”
The order was quiet but resolute, uttered without an ounce of the High Lord’s power to compel. Elain swallowed, hands slipping under her dress for the sheer fabric that veiled her most intimate part. Once pulled over her full thighs, it dropped past the rest of her legs, kicking them off as she watched Beron strip his doublet off. “Get onto the desk.” Elain glanced at it, then shimmied back to settle herself onto the furniture’s edge, the wood cold against her backside. With a predator’s gait, Beron turned and faced her, rolling the sleeves of his under-shirt up to the elbow and curling a hand under the skirt of her dress, exposing her supple, pink entrance.
Elain shied into herself, head turning away. Only one other man had seen her so bare, a mortal man who now despised her for something she couldn’t control, something she never asked for. The lack of ravenous movement on Beron’s part made her glance back, his focused, bold eyes utterly focused on her sex, mouth locked tight to hide its watering at the sight of her. His hand curled around one of the cylindrical candles dotting his desk, and he let it hover right over her pelvis.
“You don’t know what you’ve started here, little Archeron, but you’re going to find out.” Elain flinched as he let the pooled wax fall onto her skin, bracing for a burn that would boil and scar her. Heat indeed seared her, but it dissipated quickly into her skin, bordering on the edge of pain and pleasure. Beron laughed, doing so once more as he spoke. “One of our many exports: candles that burn low and melt to oil.” His fingers slid across her waist, kneading the liquid into her skin and smoothing it across the plains of her belly. Sighing at his touch, he slipped the top of her dress over her shoulders to expose her breasts, pouring wax over them relishing as she shuddered from the heat. Satisfied, he placed the candle down, letting his hands envelop her curves in full and massaging them in gentle circles, small moans escaping her lips as his thumbs teased her sensitive, flushed nipples. An oil-glazed hand roved up her throat, coating her body in it, before Beron craned down and graced her pussy with a searing, exploratory kiss.
Strong arms hooked under her thighs, locking her in place while he let his tongue run wild across her, feasting on everything he could as she writhed under him. Elain bit down on her fist, pleasure thundering with every lap, every taste he savored, before gasping at the feel of his finger slipping into her, long and thick and curling into the roof inside her. She ground toward it, the sensation only pausing when she nearly slipped off the desk, Beron catching her and lifting her back to a stable position. His fingering then resumed, sweat rolling down his temple while his other hand groped her breast for support.
“Molten, is it not?” Elain didn’t respond to him, drowning in ecstasy. “This is the power of a high lord, command over the elements and the body of those we rule.”
“You don’t rule me,” she replied through a gasp, Beron chuckling at her claims.
“Do I not? My fingers are inside of you, my dear, coaxing immeasurable pleasure with little effort. Your body aches for me, in every way. I could compel you to slice your own throat, to tell me your most intimate secrets, and…” he leaned in close, stubble brushing against the curve of her ear, “I can compel you to do this.” Beron stroked her, fingers urging sweet release to finally erupt inside of her. “Come for me, Lady Archeron. Let me feel you unravel upon my fingers.”
Elain moaned louder, almost shouting as she orgasmed in an instant, the hardest she ever had. Candles and documents fell to the floor as she twisted, their tiny flames snuffing out by the High Lord’s will to prevent them catching fire. Ribbons of smoke trailing over them, Beron watched her settle down from the heights of her climax before slipping his fingers out of her.
Curling onto her side, Elain’s eyes fluttered open, red creeping up her neck as Beron slid his fingers over his tongue and lips, tasting her with a self-satisfied grin. A part of him hoped the guards outside heard her screams, that whispers of what he had done to her found their way back to his wife. Maybe they would even believe him to be tormenting her, further fostering his brutal reputation. The cruel High Lord of Autumn burning the heroic slayer of Hybern’s King.
His hands fell to his belt, chest heaving as if breathing in the nerve to proceed with what he wanted next. “I want you to understand exactly what I’m going to do to you next, little Archeron, if you can even hear me through the haze of pleasure.” Elain stirred in response, and he went on, his eyes locked on her slick, wanting opening. “If you don’t get up and scuttle out of my office, I’m going to fill you with my cock. I’m going to roll and grind and savor you until everything inside of me…is inside of you. All the fire, all the fury, dripping outside of your precious cunt.” The leather of his belt unbound, his hand reached and spread her lips wider, Elain trembling once more. “I’m going to show my wife the pain of having a constant reminder of your betrayal walking your halls, eating your food, killing your sons.” His hand dropped, “I’m going ruin you, girl, just as you’ve ruined me, and you will bear the product of it, unless you flee now, back to that bat’s nest of a Court and save yourself. So…” Elain twitched as he pressed his head against her, letting it glide over her glistening folds, “What will it be?”
Only her head moved, her body still slumped on its side as her dark, doe eyes met his. “Doing this, is the only way I survive what’s coming.” Beron’s brow softened at her words, at the slight fear in her eyes. Not of him, but of some distant horrid thing she had seen. A dark fate that awaited her.
“What do you mean?” he urged, “What’s coming?” Elain rose a hand, reaching for him.
“Do this, and I’ll tell you.” Beron’s hand wove past hers, clenching firmly around her neck.
“You will tell me, or this romp is over, little Archeron.” He felt her throat bob in his grip, her fingers gently resting on his wrist.
“Please. I need this,”—she gripped it tighter—“And so do you.”
Beron’s jaw hardened. What did this girl know of what he needed? What could she hope to understand about the centuries he lived, the things he suffered? He scoffed, shaking his head and wondering how it even got this far, how she managed to worm her way into his chambers and sunder his resolve. He tasted another female, let his fingers grow warm inside of her as he bought her untold pleasure. She was newly made, young, easily swayed to rapture by his compelling, and yet he wasn’t sure that he was wholly in control here.
She wasn’t a daemati—he was all too familiar with their brand of powers, with the way that Rhysand broke and twisted minds Under the Mountain—-but there was something here, and it was eerie, yet enticing.
“I promise,” he heard her say, and Beron felt his power flicker up to the space where their hands met.
A want to bargain, and a wish to mark her with it.
“I accept.” His words let a burn set between their palms, rolling up their arms in the form of raised flesh. It appeared singed, but didn’t redden or splotch, Beron smiling at the sight of it. “The Night Court has tattoos, Autumn has brands.” He released his grip and set his hand down on her hip to right himself. She felt him seat his cock right at her entrance, his arm craning her leg up so she could see what he was unfolding. “Look,” he ordered, “Gaze upon what you’ve done.” Her eyes remained unblinking as he slid inch by inch into her, girth making her tense, but he took his time to let her stretch and mold around him, right until she felt his hips lay against hers. “Mother above,” he breathed, power coursing into him so she could feel the heat of his desire. Then, he thrust, rolling himself in and out of her with just enough force to hear the pat of their skin meeting.
Keeping her leg lifted with one hand, the other gripped her hand, using it to pull himself harder and deeper into her. Elain quivered and moaned with every push, chest slick with sweat as Beron squeezed her wrist. “You’re doing so well,” he said, brushing her hair out of her eyes before resuming his grip, his pace quickening more and more. “Look at me.” Elain barely heard him until he took her by the chin, eyes flicking open and darting to the vision of his cock pumping into her. “Eyes on me, my dear.”—her gaze went to his—“Only on me. You have to prepare. I’m not the sort of brute who’d cover you in himself like a dog marking its territory.” The High Lord’s canine’s shimmered in the candlelight, feeling that lightning surge through him with every blissful press into her cunt.
“I’m ready,” she replied, grabbing his arm as if desperate to hang on. “Do it. Cum in me. Cum—”The candles that remained lit in the room blazed up like wildfires, joining Beron in the rise of his thunderous orgasm. The chambers shook despite his attempt to leash himself, Elain feeling the molten wetness of his seed flood into her.
For the first time since she had left the Night Court and presented herself to him, Elain felt relieved. Secured. The path she saw in her mind was now fenced in, infinitely harder for fate and free will to branch out and break it apart. If she let her thoughts trail to how this would wound the people closer to her—Azriel, Feyre and Nesta—maybe she would have reconsidered, would have tried to think or search for some better way. But every path ended the same. The Night Court—or rather the Inner Circle’s dream of it—ripped apart, Illyrians and Hewn City soldiers marching on Velaris, to claim it as payment for the lives of their forces spent in the war. Rhys’ ignorance of them was a debt settled in blood, drained from her sisters, Cassian and Azriel, and even little Nyx, barely able to speak a word when the blades came for him.
Better they be wounded, feel betrayed, than dead. This was pragmatism. Sheer survival. Even if she uncovered something she hadn’t expected on her journey to seduce the High Lord of Autumn.
He was brutal, hateful, anger tried up in a ball of flame, but he had been betrayed, lost sons to the warring in his own court, to both her sister’s and his wife’s machinations. He allied with mortal queens, possibly even Koschei, an ancient dark god hungering for vengeance over the loss of his kin, all in service of the protection of humans against Hybern. But it was done for the same reason she had entered his chambers here today. Pragmatism. Survival. Better to aid him and serve the Night Court—-the ones who convinced his siblings die for their cause—on a platter, than have him and his court be trampled under Koschei’s march to avenge them.
Elain’s gift let her not only see the future, but also see the thoughts and motives of those she focused on, and she could justify every single one of them when put in the proper context. Even now, she felt her psyche coil around Beron’s, feeling the anxiety, the worry, but also the gratification of having someone understand what he was. Having someone feel what he wanted them to feel.
“You’ve betrayed your mate in such an…unimaginable way.” He said it with a mocking laughter, a quiet triumph over his wife and her betrayal, over Lucien, who the universe had sought her to be bonded to. She felt the High Lord press his hand to her abdomen, massaging soft circles as he pulled himself out of her.
“Betrayal would mean I had to make a promise and break it,” Elain replied, “I did no such thing. I never accepted, nor rejected it.”
“Keeping him in constant limbo then?” He laughed. “How…wonderfully cruel. I think we’ll do nicely together, Lady Archeron. But first things first.” Beron closed her thighs, hand pulling her dress back down over her bare legs. “Tell me, what terrible fate you hope to subvert by…being here with me?”
When Elain finished sharing her story, or the one she had brewed in her mind anyway, Beron was quiet, ruminating on her words.
Most of it was the truth: how her sisters and the Night Court were keen to keep Elain sequestered away, wishing not to burden her with the efforts of gathering power, even when she was the one who had ended the life of the greatest threat presented to Prythian.
Sometimes she still felt his blood coating her fingers, the knife stuck in the King of Hybern’s throat as she tore it back out with all the strength she had. Azriel once said he wished to emulate such violence with Beron himself, and now she stood here, bearing a carefully cultivated version of her soul to him.
Through this tale, she convinced him of two things: the Lady of Autumn would never love him, and that if he allowed her to use her powers to help protect the realm, that she would, exemplified by the stoking of his fire that left his release coiling inside of her.
And when the Night Court eventually burned, when the leaders of the Court of Nightmares and Illyria met to concentrate their hatred for Rhysand, and the Inner Circle tugged on whatever strings they hoped would aid them to get out of it, the other courts would all turn away.
Kallias would remember the dead children, and how Rhys tried to lay their deaths at some other nameless daemati’s feet. Both Thesan and Helion would feel the winds change, not keen to see their courts swallowed up in Night’s gaping jaws for interfering. Summer never trusted them again, but maybe they could risk Spring, if they carved themselves a space in it by killing its monstrous High Lord. Even then that was a stretch. Tamlin had nothing left to lose, and so he’d gladly kill them if they entered into his lands without permission.
But Beron—after their wedding and her bearing his child—would house them. He would disdain it at first, rage against it even, but he would look once at those pleading eyes of hers, and remember the utter understanding he felt with her, how she knew him so well and gave him peace and release while the world saw only a vicious demon with little soul.
Maybe the affection was real. Maybe it was just to ensure everyone survived. He was suspicious enough that it wouldn’t be out of the question for him to think such thoughts, but Elain didn’t have the stain of an affair on her like the Lady of Autumn did, and she was the mate of the living reminder of her betrayal. The satisfaction of conquering her, marrying her, and impregnating her would all overwhelm any doubts, and she would make him feel as if she truly did love him if it guaranteed her safety—her family’s safety. Maybe it could even go as far as to try and rebuild Prythian’s union, the Night Court the sacrificial lamb that kickstarted the need for things to be taken seriously. It was all snow and barren land, with a few glittering buildings under innumerable stars. The people were all that mattered, nothing else, and she would do this—do anything—to see them live.
“You present an interesting path, Lady Archeron,” Beron said, finally breaking the silence. “On one hand, I know little of you, surely not enough to trust you at your word. You’ve been in the hands of spies and shadows for almost a year, so there’s no reason why I shouldn’t think this a trick to get into my bed and slit my throat.” His fingers drummed across the desk. “And yet, you risk burning in primordial fire to tell me hard truths, to give me…comfort.”
“To see you,” she added, trying her best to be demure despite the slight soreness between her legs. “Really see you. The future is mine to bear, and if I wanted, I could have simply told Azriel and the rest the exact path to lead to your destruction. But while such a thing might satisfy them on a personal level, it bids not well for your Court, nor all of Prythian.” Elain stood from her seat, circling the desk in slow, careful steps. “I have my own issues with the Night Court, with the things that have happened to me. I’m tired of being shunted to the side, of being seen as this meek little girl who can only tend to gardens and cook meals for people to come home too when the fighting is done. I’m tired of being forced to endure this malignant claim on my body and soul, to be burdened with the knowledge that everyone will judge me if I accept it, yet judge me harder if I reject it.” Elain slipped a leg over Beron’s lap, sitting on it with her hands running through his hair. “I choose this for myself, to make them understand that I have a choice, and it will be respected.”
It. Meaning him.
Beron couldn’t help but crack a smile, Elain leaning down to press a kiss on his forehead. Ego and strength. So long as she fanned those two flames of his, the High Lord of Autumn was able to be influenced, and she knew just how to tip him right over that final hurdle, “I can even think of another way to really twist the knife. If you’d like.” He scoffed.
“You are the want of Rhys’ shadowsinger, the mate of my wife’s bastard, and the sister to Feyre Cursebreaker, sitting on my lap and eager for my heart. What else could we do to them?”
“Grant me a title. One that mocks what they think is their clever breaking of traditions.” Beron blinked, thinking on what she had meant for a moment, before realization dawned on him.
“High Lady,” he said, “Of the Autumn Court.” His mouth spread to a thin line, “Very bold to ask that of me, my dear.”
“Not as bold as capping off the insult of claiming me, with a title Rhys used to prop up my sister. Except, I hope you wouldn’t thrust me about half-naked, as you said.” Beron’s grin returned, glinting in the candlelight. He knew just as she did, it was only a silly title, nothing more, the power of Prythian having always belonged to the High Lords and the High Lords alone. The land and its magic chose them, and until it did the same for a female, the title of High Lady was but an empty laurel.
But oh, how Rhysand and Feyre would rage knowing Beron had gifted such a thing to his new wife.
Beron pulled Elain onto his lap in full, letting her straddle him as a soft, raw look fell onto his face.“Do not betray me, Elain Archeron. Do not let this consideration of you and all you offer—all I want to give you—be rewarded with treachery.” His eyes were practically chained to hers, “I’ve…little patience for it left in my heart for such things.”
“I could ask the same of you, High Lord,” she replied. “Don’t use me purely as a trophy of vanity. Don’t let my presence here be met with distrust and overprotectiveness. My powers can be useful, so let me use them, in a way that will make this court—this continent—more than what it is.” Beron rose his chin, pulling her face closer to his.
“Done.” Elain rose her hand at his claim for another bargain’s brand, but he carefully urged it back down to her side. “I’d rather seal such promises it a different way,” and the High Lord seared her with a hard, passionate kiss.