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Chapter Text

Moonlight had begun its slow descent upon the city Nesta called home. From her dressing table, she watched the light fade, her reflection haloed in its dying glow. The delicate glass perfume bottles and silver-handled brushes gleamed like small, waiting stars, but her gaze was far beyond them, fixed on the horizon where the evening bled into night.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years since she had walked the marble halls of the Night Court. The memory of its scent, of moonlight and power, lingered still. Sharp as frost in her lungs. And now, the mere thought of stepping beneath those vaulted ceilings again made her pulse stutter. Somewhere in that grand, shadowed court waited Rhysand. She could almost feel the weight of his violet stare, the echo of a history she had long tried to bury.

Her hands, graceful yet tense, fumbled with the clasp of a sapphire pendant. She caught her own eyes in the mirror, steady, unyielding, but laced with a flicker of fear that she despised.

Then, as if summoned by her thoughts, his reflection appeared behind hers, her husband, the one mystery she had chosen willingly. His presence filled the room with quiet certainty, a grounding warmth in the gathering dusk.

He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “You are not going alone,” he murmured, his voice low, almost tender. “Wherever you stand tonight, I stand beside you.”

For a moment, she let herself breathe. The light outside dimmed to twilight, and in its fading glow, Nesta squared her shoulders, the faintest smile ghosting across her lips. The night was coming, but she was no longer the woman who had fled from it.

“I just want to know why” she breathed, nuzzling her cheek against his warm hand. “Why now? It has been fifteen years of near blissful silence.”

Her husband gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I know my queen.” Nesta snorted, even after a decade and a half, he still insisted on calling her his queen, even though they had no throne between them. Just a land they had built together through blood, sweat and tears. “I would not trust the Night Court’s inner circle as far as I could throw them. If your instinct is to call off tonight, then we shall give our apologies.”

Nesta sighed, she could hear the excitable chatter of four girls and one boy all the way down the corridor. “The children are excited to meet their cousin, I cannot deny them that opportunity.”

She raised to her feet, allowing her husband to fully asses her appearance. The gown was a masterpiece, woven from silk so fine it seemed spun from twilight itself. Hues of rose-gold and amethyst shifted across the fabric like the last breath of sunset before night claimed the sky. Tiny beads, glimmering like the first stars, traced constellations along her sleeves and down the sweeping train. When Nesta moved the light followed her.

She stood before the mirror, her reflection both familiar and strange. The woman staring back was not the girl who had fled the Night Court fifteen years ago. There was steel now beneath the silk, shadow behind the beauty. And yet, her hands trembled as she adjusted the delicate clasp at her throat.

Behind her, warm, familiar hands took it upon themselves to help her with the difficult clasp.

“You look like the dusk itself,” her husband murmured.

Nesta turned to look at him. His gaze upon her was slow and deliberate as it traced her from head to toe. There was reverence there yes, but something fiercer, too. The kind of admiration that could burn.

“Do I?” she asked, trying for lightness, though her voice wavered.

The faint scent of his magic, petrichor with a hint of apple and caramel, wrapped around her. “You do,” he said. “And you know what dusk means, don’t you?”

She frowned slightly, eyes flicking up to his.

“It’s the moment between worlds,” he went on, his tone softer now, a thread of warmth winding through it. “Between what was and what will be. The hour that belongs to neither light nor darkness, but to those who walk between them.” His thumb brushed the pulse at her wrist, steadying it. “Just like you.”

Something in her chest loosened, just a little. The knot of dread she had carried all day began to ease beneath his touch.

“I haven’t seen them in so long,” she whispered, voice almost lost to the symphonium on the nearby dressing table. “I don’t know who I’ll be when I stand in that hall again.”

He tilted her chin until she met his eyes. “You’ll be yourself,” he said simply. “And that will be more than enough.”

The words fell over her like a spell, quiet, sure, unbreakable.

Then, with a faint smile, he added, “And remember, Lady Nesta. Wherever you stand tonight, before courts or High Lords or ghosts of your past, I will stand beside you.”

The promise lingered in the air long after he spoke it, binding the space between them in silence and soft light. Nesta looked once more at her reflection, at the dusk-clad woman with fear in her eyes and silver fire in her heart, and drew a slow, steady breath.

The Night Court awaited.

But this time, she would not walk into its shadows alone.

Chapter Text

15 years earlier

The storm had already broken by the time Nesta entered the hall. Shadows writhed across the marble floor like living things, stirred by the fury that burned through the room. Rhysand stood at the centre, violet eyes seething with restrained power, wings half-spread in a display that was more instinct than intention.

Cassian was beside him, jaw tight, hands balled at his sides. The air between them crackled, as if lightning was waiting for somewhere to strike.

And then Rhysand’s voice cut through the silence.

“You gave her the Mask?” The words were soft, deadly soft, and all the more terrifying for it. “The most dangerous of the Dread Trove and handed to a stranger from another world?”

Nesta flinched, though her chin lifted. “She’s not a stranger,” she said, forcing the words past the tightening in her throat. “She’s fighting a war we can’t even begin to…”

Rhysand’s power flared, shattering the rest of her sentence. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?” His voice echoed, deep and cold as the void between stars. “That artifact belongs to this realm, to us. You had no right.”

“I had every right!” Nesta’s voice cracked, sharp and brittle as glass. “It was mine to begin with. My power calls to it, my blood binds it. You only ever wanted to control it. To control me.”

Cassian moved then, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Nesta…” he warned, his tone quiet but firm.

She turned to him, desperate. “Don’t.” The single word trembled in the air. “Don’t take his side, Cassian. Not this time.”

His eyes flickered, pain, guilt, something unspoken. She had always admired his unyielding loyalty, but it was to everyone but her. To Rhysand. To the Court. To the idea of peace that demanded her silence.

“Please,” she whispered, stepping closer. “For once, stand with me. Not your High Lord. Not your brother. Me.”

The room stilled.

Rhysand’s gaze cut between them, his fury tempered now with something far more dangerous. “You would divide us for this?” he asked quietly. “For a half human girl you barely know?”

Nesta’s breath hitched. “For what’s right.”

Cassian’s hand came up, slow, uncertain, and for a heartbeat she thought he might reach for her. But then he let it fall, his voice low, breaking. “You don’t understand, Nesta. You put everything at risk. All of Prythian.”

She felt the words like a blade sliding between her ribs. “She gave it back, she was true to her word. The Mask is safe and back in our realm yet you continue to prolong this argument for no reason other than to argue with me.” she said, the tremor gone now from her voice as she stood with defiant vindication. “I chose not to be ruled by fear. You should try it sometime.”

The silence that followed was vast, suffocating.

Power still crackled around Rhysand like a storm barely held at bay. Cassian’s wings twitched, torn between loyalty and love. And Nesta, she stood alone, trembling, radiant, defiant, her heart a battlefield, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed.

And though no one spoke, the truth settled heavy between them all. Nothing, after this, would ever be the same again.

Nesta didn’t know where she was going, only that if she stayed in that room another heartbeat, she’d shatter.

The Night Court had always been beautiful in the cruellest way: light and shadow in perfect, merciless balance. Tonight, it felt like a cage. It had always felt like a cage.

She pushed open the first balcony door she found, the cool mountain air biting her skin, and braced her hands on the stone railing. Far below, the city glittered in the darkness, a thousand candles burning against the vast, indifferent night. She stared at them until her vision blurred.

All this time and nothing had changed. She had done everything they asked of her, trained until she bled, made herself small, meek and respectable. She’d saved the lives of her sister, of the High Lord and their child. But it would never be enough for them. Not until Nesta gave up her own mind and submitted fully.

She had thought she’d made peace with this place. Thought she’d outgrown the fear of its halls, the judgment in its silences. But standing there, with Rhysand’s fury still ringing in her ears and Cassian’s voice breaking under disappointment, it felt like she was right back where she started. The girl who could never do anything right. The woman who was always too much, too wrong, too dangerous to be loved fully.

The wind whipped at her hair, tugging strands loose from their pins. Nesta closed her eyes and let it come.

She had wanted him to defend her. Just once. To look at Rhysand and say “she’s right”, even if every instinct in him said otherwise. To choose her, not because she was safe, but because she was his.

But Cassian was a creature of honour. Loyalty ran through him like blood. And Rhysand had been his brother long before she’d ever been his mate.

A laugh slipped from her lips, sharp and broken. “Fool,” she whispered, to herself, to the night, she wasn’t sure.

She had always known this truth: love didn’t change men like Cassian. Duty did.

And yet, she had hoped. Gods, she had hoped.

Her throat tightened. She had thought the mating bond was supposed to mean understanding, a joining of souls, a sacred promise that neither would ever standalone again. But what good was such a promise when he would always take someone else’s side? When, before Rhysand, before the Court, before duty, she was always the one left standing alone?

Nesta laughed softly, the sound hollow, bitter. “So this is what love means,” she whispered into the empty room. “A bond that binds you to someone who cannot see you.”

Her hands tightened on the railing, knuckles white. The Mask’s absence thrummed faintly in the back of her mind, a hollow place that pulsed like an open wound. She had done what she thought was right. She knew she had. But rightness was cold comfort when the person you loved most looked at you like a stranger.

Somewhere below, the city bells tolled midnight.

Nesta drew a shuddering breath, straightened her spine, and forced herself to still. She could not undo what she had done. She would not apologise for it, either.

Chapter Text

Cassian did not return to the House that night. Presumably staying with his precious Rhys in the River house. She could just picture them both, drinking whisky and bitching about what a nightmare she is.

She huffed, flicking through her latest novel. The protagonists in Sellyn Drake’s novels always got a happy ending, in more ways than one. But for some reason, even accepting Cassian as her mate was not enough for Nesta to get that perfect ending. 

The device glowed softly on Nesta’s writing desk, its strange light casting pale blue light across her fingers. In the stillness of her chambers, the little screen was a forbidden gift, a relic from another world, humming faintly with power she couldn’t name.

Then it blinked, and Bryce Quinlan’s face appeared, haloed by light.

When collecting her parents, Bryce had gifted her a present, calling it a “mobile phone”. She’d given Nesta a quick lesson in how to operate the strange device. When Nesta questioned why she would give her something so foreign, Bryce had simply shrugged. “I would like for us to keep in touch.”

Nesta’s heart had warmed at the offer of friendship and she’d greedily taken the device for herself, hiding it amongst her treasured items. The house knew to make the ‘phone’ disappear should Cassian or Rhysand come snooping.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Bryce said, grinning, her voice echoing through the strange glass like music from a dream. “You look like someone who’s been brooding again.”

Nesta laughed, an unguarded sound, one that was rare as dawn after a storm for her. “That’s what I do best,” she replied, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “And you’re one to talk. You look exhausted.”

Bryce rolled her eyes dramatically. “Hell’s bells, you’d think saving the world once would earn a girl a vacation. But nooo, apparently, we now have to rebuild an entire governmental structure.”

Nesta smiled despite herself. “You make it sound almost… ordinary.”

“Ordinary is overrated,” Bryce said. “Besides, You’re the one who wields an ancient death mask, you’re hardly ordinary yourself. And giving me the Mask? That was a power move. Terrifying, but impressive.”

Nesta arched a brow. “You didn’t seem terrified when you took it.”

“Oh, I was,” Bryce said, leaning closer to the screen as though they were whispering conspiracies. “Still am. But I figured if you trusted me with it, maybe I shouldn’t question fate too much.”

Something in Nesta’s chest eased at that, an invisible knot she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying. “Most people don’t trust me,” she admitted softly.

Bryce’s expression softened. “Then most people are idiots.”

Silence lingered for a heartbeat, gentle, companionable. Through the tiny window of light, Nesta could see another world: steel towers and neon glow, a sky streaked with strange colours. And yet, somehow, it felt closer than anyone in her own court had in months.

They talked for hours. About battles and books, about men who never listened and the small mercies of wine and solitude. Nesta hadn’t wanted to admit that she was banned from drinking alcohol by her own mate and family, but she had some tales to share from her own past, ones that made her seem just a little cooler to impress this female.

Bryce showed her the city lights of Lunathion; Nesta showed her the view of Velaris from her balcony, where the stars seemed to drift like embers over the Sidra. They laughed at the absurdity of it all, two women, separated by worlds, gossiping through magic and mortal invention.

“You know,” Bryce said after a while, her voice softening, “it’s nice. Talking to someone who gets it.”

Nesta felt her throat tighten, though she smiled. “It is.”

When the call finally ended, the screen dimmed, and the silence returned, but it was different now. Not the heavy, aching quiet she’d grown used to. This one felt… companionable.

Nesta touched the cooling glass, the faint reflection of her face staring back. A secret smile curved her lips. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel so alone. Sure, she had Gwyn and Emerie, but Rhysand was commandeering them to be part of the Night court, he claimed it was for Nesta’s benefit, so that she would have her own allies within the Court, but she saw it for what it truly was; Rhys having control over anything that was Nesta’s. She wasn’t allowed anything for herself, not truly.

Somewhere beyond the veil between worlds, a friend existed, someone who saw her not as a weapon or a mistake, but simply as a woman trying to find her way. And that, Nesta decided as she leaned back in her chair, was its own kind of magic.

The next time the little glass device glowed to life, it was raining in Velaris. Fat silver drops ran down the windowpane, blurring the city lights into a watercolor of stars and sorrow. Nesta curled on her bed, wrapped in a blanket, when the phone chimed, a sound so alien, so alive, it made her smile before she even saw the screen.

Bryce appeared, hair damp, eyes bright with mischief. Behind her, the skyline of Lunathion pulsed like a living constellation, crimson lights reflecting off wet streets, winged shadows sweeping between towers of glass and gold.

“You’re awake!” Bryce said. “Good. Because I have the best idea.”

Nesta arched a brow. “You usually do. Which terrifies me.”

“Pfft,” Bryce waved a dismissive hand. “No, listen, what if you came here? To Crescent City. Just for a few days. I could open a portal.”

Nesta blinked. “A portal,” she repeated slowly, as though tasting the word.

“Yes! Hunt says I shouldn’t mess with world-crossing without supervision…blah, blah… but come on, Nesta. Don’t you want to see it? The lights, the river, the food? We could get drunk at the White Raven and dance until sunrise. You’d love it.”

Nesta’s first instinct was to laugh. Her second was to say no. The Night Court’s shadows still whispered of consequences, of Rhysand’s wrath, of duty and tethered bonds she could not shake. She could almost hear Cassian’s voice, steady, disapproving, breaking just a little when he said her name.

But then she looked at Bryce.

At her friend’s unguarded grin, the warmth in her gaze, the boldness of someone who had looked the end of all things in the eye and dared to keep living anyway.

And for the first time in a long while, Nesta wanted.

“What would it be like?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bryce’s smile softened. “Loud. Messy. Free.” She leaned closer to the camera, eyes gleaming. “There’s music in every street, and magic in the air that feels like rebellion. No one would know who you are there. No expectations. Just you.”

The words hit something deep, dangerous, and yearning inside Nesta.

No titles. No Court. No Cassian’s loyalty tearing her apart.

Just herself.

“I don’t know if I can,” Nesta murmured. “If the portal would even work.”

“It will,” Bryce said with quiet conviction. “If you want it to. I’ll open it at the edge of the river. You’ll feel it calling. Just… think of me when you’re ready, okay?”

Nesta nodded, though her throat had gone tight. “And if I don’t come?”

Bryce smiled, a little sad, a little knowing. “Then I’ll keep calling until you do.”

The call ended, the screen fading to black, but Nesta didn’t move.

Outside, the rain had eased into a fine mist. The air smelled of lightning and possibility.

She went to the window, pressed her palm to the glass, and imagined a world of neon skies and mortal laughter. A world where she wasn’t a weapon or a warning, but a woman with a choice.

And though she didn’t yet know if she’d take it, the thought alone felt like freedom.

~*~

The Sidra stretched beneath her like liquid night, silvered by moonlight, its surface trembling with a subtle, restless pulse. Nesta walked barefoot along the edge, the hem of her gown brushing the water, feeling the cold seep through her skin. The city lay behind her, all lights and stone and obligations, but out here, in the hush of the river’s mist, she could almost forget it.

Almost.

She raised the phone, Bryce’s last words echoing faintly in her mind: You’ll feel it calling.

A shiver ran down her spine. She could feel it now, a prickle in the air, the hairs on her arms standing on end. Somewhere across worlds, Bryce had begun the incantation, opening a gap between the night of Velaris and the neon-streaked streets of Lunathion. The river’s surface rippled unnaturally, silver and black undulating in patterns that weren’t entirely natural, reflecting a light that had no source.

Nesta’s breath hitched.

She couldn’t believe she was actually going to do this.

But the promise of freedom, travel, dancing all night, it was too much for her to resist.

The shimmer widened, a doorway of liquid silver stretching just above the water, framed by a hum of energy that thrummed against her chest like a heartbeat she had never known she still carried. She could hear the faintest echo of Bryce’s voice in her mind, carried across the impossible distance.

It’s okay, Nesta. Just step through.

Her hands shook as she lowered the phone. Her chest tightened, the tether in her veins, Cassian’s pulse at the edge of her senses, and the weight of the Night Court pressing on her shoulders like gravity. But beneath it all, there was a pulse that wasn’t fear. A pulse of possibility.

She took a tentative step forward. The air rippled around her feet, cool and electric, as if the portal itself were testing her courage. Another step. Her reflection fractured across the shimmering surface, a thousand versions of herself staring back, fearful, daring, hopeful.

And then she stopped. Her voice whispered to the wind: I could go. I could leave it all behind, even if only for a moment.

Beyond the shimmer, the world waited: bright, chaotic, free. Bryce was waiting, somewhere beyond, and for the first time in years, Nesta felt the lure of a life that belonged to no one but herself.

Her fingers brushed the liquid light. It was warm, almost like breathing against her skin.

Nesta drew a steadying breath, chest tight but resolute.

One step, she thought. Just one.

And the next instant, she was on the edge of possibility, poised between the world she knew and the one she had only ever dreamed of.

One moment she stood at the Sidra, silver light quivering beneath her feet. The next, she stumbled onto solid ground, warm, hard, and undeniably real. The smell hit her first: rain on concrete, exhaust, neon, and something floral, utterly foreign but intoxicating.

“Whoa.”

Bryce’s grin was immediate, dazzling, alive. “You made it! Welcome to Crescent City, Nesta!”

Nesta blinked, taking in the streets. Towering buildings gleamed like steel and glass cathedrals, their windows glowing in waves of magenta and turquoise. Hovering vehicles whirred overhead, leaving streaks of light across the misty night. Magic, real, tangible, buzzing in the air,made the hairs on her arms rise. She had expected something different, but this… this was intensely chaotic.

“I… I didn’t expect… this,” Nesta admitted, letting herself laugh despite the disbelief.

“I half expected you to bail on me,” Bryce teased, looping an arm through hers. “But hey, look at you,night court gowns, high heels, goddess vibes intact… I’m afraid you look totally out of place.”

Nesta looked down at herself anxiously. “I didn’t know what to wear.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before Bryce had grabbed her by the hand, winnowing her into a luxurious apartment before quickly disappearing into what looked like a giant closet.  

“Here,” Bryce said, thrusting a fitted black dress that looked impossibly short into her hands. “Change. Now. No excuses. I refuse to have your first night in Crescent City ruined by you looking like a courtly statue.”

Nesta laughed, a short, sharp sound, and moved toward the bedroom to change. When she emerged, Bryce’s grin could have lit the city.

“You! Stop. Right. There.” Bryce circled her like she was examining a priceless artifact, eyes gleaming. “You look… dangerous. Gorgeous. Perfect. Like a goddess who just decided to walk out of a dream and start dancing in neon lights.”

Nesta blushed despite herself, tugging slightly at the fabric. “It feels… wrong. Too bold.”

“Wrong? Nesta, you are allowed to be bold,” Bryce shot back, grabbing her wrist and spinning her toward the mirror. “Look at you! This isn’t Velaris. No one here cares if you’re a High Fae or a Court weapon. Here, you own your beauty, your fire. And tonight, the city is ours.”

Nesta stared at her reflection, the glittering lights of the apartment framing her like a halo. She barely recognized the woman staring back; tall, luminous, dangerous, and utterly free. The nervous knot in her chest loosened slightly.

Bryce grabbed her hands, squeezing them with infectious excitement. “Come on. Shoes. Hair. Makeup. Then we hit the streets. Crescent City isn’t going to wait for you to get used to being alive. And neither am I.”

Several minutes later, they were back on the streets of Crescent City, which seemed to pulse with life. Nesta’s heels clicked against wet pavement as Bryce led the way, weaving through throngs of people that were human, fae, and things Nesta couldn’t even name. Neon signs flickered overhead, advertising arcane shops, impossible foods, and venues that promised music loud enough to make the city itself dance.

“You’re staring,” Bryce said, elbowing her gently. “Relax. No one’s going to eat you. Probably.”

“I… I’ve never seen anything like this,” Nesta admitted, her voice quiet against the city’s constant hum. “It’s beautiful. And terrifying.”

Bryce grinned. “That’s Crescent City in a nutshell. Stick with me, and I’ll make sure you survive the terrifying part.” She darted across the street, sidestepping a hover-car with supernatural grace. Nesta followed, heart racing, exhilaration coursing through her veins.

They ducked into a narrow alley where street magicians performed feats of fire and light. A fae girl with silver hair twirled glowing orbs between her fingers, and Nesta couldn’t help but stop, mouth slightly open.

“You’d love it here,” Bryce said, nudging her. “Magic everywhere, and you can’t even smell it all. I haven’t even gotten to the cool stuff yet.”

Nesta felt a flicker of that old Court caution, that she didn’t belong here, didn’t belong anywhere outside Velaris, but Bryce’s laughter was infectious, warm and unrestrained. For the first time in years, Nesta allowed herself to feel less like a weapon and more like… a person.

“You’re smiling,” Bryce teased, pointing. “I’ve got photographic evidence now. You’re not allowed to tell anyone in Velaris. They’ll blackmail you mercilessly.”

Nesta laughed, sharp, genuine, untethered. “I don’t see why that surprises you.”

Bryce stopped suddenly, spinning her around. “Come on, the White Raven. You have to see it. Drinks, music, dancing. If we’re doing Crescent City right, you’re not leaving sober.”

“I’m… I’m not allowed to drink anymore” Nesta confessed, her cheeks flushing.

Bryce frowned. “Do you have an alcohol problem?”

She sighed. “According to my family, I did. They cut me off and stuck me in the house of wind to sober me up.”

“And how was the withdrawals?”

“The what?”

“The withdrawals, you know… the shakes, the inability to function without alcohol.”

Nesta’s brows knitted together. “I did not experience anything like that.”

Bryce laughed. “They you were not addicted to alcohol. Trust me, I used to party every night of the week, often pushing it to its limits. I took a break and now I have a much healthier relationship with booze. I only drink on weekends now!” she grinned. “Come on, the White Raven is this way…”

Nesta followed, the city lights painting patterns across her too short dress, the rain-slick streets reflecting every colour of magic she’d never thought she’d touch. She felt her chest expand with possibility, the tether to her old life humming faintly but no longer pulling as tightly.

As they entered the club, the thrum of bass hit her chest. Bryce grabbed her hand. “Dance,” she said simply. “I don’t care if you’ve been coiled up in Velaris for years. You’re here now. You exist for yourself tonight.”

Nesta hesitated. Then she let herself be pulled onto the floor. The music roared, bodies swayed, and magic sparked in the air around her. She laughed again, the sound carrying over the beat, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Nesta allowed herself to simply be.

Bryce grinned, spinning her around. “See? Told you. You do have a fun side. Who knew?”

Nesta tilted her head, letting the lights wash over her face. For the first time, the weight of expectation, of Court, of Cassian’s loyalty tugging elsewhere, faded into the background. In this city of chaos and magic, with Bryce by her side, she was untouchable, unbound, alive.

And the world, whatever it held, could wait.

Chapter Text

The moment she returned to Velaris, Cassian’s voice hit her like a thunderclap, echoing off the walls like a storm that had been waiting years to break. Even though it had only been one weekend

“Nesta!” His face was a storm itself, dark with fury, eyes ablaze with indignation. “You went to Lunathion, drinking, dancing, what the hell were you thinking?”

Nesta froze, a flush rising to her cheeks, not with guilt but with indignation of her own. “One night, Cassian,” she said evenly, her voice steady even as her chest tightened. “One night of fun. That’s all it was. I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t…

“You don’t understand!” he bellowed, stepping closer, the space between them charged with heat and tension. “Do you know what that looks like? To me? To everyone who cares for you…”

“I do understand!” Nesta interrupted, cutting through his rage like a blade. Her hands trembled, but her tone was firm. “I drank once. I danced once. Do you think I’m incapable of stopping? Do you think I have an addiction? Because I don’t. I had one night of fun. One.”

Cassian’s chest heaved, the weight of his temper and protectiveness twisting in his expression. “And what about training? What about the responsibilities you have?”

Nesta laughed, sharp, bitter, a sound meant to shatter his control. “Responsibilities? Always responsibilities. And what about me, Cassian? What about the part of me that wants to live rather than fight, train, strategise, and follow orders?”

“You can’t just throw yourself into reckless abandon!” he shouted, the room vibrating with his fury. “You have a bond, you have obligations, and you…

“I want to dance more!” Nesta’s words rang out, raw and unfiltered. “I want to move, to feel free, even if it’s only for a night. I don’t want to spend every hour bending myself to expectations. I am more than a soldier, Cassian! More than a mate! More than… than what you think I should be!”

His face darkened further, anger curling into something sharper, more personal, and Nesta could see it, the part of him that could never understand freedom that didn’t revolve around duty. His fists clenched at his sides. “You… you’re reckless.”

“Maybe I am!” she snapped, stepping forward despite the danger of his proximity. “But I am alive, Cassian. And last night, I chose to be alive. Not in service, not in chains, not tethered to anyone’s expectations. I want to dance. I want to feel. And if that makes me reckless to you, then so be it.”

The room was still after her words, heavy with the weight of their bond, of his fury, of the tether between them that neither could sever but felt like a burden to her. Cassian’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, and Nesta’s heart pounded, not with fear, but with a fierce, defiant exhilaration.

For the first time in years, she realized something essential: Cassian might never fully stand beside her in this, never fully understand her need for freedom. But she would not let that stop her.

Her gaze hardened, steady and unflinching. She was hers first, always hers first.

And she would dance once more. It was the one thing she had left of her humanity, her ability to command a room with her movement.

Cassian gave her one last glare before storming off, muttering something that sounded like “just wait until Rhys hears about this”.

The room was quiet now, though the echoes of his fury still lingered like smoke in the corners. Nesta sank onto the edge of her bed, shoes heavy against the floor, and ran a hand through her hair, tangled and damp with frustration. The anger, the shouting, the heat of it, it all pressed down on her chest, but beneath it, a colder, quieter ache had taken root.

She thought of Bryce, of the way Hunt had always treated her friend: respectful, supportive, trusting. Even in chaos, even in danger, Hunt had let Bryce exist as herself, celebrated her choices rather than demanding obedience or chastising every misstep. There had been laughter, guidance, a gentle insistence that Bryce could shine without losing herself in it.

And Nesta… Nesta could feel the weight of the contrast like iron in her chest. Cassian, her so called mate, had never stood up for her the way Hunt did for Bryce. Never. He had expectations, rules, assumptions that pressed her down instead of lifting her up. Even now, after months of shared history, the tether that should have been a comfort felt more like a chain.

She hugged her knees to her chest, staring at the faint reflection of the moonlight on the floor. How had it come to this? How had the bond meant to unite them become a constant reminder of what she lacked; understanding, validation, someone in her corner when she needed it most?

“I just… I just want someone to trust me,” she whispered to the silence, voice raw. “To let me be… me, without judgment, without anger, without expectation. To see me, really see me, and not the soldier, the mate, the weapon…”

The bitterness curled in her stomach. She had tolerated so much, bent herself around his moods and his rules, tried to navigate the storm of his intensity. And still, when she stepped beyond the bounds he set, he lashed out. She had hoped the bond would make him care for her choices, would make him defend her. But it didn’t. He never had.

Nesta closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against her knees, tasting the sharp tang of disappointment. She thought of Bryce again, laughing, dancing, unshackled by expectation, and she allowed herself a small, wistful smile. Even here, on the other side of worlds, even tethered to someone who might never truly stand by her, she could imagine the freedom. She could feel it.

She felt the comforting touch of the House, like a soft whisper of a hand running along her back. She smiled to herself.

No more training every day to prove herself worthy to Rhysand and Cassian.

She was going to dance again.

She just hoped her Valkyries would understand.

~*~

Nesta perched on the edge of Gwyn’s bed, plates of cupcakes stacked between them. Emerie sat opposite her, legs crossed, hands folded, and Gwyn leaned against the wall, arms crossed but eyes wide and attentive. Nesta drew a deep breath.

“I… I’ve decided,” she began, her voice steady but soft, “that I’m going to go back to dance classes. Not just one night out, not just… sporadically. I want to make it a regular thing.”

Gwyn blinked, a smile tugging at her lips. “Dance classes?” she asked, teasing but warm. “You, Nesta Archeron, planning to twirl around like a mortal girl again?”

Nesta allowed herself the smallest smirk. “Yes. Twirl, leap, spin… whatever it takes. I’ve spent the last year or so training, preparing, being everything everyone expects of me. And I’m done letting that be all I am.”

Emerie leaned forward, her expression softening. “Nesta, that’s… brave. It takes courage to choose something for yourself when the world, and, well… certain people expect so much else from you.”

Nesta’s smile faltered slightly, shadowed by the memory of Cassian’s anger, his furious voice still echoing in her chest. “I know it’s not going to be… easy. Cassian won’t understand. He thinks every minute not spent training is a minute wasted, every decision I make outside his rules is wrong. But I can’t let that define me anymore. Not anymore.”

Gwyn’s eyes narrowed, a flash of anger surfacing. “That’s controlling, Nesta. No one should dictate how you live, not even him. Not even if he thinks he has the right as your mate.”

Emerie nodded, reaching out to squeeze Nesta’s hand. “We’ll support you. You’re not alone in this. You deserve to have space to just be yourself. Dance, laugh, breathe, without fear of someone tearing it down.”

Nesta’s chest tightened, a mixture of relief and lingering hurt swirling inside her. “It just hurts,” she admitted, voice low. “I wish, I wish he could be proud of me, like Hunt is of Bryce. I wish someone I’m tied to could support my choices, stand beside me rather than constantly judge me.”

Gwyn’s hand came to her shoulder. “Nesta, you can’t control him. But you can control yourself. You can take these steps for you, and we’ll be here. Dance, spin, leap, however you want. And Cassian? Well he’ll have to adjust to the fact that you’re not going to be boxed in anymore.”

Nesta let herself inhale, feeling the warmth of friendship wrap around her like a shield. For the first time in a long while, the weight of expectations didn’t press entirely on her chest. She could take a step, and it could be her own.

“I will,” she said finally, determination threading through her words. “I’ll dance. And I’ll do it for me, not for anyone else.”

Emerie smiled softly. “Then we’ll celebrate every pirouette, every leap, every single moment of it. You’re reclaiming your life, Nesta. And you deserve it.”

Nesta allowed herself a deep, steadying breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease. The path ahead wasn’t without friction, not with Cassian lurking in her thoughts, but for the first time in years, she could feel the spark of freedom lighting her steps and it thrilled her to the core.

Chapter Text

Gwyneth POV

The studio smelled faintly of resin and sunlight, soft wood, clean air, and a whisper of anticipation. Gwyn had never been in a place like it before. There were no weapons hanging on the walls, no scent of steel or sweat. Only mirrors, space, and light, an expanse meant for grace, not for war.

As soon as Nesta announced that she would be taking every other morning off Valkyrie training to attend dance classes, Gwyn had signed up right away, ready for a new challenge.

Just look at you now she thought to herself with unabashed pride. A year ago, she was friendless and afraid to even leave the library. But all that had changed since Nesta came into her life.

The library had once been her sanctuary, but it was beginning to feel like a prison of its own. She’d been delighted when the High Lord had offered her the role of Head Researcher, but she slowly realised that it put her at Rhysand’s beck and call. The number of times he’d called her to his office, only for her to be subtly interrogated about Nesta. It no longer felt like a reward for winning the blood rite, but a cursed position.

He’d cornered her again that morning, polite, charming, and utterly infuriating.

How is Nesta coping?

Has she said anything about Cassian?

Do you think she’s stable?

Always the same questions. Always spoken in that calm, regal tone that pretended to care but reeked of control. Gwyn had smiled, as she always did, and given him nothing more than he deserved. But inside, her temper had burned.

Nesta wasn’t his to monitor. She wasn’t a subject to be studied, or a threat to be managed. She was a woman clawing her way back to herself, and Rhysand’s “concern” felt more like a leash.

Gwyn’s gaze returned to the floor, where Nesta was stretching in anticipation. No one else in the room, save for Emerie, would notice the tell tale signs of nerves on their friends stony face. Emerie lingered beside her, shifting awkwardly on her feet, wings twitching as she surveyed the polished floor. Gwyn hid a smile. Emerie had been a little anxious about actually dancing, but reluctant to miss out on time with her friends. So she’s been reluctantly coerced into joining the class.

The instructor, a bright-eyed fae with a soft voice and a ribbon wound around her wrist, clapped her hands. “We’ll start simple. Follow the rhythm. Don’t think. Just feel.”

Gwyn’s pulse quickened as music filled the room, gentle at first, a slow, steady beat that brushed against the air like the beginning of a sunrise. She felt her nerves building within her, the fear of making a fool of herself. Come on she said to herself. What’s the worst that could happen?  You’ve fought monsters. Surely you can survive a little dancing….

When she began to move, awkwardly at first, Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh at herself. Emerie’s wings knocked into the mirror. Causing the fae next to her to mutter something unflattering under her breath. The instructor smiled, patient, the music swelling until it seemed to fill the space between their heartbeats.

And then, something shifted.

Nesta exhaled, shoulders loosening, and her movements began to flow with purpose. Her arms curved through the air, her feet tracing unfamiliar patterns on the floor. For the first time, Gwyn realised that Nesta didn’t move like a soldier at all. She moved like a flame contained for too long, suddenly given room to burn.

Gwyn slowed, watching her friend in quiet awe. There was no fury in Nesta’s face now, no defiance, no mask of steel. Only… freedom.

Emerie caught Gwyn’s gaze in the mirror and smiled, breathless. “She’s beautiful when she’s not fighting,” she murmured.

“Always has been,” Gwyn whispered back.

The music rose, spinning through the air like starlight, and Nesta followed it. She turned and turned again, her hair loose, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. And Gwyn felt something inside her chest ease. It was as if Nesta was reclaiming pieces of herself, shaking off the weight of expectation one graceful motion at a time.

When the song ended, Nesta stood still, chest heaving, eyes glassy. She laughed once, soft and incredulous.

“I’d almost forgotten what this felt like,” she said quietly. “To move because I want to. Not because I have to.”

Gwyn stepped forward, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Then don’t forget again,” she said. “We’ll keep coming. You, me, and Emerie. We’ll dance until it feels like breathing.”

Nesta smiled, small, fragile, but real. “Are you sure you want to be here, you’re not just doing this for my benefit are you? Are you not missing Valkyrie training?.”

Emerie shrugged. “We won the Blood Rite, it was all starting to get a little samey.”

Gwyn nodded. “We’ve don’t need to be there 7 days a week to keep up our training levels. This is an exciting new challenge for me.”  

The instructor clapped her hands, insisting that they all return to their spots. The music began once more.

There was something different in Nesta’s expression this time, not the brittle defiance she wore during training, nor the brittle anger that so often shielded her. This was focus. Serenity.

The first note deepened, and she began to move.

Every step, every turn, every measured rise onto her toes was so precise it bordered on impossible. Her body obeyed music the way a blade obeyed its master’s hand, utterly, instinctively.

Emerie froze mid-stretch. The instructor’s mouth fell open. One by one, the other dancers stilled, turning to watch as Nesta leapt into a perfect arabesque, landing with the effortless poise of someone who had long since learned to command gravity itself.

Gwyn’s breath caught.

It wasn’t just that Nesta was good. It was that she was transcendent.

All the rage and grief and fury that had once burned inside her had been reshaped, refined—now every motion radiated control, elegance, and power. She didn’t fight the music; she became it.

“Beautiful!” the instructor called out, her voice trembling with delight. “Yes again, Nesta! Piqué turns…faster!”

Nesta obeyed without hesitation. She spun once, twice, three times, then five, her hair fanning out like a halo of flame, her face calm, almost distant.

“Grand jeté!” the instructor shouted, nearly breathless.

Nesta soared.

The leap was impossibly high, impossibly clean. An arc of motion that seemed to suspend time itself. When she landed, the sound was softer than a sigh. The pianist faltered, stunned, before recovering, swept away in her rhythm.

The instructor pressed a hand to her heart, her eyes gleaming. “Again!” she cried, half in disbelief, half in worship. “Higher!”

And Nesta did.

Gwyn felt her throat tighten, tears pricking her eyes. It wasn’t just awe. It was pride. Love. Reverence. Because this was Nesta stripped of all the armour Velaris demanded she wear. No Court, no Cassian, no judgment, only the woman who had survived hell and still found beauty within herself.

When the music finally slowed, Nesta came to a stop in the centre of the room, breath steady, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Silence filled the studio again, reverent and whole.

The instructor was the first to move, clapping her hands together, her voice hoarse with joy. “That,” she whispered, “was perfection. Pure, impossible perfection.”

Nesta blinked, as if waking from a trance. “I used to dance as a child,” she murmured, voice barely audible.

Gwyn swallowed the lump in her throat, stepping forward with a trembling smile. “Nesta,” she said softly, “you are wasted as a Valkyrie, this was something else entirely.”

For a heartbeat, Nesta’s eyes met hers, clear, open, radiant and in that look Gwyn saw everything: strength, sorrow, defiance, grace. She thought, not for the first time, that she was impossibly lucky to know this female, to stand beside her, to witness her rise, to call her a friend.

“Have you ever danced professionally?” The slender instructor asked, voice almost reverent.

Nesta blinked, sweat trailing down her temple. “No.”

“You move as though you were born for it.” The teacher’s gaze softened. “If you would ever consider joining our company, the position of principal could be yours.”

Gwyn gasped and clasped her hands, her smile wide and tear-bright. “Oh please consider it Nesta. I would come watch you every night.” Emerie nodded in agreement. “You’d be a fool to pass over this opportunity.”

Nesta bowed her head at the instructor. “Thank you, I will certainly consider it.”

~*~

Nesta POV

The invitation had come wrapped in gold parchment, its seal glimmering with the seal of the Velaris Ballet Company. A mark of honour, of brilliance. Nesta had held it in trembling fingers, the words Principal Dancer burning brighter than sunlight. For the first time in years, she had felt something pure: pride. A sense that she had clawed her way from ashes into art.

But when she brought it to the River House, that fragile joy began to splinter.

Rhysand stood before the great windows overlooking the Sidra, his hands clasped behind his back. Shadows curved around him like the edge of a storm. “You can’t accept this, Nesta,” he said quietly.

Her heart stuttered. “Can’t?”

He turned, violet eyes cool and resolute. “Velaris needs its warriors close. You’re a Valkyrie now. A leader. Not a performer to be sent touring halfway across Prythian. You are needed here.”

The words hit like chains snapping closed. Nesta’s pulse pounded in her ears. “You talk as if I’m a weapon you forged and keep sheathed for convenience,” she said, voice trembling with fury. “I’m not yours to assign.”

Cassian shifted beside the hearth. He’d been silent until then, arms crossed, wings half-spread. His face was unreadable. “Rhys is right,” he said softly. “The company travels. They’d want you gone for months. You’d be unguarded, exposed. You’re too important to risk.”

That was the blow that cut deepest. From him.

Nesta turned, blinking back the heat that rose to her eyes. “You mean I’m too dangerous to trust,” she said. “You both do.”

Cassian took a step forward, but she recoiled as if burned. The silence stretched, heavy and breaking.

Rhysand’s tone gentled, though it carried the finality of command. “You’ve become a symbol for others. A warrior’s strength, not a dancer’s grace. The world can’t lose that.”

Nesta’s voice dropped to a whisper edged with steel. “You mean you can’t bear to lose control of me again.”

Feyre’s voice appeared in her mind. “I’ll speak with him, leave it with me” she promised. Nesta had no choice. Rhys might not listen to her pleas, but surely he’d listen to his mate.

She did not speak, not even her sister. She turned and walked out, her boots striking the marble floor in steady, defiant rhythm. Her own kind of music.

~*~

Feyre POV

The argument began softly, as most storms do.

Feyre stood by the dining table, one hand braced against the polished wood, the other clutching the letter Nesta had left behind the invitation to the Velaris Ballet Company. Its edges were creased, the ink smudged where tears had fallen.

“She deserves this,” Feyre said, her voice quiet but firm. “Nesta found something that brings her peace, something beautiful. You can’t take that from her.”

Rhysand, standing near the fireplace, did not turn. His wings shifted slightly, restless. “This isn’t about beauty, Feyre. It’s about safety. About duty. She’s part of the Valkyries now. If something happens, if she’s away from Velaris…”

Feyre cut him off. “If I can paint, Rhys, if I can spend days hidden in my studio while others train and guard the city, then Nesta can dance. She’s earned joy the same way I have.”

His gaze found hers then, violet eyes shadowed. “You’re not the same,” he said softly. “You’re High Lady. And you paint here. You don’t leave the city unprotected, you don’t put yourself in danger.”

“Danger?” Feyre’s temper flared, a brushstroke of fire. “She’d be dancing, not fighting monsters!”

Rhys’s tone sharpened, the silk of his voice turning to glass. “You think I’d stop her if it were only about art? You saw what happened when she lost control before, how easily power answers her call. If she dances before crowds, if her emotions crest, what then? The last time she let herself feel that freely, she nearly burned the world to ash.”

Feyre faltered. The image flickered through her mind, Nesta wreathed in silver flame, eyes bright with fury and despair. The power that had nearly destroyed her.

Rhys stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I respect your sister, Feyre. How can I not after she saved you and Nyx. But she’s not ready for that kind of freedom. Not yet.”

The quiet stretched between them, full of love and fear and too many unspoken things.

Finally, Feyre nodded, slowly, as if the movement pained her. “Fine,” she said. “But tell her yourself. Don’t make Cassian do it.”

Rhys’s shoulders eased, relief flickering across his face. “I will.”

She turned away, the sunset painting her hair gold. Outwardly, she appeared calm, reasonable, every inch the High Lady beside her High Lord. But as she walked from the room, a knot tightened in her chest.

Because she knew her sister.

Nesta would not forgive this, not easily, not kindly. And though Feyre had yielded, she feared that in choosing peace for Velaris, they had kindled a new war within their family.

Later that night, when the house slept, Feyre stood before her unfinished canvas and stared at the blank stretch of white. For the first time in a long while, she found herself unable to lift her brush, because every image that came to mind was of Nesta dancing in a light that Feyre had helped to extinguish.

Chapter Text

Morning still clung to the air, cool and fragile, the city not yet awake. Nesta stood by the fountain, the soft splash of water masking the restless beat of her heart. She had known he would come, Cassian always came, when her choices strayed too far from the version of herself he approved of.

She didn’t turn as he approached. She didn’t have to. The weight of him; the scent of leather and wind and fury barely contained filled the space between them like thunder before a storm.

“So it’s true,” he said, voice tight. “You’re done training.”

Nesta’s fingers curled around the ribbons of her dance shoes. “I didn’t say I was done. I said I wanted a break.”

He laughed once, short and disbelieving. “A break. You think you can just stop? After everything we’ve built?”

We. The word struck her like a blow. “Cassian,” she said quietly, “you’ve built an army. I’ve been trying to build a life.”

He moved closer, and the air seemed to tremble with the force of his anger. “You need structure. You need discipline. You think dancing will fix you?”

“I’m not broken,” she snapped, spinning to face him. “And I don’t need to be fixed.”

His wings flared slightly, his voice rising. “You do this every time! You pull away, you run, and I’m the one who has to pick up the pieces when…”

“Don’t you dare,” she hissed, her voice low and sharp as a blade. “Don’t talk about me like I’m some fragile thing you have to hold together.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“No.” Her pulse thundered in her throat. “You’re trying to control me.”

That landed. She saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes, quickly buried beneath anger. “I’m your mate,” he said, wings rustling in agitation. “You can’t just take a break from us.”

For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

Nesta swallowed, the words rising in her like a tide she could no longer hold back. “That’s not enough.”

He blinked, confusion flashing across his face. “What?”

“It’s not enough,” she said, louder now, voice shaking but sure. “A bond isn’t love. It’s not trust. It’s not understanding. It’s… a tether. A chain, if you make it one.”

Cassian’s jaw worked, muscles tight. “You think this dancing means more than what we have?”

“It means freedom,” Nesta said, the words spilling from her in a rush. “When I dance, I’m not your soldier. I’m not a weapon to be sharpened, or a mistake to be managed. I’m alive. For once, I get to move because I want to, not because I’m told to.”

“You can’t just walk away from me.”

“I’m not walking away,” she said, and gods, she wanted him to understand, to see her. “I just need space. To breathe. To choose something that’s mine.”

His voice cracked, softer now. “We’re mates. That’s supposed to mean something.”

Nesta felt the ache bloom in her chest, sharp and deep. “It does,” she whispered. “But it doesn’t mean you own me.”

He went still, the words hitting like a blade between them.

The sound of the fountain filled the silence that followed, the steady rhythm of falling water soft against the weight of everything unsaid. Nesta felt the tears burning behind her eyes but didn’t let them fall.

“Cassian,” she said at last, her voice barely more than a breath. “The bond ties us, yes. But if it starts to choke me, I’ll cut it myself.”

His wings flinched, just a twitch, but she saw it. The flash of hurt, of disbelief.

Nesta turned before she could lose her resolve. The dance shoes swung loosely at her side as she walked away, her bare feet whispering over the cool stone.

She didn’t look back. Not once.

Because she knew if she did, she might falter, and she couldn’t. Not this time.

She had spent too long surviving other people’s expectations. Too long mistaking obedience for love.

Now, at last, she was choosing herself.

~*~

The mobile phone buzzed against the polished surface of Nesta’s dressing table, its glow cutting through the twilight. For a heartbeat she only stared at it, the strange mortal device still feeling foreign in her hands. She swiped the screen, and Bryce’s face appeared, bright-eyed, crimson-haired, her grin wide enough to spell trouble.

“Hey, Nes!” Bryce’s voice crackled faintly through the call, laughter and city noise in the background; music, traffic, life. “You got a minute?”

Nesta smiled despite herself. “You always call like you’re about to tell me you’ve blown something up.”

“Not this time.” Bryce leaned closer to the camera, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Okay, maybe a little explosive… genealogically speaking.”

Nesta arched a brow. “That sounds like trouble.”

“It’s fascinating trouble.” Bryce tossed her hair back, the movement catching glimmers of amber light. “I was doing some digging into family records; my biological father’s line, actually. You remember I told you about him? The Autumn King?”

“I remember,” Nesta said carefully. “You said he ruled like a man who believed the sun rose only to look upon his reflection.”

Bryce laughed, bright and short. “Yeah, that’s him. Anyway, I found something weird. Some of the really old texts call our ancestors ‘flame bearers,’ or sometimes ‘flame throwers.’ The ones that travelled from your world to my world alongside Theia, fifteen thousand years ago.”

 “That could mean a dozen things. The Fae write history like poets; half truth, half metaphor.” Nesta snorted lightly.

Bryce nodded, but her eyes gleamed. “Sure. But these records talked about your world, Prythian. A court where fire wasn’t a gift but a birthright.”

For a long moment, Nesta said nothing. Prythian. The word curled through her chest like smoke.

Finally, she said, “That sounds like the Autumn Court.”

Bryce blinked. “Autumn Court?”

“One of the seven,” Nesta explained quietly, her gaze drifting toward the window to observe the scene below her “Its people are ruled by flame, some in power, some in temper. Their High Lord, Beron, is said to wield fire like breath itself. His line can burn forests to ash or warm a cold room with a thought.” She hesitated. “If your ancestors were ‘flame throwers,’ Bryce… it’s very likely their blood came from him or his kin.”

Bryce exhaled, eyes wide. “So, you’re saying my sire’s family might be descended from the Autumn Court? Maybe that’s how the name The Autumn King stuck in the first place”

Nesta smiled faintly, though something wistful lingered in it. “It wouldn’t surprise me. Prythian’s roots spread far and deep. Fire has a long memory.”

Bryce leaned back, running a hand through her hair. “Gods. That actually explains so much. The temper, the control issues, the whole glowing-when I’m angry thing.”

Nesta chuckled softly. “Then yes, you sound like Autumn Court royalty.”

Bryce grinned, though there was something thoughtful in her eyes now, a dawning wonder, a fragile thread connecting one world to another. “I’ve got to go, don’t let those arrogant fae male pricks grind you down Nesta.”

She smirked back at her friend. “I never do.” Before the screen turned black.

~*~

The phone buzzed again that afternoon, its little hum shattering the stillness of Nesta’s study.

She had been halfway through a book on fae history, her latest attempt to make sense of the tangled roots Bryce had stirred awake, when Bryce’s face appeared on the screen, her smile sharp with mischief and something that looked suspiciously like resolve.

“Nes,” Bryce said without preamble, “I’ve had an idea.”

Nesta groaned softly. “That usually means I should be worried.”

“Not this time.” Bryce leaned closer, her hair catching the amber glow of whatever sun lit her distant city. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about the Autumn Court, about fire, about my sire’s bloodline. And I want to see it. The real thing.”

Nesta blinked. “You mean see it as in… read about it?”

“Nope.” Bryce grinned, the kind of grin that could set the world alight. “As in go there. Visit. You and me. A girls’ trip.”

Nesta nearly dropped the phone. “Bryce. You’re talking about walking into the Autumn Court. They aren’t exactly known for welcoming guests.”

“Then we’ll be the exception.”

“That’s not how it works,” Nesta said dryly. “The Autumn Court is…” She hesitated, searching for the right word. “Beautiful, yes. But cruel. The air itself burns with politics. Its High Lord is vicious, its forests dangerous. Even the leaves cut if you touch them wrong.”

Bryce just smirked. “Sounds like my kind of place.”

Nesta rubbed at her temples. “You don’t understand. I’ve never been there. I’ve heard stories that would make even Cassian go pale.”

“All the more reason to see it,” Bryce said. “You’ve spent how long cooped up in Velaris, letting everyone tell you where you belong? Don’t you ever want to just… go? No war councils, no training sessions, no one breathing down your neck, just adventure.”

Nesta hesitated. The words struck something tender inside her.

Velaris had begun to feel smaller lately, too perfect, too bright. Every glance held judgment, every whisper carried her name. Cassian’s anger still hung like a shadow in the corners of their home.

A break. That’s what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Space to breathe.

But the Autumn Court… she imagined endless crimson forests, the air shimmering with heat and danger. A place that devoured the unprepared.

“It would be dangerous,” she said at last.

Bryce’s eyes gleamed. “So was calling me across worlds, remember? Didn’t stop you then.”

Nesta laughed softly despite herself. “You’re impossible.”

“Exactly,” Bryce said with a wink. “And you need impossible right now. Admit it.”

Silence lingered, filled with the faint hum of the other world bleeding through the connection, the distant sound of a siren, the murmur of traffic, life so far removed from the starry calm of Velaris.

Maybe Bryce was right. Maybe Nesta did need something impossible.

Finally, Nesta sighed, shaking her head. “You really won’t let this go, will you?”

“Not a chance,” Bryce said. “Pack something red. We’ll blend in.”

Nesta huffed a quiet laugh, though her pulse had already quickened with both fear and something dangerously close to excitement. “Fine,” she said. “But if we end up roasted alive by some flame-drunk noble, I’m haunting you.”

Bryce’s grin widened, fierce and triumphant. “Deal. I’ll open a portal by tomorrow. Don’t chicken out.”

When the call ended, Nesta stared at the phone for a long while.

The thought of stepping foot in the Autumn Court sent a shiver down her spine, but beneath that fear, something else stirred. A thrill. A calling.

Maybe it was madness.

Or maybe it was exactly what she needed.

She rose from her chair, the shadows of the room dancing around her as she whispered to herself,
“Autumn, then.”

Chapter Text

The air tore open like silk. Light flared in Nesta’s sitting room, amber and gold, threaded with heat. The portal shimmered, a rip between worlds that smelled faintly of cedar smoke and old magic. Bryce stood before it, her grin feral and gleaming, her leather jacket catching the light like molten fire.

“Ready, Nesta?”

Nesta’s throat was dry. “Define ready.”

Bryce only laughed, grabbing her hand. The world lurched, and then everything was swallowed by light.

When Nesta’s boots touched earth again, the breath left her lungs. For the millionth time, she found herself privately wishing she could winnow.

She hadn’t lost her powers completely, but they needed retraining. It was like having to learn all over again. Winnowing was her first priority. Rhysand had lifted the wards that prevented winnowing into the House of Wind when he gifted her the house as a “thank you for saving my mate” present, hence why Bryce had been able to use her starborn powers to “teleport” (as she called it) to Autumn, despite not having ever been there before.

“Holy gods,” Bryce murmured beside her. “It’s… beautiful.”

The Autumn Court was a study in elegant ruin.

Its forests were perpetual dusk, not dead nor dying, but caught eternally in the breath before the fall. The trees towered like cathedral spires, their trunks blackened with age, their leaves a symphony of orange and rust, drifting through the air like slow-burning embers. The scent of smoke and spice clung to everything, woodsmoke, fallen leaves, roasted chestnuts from the village hearths as though the entire land was exhaling warmth to stave off its own chill.

The roads were narrow, cobblestone paths winding through groves lit by lanterns of carved pumpkins. Their hollow faces flickered with faelight, smiling in that way that eerily beautiful. The air itself shimmered gold, alive with drifting motes of magic that glowed and faded like the dying embers of a long-forgotten fire.

The village sat at the forest’s heart, a place that looked as though it had been grown rather than built. Gothic spires pierced the sky, wrapped in ivy the colour of dried moss. The houses were steep-roofed and dark-windowed, with wrought-iron balconies heavy with curling vines. Every door was adorned with garlands of leaves and gourds; every window glowed with candlelight, casting long, flickering shadows across the cobbles. It smelled of cinnamon and cider, of smoke and secrets.

And always, in the distance, the Forrest House rose above it all, although it was more palace than house. Vast, elegant, and faintly menacing. Its towers were forged from emberstone, so that the walls themselves seemed to breathe firelight. Gargoyles crouched along its parapets, their eyes aglow with faint embers, as if the very stones of the Autumn Court watched all who entered.

Music drifted through the air, strings and low drums, a rhythm that was half hymn, half spell. The people of the Autumn Court were dressed as beautifully as their lands: velvet and leather, in hues of bronze, wine, and shadow. It was not a place of innocence. It was a place of beauty that knew its own darkness and made art of it.

Nesta said nothing. She couldn’t. The town pulsed with life; old, wild, and watchful. But there was something magnetic about this place: the way the lanternlight licked at the shadows, the hum of magic woven into the cobblestones, the faint thrill in her chest that whispered you’re far from home. Good.

A few children ran past, laughing, carrying small lanterns shaped like pumpkins. Their laughter was bright but fleeting; even joy seemed muted here, like the air carried too much history for innocence to thrive.

As they walked deeper into the square, Nesta caught sight of a bookshop tucked between a tavern and a weaver’s stall. Its sign read The Ember Quill, and the scent of parchment and smoke drifted from within. Next door, the tavern pulsed with music and the low hum of conversation.

Bryce stopped and peered through the tavern window. “I vote for drinks first,” she said. “Books later. You look like you could use something stronger than tea.”

As they drew closer, the faint sounds of music and laughter drifted through the trees, court life in full swing. Nesta’s heart thudded harder. She’d fought monsters, faced gods, stared down death but this was different.

Bryce, of course, looked entirely unfazed. “We’ll be fine,” she said, sensing Nesta’s tension. “You’ve fought worse than this.”

Nesta gave her a sidelong look. “I’ve fought things that bled.”

“Then pretend they do.” Bryce winked. “Confidence, Nes. We walk in like we own the place.”

Nesta huffed a laugh that trembled on its way out. “You sound like Rhysand.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

As they stepped through door of the hilariously named Tavern, The Cock In Cider, the world seemed to flare brighter. Courtiers dressed in hues of flame turned to look at them, strangers from beyond their court. Conversations stilled, replaced by a ripple of curiosity.

Nesta straightened her spine, her chin lifting instinctively. Fire met ice.

A tall male in deep crimson robes approached, his smile sharp as a blade. “Visitors,” he said smoothly. “How… unexpected.”

Bryce beamed at him. “Family, actually. Or so I hear.”

The courtier blinked, thrown off balance. “Family?”

“My father’s the Autumn King of another world,” Bryce said breezily, gesturing to herself as though she were explaining the weather. Conveniently neglecting to mention that said father had been slain only months ago “You know how it is. Fire runs deep.”

Gasps flickered through the gathered nobles. Nesta wanted to laugh, or scream, or maybe both.

The courtier recovered quickly, bowing low. “Then welcome, my lady…and your companion. The High Lord will wish to meet you.”

“Of course he will,” Bryce said with a grin that promised chaos.

As they followed him through the hall, its walls gleaming with living fire, its tapestries whispering with magic. Nesta felt the eyes of the court burning against her skin. Her pulse raced, but beside her, Bryce strode forward without fear, radiant and unshaken.

And despite herself, Nesta felt the corner of her mouth curve upward.

Maybe Bryce had been right. Maybe she did need this.

Danger. Adventure. The unknown.

The Autumn Court might devour them or crown them with fire. But as Nesta’s heart steadied to the rhythm of their footsteps, she realized she no longer cared which.

For the first time in years, she was moving forward into something she hadn’t been ordered to face.

And the thought made her feel gloriously, terrifyingly alive.

~*~

Nesta sat opposite Bryce, both of them flushed from the warmth, their cloaks draped carelessly over the backs of their chairs. A half-dozen empty glasses glittered between them, each one filled earlier with some new, heady experiment from the bartender’s hands: cider steeped with cinnamon and clove, honeyed mead laced with pumpkin and cream, dark rum kissed with roasted pear.

Bryce lifted her latest conquest, a glass rimmed with sugar, the liquid within glowing a deep, molten orange and grinned. “They call this one Harvest Fire. Think it might actually be flammable.”

Nesta smirked, swirling her own drink, something richer, darker, with an aftertaste that reminded her faintly of smoke and amber. “You’d drink it anyway.”

“Obviously.” Bryce took a sip and hummed. “Okay, that’s dangerously good.”

For a while, they just sat there, two women suspended in the strange half-light of another world, the music around them a low, steady hum. It was easy, talking with Bryce, too easy, maybe. There was no judgment, no shadow of the Night Court here, just laughter and sharp honesty wrapped in warmth.

Bryce leaned back in her chair, gaze flicking toward the window where the lanterns burned against the dark. “You know, in my world,” she said after a while, “we don’t have this predestined mating bond thing.”

Nesta looked up, startled by the sudden turn. “You don’t?”

Bryce shook her head, smiling faintly. “Nope. We choose. Whoever we want. It’s not written in the stars or whatever. Hunt and I, we chose to be mates.” Her eyes softened. “But I don’t believe there is one predestined person for you. Another male… he once believed I was his mate. How could that be if Hunt is my mate too?”

Nesta traced her finger along the rim of her glass, watching the way the candlelight fractured in the amber liquid. “And it works?”

Bryce gave a small, helpless laugh. “Sometimes it breaks you. But at least it’s your choice.” She tilted her glass, studying the reflection of the fire in it. “Except maybe for the wolves. They have their… instincts, I guess. Bonds of a kind. But even then it’s not destiny. It’s connection. Earned, not imposed.”

Something inside Nesta twisted, deep and quiet.

She thought of Cassian, of the connection that shimmered like a chain between them. She thought of every time she had reached for freedom and found his temper waiting for her instead. Of how love and duty had become so tangled that she could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.

“Must be nice,” Nesta murmured, “to choose.”

Bryce met her gaze across the flickering light. “You can still choose, Nes. The bond doesn’t own you. Not unless you let it.”

Nesta’s throat felt tight. “It’s not that simple.”

“Maybe not,” Bryce said softly, “but neither are you.”

Nesta paused in contemplation as  Bryce chatted easily, eyes sparkling as she watched the musicians tune their strings. Nesta let herself relax, the tension in her shoulders easing. For once, there were no titles here. No Cassian. No Rhysand. Just the hum of voices and the comfort of anonymity.

Then Bryce leaned in and said, softly, “Don’t look now, but we’ve caught someone’s attention.”

Nesta didn’t need to ask who. She could feel it, the steady weight of a gaze, sharp and unhurried.

When she turned, she saw him.

Eris.

He sat in the shadowed corner near the hearth, a book open in one long-fingered hand, a half-finished glass of something dark beside him. His hair glowed like embers in the low light, his clothes all sharp lines and deep, burnished red. His eyes, amber, intelligent, dangerous met hers across the room.

He didn’t smile, not yet. Just closed the book slowly, as though marking a page in her instead.

Bryce grinned. “He’s hot.”

“He’s Eris Vanserra,” Nesta muttered.

“Still hot.”

Nesta shot her a look, but before she could protest further, Eris rose and crossed the room. The crowd seemed to part around him, instinctively aware of the fire that always followed in his wake.

“Lady Nesta,” he said smoothly as he reached their table. “To what do I owe the pleasure? The Court of Dreams seldom graces our taverns.”

His voice was like smoke, soft, curling, impossible to ignore. But it was his scent that caught her attention, petrichor with a hint of apple and caramel.

Bryce leaned back, smirking. “We were looking for trouble. Are you volunteering?”

Eris’s mouth curved slightly. “I find trouble tends to volunteer itself to me.” His gaze slid back to Nesta. “But tonight, it appears in elegant company.”

Nesta took a slow sip of her cocktail, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up her neck. “You read in taverns now? Has court life grown dull?”

“I find books far more reliable than courtiers,” he said. “They demand less flattery and provide better company.”

“Depends on the book,” Bryce said cheerfully.

Eris’s smile deepened, but his eyes never left Nesta’s. “This one was on mortal philosophy. The notion that power without purpose is corruption.”

Nesta tilted her head. “And do you agree?”

He shrugged, the movement graceful, almost lazy. “Power is neutral. It’s the heart that wields it that determines its worth. But hearts are fickle things, aren’t they?”

Bryce muttered something about needing more wine and wandered toward the bar, leaving them in the thickening quiet.

Eris leaned an elbow on the table. “Tell me, Nesta Archeron, what does the High Lady’s sister think of such ideas? You’ve carried power few mortals could fathom. Do you trust your own heart to wield it?”

Nesta held his gaze. There was no mockery in his tone, only curiosity,  sharp and genuine. “I’ve learned that hearts are forged by what they survive,” she said at last. “If mine is fickle, it’s because it remembers every wound.”

He studied her for a long moment, then inclined his head, as though she’d just given the right answer to a question no one else had understood.

“Spoken like a scholar,” he murmured. “Perhaps you should teach in my court instead of hiding in the Night’s shadows.”

Nesta snorted. “And spend my days debating with men who set the world on fire for sport?”

Eris’s smile was pure flame. “Oh, I’d only set it alight for you.”

The words were playful, but there was something beneath them, something that made her pulse skip.

Before she could respond, Bryce returned, two fresh cocktails in hand. “Well, well. You two look like you’re about to start a political revolution or flirt until one happens.”

Eris rose smoothly, bowing just enough to mock courtesy. “Perhaps both, Lady…?”

“I did not give you my name” Bryce smirked.

His eyes lingered on her for a heartbeat before flicking back to Nesta. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing company.”

“I didn’t tell you anything,” Nesta said coolly.

He smirked. “A tragic oversight. I do like to be warned before I’m ambushed by beauty and hostility in equal measure.”

Bryce covered a grin with her hand. “You’re not great at subtlety, are you?”

“Oh, I can be subtle,” Eris said, his gaze never leaving Nesta. “But I find honesty more… entertaining.”

Nesta took a long drink. “Honesty? That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head. “You wound me. Again.”

Bryce’s eyes bounced between them, amusement blooming like sunlight through fog. “So, what’s the story here? Exes? Enemies? Ex-enemies flirting with enemies-to-something energy?”

Nesta shot her a flat look. “He’s a headache that talks.”

Eris’s lips twitched. “And yet, here you are, sharing a drink with me in my court.”

"You invited yourself over." 

Bryce had pulled her chair closer, comfortably tipsy, her chin resting on her hand as she studied the pair across from her. Nesta and Eris were still locked in their subtle, sparkling duel, their words sharp, their smiles sharper.

“You know,” Eris said, tracing a finger along the rim of his glass, “for someone who claims to despise me, Nesta, you do an admirable job keeping my company.”

“I’m tolerating your existence,” Nesta replied smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

“Of course there is,” he said, leaning back with lazy grace. “You tolerate me now because curiosity always wins, eventually. You want to know why I bother.”

Her lips curved, just barely. “You’re assuming I care.”

Eris’s answering grin was all firelight and wicked amusement. “You wouldn’t have said that if you didn’t.”

Bryce gave a low whistle. “And here I thought the Night Court had the monopoly on arrogance.”

“Oh, arrogance,” Eris said lightly, turning to her. “A dreadful word, used mostly by people who mistake confidence for audacity.”

“Convenient definition,” Bryce said with a smirk.

He inclined his head toward her. “I prefer to live inconveniently. Keeps things interesting.”

Nesta’s eyes glinted. “You sound like a man who’s been bored for centuries.”

“Perhaps I have been.” He swirled the wine in his glass. “Until tonight.”

The pause that followed was delicate and deliberate, a taut string plucked between them.

“Alright,” Bryce said finally, breaking the tension. “Since you two are doing this delightful verbal fencing thing, I need context. What’s your deal, anyway? You clearly have history.”

Nesta groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”

Eris smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t call it history. More of a… missed opportunity.”

Bryce’s brows shot up. “Missed opportunity?”

“I did, at one point,” Eris said conversationally, as though discussing the weather, “propose marriage.”

Bryce nearly choked on her drink. “You what?!”

Nesta’s tone was dry as the autumn wind. “You can stop looking so scandalised. I said no.”

Bryce gaped between them. “You rejected him? Wait, why? I mean, you could’ve been Lady of the Autumn Court!”

Eris smiled faintly. “Exactly that. And yet she refused me. Brutally, I might add.”

“It wasn’t brutal,” Nesta said, though there was a trace of pink in her cheeks.

“You threatened to set me on fire,” Eris said mildly.

Bryce’s mouth dropped open. “Oh. So… a typical courtship for you two.”

“Exactly,” Eris said smoothly, his amber eyes glinting with mirth.

Nesta glared at him, but the edge in it was softening, curiosity flickering beneath her cool exterior. “You didn’t want to marry me,” she said finally. “You just wanted to see if I’d say yes.”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Maybe. Or maybe I wanted to see what kind of flame would burn if you stood beside mine.”

Bryce sank lower into her seat. “Okay, that’s… actually kind of hot.”

Eris’s smile turned lazy. “It’s autumn, after all. Everything burns better this time of year.”

Nesta looked away but not quickly enough to hide the way her lips twitched.

Bryce, sensing the shift, tried to diffuse the sudden heaviness with a grin. “You know, Cassian’s probably moving on…

She froze.

Too late.

Eris’s brow arched. “Cassian?”

Nesta’s glass clinked softly as she set it down. “Bryce.” Her tone was deceptively calm.

Bryce winced. “Right. That was… not my secret to spill.”

Eris, of course, looked intrigued. “Ah. So that explains the frost beneath the fire.”

Nesta’s voice cooled another degree. “It explains nothing.”

“Mm,” Eris said, a faint hum of amusement. “A break, was it?”

Bryce buried her face in her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

But Eris only smiled, slow, assessing, unbothered. “I see. Well, if the General has misplaced his courage, I suppose the blame isn’t yours, Nesta.”

Her head snapped up. “Don’t talk about him.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “As you wish. Though I can’t help but take advantage of this opportunity. You’ve come to the dingiest tavern in Autumn, your friend deserves to experience what this Court has to offer.”

“If it is the dingiest tavern, why are you here Prince Eris” Nesta teased.

“Because it’s the only one where I can read in peace.”

Bryce looked between them again, half entertained, half wary. “I wouldn’t mind seeing more of this Court.” She admitted.

Nesta sighed, part of her did want to continue exploring, but it felt dangerous to be doing this with Eris. If anyone at the Night Court found out that not only had seen been to Autumn, but she’d been partying with Eris Vanserra. Rhysand would probably throw her into the bog of Orid and feed her to the kelpies.

But tonight was about adventure. Showing her friend a good time. Even if she had nearly dropped her in it by talking about her break with Cassian. Who better to show the sights of Autumn than the prince himself?

She nodded and Bryce’s eyes lit up with joy. Eris looked surprised and his lips quirked in what could only be described as a genuine smile. Nesta met his gaze head-on, eyes as blue and cold as the winter that would soon follow this burning season. “You mistake my curiosity for interest.”

He smiled. “I don’t. I simply know better than to waste a spark when I see one.”

“Come on, lead the way before I change my mind”, she gestured towards the front door.

The night outside had deepened into velvet, that quiet, golden edge of autumn where every breath seems to shimmer. “It’s just across the river” Eris explained, indicating for them to follow.

So Nesta Archeron followed Eris Vanserra into the unknown, past the coffee shops, book stores and cafes, into the heart of the Autumn Court.  

~*~

The club was carved into the bones of the city itself.

At first glance, it looked like any other Autumn building, dark stone veined with gold, ivy crawling up its sharp, elegant façade but as Nesta and Bryce approached, the air itself began to hum. Deep, resonant, alive. The sound of it was a pulse: low jazz thrumming through the cobbled streets like a heartbeat beneath the skin of the night.

A copper sign hung over the door, engraved with curling letters that read The Ember Room. The name glowed faintly in the dark, lit by no visible source, as if the letters themselves burned from within. Two faelights, round and amber, hung above the entrance, their glow soft as candlelight and yet full of invitation.

Bryce grinned, her eyes catching the light. “Now this is more like it.”

Nesta couldn’t even argue.

The moment they stepped inside, the heat of the place wrapped around her like a velvet cloak. It smelled of old wood, smoke, and the faint sweetness of brandy. The room stretched wide and low, all shadowed corners and gold-lit tables, the walls panelled in dark oak that gleamed like polished amber.

Candles floated in glass globes above the bar, their reflections rippling in bottles of jewel-coloured liquor. A narrow staircase spiralled to a mezzanine lined with bookshelves and velvet couches, where courtiers lounged with lazy, predatory grace, watching the dance floor below.

And gods, the music. Nesta had never heard anything like it.

It was fast, wild, alive. Jazz, but not quite as mortals would know it. The rhythm burned hotter here, threaded with magic. The drums pulsed like a heartbeat, the horns sang bright and wicked, and the piano wove through it all like laughter that refused to die. Fae musicians stood at the centre of the room, their instruments glowing faintly with each note, as if the music itself drew fire from the air.

Nesta could feel it down to her bones, to the tips of her fingers. The music didn’t ask for attention; it commanded it. It moved through her body like heat, uncoiling something long dormant inside her.

All around her, people danced, not the rigid grace of court balls, but with abandon, with joy. They moved like flame: wild, untamed, utterly alive. The air shimmered with laughter, perfume, and the faint sparkle of magic that rose from every step, every note, every breath.

Bryce was already pulling her toward the bar. “Come on, Nes,” she said over the music. “You’re not allowed to brood in a place like this.”

Nesta let herself be led, her eyes sweeping over the crowd, the glow, the pulse of it all. She felt almost dizzy with it, this strange, intoxicating mix of danger and freedom.

The bartender slid two glasses toward them without a word, liquid gold that smoked faintly in the candlelight. Bryce tossed hers back and grinned.

Nesta didn’t drink. Not yet. She just stood there, letting the sound and light and heat of the Ember Room wrap around her.

There was no judgment here. No expectation. Just rhythm and fire.

Chapter Text

Bryce pulled her onto the dance floor, their hands clasped, both of them half-drunk on magic and light. The music, fast and feral, wrapping around them like heat. Bryce spun, hair flaring like wildfire, and Nesta followed, matching her step for step until the crowd had begun to cheer.

They had danced for hours, until the world narrowed to rhythm and breath and the rush of blood beneath her skin. Until her body moved without thought, without shame. She had laughed, really laughed, when Bryce had grabbed a stranger by the hand and twirled him into their orbit, and the whole room seemed to catch the flame of it.

It hadn’t been about seduction, or court politics, or proving anything. It had been joy. Pure and reckless. This wasn’t like when she’d been drinking and dancing to drown out her grief, this was not her obscuring reality or numbing her pain, this was simply pure, unbridled joy.

“I need a break, my feet are going to fall off!” Nesta shouted over the music to her friend, indicating with her head towards the bar. Bryce nodded “I need refreshments” she shouted back. The two of them half stumbled, half strutted off the dancefloor together until they found a more private lounge, where it was quieter.

Eris leaned against the bar, jacket unbuttoned, a half-empty glass of whiskey beside him. He held a slim cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling up in elegant ribbons before disappearing into the dark. He looked perfectly at home, the embodiment of every dangerous indulgence the Autumn Court had ever produced.

Bryce flopped onto a sofa with her drink, her laughter cutting through the stillness. “You know,” she said, eyeing him, “you smoke like someone who knows exactly how good they look doing it.”

Eris exhaled a plume of pale smoke, eyes glinting. “One shouldn’t do anything halfway.”

Nesta lingered by the bookshelf, watching the smoke curl and fade. Something about it, the smell, the slow burn of it, tugged at a corner of her memory she hadn’t opened in years.

When she’d been human and hungry, smoke had been a substitute for food. It dulled the ache in her stomach, made her head light enough to forget for a while. She could still remember standing by an open window in their crumbling human house, her fingers shaking as she’d stolen one of Thomas Mandray’s cigarettes. It hadn’t been glamorous then, just survival. A way to trick her body into believing it had enough.

Funny, she thought, how something that once meant desperation could now look like elegance.

Eris caught her gaze. “Would you like one?”

Nesta hesitated. “I haven’t smoked since…” She trailed off.

Bryce grinned from her seat. “Oh, come on. Live a little. We’re already in a fae speakeasy; might as well go full noir heroine.”

Eris extended the case toward her. “Consider it tradition. The Ember Room was named for this. Fire shared, not stolen.”

His tone was uncharacteristically gentle, and Nesta, before she could think better of it, took the cigarette. The paper felt soft against her fingers, expensive. A flame appeared from his finger tip and glowed between them. For a heartbeat, his face was carved in light and shadow: gold hair, high cheekbones, eyes burning faintly red in the dark.

She leaned in, the tip catching the fire.

The first drag burned not unpleasantly, just unfamiliar. She exhaled slowly, watching the smoke drift away like thought. “I’d forgotten how it feels,” she murmured.

Eris’s gaze flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes. “You’ve missed it.”

Nesta gave a small, humourless laugh. “Maybe I’ve missed the illusion of control. Back when I could smoke instead of eat, and pretend it was my choice.”

Bryce looked up sharply, eyes softening. “Nesta…”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “That was a long time ago.”

Eris was quiet for a moment, studying her. Then, softly: “There’s something honest in it, though. Smoke. It never pretends to stay.”

Nesta looked at him, really looked, and saw something beyond the practiced ease. He was handsome, yes, in that dangerous, too-perfect way. But there was melancholy in his movements, a kind of restless awareness. The cigarette, the book, the whiskey… they weren’t vanity. They were ritual. Distraction.

He sat again, crossing one leg over the other, his book open in one hand, smoke curling from the other. The amber light caught the line of his throat as he took another drag, exhaled slowly, and read without hurry.

Bryce raised a brow. “You two look like an advertisement for sin.”

Eris didn’t glance up. “Then the night is working as intended.”

Nesta snorted.

She stared at the Autumn Prince for a long time. Sure she’d been told he was a bastard, untrustworthy and just like his father. But those were the words of Rhysand. And who was she to take his word at face value.

Had she blindly followed Rhysand when she’d been cruel to Eris, rubbing it in his face that she’d chosen Cassian over him. Eris had every reason to be cruel back to her after she rejected his proposal, but instead he was here, bantering with her friend, taking her to private nightclubs and sharing drinks with her.

Perhaps she’d judged him based on the words of a man she did not trust. A man with his own agenda.

But then she remembered Mor. Wasn’t there some story to tell? Mor was a feared and respected warrior, but she cowered at Eris’ name alone.

Bryce nudged her, grinning. “He’s into you.” She whispered.

Nesta rolled her eyes, but her fingers lingered on her glass, tracing the rim in slow circles. “He’s dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Bryce said. “So are you.”

Eris looked up from his book. “Are you whispering about me?” he asked, a mocking smile on his lips.

Bryce shrugged nonchalantly before turning back to Nesta. “You should dance.”

Nesta blinked. “What?”

“With him,” Bryce said, nodding at Eris, whose smirk turned positively sinful. “He’s clearly dying to ask but is hiding behind his book because he’s too shy.”

Eris blushed. But then extended a hand, mock bowing. “I would never presume, unless invited.”

Nesta gave Bryce a look that promised revenge, but after a heartbeat’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his.

The world seemed to exhale as he led her to the floor.

The music was low, pulsing with a rhythm older than speech — something primal, threaded with magic. Around them, dancers moved like flames in a breeze, their laughter echoing softly through the hall.

Eris’s hand was warm against Nesta’s back, his movements fluid and precise. “You’re as good at dancing as I remember,” he said quietly.

“I’m better,” she replied, meeting his gaze.

He smiled , slow and proud. “I’d expect nothing less.”

They moved together as if they’d done it a hundred times before, not just once. Every step, every turn was effortless, a dialogue of motion and defiance. The magic in the air responded to them, a faint shimmer of light trailing their movements, as though autumn itself was watching.

At one point, he leaned close, his breath brushing her ear. “You still hide your power, don’t you?”

Her pulse faltered. “I control it.”

“You suppress it,” he corrected gently. “There’s a difference. I could teach you to master it, to move through shadows without fear. To winnow, if you wished.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “Winnow?”

He nodded, his voice soft as the music. “You have the strength. You only lack trust in it.”

Nesta hesitated then whispered, “And why would you help me?”

Eris’s smile turned almost kind. “Because no one should feel powerless in the dark. Especially not you.”

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the press of his hand and the firelight glinting in his eyes.

Something sparked. Genuine. Unexpected. Dangerous.

Nesta drew in a slow breath, but the feeling, that heat coiling in her chest, didn’t fade. She was suddenly too aware of how close he was, of how perfectly they moved together.

This is the alcohol talking. She told herself.

Then, as quickly as it came, guilt sliced through her.

Cassian.

His laugh. His scent. His hand steady on her waist as they sparred. The look in his eyes when he told her he’d wait, no matter how long the break lasted.

Nesta stumbled, the rhythm faltering for the first time.

Eris steadied her instantly. His voice dropped. “Easy. I didn’t mean to.

“I know.” She stepped back, the air between them breaking like glass. “It’s not you.”

Something flickered in his expression. Understanding, not offense. “Then it’s him.”

Nesta didn’t answer.

Across the room, Bryce caught her friend’s eye. Her smile soft, supportive, but laced with sympathy. Nesta took a long breath, grounding herself in the scent of smoke and spice, in the steady beat of music that carried on without her.

When she looked back at Eris, the heat between them had cooled to something else. Not desire, but respect.

“I’ll take you up on your offer,” she said quietly. “Teach me. To winnow. To control what’s mine.”

Eris inclined his head, a spark of approval lighting his gaze. “I’ll write to you with a time and place then, presuming that your mail is not monitored.”

Nesta nodded once, her heartbeat still uneven.

As the music faded, Bryce joined them again, bright-eyed and flushed from dancing with a laughing fae stranger. “You two were electric out there.” Nesta gave her a small, tired smile. “Maybe. Or maybe autumn just has a way of setting fire to things that were already smoldering.”

Eris lifted his glass in a silent toast. “To smoldering, then.”

Bryce clinked hers against his. “And to whatever comes next.”

Nesta didn’t join the toast. She only watched the candlelight flicker across her drink, thinking of wings and shadows. Rhysand did not want her power being retrained, but she needed to take control of her own destiny. And if Eris was the only one offering to help her, who was she to turn him away?

Chapter Text

The House of Wind was too quiet.

Nesta woke to that stillness, the kind that pressed down like a weight. The curtains had been drawn back, and the sunrise spilled in pale gold across the marble floor, touching everything with an almost cruel gentleness. Her head throbbed softly, the dull echo of last night’s warmth replaced by the dry clarity of regret.

She groaned, dragging the sheets over her face. The scent of Autumn still clung to her hair; smoke and caramel and something sharper beneath it. A memory surfaced unbidden: Eris leaning close in the firelit tavern, his voice low, his smile as precise and dangerous as a blade. The heat of his gaze. The way she had laughed, actually laughed, at something clever he’d said.

Nesta buried her face deeper into the pillow. “Cauldron,” she muttered to herself. “What was I thinking?”

The House, polite as ever, said nothing.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, pressing her palms to her temples. The floor was cool beneath her bare feet, grounding. The fragments of memory came sharper now, the rhythm of the music, the sweetness of the cocktails, Bryce’s delighted grin when Eris had bowed and kissed Nesta’s hand with that infuriating, old-world grace.

It had been harmless. Just conversation. Flirting, maybe. But only the kind you do when the world feels far away and you’re no one’s responsibility.

And yet… The moment she remembered his fingers brushing hers, the heat rushed back to her face.

“Perfect,” she muttered. “Absolutely perfect.”

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table.

Nesta blinked at the mortal device and picked it up. One new message, glowing against the pale morning light.

Bryce: Don’t overthink it.

Another message followed almost immediately:

Bryce: Seriously, Nes. You’re allowed to flirt. You and Cassian are on a break, remember? That means you get to be your own person again.

Nesta sighed, leaning back against the headboard. A break. That was what they were calling it. Not an ending. Not a separation. Just… breathing room. Except it didn’t feel like breathing, it felt like waiting for something to collapse.

She typed slowly, fingers still not used to operating the device:
Nesta: It was nothing. Too much to drink.

A pause, then Bryce’s reply came through, fast and merciless:
Bryce: No such thing as too much fun. You needed that night. You needed to remember what it’s like to be wanted without the bond hanging over your head.

Nesta stared at the screen. Her chest tightened. Wanted. Not for what she could do, or how she could fight, or who she was tethered to but for herself.

She didn’t reply. She just set the phone aside and stared out the window at the mountains beyond the House, the peaks dusted in silver light.

For a long time, she sat there, watching the dawn bleed into day. Her reflection glimmered faintly in the glass, hair mussed, eyes shadowed, but something in her expression softer than she remembered.

Maybe Bryce was right. Maybe she had needed that night. Even if it left her flushed with embarrassment and confusion. Even if Eris Vanserra’s smile still haunted her thoughts like the last note of a song she couldn’t quite forget.

The House sent a soft breeze through the room, gentle, teasing.

“Don’t you start,” Nesta murmured.

But she smiled anyway.

~*~

Cassian was waiting for her in the training ring.

Nesta saw him the moment she stepped out onto the terrace, broad shoulders rigid, wings flared slightly in a way that was more instinct than threat. The morning wind tugged at his hair, but he didn’t move, didn’t even turn as she descended the last steps. The scent of leather and steel hung in the air, mingling with mountain frost and the faint hum of her own unease.

He looked like war incarnate.

And she looked like someone who’d danced all night in another court.

“Morning,” she said carefully, crossing the ring.

Cassian’s voice came out low, clipped. “You didn’t come home last night.”

Nesta stilled. “I stayed with a friend…”

“I know where you were.”

The words cracked across the air like a whip. He turned then, and his eyes, usually so open, so painfully earnest, were dark with something more than anger.

“I went to your room,” he said, each word deliberate. “You weren’t here. You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving Velaris. And when Az finally tracked you down, do you know what he heard?”

She swallowed. “I can imagine.”

“That you were drinking,” he bit out. “Dancing. With the Autumn Court.”

His tone made it sound like a crime.

Nesta crossed her arms, summoning calm she didn’t quite feel. “So what if I was?”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. “You know what kind of place that is. You know what Eris-”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharp. “Don’t say his name like it’s filth. He was civil. Intelligent. More than I can say for you right now.”

His wings flared wider, instinctive fury flashing across his face. “Eris Vanserra. You think that he’s capable of being civil. He’s a snake Nesta. If he was polite to you it was only to get back at me.”

She felt the heat rising in her chest, the quick, defensive burn she always hated. “I wasn’t your anything last night. We agreed on a break, remember?”

“That doesn’t mean you can do what you want”

“It means exactly that.”

The silence that followed was heavy and raw. The mountains seemed to hold their breath.

Cassian raked a hand through his hair, pacing once before facing her again. “You can’t just run off to another court and pretend there aren’t consequences. You can’t just…”

“I can’t just what? Live?” Her voice broke sharper than she intended. “Have fun? Breathe without your permission?”

His expression flickered, the anger faltering for just a heartbeat before he said, softer but no less pained, “I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection, Cassian,” she said, and the quiet of her own voice startled her. “I need respect.”

That landed like a blade between them.

For a moment, neither spoke. The wind tugged at her hair; the scent of autumn still clung faintly to her, smoke and spice, foreign and defiant.

He took a slow breath, his hands curling into fists. “So that’s what this is? Freedom?”

“Maybe it’s the closest I’ve ever gotten.”

The ache in her chest tightened, but she didn’t let it show.

He looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, before he turned away. “Do what you want, Nesta.” His voice was quiet now, almost tired. “You always do.”

He spread his wings and took off, the downdraft whipping her hair around her face.

Nesta stood alone in the ring, staring at the empty sky where he’d been. The echo of his words clung to her, bitter and heavy.

And yet… underneath the hurt, there was something else.

A steadiness. A knowing.

Last night, she’d remembered who she was without him.

Today, she’d defended it.

The guilt lingered, yes but so did the freedom.

And for the first time, Nesta wasn’t sure which burned hotter.

~*~

The letter was waiting for her in her bedroom. A simple square of cream parchment, its edges singed ever so slightly, as if it had been sealed by flame rather than wax.

She didn’t need to open it to know who it was from.

Eris’s handwriting was precise, each line elegant and exacting, like the man himself. Still, her gaze kept drifting back to it, to that faint shimmer of ember that pulsed along the seal.

Lady Nesta

I trust that your hangover was short lived. It was good to see you enjoying yourself.

I know that much alcohol was consumed last night, but I was earnest in my offer to help you train your magic, should you still wish to do so.

I only ask that you continue to be my ally and to keep our meetings secret. I cannot afford for my father nor the night court to find out that I am helping to train you.

I have no doubt that Rhysand’s spy master will be watching your every move, I noticed his shadows in the Ember Room last night. So we will need to meet somewhere covered in shadows, where his own will get lost and cannot find us.

Attached is an amulet that is charmed to winnow the person holding it to a secret location at exactly 10am tomorrow morning. Come alone. You must not divulge the location to anyone else.

I hope to see you there.

Best wishes

Eris Vanserra.

Winnowing. She’d tried before. Tried and failed, over and over. Cassian had been patient at first, then frustrated, then quietly resigned. Not everyone can do it, he’d told her once, gently. It’s not a flaw.

But the power in her veins, cold, ancient, alive, had never felt content with that explanation. It whispered that she could, if she dared.

And Eris… Eris had looked at her like he knew it too.

Nesta pressed her palms against the cool stone of her balcony rail. The thought of going back to an unknown land was dangerous. Foolish even. Cassian would lose his mind if he knew. Rhys would see it as a provocation. Feyre would try to understand but wouldn’t quite manage to hide the worry in her eyes.

And yet the memory of that night returned unbidden. The tavern’s golden light, the jazz humming through her bones, Eris’s voice like smoke and silk. He hadn’t spoken to her like she was fragile. Or dangerous. Or broken. He’d spoken to her like an equal.

“You have the power for it,” he’d said.

She closed her eyes. What harm could there be in a lesson? Just one. She wasn’t naïve enough to think Eris offered anything without motive, but still the thought of mastering something that had eluded her for months now was intoxicating.

Freedom. That was what winnowing meant. The ability to vanish, to move on her own terms. To choose where she went and who she saw.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the faintest scent of smoke. It made her think of him again, of firelight in amber eyes.

Nesta turned away from the balcony and stared at the letter once more.

If she burned it, that would be the end of it. Safe. Predictable. Expected.

If she answered it, she would be stepping over a line she couldn’t uncross.

Her fingers itched.

Somewhere deep inside her, the power that had once stared down the darkness stirred, restless and uncontained.

Maybe it wasn’t fate she was tempting. Maybe it was herself.

She picked up the letter. Held it over the candle’s flame. Watched it catch. Then blew the flame out before it reached the edge.

Smoke curled through the air, soft and sweet, smelling faintly of spice and danger.

And Nesta stood in the quiet, caught between the life she knew and the fire that beckoned from afar.

Chapter Text

The island wasn’t on any map. Eris had called it “a forgotten corner of the world,” a sliver of rock and forest that slumbered beneath the pale glow of the moon. The air was heavy with the scent of wet leaves and sea salt. The sky burned faintly gold near the horizon.

Nesta arrived by whatever magic had been woven into the amulet and found him waiting on the shore. He was dressed in dark clothes that caught the firelight from the lantern he held, and the wind tugged at his copper hair.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You’re smug,” she replied.

“Consistency is a virtue.”

He offered a hand as she stepped onto the wet stones. His palm was warm, steady, far steadier than the ground beneath them.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“It’s an island not too far from the Night Court. It’s long been forgotten. Rhysand and his cronies will not find it.”

They climbed the narrow path up to the ruins at the island’s heart: broken walls, wild ivy, a single stone arch still standing. The sea murmured below, and magic shimmered faintly in the air, coiling like invisible mist.

“This place,” Eris said quietly, “was once used by old sorcerers. They believed the air here remembered every star that ever burned.”

Nesta arched a brow. “So it’s haunted.”

“Of course,” he said lightly. “You’ll feel right at home.”

She snorted, but her smile betrayed her.

He began the lesson slowly, explaining the rhythm of winnowing, the balance between will and instinct. Nesta listened, her brow furrowed, arms crossed.

“So it’s like breathing through fire,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Almost.” He stepped behind her, his voice a low hum. “But you’re forcing it. You can’t command the magic. You have to let it listen to you.”

“That sounds like something a poet would say before dying dramatically.”

“I’ve been accused of worse.” He smirked.

She tried again, focusing on the flicker of power within her chest. The air shimmered, a faint ripple forming at her fingertips and then fizzled.

Eris’s laughter was soft. “You’re trying to fight it. Winnowing isn’t conquest, Nesta. It’s surrender.”

She turned, irritation flashing in her eyes. “I don’t surrender.”

His gaze held hers, steady and unreadable. “Maybe that’s why it doesn’t come easily.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The waves crashed against the rocks below, the wind whispering through broken stone. Then Nesta exhaled slowly, grounding herself. She tried again and this time, she vanished for half a heartbeat, reappearing a few feet away.

Gwyn would’ve cheered. Eris only smiled, faint but genuine. “Good. Again.”

After the third attempt, she dropped onto a fallen column, breathing hard. “You make it sound so simple.”

“I make everything sound simple,” he said, sitting beside her. “It’s a gift.”

She shot him a sideways look. “You mean a delusion.”

“Semantics.”

He reached into his coat then, and pulled out a worn, leather-bound book, the cover gilded in faint red script.

“I brought you something,” he said.

She blinked. “A book? You brought me homework?”

“Not quite.” He handed it over. “It’s a collection of Autumn Tales. Banned in most courts. Too… spirited for their taste.”

Nesta turned it in her hands, reading the title and then laughed. “You’re joking. This is Fire and Folly.”

“Ah,” he said smoothly. “So you’ve read it.”

She looked scandalized. “Everyone pretends they haven’t!”

“I’ve never seen the appeal in pretending.” He poured himself a measure of whiskey from a small flask, smirking. “The author understands passion better than half the nobility I know.”

Nesta shook her head, but her lips twitched. “I can’t believe you read this. It’s practically…”

“Educational?” he supplied.

“..trashy,” she finished.

“Trash,” Eris said, “is simply art that refuses to apologise for pleasure.”

Nesta tried not to smile. She failed. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, raising his flask in salute, “you’re still here.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real irritation left, only warmth, amusement, and a strange, cautious spark that felt a lot like understanding.

They spent the rest of the day practicing and laughing, and occasionally arguing about whether Fire and Folly’s infamous fountain scene was genius or idiocy. By the time the moon hung high above the sea, Nesta could winnow several feet without losing her balance.

Eris stood beside her, smoke curling from his newly lit cigarette, the book tucked back into his coat. “You’re a quick study,” he said quietly. “Faster than I expected.”

Nesta stared out at the ocean, the wind tugging at her hair. “Maybe I just needed the right teacher.”

He smiled, slow and bright, but said nothing.

When she winnowed again.  appearing right beside him, his laughter echoed across the ruined island, bright as flame.

~*~

The next time they met the sea was rougher, the air heavy with the scent of salt and storm. Clouds drifted low over the island’s ruins, their edges lit gold by the fading sun. Eris was already there when Nesta arrived, standing at the edge of the broken arch, the wind tugging at his hair.

“You’re early,” she said.

He looked over his shoulder, a faint smile ghosting across his face. “You’re learning. It’s easier to winnow when the air’s unsettled.”

“Like dancing in chaos,” she murmured.

“Exactly.”

They practiced for a while without speaking much. Eris’s patient instructions, Nesta’s quiet determination. The magic still fought her sometimes, but each attempt carried her a little farther, her steps more sure. When she finally landed a full dozen feet away, she exhaled, laughing under her breath.

Eris’s answering smile was softer than she’d ever seen it. “See? The air listens when you stop shouting at it.”

“Don’t get smug,” she said, but there was no bite to it.

“Smugness is part of the curriculum.”

They sat after that, catching their breath. The ruins glowed faintly under the lantern’s light. Eris produced his inevitable flask and offered it to her. She took a small sip, the smoky burn settling deep in her chest.

For a long while, they watched the waves roll and break below.

Finally Nesta asked, “Why do you come here? To this place.”

He hesitated. “Because it’s quiet.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He smiled faintly. “It’s the only one I can give without spoiling the mood.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You think honesty ruins moods?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “But maybe not tonight.” He turned the flask in his hands, eyes distant. “My father used to bring us to the edge of our court to ‘test’ us. See which of his sons would stand the longest against his fire. He called it strength.” His voice stayed level, but his knuckles whitened around the flask. “I think it was fear, really. He wanted to make sure none of us ever learned what mercy felt like. One time, when I was eleven, I was so terrified of being burnt by him, that I accidentally winnowed here. This place was a sanctuary where my father could not find me. Somewhere I was protected from him.”

Nesta was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, “Did it work?”

He met her gaze. “No. But I got very good at pretending it had.”

The wind whistled through the arch, scattering leaves. Nesta didn’t reach for him, but her voice softened. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Something in his expression eased. “You’re kinder than you pretend to be.”

“Don’t spread that rumor.”

He laughed once, quietly, and handed her the flask again.

When she drank, she said, almost to herself, “Rhysand forbade me from dancing.”

Eris blinked. “What?”

“He said it was… too much like losing control. That when I dance, my power stirs. He doesn’t want another incident.” There was bitterness under the words, and something else, grief, maybe.

Eris was silent for a long moment. “That’s cruel,” he said finally. “Taking that from you.”

Nesta gave a brittle smile. “It’s apparently safer for everyone.”

“Safer isn’t the same as living.”

She looked at him then, startled by the simple truth of it.

He went on, voice low. “You dance the way I light fires, because something in you needs to move, to change the air around it. Maybe he’s right that it’s dangerous. But isn’t that what makes it beautiful?”

She didn’t answer, but her eyes glistened faintly in the lantern light.

Eris leaned back, gazing up at the storm-heavy sky. “Tell you what. When you can winnow across this island, we’ll dance. No rules. Just the wind and the fire.”

Nesta’s mouth curved. “A secret rebellion?”

“A very elegant one,” he said. “All good rebellions are.”

The waves crashed again, louder now. She stood, brushing the sand from her hands. “Then you’d better keep teaching me.”

Eris rose, offering his hand. “Always.”

She took it, steady, sure, and the air shimmered around them as the storm rolled in, their silhouettes dissolving into the flicker of magic and sea mist.

~*~

A week later, the storm passed. The air on the island was clearer, washed clean by rain. The moon hung low and golden, and the ruins glimmered faintly under its light.

Nesta had grown steadier with each lesson; the shimmer of winnowing now came when she called for it, not just by accident. She could feel the magic humming beneath her skin, alive, obedient at last.

Eris watched her land lightly on the far side of the arch and gave a low whistle. “Perfect. You’ve tamed the air itself.”

She turned, breathless, hair tousled by the wind. “I didn’t tame it. I learned to listen.”

“Then I’ve taught you something worthwhile.”

They stood there for a moment, the sea sighing below. The air was warm enough to taste of smoke and salt, the kind of night that made everything feel sharper, more real.

Eris extended a hand. “We had an agreement.”

Nesta frowned, though she knew exactly what he meant. “You’re serious.”

“Always,” he said, his eyes glinting. “Dance with me, Nesta Archeron.”

She hesitated only a heartbeat before taking his hand.

There was no music, only the rhythm of the tide, the hush of wind through ivy. He stepped closer, their movements slow at first, guided by instinct. His hand settled lightly at her waist, his other clasping hers; together they found a pace that matched the ocean’s pulse.

It wasn’t courtly, practiced dance. It was something looser, older. Something that belonged to the night.

Nesta let herself move. The air around them shimmered with traces of her power, faint silver threads that caught the lantern light and drifted away.

Eris smiled, quiet awe in his expression. “I knew it,” he murmured. “You were born for this.”

“Rhys would disagree,” she said, breathless.

“Then he’s forgotten what freedom looks like.”

She almost laughed, but the sound caught in her throat. Her pulse had picked up, not just from movement but from the nearness of him. The way he smelled faintly of smoke and autumn rain. The warmth of his hand through her sleeve.

She turned away, breaking the rhythm for a moment. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she said.

“Of course not,” he answered softly. “It’s only a dance.”

But when she met his eyes again, she saw the truth, he didn’t believe that any more than she did.

The silence between them deepened, became fragile. Nesta felt something twist inside her, familiar and dangerous all at once. Guilt, longing, the ache of something she hadn’t wanted to name.

Cassian’s face flashed through her mind. His smile, his steadiness, the way he’d waited for her. She looked down, her throat tight.

Eris must have seen the change in her because he stepped back, letting her go. The air cooled instantly.

“Nesta,” he said quietly. “It’s alright.”

She forced a small smile. “No, it’s not.”

“Then we’ll stop here,” he said. No frustration, no reproach. Just calm understanding. “You’ve already given the night enough.”

They stood apart for a while, both of them watching the sea. The last of the lanterns flickered out, leaving only moonlight.

At last Nesta said, “You shouldn’t be this kind.”

Eris’s smile was faint. “You shouldn’t assume it’s kindness.”

Her laugh was soft and unsteady. “Then what is it?”

“Respect,” he said. “And the hope that someday, when you dance again, you won’t feel like you owe anyone an apology for it.”

The wind carried the words away, but they stayed with her. Burning slow and quiet, like the memory of a flame that refused to die.

Chapter Text

The House of Wind glowed warm against the chill of the night. Gwyn had convinced them all that they needed a proper “girls’ night”. No training, no responsibilities, no overthinking. Just blankets, cocoa, and far too many pastries from the City’s best bakery.

Nesta had laughed and agreed. She didn’t realise how much she’d needed it until she was lying on a pile of quilts, her hair loose, socks mismatched, listening to Gwyn sing softly to whatever record they’d enchanted to play itself.

Emerie was sprawled nearby, braiding her own hair and pretending not to eye the last cinnamon roll.

It was perfect.

Until Emerie, ever too perceptive, said, “You’ve been quiet, Nesta.”

Gwyn looked over, her teal eyes curious. “Uh oh. That tone means something scandalous.”

Nesta hesitated. She hadn’t meant to talk about it. She hadn’t meant to think about it. But the words slipped out anyway. “It’s… Eris.”

Silence.

Then Gwyn sat up so fast the blankets flew. “Eris Vanserra?”

“The very same,” Emerie said, in a tone halfway between disbelief and admiration. “Please tell me you mean you killed him or something equally reasonable.”

Nesta grimaced. “Unfortunately, no. I’ve been… spending time with him.”

Gwyn’s mouth fell open. “Spending time as in… plotting political reform? Studying autumn court history?”

Nesta gave her a look.

“Oh,” Gwyn said. “Oh.”

Emerie whistled under her breath. “Cauldron boil me, Nesta.”

Nesta sank back into the pillows. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” Gwyn asked, eyes wide.

“He’s teaching me to use my magic better,” Nesta said quickly. “To winnow. To control it.”

“Uh-huh,” Emerie said, unconvinced. “And how exactly did that turn into feelings?”

Nesta rubbed her temple. “I don’t know. It just… happened. He’s infuriating and clever and so sure of himself. But then he says things that…” She broke off, shaking her head. “He sees me in a way I didn’t expect.”

The room went quiet again.

Finally, Gwyn said softly, “Does Cassian know?”

“We’re on a break.”

Emerie exchanged a glance with Gwyn. “Still,” she said, “Cassian’s been… your person for a long time.”

“Has he?” Nesta asked before she could stop herself.

Both women turned to her, startled.

Nesta swallowed. “Everyone keeps saying he’s my mate. But I never felt whatever it is I’m supposed to feel. There wasn’t some cosmic snap or glowing tether or… She gestured helplessly. “It was just… him. And me. Trying to make something work.”

Gwyn frowned. “You never felt the bond physically? Not even once?”

“No.” Nesta stared into her mug. “Should I have?”

Emerie leaned back on her elbows. “Usually, yes. It’s… unmistakable. You’d know.”

Nesta’s throat felt tight. “Cassian is the one that insists we are mates. But I never felt that snap. Maybe I don’t have one.”

Gwyn reached over and squeezed her hand. “That doesn’t mean what you had wasn’t real.”

“I know,” Nesta said. “But it makes me wonder if everyone’s been wrong. Or if I have.”

Emerie tilted her head. “Nesta, are you sure you’re not confusing a bond with” She hesitated, then grinned. “good chemistry?”

Gwyn snorted into her cocoa.

Nesta threw a pillow at her. “I hate you.”

Emerie caught it, laughing. “You love me. And I’m serious. Sometimes, people think the fire means fate when it’s really just… a spark.”

Gwyn’s laughter softened into a smile. “But sparks can start something new. Doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Nesta sighed, curling deeper into her blanket. “He makes me feel like I can breathe again. But it also terrifies me.”

Emerie nodded. “Then maybe that’s the point. You don’t owe anyone certainty right now. Not Cassian. Not Eris. Not even yourself.”

The words settled over the room like warm rain.

Gwyn leaned back, humming again. “Alright,” she said finally, her voice lighter. “But if you end up with Eris, I’m demanding wedding colours that aren’t red and gold. I refuse to look like a leaf.”

Nesta groaned. “You’re both impossible.”

Emerie grinned. “You love that about us.”

Nesta smiled despite herself. “Maybe I do.”

And for the first time in a long while, laughter filled the House again, bright, easy, and free.

~*~

Eris POV

The island lay hidden beneath a shroud of autumn mist, a small sliver of earth surrounded by glass-still water and ringed with fire trees whose leaves burned crimson even in shadow.

It was the only place Eris could breathe.

He’d claimed it long ago, a secret sanctuary beyond the reach of his father’s spies, beyond the reach of duty. Now, it was theirs. She was the only person he’d shown this place to.

Nesta arrived as she always did, silent, poised, the faint scent of frost and steel preceding her. She looked like a storm wearing a mortal’s shape. Her silver power shimmered faintly in the dim light, cold against the endless red around them.

“Late again” Eris said, more to distract himself than to scold.

Her mouth curved, just barely. “I was deciding whether to come at all.”

He arched a brow. “And yet here you are.”

She smirked. “Apparently, I’m bad at making good decisions.”

He almost laughed, and that was dangerous because laughter around Nesta Archeron always came too easily, and that ease was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

They sat beneath the leaning oak that had become their meeting place. He offered her a cigarette, fine paper, laced with a hint of magic to burn evenly against the wind. Nesta took it, fingers brushing his, and the brief contact sent heat through his chest sharp enough to hurt.

For a while, they smoked in silence. The world was quiet but for the whisper of leaves and the faint crackle of embers in the air. Nesta blew a ribbon of smoke toward the water. The sight of the grey against her pale lips, her steady, defiant composure made something in him tighten.

“You’re improving,” he said after a while, when the silence grew too heavy. “You can control those silver flames almost as well as I do my own.”

She turned to him, eyes like tempered steel. “I don’t need flattery.”

“It wasn’t flattery.” His voice softened despite himself. “Your control’s stronger. Your power doesn’t fight you anymore.”

She gave a small, disbelieving huff. “Then why do I still feel like I’m unravelling?”

Because you are, he thought. Because every time you come here, you let go of the cage you built to survive. Because I see it happening, and I can’t stop myself from wanting to touch it…to touch you.

He didn’t say any of that. Instead, he ground out the cigarette and rose to his feet. “Then let’s test that control.”

They trained until the sun sank lower, painting the lake in shades of bronze and blood. Her power flared, beautiful and terrible, ribbons of silver light that hissed and crackled through the air. Every time she faltered, he steadied her; never touching, never too close, though the urge burned like wildfire in his veins.

And Mother, how it burned.

He’d meant it, that long-ago proposal, meant every damn word. He would have defied his father, his court, his own reputation, just for the chance to see her smile like she did when she mastered something new. But the bond, that cursed bond, stood between them, immutable and cruel.

He was not her mate. He never would be.

So he took what was left: the quiet of their lessons, the cigarettes shared between them, the sound of her laughter when he teased her too sharply.

After the training ended, she collapsed onto the grass, breathless and flushed, hair tumbling loose around her shoulders. The sight of her stole the breath right out of him.

To distract himself, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a worn book. “For your studies,” he said dryly.

She eyed the cover, then burst out laughing. “You brought that?”

“It’s literature.”

“It’s smut.”

He arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware the two were mutually exclusive.”

She grinned. “I happen to enjoy a good bit of smut”.

So they read, taking turns, the words growing increasingly scandalous as the pages turned. Nesta’s voice wavered once or twice, her composure slipping just enough to make him grin. When it was his turn, she leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief, daring him to continue.

“Blushing already?” she teased.

“Never.”

“Coward,” she murmured, and reached for the page.

But she was blushing, faintly, and it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Eris sat back, pretending to study the text, though his gaze lingered on the curve of her mouth, the glow of her skin in the amber light. A queen of frost surrounded by fire, sitting on the edge of a world that would never allow them peace.

He memorised her like this. Quiet. Free. His.

Even if it was only for a few hours in a place no one else would ever know existed.

Chapter Text

Feyre

The River House was quiet that evening, save for the low hum of the Sidra outside. Feyre sat in the sitting room with a cup of tea growing cold in her hands, listening to Cassian pace before the hearth.

“She’s wasting everything I’ve taught her,” he said at last, voice tight with anger or maybe fear. “All that strength, all that discipline. And now she’s spending her days twirling in a studio instead of training.”

Feyre’s brow lifted. “She’s dancing, Cassian. That’s not the same as wasting her time.”

“She’s neglecting her power,” he shot back. “The magic she has, what she is, it needs control. Routine. If she stops training, it’ll start to slip. You remember what she was like before.”

Feyre met his gaze over the rim of her cup. “I remember what she was like before being locked in a house she didn’t want to be in.”

Cassian’s wings flared slightly, feathers rustling. “So we just let her drift? Let her drink and dance herself numb again?”

“Rhys already told her she can’t join the ballet company,” Feyre said, setting her cup aside. “If you take anything else away from her, she’ll only push back harder. Nesta doesn’t respond to control, Cassian. You of all people should know that.”

He turned away, staring out the window. The river caught the light in restless flashes of gold. “I can’t just stand by and watch her self-destruct.”

“She’s not self-destructing,” Feyre said quietly. “She’s trying to live.”

He laughed under his breath, but there was no humour in it. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not simple,” Feyre admitted. “But you’re talking about locking her away again. That isn’t protection. That’s punishment.”

“She’s angry,” he said, almost to himself. “At Rhys, at me, at everything. And when Nesta gets angry, she burns the whole world with her.”

“Maybe,” Feyre said softly, “she’s angry because she’s tired of being told what parts of her are acceptable.”

Cassian turned back to her, his expression torn between exhaustion and despair. “You think I should just let her do whatever she wants?”

“I think,” Feyre said carefully, “that you love a woman who was forged in fire. And the more you try to contain her, the more she’ll see you as another wall she needs to break.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire.

Finally, Cassian sank onto the couch across from her, rubbing a hand over his face. “You really think this break will end?”

Feyre smiled faintly, though her heart ached for him. “You’re mates, Cassian. Bonds like that don’t unravel just because you’re lost for a while.”

He gave a small, bitter laugh. “Doesn’t feel like much of a bond lately.”

“Sometimes it takes one person longer to feel it,” Feyre said gently. “To trust it. Nesta’s still healing. You both are.”

Cassian stared into the fire, his jaw tightening. “She’s not the only one angry,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Feyre replied. “But if you love her, you have to give her the space to find herself again. Even if it’s through dancing.”

He didn’t respond, but she saw something in his eyes shift, a slow, painful acknowledgment. But there was reluctance in his eyes too.

Outside, the river murmured on, its surface gleaming with the last light of day. Feyre rose and crossed to the window, watching the water drift past, ever moving, ever free.

“She’s not your soldier, Cassian,” she said softly. “She’s her own storm. You can either try to cage it… or learn how to stand in the rain.”

Behind her, Cassian said nothing. But when Feyre turned, his wings had folded close to his body, his head bowed in thought.

The fire burned low, and the house settled into silence, heavy, uncertain, but alive with the faintest pulse of hope.

~*~

Cassian

The study smelled of ink, leather, and rain. Rhysand sat by the window, hands drumming on the desk, his wings faintly visible in the reflection, more shadow than substance.

Cassian didn’t sit. He rarely did when the air between them felt like this.

Rhys’s voice was calm when it came. “Feyre tells me you’ve been arguing with her.”

Cassian’s jaw worked. “If by arguing you mean she’s telling me to let Nesta do whatever she wants then yes.”

His brother smirked at him. “So, you flew through this storm just to brood at me?”

Cassian didn’t answer at first. He was still catching his breath, not from the flight, but from the frustration that had been building for days.

Finally, he said, “She’s slipping again.”

That got Rhys’s attention. “Nesta?”

Cassian nodded. “She hasn’t trained in weeks. Won’t answer when I come to the House. She’s out half the night, drinking and dancing. Acting like she doesn’t care about anything.”

Rhys leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. “Feyre thinks she’s finding herself.”

“Feyre’s wrong,” Cassian muttered. “Nesta’s running. That’s all she ever does.”

There was a pause, filled only by the sound of rain on glass. Then Rhys said quietly, “You know what needs to be done.”

Cassian hesitated. The words should have angered him. Months ago, they would have. But now there was only exhaustion.

“It worked last time,” Rhys went on, voice calm, logical. “She focused. She sobered. She trained. She accepted help. She let you in.”

Cassian looked away, jaw tight. “She also hated me for it.”

“Then she loved you afterward,” Rhys said. “You brought her back from the edge, Cassian. She needs that again. And you need her.”

Cassian’s hands curled into fists. “You think locking her away again will make her forgive me?”

“Not forgive,” Rhys said softly. “Remember. The House brought her peace once. You did, too. Maybe that’s what she’s forgotten, that you’re the only one who truly understands her.”

The words hit something raw inside him. Cassian had tried, tried so hard, to be patient, to wait for her to come back on her own. But every day she drifted further. Every night he lay awake, thinking of her laughing somewhere else.

He wanted her back. Wanted the fire, the fight, even the fury. Anything but this distance.

“She’ll hate me again,” he said, but there was little conviction left in it.

Rhys’s voice was quiet. “Sometimes people need saving from themselves.”

Cassian let out a slow breath. The decision sat heavy in his chest, but it was also, in some dark corner of him, a relief.

“What would you have me do?”

Rhys’s expression softened, almost like pity. “Bring her home. Convince her to return to the House. And I’ll simply put the wards back up so she cannot go hopping into other worlds.”

Cassian nodded once. His throat felt tight.

He told himself this was mercy. That he was helping her. That it was love.

But as he turned to leave, thunder cracked outside, and a darker thought took root:

Maybe it wasn’t love anymore.

Maybe it was fear of losing her for good.

~*~

Nesta

The rain had not stopped all night. It ran in thin rivers down the windows of the House of Wind, the sound a steady, relentless whisper. Nesta sat by the fire, legs curled beneath her, a half-read book forgotten on the table.

She knew he was coming before she heard the door open. 

Cassian stepped into the room, rain dripping from his hair, wings damp and heavy. He didn’t bother taking off his leathers. His eyes found her instantly, burning with that same restless energy that used to make her chest ache.

“Nesta,” he said, and there was no warmth in it. Only frustration and something heavier beneath.

She looked back at the fire. “If you’re here to lecture me about training again, save your breath.”

He took a few steps closer. “You’ve stopped showing up. You’re drinking again. You barely speak to anyone”

“Because I’m tired of being managed,” she snapped, standing now, the book sliding to the floor. “I’m tired of everyone deciding what’s best for me as if I’m some project to be fixed.”

Cassian’s wings twitched, a tell of his temper. “Rhys thinks”

“Ah.” Her laugh was sharp. “Rhys thinks. Of course he does.”

“He’s not wrong,” Cassian said tightly. “You’re slipping, Nesta. I can see it. You need…”

“What?” she demanded. “Discipline? Supervision? What do I need this time, Cassian? Another cage dressed up as care?”

His expression flickered, pain cutting through the anger. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?”

His voice broke slightly when he said it: “You. Back. The way you were.”

The words struck her like cold water.

She stared at him, heart pounding. “The way I was,” she repeated softly. “You mean obedient. Controlled. Safe for everyone to look at.”

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“It’s true.” She stepped closer, eyes glinting in the firelight. “You don’t want me, Cassian. You want the version of me that needed you.”

He flinched.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled between them, and outside, thunder rolled over the mountains.

Finally, Nesta said, quieter now, “You think locking me away would make me love you again?”

“I never said”

“You didn’t have to.” She could see it in his face, the guilt, the fear, the desperation. The way love had curdled into something smaller, something that wanted her only on its own terms.

She took a slow breath. “I can’t be what you need me to be. Not anymore.”

Cassian looked at her, his expression unravelling. “I’m trying to help you.”

“No,” she said gently, a strange calm settling over her. “You’re trying to save me. And I don’t need saving.”

For a heartbeat, she thought he might argue, that he might shout or beg, or find some way to reach her again. But he only stood there, eyes full of all the words he couldn’t say.

She turned away first.

The firelight painted her shadow across the wall, tall and unbroken. “Go home, Cassian,” she said quietly. “Tell Rhysand I’m done being a problem to solve.”

And for the first time in months, Nesta felt something like peace. Not soft or easy, but fierce. The kind that came from choosing herself, even when it hurt.

Behind her, Cassian’s footsteps retreated, heavy and slow. The door closed.

The House hummed faintly, as if in approval, and Nesta sank back into her chair. The storm outside raged on, but inside, she finally felt still.

Any lingering guilt she had felt about her secret meetings and friendship with Eris, had crumbled into dust.