Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

AUTUMN COURT: 343 YEARS AGO

“You fucking bastard!”

A loud bellow rings out through the atrium of the Forest House. Shrill crying follows.

“No! No daddy! No! I’ll be good! Daddy! No!!”

Beron Vanserra grips the red hair of his youngest son at the roots, dragging him along through the home, the boy’s booted feet trying to grip the ground and failing.

Eris leans against the closed double doors of the study, his breathing rapid and uneven as he squeezes his eyes shut. He knew that if he interfered, Beron would only make it worse for Lucien.

Upsetting the angered rarely works in your favor. It was a lesson he learned very quickly as a youngling himself. Each time he would come between an argument or physical altercation between his father and mother, Beron had only beaten him bloody before turning his fists and often his magic, on his mother as well.

A tear slips down his face at his baby brother’s screams and sobs, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The heart that he so adamantly pretends he doesn’t have nearly cracks in his chest, every instinct screaming to protect.

He strides to the window as the screaming fades away, watching as Beron drags the five-year-old to the barn. Blinking, he keeps his eyes on them until they disappear into the barn. Beron usually tortures them in the dungeon, though perhaps Lucien is still too young to endure that. Eris recalls that he was seven when he received his first real lashing in the cells.

As he loses sight of them, he takes the time to collect himself. He digs deep into that steel within his soul and flips that metaphorical switch, that cold and calculating mask once again sliding over his features again as he leaves the room, moving down the long hall to the dining hall. He floats an apple over to him and takes a bite nonchalantly as one of the servants passes by, trying to ignore the fact that he wants to vomit with worry.

Eris keeps his demeanor composed despite the chaos now surrounding him. The room buzzes with the activity of several servants. They dart about, each absorbed in their tasks: a maid carefully arranges silverware, and another polishes crystal glasses until they shine like stars. The rich scents of roasted meats and freshly baked bread mingle with the earthy aroma of the forest outside.

A young man in a dark green jerkin moves between the staff, his sharp commands ensuring that every detail is attended to. The long oak table, set for the evening’s feast, gleams under the warm, flickering light of candles that cast dancing shadows across the polished surface.

Without warning, the heavy oak door bursts open with a jarring bang. Eris’s attention snaps to the entrance as Beron storms in, his face a mask of fury. The room falls into an uneasy silence, the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation coming to an abrupt halt.

Beron’s cloak swirls with each angry stride, his boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor. He takes his seat at the head of the table with a forceful thud, the chair creaking under his weight. The dark intensity of his gaze makes the servants exchange nervous glances.

Eris takes his own seat with an air of practiced calm, though a flicker of concern crosses his features as he watches his father. His mother follows from the opposite direction, elegant in a deep crimson gown. Her eyes, usually weary, now search the room with increasing alarm. When her gaze falls on the empty seat next to Eris, her composure cracks.

Her face goes pale, and she looks around frantically, her hands flexing at her sides. “Where is Lucien?” she demands, her voice rising in panic.

The five younger brothers, each with their own mix of arrogance and disdain, settle into their seats, their smirks barely concealed as they watch their mother’s distress with a mixture of interest and amusement.

Beron’s voice cuts through the silence, cold and unyielding. “Lucien is in the barn,” he growls. “Since he was acting like an animal, he is being punished accordingly.”

Eris watches as the butler, Adonis—one of Lucien’s favorite people—steps forward with an edge of concern. “My lord, is it wise to leave him out there alone?”

Beron’s gaze remains stern. “You speak only when you are spoken to,” he snaps, his voice booming. Adonis bows his head.

“He needs to learn his lesson. If he chooses to act like an animal, he will be treated as one,” Beron states harshly.

Aurelia’s face twists between relief and horror. “But it’s so cold tonight,” she protests. “What if he catches a chill?”

“Then he will have learned another lesson,” Beron says. “We have more pressing matters to attend to.”

Several servants, their concern evident but their movements quick and efficient, head back towards the kitchen. Their footsteps echo through the hall, mingling with the subdued conversations of the other brothers, who seem to enjoy this spectacle with sadistic delight.

Clones of his father, Eris notes for the millionth time.

“Sit down, Aurelia”, Beron says with lethal demand.

His mother lifts her chin as if to argue, but in her eyes, he sees the moment she thinks better of it, and takes her seat at the other end of the table.

“Eat”, Beron commands them.

As they dig in, he questions Eris and the rest of his brothers about political moves and how the territories are reacting to certain things Beron has enacted recently, always in the mood to exert his power and pain over others.

He answers each question strategically and brilliantly as he learned to, internally relieved when he moved on to Tristan.

He glances out the window towards the barn only when Beron’s attention is held—the same goes for his mother. Beron rarely allows her to see him unless it is Lucien’s birthday or a holiday. Or unless Lucien is really getting on his nerves, but then he will hand him off to Eris and leave for a while. Eris always allows his mother to see his baby brother. The brother he knows is the most beloved that she conceived with the mate she is cursed to stay away from—a random Day Court male by the name of Helion that she met at an equinox ball before being forced to marry Beron. The reason his father hates Lucien the most; he highly suspects him of being a bastard—the result of that tryst with her mate.

Beron would never admit defeat or risk humiliation and since he cannot prove the child is not his own, therefore he would never speak of it...but he certainly takes out that frustrated rage on the boy the most. He won’t be seen as a child killer, not outright, but he will certainly terrify Lucien and punish him to the brink of what he can handle, knowing that children are unable to correct their emotions as well as adults.

And in this, he becomes Eris’s problem as his assigned keeper as he was for all his brothers. But they were different from the beginning. All too eager to impress their father. All too eager to become like him until they gave away their very souls—until they were black as the pit itself too.

Who knows, maybe his own can’t be saved by the Mother either, but at the very least, he will do everything in his power to protect Lucien’s inner light. Both metaphorically and literally.

Eris down is goblet of fine and finishes up the meat on his plate, glancing to his mother. Worry flickers in her gaze, and he slowly inclines his head to comfort her. An indication that he will check on the boy after dinner.

His mother’s family came from strong firewielders, but little did Beron know that her great-grandmother had been a very powerful witch. Within his mother’s personal chambers is a large library, and within the shelves of that library is a powerful grimoire. Spells to be used only in dire emergencies. 

Such as the one that she and Eris had used on Lucien since he was a newborn. They were lucky that Beron had missed Lucien’s birth. They were lucky that the only one in the room with her was himself and the midwife. Lucien was born swaddled in sunshine licked with flame, shining like a beacon of light amidst the dark and dreary atmosphere of this fortress.

Being the firstborn of the generation meant that Eris had traces of the witch blood, another gift from the Mother. His unique gift was to be able to scent bloodlines. The first moment he had held Lucien in his arms he knew he was Helion’s, as his scent was sandalwood and apple. Sandalwood...a very Day Court scent. Of course, the sunshine surrounding the babe was enough to tell him that he was not his father’s child, but the scent confirmed without a doubt.

Aurelia had immediately commanded him to find her grimoire, which she had never once told Beron about in her entire life—nor Eris until that moment. But as he brought it to her, she took his hand and made him recite a spell with her. He remembers it clearly in his mind, even still.

With this spell, I bind and shield,

His father’s secrets, softly sealed,

Till the time of truth shall come,

When this child returns home.

With it, all of the sunshine left the babe’s body, leaving only flame; his sandalwood scent replaced with cinnamon on their command. Eris had simply stared at her for what seemed like an eternity until she had cupped his cheek and begged him to protect Lucien no matter what, even knowing it was unfair of her to ask it. He immediately told her he would—he could feel how special the tiny babe was, even if a small writhing part of him ached with jealousy.

As Lucien grew, however, Eris was totally wrapped around his little finger, and he was his keeper and protector. Lucien always seems to make him smile, make him feel. He reminds him that perhaps he wasn’t as lost as he sometimes wonders.

Coming out of his haze, he finishes the vegetables on his plate. Beron announces that he has an important meeting to attend to over the border—as if he and his mother don’t know what that actually means—and she stands and kisses his cheek, bidding him farewell and safe travels. Her own careful ruse honed by the centuries.

His brothers go off, back to their territories and he turns to his mother once they are all out of fae earshot. “I will get him.”

Her eyes well up with tears and it twists the heart in him every time he sees it. Once the figures of the other brothers have disappeared into the distance and the clopping of Beron’s stallion has faded, Eris rushes to the barn, winnowing every few steps. His magic is still weakened by the faebane lashing he received the night before.

He can hear the boy’s cries as he approaches—his small voice more than raw now.

“Lucien! Lucien, it’s alright”, Eris shouts, letting the noise lead him to his baby brother.

When he finds him, his breath catches in his throat. Lucien is tied by his hair to the horse trough, his face above the mushed up feed and the water that they supply them; giving the tired child the option of his face falling into nastiness and flies, or half drowning. Lucien had clearly still fought though, his body twisted around and his hair...gods, his hair...completely tangled in the rope nearly to his scalp.

He can see the slight burn marks around the corners of Lucien’s mouth—faebane. Beron must have force-fed it to him so he couldn’t burn out of the rope.

“Eris!” he cries, his voice weakening by the second, loud sobs still escaping him.

“Hey…hey…shhh. Don’t cry now. You’re alright.” He kneels down and strokes the tears away from his baby soft, golden cheeks with both thumbs. “Look at me, Lu.”

Lucien’s breaths are ragged as he slowly reels in his sobs, lip trembling, those still-misty russet eyes—the twins to their mother’s—peer up at him.

“I’m here”, he murmurs, lightly kissing the boy’s head. “You are impossibly tangled, Glowheart.”

Lucien sniffles. “It hurts”, he whimpers.

“I know, I know it hurts. I’ll get you out okay?” Eris gently maneuvers Lucien so he is laying back flat across his thighs where he kneels, as he begins to work on the knotted mass of hair.

Lucien stares up at him as he works, and the sense of adoration makes him uneasy and cleaves his soul in two. He does not deserve that. One day he will realize that. One day when he is forced to stop protecting him, Lucien will realize what a monster he is as well. But for now...for now, he will protect his innocence as long as possible. Hopefully longer than himself or his brothers’.

“What, Lu?”

He sniffles again and his small hand clutches at Eris’s shirt. “I love you”, he says softly, his little voice threatening to destroy his careful game of toeing the line between love and what loving means for their reality.

“I know”, he murmurs back weakly, fingers still working the knot.

“Eris?”

“Yeah, Lu?”

“You love me?”

Eris swallows hard, sparing a glance down at those cherub-like cheeks and wide, curious eyes. “Yes, Lu. But it’s our secret, okay? You don’t want Father to get angry again, right?”

He goes to nod and yelps as his hair tugs.

“Careful, I’m still working.”

“Father was mad at me when I cried”, he sniffles.

“I know.”

“It hurt.”

“I know.”

“Am I bad?”

Eris blinks rapidly, looking down at him. “What?”

Lucien’s lip trembles again, eyes filling with tears. “Am I bad...?”

Trying to steel himself and failing, Eris gently cups his face. “You listen to me, alright? Do not listen to what anybody thinks of you. You know yourself better than anyone. Do you think you’re bad?”

Lucien shakes his head and whimpers as it tugs his hair.

“Then you are not bad. I know this is hard for you to understand now. But the only person you can ever truly count on in the world, Lucien, is yourself. If you don’t believe in yourself, in your own goodness, then nobody will. But what people say cannot take anything away from you that you don’t want them to. Alright?” He strokes his cheeks comfortingly. “You don’t let words get to you. It isn’t worth it. So it doesn’t matter if people say you are bad, or rotten, or cruel, or a monster, or a snake. You know that you aren’t. Right in here”, Eris says, gently tapping over the boy’s heart. “So you can let them be wrong because it is only their loss if you’re not in their lives. They have the right to be wrong about you, and you have the right to prove them as such. Okay?”

“Okay”, he says softly, looking up at him. Eris sighs and returns to working on the knot.

“Anyone has the right to say anything they want about you. You have the right to act accordingly, based on your goodness or badness.”

“Eris?”

“Yes, Lu?” He sighs softly, suppressing his smile at the faeling’s unending curiosity. Such are the children of Day.

“You’re good too.”

He stiffens slightly, casting a quick glance downward. “Sometimes, Lu. Sometimes.”

“Is daddy bad?”

Eris’s throat tightens but he steels his expression and his voice. “Lucien. Don’t ever say that. Don’t ever speak that out loud, do you hear me? Or next time your punishment will be a lot more painful than this one.”

He seems to shrink a bit but says nothing.

“Be mindful of your words and actions, Glowheart. Okay? I don’t like being inconvenienced like this.”

Seeing you hurt is what he should have said, but...conditioning. Lucien needs to know the older he gets the less soft he can be to him.

A flicker of guilt in the boy’s eyes. “I’m sorry”, he whispers sadly.

Eris sighs. “I know you are. I know how curious you are, and I know that you like to sneak off and get dirty and be a boy of the forest. But you have to be mindful where you are tracking that dirt. Father dislikes fingerprints anywhere, never mind his personal study.”

Hours go by and Eris rolls his shoulders, his legs nearly numb and aching as he carefully releases the last of Lucien’s long hair from the rope. “Finally”, he breathes out. “Up you go.” He lifts Lucien off of him, but before he can get up, Lucien throws himself into Eris’s arms, his own flying around his neck.

“Oomph”, he mutters, falling back on his ass, gripping him with one arm. “Lucien”, he grumbles lightly.

Lucien grins cutely. “Sorryyy.”

“Come now. It’s bedtime.” Eris stands up, grabbing Lucien’s hand. The boy pouts.

“Can you carry me?”

“Lucien, what have we gone over?”

“That I’m too big”, he whines.

Ridiculous. Lucien was by all accounts, a little runt. The size of a four-year-old, not a nearly six-year-old. But he does have to learn...

Eris glances down at him and sighs as Lucien peers up pleadingly. He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But only because Father is away. Got it?”

Lucien nods eagerly and lifts his arms. He scoops him up and holds him close as Lucien settles his head on Eris’ shoulder. Only the sound of the leaves crunching under his boots is heard.

Eris carried him all the way up to Lucien’s chambers and set him down. Their mother comes rushing in and falls to her knees, cradling the boy to her chest. “Oh, Luci...you’re alright.”

Eris swallows hard. “Mother.”

Her eyes glance up at him sadly, but nods slightly before taking Lucien’s face in her hands. “Why don’t we get you a warm bath, baby?”

Lucien nods eagerly and grins, his two missing teeth making him look like a jack o lantern.

“I’ll tend to him personally”, she tells him.

“Is that a good—”

“Eris”, she breathes out, almost pleadingly. He could never quite deny her. She sees her miracle baby little enough anyway.

“Alright”, he mutters.

She stands again and cups his cheek with her hand, kissing his temple. It takes all his restraint not to lean into her warmth. The only comfort he has ever found had been around her.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Hardly a nickname that should be assigned to him, but there it was anyway, every time.

“Don’t think I don’t know what that look is about”, she says slightly more sternly as Lucien rushes into the bathing chambers, eagerly stripping down to nothing.

Eris cocks an eyebrow at his mother, and she steps toward him once more. “That is who you are. Underneath all that...” she makes a prissy, arrogant sort of face.  “No matter what games you play and how you choose to survive him,” she continues, her voice going soft, “you will always be a sweetheart. My sweetheart.”

Aurelia smiles fondly at her eldest before smirking at little Lucien’s naked antics. “And my glowheart. My loves.”

Eris clenches his jaw forcing the emotion down and stifling it with smoke within him. “You truly believe that?”

“Of course. I am your mother. No mask will ever be good enough to fool me over who you truly are.”

“I’ve said awful things to and about Morrigan”, he mutters. “It may be a carefully crafted game, but...”

“And she has done the same to you. That you feel remorse is a testament to your soul, Eris.”

He sighs wearily and rubs his chest. Aurelia squeezes his shoulder in solidarity—the both of them with disconnected mate bonds.

Eris opens his mouth to speak, but the words fail him. His eyes flicker with irritation at himself.

“You can say it. We are alone. No servants are around either.”

“Do you think I will ever find a female to love me? I don’t see how, as I am like this until he dies. And now that I-can’t be with Morrigan, for a variety of reasons...”, he trails off.

“Oh, sweetheart. I think that one day, someone will see beneath the surface as I do, and that you will be the best part of their day.”

He swallows the lump in his throat and nods sharply. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

She rubs his back before going to attend to her little boy in the washroom.

.

.

.

Three days later, Beron has been on an angry tirade to all—servants included. It’s the middle of the night and Eris is awoken by the sounds of cries coming from Lucien’s chambers, the scent of his fear like thick smoke in his nose.

He jumps up and ignites his palm with fire, making his way down the eerie corridor toward his room.  

Slipping into the room, he makes his way open to the crying boy’s bed, casting his fire into the bedside lantern before moving the blankets and scooping him into his arms.

“Hey, it’s alright Lu. It was just a nightmare.” Eris cradles him close, stroking his hair gently as his cries subside into sniffles.

“D-Daddy...h-he...”

“What did he do, Lu?”

“He said that the Amren m-monster was going to come scoop me up and bite me and d-drain all my blood if I c-cried again”, he sobs again. “It came for me in my sleep!”

Eris tucks him into his chest to stifle his cries and sighs. “He was just trying to scare you, and it worked. There is no monster coming for you right now. You’re a good boy, Lu. I promise”, he murmurs softly, rocking him gently back to sleep. 

Chapter Text

AUTUMN COURT: 341 YEARS AGO

“I don’t like these!”, a seven-year-old Lucien whines to his eldest brother, trying to squirm out of his arms.

“I don’t give a crap, Lucien”, Eris hisses, trying to wrangle the wild youngest. “Stop.”

Lucien continues to writhe and squirm, fighting every step of the way as Eris tries to get the brown vest over his head. It was a struggle even getting the boy into a damned shirt these days. He would rather run around in nothing but trousers playing with the animals and the other rowdy children in the mud, despite the chill of Autumn. Like each of them, the fire in his veins allowed him to remain comfortable in the cool air. But if Beron ever caught him acting out of line...it was a hardship enough wondering constantly if the amount of binding potion is enough to conceal his light powers, should he fall into a tantrum.

“I said stop!”, Eris snaps, grabbing his forearms firmly, but not enough to hurt, just to pin him in place. “You listen to me, and you listen to me well, Lucien Vanserra”, he growls at his baby brother. “And don’t you forget this.”

Lucien halts all his motion immediately, staring at his brother with watery eyes and a trembling lip. He knows he is in trouble when his full name is used. Eris never uses his full name. It must be serious.

The look threatens to completely destroy Eris’s resolve, but he doesn’t let that show, keeping his features icy and neutral. The way it has to be, to keep him safe, he reminds himself.

“You are going to be eight years old soon. You are a Vanserra male and a member of the royal household. You need to stop acting like an animal and start acting like a controlled boy. We are Vanserras. We have to be better than the common folk. If you don’t start being a well-behaved boy, Father will not be pleased. And you must please father. Because if you don’t get in line, there are a lot worse things he can do to you than lock you in the basement for a few hours. I know this might be hard to understand because you’re young, but you have to act better, Lu.”

Lucien shivers, and tears slip down his cheeks, remembering the day last week when his father Beron had locked him in the dungeon in the pitch black for hours because he made a face at an order. He had seen all the bloodstains down there before the light went out and had screamed and cried and begged to be let out as the iron door closed and locked, terrified of the creatures that lurked down in that darkness. Thankfully, the Mother had protected him with all his prayers to her. The prayers his mom taught him.

“I don’t like the dark, Eris”, he chokes out a little sob, rubbing his flushed face.

“I know you don’t. But there are worse things than the dark, Lucien. Scarier things. Painful things. You need to behave better. No more tantrums. No more faces. No more insolence. If someone from this household tells you to do something, you do it. You do it, and you will be safe. I am telling you this because your safety is in your own hands. How you act, determines what you suffer and have to endure.” He cups his baby brother’s chin, looking into his russet eyes, their mother’s eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Lu?”

Even though he is a child, Lucien is keenly aware of things that many others are not. Like right now. Despite Eris’s icy expression, he can feel the care and the fear lacing his words. He can feel it in the large hands gripped around his skinny arms, and in the way his bright amber eyes pin his. The eyes that look like live flames—flames of warmth, not anger. The eyes that Momma has said reminded her of her sisters. Lucien may be named after Lucia, but Eris is said to look the most like her and Nora, from those golden eyes to the more orange-tinged red hair and even his sprinkled freckles.

Though he didn’t know why he had asked, or how, or when the realization hit his small soul, he couldn’t help the words from flying out of his traitorous, insolent, bratty mouth.

“Does he do worse than locking you up in the dark?”

Eris blinks, the only indication of shock, plain as day on his face, however.

Lucien can tell his brother has been working on that too for a very long time. His own faces. Steeling his expression into a frozen sneer, just like Father. Maybe he was right, and being like Father was the only way to be safe. Or...at least pretending to be. Because Eris was his brother, not his father. He loves him and treats him like he does...the way Father never does.

“What Father does to the rest of us is none of your concern, Lucien, nor is it polite to ask. That’s another thing you must curb. At least while you are in the Forest House or around the royal company. Your incessant curiosity and questions. Your impulsive mouth. They will get you in trouble as much as your damned penchant for adventure.” Eris shakes his head and strokes a hand down the boy’s growing wine-red hair. Growing already, even after the fresh trim he got recently.

Eris takes in his innocent brother and for what seems like the billionth time, mentally thanks the mother that Lucien is a dead ringer of their mother and that his slightly tanner skin isn’t a total giveaway that he is not Beron’s with the amount of time the boy spends outside in the blazing sun.

“Life is no adventure, Lucien. It is duty, loyalty, and politics. The sooner you realize that there is no freedom in being a royal, the better off you will be. And I am the one to tell you this because I know you hardly listen to anyone else but me or Mother. And Mother...well, she wouldn’t squash your spirit. But wild spirits must be squashed to be able to navigate life as a Vanserra. As annoying and awful and unfair as that sounds, that is the reality.” He cups the boy’s cheeks. “You need to be a good boy, Glowheart,", he says more affectionately. "You’re getting older, and the punishments adjust to your age. Do you get it?”

Lucien sniffles and nods, looking up at Eris. Eris, the only brother who has ever cared. Eris, who had dragged him in from the mud and made sure Father didn’t see. Eris, who loved and protected Mother from Father’s rage. He can do this. He can be better. For Momma, for Eris. All he has to do is be like Eris. Copy him. Shouldn’t be too hard.

“Yes, Eris”, he responds, raising his chin confidently, the way he has seen his brother do so many times, even in the face of his father’s anger.

Eris suppresses a smile and nods. “Good. Now. I will show you how to dress like a Vanserra. How to carry your pride, your confidence, and your name all in your look.”

Lucien takes a breath and nods, standing next to Eris in front of the large mirror, trying to seem a bit taller by moving onto his tiptoes.

Eris glances down at him. “Your confidence makes you seem bigger, Lucien. Not your height. And your confidence is...?”

“Is carried in how you look,” Lucien answers. 

“Good boy.”

Eris smiles then. A short, clipped thing, but still a smile. One of the first he has given him in a long while since officially being deemed the heir of the Autumn Court months ago.

During the next hour, they go over a lot. From how to pair tunics and vests, to how to tie ties. From bowties to normal ties—despite their rarity for Autumn males—to how to coordinate colors and textures. Then they moved onto their hair. Their glorious red hair, in all the different shades. Lucien’s is wine red like his Momma’s, Eris’s is orange-red, like a flickering flame, and Tristan’s is more of a chestnut red, similar to their other brothers.

Eris teaches him how to keep it clean, shiny, untangled, and gleaming. The most important part of a Vanserra’s look and pride. The one thing, if anything, that should always look perfect, and tamed. It’s a lot for a near eight-year-old to take in, but he listens intently and remembers as much as he can.

Of course, they soon turn to...tying their shoes and boots. From formal loafers to lacing classic knee-high riding boots. Of course Eris would make him practice with lacy ones and not the easy zippy ones.

As Eris teaches him how to lace the boots, he glances over at him. Even knowing he shouldn’t, old habits are hard to break and he gasps out loud. Eris quickly looks over and follows his gaze. Straight down the collar of his loose tunic, to the giant, disgusting-looking burn mark blooming across his pale skin, hidden by the high collars and the vest he was wearing.

“What?”, he growls.

Lucien looks into his brother’s eyes and beholds the shame there before reigning in his cries. He won’t be a baby. He won’t be a brat. He won’t be insolent.

“Nothing”, he replies, pushing back the tears and the sob that threatens his throat. And he silently hates how that happens. They’re right. He is weak. Not strong like Eris. “I...I caught my finger in the lace”, he says, his voice quiet, and quickly pretends to pull it out of a tie. If Eris caught the glaring lie, he didn’t let on. Maybe for his sake, maybe for his own.

“Be careful then”, Eris mutters and continues the lesson.

Even when Lucien wanted to yell and give up and shove his feet back into his muddy play shoes, he didn’t. He did this. For Momma, for Eris, and for himself. Because he was proud. He was proud to be his Momma’s son. And he was proud to be Eris’s brother. If being a Vanserra makes them proud—if being a good boy for Father and looking put together and royal makes them proud...then he can do this.

Chapter Text

AUTUMN COURT: 324 YEARS AGO

Eris strode through the dimly lit halls of the Forest House, his sharp hearing catching the distant sounds of raised voices from the courtyard. A knot twisted in his gut. His brothers. Something was wrong. Their familiar tones were layered with an edge of malice that set his instincts on high alert.

As he emerged into the courtyard, the sight that greeted him turned the knot in his stomach into a leaden weight. There, in the center of the cobblestone clearing, his five younger brothers had surrounded Jesminda.

Lucien’s lesser faerie lover.

Her moon-white skin stood stark against the rough grip of even his brothers’ pale hands. Her fiery orange curls tumbled around her face, tangled from the struggle. Those brilliant monarch butterfly wings—wings that had once shimmered with life and joy—were crumpled now, pinned beneath a cruel, heavy boot. The orange of her lips, normally so vivid, was drained by fear, and her emerald eyes, wide and pleading, met Eris’s the moment he entered. She winced as Tristan stepped harder on her wing.

For a split second, something inside him shattered.

Jesminda. The girl Lucien had dared love. The girl he had planned to run away and marry apparently—proof of which was now on her trembling hand. The engagement ring gleamed in the fading twilight, a testament to the bond that Eris knew his father, Beron, would never allow.

But Eris had been trained well. The moment of weakness passed, and his face settled into a mask of cool indifference. He couldn't let them see the turmoil roiling inside him, the sickness that clawed at his insides at the sight of the female who had done nothing more than love his brother. Wholly and completely in ways that Eris himself couldn’t as a brother.

“You’ve been busy,” Eris said to his brothers, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion, as though he were commenting on a casual hunt rather than what was about to become an execution.

Jesminda’s eyes remained locked on his, a silent plea for mercy. But Eris kept his gaze steady, the calculating mind behind it racing to find a solution before it was too late.

Arrick sneered, pressing his blade closer to the delicate line of Jesminda’s throat. “Caught her trying to run. Thought we’d make it easier for Lucien by disposing of his little pet for him.”

Eris’s fists clenched behind his back, hidden in the folds of his cloak. “How thoughtful of you all.”

Before he could say more, the grand doors at the far side of the courtyard creaked open. Beron, ever the High Lord of Autumn, stepped out, his gaze sweeping over the scene like a naga-hound surveying its prey. His presence alone seemed to cast a shadow over the courtyard, a darkness that seemed to stifle the very air around them.

His lips curled into a smile so thin it could have been carved from ice colder than Kallias’s. “My sons,” Beron purred, his voice a silky, lethal thing. “You’ve done well. You’ve captured this… creature,” he said, gesturing lazily toward Jesminda, as if she were nothing more than an insect caught in a web. “A shame that she almost escaped.”

Eris’s heart hammered in his chest, though none of it showed on his face. His father’s words, though cloaked in that sickening sweetness, were a death sentence.

Jesminda trembled, her wings fluttering weakly beneath the pressure of Tristan’s boot, and for a heartbeat, Eris felt his mask slip.

"Father," he said coolly, the title bitter on his tongue, "perhaps Lucien should be the one to decide her fate. After all, she belongs to him, doesn't she?"

Beron’s gaze flickered over to Eris, eyes narrowing in that subtle way they always did when he sensed challenge. The silence stretched thin, taut as a wire, and for the first time, the sneers on his brothers' faces faltered.

Jesminda's breathing was shallow, her eyes still pleading. Eris couldn't look at her for too long—if he did, he might break. And if he broke now, she would be dead before the hour passed. Perhaps he would as well.

Beron finally spoke, his voice laced with amusement, “Decide her fate, Eris?” His tone mocked the very idea. “I think you underestimate the runt’s emotional gradeur.”

Eris fought the urge to snap back, keeping his voice calm. “Perhaps. But Lucien’s wrath will reach that level if any actions are taken against her. Kill her, and you risk turning him against you forever.”

Beron’s eyes glinted, the challenge not lost on him. For a heartbeat, Eris wondered if his father would call his bluff.

Then, Beron’s smile returned, colder than before. “We shall see. But for now, take her to the dungeons. We wouldn’t want our dear Lucien to think we acted too rashly, would we? I want to savor the look on his face when he realizes he lost. That he is not smart enough to get one over on the High Lord. On his Father.”

The word ‘father’ is said with a vicious snarl that gives away that Beron in fact, knows Lucien is most likely not his child. Though the male would never risk saying it out loud and admitting to the humiliation.

With that, Beron snaps his fingers. His brothers exchange uncertain glances. After a moment, Tristan released Jesminda, but kicks her, sending her sprawling onto the stones.

As she lay there, wings crumpled and gasping for breath, Eris gave her one last look—one he hoped would tell her to hold on, that it wasn’t over yet.

Beron smirks as she is hauled up between them and turns, striding back inside toward the dungeon, the other males following after and dragging the female along, even as she bucks and kicks and protests. One of the brothers threatens to burn the skin off her bones if she doesn’t shut up, and after that, there is only quiet.

The smell of smoke and cedar fills Eris as he breaths a lungful of Autumn’s brisk night air, shaken to his core. He knows that Beron will try to force him to be complicit. He also knows that he won’t—no matter what happens.

.

.

.

The Autumn Court throne room is suffocating, the air thick with the smell of smoke and rot. Lucien stands rigid, every muscle coiled, fury simmering beneath his skin. His brothers linger at the far end of the room, their expressions unreadable, but Lucien already knows what they are—cruel, cold-hearted bastards who revel in their power and Beron’s twisted games. He has hated them for years, for as long as he can remember. All except Eris.

But even Eris, standing off to the side, watching in silence, is part of this nightmare.

Lucien’s voice is a low snarl, barely restrained, as his eyes blaze. “Where is she?”

The others shift, exchanging glances. Their smugness is palpable. One of them, Kellon, sneers, his voice dripping with mockery. “You didn’t really think we’d let a lesser faerie—your pathetic little pet—walk free after what she’s done?”

“What has she done, exactly?” he hisses, every syllable laced with venom. “Breathed in your presence? Offended your fragile egos by existing?”

Beron lounges on the throne. “I will not allow a lesser to sully my bloodline, son.”

The words hit Lucien like a punch to the gut. Son. The only time he ever calls him son is when he feels vindicated in punishing him. His blood roars in his ears, his vision narrowing until all he sees are his brothers and the smirking satisfaction on their faces.

“You know how it works, Lucien,” another brother, Arrick, says smoothly, as if this is all some casual conversation. “Father needed a show of loyalty.”

Tristan’s smirk turns vile. “We were more than happy to oblige.”

Lucien’s heart twists, his mind racing. Jesminda. She must have been terrified, dragged into the Autumn Court’s dungeons, alone and defenseless. Rage surges through him, overwhelming everything else, but a voice in the back of his mind forces him to stay sharp, to not lose control—yet.

He turns to Eris, who hasn’t spoken a word. “You knew.” It’s not a question. The betrayal cuts deep, but not as deep as it would have if this had come from Eris himself. Still, the silence stings.

Eris’s golden eyes meet Lucien’s, colder than usual, but not mocking. “It was father’s wish. I am his loyal heir. I could not prevent this outcome if you yourself could not see it would come to this.”

Lucien laughs, bitter and broken. “Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?”

Eris’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t reply. It’s answer enough.

Lucien takes a step forward, his brothers tensing as they feel the heat of his magic, the flicker of flames sparking at his fingertips. “If any harm has come to her—”

“She’s fine,” Eris cuts in, his voice steady but laced with something Lucien can’t quite place. Regret, maybe. Or something darker. “For now.”

The fire in Lucien’s chest flares, but he forces it down, his focus narrowing. “Where is she?”

Patrick’s smile is sharp, cruel. “In the dungeons, where she belongs.”

Lucien’s rage snaps, his control shattering. “I will kill you,” he snarls, his flames roaring to life, setting his hands and wrists ablaze with fireballs, casting the room in an angry, golden glow. “All of you!”

Another brother, Solis steps back, but the others remain still, unafraid. They think they’ve won. They think they’ve broken him.

Eris moves then, stepping between Lucien and the others, his gaze hard but calm. “You will do no such thing, brother”, he snarls.

The other brothers cheer, their anticipation for an execution palpable, like dogs snapping at their leashes.

Eris mutters. “Lucien, listen to me. If you go after them, you’ll never make it to her.”

Lucien’s eyes burn with hatred, flicking between his eldest brother and the rest of the traitorous lot. “They’re not my concern. She is.”

Eris holds his gaze, his voice lowering further. “I won’t touch her.”

For a moment, Lucien is torn, caught between his fury and the faint flicker of trust that remains between him and Eris. But Jesminda’s face flashes in his mind, her warmth, her laughter—her fear.

Lucien’s world—and any hope—shatters in an instant. Eris. Eris was a distraction. Hi hatred for the male spikes, even as Eris’s eyes betray his emotions for the slightest of moments as he beholds his baby brother.

Lucien’s hands are bound behind him, the rough stone of the shackles digging into his skin as two of his elder brothers grip his arms, holding him in place. He thrashes violently, fury consuming him, but their hold is unrelenting, his power winking out.

Jesminda is dragged out from the dungeons, her delicate frame barely able to stand, her wrists bound, her skin pale and bruised as her wings drag behind her, slightly torn. Four of his other brothers, their faces twisted in cruel satisfaction, yank her forward, pulling her toward the courtyard. She stumbles, but they don’t slow, dragging her through the hall like she’s nothing more than a trophy to be paraded. He is walked out after her, bucking in their hold.

“No!” Lucien roars, his voice echoing through the stone halls, his throat raw with desperation. “Let her go! I’ll kill you all!”

His brothers laugh. Cold, empty laughter. The sound crawls under his skin, making his blood boil. He twists against his captors, his magic seething beneath the surface, begging to be unleashed. But the gorsian stone dampens his power, trapping him in place, helpless.

Beron watches from his throne, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, his lips curling into a cruel smile as they are led out of the throne room. He shouts, “She’s a lesser, Lucien! What did you think was going to happen?” His voice is smooth, mocking, as if this is all a game.

Lucien’s gaze snaps back over his shoulder to his ‘father’ as his brothers hove him, his chest heaving. “If you hurt her—” His words are cut off as Tristan tightens his grip on Lucien’s arm, twisting it painfully.

“We’re not going to just hurt her, little brother,” he sneers, his breath hot against Lucien’s ear. “We’re going to end her. Right in front of you. Consider it a lesson in loyalty.”

Lucien’s heart pounds in his chest, the sound of Jesminda’s struggling breaths down the hall as she fights, even knowing it is useless, the only thing keeping him grounded. He looks past Tristan, past his other brothers, and finds her—her terrified orange eyes, her body trembling but still fighting, still defiant, as they lock with his and soften a fraction with pure love radiating in them.

“Jesminda!” he yells, his voice ragged with panic. “Don’t—don’t give up. I’ll get us out of this, I swear—”

But his words fall away as she is dragged through the arched doors, and Lucien is pulled behind, his brothers forcing him into the courtyard where the cold night air cuts like knives.

.

.

.

Beron snarls. “You will do what you are told. You will go out there and you will hold that weak bastard back as I commanded you to!”

Eris let the magic of the command flow through his bones. Let it nearly grind them to dust as he fought it, as he withstood it. As he said no.

No. Even as it clawed at his very essence the word roared through him, smothering the command in his flames even as it gripped his soul and twisted, trying with all its might to get him to yield. But he wouldn’t. Not on this. He would not yield to this monster on this.

“No. I will not harm some innocent female simply because you despise him. I do not mind going on missions for you, and I do not mind killing when there is need, but I will not force this female’s family to grieve her all because of Lucien and his stupidity.”

Eris spits his brother’s name as if it is a sin, spits it as if he hates the taste of it in his mouth—as if he can convince his evil father to stop this. He knows his sadism will not be ceased, but Eris will not be a part of it.

“The you will be sent to the dungeon with Sigfried.” His smile was vulpine. Eris knew what that meant. Had always known what that meant, from the first time it happened when he was seven. A severe beating and lashing for insolence.

Eris held his chin high, never letting him see the vulnerability or fear. Never letting him sense anything but an unshakeable mindset. “So be it, Father.”

The smile turned into the ugliest of scowls as he called forth his strongest guard.

So Eris simply held out his wrists, the smooth coolness of the gorsian cuffs clamping around them a welcome feel if only to spare some of his soul from darkness. The kind of darkness that shines in Sigfried’s gaze—his thirst for blood.

As Eris is led down the hall to the dungeon he can hear Lucien’s screams. The same scream of his name when he was lost and terrified as a boy. The scream that cleaves through his soul like an ax.

 “Eris!” His voice cracks as he shouts his name. “Do something!” He sobs, throat raw.

Eris swallows slightly as they near the dungeon door.

“Coward!” Lucien screams through the open window, thrashing against the iron grip of his brothers. “You’d let her die!? What about me, huh!? You fucking bastard!!”

Eris flinches at that, but he sucks in a breath as he is led down the stairs. Beron lock the door behind Sigfried and saunters out.

“Enough,” Beron says, stepping out into the courtyard, his robes sweeping over the cobblestones. His cold, unforgiving gaze sweeps over Lucien, and he tilts his head, smiling as though this is nothing more than entertainment. “Your defiance ends here, Lucien. You should have known better than to believe you could love something so…weak.”

Lucien’s vision blurs red. He lunges forward with a roar, but his brothers yank him back, slamming him to the ground. Pain explodes in his shoulder, but it’s nothing compared to the agony clawing at his chest, the sheer helplessness of the moment as he watches as his father’s favorite guard, Wilhelm takes out his blade. The metal gleams in the afternoon sun.

Moments later, Lucien’s world collapses.

.

.

.

Eris wakes slowly, every nerve in his body screaming in protest as consciousness returns. The cold, damp stone beneath him is unforgiving, pressing into his bruised skin, his torn clothes doing little to soften the agony radiating through his muscles. He tries to move, but a sharp pain lances through his back, forcing a guttural groan from his throat.

His vision swims as he blinks into the dim light of the dungeon, his surroundings coming into blurred focus. Chains rattle somewhere in the darkness, and the smell of blood—his blood—fills the air. His back feels raw, skin torn open by the lashings, every shallow breath sending fresh waves of agony through his body.

He’s bleeding. Badly.

He rolls onto his side, gasping as the movement tears at his flesh, the sensation of his blood trickling down his skin a constant reminder of how close he is to breaking. The dungeon is silent, save for the distant drip of the faebane barrels and blood and the soft rustling of rats in the shadows, scavengers drawn to the scent of his suffering.

For a moment, Eris can’t remember how he got here. His mind is a fog of pain, but then the memory comes rushing back, sharp and unforgiving.

Lucien. Jesminda. The execution.

He’ll pay for this. The thought flits weakly through Eris’s mind, but he knows better. He knows the rules of his father’s court, knows the price of defying the High Lord of Autumn. And right now, he’s paying that price in blood.

He grits his teeth, trying to shift again, but the movement only tears at the fresh wounds on his back. His skin is ripped open in long, deep gashes from the whipping, each strike seared into his memory, each one carrying Beron’s anger, his disappointment. His father’s cruel last words until he disappeared into the darkness with Sigfried echo in his ears.

“You think you’re different? You think you can play the hero, Eris?”

“You are nothing without me. And you always will be.”

The whip had come down moments later, hot and fast, over and over by his strongest guard. It was a blur of pain and blood.

He’d wanted to fight back, wanted to rise to his feet and tear the male apart piece by piece—to fight for his Lucien’s heart. But he’d been too weak—physically, yes, but also in the way Beron had always wanted. Obedient. Even after all these years, Eris could feel the chains his father had placed around his neck.

A cough rattles in his chest, pulling him back to the present. His vision darkens for a moment as a wave of dizziness overtakes him, the blood loss sapping his strength. He presses his forehead against the cool stone, trying to calm his ragged breaths. The pain is too much. Every breath feels like knives, every twitch of his fingers a reminder of the damage done.

I’m not dead yet.

It’s a small victory, one that might not last much longer. His body is barely holding on, the blood pooling beneath him too much, too fast. He needs to get up, to move, to do something, but every attempt feels futile, like his body is no longer his to command.

Lucien...

When he’d finally stepped in, it had already been too late. Beron had seen it as weakness. And now this—

Eris stumbles out of the dungeon, the heavy iron door creaking open behind him as he drags his battered body into the dim corridor. His vision blurs with pain, blood still pouring from the gashes across his back, his strength ebbing with every faltering step. His legs shake beneath him, barely able to support his weight, but he keeps moving—driven by something deeper than the agony that pulses through his body.

Each footstep leaves a smear of blood in his wake, his hands brushing the cold stone walls for balance as he climbs the stairs toward his room. The halls of the Autumn Court are quiet, empty, as if the entire court holds its breath in the aftermath of what has been done.

Eris’s breath comes in ragged bursts, every inhale a battle against the fire in his lungs. His body is weak, broken, but something far worse grips him—an overwhelming sense of dread, a pit opening wider and wider in his chest. He needs to get to his room, needs to escape the suffocating cold of the dungeon, but as he stumbles past an open window, something makes him stop, something calls to him like a phantom hand on his shoulder telling him to listen.

He peers out through the half open pane of stained glass, the familiar sight of the courtyard sprawling below, bathed in the dim light of the setting sun. And then, his heart stops.

There, in the center of the courtyard, lies Jesminda.

Her body is sprawled on the ground, her wings broken and torn, surrounded by a pool of crimson. Her blood glistens in the fading light, soaking into the ground as if it’s trying to pull her deeper into the earth. And her head—her head is severed, lying several feet away, her eyes staring blankly into nothing.

Eris’s breath catches in his throat, a raw, strangled sound escaping him as the reality crashes down around him. The world tilts, his vision narrowing to just that horrific image, his mind barely able to process what he’s seeing. Jesminda. Dead. And Lucien...Lucien…

His eyes scan the courtyard frantically and his hand trembles against the window frame, crimson slipping between his fingers as he grips it tighter, his knuckles white. He wants to look away, to unsee what’s before him, but he’s frozen, rooted to the spot.

A cold gust of wind sweeps through the courtyard, rustling the fallen leaves around Jesminda’s body, but the stillness remains. There’s no one there to mourn her. No one to rage for her. Only Eris, watching from above, powerless.

His vision blurs again, but this time it’s not from pain. His chest heaves with the effort of holding himself together, the rage and sorrow warring within him, threatening to tear him apart. But then, voices carry on the wind—sharp and commanding.

He turns his head, his gaze shifting from the broken corpse of Jesminda to the balcony across the courtyard. There, standing tall and imperious, is Beron.

The High Lord of the Autumn Court stands with his back straight, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the bloodied scene with detached indifference. Around him, all of Eris’s five brothers stand, their postures rigid, waiting for his word.

Eris’s blood runs cold as he watches his father give a slight nod, his voice carrying faintly through the stillness.

“Now, finish it,” Beron says, his tone cold, final. “Solis, Patrick, Kellon. Hunt him down. Kill the runt.”

Eris’s heart lurches in his chest, the pit in his stomach widening into a chasm. He stumbles forward, pressing himself against the window as he realizes what’s happening. His father is sending his brothers to hunt Lucien. To kill him.

“No…” The word slips from his lips, barely more than a breath. Panic claws at his insides as he watches one of his brothers—Tristan, the cruelest of them all—smile, turning to his pack of brothers, and pointing to where Lucien stumbles back weakly before fleeing as fast as he can muster. South. Towards the Spring border.

Eris’s vision sharpens, the fog of pain lifting as his desperation rises. He pushes away from the window, his legs shaking beneath him, the blood still flowing from his wounds. His breath comes in shallow gasps as he stumbles down the hall, barely able to think through the haze of agony and fury.

I have to save him.

He’ll be hunted like an animal, his blood spilled just like Jesminda’s. The thought sends a fresh wave of anger surging through Eris, giving him strength where there should be none. He promised his mother he would protect her baby. Always. And Lucien...Glowheart...he loves Lucien, too. Even if he hasn’t said it to him since he was a little boy.

He reaches his room, nearly collapsing as he shoves the door open, his vision spinning from the blood loss. The pain in his back is unbearable, but he grits his teeth, staggering to his feet. There’s no time. No time to rest. No time to heal.

Nearly collapsing onto his desk, he fumbles around with parchment and grabs his quill, quickly but shakily scrawling out a desperate message. To Tamlin. The High Lord of Spring.

As much as he despises putting Lucien’s fate in that male’s hands, he knows that Tamlin had spoken to Lucien before at court-wide events. Perhaps he can find it in his heart to protect a male with a father as despicable as his own had been.

{Get the hell over to your Northern border. The youngest Vanserra, a rumored acquaintance of yours, is being hunted by his own brothers. I know your history and how you once went through the same. Do not let this be the end of him.}

With the snap of his fingers, the letter disappears. His breaths saw from his lungs and the faebane used on the whip sears through him like his fire would to any other fae.

The door creaks open minutes later. He doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is—his father’s presence is a chilling, pulsing certainty. Beron’s footsteps echo with deliberate menace on the stone floor, each step a reminder of the cruelty that follows him.

“Quite a sight”, Beron’s voice cuts through the heavy silence, dripping with contempt. “You’re still standing. I would have thought you’d be writhing on the floor by now.”

Eris’s teeth grind together, his grip on the desk the only thing keeping him upright. His body is wracked with pain, but he forces himself to stay steady, facing the dark truth of Beron’s approach.

“What do you want?” Eris asks, his voice barely more than a strained whisper, thick with agony and suppressed fury.

Beron’s voice takes on a casual tone as he steps closer, his shadow falling across Eris’s weakened form. “I came to inform you of a small adjustment I’ve made. To ensure our little family remains perfectly aligned.”

Eris’s heart skips a beat, dread pooling in his gut. He knows Beron’s casual demeanor masks something far more sinister. He forces himself to turn, his bloodied face twisted in a mix of pain and fury. “What have you done?”

Beron’s lips curl into a cruel smile, his eyes cold and calculating. “I’ve had a Daemati alter Lucien’s memory. Quite a clever trick, really. He now believes that you were the one who held him down while Jesminda was executed. That you did betrayed him.”

Eris’s vision darkens, the blood in his veins nearly freezing as the implications of Beron’s words hit him. His breath catches, and he stumbles back, nearly collapsing from the weight of the revelation. “You—”

“Yes,” Beron interrupts smoothly, his voice a blend of satisfaction and menace. “Lucien will now believe you are the one who betrayed him. He’ll hate you, distrust you. And because of that, you two will never unite against me. The separation of the two closest brothers. It was a necessary precaution.”

Eris’s entire body shakes with barely-contained rage and betrayal.

“You see, Eris,” Beron continues, his tone mockingly sympathetic, “if Lucien doesn’t trust you, he’ll never ally with you. He’ll never join forces with you to challenge me. And as long as he remains divided from you, you remain loyal to only me.”

Eris’s fists clench, his bloodied fingers digging into his palms as he tries to hold back the fury that threatens to consume him. “You’re not earning my loyalty,” he hisses.

Beron’s eyes flash with dark amusement. “I’m preserving my reign, regardless. I’m ensuring my power remains unchallenged. And as a bonus, you get to live with the knowledge that you are forever despised by the one you tried to protect. I’d say it’s a fair trade.”

He struggles to hold back tears of rage and helplessness. “Lucien will find out the truth one day.”

Beron’s laugh is cold, devoid of warmth or empathy. “Perhaps. But by then, the damage will be done. You and Lucien will remain divided. And I will remain unchallenged.”

With a final, contemptuous glance, Beron turns on his heel, his footsteps echoing as he walks away, leaving Eris alone in the room. The weight of his father’s machinations presses down on him, a heavy, suffocating shroud. Betrayed, broken, and now separated from his only beloved brother—his glowheart, Eris is left to confront the depths of his father’s cruelty and the consequences of his own helplessness.

As Beron’s footsteps fade, Eris sinks to the floor, the pain in his back a distant throb compared to the agony of betrayal. He’s been shattered, not just by his father’s brutality, but by the realization that his brother’s trust has been stolen, leaving him alone in the dark with only his anger and regret to fuel him through the following centuries.

Chapter Text

OORID A.K.A “UNDER THE MOUNTAIN”: 53.5 YEARS AGO

Beron had brought them here.

To bargain. To try and gain the upper-hand in whatever upcoming power struggle there may be with this so-deemed Queen of Faerie.

Eris stands against the cold, jagged wall of the Under the Mountain throne room, his eyes fixed on Amarantha. She lounges in the center of her court, cruel and elegant, a predator toying with her prey as Beron drones on about an alliance. Amarantha looks more amused by the moment, as if his father was nothing more than a jester.

The stench of power clings to the air, suffocating. His wretched brothers surround him—silent, smug. His mother stands rigid by his father’s side, her beauty a frozen mask that hides her terror, though Eris can feel it like a poison seeping through the cracks.

Wrong. This is so wrong. He could get them all killed, and they have no way of stopping him.

He’s gotten used to this suffocating tension, the weight of helplessness gnawing at his insides every second. But today, something feels different. A flicker of movement by the entrance of the cavern draws his attention, and his heart lurches into his throat.

Lucien strides into the room, flanked by two of Amarantha’s loyal monsters. The sight strikes both unimaginable joy and unimaginable fear in Eris. He’s bedecked in his emissary finery; a silver jerkin with a pale terracotta toned tunic underneath, threads of green and gold interwoven within. He looks healthy and, for the most part, thriving.

His youngest brother moves with a boldness—a cockiness— that barely masks the tension in his shoulders. His russet eyes—twin to their mother’s eyes—are fixed on Amarantha as he approaches the dais. Eris’s heart twists with dread. Especially as Beron’s sneer and hateful glare cast down on Lucien. A small flicker of satisfaction sparks in Eris as Lucien’s ignores him wholly, as if he is not even there.

What the hell are you doing, Lucien?

The room falls eerily silent as Lucien reaches the center, stopping just shy of Amarantha’s throne. His jaw is clenched, his russet eyes ablaze with fury, though he bows his head just enough to show the semblance of respect. But Eris knows his brother’s temper—knows it too well—and a sick feeling spreads through him as quick as his fire.

Amarantha’s eyes flicker over Lucien, a slow, dangerous smile curving her lips. "Well, well," she drawls, her voice dripping with venom. "The Spring Court sends its emissary. What an unexpected pleasure."

Lucien’s voice is steady, but Eris hears the tension in it, the way it coils beneath the surface. "I’ve come to ask for a reprieve," Lucien says, standing tall. "For my court. For my people."

A chill rushes through Eris. This is a death sentence. He can feel it in the air, the shift in Amarantha’s expression, the cruel amusement lighting her eyes. His father’s smirk falters for a moment, his brothers shifting uncomfortably. Even they sense it.

"A reprieve?" Amarantha repeats, voice soft, dangerous. She tilts her head, mockingly curious. "For your people?"

Lucien doesn’t flinch. “Yes. There’s been enough bloodshed with all of the monsters. You message is clear. I have come to barter for peace on behalf of High Lord Tamlin. Since neither of you are willing to give up your fight, I have come to...see if a compromise is possible.”

Eris’s breath catches. His brother is stepping straight into a snare.

Amarantha’s soft chuckle turns into a sharp, vicious laugh. “Bloodshed? You think we’ve had enough bloodshed?” Her voice drops, low and icy. “Oh, little fox. You’ve no idea the amount of bloodshed I can rain down on all of you if you test me.”

Lucien stands his ground, but Eris can see the slight tremor in his hands, the strain in his posture. He wants to yell at him, tell him to stop, to get out. But his mouth stays closed, his body frozen in place by the invisible chains of his father’s angry gaze as he steps back from the new conversation. His iron-clad expectation, but also the mere threat Amarantha holds in terms of them all, and their court, keeps Eris in check.

Amarantha’s smile fades, her gaze turning cold and calculating. "You think you can come here and ask for mercy? After his untoward refusal?"

Lucien’s jaw tightens. “I’m asking for a chance to—”

“You dare ask anything of me?” Her voice cuts through the air, sharp as a blade, eerie as the ghost of a nightmare. Dead silence follows. Even Beron stiffens beside him.

Before Lucien can respond, Amarantha lifts a hand, and her two cronies—hulking, brutish creatures—are on him in an instant. They grab him by the arms, forcing him to his knees. Before Lucien can react, Amarantha waves a hand, gorsian shackles clicking into place, binding Lucien’s hands behind his back, rendering him powerless as it fizzles his magic from his veins.

Eris’s heart pounds in his chest. This is going to turn ugly—fast.

“Hold him still,” Amarantha orders, her voice low with cruel delight. Her eyes gleam as she rises from her throne, stepping down toward Lucien. She gasps his chin tightly in her grip, her sharp nails digging into his jaw, small beads of blood trickling down from her hold.

No. The word roars through Eris, panic for his baby brother’s life. His instincts scream at him to move, to do something, but the weight of everything renders him helpless.

Lucien struggles in vain against his captors, his russet eyes blazing with defiance. “You monster! Nobody fucking wants you! Not here! Why don’t you just go back to the shithole you crawled out of!” he growls through gritted teeth.

Amarantha tilts her head, as if amused by his defiance. “Oh, how delicious your anger is. How delighted your father will be to see you properly punished for once”, she purrs, voice dripping with mockery. “Let me show you what happens to those who think they can outwit me.”

Before Lucien can respond, she drives her razor sharp fingernail—more like a talon— into his left eye.

The scream that tears from Lucien’s throat is a sound that will haunt Eris forever as her finger scoops out his eyeball with minimal effort, like butter.

Blood spills across Lucien’s face, the rich russet of his eye gone, replaced by a brutal, gaping socket. Amarantha’s smile only grows as she rips it free from the nerves with a sickening wet sound.

But she’s not done. Setting his eyeball down beside her, she tips his face up further, using that same talon to send more of a message. She tears it down his skin starting over his eyebrow, taking her time dragging it through the open socket once more, before continuing to slice his face all the way to his jaw, as easy as Tamlin’s claws on wallpaper. Perhaps because of that comparison.

Lucien’s raw screams continue to fracture the previous silence of the throne room, his body convulsing in agony. Their mother grasps Eris’s arm so she doesn’t faint, her face turned away both with guilt and the agony of her now green face. She trembles as tears fall down her own face.

“It seems you have made your mother very upset, little Lucien”, she laughs, like a crow cawing before standing and putting his eyeball in a jar that she manifests onto her throne. “You should be thankful I didn’t have a second ring. You and Jurian could have become well acquainted. Isn’t that right, General?”, she sneers at the eyeball on her finger, which rolls.

Eris’s entire body trembles with rage and grief, but he remains frozen, forced to watch as the only brother he ever cared for is destroyed before his eyes. Lucien is dragged away, blood-soaked and broken, barely alive. Most likely to be dumped back on Tamlin’s doorstep as a message clearly received.

Eris allows his mother to weep into his shoulder, Beron’s face one of contorted amusement as he watches his wife’s bastard being toted away. And Eris can do nothing but pray that Tamlin will once again come through to save their Glowheart’s life.

Chapter Text

OORID A.K.A “UNDER THE MOUNTAIN”: 35 YEARS AGO

Eris leans into the shadowed alcove, his heartbeat steady despite the turmoil brewing inside him. His amber eyes track the familiar figure moving toward the stone-walled chamber—Helion.

He’s been watching for a while now, unnoticed by either of them. They’re too wrapped up in their grief, in whispered words of longing. Fools, he thinks, his jaw clenching. She’s going to get herself killed. He’s going to get her killed.

A part of him wants to turn away, to leave them to their dangerous reunion. He doesn’t want to see Helion drop to his knees in front of his mother, or witness the softening of her face—the face that Beron has twisted and hollowed for years. Helion’s presence brings that softness back, the one she hides from everyone else. But it won’t matter. Not here. Not under Amarantha’s gaze.

Helion whispers her nickname—Aurie—like it’s the only word that matters in this world. “My Goldheart", Helion whispers, a play on the meaning of her name.

Eris grinds his teeth, suppressing a surge of anger. How many times has he heard that name slip from Helion’s lips, like a prayer? And how many times has he seen the flicker of hope in his mother’s eyes, only for it to be crushed under the weight of Beron’s cruelty later that night?

When Helion drops to his knees, clutching her hand, Eris presses his back harder against the cold stone. He shouldn’t be here. But neither should Helion. If Father finds out… Eris’s stomach twists. Beron would kill them both—or worse. He’d make them watch each other suffer.

Helion’s voice trembles with desperation. “Tell me that one day we will be together again. For good. Please.”

Eris’s nails dig into his palms, his emotions dangerously close to slipping. He can’t let this go on. Not here, not now. His mother, despite her trembling voice, gives Helion the words he’s so desperate to hear. But it won’t be enough. It never is. And if Beron or Amarantha find out…that is too much of a possibility, a risk, with Rhysand here and Beron up to his tricks.

He has to end this. His mother doesn’t need his pity. She needs his protection.

Helion pulls her close, kissing her, and it’s more than Eris can take. He steps out of the shadows, making sure his footsteps are loud enough to cut through their foolish moment.

“Ahem.”

The sound startles them apart, like guilty children caught doing something forbidden. His mother’s wide eyes meet his first. For a brief second, he sees panic and grief flash across her face, but she quickly replaces it with the cold mask she’s perfected over the years. The mask they both wear to survive.

“Eris,” she breathes, her hand clutching her chest.

He keeps his gaze hard, moving it from her to Helion. “Mother... Father sends for you.” His voice is flat, emotionless. It has to be. They’ve all learned to survive like this—stone cold, showing nothing.

Helion straightens, his arrogance slipping back into place like a shield. But Eris knows better. He saw the vulnerability just moments before, the weakness that could get them all killed.

“I suggest you leave these chambers now,” Eris says, his tone sharp with warning. “Before my father scents something...familiar. And takes it out on the female you claim to love.”

Helion stiffens, his fists tightening at the words, but he doesn’t move. For a second, Eris thinks he might challenge him. But he stays quiet.

Good. Eris doesn’t want to throw Helion to the crows today, but he will if it means protecting his mother.

He turns to her, the tension in the air between them thick enough to choke on. “Mates,” he grumbles. “You should have more control over yourselves as to not do this.”

“I know,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “And there’s nothing to be done about anything here...it is more difficult...”

Nothing to be done. The phrase echoes in his mind, filling him with the same hollow feeling he’s known since he was a child. Maybe once he would have believed that too. But now? Now, he doesn’t know what to believe. He’s learned how to play his part in this dangerous game, just as she has.

He meets Helion’s gaze, amber locking with amber. They both know what’s at stake. They both know how dangerous this is, but Helion’s foolish heart keeps pushing him closer to the edge.

Eris can’t let his mother fall with him.

“You stay away from each other,” he snaps, voice tight with barely contained fury. “Any close proximity, and your scents will give you away. You don’t come calling, you don’t look at her like that, and you damn well don’t get caught. Play your part, or none of us will make it out of here alive.”

His mother steps forward, her voice soft, pleading. “Eris, please…”

For a moment, the anger cracks. Her hand rests on his shoulder, delicate and trembling, and it sends a jolt of emotion through him. He fights it down, fights the urge to crumble under the weight of all the things left unsaid.

He gently brushes her hand off and steps back. “Father is expecting you.”

Eris doesn’t look at her again. He can’t. Instead, he locks eyes with Helion, the older male standing in front of him, their shared knowledge hanging heavy between them. Helion will never stop loving her, and that makes him dangerous.

Eris grabs Helion’s elbow as he tries to leave. “I don’t need lectures from you, boy,” Helion growls, that old arrogance slipping back.

“Apparently you do,” Eris snaps back, his voice low and seething. “She killed three High Lords today, including your fucking brother, and you think sneaking off with my mother is smart? You think Amarantha doesn’t have eyes and ears all over this place? I could’ve killed you both before you even saw me.”

Helion’s mouth twists into a smirk, but Eris isn’t fooled. “Maybe if you had a mate, you’d understand.”

A flash of raw pain shoots through him, but he keeps his face neutral. “I understand more than you think,” he mutters, voice barely above a growl. “And don’t test me, Helion. There is one thing on my side that you don’t have. I will do whatever it takes to protect her. Even if that means throwing you to the wolves. You don’t have the luxury of throwing me to them if you want to keep her love.”

Helion’s eyes narrow and his frown deepens, but Eris doesn’t care. He turns sharply and stalks back toward the throne room. Stay stone cold, he tells himself, forcing the mask back on. It’s the only way to survive.

And if one day it costs him everything? So be it. At least the only two people in this world that he loves would be alive another day.

Chapter Text

OORID A.K.A “UNDER THE MOUNTAIN”: 3 YEARS AGO

Eris stands in the shadows, his arms crossed, his heart a knot of dread as the scene unfolds before him. Lucien is on his knees, bloodied and defiant, his flame-red hair disheveled under the weight of Amarantha’s cruel gaze. She lounges on her throne, smug and composed.

It is a game to her, Eris thinks bitterly, though he keeps his face impassive.

Rhysand moves to her side, summoned without a word. His steps are casual, yet they carry the weight of something far more sinister. Eris doesn’t flinch, but his stomach tightens when the High Lord of the Night Court comes to stand beside him—too close, his dark power pressing against Eris’s senses like a suffocating fog. From the corner of his eye, Eris watches Rhysand bow, the shadows clinging to him like a second skin.

Amarantha's voice is as sweet as poison. “Is this the girl you saw at Tamlin’s estate?”

Rhysand brushes an invisible speck of dust from his tunic, his expression one of sheer boredom. "I suppose," he says.

Eris’s jaw tightens as Amarantha points to the girl in chains—Clare, a mortal who had suffered unimaginable torment at the whim of this wicked queen. But it’s not her that holds Eris's attention. It's Lucien, whose defiance flickers like a dying flame.

Amarantha’s eyes glitter with amusement as she turns back to Rhysand. "But did you or did you not tell me that this girl was the one you saw?"

"Humans all look alike to me", Rhysand replies, his tone as smooth as silk.

Eris's hands clench at his sides. Liar. Rhysand knows exactly who the girl is, but he plays his part in Amarantha’s twisted games with the ease of a master. The way his power lingers, waiting, unsettles Eris, though he hides it well. He knows what’s coming next.

Eris feels his other brothers’ presence like a stain on his soul. He can almost taste their hunger for Lucien’s suffering, the way they grin like wolves circling prey.

The Attor steps forward, its grotesque form looming over Lucien. The creature grabs him, hauling him to his feet, and Eris’s heart clenches. No. Not like this.

Lucien thrashes, but the Attor’s nails dig into his skin, forcing him to his knees once again. Eris’s throat tightens as he watches his brother’s struggle—hopeless, futile. Amarantha’s finger flicks toward Rhysand.

“Hold his mind,” she commands, her voice dripping with venom.

Eris’s heart plummets. He’s seen this before—felt the icy claws of Rhysand’s power reaching into his own mind once, long ago. He shudders at the memory, at the helplessness that comes with it. Lucien will not last. Not against him.

Rhysand cocks his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he steps toward Lucien, his hands still in his pockets. Lucien stiffens, the tension in his body visible even from a distance. Sweat glistens on his brow. Eris holds his breath, his own pulse pounding in his ears. He can sense Rhysand’s power reaching out, those invisible claws wrapping around Lucien’s mind.

Lucien groans, his body trembling as if the weight of Rhysand’s magic is crushing him from the inside out.

“Her name?” Amarantha asks again, her voice a velvet noose tightening around Lucien’s neck. Silence stretches, and Eris feels the weight of it pressing down on him like an impending storm. Lucien says nothing, his eyes screwed shut in defiance, his lips sealed. He will not give her Feyre's name, no matter the cost.

From the corner of his eye, Eris watches his brothers—grinning, eager, without a trace of pity. He grits his teeth, making it look like a feral grin at Lucien’s torment. Cowards. They delight in Lucien's suffering, every one of them, as if it brings them joy to watch their youngest brother broken before them.

Amarantha’s eyes flick to Tamlin before addressing Lucien, her fingers tapping idly on the arm of her throne. "I don’t suppose your handsome brothers know?" she purrs, her gaze then flicking to Eris and his kin.

Fuck you. If I had my fire, I would burn you and this entire fucking mountain to a crisp for him. You will get nothing from me.

Composing his raging heart and nerves he plasters a lazy smile onto his face; let’s his eyes sparkle with greed for her attention, the way he has so many times with Beron. “If we did, Lady, we’d be the first to tell you,” he replies, voice dripping with arrogance.

Lady. Because you and no -Queen- of mine.

Amarantha smiles, considering him for a moment, before she raises her hand again. Rhysand’s smile grows faintly, his power coiling tighter around Lucien. The groan that escapes Lucien’s lips is pained, desperate.

No. Please.  

He begins mentally reciting a prayer to the Mother, begging her to spare him. Reminding her what a good male Lucien is, and that he will take any punishment of fate for him.

And then, it happens.

"Feyre!" A shout, clear and sharp, echoes through the chamber. The girl—Feyre—steps forward, her voice trembling but strong.

Amarantha’s eyes glitter with triumph, and Rhysand releases his magical hold on Lucien. Eris watches as his brother slumps to the floor, trembling, barely able to hold himself up. His brothers’ smiles falter, and Eris can’t help but bare his teeth in a silent snarl directed at Feyre for taking so long.

Though he feels a fleeting moment of relief, it does nothing to ease his own shame, his helplessness. He does not move, does not react, even as Lucien lies crumpled on the floor before him.

“Feyre,” Amarantha said, reveling in the taste of it on her tongue. “An old name—from our earlier dialects. Well, Feyre,” she drawls. “I promised you a riddle.”

Eris clenches his jaw. Play the game. Stay alive. One day it will all be explained if this human truly is the key.  

.

.

.

Feyre’s second trial comes too fast, and Eris finds himself standing near the edge of the pit, his posture rigid, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He forces his breathing to remain steady, though inside, his heart races. Below, the scene is one of chaos and cruel amusement—Amarantha’s court, a circus of torment, and at its center, his brother.

Lucien.

He doesn’t flinch as the chains rattle, nor when the faeries around him cackle and place their bets. His face is as cold and unreadable as ever, but inside, every muscle in his body is taut, wound like a bowstring ready to snap. The spiked grate begins its descent from the ceiling, slow and deliberate, the heat of the glowing iron already thickening the air.

Lucien lies on the other side of the iron gate, chained to the floor, helpless. His good eye is wide, rimmed with white, his metal one spinning in its socket with stress. Eris can almost hear the panic in his brother’s ragged breathing, see the pulse thrumming at Lucien’s neck, the frantic rise and fall of his chest. Stay calm, Lucien. Stay calm. But he knows his brother’s fear, knows it’s clawing at him from the inside, just like it’s clawing at himself.

He watches Feyre from above, standing on the opposite side of the pit, staring at the inscription carved into the wall. She’s shaking, trying to steady herself, trying to make sense of the riddle, but Eris sees the way her eyes flit over the words, unfocused, helpless.

Gods, she can’t read.

The realization sinks into him. Feyre, the human girl who holds Lucien’s life in her hands, is illiterate. Amarantha knew, most likely from that bastard Rhysand, and now they’re all watching, waiting for her to fail. His brothers beside him snicker quietly, their voices low, but Eris doesn’t acknowledge them. He can’t take his eyes off the pit.

Feyre’s hand hovers over the levers—three choices, three chances, and only one that will save them. The others will condemn them both to a slow, agonizing death beneath the red-hot spikes. He watches her hesitate, her fingers trembling, and his stomach twists painfully.

Pick one. Just pick one.

He tells himself to prepare for Lucien’s death, and flashes of his mother’s unending grief washes through his mind. A murmur ripples through the crowd, and Eris’s eyes flick to Rhysand, lurking in the shadows. The High Lord of the Night Court’s face is impassive, unreadable, but Eris knows Rhysand’s games, knows the subtle manipulations that weave through his every action. Even now, with the court focused on Feyre and the spikes, Rhysand’s power hums beneath the surface, nudging her toward the answer, he realizes. Toward the third lever.

“Just pick one!” Lucien’s voice, high and strained, cracks through the tension in the room. Eris’s jaw clenches as the sound of his brother’s desperation cuts through him.

Lucien is trapped, staring helplessly at the spikes lowering toward him, his chains rattling uselessly as he fights to free himself. Eris can see the raw fear in Lucien’s remaining eye, the silent plea for help. It’s an expression Lucien would never show to their father, to anyone in their family—but here, in this pit, facing death, he has no mind to think.

Eris wants to move, wants to step forward and end this madness, but he’s frozen, unable to interfere. To do so would draw attention, would reveal too much. And Amarantha… Amarantha would relish the opportunity to turn her sadistic gaze on him.

I can’t. I won’t make it any worse. It'll be alright, Glowheart. Please, Mother, spare him. 

His fists curl behind his back, fingernails biting into his palms, the only sign of the war raging inside him.

Don’t feel. Don’t care.

It’s the mantra he’s clung to for centuries, the armor he wears, but right now, it feels fragile, like it might crack.

Feyre’s fingers stretch toward the middle lever—then stop. She hesitates, flinching as if something inside her hand burns. Eris’s gaze narrows as he watches her hand withdraw, watches her shake her head, her breathing coming in sharp, panicked gasps. She reaches for the first lever. Again, she flinches.

Rhysand’s power. Subtle, but there. His violet eyes gleam in the shadows as he watches her struggle, watches her fight the invisible pain that shoots through her newly tattooed hand. Eris’s pulse quickens.

She has to choose the third lever. If she doesn’t…

The spiked grate is descending faster now, a looming, monstrous thing above the pit. Sweat beads on Feyre’s brow, her eyes darting between the levers and Lucien’s helpless form. Eris’s breath catches in his throat as she reaches for the third lever, but stops again. Her hand hovers.

Pick it, damn you. Pick the third.

His brothers laugh at his predicament and Eris forces the tears down. He has the good mind to turn his sob into a low laugh.

She reaches for the second lever again, hesitates—then moves to the third. Lucien’s voice cuts through the silence once more, raw with fear. “Feyre, please!”

Eris’s heart pounds against his ribs.

Do it. Do it now.

With a trembling hand, Feyre pulls the third lever. The grate stops, hovering inches above her head. For a heartbeat, the entire cavern is silent.

Then, slowly, the grate begins to rise, lifting back toward the ceiling. The cool air floods the pit, and Eris lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Lucien collapses to the floor in relief, kissing the ground beneath him, his chains clattering against the stone.

Eris watches his brother’s shaking form, the panic still etched on his face. He’s alive.

Thank the gods, he’s alive.

But as the floor beneath Feyre and Lucien rises, bringing them back to the surface, Eris feels no sense of victory. This trial, this cruel game, is only the beginning. Lucien may have survived today, but Amarantha will find another way to torment him. Another way to break him.

And when that day comes, Eris knows he’ll be standing here again, just like now, powerless to stop it. Powerless to save the only brother he’s ever loved.

Chapter Text

OORID A.K.A “UNDER THE MOUNTAIN”: 3 YEARS AGO

Eris stands in the shadows, every muscle tense, watching the scene unfold with cold detachment masking the fire raging inside him. Lucien kneels in the center of the room, chained to a post, his head bowed in submission. His once-vibrant red hair hangs in sweat-drenched clumps, sticking to his neck and shoulders. His breath comes in uneven, shallow gasps, as if he knows what’s coming and is already bracing for the inevitable.

Amarantha is circling him, her lips twisted in a sick smile, reveling in the fear that ripples through the room. She pauses and turns to Tamlin, her voice a honeyed mockery as she speaks, “Twenty lashes, Tamlin. Use all your strength. Make sure he feels every. Single. One.”

Tamlin flinches, his jaw tightening, but he doesn’t respond. His hands tremble as he steps forward, his body stiff with reluctance. Eris watches the way Tamlin’s fingers curl, knuckles white, around the handle of the whip. The silence in the room is suffocating, the air heavy with tension. Tamlin’s pain is palpable, but his loyalty to Lucien is caged beneath the iron grip of Amarantha’s command.

Eris’s heart thunders painfully against his ribs as Tamlin raises the whip. He hesitates, his arm trembling in the air, and his gaze shifts to Lucien. Eris can see it—the silent plea in Tamlin’s eyes, the desperation. Tamlin’s lips part slightly, as though he might beg for mercy on Lucien’s behalf, but he knows better. They all do.

“Tamlin,” Amarantha’s voice cuts through the stillness like a blade, sharp and lethal, her eyes narrowing with dangerous amusement. “If you hesitate any longer, I will kill him now. Right here. With you watching. I’ll slice him open from neck to navel.”

Fear grips Eris’s heart, though his face remains stoic. Tamlin’s shoulders slump for a heartbeat, his breath faltering. Eris can see it—the moment Tamlin's last hope dies.

As if a bucket of cold water has been dropped on him, Eris’s throat tightens.

There’s no saving Lucien from this.

With a shaky breath, Tamlin raises the whip again, tears glistening in his eyes. He brings it down with brutal force, the sound of it cracking against Lucien’s back echoing in the cavernous room. Lucien flinches, his body jerking violently with the impact, but he doesn’t make a sound. The blood blooms instantly from the first lash, staining his shirt and the floor beneath him.

Tamlin’s face crumples, his tears spilling over silently as he pulls the whip back for the second strike. His hand shakes more violently now, but he brings it down again, harder this time, and the sickening crack reverberates through the space. Lucien’s back arches in agony, but still, he doesn’t cry out. Blood seeps through the torn fabric of his shirt, spilling down his sides and dripping onto the stone.

Eris feels bile rise in his throat.

Lucien, hold on. Please. You can do this. You are strong. I wish you knew just who you are.

But Lucien’s breathing is already ragged, his body trembling under the weight of each lash. Tamlin’s face is a mask of torment, tears streaming down his cheeks, but Amarantha watches with cold amusement, relishing in every moment.

“Harder, Tamlin,” she purrs. “Or would you like me to take over?”

Tamlin freezes for a moment, his body trembling, but he doesn’t stop. He lifts the whip again, his sobs silent, his tears falling onto the floor with each lash he delivers. The sound of the whip slicing through the air is matched only by the sickening thud of flesh tearing. By the tenth strike, Lucien’s back is nothing but a mess of blood and torn skin, his golden skin paled and splattered with gore. His breaths come in shallow gasps, his head hanging limp.

Eris watches, stone-faced, as Tamlin hesitates again, his hand wavering in the air. He’s breaking, his soul splintering with every strike. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks, broken by his tears. “Please, Amarantha...”

Eris’s lips part as if he would say something, but the words catch in his throat, especially as his brothers leer and snicker. Beron had thankfully, yet uncharacteristically, taken his mother away from the sight, and Amarantha hadn’t bothered to ask where they were.

You are our Glowheart. Everyone who loves you. Everyone who befriended you. You are more than you know. You’re stronger than you believe. You’re a survivor.

Amarantha’s eyes flash with cruelty, and she steps forward, her finger tracing a slow line across Lucien’s ravaged back. “Twenty lashes, Tamlin. Or I’ll end his life right now.” Her voice is soft, dangerously sweet. “And I’ll make sure it’s slow. He could hang next to our dear Clare.”

Tamlin’s breath catches in a sob, but he forces himself to continue. The eleventh strike falls, harder this time, and Lucien’s body jerks violently. Blood spatters across the floor, pooling beneath him, and still, Lucien only whimpers.

Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack. Eris believes he will hear that noise in his sleep. He knows the feeling of pain, the searing, the blindness, the helplessness of it.

The fifteenth strike hits, and scream escapes Lucien’s lips. It’s the first real sound of pain he’s made, and it feels like a dagger to Eris’s heart.

He can see the way Lucien’s shoulders tremble, the way his hands shake in the chains that bind him. He’s losing consciousness.

Shock begins to settle into his baby brother’s system and his body shakes uncontrollably.

Tamlin’s sobs are silent now, his body trembling as he forces himself to continue. By the eighteenth lash, Lucien’s body is limp, hanging lifelessly from the chains. His back is a mangled, bloody ruin, and Tamlin’s tears flow freely, mixing with the blood pooling on the floor.

“Tamlin, darling,” Amarantha’s voice is sharp, biting. “Finish it.”

With the last of his strength, Tamlin raises the whip again, and then one final time. His face is a picture of agony, tears streaming down his cheeks, as he brings it down across Lucien’s back. The force of it sends Lucien collapsing forward, unconscious, his body hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The silence in the room is deafening, the tension so thick it feels like a noose around Eris’s throat. He almost wishes it were. If Lucien dies, I want to go with him.

Amarantha claps slowly, mockingly. “Well done, Tamlin,” she purrs, her voice laced with sadistic pleasure. “You’ve done your duty.”

Tamlin drops the whip, his chest heaving with silent sobs as he stares at Lucien’s bloodied, broken form on the floor. He falls to his knees in Lucien’s blood, his eyes hollow, as Amarantha turns away, her laughter echoing in the room. “Come now, Tamlin. Your strength and power is to be admired. It’s a pity your father never trained you correctly in how to be a ruthless High Lord.

Eris’s fists clench at his sides, his nails digging into his palms so hard he draws blood. His heart pounds in his chest, but he keeps his face impassive, refusing to let his anger or grief show.

One day, Amarantha. One day, you’ll pay for this.

Lucien’s body is dragged away, limp and bloodied, and Eris steps forward before stopping himself, that old protective instinct hitting him in the chest. Instead, he watches him go, his chest burning with rage and helplessness. But he remains silent. Always silent. For now. One day...once day he will be able to hold his brother in his arms again and tell him the whole truth.

Chapter Text

THE MORTAL LANDS- BAND OF EXILES MANOR: 1 YEAR AGO

Eris leaned back in a golden chair, crossing his legs with deliberate ease. His flame-colored hair gleamed in the firelight, but he kept his eyes trained not on the Illyrian brute in the doorway, nor on Vassa or Jurian—no, his focus was on Lucien. It always had been.

Lucien, who had entered with that false bravado, his scarred face giving away little to the others but so much to Eris. The tension in Lucien’s shoulders, the guarded way he moved—oh, Eris noticed it all. Even after all these years, he could read Lucien like an open book. Lucien’s golden eye clicked and whirred, taking in the scene, but he wouldn’t meet Eris’s gaze. Wouldn’t let him see the deeper cracks forming beneath the surface.

“Eris is here,” Lucien announced without looking back at him, a statement meant for Cassian than anyone else, lowered, but loud enough to make a statement. His voice held that old trace of bitterness—the ghost of memories neither of them could escape, no matter how hard they tried.

Eris watched as Lucien strode towards the archway, but his attention remained solely on the scarred male. There was something about Lucien’s deliberate steps, the way his boots struck the wooden floor with just a little too much force. The controlled anger, the tension that radiated from him, it all told Eris more than Lucien’s silence ever could.

Cassian, meanwhile, was blustering through the room with that ever-present rage simmering beneath the surface, clearly aimed at Eris. It was always amusing to watch—how easily the Illyrian lost control, how his fists itched for violence. Eris could practically taste it in the air, the way Cassian’s hatred threatened to choke him. But all of that faded into background noise for Eris as his attention remained fixated on Lucien, even if his eyes weren’t.

Lucien, whose russet eye now flicked to the fire, avoiding Eris’s scrutiny as much as he avoided the real issues lurking between them. Eris had always wondered how much of that brotherly bond remained between them, after everything. After Jesminda, after Beron, after the way Lucien had fled with only his life, never knowing he had no part of the pain and only his survival.

Lucien, though, was a master of hiding his true self—power, emotion. It’s likely his Day Court magic had manifested a couple years ago, and not nary a word. He always had an air of brilliance about him and not simply in the light sense. Eris recalled the countless times Lucien had grinned and laughed, acting as if his childhood hadn’t touched him. But he had always seen through it; he still lives it. He’d seen the way Lucien’s hands trembled ever so slightly, the way his smile would falter just a little when he had to be in his or Beron’s presence.

Now, Lucien stood before him, an emissary for the Night Court, no less. It was almost laughable, but there was no humor in Eris’s smile as he watched his brother from across the room. How many masks had Lucien worn in his life? How many more would he wear before he finally broke? Ever the clever fox. Just as he had taught him to be.

Eris’s gaze slid to the golden whir of Lucien’s mechanical eye. A gift from the beautiful Dawn Court tinkerer and alchemist he had seen once again at the High Lord’s meeting. Lucien’s friend, Nuan.

Cassian’s brutish voice cut through the silence, dragging Eris’s attention momentarily away from his thoughts to the current bumbling. The Illyrian was glaring at him, fists clenched, as if waiting for an excuse to draw his blade.

But Eris couldn’t be bothered with Cassian’s simmering rage. Not when there were far more interesting things to observe in this room. “Cassian,” Eris drawled, leaning back in his chair as he offered the Illyrian a mocking smile. The mere sight of Cassian’s frustration was a balm to him, though his gaze flickered again to Lucien, watching the way his brother’s jaw clenched, the way his hand twitched ever so slightly at his side.

Lucien had always been protective of Cassian’s lot—those lesser courts and their motley crews. It was a wonder how far Lucien had come from the boy who had once worn Autumn’s colors so proudly. And now? Now, he stood here, his face half-turned away, trying to mask whatever emotion was stirring beneath that well-worn exterior.

“Did you come with news or orders?” Lucien asked, his voice tight, his russet eye finally locking onto Cassian.

But Eris was watching the slight curl of Lucien’s fingers, the stiffness in his posture. Even after all this time, Lucien couldn’t hide from him. He can sense the annoyance. Perhaps the lingering reason why he had chosen to hunker down here with these humans. Though Eris wouldn’t admit it—especially not here in front of these fools—there was a part of him that ached for their brotherhood. One day when Beron dies. He can nearly smell it, it’s so close.

Cassian, oblivious as ever, responded with some gruff, half-hearted reply, but Eris didn’t bother listening. He was more interested in the way Lucien subtly shifted his weight, as if preparing for something. What, exactly? Eris wasn’t sure. Lucien was just as on edge as he was, perhaps there was something more lurking in those shadows that even Eris hadn’t yet discerned.

The room itself seemed to hum with unspoken tension—tension that neither Cassian nor Jurian, nor even Vassa, seemed aware of. But Eris felt it. Felt it deep in his bones, the way the air thickened between him and Lucien, the way the weight of their shared past pressed down upon them like an invisible force. The weight of all the rumors and lies spun about him and the reputation of each fae and human in this small room.

And yet, as much as Eris wanted to break that silence, to say something that would force Lucien to look him in the eye and acknowledge everything they had once been, he remained still. He had learned long ago that some battles weren’t fought with wholly words or blades, but with time.

Time, however, was something that was rapidly slipping through their fingers, if this upcoming war was as drastic as it seems.

As the conversation meandered on, shifting from talk of the Spring Court to the strange disappearance of Eris’s soldiers, Eris let his focus drift back to Lucien once Vassa began to prattle on about her curse.

He couldn’t help but wonder what thoughts were swirling through Lucien’s mind. Was he scared for his mate, still acting as Night Court property? Did she reject him? Does he sleep or eat well here? Did Lucien still hate him, after all this time? Did he still see Eris as nothing more than their father’s puppet? Or had the years and trauma hardened him, changed him in ways that Eris hadn’t yet noticed?

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the room, and for a moment, it felt as if they were back in Autumn again—two brothers sitting in silence while the world burned around them. But this wasn’t Autumn, he wasn’t a child, and this was a vital meeting about war.

Lucien shifted again, his gaze flicking briefly to Eris, and in that fleeting moment, their eyes met. Eris’s breath caught in his throat, though he quickly masked it with a casual smile. But Lucien’s expression didn’t change—his eyes were distant, unreadable, as if he were looking through Eris rather than at him from that ridiculous pink sofa.

Eris clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain calm. He had mastered the art of hiding his emotions long ago, but something about Lucien—about the way his brother stood there, so close yet so impossibly far—made it difficult.

Lucien had always been the golden one. The one who had been loved by their mother, the one who he had promised to protect from Beron’s wrath. Eris had borne the brunt of it all back then, and even today he suffers in silence. Mate-less, friendless, childless. All to spare them from Beron. But Lucien...he has friends in every court. A chance with his mate. A future. But there will be no potential for that future if there is no plan in place for Koschei.

Eris’s attention snapped back to the conversation as Vassa spoke about Koschei and his desires, her voice cutting through the fog of his thoughts. She was talking about the human queens, about how deathless he is. Despite that fear gripping him, Eris had his own internal battles to fight too—battles that had nothing to do with the politics of Prythian.

And as much as he wanted to focus on the matter at hand, his mind kept drifting back to Lucien. To the way his brother’s face had aged gracefully over the years despite the scar, to the way he had learned to mask his pain just as well as Eris had.

For a fleeting moment, Eris considered saying something—anything—that might bridge the gap between them. But then Cassian’s voice boomed through the room once more, and the moment was gone.

The only thing left, the only thing he ever had was their only chance.

Hope. Faith.

One day soon, little brother. One day soon the truth will be revealed and I will be there again, Glowheart.