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Chapter Text

Their eyes met across a war-torn tent, over the gurgling gasp of a dying soldier.

Her hands were pressed against the Illyrian’s chest, soaked in blood. Healing light flickered at her fingertips, silver and faint. Eris knew that magic. Knew the sigils etched into her navy robes. Night Court. Stitched in silver moon thread along the sleeves.

He felt the bond snap into place like a blade unsheathed.

No. No. No. No.

His chest clenched. He stared at her, memorising every detail in a single sharp breath, the blood on her arms, the tremor in her fingers, the way her mouth parted in quiet horror as recognition struck. He saw it in her eyes.

She knew.

Outside the tent: screaming. Wingbeats. Smoke.

Another stretcher was dragged toward her, carried by a soldier missing most of his armour.

It happened in a blink. The moment shattered. Her face closed off. She turned from him.

She whispered an incantation, her magic flaring once more. Her hands were steady now. Professional. Detached. She moved with the others as the wounded male was lifted from the cot, her moonlight trailing behind her.

Then she was gone.

He didn’t breathe until she was.

Eris stood there alone, surrounded by the scents of burned flesh, sweat, and her magic, as well as moonflowers and starlight. The tent reeked of blood and loss, yet he remained frozen, staring at the place where she had stood.

His mate.

The Cauldron had lost its damn mind.

The war had already bled him dry, his court fracturing at the seams, his father whispering with vipers. Now this, a healer in Night Court colours. Likely beloved by Rhysand. Loyal. Untouchable.

He felt the bond deep in his bones. Not soft. Not sacred.

Agonizing.

A tether pulled tight beneath his skin, dragging something old and feral to the surface.

A voice behind him said, “Commander. Your High Lord requests you at the western perimeter.”

Eris didn’t respond. Didn’t move.

Eventually, his boots carried him forward, out of the tent, into the cold, to his father. He sat through a strategy meeting, healing later with Autumn Court medics, though all he wanted were her delicate, steady hands.

Somehow, daylight faded. The evening revealed a sky sharp with stars, the moon casting its pale light over tents and bloodied snow. The camp resembled a sacred graveyard.

He waited for her. In the same place he’d last seen her.

He saw no one but tired healers and injured soldiers limping back to their camps.

Finally, she appeared.

She stepped out of the tent, covered in blood, pale, with dark circles under her eyes. She was shaking, and he didn’t know if it was from exhaustion or the bond. Maybe both. Her eyes met his the moment she stepped into the starlight.

For a heartbeat, neither of them looked away.

“You’re covered in blood,” he said, quieter than he meant to. His voice came out sharper, but there was panic at its edges.

“It’s not mine,” she murmured, turning her head.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“Don’t.” She snapped, trembling.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend you care,” she said, her voice cracking.

A pause. His jaw ticked.

“I don’t pretend.”

She didn’t look back. The tension between them throbbed, raw and unbearable.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispered.

“You think I did?” he asked, his voice lower now, rough. “The Cauldron gave me a gift wrapped in thorns. You’re on the wrong side of this war.”

She spun toward him, grief and fury blazing across her face. “You don’t know me.”

“I know your hands are shaking.”

Her breath hitched. She tucked them into her sleeves. He hated how quickly shame followed her anger.

“You should be resting,” he said. The words felt strange in his mouth.

“And you should be anywhere but here,” she snapped.

That made him sigh, cold and bitter. “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Something in her expression shifted. Not softening, just… understanding, maybe, or the bond twisting just as tightly around her.

“I didn’t come to hurt you,” he said, quieter now.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered. “Not now. Not ever.”

Eris inhaled deeply. The instincts clawed at him—ancient, relentless. Every part of him demanded he claim her, protect her, hold her. However, he was not ruled by instinct and had never been.

Still, the words came before he could stop them.

“Please. Come with me.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Just for tonight,” he said, voice taut. “To my tent. Nothing more than quiet and warmth. You’re shaking. You’re exhausted. And I…” He cut himself off. Swallowed. “I can’t walk away. Not from you.”

The silence stretched.

Her eyes flicked over his face like she was looking for a lie, but Eris Vanserra didn’t beg.

He waited.

“If I say no?” she asked.

“Then I’ll walk away,” he said. “I’ll let you be.”

He didn’t say he’d still think of her. Still feel the bond humming through every breath. But the truth hung between them, unspoken.

Fae did not meet their mates and forget.

Not ever.

She didn’t speak.

For a moment, he thought she might run. Her fingers twitched at her sides. Her eyes flicked to the forest, to the stars—anywhere but him.

Then she nodded, just once.

A reluctant, aching motion, like every part of her rebelled against it.

Eris said nothing. He simply turned and began walking.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

He could feel her behind him, each step cautious and unsure, echoing through the bond like ripples in still water.

When they reached his tent, set further from the others near the edge of camp, he paused. With a flick of his fingers, magic shimmered across the canvas, sealing it. Wards tightened. No spies. No soldiers. No one watching.

Inside, the space was larger than most, more luxurious. Autumn Court rugs softened the floor. A wide bed sat in the centre, simple but inviting. A desk stood in one corner, scattered with war maps and reports. Across the tent, a second partitioned area held a bathtub, already filling with steaming water. The floral scent of oils drifted through the space.

He lit a lantern. Golden light spilled across the room.

She stood in the doorway, arms crossed tightly.

“I told you,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “Nothing… happens.”

He turned toward her, one brow arching. “Do you think I drag females back here like some rutting brute?”

Her jaw tightened. “I don’t know what to think. But from what I’ve heard of you… yes. That’s exactly what I think.”

Rage flickered across his face. Not fury at her, never that, but at the image she had of him. The version of him others had carved.

He let the silence stretch, then spoke evenly. “Let me be clear. I brought you here because the thought of you out there, cold and bleeding, makes me want to tear this camp apart.”

He stepped aside, gesturing toward the bath.

“Clean the blood from your hands. Then take the bed.”

“And you?” she asked quietly.

“I’ve slept in mud and ash. A chair will do.” He peeled off his crimson cloak and crossed to the desk, tension coiling tight through his spine. Her presence felt like a second heartbeat in the room.

Behind him, silence.

Then: “You feel it too.”

He turned slightly. She wasn’t looking at him—only at the flickering lantern flame.

“Yes,” he said. “Like a rope around my throat.”

Her exhaled trembled. “It doesn’t feel like fate. It feels like a trap.”

He approached slowly, careful not to step too close. “It’s both.”

Her eyes lifted to his—and in them, he let her see everything: the frustration, the restraint, the longing. Resentment braided with something dangerously close to hope.

“I didn’t want this,” she whispered.

“I didn’t want a mate from the Night Court,” he replied, voice quieter now. “And yet… here you are.”

Her mouth parted, unreadable. Anger? Relief? He couldn’t tell.

“I won’t dishonour the bond,” he said. “Even if it kills me. You’re mine now. And I would rather burn than harm you.”

She didn’t move.

He ran a hand through his hair and stepped back, giving her space.

“I won’t touch you. I won’t speak unless you want me to. Bathe. Sleep. That’s all. The bond will do what it will. But I won’t rush it. You have my word.”

At last, she moved past him, slow and cautious, like a doe stepping into a clearing.

“Clothes,” she said simply.

Eris blinked, then strode to a drawer. He pulled out a maroon cotton shirt and loose black sleep pants, too big, but soft and modest. She took them without thanks, disappearing behind the curtain to the bath.

He heard the whispered curse as she fumbled with the knots in her robe. Then the slap of bloodied fabric on the floor.

The sound made him wince.

He heard her sigh as she sank into the water, the soft splash of limbs, the subtle slosh of movement as she washed herself. Her silhouette flickered on the canvas curtain, vague, gentle lines.

He forced his eyes away.

Instead, he focused on the death reports scattered across his desk. Pages of names. Already three sheets long. By morning, there would be six.

But even grief couldn’t hold his attention tonight.

Her scent lingered, a blend of night-blooming jasmine, starlight, and healing magic.

His fists clenched. She would leave soon, returning to Rhysand and the Night Court. The bond stretched thinner each mile she walked away from him.

The fury came quietly, hidden beneath bone-deep ache.

He stepped outside briefly, commanding servants to bring food. She hadn’t eaten. He knew it.

Time passed, minutes or hours, he wasn’t sure, before he heard her again.

She emerged from the bath dripping and clean, wearing his oversized clothes. His shirt clung to her damp skin, the collar damp from her hair.

Eris stared, and for a moment, all thoughts of war vanished.

She crossed the tent and sank into the bed without a word, curling under the covers, lightweight but warm, heated gently by his magic.

“Food,” he said, rising. He brought the tray to her. Soup, roasted meats, soft bread, steamed vegetables. Far better than camp rations.

Her stomach growled, and her hands trembled as she began to eat.

He stepped back to the desk, giving her space. Then, realising the blood still dried on his skin, he excused himself to bathe.

Behind the canvas, the water ran again. He peeled off his clothes slowly, wincing at the bruises and cuts painting his body. His face was still marked from battle, a gash crossing his cheekbone. He looked like a mess. Hollow-eyed. Worn thin.

Would she see him as weak? Pathetic? Or did she simply see him as dangerous?

He didn’t know which hurt more.

He sank into the steaming water and let his breath shudder out. Pain bloomed in his chest, a quiet ache sharper than any blade.

When he finally emerged, clean, modestly dressed, he braced himself for the worst, but she hadn’t run.

She was there.

Curled on her side, the food tray was set gently on the floor. Her breaths were soft, steady. Asleep.

Eris didn’t speak. He just stared for a long moment. Then crossed to the chair and sat down.

The shadows danced across the canvas walls. Her scent filled the tent.

Eventually, exhaustion won.

He fell asleep at the desk, quill in hand, ink smudging the corner of his maps.

He woke to a soft hand shaking his shoulder.

“Lord Vanserra,” she whispered.

He startled upright, hand darting for the dagger near his elbow. Steel kissed his palm in a flash of instinct until he met her eyes.

She froze, hands raised in surrender. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He exhaled hard, dropping the blade with a clatter. “God. I’m sorry.”

She took a step back, still wide-eyed. “You didn’t look very comfortable. I thought you might want the other side of the bed.”

Her voice was quiet. Careful.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he murmured, rubbing at his eyes.

“I offered. I’m not afraid of you.” Her voice softened. “But I’ll leave if you prefer. I’m due back with the injured soon.”

He looked up, and something flickered in his eyes: panic, grief, the gutting reality of her leaving.

She must’ve seen it.

“I mean… not yet,” she added quickly. “A few hours still. I just didn’t want you breaking your neck sleeping on that desk.”

Eris nodded, jaw tight. His bruises screamed as he stood.

Together, they crossed the tent.

He slipped beneath the covers on the untouched side of the bed.

Within seconds, without a single word exchanged, Eris Vanserra fell asleep beside his mate.

Chapter Text

Eris woke to movement, deliberate, quiet, not meant to wake him, but the warmth beside him faded, and the mattress rose as weight left it.

His eyes snapped open.

She was dressing. The Night Court healer, his mate, stood a few paces away, sliding into freshly laundered robes. Her hands trembled slightly as she tied the sash at her waist. She ran shaking fingers through her hair, and her breath caught when she noticed him watching from the bed.

Eris sat up, the blanket pooling at his hips, heat rolling off his bare skin. Sometime in the night, he had shed his shirt, burning too hot beside her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not quite meeting his gaze.

His brow furrowed. “Why are you sorry?”

“I woke you.”

“You could stab me and I wouldn’t expect an apology,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and irony. He rose, pulling a shirt over his head.

“Are you leaving?” he asked, moving toward his desk. Three fresh pages of the dead waited for him there, names inked in blood and duty.

“I need to assess the wounded for transport,” she said, her voice quiet, clipped. Her eyes tracked him, then lingered too long on the long, angry wound stretching from his cheek to his collarbone.

“Your wound is irritated.”

Her tone shifted, clinical, but laced with something else. Concern, maybe.

She approached slowly, as if he were something dangerous. Eris stayed still, watching her through narrowed eyes as she reached for him. He bent slightly, letting her examine the wound. Her fingers trembled against his jaw.

When her magic touched him, cool and silver, so unlike the fire-forged spells of Autumn, it stole the breath from his lungs. It slid through his skin like silk. Like moonlight. It bloomed beneath the surface, coiling gently around torn tissue, quieting the pain.

The mating bond responded—sang. Pulled taut.

He hated it. He wanted it. Her hands. Her magic. Her.

When she stepped back, too soon, something inside him ached. Wanted her to stay. Wanted more.

“You should apply a cooling balm, something with honey, chamomile or lavender,” she said, eyes averted. “Your court’s healers will have something suitable.”

He straightened. “I will.”

“I should go.”

The words struck him like an arrow. Something inside him recoiled. The chain of the bond wrapped tightly around his ribs.

“Your name?” he asked. Not a command—a plea.

She hesitated. “Y/N.”

He repeated it, quietly. The syllables curled on his tongue like smoke. It tasted like fate.

“I need to go,” she said again, more gently this time.

Eris hesitated. “You could come back to Autumn with me.”

She tilted her head, blinking as if confused by the offer.

“No. My home is the Night Court,” she said, like it was a fact, and it was. The Night Court was her home, no matter his feelings about it.

“But you’re my mate.”

“I’m a fae with a job—a home. A family,” she said sharply. “I’m not only your mate.”

It stung, but more than that, her words acknowledged the bond. She had accepted it, at least on some level. That alone was enough to make something in him stir, something dangerously close to hope.

He swallowed the grin threatening his face and simply nodded. “Of course. You have work to tend to.”

She looked briefly startled by his calm. Like she’d expected a fight, but she only nodded once and turned to leave.

At the tent’s entrance, she paused.

She glanced back at him, still slightly dishevelled, his hair mussed, skin littered with bruises, new and old scars and cuts.

“I’ll be safe leaving your camp?” she asked.

The question stung more than it should have.

What did she think he’d do? What did she think his people would do? What stories had she been told?

Aloud, he said, “No one will touch you. You know the way back to the healer’s tents?”

“I think so.”

She reached for the canvas flap, peeking through. The morning light filtered in warm orange, dawn was just breaking, and the camp was beginning to stir.

“Okay,” she said softly. Hesitation lingered in her voice. She didn’t look back again. Just mumbled a quiet goodbye and slipped out.

The flap closed behind her, slow and silent.

Just like that, it was as if she’d never been there.

No—only memories, and the dead remained. That’s all that was left in his tent now:

Tangled sheets.

The scent of a Night Court fae.

His mate.

Reader POV –

The canvas flaps closed behind her with a whisper, but she heard it like a door slamming shut. For a moment, she just stood there, eyes scanning the waking camp, as though someone might emerge from the shadows to drag her back.

She wasn’t truly afraid of him, but she was scared of his name. Of what it carried. Power. Politics. History. Eris Vanserra was not a male she should have touched, let alone allowed to touch her soul.

The dawn was sharp and quiet, the air cool against the heat she carried from his tent. Being near him was like standing too close to a flame, dangerous, intimate, consuming. Even now, her skin hummed faintly from his warmth, from the memory of his body beside hers.

Autumn’s camp was quieter than expected. Still. Tense. She caught the glance of a soldier near the fire, but they barely acknowledged her. No one stopped her, just as he’d promised.

Still, her fingers trembled as she pulled her robes tighter around herself. Her sleeves smelled like smoke. Like him.

It felt absurd, how easily she had left that tent, how little resistance he had given. He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t demanded anything and hadn’t pressed. Just asked for her name and let her go.

God, she shouldn’t have given it.

He had said it like it meant something.

Her pace quickened.

She shouldn’t have gone with him. Shouldn’t have healed him. Shouldn’t have felt guilty when watching him sleep with his head bowed over a list of the dead. There had been something devastating about the way he clutched that quill, like the weight of it was too much.

Yet, she had felt safe in that tent. That part, she hated most of all.

Even now, the bond lingered at the edge of her awareness, tight, quiet, waiting. It was like a string wound around her chest, not pulling but present.

She glanced back once. The tent had vanished behind rows of canvas, swallowed by the mist.

Her chest ached.

He hadn’t asked her to stay. He hadn’t told her to go.

He’d just let her.

She should have been relieved.

Instead, she felt haunted.

Inside the healer’s tents, the scent of blood was thick, metallic, and sour. It turned her stomach.

The night-shift healer passed her a quick report, half-asleep, fingers shaking, their skin waxy from too little rest. She offered a soft word of thanks, hoping they’d manage food and sleep before they crumpled under the weight of it all.

She had also planned to collapse the night before. Instead, she found herself in his tent, washed, fed, and warm.

Her job was simple, on paper: triage, assess, stabilise, prepare for transport.

It demanded focus, accuracy, and mercifully, no time to think.

Her magic moved quietly, with instinctive precision.

A bandage tightened. A pulse steadied. A bone was set. Bleeding slowed.

Her fingers didn’t falter, not even as her body screamed from lack of rest.

Not even after a night spent wrapped around a male born of fire, fury, and unbearable gentleness.

She didn’t let herself remember the way his breath had ghosted across her skin. The warmth of his palm against her ribs. The steady press of his brow into the hollow of her neck, as if she were a sanctuary.

She didn’t allow herself to feel the bond as it stirred beneath her magic, tightening and alive. She couldn’t afford to dwell on it. There were too many in pain, too many dying, and too few left to help.

A male with a shattered femur. A female pierced by ash arrows. A child, barely past their first century, gasping for breath through blood and fever.

One by one, she moved between them, did what she could, and assigned the rest.

She told herself she was fine.

Even when her hands began to tremble.

Even when her magic began to flicker, it was dim and uneven.

Even when the ghost of him echoed low in her bones, like a war drum beating in the distance.

Time passed slowly and in a haze.

Three more died before she stepped outside the tents. One Illyrian soldier had begged her to stop trying, his wings severed at the root, his mind already gone.

The sky had shifted. Grey clouds, heavy and low, rolled overhead. The trees stood still.

She sensed it—the tug, gentle and low. The bond was awake and aware.

She turned before he could call her name.

Eris stood a few steps away, dressed in Autumn Court reds and golds. He looked every inch the heir—handsome, powerful, untouchable.

“I didn’t expect you here,” she said.

“I didn’t expect to find you elbow-deep in triage,” he replied.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you. I have work to do.”

“I can see that.”

A wide, stretching pause.

“Why did you come?” she asked, exhaustion creeping in.

“Because I needed to know you were all right,” he said quietly.

“I’m not yours to worry over.”

“You’re my mate,” he said softly, like the words hurt to speak.

She flinched.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Food? Clean clothes?”

She noticed the tension in his shoulders and the twitch of his fingers—the faint glaze in his eyes. The bond throbbed between them. Slow. Steady. Unwavering.

“Eris…” she whispered.

He looked at her as if it pained him to hear his name from her mouth.

“I’m okay,” she lied. “You should go. You have duties.”

He nodded slowly, gathering himself. “I do.”

But then his voice shifted, lower, rougher, cracking just slightly.

“But knowing you’re here, worn thin, buried in blood and grief... it makes it hard to think of anything else.”

She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand before she could remind him of who she was or what she had to be.

“I know what you are. A healer. Night Court.” He swallowed. “But you’re also mine. And I can’t pretend that means nothing.”

She felt the tears burning behind her eyes.

“What if I want it to mean nothing?” she asked, voice splintering.

He hesitated. A beat. Another.

He spoke softly, “Then I’ll walk away. I won’t force it. I won’t become someone you fear.”

Something inside her shattered.

She looked toward the tents, toward the wounded. Toward anything that wasn’t him.

“I have to get the wounded home.”

“I know.”

She didn’t answer; she only turned and walked away. He didn’t follow, but she felt his warmth against her spine, a tether she hadn’t severed. She returned inside.

By dusk, she was unravelling.

Her magic thinned with every life she tried to save. Her hands had been cleaned over a dozen times, yet she still felt the blood caught in the beds of her nails, soaked into her skin, staining something deeper. Her limbs were heavy, her breath too shallow. Every sound, the clang of steel, the murmurs of pain, the wind brushing through canvas, felt too sharp.

She moved toward the healers’ bathing tents on instinct more than will. One more step. One more hour. Then, maybe, she could rest, finalise everything here and head home to Velaris.

“Y/N—” His voice caught her like a hook behind the ribs. “I just came to say goodbye.”

She turned before she even processed the words.

Eris stood a few steps away, his long coat swaying softly in the breeze, hair tousled as if he’d been dragging his hands through it all day. His expression, too calm, too silent, veiled something deeper. Something breaking.

The edges of her vision dimmed.

Her knees gave out.

Eris moved before she hit the ground.

“You’re burnt out,” he said firmly, catching her as she collapsed into him.

“I’m fine,” she spat, though her voice cracked on the lie.

Still, she raised a shaking hand to wipe her face before the tears could fall, but she didn’t pull away. Her head rested against his chest, as if she just needed… something. A breath of stillness. A place to fall apart.

Eris didn’t speak. Didn’t press. He simply held her.

She folded inward, the weight of grief and exhaustion hollowing her out. Too many lives lost. Too many wounds she couldn’t close. Her body had given all it could.

His coat darkened beneath her—damp with tears, blood and sweat. Her fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his chest. Not to hold him. Just to remind herself, he was real.

He was warm. Steady. A quiet flame in the chaos.

And he said nothing. Didn’t tell her to rest. Didn’t ask her to let go. He just stood with her, unmoving. A wall of strength against the storm, she hadn’t realised she’d become.

Her magic sparked once, dimly, against his skin, like a fading ember. The bond, soft and subtle, stirred within her. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just… present. A steady hum in the hollow of her chest.

She wasn’t sure how long they stood there like that.

Only that she could, and Eris would take whatever she would give him.

Chapter Text

“I need to go,” she whispered at last, her voice unravelling at the edges.

He heard it, the quiet break beneath her breath, the strain laced behind her gentleness. But her fingers didn’t move; they remained curled in the fabric of his coat, where blood and tears had dried into the seams.

She paused, her breath shallow.

“I need to bathe. Then finalise the winnowing of the injured back to the Night Court,” she said, almost to herself, as if a reminder of her role.

“You don’t have to go,” he said softly, drawing her just a little closer. Close enough to feel the steady rhythm of her breath against his chest.

He didn’t say, ‘Come with me.’ Didn’t mention Autumn. Even though the words sat heavy in the back of his throat, sharp with risk. She lifted her chin just enough to meet his gaze.

“I do,” she murmured, quieter now. “These men need me.”

The bond stirred, soft and subtle. A thread pulling gently in acknowledgment as if her nearness alone eased something in him.

She pulled back, just slightly, though her hands still clutched his coat as if reluctant to let go.

Tear-streaked and trembling, dark circles beneath her eyes, cheeks pink from crying, she looked at him through the haze of exhaustion and unspoken things. She knew what he wanted to ask. What he hadn’t dared say.

Come home with me. Come to Autumn.

Instead, she said, “The Night Court is my home. And you…” Her voice trembled. “You’re a stranger.”

The words struck like frost over a flame.

He flinched. Barely. But she saw it, the taut flicker beneath his carefully composed mask. His hands loosened in preparation. Bracing for her absence.

“I’m your mate,” he said, voice raw at the edges. “And you don’t feel like a stranger.”

Her breath hitched. Her fingers trembled where they touched his coat.

“Eris,” she breathed. So soft, so broken, so sweet, he nearly fell to his knees.

“Can I walk you to your bathing tent?” he asked. His voice gentled further, eyes tracing hers, dark and rich like chocolate. She was so beautiful it ached. Everything he’d ever wanted. Everything he feared. Everything he did not deserve.

She nodded.

Her hands slipped from his coat. She stepped away and started toward the outskirts of the camp. He fell into step beside her. Her gaze lowered, fixed on the grass beneath their feet, now flattened by footfalls.

Stares followed them, Night Court soldiers, Illyrian warriors, wounded and weary fae. Watching.

Eris held his head high, calm and proud. Power shimmered off him like heat from embers, war-stained and regal. Still bearing blood, as if it marked something sacred. As if those who looked upon him might see, she had touched him, and he had let her.

When they reached the bathing tent, she slowed. A cream-coloured canvas structure, quiet now but filled with the sounds of water and the low voices of women inside.

She stopped, her shoulders tensed, and her gaze remained on the ground.

“Y/N,” he said. Her name sounded so perfect on his tongue.

She looked up, and from the inner pocket of his coat, he withdrew a small leather-bound notebook. New. Unmarked. He held it out to her.

She took it gently, fingertips brushing his as she held the book. The leather was smooth and warm from his magic.

“It’s connected to mine,” he said, watching her turn it over. “If you need to reach me, write. The words will appear in mine instantly.”

She nodded, quiet and steady. “Thank you.”

He looked at her, really looked. The wild waves escaped her braid. The flushed, sun-kissed skin, the freckles on the high points of her cheekbones and across the bridge of her nose. Her soft, full, pink lips.

She looked back. Not with hatred. Not even fear. But with something worse.

Kindness.

If she’d hated him, he could have accepted it. If she’d feared him, he would’ve understood. But this aching, tender kindness undid him.

His mask began to slip more and more every second with her, so he nodded, needing distance.

“I’ll let you be,” he said, voice quieter than before. “But please write to me about anything. Everything. My duties are—” a small smile, “unspeakably dull.”

He whispered a spell under his breath. The blood vanished. The dried salt of old tears disappeared. His coat shimmered clean, deep maroon and gold again, embroidery glinting like flame beneath starlight.

The heir to Autumn stood before her once more.

Composed. Controlled. Alone.

She looked at him one last time, and he met her gaze for a breath, a heartbeat, a lifetime.

He stepped back. Once. Then again. Then he turned and walked away, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, spine rigid. His footsteps were steady yet restrained.

He didn’t want to leave, and every step he took, the more the bond tugged.

He walked away, leaving his mate in the hands of his enemy.

Reader POV –

She watched as the evening light made his hair glow like flames and the gold of his coat shine. The notebook pressed to her chest, the bond humming like a low, persistent echo beneath her ribs.

Still there.

Still burning.

Please, she thought. Turn back. Just once.

He didn’t.

He disappeared into the tents, swallowed by shadow. The ache surged and then receded like a tide, dragging something vital out of her as it went.

When she stepped into the tent, the warmth hit her like a wall, thick, almost suffocating. Inside, only the murmur of healers remained, their voices low with fatigue. Water trickled into basins, creating a soft, gentle splash of movement. Another healer from Velaris looked up, offered a small, tired smile, and asked no questions.

She said nothing, just moved past them toward the curtained bath, her limbs sore. Her magic had dulled to nearly nothing, and her soul felt bruised and hollow.

The water stung where it touched her, hot enough to make her eyes water. She let it. Let it burn the blood from her skin. Let it scald away the grime, the soot, the memory of his voice, his touch.

It didn’t work. No amount of heat could scrub away the bond, still humming faintly beneath her skin.

She sank deeper until the water kissed her collarbones and her chin. Eyes closed. Silence surrounded her, broken only by the soft drip of droplets and the gentle rustle of linen. The notebook sat on a wooden stool beside the tub, quiet, unassuming, but somehow watching.

She resisted it for a while.

Not until her fingertips were rubbed raw, her skin flushed and stinging, did she reach out. Dried her hands and touched the leather.

The cover was smooth. A faint whiff of pine and smoke still clung to it, a reminder of him. Inside, the pages were blank. Waiting. Listening.

Her thumb drifted over the small gold charm embedded in the inner fold, a rune. Autumn magic, threaded into the leather. It pulsed faintly beneath her touch. Warm. Familiar.

The bond stirred again. It felt like longing. Like sorrow. Like him.

She stared at the journal for a long moment, then set it back on the stool and sank deeper into the cooling water, chasing the warmth he’d left on her skin.

By the time she stepped out, the water had turned murky. Her skin was wrinkled and pink, scraped raw in places. She dried off in silence, dressed in fresh healer’s robes, and braided her damp hair with slow, meticulous care.

Then, she began to pack.

Bandages. Salves. Clean tunics. Patient notes. Her hands moved with efficiency, each motion practised. Detached. She pinned the silver Night Court crest to her cloak and tucked the journal deep into her satchel beneath the supplies.

Every movement felt like a door closing. Like swallowing a goodbye, she hadn’t been brave enough to speak.

Outside, the night air was sharp and clean. She walked back toward the infirmary tent, where her commanding officer stood, head bent over a clipboard, reviewing names and numbers.

“They’re stable for travel?” he asked without looking up.

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “The worst injuries are healed enough for winnowing. The rest will leave by cart at dawn. My notes are with the quartermaster.”

He nodded. Scribbled something. He paused, just long enough that she thought he might say more.

“Good work,” he said. Brisk. Distant.

She only nodded, turned, and stepped into the dark.

The camp had quieted. Only a few healing tents remained, glowing faintly with faelights. Around her, fellow healers gathered the critical patients, preparing them for transport. A cluster of Illyrian soldiers waited near the edge of the clearing, some barely conscious, others upright but swaying, bandaged and silent.

She strode over to the men, and without another word, without hesitating, she reached inward and gathered her magic.

Home, she told herself, back to the Night Court.

They vanished into shadow.

Velaris emerged around them in a rush of wind and starlight.

The city’s usual hum was distant, muffled by the protective wards surrounding the healing compound. Magic dulled the sounds of the Sidra, the chime of bells from the riverfront, and the soft conversations drifting from windows.

She guided the wounded through the glowing archways and into the triage halls, her steps sure despite the numbness in her chest.

Inside, chaos met structure. Night Court medics swarmed the space, and she folded herself into it without hesitation. Gentle, firm commands slipped from her lips as she took over, directing healers, sorting supplies, and stabilising.

For hours, she didn’t stop.

She cleaned wounds until her sleeves were soaked. Changed dressings, applied salves, whispered comfort where it was needed. Always moving, always doing. She replenished the shelves, rewrote the charts, and triple-checked the vitals. When someone offered food or rest, she shook her head once and turned away before they could ask again.

There was too much to do, too much to feel, and not enough space inside her body for both.

By the time the last soldier was settled and the magical lights dimmed to their nighttime glow, dawn had begun to creep over the mountains. Her muscles throbbed. Her magic was threadbare, sputtering beneath her skin like a dying flame. Her heart was silent. Locked beneath the weight of a bond she hadn’t dared think about.

She stepped outside.

The streets of Velaris were quiet, cobblestones slick with dew. Night-blooming flowers curled close along the banks of the Sidra, the river murmuring its eternal lullaby nearby.

Her ground-floor apartment sat just beyond the bend, small, simple, and familiar. She opened the door with a flick of her fingers. No one waited inside, only silence.

She kicked off her boots and shrugged off her cloak. With a whispered spell, the fire sparked to life in the hearth. Warmth gradually spread, stretching across the floor in long, amber shadows.

Her satchel hit the bedroom floor with a dull thud, and the journal was hidden deep within.

She crossed to the bathroom and turned on the tap. The pipes squealed faintly, but hot water poured into the tub. It wasn’t lavish, not like the perfumed steam baths of the Autumn Court, but it was hers.

She undressed again, clothes slipping to the floor, and stepped into the water.

She scrubbed her hands until her skin turned red, raw, as if she could erase the memories carved into her palms. The blood. The trembling. The dying words whispered into her collar.

She stayed until the water cooled and her fingertips wrinkled, then dried herself and smoothed balm over her aching joints, using lavender for sleep and chamomile for peace. She lit a few candles, placed crystals by the bed, and whispered wards to keep the memories at bay.

When she finally slipped beneath the sheets, bare and clean, the linens felt foreign. The silence that once comforted her now pressed down, heavy and suffocating. She lay still. The Sidra flowed beyond the window, gentle and eternal, but its hush could not reach her.

Nothing helped.

She tried everything: spells, meditation, calming oils. Candles melted into waxy puddles. Her breath turned shallow. Every time she closed her eyes, faces appeared. Soldiers she couldn’t save. Some grateful. Some weeping. None blaming her.

Still, they haunted her, and when her dreams did shift from the horrors, they brought him.

Firelight caught in his hair. The rich scent of smoke and pine. His voice was quiet and reverent, saying her name like it was the only one he’d ever learned.

She sat up.

The room was dim now, the last candle sputtering low. Her body felt heavy, stitched together with exhaustion. She turned toward the satchel.

The notebook waited inside.

She hesitated only a moment before her fingers brushed its leather cover.

Warmth pulsed through her, not fire, not longing. Just warmth. Recognition. Like someone reaching through the dark to gently touch her soul.

She curled back beneath the covers, the book tucked close to her chest.

Her breathing slowed, and for the first time in days, her heartbeat found a steady rhythm. She fell into a deep sleep.

She lasted exactly seven days.

Seven days of waking before dawn and collapsing long after midnight. Of slipping into the rhythm of work, pacing between wards and triage halls, pushing her body and magic past their limits.

She ran on adrenaline for the first few days, cleaning wounds, stabilising soldiers, overseeing deliveries, updating research notes, drafting potion formulas, and assisting junior healers. Her eyes burned from reading by faelight. Her hands shook when she reached for a scalpel or salve. Her magic frayed and faltered.

Meals were skipped. Sleep came in gasps. Her dreams, when they came, were red and screaming and empty.

Still, she showed up. Each morning. Each hour. A ghost of a fae in healer’s robes.

Each night, she returned to her apartment by the Sidra. She peeled off her clothes. She sank into water that did nothing to ease the ache in her bones, applied the same calming oils, lit the same candles, and whispered the same incantations.

It wasn’t enough.

The dreams worsened. Not just battlefields and blood, but him.

The way his voice trembled when he said her name, the feel of his coat beneath her fingers. The heat of his breath against her temple when he whispered, You don’t feel like a stranger.

And the bond.

Always the bond.

It pulsed with stubborn patience. A thread pulling gently across the continent. Never intrusive. Never demanding. Just present. Like warmth waiting behind a locked door.

She didn’t write to him, but each night, her fingers found the journal. And each night, its magic greeted her like a friend. She’d hold it against her heart, close her eyes, and pretend, just for a moment, that someone else knew how this hurt.

By the seventh night, she was frayed to the edge.

She’d tried tea. Meditation. Lavender oil behind her ears. Moonstone tucked under her pillow. Even the lullaby spell her mother used to whisper against her temple to chase away childhood nightmares.

Nothing helped.

She lay tangled in cold sheets, breathless and burning with frustration. Her skin felt too tight. Her thoughts were too loud. Her magic pulsed beneath her ribs, ragged, restless, aching for something she couldn’t name.

She didn’t even realise she was crying until the pillow grew damp beneath her cheek.

She couldn’t do this anymore.

Her hand slid beneath the pillow with a mind of its own and found the leather-bound book. It was warm. Always warm. It smelled faintly of cedar smoke and crisp leaves, of fire and forest and the dying light of Autumn.

Of him.

It hummed against her skin like a heartbeat. Not hers. His.

She picked up the quill resting beside a weathered notepad on her nightstand. She hadn’t touched the pad in months. Once, it had been her sanctuary, filled with midnight sketches of dream-born potions, half-spelled wards, and the beginnings of healing formulas she never had time to finish. Now, it was as empty as she felt.

She sat up slowly, pressing her back to the cool wood of the headboard. The candle flickered low beside her, casting long shadows across the room. Her hand trembled as she dipped the quill, and beneath the golden light, she began to write.

Eris,
I lasted a week. I don’t know whether that should make me proud or ashamed.

I can’t sleep. I haven’t really, not since I left the camp. Not because of you, though you’re in everything now, but because it’s all too much, and I feel like I’m not enough.

The screams are fewer. The silence is unbearable. Those who lived looked at me as if I should hold something for them. Hope. Strength. Closure.

I smile. I heal. I pretend. I think I’ve forgotten what rest feels like.

I’ve tried everything. Oils. Spells. Rituals older than Velaris itself. Even stories I used to whisper to myself in the dark. None of them work. I lie here every night, staring into the dark, and I reach for this book just to hold it.

Maybe it can tether me to something real. To you.

I miss you more than I should.

Not the stories told about you. Not the High Lord’s son. Not the golden flame of Autumn.

I miss you. My mate.

I don’t expect anything from this. I just needed to say it.

I hope you’re safe.
— Y/N

She stared at the words as the ink dried. It shimmered in the candlelight, then slowly sank into the paper like the parchment had swallowed it whole.

The bond quieted. Not vanished, just softened.

She pressed the leather cover against her chest, curled onto her side, and without meaning to, slipped into sleep.

There were no dreams. No screams. Only stillness.

By morning, she knew.

Even before she touched the pages, she felt it. His magic, humming softly through the leather, steady and quiet. Like warmth left in sheets after someone’s risen. She tucked it into her satchel and carried it with her all day. Let it sit heavy on her hip like a secret, grounding her through another endless stream of spellwork, blood, salves, and whispered promises of survival.

That night, bone-weary and soaked in herbs, exhaustion, and someone else’s pain, she barely made it through her apartment door.

The satchel dropped to the floor. She sank into the worn cushions of the lounge, with the hearth flickering softly, its golden glow filling the small space.

Her hands moved before her thoughts could catch up. The journal fell open into her lap.

A once-empty page now shimmered gently in the amber light.

Ink scrawled across the parchment, sharp, clean strokes that curved like fire, elegant, restrained and undeniably his.

Y/N,
You could’ve waited a year or never written at all. I would’ve still checked these pages every morning and night like a madman.

You don’t have to make sense here. Not with me. You don’t need to be composed, brave, or whole. You never needed to be anything but exactly what you are.

I read your words, and they gutted me more deeply than anything ever has. The grief. The silence. If I had the right, I’d offer you peace, but I don’t, so all I can give is truth.

You said you only felt real with me. I’ve spent my life wearing masks of fire and duty, and I don’t know how to give you anything more than my masks.

I don’t even know who I am. But with you, I wasn’t an heir or a weapon. I was just a man.

I miss you. I miss your gentleness. Your cold, Night Court magic is like the shadows around my flames.

I miss your eyes, every part of you. A stranger I was never meant to know, but now you’re the only thought that ever lingers. Every part of you sends an ache through my chest and soul.

If I could steal the ache from your bones, I would.

If I could write peace into your dreams, I’d never stop writing.

But all I have is this: a page, my words, and the bond between us.

I’ll keep writing if you let me. If not, I’ll still wait.
— Eris

The page dimmed slowly, and the ink soaked into the fibres.

She stared down at it, her fingers resting on the edge of the parchment as if it might vanish if she let go.

The bond was warm and certain, like the sun behind heavy clouds.

For the first time in days, she felt okay.

Chapter Text

The Autumn Palace had never been so cold, not from the weather, Autumn rarely chills.

Instead, it felt colder the heaviness that hung in the carved stone and arched halls like lingering smoke from a long-extinguished fire. The silence now echoed deeply. War had robbed the palace of its fury, its fire, and its heartbeat.

Eris barely slept or ate, simply enduring the slow, splintering pain of survival.

He faced the heartbreaking task of telling families that their sons, brothers, and fathers wouldn’t return home.

He endured accusations from comrades, mockery from his brothers, and the sharp disappointment from his father.

Endurance was a symbol of heirs in Prythian; they measured strength in silence, pride by how much they bled, and worth by how well they tolerated cruelty.

Eris persisted through all of it. The aftermath of war was even worse than the battlefield itself, with entire battalions lost to ash and memory. Now, their names echoed in the halls, not spoken aloud, but as if the walls mourned silently. Beron filled this silence with rage, blame, and fire that sought only someone to burn.

“You led them into a graveyard,” his father spat days ago, flame licking up his arms like coiled serpents. “And now you expect me to crown a son who can’t even keep his soldiers breathing?”

Eris hadn’t flinched.

He hadn’t replied, not aloud, but the words cut deep, because he had led them to a graveyard that his father had secured.

He had sent them ahead, trusting plans he hadn’t made, ignoring warnings and his better judgment, and they had died for it.

He saw them clearly, their faces, how their bodies crumpled, the smell of scorched skin, and the sensation of death as they were misted before him. Even the enemies’ faces replayed in his mind. They haunted him in ways the living never had.

Yet, he was the heir to Autumn.

So he endured every sneer, every accusation from the families, every insult dressed as strategy, and every cruel reminder from Beron of the men he’d lost and those who had only survived to suffer in the ruins of Autumn’s pride. He wore the grief like a second skin, said nothing, moved forward, and wore the mask well.

But when the sun dipped behind the mountains and the corridors sank into silence, that stillness turned unbearable.

In those moments, when he asked himself why he hadn’t died beside them, his mind went numb, and he slipped away.

Through the hollow halls of his private wing, past guards who knew better than to speak, into the quiet sanctuary of his suite. Then deeper still, into his office, where the windows overlooked the darkened sprawl of Autumn’s grounds.

Books were scattered across the desk, papers stacked in unsteady towers: war files, casualty reports, and unsigned decrees. Memos marked urgent that he no longer had the heart to read.

But it was the drawer nested beneath it all, sealed with wards more intricate than those protecting the palace itself, that he went to.

Only his magic could open it.

Inside lay the notebook.

The twin to hers.

The last piece of her he could still hold.

Usually, he was okay, or at least somewhat twisted into okay, but tonight was worse than usual.

Beron had refused to pay the final wages owed to the grieving families.

It was just coin, a last scrap of dignity for the dead.

“Why would I pay for the fallen?” Beron had said, voice thick with disdain. “They’re no longer useful.”

Eris had argued that these men had given everything, that they had trained, served, and died for Autumn. For Beron.

Beron had waved it off.

As if the dead were already dust.

As if mourning cost too much.

Now, Eris sat slumped at his desk, surrounded by casualty reports and the stench of failure.

The ink on the pages smudged and stained his fingers.

His coat hung off his shoulders, ashed and wrinkled.

Hair loose over his brow.

Eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights.

He should have been working, focusing. There were still more names to read, more lives to account for.

His eyes betrayed him, drifting again and again to that drawer.

To the notebook. To her.

He hadn’t heard from her in days, not since his last reply, and it was driving him to madness.

He checked it obsessively, before and after council meetings.

Between insults hurled across the war table.

After Beron’s punishments left his magic trembling beneath his skin.

Sometimes, he didn’t even notice his hand resting against the drawer’s edge until the tension in his chest eased, soothed by the faint, distant hum of the bond.

He had memorised her last letter.

Every word. Every tremble in her script. The way the ink pooled at the end of her sentences, as if she’d hesitated.

She was unravelling, haunted by the ones she couldn’t save and starving herself for the sake of others. Withering in a court that didn’t see her, didn’t value her, only used what she gave and called it gratitude.

It killed him.

He had almost gone to her, nearly winnowed in the dead of night, ready to cross courts and start a war just to hold her.

Just to hear her breathe, to offer the comfort no one had ever given him, but she hadn’t asked, and he wouldn’t take what wasn’t freely offered. Not from her.

Still, the selfishness clawed at him. He wanted to tell her how much he needed her: her voice, her steady hands, her softness.

He longed for her to be there beside him, if only to remind him that going through all this still mattered. That the cruelty had a cost worth paying, but with her locked away in the court of restraint and duty, he doubted it.

He doubted everything because, without her, the bond felt like a chain, and he was utterly exhausted from bleeding for a court that only cares about how much he suffers.

It wasn’t about him. It never was.

So he sat, surrounded by the dead, smothered in ash, ink, and names that would never be spoken again.

Still, his eyes drifted to the drawer.

To that notebook.

To the silence.

As if maybe, just maybe, she’d write.

Tell him she was still alive. Tell him she still thought of him. Tell him he hadn’t been forgotten, either. But there was nothing.

He let his head fall into his palm, and sometime in the thick darkness of night, he fell asleep at his desk, war maps beneath his cheek, grief still inked across his hands.

In the dead silence of night, he sensed it, that flicker of unfamiliar magic.

Cold. Quiet. Unmistakably Night Court.

It crept through the bond like shadows beneath a locked door, slipping beneath his skin.

Eris jolted awake, breath caught in his throat, the ghost of a nightmare still clinging to him, pale, bloodless faces, voices screaming through the wreckage of his mind.

The leather-bound notebook trembled softly in its drawer. The bond pulsed faintly and painfully in his chest. The drawer slid open beneath his palm, and his fingers found the notebook, cool with her magic.

He opened it, and there, her handwriting appeared across the page in delicate, trembling cursive.

I wasn’t sure if I would write again.
I wasn’t sure it would help.
The last time you wrote back to me, it was the only night I’ve been able to sleep since coming home from the war, and tonight I need you again.
His chest ached.

I try to remember who I was before all this.
I used to love my work, the healing, the helping, the way I could make pain stop, but no one ever warned me what it would feel like afterwards, what it would do to you. The faces, they stay with me. I know you would understand.
He did. Too well.

Her words conjured the same faces that haunted his nights, the ones that never spoke, never blinked, just stared.

The same way they had in death.

His grip tightened on the notebook, magic flickered at his fingertips, not flame, but something quieter. Something aching.

More and more of the soldiers I brought home are dying. The ones I promised to care for. The ones I told would live.
My hands are constantly shaking now. My magic falters like it’s scared, like it already suspects it will fail.
They keep calling me strong. The glue. The heart. But I feel like a shadow wearing someone else’s name.
She was unravelling.

I wrote because I thought maybe you’d understand.
Sometimes I think you can feel it all through the bond. I’m not sure if you do, but I talk to it anyway.
You probably think I’m mad, talking to silence, to someone who can’t hear me. But just knowing you’re there, that you’re real, is a comfort I never expected.
You are my comfort, and I’m sorry for that.
The ink stopped. The last word bled slightly, forming a small pool of hesitation, as if she’d nearly said more.

Eris didn’t move, didn’t blink, barely breathed.

He tugged on the bond once, gently, needing to feel she was still there.

He read her words again and again. Until he could hear her voice in them.

Then, he wrote back.

He told her he understood, sharing the words he had longed to hear but never did. He wrote about ancient Autumn healing practices: the rituals, the prayers, the sleep charms passed down by priestesses who no longer get visitors.

He wrote about herbs and teas and the way moonstone, left in water overnight, was said to still a restless heart.

He wrote like a lovesick fool, because that’s what he was.

That’s what he wanted to be.

Not a prince. Not a commander. Not Beron’s heir built of fire, cruelty and expectation.

Just hers.

Soft, if just for her. Unapologetically.

Afterwards, the embarrassment was nearly unbearable. Pages of remedies, too much advice, and an overwhelming amount of feelings and emotions.

He felt foolish and exposed.

A strange resentment grew, not towards her, but at how easily she could draw this softness out of him. A stranger who didn’t quite feel like one, the bond didn’t lie. It was wrapped around his heart, forcing it to beat in sync with hers.

She had undone him, in every way that mattered.

After that night, her letters came sporadically.

Always during the worst of it, at her fraying edges, where the pain grew too loud to bear, and every time, he answered.

She never said she wanted help, but he gave it.

He spent hours on each reply, each word carefully picked like a thread in a tapestry he was weaving just for her.

Every letter reminded him she was real. That she was brilliant, capable, trying, and with each one, he fell harder.

Not just for her magic, or her mind, but for her humanity, her softness, her tired honesty, her refusal to let herself break completely even when she wanted to.

He was addicted.

To the quiet way she reached for him.

To the way her presence curled through the bond in the dead of night like a whisper against his spine.

To her.

Two months. He endured two months.

By the end, she was writing almost every day, and on the two-month mark since he last saw her, after two months of Beron’s fury, two months of empty corridors and silence, two months of missing her so fiercely, he forgot how to breathe.

He broke.

Shamelessly.

He begged.

He wrote asking her to come to Autumn.

To leave the Night Court behind.

To come to him.

He told her he needed her.

Asked if she could be his.

Asked if he could keep her.

Even if only in pieces.

The distance is killing me, Eris wrote. Please. I need you.

When he finished, he stared at the words in disbelief.

There was no way Eris Vanserra had written that. No way he’d have laid bare his soul to a mate who still called him a stranger.

His hand trembled. Tears threatened, absurd and shameful, but the fear was real.

The hope was worse.

What had he done? And why, despite everything, did he feel like he might still be saved?

The letter went unanswered.

For a day.

Then two.

Each hour that passed without a reply carved a little deeper into him.

Eris told himself he understood. He convinced himself she was busy, exhausted, haunted by the same war that still haunted him in his sleep. Told himself she didn’t owe him anything, not even a reply, but the bond didn’t understand silence. It pulled towards her like gravity, aching to feel her warmth once more.

By the third night, he stopped sleeping altogether.

He sat at his desk, the ink long dried on that last letter.

Please. I need you.

It looked desperate, too much, and just as he reached for the notebook again, to erase it, maybe, or explain, or beg again, the page stirred.

The ink began to bloom, slow and hesitant, like she had held the pen over the paper for a long time before letting it move.

The words were faint. Almost fragile.

I didn’t know what to say.
I still don’t.
I read your letter until I could hear your voice in it, until it made my chest ache. I kept thinking, why does someone like you need someone like me?
Eris closed his eyes.

You asked if you could keep me, but I don’t know how to be kept.
All I’ve ever known is how to survive, how to patch things that are broken, how to put myself back together in silence when no one is watching.
But I don’t think you want to watch me fall apart. I think you want to hold what’s left, and I don’t know how to let you.
There was a pause. A smear of ink.

He imagined her fingers trembling as she wrote.

I want to try. Not because I think I can give you what you deserve, but because when I read your words, I don’t feel quite so alone.
Because I felt your need like a flame in the dark, as if it was burning just for me.
A breath shuddered through him.

If I come to Autumn, it won’t be to save you, and it won’t be so you can save me.
It will be because, somewhere in this mess of grief and ruin, I want to remember what it feels like to be wanted.
By someone who sees me.
The last line came slowly.

Like she wasn’t sure if she meant to write it until it was already there.

I want to be yours.
The page stopped.

Eris stared at it for a long time. He read her letter again and again, until the words blurred.

I want to be yours.

It was all he could think about.

What it meant, for someone like him, to want something so deeply, so entirely, after a lifetime of pretending he needed nothing at all.

He should have waited, should have breathed, but instead, he did the only thing a man undone could do.

He wrote to Rhysand, not a request, but a demand, sharp-edged and urgent. A meeting. Immediately. Because he needed her, and those five words had shattered something in him, cracked him wide open.

She wanted him, and that truth settled into his chest like a brand, hot and raging.

Chapter Text

Reader POV -

She didn’t sleep, not really.

She lay there, wide-eyed in the dark, the silence pressing against her lungs, her ribs, her heart.

I want to be yours.

The words echoed, again and again, sharp and fragile.

Too much. Too soon. Too raw.

The book rested beside her, silent and still.

Not even a flicker of heat.

No pulse of magic.

No answer.

Eris hadn’t replied.

She’d watched the leather cover for hours, her fingers hovering over it like maybe, if she just touched it softly enough, he’d feel it. That the bond would stir, the book would hum, and something would bloom, but nothing did.

The longer the silence stretched, the more it gutted her. Her stomach twisted in on itself, her mind inventing reasons and regrets with every passing hour.

Maybe she’d read it all wrong.

All those midnight letters.

The unspoken things between the lines.

Perhaps his ‘I need you’ was different from her ‘I want you.’

She turned over, curling tighter, dragging the blanket over her head as if it might muffle the thoughts clawing through her mind.

She had no right to feel this way, not after everything she’d seen, not after the war.

The blood. The broken bodies. The last gasp under her hands.

She was a healer, and she was supposed to be constant and steady.

Not this.

Not this girl who hadn’t eaten in days.

Who re-read his letters until she could hear his voice.

Who whispered mine into a bond that couldn’t talk back.

Shame settled low in her ribs, ugly and consuming.

She reached for the book again, hands trembling.

No glow. No warmth. No him.

Though somehow, with the silence gnawing at her bones, sleep came. Uneasy and fragile. The book clutched to her chest like a lifeline.

She woke to a knock.

Sharp and deliberate.

Her eyes blinked open. The sun poured across the floorboards, but the room still felt cold. Too quiet, and there was still no hum from the book.

Another knock.

Firm and certain.

She pulled on her robe, knotting it tight with fumbling fingers, and padded to the door, cracking it open just enough to glimpse a tall figure in black and silver.

Rhysand.

He stood with his hands folded behind his back, his expression unreadable, but not unkind.

She stiffened and opened the door wider.

“My lord,” she said, bowing slightly, eyes flicking to the floor.

“No need for that,” Rhysand said gently. “May I come in?”

She hesitated, then nodded, stepping aside. “Of course.”

He entered quietly, his gaze sweeping the small apartment. Chaos hung in the air, scattered papers, teacups untouched and blankets discarded.

She followed him toward the centre of the room, combing a hand through her tangled hair.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, glancing at the bare shelves. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. There’s no tea, nothing really.”

“You don’t need to host me,” Rhysand said. “This isn’t a formal call.”

His voice was even, but his eyes lingered too long on the shadows beneath hers, on the way her robe hung a little too loose. His head tilted, quiet observation written in every line of him.

“How is the work?” he asked finally.

She looked toward the coffee table. At the files piled high. “Busy,” she said quietly. “As expected.”

“And how are you coping?” He asked, concern lacing his tone.

“I’m fine.”

Rhysand didn’t nod right away; silence stretched between them like a thread pulled too tight.

“I received a letter this morning,” he said. “From Eris Vanserra.”

Her breath hitched.

“A letter?”

Rhysand’s hands remained behind his back, his posture calm. “He’s asked to see you.”

The words echoed inside her like a second heartbeat.

He wants to see me.

She hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud until Rhysand’s brow lifted slightly.

“I’ve read your file,” he continued. “There’s no record of training in Autumn. No formal ties to the Vanserra family.”

She swallowed hard. Her throat suddenly too tight for words.

“I’ve heard things,” he added carefully. “Of you and Eris walking together through the camps. Of him waiting outside your tent. The healers say you didn’t return to your cot after the final battle, that no one saw you until morning.”

His voice wasn’t accusing. Not quite, but it wasn’t gentle either.

“I’m not here to shame you,” he said, more softly now. “You’re one of this court’s finest. You healed Azriel’s wings when we feared they were unsalvageable. You brought Cassian back from the brink. Nesta and Elain trust only you after the Cauldron. You’re vital.”

The word vital made her flinch. As if being needed meant she couldn’t be wanted.

Shame bloomed low in her gut, curling in on itself, and with it, panic.

The bond pulsed faintly beneath her skin, soft and aching.

“I just want to make sure you’re safe,” Rhysand said. “Because Eris Vanserra is not a male who asks lightly, and he didn’t request you. He demanded you. Like something owed. Like something his.”

Her fists curled at her sides.

“I…” she tried, then faltered.

Rhysand’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said. “But if something is happening, if there’s something between you two, I need to know.”

Rhysand paused.

“He’s here. If you’d like to see him, I can take you to him. If not, I will send him away. You don’t owe him anything.”

She stared down at her bare feet. Her heart thundered in her chest. The guilt remained, but so did the longing, the need.

All of it, every aching hour spent staring at blank pages, each reread line, every word burned into her, outweighed the shame of her High Lord standing there, asking what Eris Vanserra meant to her.

“I… I want to see him,” she whispered.

Rhysand gave a quiet nod. “Get dressed, and we’ll go.”

He didn’t look surprised.

She hurried into her room, fingers trembling as she grabbed a robe, the dark navy one, almost black, embroidered with Night Court sigils of protection along the hems. She hadn’t planned to pick it; maybe part of her wanted to feel safe. She already felt so exposed and vulnerable, so perhaps this was her last try at regaining control.

She brushed her hair and tied the sash. Her reflection stared back, with dark circles under her eyes and a hollow, tired gaze. Shame prickled at her; the thought of Eris seeing her like this made her stomach turn. Gaunt. Faded.

Moments later, she stepped out.

Rhysand studied her for a long breath, as if weighing whether she was truly ready.

He extended his hand. She took it.

The moment their palms met, shadow swept through the room, and they vanished into darkness.

Eris POV -

The chamber in Hewn City was as he remembered it, dark stone, colder than a tomb, and humming with ancient magic embedded into the walls.

He reclined in the high-backed chair at the end of the long obsidian table, all polished wood and silence. Azriel leaned in the shadows nearby, arms crossed, a blade always within reach. Cassian sat like a storm about to break, while opposite him, the High Lady of the Night Court, held his attention with polite conversation, veiled questions, and careful observations.

Feyre had asked why a male like him would make such a pointed request for a healer.

He had offered only half-truths in return, politics, trade and alliances.

All lies.

Because what could he say? That he had come here because a part of his soul had been left on a battlefield not of blood, but of letters and longing?

That he had waited months, agonising, for whispers through the bond and letters written in her darkest moments.

No.

He wore his smirk like armour. He leaned back in his chair with arrogance and cockyness, his legs crossed, fingers entwined as if he were at ease.

Ignoring the way his heart hadn’t stopped racing.

I want to be yours.

The words clung to him like the scent of her, wild and warm, edged in hope and fear. He’d read them until the page softened, until he could recite the curve of her handwriting like a prayer, and still he hadn’t answered.

What could he say that would be enough?

She deserved more than ink on parchment. She deserved to see what she meant to him. To know that her words had wrecked him, and now, finally, she was coming.

He felt her before he saw her.

That invisible cord, pulled taut. His skin prickled, his breath caught. Her presence kissed over him like water meeting fire, cooling him and burning him all at once.

He did not turn to face her.

He waited.

The chamber doors opened with a soft groan of stone and magic. Rhysand stepped inside, murmured something low, and she followed.

He went still.

The world stopped turning.

She looked thinner. Her cheeks were more hollow, her shoulders more fragile. Her robe hung too loose, and her magic coiled tight around her like a shield spun from exhaustion and willpower alone.

God, she was still beautiful.

No, not just beautiful. Radiant. Even in shadow. Even in sorrow.

The bond sparked in his chest. Low. Subtle. A flame catching kindling. He held himself still, as if any movement might shatter her.

She didn’t look at him at first.

Her eyes were forward, her jaw was clenched, her hands at her sides, trembling.

Rhysand murmured something low, and her eyes flicked toward him.

Eris stopped breathing.

She looked at him like a ghost come back to haunt her, or a wound she hadn’t meant to reopen.

Their eyes locked, and for a moment, time dropped away.

She hadn’t expected him to be here. He saw it in the way her expression faltered, surprised into softness. It made his chest ache at the thought she believed he wouldn’t come for her.

The High Lady was still speaking, something about diplomatic transparency and healer rotations. He didn’t hear her, didn’t care.

None of it mattered. Not the court, not the chamber, not the eyes watching him like wolves.

Only her.

Slowly, deliberately, he rose from his seat. A quiet movement, respectful, cautious. Like approaching a wild creature made of starlight and grief.

She straightened instinctively, eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in defence. She was bracing herself, expecting something cruel or careless.

He bowed.

Not as a prince of Autumn. Not as the heir to a cursed court, but as a man standing before the only person who had ever seen him and stayed.

When he looked back up, his voice was quiet, careful, and edged with something raw.

“You came.”

She didn’t answer, not aloud, but the bond bloomed with warmth in his chest.

Behind her, Rhysand watched like a wraith carved from judgment and shadow, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I requested this meeting,” Eris said, turning to the table, voice returning to its usual political timbre. “I have a matter to discuss with your court. One that is both personal and political in nature.”

The word personal dropped into the space like a blade.

The tension in the room turned to stone.

Feyre arched a brow. “Go on.”

“Autumn is still recovering, as is everyone else. I believe an alliance, resources, patrols, and healing supplies would benefit both our courts.”

“An alliance?” Cassian scoffed. “Convenient timing.”

Eris gave him a cold smile, all teeth and angles. “Convenience tends to arise when survival is at stake.”

Azriel’s voice slid from the shadows like poison.

“And the healer?” he asked. “Where does she fit into this agreement?”

Eris turned his head slowly.

Carefully.

“She has a name,” he said evenly. “Y/N, and I did not bring her into this chamber for posturing. I brought her because I asked to see her. The request was granted.”

A pause, deliberate.

“And frankly,” he added, gaze cutting back to Azriel, “it is none of your concern why.”

Azriel took a single step forward. Cassian’s jaw flexed, his wings twitching wide with the start of a challenge.

“Enough,” Rhysand said, voice quiet but absolute.

The High Lord’s gaze swept the room, then returned to her.

She stood still as a statue, a figure of frost.

Feyre broke the silence. “Are you proposing a formal alliance between courts?”

“I’m proposing the beginning of a conversation,” Eris replied smoothly. Finally, he let his eyes find her again.

“And a recognition that not all ties between our people are written on paper.”

Azriel scoffed under his breath. Feyre exchanged a glance with Rhysand. Cassian shook his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

The bond between Eris and her thrummed with pressure, tense, alive, waiting.

Rhysand’s voice sliced through the air again. “Let me be clear. If this is a claim, if you’re attempting to use something personal to gain political leverage—”

“I don’t need to leverage her,” Eris interrupted, calm and razor-sharp. “And I wouldn’t dare.”

That was the truth.

He would lay siege to his father, to all of Autumn, to every cursed part of his inheritance for her, but never through her.

“I will not let her be another piece on a chessboard. Not yours. Not mine. Not anyone’s.”

Rhysand turned to her, “She can speak for herself.”

The chamber fell to silence.

Eris didn’t move, didn’t breathe. His heart roared in his ears, a drumbeat of hope and fear.

Choose me, he thought. Just this once. Let it be me.

She didn’t speak right away.

The silence stretched, brittle as ice.

Every eye still pinned her in place. The Night Court’s inner circle didn’t breathe. Even the bond between them had gone still, coiled like it too was waiting.

Her gaze flicked to him.

“I would like to speak with him,” she said.

The words were quiet, but in that chamber, they rang like a cracked bell.

Shock rippled through the room like a slow wave. Cassian tensed up, Azriel’s jaw twitched, and even Feyre blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.

Only Rhysand didn’t move.

Eris could see it in his eyes, that calculation shifting.

She took a steady, single step towards him.

It was the only answer he needed.

Eris sensed that wave of disbelief. It felt like judgment, but she remained steady, not flinching, and only moved half a step closer to him. Pride curled in her chest, not the smug kind he wore like a shield, but something deeper. Fiercer. A bone-deep ache of pride.

“Then if you’ll allow us,” Eris said, glancing only briefly at Rhysand, “a moment in private.”

Rhysand didn’t answer immediately.

“You’re sure?” he asked her, his tone cool, but softer now.

“I am.”

A pause.

“Ten minutes.” Rhysand’s jaw ticked.

He didn’t gesture for the others to follow. They moved on their own. Azriel slipped into shadow, Cassian’s broad shoulders tense with barely-held rage, Feyre trailing closely behind. She cast one last quiet look at the healer, a wordless gesture, before the door closed behind them, and they were left on their own.

For the first time in months.

For the first time since the bond snapped taut between them.

The air shifted. Quiet, aching.

Eris didn’t move. He stood still, letting her come to him if she wanted.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” she said. Her voice cracked at the edges, soft and frayed.

His heart fractured at the sound.

“Of course I came.”

She crossed her arms, not to push him away, but to hold herself together. Her eyes were glassy, blinking fast.

“They think I’ve lost my mind.”

“You might have,” he said gently. “If you have... then we both have.”

Something flickered across her face, not quite a smile or relief, more like something aching.

“You shouldn’t have demanded me,” she whispered. “Not like that.”

“I didn’t know how else to ask.”

Her breath hitched. Her chest rose, fell, then rose again. Shaky. Fragile.

That was the truth; he didn’t know how else to ask. Only to demand.

“You said you needed me,” she said, her voice softer now. “Did you mean it?”

“I need you,” he replied. “Not as a healer. Not for your magic. Not to challenge the Night Court or prove a point.”

He took another breath. “I need you.”

“Eris,” she whispered.

He felt his name like salvation on her lips.

“Yes,” he breathed.

Her eyes finally met his, unguarded. Broken. “I can’t do this anymore. I barely feel alive. I feel like less of a person every day.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, too. “I know.”

Tears welled, and this time she didn’t blink them away fast enough. They spilled, silent, sliding down her cheeks.

She wiped at them roughly, as if ashamed.

Eris didn’t move. God, he wanted to, to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and promise she’d never be alone again, but he waited, giving her space to find the words. To find him.

“I shouldn’t have done this,” she said, voice trembling. “Shouldn’t have asked you to come here. Shouldn’t have dragged you into this, made it political, made it messy.”

“Don’t say that,” he murmured. “You didn’t drag me into anything. I came willingly.”

She shook her head. “I made it worse.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did, this was selfish.”

“No.” His voice sharpened with heat. “Wanting something for yourself, for once in your life, is not selfish.”

He stepped forward, slowly, until there was barely a step between them.

Finally, she reached for him.

Her hands found his. Small, cold, trembling.

“I want you,” she said.

He stopped breathing.

“I want you, Eris. I want the bond. I want you.”

His heart nearly stopped as she pressed against him, and he finally pulled her into his arms. She melted into him, her head tucked beneath his chin, and for the first time in a long while, he took a breath, inhaling her scent like she was all he ever wanted.

The tension in his shoulders dissolved. His arms tightened around her as if he might never let go.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he murmured into her hair. “No matter what it costs.”

Behind them, the chamber doors loomed like a verdict waiting to be spoken.

The Night Court stood on the other side, watching and waiting, and Eris knew, with a sick twist in his gut, that this could all go terribly wrong. They could demand she stay. They had the power to make it happen if they were cruel enough. Force his hand. Provoke a blood duel or war, neither of them could afford..

He should’ve been thinking strategically, should’ve weighed his words like a good son of Autumn, measured, precise, calculating, but instead, he tightened his hold on her.

Logic faltered. Politics failed.

She was in his arms, his mate, and in that moment, there was nothing he wouldn’t risk.

Nothing he wouldn’t burn.

Nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her.

He leaned back just enough to look down at her.

“Would you come to Autumn?”

She nodded. “I want to go to Autumn.”

The words hit him like sunlight after years underground. His chest caved with the force of it, ears ringing, every inch of him humming with the bond now pulsing strong and clear between them.

“Then let’s begin,” he murmured, and slowly, reluctantly, pulled away from her.

The chamber doors opened once more.

Rhysad was the first to step in, with an unreadable expression.

Eris felt her hand tremble where it brushed against his sleeve. He didn’t need to look to see the fear on her face, the way she clung to the bond so tightly it nearly strangled her from the inside. It wrapped around them both now, not like a tether, but a lifeline. Fragile. Precious.

Eris stepped forward. Not with arrogance, but certainty.

“We’ve spoken,” he said smoothly, voice steady. “And I’m prepared to offer the Night Court open cooperation, whatever you deem necessary within reason. Aid, intelligence, patrol support, border access.”

Rhysand didn’t blink. “In exchange for what?”

Eris didn’t hesitate.

“In exchange,” he said clearly, “she comes with me. Under your blessing. No retaliation. No whispers behind closed doors. No political punishment.”

Rhysand’s expression didn’t change, but the tension in the room thickened like the very air bristled with warning.

“You want her,” Rhysand said again, slowly this time. As if trying to understand something unfamiliar.

“You’re negotiating her like a treaty clause,” Cassian snapped.

A moment of silence followed. Cold. Crackling.

Eris’s cruel mask had slipped back into place, smooth and unreadable.

“Some might see it that way,” he said, voice razor-sharp. “But I see it as a mutual exchange.”

“You’re asking us to give up one of our most gifted healers,” Rhysand replied, voice cool as glass, “in exchange for what? Your good intentions?”

Eris didn’t blink.

“I’m offering a formal alliance. Border cooperation. Shared resources, supply lines, joint training, mutual defence.” He let that sink in. “And the first tangible step toward a reformed Autumn Court.”

A pause.

“You want stability in Autumn,” he continued. “And I am your only viable path to that. My brothers are volatile. My father is a tyrant. You want a High Lord who won’t burn the continent out of boredom or pride.”

Across the room, Cassian scoffed low under his breath. Azriel’s shadows curled tighter around him.

Beside Eris, she stood silent, hand trembling slightly at her side, fingers curled tight around the seam of her sleeve.

Rhysand’s violet gaze shifted to her. Not exactly angry, but nearly there. There was something in his expression that seemed like disappointment or pity. Perhaps both.

“Why?” he asked, his voice quiet. “You’re one of us.”

She met his gaze without flinching. Her eyes were pale and exhausted but determined.

“I love my work,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I love this court. I always will. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

A flicker of pain crossed her face.

“And I hope, someday, I can return and do just that, but I can’t be what you need anymore, and I’m sorry.”

Before Rhysand could respond, Cassian cut in, voice a blade.

“Something must’ve happened in the war camp.”

The accusation hung heavy in the air like smoke.

“Careful,” Eris said, voice still calm, but the warning beneath it was unmistakable.

Cassian stepped forward toward her. “You don’t know him; this is forced, or you are being manipulated.”

Her jaw clenched.

“You think I don’t know my own mind?” she snapped, voice cutting through the room like a slap. “You think I don’t understand what I’m choosing?”

Cassian fell silent, caught off guard.

“I stayed through war, blood, and loss,” she continued, breath trembling. “I gave everything I had. I broke for this court, and now” her voice cracked “I’m choosing something for myself.”

Azriel didn’t speak, but his shadows writhed like they wanted to say what he couldn’t.

Rhysand lifted a hand to silence any more interruptions, then he looked back at her.

“Does this have to do with the mating bond?”

The silence that followed was louder than any answer.

“Yes,” she said at last.

Not loud, but clear, and final.

Cassian looked like he’d been punched. Azriel’s expression tightened. Feyre drew in a sharp breath.

“You’re mates?” Feyre whispered.

Eris brushed his fingers against hers gently. She didn’t pull away; she leaned into it.

“Fated,” Eris replied, voice smooth but quiet. “Unavoidable, inconvenient, and real.”

Rhysand’s gaze narrowed. “You kept this from us.”

“To protect her,” Eris said. “And myself.”

“And now you come here demanding her?” Cassian growled. “Like an asset? A piece to bargain with?”

“I didn’t come to demand,” Eris said. “I came to offer. An alliance. A future. Proof that I’m not here to drag her away like a thief in the night.”

Rhysand’s voice turned cold. “And if I say no?”

Eris didn’t hesitate.

“Then you’ve chosen to keep a Fae who doesn’t want to stay,” he said, voice calm but unyielding. “And I will do what I must to protect what is mine.”

The word mine sparked something deep within her, sharp and bright, burning through the uncertainty.

She stepped closer to him, drawn by instinct, by choice. He felt her gaze settle on him, steady and unwavering.

The bond pulsed between them, sure and steady. Reassuring.

Rhysand turned back to her. “Is this truly what you want?”

“It is.”

A long pause followed, long enough for the whole room to hold its breath.

Rhys’s eyes shifted to his mate. Their bond pulsed with silent tension, words exchanged only between them. At last, slowly, he nodded.

“I want updates,” Rhysand said, eyes on Eris now. “On her safety. Her well-being. If she wants to write, she may. If she ever wants to come home—”

“She’ll have that choice,” Eris cut in. “Always.”

Rhysand inclined his head slightly towards her.

“You will be missed. You are welcome back anytime. Magja will ask for you the moment she realises you’re gone.”

“I know,” she replied softly. “I finished my files. They’re on the coffee table.”

To most, it sounded like a simple gesture, closing one chapter before beginning another, but Eris knew better. He saw it clearly for what it was: preparation. Quiet, deliberate readiness. She’d finished her work in anticipation of this very moment, as if she’d always known he’d come for her.

Feyre stepped forward, offering a gentle smile.

“Come say goodbye when you’re ready,” she said. “Properly.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice cracking slightly.

Eris turned to her. “Are you ready?”

She looked once more at Rhysand, the male who had once protected her, the court that had shaped her, nurtured her, and, unintentionally, made her feel like she no longer belonged.

She turned to Eris.

She was choosing her own future.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

Yes.

The word still echoed through Eris’s mind, absolute, binding, and holy.

She had chosen him.

Her fingers slipped into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Eris closed his hand around hers, careful, reverent, as if too much pressure might break the fragile miracle of this moment. He had never allowed himself softness. Never dared offer tenderness, not in a world that punished vulnerability, that carved it out of him with every year.

This wasn’t a weakness.

He held her hand not as a claim, not as possession, but as a vow. A silent promise. The bond whispered across their skin like a sacred thread: Mine.

He turned to Rhysand, his spine straight and chin lifted, not with arrogance but something rarer: respect. Quiet, restrained defiance wrapped in dignity. In that moment, after centuries of anger and forced diplomacy, Eris saw it. The shift in the Night Court’s High Lord. A shared recognition between men who had been forged by their fathers for cruelty, and who had hidden their truths for love.

Feyre stood beside her mate, her gaze steady and full, not cold, but laced with a weight only another woman could understand. One who had made her own impossible choices. Who knew the cost of loving someone broken, and loving them anyway.

No words were needed.

Eris let the moment hang, and then, with a breath of flame and wind, he winnowed them away.

From Velaris. From judgment. From the past.

Reader POV -

Gone were the stone walls, the violet skies, the scent of sea and salt.

In a blink, Autumn replaced it all.

The air welcoming her was warm and thick with ancient magic, carrying the scent of pine needles, firewood, and the crackle of falling leaves. It felt older and wilder.

She opened her eyes and froze.

They stood at the grand entrance of the Forest House, and she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

It wasn’t a palace.

No, the word palace was too small.

This was a temple dedicated to fire and wildness, a cathedral of decay and glory. A living, beating heart of the Autumn Court.

White marble pillars stood tall like ancient tree trunks, reaching into a high-arched ceiling engraved with copper and gold veins that shimmered like flames. Crimson and emerald ivy curled around them in spirals, with stone decorated with gold and copper leafwork that reflected sunlight like a fire.

Spiralling balconies and staircases wove through the vast chamber, crafted from wood streaked with quartz. The balustrades had carvings of flames, stags, and swirling vines. Light streamed through crystal skylights, casting a warm amber glow over everything. Glistening fae lights moved along carved pathways, creating patterns on the marble floor. Through open archways, she saw courtyards where ancient trees burned with autumn colours, scarlet and burnt gold.

Her mouth parted slightly, breath shallow. She barely registered that her hand was still tucked in his, still warm, still held, because all she could feel was the thunder of her heartbeat and the world opening before her.

Eris wasn’t looking at the palace; he was watching her as if her awe was the only thing worth seeing.

“Your winnowing…” she whispered, dazed. “It’s more aggressive than ours.”

Eris tilted his head slightly, firelight catching in his hair. “Is it?”

She nodded slowly, gaze sweeping the palace beyond.

“It felt like being flung through fire,” she breathed. “Raw, and wild.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t need to. His silence allowed her to take a breath, giving her space to react.

She turned in place, her awe quiet but fierce. Leaves burned gold, and crimson above them, the Forest House rising around her like something dreamed.

She had thought the Night Court was beautiful, elegant, and deliberate, but this was wild. Autumn didn’t ask to be noticed. It demanded it.

“This isn’t what I expected.”

“No?” he asked, watching her as if her answer meant everything.

“I thought it would be cold,” she admitted. “Sterile, stone and fire. Power. But this is alive.”

Her gaze lifted.

“The Forest House was grown, not built. It breathes and listens. My ancestors shaped it from forest and flame. They bound its roots with ancient magic and allowed it to evolve.” Eris explained.

Eris stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable in his amber eyes.

“Come. I want to show you our wing.”

Her breath caught.

“Our wing?” she asked, blinking, unsure if she’d heard him correctly.

“I don’t live in the main palace unless I have to,” he said, voice quieter now, as though this wasn’t something he often shared. “I keep a private residence in the west wing. It overlooks the river, hidden in the trees. No one will bother us there.”

Us.

The word curled around her chest like warmth pressed against frozen skin. Her heart stuttered. She’d never been part of an us before.

When she looked up again, Eris had extended his arm towards her, not commanding, not expectant, just offering. For a moment, he looked almost uncertain, as if afraid she might step back.

Her hand moved onto his arm, fingers resting softly. It felt familiar, as if they’d always stood like this, shoulder to shoulder, like the world might finally make sense if she just kept holding on.

Eris said nothing, but the gleam in his eyes was gentle as he led her further into the heart of Autumn.

They moved slowly through the corridors of the Forest House. Faelit lanterns flickered along polished stone, casting shadows that danced. Tall, arched windows lined one entire side of the hall, revealing a forest ablaze with gold, rust, and crimson.

Her gaze kept flickering. Every few steps, she turned her head, tilting upwards to admire the stained-glass ceilings, which featured images of flames, vines, and beasts.

This was beauty in boldness. Power in colour. Art in untamed magic.

Eris remained silent, matching her pace. He slowed when she paused and stayed close as she leaned over the balconies to glimpse the palace grounds far below.

When they stepped out of the main palace, her boots echoed on the stone of the courtyard. In its centre stood an ancient tree, with dark, ink-coloured bark and wide branches reaching for the heavens. She ran her fingers along its trunk, and it hummed with magic.

Eris led her to the entrance with arched windows, a tall oak and a glass door that creaked open as he approached. Magic greeted him and welcomed them.

The moment they stepped inside, she sensed the change.

This was his wing.

The beauty of the palace didn’t vanish, but it softened. Not any less stunning, just more intimate.

The ceilings lowered slightly. The stone walls were now kissed by warmth, etched with elegant carvings of flames and winding vines. A large rug sprawled across the floor in the centre of the entryway, its colours mirroring the woods outside: deep green, burnished copper, and gold.

A decorative table stood off to one side, topped with a tall bouquet of flowers arranged beneath a painting of a forest lake, Autumn trees blazing with colour, snow-capped mountains rising in the distance.

She stopped walking. Her heart thudded once, hard, against her ribs.

Blues. Purples. Petals edged in silver starlight.

Night Court blooms.

She didn’t need to touch them to know, but her hand reached out anyway, as if on instinct, and the moment her fingertips brushed a velvet petal, the flowers shifted, opening wider, blooming fuller, recognising her.

Behind her, Eris said quietly, “I thought they might make you feel at home.”

She turned slowly.

He hadn’t moved from the doorway. His posture was easy, his expression unreadable, but his voice had the faintest tremor, so subtle it might’ve been missed if not for the bond between them.

The bond that sang softly in her chest, pulsing with a fragile hope. He was nervous, afraid she wouldn’t like it, that it wouldn’t be enough.

“They’re beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Her eyes lingered on the bouquet as she walked further into his home, passing through an archway.

A few steps below the main level was a sitting room that took her breath away. A curved stairwell wound downward to her left, with railings carved like twisted vines.

One wall was entirely glass, stretching from floor to ceiling, with a wide balcony extending into the golden woodland. Trees swayed softly in the breeze, their copper and crimson leaves drifting like sparks of fire.

The room radiated a quiet, inviting warmth. Low couches in deep midnight tones were scattered with plush cushions and soft, folded throws. Built-in shelves lined the walls, filled with worn and well-loved books, titles ranging from war treatises to foreign languages and dense histories. Paintings hung above, abstract and emotional, full of wild movement. One captured the image of a flame erupting into darkness; another showed shadowed hands reaching through a veil of fog.

A hearth crackled along the far wall, its golden fire casting a gentle light across stone floors and woven rugs in forest hues.

“This is ours,” Eris said behind her, his voice barely more than a breath. It was the softness in it that nearly undid her.

She didn’t turn; her fingers curled slightly at her sides.

“You’re free to make it your own. If you want to.”

She swallowed. “All of this?”

“There’s more upstairs, the bedrooms,” he said, stepping in beside her but still leaving space. “Through there,” he nodded toward a warmly lit archway, “is the main study, and the library. The kitchens are past that.”

He hesitated. “You can explore everything. The whole estate is open to you. There’s a staircase that winds down to the forest floor. It passes a few corridors, the training rooms, and the gardens on the lowest level. Beyond that, the doors open directly into the woods.”

Her heart thudded hard. The size of it all overwhelmed her, the sheer wealth.

Eris cleared his throat. “The kennels are out there, too. With the smoke hounds.”

That made her glance over. “Smoke hounds?”

He nodded, “I have twelve.”

“Do you?”

“They won’t bite,” he said lightly, though she could feel the tension in him again.

The bond hummed faintly, anxious, uncertain.

She turned fully toward him.

“I’d like to see the rest,” she said softly.

Eris nodded and led her through the room. He didn’t rush. He simply stayed nearby, answering when she asked and guiding when she paused.

They passed through another arch into a wide hall, where golden light flickered along the walls.

The study was more like a war room, a large table in the centre was covered in maps and small carved markers, set up for strategy or discussion. Bookshelves lined the walls, and soft chairs sat beneath warm lamps. A desk by the window held stacked papers and ink pots.

Next came the library. Not as large as the ones in Velaris, but warmer. Personal. Scrolls and books were shelved in imperfect rows. Armchairs waited in the corners, draped with blankets and soft cushions. The lighting glowed like candlelight, golden and gentle. She drifted through it in silence, trailing her fingers over book spines.

Eris didn’t speak, he only watched quietly.

The kitchen was next, and it surprised her most. Copper pans hung from open wooden racks. A wide wooden table sat before a hearth where faint embers still glowed. The smell of cinnamon and clove lingered in the air. She could almost imagine meals taken here, laughter and stories told over wine.

It was comforting.

Then he led her upstairs. They climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor, where arched doors lined the walls, each carved with delicate, distinctive designs.

Eris stopped at one made of pale oak, its handle shaped like golden leaves. “This is yours.”

She blinked. “We don’t share a bedroom?”

His expression didn’t shift. “Not unless you want to.”

No pressure. No assumption.

He pushed the door open.

The room was spacious, with walls hung with tapestries depicting starlit forests, moonlit rivers, and skies painted with constellations she remembered from her childhood. A wall of arched windows looked out onto the forest, and a small balcony held two chairs and a table.

A vanity sat tucked in the corner, carved from twilight wood. A vase of Night Court flowers rested on top. The bed was wide and draped in silvery fabric that moved with a breeze she couldn’t feel. The blankets were deep blue, soft lavender, and pale silver. Night Court colours.

A small hearth burned low in the corner. A chaise waited beside it with a folded blanket, and a book left on the table.

She stepped closer and picked it up.

It was a healing text she’d mentioned only once, in a letter weeks ago.

He’d remembered.

Eris stayed by the door, quiet.

“I thought you might want something familiar,” he said. “Something that feels like yours.”

She turned, blinking back tears.

“If you want to change anything,” he added, “we will.”

He held her gaze before bowing slightly. “I’ll give you some time.”

“Wait,” she said, voice cracking.

He paused.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, lip twitching up into almost a smile.

“Of course,” he murmured. “This is the least I could do.”

After a moment, he said, “I’ll be in the sitting room. When you’re ready.”

The door shut softly behind him. She turned back to the room, removed the satchel from her shoulder, and placed it on the vanity.

She moved to the balcony, opened the door, and stepped outside. A cool breeze brushed against her skin. Leaves rustled in the golden trees, and below, the river whispered softly.

She continued exploring.

The bathing chamber was crafted from pale stone and curved lines. A deep tub rested beneath a window, surrounded by shelves filled with oils and soaps that smelled of rosemary and night jasmine.

The wardrobe was filled with gowns and new clothes, clearly chosen just for her. There were flowing silk and satin dresses, sheer layers of tulle crafted into stunning ballgowns, and body-hugging dresses designed to glide over her like a second skin. Practical garments, including trousers, tunics, robes, and thick cloaks, hung nearby, all in colours she loved. On the lower shelves, leather boots stood in tidy rows, even heels for formal occasions; beside them lay slippers lined with soft wool, waiting to be worn.

The final door led to a study that faintly smelled of parchment and ink. An oak desk sat beneath a high window, with a vase of dusky blooms leaning toward a crystal inkwell. Shelves were half-filled with books on healing, magic, and philosophy.

Another table was positioned beneath suspended shelves filled with healing books and crystals. Along the wooden desk, vials and delicate jars of herbs and potions were carefully lined up, each labelled in elegant script. Some ingredients she hadn’t seen since her training, while others were ones she had only dreamed of working with. It was a space for her to work.

Journals awaited her words, their spines unbroken.

The bond pulsed beneath her skin, soft and sure.

She wandered around the room as if trying to memorise it, her fingertips grazing the edges of the cabinets and the empty drawers that awaited her belongings.

Eventually, she moved into the hallway, where silence welcomed her. She moved quietly, almost instinctively, her footsteps muffled against the stone. The room opposite hers was another bedroom, beautiful but impersonal.

Further down the hall, a sitting room opened to her left, with lounges covered in soft fabrics and cushions. Against the wall, a writing desk held a page with still-glittering ink where Eris had paused mid-sentence.

At the far end of the corridor, her hand paused on a door. No magical hum, no quiet call pulled her forward, but something in the air changed. A stillness that made her breath catch in her throat.

The moment her fingers curled around the handle, she knew.

Eris’s.

The scent hit her first, cedar and smoke, with a hint of something spiced and sun-warmed. It was familiar and unmistakably his.

The room opened up to her, peaceful and glowing with autumn colours: crimsons, golds, creams, and rich dark wood tones. An enormous four-poster bed stood against the far wall, its heavy curtains drawn back, and the sheets were rumpled just enough to suggest it had been lived in.

Sheer drapes stirred gently at the tall windows, the breeze carrying in the scent of trees and distant smoke from a fire. In one corner, a sitting area with lounges covered in worn throws faced a large fireplace. A low table was cluttered with papers, open books, and a half-finished mug of tea that had been left forgotten.

She stepped inside before she could think better of it, moving slowly, as if being in the room might help her understand him more. Her fingers brushed over the back of a velvet chair, the soft fold of a blanket, and a quill lay discarded beside a loose page filled with familiar, slanted handwriting. Three doors lined the far wall, and she could guess what they were: a bathing chamber, a closet, and a study.

“Are you looking for something?”

His voice didn’t startle her so much as root her in place.

Eris leaned in the arched doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. There was a tilt to his mouth that bordered on a smile, a lilt of amusement in his tone, but his eyes were quieter, watching, reading every inch of her.

“I—” she began, but the words caught in her throat. Her cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come in.”

He pushed off the frame with the kind of ease that made her nerves feel foolish. “Why not?”

She glanced around the room as if it might answer for her.

“It’s your room. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just wandering, and then I realised where I was and—” Her voice faded as heat crept into her ears. She bit her cheek, silencing herself.

Eris stepped forward, his tone softer now. “You’re not intruding.”

“No, I—I," she quickly said, shaking her head. “It’s your space.”

He paused a few steps away from her, neither too close nor too far.

“It’s our house,” he said softly. “That technically makes every room yours too.”

She looked up at him, cautious. “Even if I was poking around?”

That almost-smile curved a little higher. “You can poke through every drawer if it makes you feel better. Fair warning, though, my secrets are extremely dull.”

A quiet huff escaped her, surprised and warm.

“I wasn’t looking for anything,” she murmured. “I just wanted to see.”

His head tilted, just slightly, that unreadable look returning. “And what did you see?”

She hesitated. “Books you don’t finish. Notes you don’t throw away.”

He breathed a sound that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe surprise.

“It’s not what I expected,” she admitted. “I thought it would be colder, sharper, but it feels like you.”

He didn’t reply right away, just nodded slowly, as if something about that meant more than she knew.

“I was going to leave,” she said quietly. “When I realised it was your room.”

“But you didn’t.”

Her cheeks flushed again. She clutched her hands in front of her like a scolded child. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m teasing,” he cut in, voice warm now, a hint of grin returning. “Are you always this nosy?”

Her lips parted, then closed again.

“No…” Her voice trailed off.

The way her gaze darted away from his made the lie obvious.

“Not very convincing,” he said, stepping a little closer.

She blinked, caught off guard. Her gaze flicked to his face, then away again.

“You don’t have to hide,” he said. “Not here. Not around me.”

She didn’t know how to respond, not with the bond thrumming low and golden beneath her skin.

She let her gaze drift back across the room, the mug half-drunk, the sun catching the dark red sheets, the breeze tugging at the curtain.

“Stay as long as you like,” Eris said. “I just came to grab a few files before heading down, but please, make yourself at home.”

“You don’t mind if I stay?” she asked, a touch surprised as he passed by her.

“You could sleep in my bed, bathe in my bath, read my notes, criticise my handwriting,” He paused, voice dipping lower. “And I’d still be grateful.”

The last part was barely more than a murmur, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. He crossed to one of the doors and opened it. A study, just as she’d guessed, filled with even more books, files stacked high, a desk littered with documents. He grabbed two files from the top of a pile, thick as novels, then left the door ajar behind him.

“I’ll be in the war room if you need me,” he said, turning to go. “Feel free to explore the grounds, the house, just don’t go too far alone. My father and brothers aren’t exactly welcoming.”

He gave a slight bow, already halfway out the door when she said, “What are you doing?”

Eris turned back. “Still sorting the aftermath of the war. Death notices, treaty arguments, reports for my father.”

She looked him over, noting the faint circles beneath his eyes. “Paperwork?”

“Never-ending piles,” he replied.

She hesitated. “Do you… want help?”

He stilled.

“I mean, I’m not doing anything, and I don’t exactly have a job anymore. I’ll probably get bored, and I know I don’t know anything about treaties or court politics, but—”

“I’d appreciate the help,” he said, cutting her off before her nerves spiralled again.

“Really? I don’t even know where to start.”

“I think you know more than you think,” he said. “Even just reading through, giving your thoughts, it’ll help.”

She nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Without quite meaning to, she followed him, out of the room, down the hall, past her own door and down the spiral staircase. Eris said nothing, but his pace slowed just enough to match hers. He led her through a corridor of arched stone and soft golden light.

“Would you like to work in the war room or the sitting room?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

She hesitated, her fingers tightening within the sleeves of her robe. “Is the sitting room okay?”

“Of course,” he said immediately, guiding her down a few more turns until the corridor opened into that sunken living space. It was warm and quiet, the hearth already lit, the flames dancing across the stone.

Something in her chest pulled tight at the sight of it. She followed him closely, her footsteps quiet. He placed the thick files on the low table with a muted thud, then sank into one of the lounge chairs, already flipping through the first pages. She lingered behind him, unsure.

He looked up and his gaze softened. “Would you like some tea?”

Before she could answer, he was already standing, and then he vanished deeper into the house.

“I’m fine,” she called after him quietly, but the distant sound of a whistle of a kettle had already begun. Cupboards opened and closed. Porcelain clinked softly behind stone walls.

She sat at the edge of the lounge, back straight, hands folded. The blanket beside her remained untouched, neatly folded, as if offering comfort.

A few minutes later, Eris returned, carrying a porcelain cup on a saucer, painted with pale bluebells, and a small plate of shortbread biscuits.

“The handmaids usually cook,” he said, placing the tray gently before her. “They’re better at this than I am, but I hope this is okay. The tea is peppermint.”

She blinked at the cup. Steam curled delicately from it, catching in the hearthlight. It was such a small gesture, but somehow, it felt like more.

Eris lowered himself into the seat across from her, movements slower now, careful. His usual confidence, the sharp edges and composed silence, wavered slightly. She noticed it in the way he didn’t quite meet her eyes, as if he were wary of her.

“I don’t know what you need,” he said at last, his voice rough, low. “I’ve never done this before, this caring for someone.”

She stilled, her hands curling around the warm porcelain. He wasn’t looking at her, but into the fire, as if it might burn through the words for him.

“You left everything behind,” he added. “For a stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” she said softly. Her voice wavered, but she meant it.

Eris exhaled slowly and dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“I just… I don’t want to get this wrong.”

She looked at him over the rim of her teacup. The Prince of Cruelty in his silks and worry, sitting like a man unsure if reaching for her would shatter everything or save it.

“You haven’t,” she said.

Their eyes met, the bond stirred gently, low and golden, like a flame banked for warmth rather than fire, present and waiting.

“You’ll tell me,” he said, after a moment. “If it’s too much. If I’m too much. If you ever want to leave…”

He paused, the words thick in his throat. “You’ll tell me.”

She leaned forward, cradling the tea in her hands. “I will.”

He shook his head, something tight behind his ribs. “Promise me. I don’t want to force this. I don’t want you to feel like you don’t have a choice.”

“I chose this, Eris,” she said, voice firm now. “I chose you.”

He stilled completely, and then she felt it through the bond, like a dam breaking. Everything he’d hidden away, hesitation, longing, reverence, want, washed down that golden tether. Desire and disbelief. A fierce, aching tenderness that left her breathless.

He didn’t speak, just nodded once, eyes full and mouth twitching into the beginnings of a smile that didn’t quite form.

Carefully, he reached for one of the smaller stacks of papers he’d brought in.

“I’d like your opinion on these,” he said, passing them to her with something almost like reluctance.

She took them, still warm from his hands. She set her tea down and flipped through the first few pages.

Her breath hitched when she read the title at the top of the first:

The Failure of Our Triage and Healers.

“These are healer logs,” she murmured. “And evaluations of your triage systems.”

He nodded. “We relied too heavily on outside courts for healers and supplies. During the war, we lost everything, healers, medicine, and coordination. Soldiers died waiting to be seen. They want a report on what went wrong.”

He paused for a moment before contining. “I thought… because you’re experienced, and it’s not about current cases, it might be okay to ask, but if it’s too much, I understand.”

He was watching her now, not just with caution, but with guilt. Like even asking might reopen something he couldn’t put back together.

She didn’t look away. Instead, she set the papers down with care, reached for the ink pot and the quill resting near the table’s edge. Her fingers, when they curled around the feathered stem, were steady.

“I wasn’t coping,” she said softly. “Because my men were dying in my hands. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t save them.” Her gaze lifted, finding his. “And the bond, being so far from you, only made the silence, the grief louder.”

A pause.

“Reading reports won’t break me,” she said. “If anything, it might help.”

“I’m sorry,” Eris said softly, voice raw. “I didn’t want to assume… I’m not trying to protect you like you’re fragile, I just—”

“Eris,” she interrupted gently, the quill already poised above the page. “I’m okay. Let me help.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I don’t know how to let someone help with this,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the mess of ink between them. “It’s always just been me.”

A flicker of a smile touched her lips, soft and warm. “Then we’ll learn together.”

Beside the fire, as the steam from her tea curled thinner and the shortbread softened between them, they leaned closer, shoulders brushing. Ink stained their fingers. Pages turned.

Two survivors not just of war but of the lives they’d lived before finding each other.

Chapter Text

Eris couldn’t help glancing over at his mate.

She’d kicked off her shoes and curled beneath one of the thick throws, quill between her teeth, brow furrowed in concentration. Her eyes tracked the words on the page, once, then again, methodically, before she jotted something down on her notepad.

The room was quiet, except for the rustle of parchment and the crackle of fire. He tried, truly tried, to focus on the treaty proposal sprawled across his lap. The latest draft between the fae and humans.

She scoffed under her breath. Not loud, but enough to cut through his thoughts.

Eris didn’t need to ask. He knew the exact line she’d reached. The one where the healers were called lazy, unfit for leadership, and liabilities in the war effort.

Shameful lies.

He had watched the healers, their hands stained with blood, and darkness lingering under their eyes, as they gave their all in desperate attempts to save lives. Meanwhile, Autumn Court soldiers stomped through the triage area as if it were theirs to command. High-ranking personnel, favoured by his father, undermined the very individuals who were trying to keep their comrades alive.

She stilled, then looked up, and their eyes met.

“They’re not serious,” she said.

Her jaw clenched, and her fingers gripped the notepad in quiet fury.

“Unfortunately,” Eris said, leaning forward with a sigh, “they are.”

She turned, shifting on the lounge to face him fully. Her blanket slipped from one shoulder, and her expression was hard: beautiful yet sharp.

“You know why they failed,” she said. “And I won’t pretend they didn’t, but it wasn’t the healers. It was the structure. It was Autumn.”

Her hand gestured to the report, nearly trembling with restrained anger.

“These soldiers, your soldiers, ignored every protocol. They took over the tents and hoarded supplies. The healers were buried in chaos.”

“I know,” he murmured, shame coiling beneath his ribs.

She searched his face. “Do you agree with this?”

Her voice cracked slightly, with fury. The kind of fury born from compassion.

“No,” Eris said, his voice low, “I don’t, but my father is—”

“Deranged,” she muttered.

A laugh escaped him, quiet and sharp, almost foreign. Her eyes darted to his, and for a moment, she seemed startled by the sound, a subtle pink flush rising to her cheeks.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your father.”

“No, please,” Eris murmured, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Say more.”

She sighed and sank deeper into the cushions, her hand lifting to cradle her cheek. Wrapped in an oversized throw, she looked soft, tired, and real, a sight that took his breath away.

He watched her work, watching the firelight warm her skin as her ink-stained fingers trailed across the parchment. The silver embroidery woven into her robe shifted hue beneath the hearth’s glow. It no longer shimmered like starlight; now it was burnished amber, as though the Autumn Court itself had reached for her, wrapped her in its hues, and marked her.

The protection sigils along her hem whispered with magic. He could feel the spellwork pulsing faintly from where he sat, wards woven into the fabric.

He shifted slightly in his chair, fingers curling over the edge of the worn wooden armrest. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it would come out right.

She glanced at him again, meeting his gaze with a softer look this time, not fury or judgment.

“I know Autumn isn’t like the Night Court,” she said, voice quieter now, “But how do you live like this?”

That fear returned quickly and sharply, that she would ask to leave. That she would see him the way others viewed his court. That she would think this world reflected him.

“I wait,” Eris said after a pause. “For the day I can change it.”

She hesitated.

“Will he hurt me?”

That question broke something in him.

“No,” he said. “He wouldn’t dare.”

“But he’ll use me,” she said. Not a question this time.

He didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

She saw it, the guilt in his silence and the truth in his eyes.

Eris remembered the look on his father’s face when he first told him about her. The way Beron had smiled was sharp and calculating. The way his brothers had laughed over dinner, about mating frenzies and ruined bedsheets, what she must’ve offered to earn his favour so quickly. The way his fire had surged, almost uncontrolled, until the wood cracked and his father’s eyes narrowed in warning.

“He will,” Eris said quietly, the words scraping out of him like something sharp. “My father’s cruel. He only understands power, and he’ll see you as leverage.”

He paused, jaw tight.

“Having you here reminds me why I am doing this. For our future.”

“I make it worthwhile?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

He looked at her, at the way the firelight kissed her skin, the softness in her expression that somehow defied everything this place represented.

“You’re the only reason I haven’t turned this cursed court to ash,” he said, “Your letters—”

He took a shaky breath.

“They were the only thing that kept me here. While I drowned in guilt over my men, the healers, the people I was supposed to protect, it was you. The thought of you. The hope that maybe you’d still come.”

She didn’t speak, only looked at him, her eyes soft and shimmering.

“My family promised us space. A few days, at least. Time to settle before it all begins,” he said, pushing to his feet too quickly, too abruptly, like the weight of his honesty had become too much.

“Okay,” she murmured, watching as he gathered the empty plate and cup. She didn’t try to stop him.

In the kitchen, his hands trembled. He placed the porcelain gently on the counter, bracing himself against the edge of the table.

His head bowed.

She wasn’t going to stay. Not when Beron turned his gaze on her. Not when the Autumn Court showed its teeth. They’d use her to get to him.

Break her.

Break him.

“Eris?”

Her voice pulled him back.

She was beside him now, hip brushing his.

“It’s okay,” she said gently. “I’m not saying I don’t want to be here. I just… I need to understand what I’ve stepped into.”

He exhaled slowly, resisting the pull to lean fully into her touch, but he shifted, just slightly, drawn by instinct more than permission.

“I’m terrified,” he admitted, the words scraped raw. “Of you deciding I’m no different from them.”

She was quiet.

“That you’ll see my father in me,” he went on. “That your fear of this court will be justified. That you’ll run, and I’ll deserve it.”

She sighed softly, a sound that melted some of the ice in his chest.

“Eris… I knew.”

His heart gave a violent jump.

“I knew what Autumn was like,” she continued. “The rumours. The stories. Your letters didn’t hide any of it, you told me the truth, from the beginning.”

He said nothing; he couldn’t.

“I’m not going to run or disappear into the night,” she added. “You brought me here, and that matters. I am not fragile, Eris. I can handle this.”

His chest tightened. The image, her leaving without a word, without a trace, was something he couldn’t let himself imagine. He wouldn’t survive it.

“I don’t think you’re fragile,” he said quietly, voice almost breaking. “I never did.”

Her expression softened, a hint of tenderness flickering in her gaze.

“I just…” He swallowed, but the words still caught in his throat.

She didn’t push, didn’t demand more.

“You’re okay, Eris,” she whispered, and somehow it was more secure than any spell, any ward, any weapon he’d ever held. “You’re allowed to feel like this.”

Her expression softened, and for a moment, the tenderness in her eyes made him feel unbearably small, seen in a way that stripped him down to the rawest parts of himself.

She saw him beginning to spiral, and instead of trying to fix it, she offered a way out.

“You mentioned hounds,” she said, voice lighter, gently tugging him from the edge. “I’ve never seen one.”

“No?” he asked, eyes flicking to her in quiet surprise.

She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “No. The Night Court doesn’t do pets.”

He let out a huff.

“I’m not surprised. I can show you,” he offered. Not bothering to hide the flicker of hope that crept into his voice.

“I’d like that,” she said. “Very much.”

Eris straightened, not with pride, but with an aching sort of hope.

“You’ll need your shoes,” he said, glancing down at her bare feet, then back to her eyes.

A blush crept up her cheeks. “Right.”

She padded through the estate, and when she returned, shoes now on, Eris gave a small nod, motioning for her to follow. A near-smile tugged at his lips.

They wandered the winding halls, golden sunlight spilling through tall windows. The opposite walls displayed paintings of bloody victories, enchanted woods, and weapons that still hummed faintly with dormant power. She glanced at them only once or twice before returning her gaze to him, saying nothing.

He led her down a sweeping staircase, past quiet training rooms lined with gleaming blades, through a conservatory of glass, sunlight catching on crystalline leaves that shivered like wind chimes. Finally, they reached the main gardens.

The moment the Autumn air touched her skin, she stopped. The sun was at its peak, gold pouring through trees dressed in flame-red, amber, and copper leaves. She tilted her face toward the light, and the sight of her, bathed in warmth, eyes soft, hit him like a blow to the chest.

The gardens unfurled into a vast, wild stretch of forest. Raised beds brimmed with herbs, medicinal roots, and Night Court blooms he’d spent weeks, and more coin than he’d ever admit, acquiring just for her. As her eyes widened, lips parting in a quiet, surprised breath, he didn’t regret a single coin.

She stepped forward first. He watched as she paused to inhale the scent of a flower and trailed her fingers along a glowing vine.

At the far edge of the garden, a wrought-iron gate marked the boundary to the hound run, a wide, open grove, half-wild, half-enchanted, bordered by dense woodland. He opened the gate for her.

She stepped through.

He whistled, low and sharp.

She jumped, stepping instinctively closer. Her arm brushed his, then her fingers found his.

A rustle.

Then another.

Six smokehounds emerged from the underbrush, tall spectral figures, sleek-furred and smoky-grey, gliding from the brush like shadows given shape. Not quite canine. Not quite fae. Something in between, ancient and enchanted.

Smoke drifted off their coats like mist. Their eyes gleamed, molten gold in the sunlight.

She gasped, clutching his arm. More hounds burst into view, bounding toward them at a run, pressing herself fully against his side. Her fingers clung to his tunic.

“They don’t bite,” Eris said, amusement lacing his voice. “Not you, anyway.”

“They look like they bite,” she whispered, as the pack began sniffing around her cloak and boots, circling like wolves around an injured doe.

“They’re called smokehounds,” he murmured, voice lower now, more serious. “They’re bound to the Autumn Court. Fiercely loyal. They protect what’s ours.”

“I think they’re trying to eat me,” she hissed, still clinging to him as one brushed her hip.

“This one’s Alev,” he said, nodding to the hound nearest her. “She doesn’t approach anyone unless she likes them.”

Her body trembled, eyes squeezed shut. Eris reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek.

“You’re safe,” he whispered. “They won’t hurt you. I swear it.”

She peeked one eye open. “You promise?”

“I swear it,” he repeated. He slowly guided her hand forward. “You’re safe, with them, with me.”

She hesitated, but only a moment, then extended one shaky hand.

Alev sniffed her fingers, then nudged gently into her palm.

“She likes scratches behind the ears,” Eris said softly, heart thundering.

Still trembling, she obeyed. Her fingers brushed the hound’s smoky fur, then scratched.

Alev melted into her touch.

One by one, the rest of the pack edged closer, tails low, heads down, waiting. She let out a nervous laugh as her hands moved among them, tentative, awkward, and soft.

She crouched, and five hounds instantly crowded her. Her laughter bubbled up, quiet and uncertain, as one nudged her with enough force to topple her over.

Another tried to lick her cheek.

“Eris!” she gasped, overwhelmed.

He grinned, truly grinned, as he watched her.

She wrestled with them for a moment before giving in, collapsing into the grass, arms flung wide. The hounds sprawled with her, on her, around her. One laid its head across her thighs. Another curled up beside her ribs.

“You could’ve helped me,” she huffed, catching his gaze.

Her smile, playful, bright, just for him, stole the breath from his lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, stepping closer. The hounds shifted just enough to make space.

He sat beside her in the grass.

Not as heir. Not as a son or soldier.

Just a man. A mate.

Their knees brushed.

She looked at him, and something tender, curious, devastatingly warm bloomed in her eyes. He felt it wrap around his ribs like a slow, steady ache.

She tilted her head, then fell back against the grass again, smiling at the canopy above.

Alev curled between his legs, her head resting on his thigh.

“Are they always this friendly?” she asked.

“No,” he said honestly. “They aren’t known to be gentle.”

“They seem gentle to me,” she whispered, running her fingers along Agni’s heavy head. The massive hound lay across her torso like a protective soldier.

“You thought they were going to eat you.”

“That was before they attacked me with kisses,” she said, her laugh light and airy.

Eris leaned back on his hands beside her.

For the first time in years, maybe longer, peace crept into his chest. The sun warmed his skin. The hounds flanked them like sentries, and beside him, his mate. Here. Laughing.

For a heartbeat, it almost felt like he had a family.

She stroked Agni’s thick fur, her eyelids fluttering lower, her breath slowed.

Even Agni, fierce, territorial Agni, let out a low, contented sigh.

Eris closed his eyes, letting the sunlight wash over him.

He hadn’t rested. Not truly. Long before the war.

Not until now.

“You really do look like the Prince of Autumn like this,” she murmured suddenly.

His eyes opened slowly.

She was watching him again, her arm slung lazily over Agni.

He turned toward her, something raw unfurled in his chest.

“And you look beautiful,” he said, no hesitation.

Her cheeks flushed. She ducked her head, smile blooming even as she shook it.

“All charm, Eris,” she teased, eyes dancing.

Her voice echoed in his mind long after the sun dipped behind the trees.

You look like the Prince of Autumn like this.

Not just the words, but the way she said them, with affection and content.

He had stayed longer than he should’ve, lying beside her in the grass while the hounds dozed in a loose, protective ring. Her laughter lingered in the air, woven into the golden light. For one impossible hour, he’d felt peace and that terrified him more than anything.

Because peace never lasted here.

Not in Autumn. Not in his father’s house. Not in him.

The rustle of footsteps broke the quiet. He didn’t move at first, just cracked one eye open.

A handmaid stood a few paces away, fingers twisted tightly in her robes, face pale and eyes red-rimmed, terrified. She didn’t dare speak until he turned his head fully toward her.

“My lord,” she said, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where to find you.”

Eris pushed up on his elbows. The moment shattered like glass, and cold rushed in to fill the warmth.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

“Your father. He’s demanding your presence. There are reports. Documents. He said it’s urgent. Something about death compensations, and—”

Her voice faltered.

“He’s angry. Very angry.”

She glanced past him, to her. The shift in her body was immediate. Rigid, nervous, submissive.

“I’m sorry, my lady,” she whispered. “Forgive me for interrupting.”

The handmaid then turned and fled, nearly tripping in her haste.

Eris sat for a moment, breathing through the sudden fury building in his chest.

The pull of responsibility, of guilt and failure.

“What just happened?” his mate asked.

He stood.

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

She was on her feet immediately. “Eris.”

He stopped at the gate.

“Tell me.”

His jaw flexed. “My father is a tyrant. He promised me time. Promised to leave us alone.” His lip curled. “And I believed him. God, I actually believed him.”

They walked through the garden in silence, but by the time they reached the stairs, Eris’s steps had grown sharp and fast, each one louder than the last.

“What is he asking for?” she asked, matching his pace.

“A meeting,” Eris snapped. “About the compensation for the dead, and documentation, I can’t finish because he’s holding the final war reports hostage. Without them, I can’t authorise a bloody thing.”

By the time they reached the war room, his hands were shaking.

He didn’t try to hide it.

The fury needed somewhere to go.

He yanked open drawers, snatching up files, maps, and casualty ledgers. His breath was uneven, and his pulse thundered in his ears.

“Eris,” she said again, softly.

He ignored her.

“He’s doing this now,” Eris growled, “because he wants to remind me who holds the leash, because he doesn’t want to pay what’s owed, and he’s turning grief into a power play.”

A folder hit the table with a sharp crack, and papers spilled.

“Wait,” she said, trying to understand, but his anger was overwhelming.

“He’s stalling,” Eris spat. “We’ve been arguing about it since the war ended. He says the dead were ‘necessary losses.’ That they weeded out the weak, and now he wants to offer their final wages as some grand gesture despite starving them for months.”

Her face paled. “So their families—”

“—Have had nothing,” he finished. “No coin. No food. No closure. Not even a letter of honour, and I’ve done nothing but argue with that man because he refuses to pay for the dead.”

Silence fell again, heavier now.

“This matters a lot to you,” she said gently. “Doesn’t it?”

He stared at the names on the scattered sheets. At the tally marks beside them.

“This was supposed to be the one thing I could fix,” he whispered. “The one thing I could give back. They followed me into a graveyard, trusting strategies I didn’t believe in, on orders I didn’t give but didn’t stop. They died, and I lived. Now I sit here, in this golden palace, dressed in fine clothes, with this title, while their families and children starve.”

His voice broke then, just slightly. Shame.

She moved closer, carefully, like she knew he was a breath away from shattering.

“My father knows that guilt lives under my skin,” Eris said bitterly. “He knows I carry it like a brand. That’s why he’s doing this now. On this day. The one moment I had. I’ve waited months to see you. To feel, even for a breath, that I was chosen. That I was enough.”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.

“He wants to take that from me. Rip it out of my hands. Make me crawl back, admit what he already knows: that I sent my men to die. That their blood is on my hands. That I am weak. That I am still his.”

His breath hitched, chest tightening.

“Eris,” she breathed. “You never told me that.”

“Because it’s ugly,” he rasped. “Because I didn’t want you to see this part of me. I thought I could fix it before you saw all of this.”

He turned away, hands braced on the edge of the war table, arms trembling with restrained fury.

“You don’t have to do this alone.”

He stilled.

Not because he didn’t believe her, but because he wanted to believe her so badly that it hurt.

You don’t have to.

She stepped closer. Light from the tall windows caught her face, her anger, her beauty, her pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quiet and broken.

“You don’t need to apologise.”

“I do,” he whispered. “For bringing you here. Into this. Into a house ruled by a man who hoards gold, power and pain. Who uses my guilt like a leash. Who breaks my ribs just to count them. I can barely keep myself upright. I am—” he stopped, a bitter laugh catching in his throat, “A mess. Angry. Shackled. Used.”

She reached out and brushed his forearm, just a touch, barely there.

“What can I do?” she asked.

His throat tightened.

“Nothing,” he said, honestly. “Just... thank you for not running.”

The silence that followed was softer. Still raw but not burning with untamed fury.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

His heart twisted, but he knew that when Beron saw her, he would view his mate not as a person, but as a tool.

A threat.

A weapon to gut him with.

“I want you with me more than anything,” he said. “But not yet.”

She nodded and didn’t step back.

“Then come back to me after,” she said. “No matter how bad it is.”

He met her eyes.

“I promise.”

He meant it.

Chapter Text

When he returned that night, Eris was still shaking.

The cruel sneer of his father was etched into his mind like a fresh scar. Beron had known exactly what he was doing, bringing up the compensation, twisting the knife of failure, dragging it out until well past midnight, until the weight of it threatened to collapse Eris’s chest. He was raw with fury, tension still thrumming beneath his skin like a live wire.

Beron’s plan had worked.

Eris had raged, spilled his grief and guilt until his voice went hoarse, the words searing his throat.

He had wanted to be here. Wanted to share that first night, even if only across a table. The thought of her dining alone, waiting, hoping he’d still come, ached worse than anything Beron had said. It made his hands tremble more than rage ever had.

By the time he stepped through the estate doors, the house was quiet and still. Only the faelights of the crystal chandeliers remained, casting warm golden light across the floor. The Night Court blooms shimmered more beautifully in the low light than they had in the sun.

He moved quietly, exhausted, heading toward the war room, but then stopped. The living room is alight with the flames from the hearth. Her blanket was half-thrown across the lounge, a teacup sat near her messy stack of notes, and her shoes were still resting where she’d left them.

His chest tightened at the sight.

Then he heard it, the soft sound of footsteps padding down the stairs.

He turned toward the sound, and there she was.

In fur-lined slippers, bundled in a fluffy robe over sleep clothes, her hair slightly tousled, eyes wide the moment they met his, and without hesitation, she rushed to him.

He barely had time to brace himself before she collided with him, arms thrown around his neck. His feet stumbled, but he caught her, out of instinct more than grace.

His hands gripped her waist, then her back, and finally settled in the space between her shoulder blades. His arms tightened slowly, deliberately, until she was pressed against him like a lifeline. His breathing stayed shallow, but something loosened behind his ribs.

“Eris,” she breathed, voice trembling like she was holding back tears. “I was waiting for you. I just went to get a book, I swear I was waiting.”

He didn’t speak; he couldn’t.

He just held her tighter, eyes shut, breathing her in as if she could undo hours of fury.

The memory of Beron’s voice echoed in his skull, cutting, calculated. Designed to enrage, and it had.

“I was worried,” she whispered into his ear. “The handmaids said you’d be back soon, but it was hours. I waited…”

“I’m sorry,” Eris murmured, voice rough, his face buried in her hair.

She smelled like his court, with spiced oils and a hint of something floral. The ends of her hair were still damp from a bath.

Shame filled him once more; she’d been alone on their first night.

She melted further into his touch, legs lifting slightly off the ground as he held her. Her heartbeat fluttered against his chest.

“I had them keep dinner,” she said softly, breath brushing his neck. “If you’re hungry…”

She’d waited for him.

Eventually, he eased her back to the floor, releasing her gently. She avoided his gaze, as if she didn’t want to pressure him. “I haven’t eaten yet either, but the heating charms held.”

He knew too well how those worked; he’d spent more nights eating meals warmed by magic than freshly cooked.

“They work well,” he said, voice low, following her toward the dining room.

Two plates still waited at the end of the long, ornate table, filled with roasted meats, root vegetables, warm bread, and a rich soup that continued to steam under enchantments, but what made his breath hitch was the place settings.

His at the head of the table, and hers, which she’d clearly moved from the far end to sit just beside his.

It was such a small thing, but it undid him.

She sat first, pulling her robe tighter around herself, suddenly unsure.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk,” she said gently. “But I didn’t want to go to bed until you were home.”

He took the seat beside her, his thigh brushing hers under the table.

“This is all I wanted,” he said, barely above a whisper.

They ate in comfortable silence. Halfway through the meal, she looked up at him, eyes soft in the low candlelight.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he lied.

She knew he was lying through his teeth, but she left it as it was.

She nodded once, returning to her wine.

“How were the handmaids?” he asked, trying to change the subject away from his father.

Her mouth twitched to a near smile.

“Vera startled me. I almost hit her with a vase.”

He huffed faintly. “You know her name?”

“She told me, before I could throw it.”

Eris let out a breath, something between amusement and exhaustion.

“They rang the bell, didn’t they?”

“They did. I had no idea what it meant, just this sound. Then there were people in the sitting room. I thought I was under attack.”

He allowed a small smile. “I forget. You’re not used to all this.”

“No. I’m not royalty,” she said, glancing sidelong at him. “The bath alone felt like a ritual. Oils, flower petals, crystals.”

“I told them to do that.”

“I know,” she said. “You remembered everything I ever wrote. Every remedy, every oil that helped me sleep. Everything that made me feel safe. You remembered it all.”

She took a slow sip of her wine, then added, almost shyly.

“I had them do the same for you. I asked for your bath to be prepared with the same things. Thought maybe it would help… after your father.”

His hands stilled on his silverware.

“I could use it,” he said after a long moment. “Though I imagine mine isn’t as elaborate.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” she said, lips curling faintly.

That earned a quiet breath from him. Not quite laughter, but close.

“You think I need calming baths now?” he asked, looking at her with something unreadable behind his eyes.

“I think,” she said carefully, “you may need it more than you know.”

He didn’t deny it.

They finished the meal in silence. The warmth between them lingered like the wine on his tongue, soft, slow, and burning just beneath the surface.

At her bedroom door, she touched his arm gently.

“Goodnight,” she murmured, and as she turned away, the hem of her robe brushed against his knuckles.

The corridor to his chambers was dim, cloaked in shadowed stillness.

When he stepped inside his room, it felt hollow, lacking her warmth.

He dropped the file of documents onto the desk. It landed with a dull thud that seemed to echo far too loudly.

Maybe she was right. Maybe the bath would help.

He turned toward the bathing chamber and opened the door.

Heat met him first, damp, fragrant, then came the glow.

Candles floated low over the water, their flames swaying gently against the marble walls. The surface shimmered with oils, herbs, and petals in hues of red, purple, and gold. Crystals ringed the tub: amethyst, rose quartz, and lapis lazuli. All the ones he’d once suggested might help.

He stepped further in, the door clicked shut behind him.

The air was thick with the scents of lavender, orange blossom, and rose. Scents pulled straight from her letters, nights spent rereading her words until the ink blurred and his eyes burned. She had named every flower, every oil, every stone that brought her peace. Every tiny thing that eased the weight inside her mind.

Eris shrugged off his coat. Then his tunic. Then the thin shirt beneath.

Each layer peeled away more than cloth. The heir. The general. The mask.

Bare at last, he stepped into the bath.

The heat stung at first, then softened, easing into the tightness in his shoulders, the knots along his spine, the hollow behind his ribs. His breath caught as he sank deeper, water curling around him to the collarbone. Petals clung to his chest.

He closed his eyes.

Beron’s voice uncoiled in his mind like smoke, oily and cold. That sneer. That venomous tone. “She is a Night Court spy. A soft-bellied manipulator. She’ll undo you from the inside out, and you are pathetic enough to believe she is real.”

Maybe he was pathetic enough to believe she’d waited for him. That when she had hugged him, it had meant something. She had held him like he was breakable. Like she knew if she didn’t hold him tightly enough, he might shatter.

The heat didn’t scald; it ached. Deep and slow, like it had memorised the shape of his sorrow and was trying to smooth it out. The oils slipped across his skin, clinging to old scars. Her scent filled the steam, wrapping around him.

Eris pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, his body trembling under the weight of it.

He sank lower, chin brushing the water’s surface, petals clinging to his throat.

He wanted, desperately, to believe she would stay. That his fears were wrong. That he wasn’t meant to be alone, but he was so tired. So vulnerable. So completely unworthy of her.

Tears burned behind his eyes.

Don’t, he begged himself. Please don’t fall.

They did.

For her.

For them.

For everything he had never been allowed to be.

Eris Vanserra cried.

Chapter Text

She could feel him.

Every stifled sob, every ragged wave of grief and guilt poured through the bond, raw, unfiltered, as if he no longer had the strength to keep his walls in place.

She lay in bed, silk sheets warm against her skin, the air faintly scented with Autumn spice from the low-burning candles on her bedside table. Moonlight spilled across the room, casting a soft silver glow over everything.

It should have been peaceful.

It wasn’t.

Her thoughts kept circling back to him.

The hurt.

The anger.

The pain in his voice when he left earlier that day. Sharp, unguarded, vulnerable in a way that told her his father had aimed to wound deeper than anyone else could.

All afternoon, his emotions had leaked through the bond in flares of rage and sorrow. Each time, she’d whispered to it in her mind, trying to still the trembling connection, to soothe it as best she could.

But she knew.

She knew his father must have pushed him to the brink of breaking.

She could feel the weight of it, heavy and suffocating.

She lasted only a few more minutes before she couldn’t bear lying still any longer.

Sliding from the bed, her bare feet met the cool marble floor, a chill running up her spine as she moved toward the door. The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by the faint orange glow of low-burning sconces and the silvery light of the moon through the tall windows.

Her steps were nearly silent as she made her way down the long hallway, following a pull she didn’t need to question.

When she reached his chambers, her hand found the handle. She eased the door open, careful not to let the hinges creak.

Inside, shadows pooled across the room. The quiet was broken only by the faint, muffled sound of water shifting, and the choked, uneven sound of his sobs coming from behind the bathing chamber door.

She moved first to his bed.

She folded back the comforter, fluffed and arranged the pillows, and set a book on the nightstand in case he needed a distraction later.

It was a small thing, but maybe it would be enough to offer him some comfort.

His sobs didn’t stop.

Her chest tightened as she crossed to the bathing chamber door, her fingers hovering over the handle.

She knew what stepping inside might do to him, how much pride he carried, how much shame would flicker in his eyes if she saw him like this.

She also knew what it was like to break down, to feel as though no one would pull you back from the depths.

She pushed the door open.

The sound of sobbing cut off abruptly.

“Eris,” she said softly, “can I come in?”

A pause.

A sharp inhale.

Then a voice, roughened by crying, defensive in its coldness: “Do you… need something?”

She didn’t look away from the sliver of him she could see through the doorway.

“You.”

A small sound escaped him, half-whimper, half something else.

A quiet, “Okay.”

She stepped inside.

Steam curled around her, heavy with the mingled scents of lavender, rose, and orange blossom. Candlelight flickered over marble walls, casting warm shadows across his bare shoulders.

He was leaning back against the stone, head tilted up, eyes shut tight as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. His jaw trembled, breath uneven, the edge of the tub the only thing keeping him from sliding beneath the water.

Without a word, she crossed the last steps between them. A folded cloth lay neatly by the tub; she took it and knelt so she was level with him.

The water lapped gently at the sides as she dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and lifted it to his face. She wiped away the tracks of salt with slow, deliberate strokes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words unsteady.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she dipped the cloth again, letting warm water spill over flame-colored hair that shimmered like molten copper in the candlelight.

Her fingers followed, sliding through the wet strands, nails grazing his scalp in slow, soothing motions. His shoulders shifted with the smallest exhale, as though something inside him began to ease.

Steam clung to her skin, her knees damp against the marble. She stayed there until the trembling in his breath began to lessen.

When he finally looked at her, his eyes were red-rimmed, lashes damp. His hand rose from the water, trembling when it found hers.

“I don’t…” His voice caught.

“You don’t have to explain,” she said quietly, brushing damp hair back from his forehead.

His gaze searched hers for doubt, pity, false kindness, anything that might give him reason to pull away. Whatever he found instead made something in his expression waver.

“I’m not enough for you,” he murmured. “I waited so long for my mate, wondering if I’d even live to see her, and when I found you, I was terrified. Still am. Because you deserve someone who isn’t—”

His hand tightened on hers. His head tipped back, eyes closing as the next words came out almost inaudible.

“Someone who isn’t so scarred. So angry. So owned.”

She shifted closer, her knees pressing to the tub’s edge, her free hand finding the bare plane of his shoulder.

“You are enough,” she said simply.

His jaw clenched as though the certainty hurt to hear. “You think that now, but I—”

The rest was lost in a sharp inhale, another wave breaking over him mid-sentence. He turned his face away, but she stayed with him, running the cloth down the side of his neck, wiping away water and tears together.

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she reached for a towel, coaxing him from the bath. Steam curled around him as she wrapped the thick cloth over his shoulders, her hands lingering until he seemed to realise she wasn’t letting go.

They moved slowly.

She dried his hair, combing her fingers through until the damp strands lay smooth. Each touch seemed to draw him back from whatever place Beron’s words had driven him.

When they reached the bedroom, the bed was already turned down, pillows set, a book resting on the nightstand, small comforts she had prepared without knowing if heneer them.

He gave a faint, almost disbelieving huff at the sight.

She watched him disappear briefly into the closet, emerging dressed in loose sleep pants and a soft cotton shirt, his damp hair falling over his forehead.

She climbed onto the bed, resting against the headboard, tucking her legs beneath the blanket.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, amber eyes catching the candlelight in molten flames.

She only pulled the blanket higher.

“I know.”

Something in him eased, his shoulders losing a fraction of their tension. He crossed the room and slid in beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight.

“Do you mind if I read? I struggle to sleep.”

“I know,” she whispered, her voice warm. “That’s why I left it for you.”

He glanced at the book, then at her, as though trying to decide which was the greater comfort.

She curled on her side to face him while he sat against the headboard, the book resting in his lap.

Her heart raced at the sight of him here, in his own space, walls down, the air between them heavy with something unspoken.

His hand shook faintly as he reached over, brushing her hair back. Fingers combed through slowly, with a care that made her chest ache.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Of course,” she breathed back, eyes drifting shut.

His hand didn’t stop. It lingered in her hair, as if the motion anchored him, as though letting go would risk losing her.

She slowly drifted into sleep, the bond humming softly between them, golden and warm, almost delighting in their closeness. She found herself curling closer, chasing the heat radiating from him.

When she woke, her cheek was pressed against his bare chest. Heat radiated from him, more like lying close to a slow-burning fire than beside a man.

At some point, the Prince of Autumn had shed his shirt. His breath brushed against her skin, warm enough to feel like a flicker of flame.

She was cradled in his arms, one of her legs draped lazily over his.

By the way sunlight streamed into the room, it was well into the morning, possibly closer to midday. She shifted slightly, intending to free herself, but his arm only tightened, a low groan of protest slipping from his lips.

She froze for a moment, her hand resting flat against the firm surface of his chest.

She’d caught sight of his scars in the candlelight the night before, but now, in daylight, they appeared more noticeable, with stark lines of pale and silver contrasting against his sun-kissed skin.

Her fingers traced one, brushing over slightly raised flesh as she wondered how each had been earned.

Autumn had healers powerful enough to mend wounds without a trace; he was heir to the court, and his magic was powerful enough to heal these.

She hesitated over a particularly vicious one, a clean, straight slash that cut diagonally across his chest. The pinkness of the skin marked it as fresh, and she realised it must have been made during the battle, not long ago.

“A punishment after the battle.” His voice shattered the silence, startling her. “For leading my men into battle and watching them die. Father said I wasn’t injured enough to prove I’d forget as hard as they did.”

Her hand recoiled from his chest.

“Faebane,” he continued quietly. “He coats his weapons in it, or uses ash steel.”

His fingers found her hair again, tangling gently before he sighed, letting his head rest back against the pillows.

“I didn’t mean to—” she whispered, voice trailing off.

With his free hand, he caught hers, the one that had been tracing the scars, and guided it back to his chest.

“Continue,” he murmured. “I like the feeling of your magic on them.”

Her brows lifted slightly.

“You can feel my magic?” she asked softly, lifting her head slightly to look at him.

His fingers tightened faintly in her hair, guiding her back down to rest against him.

“Every part of you radiates it,” he said, voice a low murmur. “It feels like moonlight, cold, clean, like a river in winter. When you’re close, I can feel it reaching for my flames like it wants warmth.”

Her fingers hesitated for a moment before beginning to move again, this time not over the scars, but in slow, patterns across his skin. Circles. Lines.

He hummed softly, his breathing deepening, the sound vibrating through her cheek where it pressed to his chest.

His rise and fall became a lullaby, and her eyes closed. The room and its shadows slowly faded until she slipped into a dreamless darkness, the bond between them thrumming.

When she woke again, the bed was softer than it should have been, and the air cooler was wrong.

The immense heat that was Eris was gone.

Her hand reached for him instinctively, finding only the faint warmth of a charm worked into the blankets. The absence hit like a sudden drop in temperature, and her heart stuttered.

She shot up, eyes sweeping the room for him.

“Eris?”

“I’m in the study,” came his voice from the open doorway, calm but close enough to carry.

Relief swept through her, making her limbs weak. She fell back into the pillows, pressing a hand to her chest to steady the thudding there.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, stepping into the room.

She looked up at him.

He was dressed not in the loose, rumpled softness of the night before, but in deep Autumn Court finery.

A crisp white shirt, a burgundy waistcoat embroidered with delicate gold, and dark trousers tailored to his body. He looked every inch the prince, regal, untouchable, and devastating.

Something must have shown on her face, because his mouth curved into a smirk.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he said, turning slightly away. The faintest pink warmed his cheeks.

Only then did she notice the tray set near the hearth.

“Breakfast,” he said, then corrected himself with a wry smile. “Well, lunch. We both slept in, much to the handmaids’ horror.”

She propped herself up against the headboard, and he set the tray on her lap. Steam curled from a teacup, filling the air with the scent of peppermint. Next to it, a platter of vibrant fruit was beautifully arranged on delicate porcelain.

“Eat, bathe, then dress,” he instructed, his eyes sweeping over her and lingering for a moment longer than necessary before he reached forward and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

“Rhysand sent over your journals,” he said after a pause. “Your healing journals. Files, notes, hundreds of them.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Did he?”

Eris nodded. “They’re in your study. I thought…”

He glanced toward the window, as if avoiding her gaze.

“Perhaps later we could pick herbs from the garden. So you have ingredients to start making some of your remedies again.”

Her heart thudded, and a smile curved at her mouth before she could stop it.

“I’d like that,” she said, sipping her tea.

He nodded, as if settling something in himself.

“Then I’ll let you enjoy your tea. I have some paperwork to finish, let me know when you're ready.”

He turned to leave, but she reached out, catching his hand. Her thumb brushed slowly across the back of it.

“Thank you, Eris,” she said.

His mouth softened at the words.

“Of course,” he murmured, echoing her from the night before.

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a single kiss to the back. His eyes shut briefly, as if savouring the moment, before he laid her hand gently back onto the blankets and stepped away, disappearing into his study.

She ate slowly, the tray warm on her lap. The fruit was perfectly ripe: sweet figs, slices of pear dusted with cinnamon, and ruby pomegranate seeds. The tea remained hot as if the porcelain itself had been charmed.

Every so often, she caught movement in the corner of her vision, Eris leaning briefly against the doorframe from his study, watching her without interrupting. Once, he stepped in to refill her teacup without a word, his fingers brushing hers when he handed it back. The bond hummed faintly between them, a golden thread content simply to exist.

When her plate was empty and the tea gone, she set the tray aside.

“I’m going to bathe,” she called toward the study.

“The water’s already drawn,” he replied, as though expecting her to say it.

She slipped into her room, where spiced steam curled out from the bathing chamber. The warmth and fragrance enveloped her. She lingered in the water until the last traces of sleep faded away, then stepped out and wrapped herself in a deep green silk robe before moving to the wardrobe.

She still couldn’t quite believe the gowns hanging there: flowing silks, rich velvets, even the star-kissed fabrics of the Night Court now side by side with the burnished tones of Autumn.

She rifled through blouses and skirts, her fingers grazing the fabrics, until she chose a soft, cream linen blouse with billowing sleeves cuffed at the wrists. Its open V-neck was framed by delicate ruffles and curling gold embroidery. She paired it with fitted dark brown trousers and polished boots.

Her hair fell in damp waves down her back. In the mirror, she barely recognised herself. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn anything besides healer’s robes or slept into the afternoon, or the last time she’d picked her herbs, or slept beside someone.

The centre dresser, she opened a drawer of neatly arranged jewellery. Her fingers hovered before choosing a fine gold chain with a single ruby pendant. She didn’t know why she felt the pull to wear it, only that once the cool metal lay against her collarbone, a faint ache bloomed in her chest.

She turned away from her reflection and walked to her study. The air smelled of parchment and ink, and her shelves were lined with her old journals, healing files, experimental notes, even vials she had once sworn she’d finish. She ran her hand along their spines before opening one.

She worked in silence, flipping through pages, murmuring plant names under her breath, jotting down her needs: foxglove, frost mint, dried rowan bark, night-blooming valerian and more.

The sunlight shifted, spilling across the desk, and she set her pen aside, rolling the parchment into a neat scroll. She added notes on preparation methods and potion uses, then rose from her chair, the list in hand.

She found Eris in his study, elbow braced on the desk, brow furrowed over a page of elegant but impatient handwriting.

“I can go to the garden alone if you’re busy,” she said from the doorway.

“No, fox,” he replied without looking up. “I’m almost done.”

Her heart stuttered at the word.

Fox.

The way he said it, it wasn’t just a nickname.

“Fox,” she repeated, tasting the sound.

He glanced up, realisation flickering in his amber eyes.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“I like it,” she said softly, stepping further into the room.

The clutter of his study felt strangely intimate, papers stacked in uneven piles, maps rolled and unrolled, ink pots scattered in what could only be his version of chaos. Somehow, it felt like she’d been allowed into a place no one else saw.

“It’s an Autumn Court term of endearment,” he admitted, eyes flicking to hers before darting back to the parchment.

“You endear me?” she teased, lips curving.

He shook his head, but a rare smile spread slowly across his face, warm enough to make her pulse quicken.

“I feel more than endearment for you, fox.”

Her grin deepened as she sank into the chair opposite him, watching the stiffness in his shoulders melt. He finished the sentence he’d been writing, placed a deliberate dot at the end, and set the quill into its crystal holder.

“I see you’ve written a list of everything you’d like,” he said, nodding toward the scroll in her lap.

“I have,” she replied, fingers brushing over the parchment.

“Then,” he said, standing, “let’s go to the garden. I’ll get cutters and a basket.”

The faintest heat touched her cheeks at the thought of wandering the gardens with him, shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing as they gathered what she needed.

The garden was bathed in the low gold of late afternoon, the air warm but threaded with the chill of the coming evening. The scent of turned earth, crushed herbs, and ripe fruit lingered in the air.

In the far run, the hounds shifted and perked their ears at the sight of them. Eris walked them there first, pulling a small pouch from his pocket. The rich, meaty scent of the treats made tails thump against the fence.

They stayed for a few minutes. She crouched to scratch Alev behind her ears, and Agni bowed his head to her requesing affection, which she happily obliged. Eris leaned casually on the post but reached down to ruffle a furred head now and then. Only when the pouch was empty did they turn toward the raised beds.

He took the basket from her hands, their fingers brushing. The touch was fleeting, but the bond stirred in her chest, warm and steady.

“Show me what you’re looking for,” he said.

She led him to the farthest bed, where frost mint grew in perfect silver-tipped clusters. Kneeling, she pressed her fingertips into the cool soil, then pinched the stems just above the new growth. Eris crouched beside her, close enough that his warmth contrasted with the crisp air.

“You hold, I’ll cut,” he murmured.

She nodded.

For a moment, his gaze lingered, then he leaned in, the knife moving so close she felt the faint brush of the blade’s chill against her fingers.

They moved together through the rows, frost mint, foxglove, valerian, and a dozen others. He held the basket, letting her work, and occasionally reached out to help or hold back a branch for her.

At the night-blooming valerian, she rose onto her toes to reach a blossom. His hand came to rest lightly on her waist, and her breath caught. He plucked the blossom with ease and held it before her eyes.

“You can ask me for help,” he said softly.

“I know,” she replied, tucking it into the basket.

A subtle, knowing curve lingered on his lips, and even though he said nothing more, she noticed the smile at the corner of his mouth as they wandered further into the garden.

“I think you may need a bigger space,” he mused, crouching to pull a root from the soil. He dusted it off with care.

“A bigger space?” she repeated.

He stood, brushing off his hands.

“Many of these will need to dry under controlled conditions. We could use the conservatory. Or—” his eyes flicked toward the house. “Convert one of the spare rooms into a dedicated space for you.”

“I think my study will do for now,” she said with a small laugh.

“Let me know, and I’ll take care of it,” he said.

He turned toward an apple tree, plucked two, and took a bite before offering her the other.

The fruit was cool and crisp in her hand.

“You want to turn a whole room into a drying room for me?” she teased.

“Fox,” he said, voice low with the barest hint of amusement, “I want you to have what you need.”

She didn’t know why those words made her chest feel tight.

When she reached for the basket, he shifted it out of her grasp.

“I’m starting to think you’re the one who has trouble letting people help you,” he said, eyes glinting as her cheeks warmed.

What surprised her most was when he called a goodbye to the hounds before following her back inside, the heavy basket tilting slightly in his grip.

By the time they reached her study, she understood why he’d suggested a whole room.

The long table, covered with vials, mortars, and stacks of weathered notebooks, quickly disappeared beneath blooms, stems, and roots they had gathered. With a flick of his fingers, fine threads of gold-red magic shimmered into being, stretching from wall to wall, drying lines.

She worked methodically, tying the herbs into tidy bundles, explaining along the way why some required slow drying in cool shade, why others flourished in warm sunlight, and why frost mint lost half its potency if hung near valerian.

He listened, not the distracted nod of someone humouring her, but with an intent, leaning in when she described a rare sprig she’d once traded for in the Night Court, or the strange remedy she’d half-finished and abandoned in her youth. His quiet questions pulled her into tangents about stubborn plants, temperamental tinctures, and recipes so old they were more folklore than fact.

When their hands brushed in the middle of reaching for the same sprig, neither of them moved away.

The light outside shifted slowly from gold to copper, then deepened into the warm amber of approaching evening. Shadows stretched long across the walls, curling between the hanging herbs.

When the last bunch was tied and suspended, the room smelled like a dozen seasons layered over one another: sharp mint, sweet valerian, and the faint bitter tang of foxglove. Her fingertips were stained green, and her forearms were bare where her blouse sleeves had been pushed to her elbows, smudged with soil.

Eris leaned back against the table, arms loosely crossed, watching her wind the final twist of twine.

“Well,” he said, straightening and adjusting his cuffs, “I think you’ve earned a glass of wine.”

His gaze flicked over her, lingering briefly on the necklace at her throat before returning to her face.

She exhaled, smiling faintly. “That sounds perfect.”

He extended a hand, palm open.

“Then you’re in luck. I had wine and something to eat brought up to my balcony, if you’ll join me.”

Her lips curved, and she let her hand slide into his, the warmth of his palm steady against hers.

As they walked the quiet hall, her other hand brushed against his arm, fingers resting lightly against the firm line of his bicep.

The balcony was wide, with a stone balustrade lined with lanterns that gently glowed against the approaching night. Beyond, the forest stretched broad and untouched, treetops swaying slowly in the evening breeze. The air carried the scent of pine, cool earth, and the faint smoke of distant hearth fires.

A small table waited near the railing, set with two deep, cushioned chairs angled towards the view. An uncorked bottle of dark wine gleamed in the lantern light beside a platter of cheeses, sliced fruit, and bread still faintly warm from the oven.

She sank into one of the chairs, fingertips brushing over the carved armrest. “You planned this.”

“Maybe,” he said, taking the seat opposite her. The glow of the lanterns caught the copper in his hair, turning it molten. “Or maybe I thought the forest would look better with you in front of it.”

Her heart gave a soft, unhelpful stutter. “You’re all charm, Eris.”

“I’m being honest,” he countered, pouring the wine into two crystal glasses. Then, with the faintest smirk, “Though I could give you charm, fox, if you prefer.”

Her lips twitched despite herself, the nickname lingering in the air between them.

The first sip was rich and smooth, warmth spreading through her chest. They nibbled at the food in comfortable silence for a while, the peace only interrupted by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of a nightbird.

When she reached for a slice of pear, their fingers brushed and lingered. The bond stirred, humming softly, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved. His eyes, bright even in the dim lantern light, locked with hers, and something unspoken filled the air, thick and golden.

He didn’t look away when he spoke, his voice low. “I could get used to this.”

Her pulse quickened. “Sitting on a balcony?”

His mouth curved just slightly. “No. Sitting with you.”

The wind stirred, carrying the scent of pine between them, and she wasn’t sure if the shiver down her spine was from the night air or him.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light faded into evening, and the clouded sky turned a deep golden amber; the whole forest below radiated like living flames. The breeze grew stronger, rustling the branches of the autumn forest below.

Despite the beauty of Autumn, Eris couldn’t look away from his mate sitting across from him.

The way her shoulders slumped as if she finally allowed herself to relax. She seemed content, as though she might be happy here with him.

Her gaze followed the changing colours of the forest, and strands of hair fell free from her braid, curling gently around her face in soft waves.

She didn’t look haunted like this, not by war, death, or the grief that had carved itself into her. Beneath the autumn sky, she looked even more stunning.

“How old are you?” The question slipped from him before he could think better of it.

Her eyes widened, surprise sparking in them before a soft smile tugged at her lips.

“I am ninety-nine,” she said finally, tilting her head. “You?”

He felt his eyes widen before he could stop himself. She caught it, her cheeks warming as she looked down, almost embarrassed.

“Five hundred and forty-three,” he said. His voice came quieter than intended. “Your hundredth birthday, that’s a milestone. When is it?”

Her fingers tightened on her glass, and she didn’t meet his eyes.

“The Equinox.”

Something sharp twisted low in his stomach.

“The Equinox,” he repeated.

She nodded, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met.

“That’s our Great Rite,” he said. The words came out too carefully.

“Oh.”

The hurt and jealousy came through the bond before she could hide it, tight and heavy, like she had grabbed the other end of the tether between them and pulled.

“It’s just a few weeks away,” she said, her voice breaking slightly.

“Three,” he whispered.

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Are you going to participate?” she whispered.

“I am expected to,” Eris said softly.

She visibly swallowed before asking. “Am I?”

Eris hesitated, caught between telling the truth and shielding her from it.

She must have sensed the hesitation.

“You can tell me,” she said, her voice quieter.

He gazed back at the fading light of the sunset, where the first stars started to pierce the darkening sky.

“You are not expected to,” he said at last. “Because we aren’t officially mated. But…”

He stared down at his wine.

“I would like for you to be my maiden.”

Silence fell.

Eris couldn’t bear to look at her; the embarrassment, disgust, and disappointment he feared he would find on her face were overwhelming. Feeling it through the bond was one thing, but seeing it would be another.

“If I say no,” she whispered, “would… you have to take someone else?”

Eris swallowed hard, eyes closing as he pushed back the loathing he felt for himself. He gave the smallest nod, unable to say the words aloud.

He felt her hurt down the bond, sharp and immediate.

“I am not trying to force you into anything. God, that’s the last thing I want.”

“But I don’t want you to be with anyone else,” she whispered, and the words broke something deep inside him.

Panic rose deep within him. He would not hurt her. No matter what was expected, no matter the punishment. He couldn’t bear to see her face in the crowd while he took another. The thought made him sick.

“I won’t,” he cut in, his voice firm. He watched as her eyes couldn’t bear to stay on him. “I won’t be with anyone.”

“But it’s expected of you,” she whispered.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, “I promise you.”

Beneath the table, he reached for her hand. Her fingers laced with his instantly, the bond humming with something fragile and unspoken.

“What about our mating ceremony?” she asked, cheeks flushed.

“I was going to ask you tomorrow if you wanted to meet with the high priestess. To discuss what we would like.”

“We are planning it?” she asked, as though the idea was almost too much to believe.

“I would like us to,” Eris said, his voice roughening. “Otherwise, my father will make it into a performance.”

“A performance.” Her voice cracked around the word.

“He wants to use this as an example,” Eris continued bitterly, “to show Prythian that I mated someone from the Night Court. After what happened with Morrigan.”

“Rhysand told me,” she whispered. “Before I entered the hall to see you. He told me what happened.”

Shame flickered across Eris’s face, and his throat tightened.

“What happened with Morrigan is something I deeply regret. I do not want that for you. For us.”

Silence sat between them for a long, heavy beat, filled only by the wind and the cooling air as the sun sank lower.

Finally, she whispered, “What do you want for our mating ceremony?”

He hadn’t expected the question, hadn’t let himself imagine the answer.

“I would want it just us,” he said. “I would want it to be ours, not theirs. No audience. No performance. A vow, freely made.”

Her eyes softened, but fear still lingered in the bond. Fear not of him, but of what it meant to be his, to be tied to Autumn.

“That’s what I would want,” she answered finally, her voice steady, though her hand trembled in his. “Just us. Vows freely made beneath the trees and stars.”

He gazed at his mate in the evening light, her skin glowing with the last rays of golden sun. Her beauty was striking, gentle, and ethereal.

It made him think of the centuries he had spent without her. Five hundred years surrounded by fire and silence, and now, at last, she was here.

A sharp chime of a bell pierced the stillness.

Dinner.

Eris inhaled slowly as they rose together, her hand still in his, their steps quiet.

“If you have questions,” he said, as they moved through the corridors, “about Autumn, about me, you can ask me. Always.”

She shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. “I feel like you should have someone who understands all this. Someone from Autumn.”

Eris huffed out a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it. “I wouldn’t trade you for anyone. Autumn or not. You are everything I don’t deserve.”

“Eris,” she whispered, a playful seriousness in her tone, though her eyes mimicked the warmth that flowed through the bond.

“It’s true, my darling fox,” he murmured, pulling her closer as they entered the hall. “I will teach you everything Autumn is, only so you know exactly how we’ll tear it apart. Ritual by ritual. Expectation by expectation. Until it is ours and no one else’s.”

“You would do that? Change it all for me?” she asked softly, her arm linking with his as they walked.

“I would burn it all to the ground just to rebuild, if you requested,” Eris said, and he meant every word.

They walked together in silence as they entered the dining hall, the low amber firelight glinting against the crystal goblets. Her place was set far from him, at the other end of the table.

Eris remained silent, but something within him twisted. He would not complain. Dining beside his mate, even here under Beron’s roof, was a fragile blessing he dared not risk. Before he could take a step further, her arm slipped from his bicep.

The scrape of silver against wood echoed far too loudly in the silent chambers as she lifted her place setting and carried it down the line, setting it beside his.

The handmaids rushed in immediately at the sound, faces tight with disapproval.

“My lady,” one said sharply, stepping forward. “That is not the correct placement—”

“I would like to sit here,” she said simply, already reaching for the wine to pour. The handmaid gasped, scurrying to snatch the bottle from her hands.

“My lady,” another stammered, flustered. “The head of the table is for the lord, and the other is for the Lady of the House. You cannot—”

“But I want to sit beside my mate,” she said, her voice light, almost innocent, though her eyes burned with quiet defiance.

The handmaids faltered, their gazes darting toward Eris.

Waiting for him to correct her.

Eris moved then, slow, deliberate, his boots clicking softly against the polished floor. He stopped behind her chair, her eyes lifting to him in a flicker of uncertainty. He shook his head once, lips curving into a smile.

“Please set the table like this from now on,” he said, his tone smooth but edged.

“But, my lord—”

“Follow my mate’s instructions regarding this,” Eris cut in, voice hardening. “If she wishes to sit beside me, then that is where she will sit. I have no arguments.”

The handmaids went rigid, lips pressed into thin lines, but they bowed and retreated.

Eris lowered himself into his chair, immediately reaching for her hand where it rested on the table. Their fingers laced, and something inside him loosened. He had never wanted someone more than he did in that moment.

“I don’t understand the importance of the places,” she whispered, glancing toward the distant end of the table. “I’d be so far away, I’d practically have to yell.”

Eris’s thumb brushed across her knuckles.

“My parents they’ve always sat on the opposite side. It is tradition. Protocol.” His mouth twisted. “To sit beside me is foreign. Wrong, in their eyes.”

Her lips parted, thoughtful, before she asked quietly, “Your parents… I never hear about your mother. The Lady of Autumn.”

Eris’s gaze flicked away, his grip on her hand tightening, and her grip tightening in answer.

“My scars are surface level,” he said at last, voice low, rough. “My mother’s are carved into her bones.”

Her face stilled, but something flickered there, understanding.

The handmaids then entered, carrying silver platters. The scents filled the chamber: herbs, fire, and the faint sweetness of roasted squash.

We began to eat, the only sounds being the soft scrape of silver against polished plates and the faint crackle of firelight on the walls.

Her eyes lifted after a while, firelight glimmering in them.

“You seemed surprised by my age,” she said softly, testing the words.

Eris huffed a low laugh, shaking his head. “You are so experienced, so capable, so smart. Head Healers are usually three hundred or more before they even earn the title.”

Her fork hesitated above her plate. “Are you disappointed?”

The question hit him like a blade to the chest. His face dropped, his heart stumbling.

“God, no.” His voice came out too sharp, too urgent. “No. It means we’ll celebrate milestones together. Like your hundredth birthday.”

The word hung between them, birthday, and he saw it. The way her lips pressed tight, the ripple of fear down the bond.

A reminder of the Great Rite.

Her voice was faint. “The Great Rite… what does it mean here in Autumn?”

Eris set his fork down. For a long moment, he said nothing. The flames sounded louder, the air felt heavier.

Slowly, he reached for her hand again.

“In Autumn, the Great Rite is a ritual of fire and flesh, meant to feed magic into the land. On the night of the Rite, the High Lord is filled with the Mother’s flame.”

Her lips parted, but she stayed silent.

“Our court has an expectation,” he went on, “that the heirs each take a maiden before the court, proving their value, their strength, feeding magic back into the land by showing how the Mother’s flame consumes them.”

He glanced down at his half-eaten plate.

“What does it feel like?” she asked softly. “The flames.”

“It burns through every vein, every nerve. Hunger. Rage. Desire. It strips away thought until only instinct remains. You are no longer a man. You are fire given flesh, meant to claim and consume, and before the entire court, you are expected to prove that hunger.”

Her breath caught, but she held his gaze.

He forced himself to continue, even as shame filled him. “A throne is placed at the center of the Rite, ringed with flame. The chosen maiden kneels there, waiting, and before the court, the heir takes her. There is no privacy. No tenderness. Only fire and flesh.”

His voice cracked. “They call it holy. They make it a spectacle, our submission. My father delights in it. He delights in the power it gives him over us, over her, over the entire court forced to watch.”

The bond throbbed sharply between them, alive with her hurt, her fear, her jealousy. Eris wanted to show her that he didn’t want anyone else, that he would never let her be made into a showpiece for Autumn’s cruelty.

“You don’t have to accept it,” he whispered, rough, as her hand tightened in his.

“At least I understand it more,” she replied after a beat, voice steady though her eyes were stormy. She lifted her fork again and took a slow bite, as though grounding herself in the act of eating.

Eris stared. “How are you so accepting? I just told you what the Great Rite is for us—a show of degradation, of submission. I know you’re not okay with it.”

“I am not.” She set her fork down again. “I don’t want to be used as a symbol of dominance or fertility…” Her gaze softened, cutting through him. “But I know you, Eris.”

The words made his stomach drop.

“I know that you would make me feel safe,” she said, voice low but certain. “That despite the Rite, despite what they demand, you would make my birthday special. That our mating ceremony would be ours, not theirs. Whether it’s in secret beneath the stars or in front of thousands, it would still be ours because you’d see me. You’d focus on me.”

“You mean that?” His voice was hoarse. “You feel safe with me?”

Her eyes softened further, shimmering in the firelight. “I feel everything with you, Eris.”

He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just watched as her hand trembled from too many emotions to contain.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “This is all too much.”

She shook her head instantly.

“It isn’t too much, and don’t you dare tell me it is.” Her voice trembled.

“I care for you,” she whispered. “I care deeply for you. And this court, its traditions, its rituals, its cruelty, none of it will change what I am willing to do for you.”

“I care for you so much,” Eris replied, his throat dry, his chest aching.

For a moment, neither spoke. They let the weight of their bond settle between them, the fire crackling softly, casting shadows across the table.

When they finally reached for their plates again, it was a quiet, intimate moment. Their gazes lingered longer than they should, their knees brushing beneath the table.

As their meal came to an end, Eris cleared his throat. “I have work to do, but I was hoping you’d join me by the fire.”

She smiled softly, finishing her wine before standing. “Then fetch your work and my journals, and I’ll make us tea.”

Eris couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his mouth. “You are the most beautiful fae I’ve ever met,” he whispered as he rose from his chair.

Her cheeks flushed; she looked away.

“Which journal, fox?” he asked, already heading toward the hallway.

“The navy one.”

Upstairs, he gathered their things. The chambers had been prepared, both baths drawn, candlelight soft on the water. Hers shimmered with floating crystals and scattered petals, the oils scenting the air with the memory of the night before, her patience, her comfort, her care.

When he returned downstairs, she was already curled in a blanket on the lounge, tea in hand, watching the fire. She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, her smile softening in a way that undid him completely.

He set her journal on the table beside her and arranged his own papers. For a while, silence wrapped around them, broken only by the scratch of pen on paper.

Every so often, she would glance up to ask his opinion on an ingredient, on a thought scribbled months, sometimes years ago. He teased her for biting her lip when she was deep in thought, earning the faintest roll of her eyes.

Time blurred that way, hours dissolving into the warmth of the fire and the rhythm of their work.

At last, she stretched, setting her journal aside. “I think I’ll take that bath now.”

He only nodded, though his heart thudded at the thought of her in the waiting water.

She disappeared upstairs, and Eris forced his gaze back to his papers, but his mind betrayed him with images: her skin glowing in candlelight, water gleaming across her skin, hair damp and clinging to her shoulders.

When she returned, his restraint nearly snapped.

She wore nothing extravagant, only simple cotton sleepwear: loose shorts and a thin shirt buttoned slightly wrong, clinging in places it shouldn’t. It was plain and comfortable. Yet, on her, it made his pulse thunder and his mouth go dry.

She noticed his stare immediately and arched a brow, lips curving faintly. “What?”

Eris dropped his eyes to his papers.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

She laughed under her breath as she curled beneath her blanket, journal in hand.

The firelight cast a gentle glow across her cheeks. Eris found himself watching more than reading, her slow rise and fall, the way her lips shaped silent words, the way she tucked her legs beneath herself.

Eventually, her eyelids drooped, the journal slipping lower until her head tilted softly against the cushions.

Eris’s chest ached at the sight of her, so peaceful, in his home, as though she belonged. Carefully, he rose and slid his arms beneath her, lifting her against his chest. She stirred faintly, breath warm against his throat, but did not wake.

He walked up the stairs slowly and carefully.

The fire in her chambers glowed low, and the sheets were already turned back. He laid her down gently, adjusting the blanket over her.

He lingered. Watching her sleep, something sharp and tender stirred inside him.

“Sweet dreams, my fox,” he whispered.

He left the door half-closed, just in case she needed him in the night.

Eris forced himself away, step by step, until he reached his chamber. He left his door half-open as well, a silent tether between them.

The fire was low, with embers crackling.

He took off his jacket and stood before the hearth, his mind replaying the Great Rite and her hundredth birthday. A day that should be filled with celebrations and gifts was now destined to become a spectacle of humiliation, submission, and fire.

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight, and made for the bathing chamber.

He sank into the waiting tub, water hissing around him. The thought of her kneeling in that sheer garment, exposed before the throne, under Beron’s knife-sharp gaze, made bile rise.

She deserved tenderness. Privacy. Devotion.

The fear that the Rite might twist what they had, that it might make monsters of them, pressed against his skin.

Finally, he rose as the water began to cool, towelling himself dry and wrapping the towel around his waist.

As he stepped back into his chamber, he stopped. Curled on his bed was his mate, nearly asleep on his side of the mattress.

“Eris,” she mumbled, voice heavy with sleep.

“Yes, fox.”

“My room is freezing. I was shaking.” She didn’t open her eyes. “Can I stay?”

His throat tightened.

“You can stay,” he murmured, softer than he meant. “Stay forever, if you please.”

She hummed, already drifting.

Eris tugged on loose sleep pants and slid in beside her. Instantly, she found him, curling into his side, tucking her chilled feet against his legs, hand resting on his chest.

His eyes slipped shut. The coolness of her skin, the rhythm of her breathing, her touch, slowly, his body relaxed, surrendering inch by inch.

Within minutes, Eris fell asleep, his mate in his arms, the world outside the firelight and their worries forgotten.

For now.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

I love you.

She had whispered it in the entryway of their home like a confession she couldn’t hold back any longer, and though the words had been said hours ago, they still haunted him.

His entire life had been fire, duty and control.

Now he burned for something he didn’t understand.

Love.

A word that had never been his.

He told himself he knew what it was, enough to mimic its shape, even if he had never truly held it.

What was it to love a mate?

To want to fall to his knees for someone.

To want to build her a world where no one could touch her, hurt her, or look at her like she was prey.

To fear losing her before she was fully his.

The thought alone gutted him.

“Eris, are you even listening?”

He blinked.

She was lounging beside him, healer’s notes scattered across her lap, gazing over at him, her lips curled into a small, amused smile that made his heart race.

God, she was beautiful, unbelievably beautiful.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“I asked about the commanders, their training in healing? What’s their scope of knowledge?” she repeated, her eyes flicking back to the parchment on her lap.

“The basics,” Eris said.

His gaze lingered on her mouth, remembering her lips against his that morning in his bed, the way she kissed him until he thought he might burn alive from the inside out.

Her sigh was soft as she leaned into the lounge’s armrest, chin tilted slightly, gazing at him through her dark lashes.

His body betrayed him, his throat tightened, his tongue swept over his bottom lip, and when her gaze fell to his mouth, his chest went tight.

Then the fear hit.

What if she only kissed him because she thought she had to?

Because he was her mate, because it was expected?

Maybe she hadn’t wanted it.

Maybe she’d kissed him out of duty, spoken out of expectation, not desire.

“Eris, I can feel you thinking,” she whispered, her hand reaching for his.

Her touch burned, like sparks on his skin.

“Our kiss.”

She blinked in surprise, her cheeks flushed. “Oh.”

“Did you kiss me because you thought you had to?” The question was bitter and shameful.

His chest ached as he added. “You don’t have to love me.”

Her brows drew together, lips parting before closing once more. The silence nearly killed him, and with it, his doubts spiralled, those familiar, cruel voices.

“You think I would kiss you because I had to?” She let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head.

“Eris, I am willing to sleep with you in front of your entire court because the thought of you with another makes me sick. I left my court for you. I share your bed. I planned our mating ceremony while priestesses looked at you like you’re something they want to consume. I will deal with that because I know you are mine.”

Her hand slipped from his, her fingers finding his jaw. His breath hitched, and he leaned into her touch.

“Eris Vanserra,” she whispered, “I love you, and I am going to kiss you. Okay?”

“Okay,” he whispered back, though the sound that left him didn’t even feel like his own.

Her lips curved in a smile before she closed the space between them.

Her mouth pressed to his, her hands cupping his face as if he were something fragile. He melted beneath her; there was no fighting it, no pretending to resist. His hands found her waist, guiding her onto his lap. His fingers pressed hard into her hips, desperate to keep her close.

The kiss deepened, her tongue tasting his, and a groan tore from his throat, raw and desperate. He had never been kissed like this, never been touched like this.

“Fox,” he whispered, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed against hers. “If you keep looking at me like this, keep touching me… I won’t be able to let you go.”

“Good,” she whispered, lips brushing his. “I don’t want you to. Never let me go.”

That broke him.

He pressed his mouth to hers, the kiss no longer gentle, but fire and hunger. The bond ached in his chest, golden and unrelenting, urging him to take, to claim, to never stop.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to draw a sigh from him. Every press of her lips, every shift of her body, unravelled his restraint thread by thread.

He traced kisses from her jawline to the curve of her throat. His lips against her skin, each kiss and gentle bite drew soft gasps, quiet moans, and shudders from her.

He was lost in her, the way she felt under his hands, under his mouth, the way her warmth pressed against him; he no longer knew where he ended and she began.

“I love you,” he murmured against her skin, his voice rough. “I love you.”

“Show me… show me how much you love me,” she whimpered, tilting her head, pressing herself against him, pulling him deeper into their kiss.

"I'll show you," he murmured against her mouth. "I'll show you how much I love you."

Chapter Text

Her touch alone unravelled him.

Her fingers tugged at his shirt, tossing it aside. Every deliberate, teasing touch of her hands against his bare skin ignited a fire within him, the ache of their bond almost unbearable.

Her fingers skimmed along his ribs, tracing feather-light patterns that had him trembling, quivering beneath her as though she were fire itself.

He was weak.

A weak man.

He had promised himself he wouldn’t rush her.

That he could restrain the part of him that craved her with a hunger so deep it made his skin feel too tight, his blood too hot.

He had thought he could endure.

He had been wrong.

His hands slid beneath her skirts, fabric gathering higher and higher as she pressed into him, her Night Court chill seeping through every touch, clashing with the fire coiling in his veins until it felt as though their heat and cold were colliding inside him.

I’ll show you, he had whispered against her mouth, desperate and raw. I’ll show you how much I love you.

God, he feared he wouldn’t last long enough to show her anything.

Her hips rolled against his, the friction through his trousers. His palms gripped curves of her thighs, the way her body fit against his so perfectly it nearly undid him.

Don’t you dare, he cursed himself. Don’t you dare finish in your damn trousers like an inexperienced boy.

He prayed to the Mother, to the Cauldron, to any holy thing that might listen, that his undoing would not ruin this moment.

The sleeve of her gown slipped from her shoulder. His breath caught as the swell of her breast pressed against his chest.

His eyes squeezed shut, a low groan breaking free as her mouth left his, kissing her way along the sharp line of his jaw, down the column of his throat.

Eris’s chest heaved, every breath a puff of fire as her lips traced down his throat. Her teeth grazed his skin, sharp and teasing, and his hips bucked of their own accord, grinding against her with desperation.

“God,” he groaned, his voice breaking as she pressed harder against him.

Her fingers slid up into his hair, tugging, guiding him back down into another kiss. Her tongue swept against his, and he thought he might combust.

Her skirts were bunched high on her thighs, his hands clutching at the soft flesh beneath, fingers deep as if holding her in place could keep him from unravelling.

He prayed to the Mother, to anyone listening, begged silently not to lose this moment, not to embarrass himself—

She moaned softly against his mouth, a sound so sweet, so needy, it shattered him.

His hips surged forward, grinding harder, again and again, as his control slipped. Heat coiled low in his stomach, white-hot and unrelenting, until it snapped.

“Fox—” he choked out, a warning and a plea, before his body betrayed him entirely.

His release tore through him, violent and unstoppable, his trousers wet and sticky as he buried his face against her shoulder with a guttural groan.

The world went silent except for the frantic beat of his heart.

Shame flooded him, thick and suffocating, as he clung to her, trembling. He couldn’t bring himself to lift his head, couldn’t bear to see her expression.

When her hand finally eased from his hair, he dared a glance.

Her lips were parted, eyes wide, still flushed from his touch but frozen with surprise. Confusion flickered across her face as though she hadn’t expected him to break so quickly, to lose control so completely in her lap.

“Eris…” she breathed, his name soft.

The sound hurt him more than anything else.

Eris couldn’t breathe.

The heat of her body, the look in her eyes, shame roared in his ears.

He pushed her off him, disentangling himself from her lap, from her touch, as though her hands burned. He stumbled to his feet, dragging in a shaky breath, his fists clenched at his sides.

Her brows furrowed, confusion written across her face. “Eris?”

“Don’t—” His voice came out harsh, raw, jagged at the edges. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” she asked, rising slowly, careful, as though approaching a wild animal.

“Like I’m…” He hesitated, the words clawing at his throat, pride dissolving into the humiliating truth, dampening his trousers. “Like I’m weak. Like I’m pathetic.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

He ran a trembling hand through his hair.

“I couldn’t even touch you properly. Couldn’t even—” His jaw clenched tight. “Mother above, I made a fool of myself.”

“You didn’t—”

“I did.” His tone snapped harsher than he intended, but he couldn’t stop the shame burning him alive.

He finally forced himself to look at her.

She stood frozen, her eyes wide, her lips parted, hurt and uncertain.

He straightened, voice cold and harsh. “Forget it happened.”

Before she could answer, before her soft voice could undo him completely, he turned on his heel.

He snatched his discarded shirt, tugging it over his body in frantic motions, desperate to cover the humiliating stain on his trousers.

The hall blurred around him as he strode away, too quickly, too desperately. His stomach twisted, his chest ached.

By the time he slammed the chamber doors shut behind him, his breath came fast and ragged. He ripped at his clothing as if they were strangling him.

His shirt was wrinkled and creased where her hands had dragged him closer, where she had wanted him.

She had wanted him.

He had failed her.

Control, he screamed at himself. Why can't you control yourself?

He couldn’t even last.

Couldn’t even give her what she deserved.

She had let him touch her, kiss her, and in less than five minutes, he had ruined it.

Steam filled the bathing chamber, the hiss of water almost loud enough to drown out his own gasps of shame.

He sank into the bath, desperate to wash away the shame, the scalding heat biting at his skin, a punishment.

He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, dragging in jagged, shuddering breaths. Shame coiled tight around him like chains, pulling him deeper beneath the water, suffocating him.

Her face burned in his mind: the way she kissed him, the smile that curved her lips, the way her hips pressed against his, the feeling of the most mind-shattering release he had ever known, and it had happened in his trousers, without her even touching him.

Eris Vanserra, heir to Autumn, is undone by his own body.

The water lapped against his chest as he tipped his head back, throat tight, body tense.

He had never felt so weak, so small, so utterly incompetent in the one thing he had always believed he was good at.

Sex.

The word itself cut like a blade, sharp and unbearable.

He sank deeper into the scalding water, hoping it would swallow him whole, drown him in his shame.

It didn’t.

Reader POV -

She stood frozen where he’d left her, her dress sliding off her shoulder, staring at the chair where they had been tangled only moments ago.

Her body still trembled.

What just happened?

She knew the answer.

She had felt it.

Through the bond that had carried his ecstasy straight into her chest until her own breath caught with it.

Eris had come undone.

Without her even needing to touch him, he had unravelled beneath her, trembling, groaning in a way that was raw and desperate.

God help her, the memory of it made her chest ache with something dangerous.

Pride.

Not cruel pride, not mocking, but a dark satisfaction that it had been her.

She had not been with many men.

Just one.

A single encounter had been enough to convince her that men were unworthy of her trust and even more unworthy of her body.

Until now.

Until Eris Vanserra.

A man whose name had been reduced to court gossip, spoken behind wine glasses, whispered with equal parts envy and desire. Stories of his skill, of how he could leave lovers undone with a single touch, burned through the courts like wildfire.

Now he was hers.

Hers to unravel.

Hers to claim.

Hers to test every rumour against the truth of his hands, his mouth and his fire.

The thought sent a tremor down her spine.

She curled her fingers into her skirts, pressing her thighs together for relief, as the warmth of his body still lingered on her skin.

Then her mind flicked to his face, his handsome, beautiful face, wide-eyed, tense, and filled with a shame so sharp it had cut through her, the edge of his voice still ringing in her ears as he had snapped at her.

That memory cut through her pride.

He thought she judged him.

He thought she saw weakness where she had only felt closeness, intimacy, proof of how badly he wanted her.

Her chest tightened as she sank into the lounge, folding her arms around herself as if that might still her trembling.

Her eyes were fixed on the fire.

Lost in the memory of his hands on her, the warmth of his body pressed close, the bond flaring until it had nearly burned her alive.

She wanted him.

God, she wanted him.

Not just a kiss or touch, she wanted all of him.

She wanted to claim him, to curl into his arms in his bed and never leave.

She could feel it through the bond.

His shame.

The self-loathing.

The way he spiralled, punishing himself for something that had only made her love him more.

She took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair. She couldn’t allow him to push her away because of fear and shame.

Not when she had chosen this.

Not when she had chosen him.

She rose from the lounge, tugging the slipping sleeve of her dress back onto her shoulder.

She went to him.

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