Chapter Text

– Part IV. – 

What a wicked thing to say, you never felt this way — 

what a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you.

[1]

After his return to Night, it took Azriel’s brothers two days to kick down his apartment door. Well. Kicking was generous. They had at least knocked before letting themselves in and claiming the couch as their own.

“You didn’t think we’d let that little adventure go unquestioned, did you?” Cassian asked around a mouthful of food.

Their intrusion was not entirely forgiven, but it was softened by the sheer number of takeout boxes Cassian lined across the coffee table. Azriel perched on the ottoman and reached for the spicy beef udon, his preferred order. Steam curled upward as he peeled back the lid, chili oil catching the lamplight.

Rhys delicately lifted a piece of honey butter fried chicken with his chopsticks. Azriel shuddered just looking at it.

“It was successful,” he said, twirling the noodles and lifting them with unhurried precision.

“Of course it was,” Cassian barked, clutching a half-eaten dumpling in one hand while stabbing at his pad thai with a fork in the other. “You helped him.”

Rhys shot Cassian a look before returning to his food with a quiet sigh.

Azriel chewed, considering.

“Well,” he began, gaze drifting over the surface of the table, “he couldn’t have done it alone.”

Cassian grabbed a spring roll and dunked it fully into the dark sauce, droplets splattering across the table.

“And what now?” he asked, stuffing the entire thing into his mouth.

Azriel straightened, the box resting in his lap, warmth seeping through the fabric at his knee.

He met Rhys’s gaze. “I’ll be there when he challenges Beron to a duel.”

A strangled sound tore from Cassian, followed by a violent cough. Rhys thumped him on the back with unnecessary force.

“All good, all good,” Cass rasped, eyes snapping toward Azriel. “You what?”

Azriel resumed eating, shoulders loose.

“I want to see him succeed,” he said simply.

Cassian blinked, eyes wide. Then he shrugged, mouth pulling to one side in thought. “Okay.”

He reached for the crispy pork belly as if the room hadn’t just shifted around them.

Rhys stared at him, baffled. “That’s it?”

“Aye. What else do you want me to say?” Cassian asked around a loud chew.

Rhys exhaled slowly. “You were pacing for two days while he was gone—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cass cut in, waving his fork. “That was then. He came back.”

A soft chuckle slipped from Azriel. He leaned forward, chopsticks hovering over a spring roll, when Cassian motioned with a grin.

“Oh yes. Pass that over.”

His hand shot out, fork twisting into Azriel’s noodles and retracting without a shred of shame.

With an exasperated sigh, Rhys dropped a piece of untouched chicken and a few mango slices into Cassian’s box.

“Yes, bring the tithe,” Cassian snickered.

“Better to offer it freely,” Rhys replied dryly. “You’d take it anyway.”

“Sharing is caring, aye?”

Rhys shook his head, though a fond smile tugged at his mouth, impossible to hide.

“And when will Eris finally rid himself of the bastard?” Cassian asked lightly, as if he were commenting on the latest Liverpool–Velaris United match.

“In a few days,” Azriel answered easily.

Cassian hummed around a mouthful. “Nice.”

“You truly have nothing else to add?” Rhys asked.

Cassian shrugged. “I mean, sure, I don’t like the pompous arse all that much, but,” he chewed thoughtfully on a bite of sauce-drenched pork, “if he’s who you want, I’m fine with it. My only concern was this —” he rolled his fork lazily through the air. “Couldn’t you have picked someone nicer?”

“When was Nesta ever nice to you?” Rhys deadpanned.

***

Rhys nudged Azriel’s elbow with the pack of cigarettes. Azriel took one, offering only a brief glance.

“You almost took my lucky one,” Rhys said, mouth curving.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Azriel replied easily, reaching for the lighter.

They stood shoulder to shoulder on the balcony, leaning over the railing as Velaris stretched before them in tiled rooftops and scattered lamplight. The evening air hung warm and heavy, the faintest breeze threading its way through the city. Shadows stirred around them, loose and restless, a few tendrils curling idly around the High Lord.

Azriel turned slightly, gaze drifting toward the open balcony door. Inside, Cassian sprawled across the couch, scrolling through Netflix, the cursor hovering suspiciously over Too Hot To Handle. Azriel braced himself in advance. Cassian had been adamant about not joining them to breathe some fresh air, as he put it, that Nesta would “pluck my balls like overripe fruit and feed them to me if I came home reeking like that.”

Azriel exhaled slowly, smoke unfurling into the night before dissolving.

“Are you sure about it?” Rhys asked, breaking the quiet.

Azriel understood the implication immediately.

“Yeah.”

Rhys dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly at the roots.

“As High Lord, I could stop you. Technically,” he said, head dipping. “But we both know I’ve never held that kind of power over you. I never did.” He swallowed, violet eyes lifting to meet Azriel’s. “I’m trying to understand, Az. Truly.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Azriel’s mouth, the cigarette hovering near his lips.

“Have you ever seen the face of God?” he asked.

Rhys blinked at him, caught mid-breath.

Azriel tapped ash over the railing, watching the sparks scatter and vanish into the dark.

His voice remained calm, almost idle, threaded with quiet amusement. “Remember, Rhys. You asked for this.”

He felt the familiar pressure at the edge of his consciousness, like claws, patient and waiting, asking for permission.

This time, he let him in.

It brushed against his mind from every side at once.

Deep lilac and slow as silk, it swept through him, heavy, lush, unmistakable. Not invasive, not probing. It moved with deliberate weight, like velvet dragged across bare skin. Stardust trailed in its wake, faint and luminous.

Azriel closed his eyes and turned inward.

He was back on the plane, staring through the small oval window, watching roads shrink into fine threads below. He remembered thinking then that he was like a kite cut loose from its tether, wanting to soar, yet longing for something, or someone, waiting for him to come back down to. Numbness settled over him, familiar and ever-present. The quiet calm of his days, accepted without question, as constant as his shadows.

Then the stillness fractured.

Movement flared across his vision — a small ball of fire dancing between slender fingers. Through the curling smoke, sharp features emerged, coated in yellow-orange glow. A shiver traced the length of his spine as bright magma eyes lifted to meet his. It spread, cascading along his arms as canines flashed and his name formed on that mouth.

The more Azriel looked into those captivating eyes through shifting scenes, shining with wicked delight, the harder it became to turn away. His own voice threaded through the quiet of his mind, as the images unfolded, moving to a secret rhythm. 

“There is something profound about being looked at without flinching… and not found lacking.”

Warmth crept in. First irritation. Frustration. The sting of being unsettled. The scars on his hands tightened and itched; he forced himself not to scratch. But the heat shifted, deepening into something else: excitement, recognition, and at last, contentment. 

“Somewhere along the way, I realized I was being seen by someone who would not condemn me.”

The images blurred into one another. A scarf caught in the wind, a tilt of a head just enough for sunlight to kiss sharp cheekbones. Fingers closing around his own, drawing him from the sand. Colorful feathers beneath a sun-drenched glass dome. Petals torn in the wind and rain lashing against a terrace. Charred pillows smoldering in the dark. And everywhere, molten gold eyes tracking his every movement. Sparks sizzling and bursting to life at the corners, like embers popping in a dormant log.

“And then I understood what it meant.” 

The scent of woodsmoke, amber resin, and faint ash clinging to him, refusing to fade. The tightness in his chest swelling until it threatened to split him open. Nails dragging down his back. Heels pressing at his hips. Sweat-damp strands brushed from a flushed face.

“To love another person is to see the face of God.”

The heavy weight of a limp body in his arms as freezing water pushed past his thighs. The same body, heartbeat thrumming alive as Azriel rested his head over the other’s shoulder.

“It is not to worship them. It is to stand before them, unhidden.”

Deep green patches of grass beneath them. Lying there in scorched, soaked clothes, hair matted with blood and dirt, cheeks bruised, dried streaks of red beneath a nose and along a chin. The immense, suffocating terror of almost losing.

Then, relief. All-encompassing, burning behind his eyes, fierce and unrelenting.

“If that is the face of God… then I have come to know it.”

The claws retreated.

Azriel could still feel stardust settling over him, silver glinting.

Rhys was gazing at him, his expression soft and aching, as though he were seeing Azriel — truly seeing him — after a very long time.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice tight in a way only Azriel would notice.

A faint smile curved Azriel’s lips. He remained silent as he crushed his cigarette into the ashtray.

“When will the duel be?” Rhys asked, not making a move to leave.

“In two days’ time.”

“I might drop by,” Rhys said, his tone even.

Azriel raised a brow.

Setting the tray aside, Rhys’s arms found the railing again, his head hanging low between his shoulders.

“I won’t change my mind about him,” he continued. “Not so soon, at least. But… your perspective is something I haven’t considered before.”

Azriel hummed.

“Well.” A trace of fondness entered his voice. “He’s a deeply flawed man.”

Rhys looked at him again, confusion written plainly across his face. It must have been too much for him, too complex, perhaps. The way Azriel felt about the Autumn heir wasn’t the same as the way Rhys felt about Feyre.

Azriel reached out, squeezing Rhys’s shoulder before turning toward the living room.

The contact seemed to startle Rhys more than anything Azriel could have said.

“I’m flawed too,” Azriel added, giving his shoulder a measured pat.

The shadows stirred, circling the High Lord one last time before clinging to their master and following him back inside.

[2]

Azriel crept along the corridors of the Forest House, the entwining passages familiar to him in a way that should have been unsettling. He had memorized the layout of the Autumn residence through the many visits he had spent there lurking, watching. His shadows carried him, as on many days before. But this time, as he slipped through tapestry-heavy walls and draped curtains, in and out of chests, armours, and crevices, he found a new door standing open.

With ease, he slid inside Eris’s private quarters as though no barrier existed at all.

The shadows carrying him stirred with something like anticipation as he mapped the chamber for the first time: the mahogany desk, the private alcove tucked into the corner, the ostentatiously ornamental fireplace, and the large embroidered gobelin hanging beside the massive four-post bed. Everything, from the deep greens streaked with mustard, warm browns and reds to the smaller details like the Tiffany lamps, spoke of Eris Vanserra. A version of him that was lush, refined, royal.

It was the residence of the Autumn heir, not Eris as Azriel had come to know him.

The Shadowsinger settled into the drapes of the baldachin above the bed, granting himself a clear view of the three Vanserras while keeping a careful distance from the roaming fire.

Eris sat at his desk, eyes firmly trained on the papers laid out before him, fingers idly tracing the fox-headed handle of his cane. The tool was carved from dark polished wood, the handle shaped into the sleek profile of a fox’s head, its features sharp and precise, a thin band of gilded metal circling the base beneath it.

“How did you get this?” Eris asked, his gaze narrowing as it rose to his brother.

Sevrin’s tapping fingers stilled. He unfolded his arms and leaned further against the mahogany desk, ankles crossed, shoulder dipping toward Eris as he looked down, eyes bright with delight.

“I should keep some secrets to myself, shouldn’t I?”

Eris held his brother’s stare for a beat before flipping through the papers once more.

“Seventeen million in diverted funds. The same three subcontractors every time. Different names, same parent holding. The permits were signed two months before the public decree.” A slow smile ghosted over his mouth. “Excellent.”

Azriel marked the details mentally, filing them away for later.

“Consider it a token of your return, brother.”

Eris placed the papers into a beige manila folder and slid it aside with deliberate care.

“My next discussion with William Rask may prove rather engaging,” he noted, a hint of wicked satisfaction tugging at his mouth. “For once.”

“I might tag along just to watch the old man squirm,” Sevrin chuckled.

“Isn’t he younger than you, though?” Dorian asked without looking up from the book he had been reading beneath the alcove since Azriel entered the room.

“It’s not the age that matters,” Sevrin tossed over his shoulder. “It’s the vibe, as the kids say.”

Eris snorted.

“Don’t you laugh. You’re an old man as well,” Sevrin continued, nudging the cane lightly with his foot.

The heir scoffed. “This is merely temporary.”

“With your exceptional healing, it ought to have mended by now,” Dorian remarked.

“I think he wants to keep it,” Sevrin flashed a crooked grin. “Proof that, for once in his oh-so-long life, he put someone else first. He’d hate to lose the evidence of character development.”

Eris regarded him with quiet scrutiny. “What is the matter with you?”

“He hasn’t slept in six days,” Dorian replied, tone edged with fatigue.

“Five,” Sevrin corrected with a shrug. “You’d be even bitchier than me.”

Eris rose, a sharp breath escaping him as his weight shifted.

The amusement vanished from Sevrin’s face.

“Does it hurt?”

Eris exhaled slowly.

“Pain is a reminder that I survived things that would have broken lesser men.”

One of Sevrin’s brows arched. Something flashed across his expression before it hardened. Then he kicked Eris in the shin.

Eris’ hand slammed against the desk.

“Yes. It bloody does.”

He groaned, reaching down to rub just above his knee. “Was that necessary?”

“I warned you he’s irritable,” Dorian commented, unfazed as he turned the page. “Yet you insisted on keeping us here.”

“Don’t chastise him. He needed his fill of inconsequential court drama from the past few days,” Sevrin said, waving Dorian off before turning back to Eris. “Considering what you’re about to do, I’d have thought there were more important things to be angry about. But I know how your mind works.” He tilted his head, the grin returning. “You can be furious about twenty thousand things at once. You’re a walking chimera of various fumes and petty qualms.”

“Did you also notice,” Dorian asked, his gaze lifting to meet Eris’, “the less sleep he gets, the more he resembles you? Fascinating.”

Sevrin shuddered theatrically.

“Please. I don’t share his fascination with camp-bred war hounds.”

“If only Brennar were here to say,” Dorian cut in with a faint smile, his voice deepening to mimic their brother, “Yeah, because you have a thing for horses.”

Sevrin huffed, folding his arms across his chest once more.

“See?” Dorian gestured lazily. “He even pouts like you.”

“I do not pout,” Eris replied, chin lifting.

Sevrin snorted, then dragged a hand down his face. “Oh, Mother. I’m turning into him, aren’t I?”

Eris stood motionless, his weight braced on the cane, fingers tightening around the fox’s head.

“Like that’s the worst thing that can happen,” he scoffed.

His voice was steady, but a notch too quiet, stripped of any warmth.

Sevrin’s eyes snapped back to him.

He cleared his throat and closed the distance between them, placing a palm over Eris’ shoulder.

“I know all the men you’ve slept with have been a form of self-harm. But,” Sevrin added more gently, “I hope this time it’s different.”

Eris’ expression softened, a faint watery sheen touching his eyes.

“I hate to admit it,” he murmured with a quiet chuckle, “but he melts my Häagen-Dazs.”

Dorian made a faint, disapproving sound under his breath, yet Sevrin snickered, suddenly lighter.

“Don’t say it out loud,” Sevrin winked. “He might be eavesdropping.”

Eris’ body went rigid. It might have escaped his brother’s notice, had his hand not still rested on the heir’s shoulder.

“Eavesdropping?” Dorian asked, suddenly alert.

“Is he?!” Sevrin demanded, louder now.

A wry smile curved Eris’ mouth.

“Only for the past five minutes.”

Dorian shut his book with a decisive thud, gaze sweeping the room eagerly, while Sevrin’s eyes darted frantically from corner to corner.

A defeated sigh slipped from Eris. “Be a dear and come out.” He paused, then added more softly, “Please.”

Sevrin blinked at him with a blank expression, only to jump back with a muted squeal as Azriel appeared in a swirl of shadows at the foot of the bed.

The Vanserra took a step away from both Eris and the Illyrian, palms raised in a placating gesture. “For the record, I did not mean that thing about camp-bred war hounds.”

“He’s not going to hurt you,” Eris scoffed.

Then, in one swift motion, he raised his cane and struck Sevrin sharply in the knee. “Only I’m allowed to do that.”

Sevrin yelped, stumbling back three steps.

“Nothing beats a little fratricide,” Dorian remarked dryly, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Shouldn’t you be at least worried that he can just waltz in as he pleases?” Sevrin demanded, whipping his head toward the alcove, bewilderment plain on his face. “This is our warded home, for crying out loud.”

Dorian gave a light shrug as he rose. “I’ll allow him.”

“Why?!” Sevrin spluttered. “Whose side are you on?”

Dorian smoothed his waistcoat and made a beeline for the door. “The Illyrian, naturally. He’s a better chess opponent than you.”

Azriel felt Eris’ gaze linger over him, and when he turned to face the heir, he was met with a rare sight — something softened at the edges he could read as nothing but adoration.

Sevrin made an exaggerated choking sound. “Ew. Get a room.”

Dorian caught him by the elbow as he passed, nudging him forward.

“They already have this one. Now come.”

“We aren’t finished, you hear me?” Sevrin croaked over his shoulder as they exited Eris’ chamber.

The heir took a step, one hand finding support on the bedpost as he lowered himself with a sigh, his shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly. Azriel crossed to the desk and set a small vial upon it, his gaze lingering on the violet-blue liquid before he turned back.

“Thank you,” Eris said.

Azriel inclined his head in return.

He let his gaze travel across the room, over its colors and quiet details. A few seconds passed before he crouched in front of the bed, a gloved hand lifting to rest against Eris’ right shin.

“How bad is it?”

“Tolerable,” Eris shrugged. Then, more quietly, “But it isn’t getting better.”

Azriel’s other hand rose, brushing lightly over the fabric at Eris’ left hip. No words were needed as he looked up into Eris’ fire-lit eyes. No platitudes or hollow reassurances. No meaningless comfort.

He reached to his thigh and slid Truthteller free, the blade a familiar weight in his palm. He gave a small nod, as if only to himself, before turning the hilt and holding it out to Eris.

“Until tomorrow,” he said.

Eris’ fingers closed around the dagger, his voice catching in quiet awe.

“Thank you,” he repeated, moisture gathering in his eyes.

Azriel felt a smile curve his own lips, unguarded. Nothing more needed to be said. 

He let his hand linger on Eris’ leg for a moment longer before rising and settling onto the bed beside him. The shadows skittered around them, gathering beneath the baldachin to form a canopy of shade.

Eris placed the dagger carefully on the mattress, then shifted closer, resting his head against Azriel’s shoulder.

Silence settled between them.

“You’re drawn tight as a bow.”

Eris gave a soft huff of laughter. “I am. Until tomorrow.”

The heir reached for Azriel’s hand, his fingers running along the leather. Without a word, Azriel slipped off the glove and set it aside.

Eris’ breath hitched before he reached again, tracing along the marred skin.

They stayed as they were for a while, letting the minutes drift between them. Azriel felt the tension ease from the shoulder pressed against his and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“I was afraid to hold people, you know,” the heir said quietly. “Afraid everything would crumble to ash beneath my hands.”

He paused, lifting their joined hands.

“But not you.” He pressed a kiss to the calloused knuckles. “You won’t burn so easily.” Eris sniffed softly. “You know I told you the truth. I never wished to feel this much.”

He drew in a breath, his forehead sliding down to rest against Azriel’s chest as his arms wound around the other’s neck.

Azriel leaned into the embrace the way flowers lean toward the sun. For the briefest moment, he registered the shift, that he was no longer unsettled by it. Nose buried in the red hair, he inhaled the scent of charred oranges and cedar, and something in his gut he had not known was strung so taut loosened a fraction.

Eris’ voice was muffled, but impossible to miss.

“I care for you more than I know what to do with.”

Azriel’s heartbeat, always steady, always controlled, skittered once. He drew the man closer.

For a while, it was only the two of them, wrapped in a cocoon of shadows as the rest of the Forest House fell away.

“Someone’s coming down the corridor,” Azriel whispered. “It’s Brennar.”

“I might commit some actual fratricide today,” Eris groaned, pressing himself closer for one last squeeze before leaning away reluctantly.

“I’ll go,” Azriel said as Eris rose, crossing the room in measured, unhurried steps.

“Sure. Come by later if you can,” the heir replied as he opened the middle drawer, lifted the inner panel, and slid Truthteller, the vial, and the manila folder into its false bottom.

“Actually, someone wants to speak with you. At the old watchpost by the Spring border.”

Eris let out a low, unpleasant sound.

“I beg you. Just not him.”

Azriel gave him a half-smile. “See you at midnight.”

“I’d rather dip myself in that lake again.”

Just as Eris’ door swung open, the shadows skittered.

[3]

Eris appeared beside the low stone structure, stepping out of a curl of smoke as embers sank into the dark earth around him. The night air was cold, the kind that sent a pleasant shiver along his arms rather than bothering him. The grounds smelled of bonfire, threaded with a quiet anticipation that thrummed beneath the surface. Eris did not know whether it was wishful thinking, or whether even the lands of Autumn were preparing for change.

He walked through the spaces where rooms once stood, his cane tapping softly against the grass, and halted before a darkened corner where the shadows stretched long.

This time, two figures emerged instead of one.

Azriel stood with one hand loosely clasping the other before him, shoulders loosened in quiet ease. Beside him, the High Lord of Night slipped his hands into his pockets, but the gesture fooled no one. To anyone who knew how to read him, every carefully curated line of Rhys told the world he would much rather be anywhere else.

That thought brought Eris a small, private satisfaction. At least they were aligned on something for once.

“Evening,” Eris greeted with a practised drawl.

He caught the flicker of amusement Azriel attempted to hide.

Rhys bristled, an involuntary jerk passing through his shoulders, before lifting those too-violet eyes to Eris.

“Eris,” Rhysand hissed through slightly clenched teeth.

Eris could hardly blame him for it. It was difficult to unlearn nearly eighty years of instinct.

“You wished to chat, I presume?” the heir offered with a tilt of his head, the loops and chains in his ear giving a muted chime.

“Yes,” Rhys admitted with a long exhale, his shoulders folding inward for a fleeting second.

Eris nodded, then crossed the distance to Azriel. The shadows drifted around the Illyrian, curling toward Eris beneath the faint moonlight. He brushed a hand along Azriel’s cheek before leaning in to draw him into a brief, one-armed embrace, his other hand still firm on the cane.

“Come back later, if you wish,” he murmured, voice soft and unvarnished.

After a moment of stillness, Azriel returned the embrace. He pressed a kiss to the crown of Eris’ head before leaning away.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Azriel said, a ghost of a smile curling at his lips.

“You bastard,” Eris chuckled fondly as the shadows swallowed the man.

Eris remained there for a moment, eyes closed, listening, searching for the overlapping whispers, for that strange sense of a cord drawn taut within himself, but there was only quiet. Azriel had left them alone.

“He’s refraining from eavesdropping,” Eris noted, lifting his gaze to Rhysand. “That must mean something.”

Rhys blinked, surprise flashing across his face before he schooled it back into neutrality.

“How do you know?”

“Ah,” Eris said, moving toward the side wall where moonlight poured through the wide cracks in the half-collapsed roof. “I can sense him. And he can sense me, I imagine.”

He placed the cane between his hands and braced his elbows against the empty window frame, gaze trailing over the dark fields beyond. Rhysand stepped beside him, resting his back against the wall, facing the shadowed interior of the old ruin.

For a moment, Eris let his head hang with a quiet sigh before straightening his spine.

“I would appreciate it if we could have this conversation outside my mind.”

The shiver that ran through Rhysand was undeniable.

“Trust me,” he replied evenly, “none of us would want that.”

Eris chuckled. The sound fell flat, more weary than anything else.

“Azriel is the only person who can lie to me,” Rhysand began, not looking in the heir’s direction. “And he lied when he said there was nothing between the two of you. Back then. After you visited Windhaven.”

“He didn’t,” Eris replied, his tone quiet but firm. “There wasn’t. Not back then.”

He glanced at Rhysand, a wicked smile flashing beneath the moonlight, one that did not reach his eyes. “I did that merely to discourage you.”

Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose with a low groan.

“There’s no way to conjure scenes that convincing if you haven’t entertained them already. More than once.”

Eris hummed lightly. “I can’t deny the element of… personal indulgence in seeking his assistance with my little venture.”

“Your little venture,” the High Lord echoed dryly. “How exactly do you intend to bring down your father?”

“Surely he’s told you already. I will challenge Father to a duel, in accordance with Autumn law and tradition.”

“And you expect me to believe that won’t be a simple suicide mission?”

Eris smiled faintly, his fingers brushing over the carved fox’s head before tapping it twice.

“Let that be my surprise.”

Rhysand exhaled through his nose.

“Whatever happens next,” Eris continued, clearing his throat, “I might die tomorrow, and you may be rid of me once and for all. But if I win, if I become High Lord —”

He paused, flame-lit eyes boring into violet ones.

“— then I want Azriel to stand beside me.”

Rhysand’s jaw tightened.

“You’re asking too much.”

“I know,” Eris nodded, holding his stare. “I’m asking you to allow him a choice.”

“Why him?”

Eris’ mouth closed, tongue dragging along his teeth.

Images flashed behind his eyes. His hand on a knife as he sliced the throat of a deer, delicate membrane burning beneath his palms, fire devouring wood and tapestry. The sound of bones crunching and his brother’s screams filled his ears.

He flinched, gaze returning to the fields. 

I deserved it. The words rang inside his head like a chant.

Tiredness seeped into him again, quiet and heavy.

He had not slept more than an hour at a time since they returned. His dreams were plagued by those five hundred years. He still did not understand how it had been possible, but the ache it left in him was as real as the season around him. He had lived every moment of another life, one he now dreaded more than anything.

“I need someone to keep me above water,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He remembered consciousness slamming back into him beneath the lake’s surface, his body convulsing in the freezing depths.

“Someone to make sure the power won’t corrupt me, as it did my forefathers.”

He rubbed a hand against his temple, chasing away the ghost of a melting crow burrowing into his skull.

“And it can only be him.”

His gaze rose to meet Rhysand’s. Whatever showed in his eyes was enough to make Rhys draw in a sharp breath — wretched and grief-stricken, the look of a man who had already seen his worst fate.

“I wouldn’t listen to anyone but him.”

Rhysand was silent for a long while.

“I called him out once,” he admitted, and Eris understood what it was. An exchange of olive branches, a truth for a truth. “I thought he was becoming obsessed with you. But now I see,” he added with a crooked smirk, “at least it goes both ways.”

Eris chuckled, his shoulders easing a fraction.

“Do you believe in fate?”

“Not really,” Rhysand answered.

“Neither do I.” He gave a slight shake of his head, his lips curling of their own accord. “But Azriel does.”

“He’s a romantic at heart.”

Eris found it strange, and strangely comforting, to share a quiet smile between them.

“But just so you know,” Rhysand added, his tone light and easy, “if you ever hurt him, and he doesn’t gut you himself… I’ll enter your mind one final time.”

Eris cocked his head, grinning, this time with honest mirth.

“I wouldn’t expect less from my mother-in-law.”

[4]

Eris’ eyes followed the line of trees in the distance. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, bathing his chamber in the cold yellow of dawn. Clouds gathered beyond the apple orchard, thick grey bodies rolling closer. A fine mist soaked the grass, frost easing where the light touched it. His fingers trailed along the wrought-iron latticework before he withdrew them and stepped back.

He knew this place by heart and could have mapped it blind. What use was it to take it in one last time? His gaze caught on the mirror beside the hearth, and a sudden tightness seized his chest.

No. He shook his head sharply, forcing his stare elsewhere. He would not entertain the thought. There would be time to dissect that after today.

Because there would be a time beyond this.

The heir of Autumn crossed the room and stepped into the corridor, chin high, left hand set behind his back. He walked in measured strides, following the acrid stench, his cane tapping against the blood-red carpet.

His time would not end today. It would begin.

***

“Father.” Eris bowed as he halted in the armory.

Beron spared him a glance over his shoulder before returning to the life-sized knight mounted on a rearing horse. The statue was cast in burnished copper-gold, the barding layered in overlapping metal leaves, the rider’s breastplate etched with branchwork that climbed like flame. The smell of oil and cold iron lingered around it, sharp enough to make Eris’ nose wrinkle.

“I’m busy. Can’t you see?” The High Lord rapped his knuckles against the knight’s kneecap.

“It will not take much of your time,” Eris replied, tone level.

Beron scoffed, gaze tracing the horse’s lifted forelegs. A dismissive flick of his hand sent the Master Armourer into a deep, silent bow before he retreated with poorly concealed relief.

Only then did Beron turn fully.

Rust-toned eyes settled on his son. One hand rested at his hip, the heavy ceremonial mantle parted at the front as though he stood for a royal portrait. Eris’ temple throbbed.

The dark oxblood velvet was lined with white ermine at the collar, gold thread embroidery crawling along the hem and edges, heraldic sigils stitched broad across the back. It was grand, theatrical, and entirely wrong. The mantle ended at Beron’s ankle instead of pooling at his heels as it should have, the weight poorly distributed, the fall stiff where it was meant to flow. A garment meant for coronation, worn like a costume within his own halls.

Eris’ teeth clenched, his spine straightening.

“High Lord of Autumn, Beron Vanserra.”

Interest flickered across Beron’s face as one thick brow arched.

“I, Eris Vanserra, firstborn and heir, formally challenge you to a duel under the laws of this Court.”

A swirl of smoke enveloped them, sparks bursting, embers drifting in slow spirals. Beron’s mouth stretched into a wicked grin, eyes alight.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “You finally came to make my life easier, son. How sensible.”

Eris’ canines flashed. “I certainly hope so.”

Beron closed the distance, gaze dropping first to the cane, then lifting to his son’s face.

“You can’t take this back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Beron licked his lips and nodded once. “Good.”

He vanished in a blink. Eris followed immediately.

Beron stood in the middle of the clearing not far from the House, the one often used for training. Thunder rumbled through the forest as he clapped his hands.

One by one, the other Vanserras appeared.

The Lady of Autumn held herself in silence, head bowed. Her eyes met Eris’ for the briefest moment before dropping again. Beron unclasped the heavy mantle and tossed it into his wife’s waiting arms. The embroidered waistcoat was stripped off a moment later. Beside their mother Dorian, Brennar and Sevrin formed a line, flanked by Beron’s closest advisors. Eris took each of them in, one by one. Rain settled in a fine mist over the open field.

The High Lord surveyed the gathering.

“Not many to see you meet your pathetic end, but —” Beron shrugged, a savage delight twisting his features.

The ground trembled faintly with each step he took toward Eris. He stopped ten feet away, unbuttoning his sleeves with deliberate care. His head snapped sharply to the side as Azriel appeared beside Sevrin in a swirl of shadows, darkness skittering behind him.

“Are you lost, boy?” Beron asked, amusement coating his tone.

He truly believed this was his fortunate day, Eris noted. To rid himself of his most vexing son and catch Rhysand’s prized spy trespassing in the same breath.

The heir held the stare of those hazel eyes for a beat before placing a palm over his heart and bowing curtly.

“He’s none of your concern at the moment,” Eris said, turning back to his father, his tone calm and firm. “I am.”

Beron huffed and faced his eldest again.

“Very well. Eris Vanserra.” His voice boomed through the open ground, rattling the leaves overhead. “I accept your challenge, as is your right under Autumn law. Let the Court bear witness.”

His mouth curled into a cruel smile as fire surged around him, suffocating, all-encompassing.

“This duel shall not end until one of us lies dead.”

He waited a moment, arms opening as though inviting his son into an embrace.

“Let us begin.”

The flames swept between them, scorching the ground in their wake. The heat could not burn him, but the force sent Eris staggering backward, his heels carving into the soil, arms lifting on instinct. Through the haze warping the air, his father emerged, striking down with brute force.

Eris stepped aside, using the cane for leverage, his weight settling on his left foot. Beron huffed as his son ducked and dodged, then drew the flames upward into enclosing walls, sealing Eris inside. He winnowed repeatedly, his magic thinning by the minute as Beron bore down on him, fists carving through the air. There was no finesse. Only raw strength and the urge to maim. 

A shout tore from Eris’ throat as a blow struck his ribs, skimming dangerously close to his lungs. He stumbled, balance slipping. Beron wrenched the cane from his grasp and flung it aside.

“Enough of this,” he growled, seizing Eris by the shoulder before he could winnow again. He lifted his foot and slammed it full force into Eris’ leg.

The sound of bone snapping.

Then Eris’ scream.

Beron paused, his son dangling as he hauled him up by the throat. He buried his fist into Eris’ gut, something cracking beneath each blow.

Blood seeped through Eris’ clenched teeth as he choked, nails clawing at the hand that held him aloft, his feet kicking uselessly. His fire surged, flames slamming against Beron, who now laughed, breathless and ecstatic. His grip shifted to the nape of Eris’ neck, fingers digging into skin as he drove him face-first into the ground with all his might.

Eris coughed, his mouth filling with dirt as he bit into the muddied soil, the taste earthy and charred on his tongue. His flames retreated suddenly.

Bracing on his elbows, he tried to turn, but a boot ground into his waist and forced him back down.

His vision blurred, swallowed by orange-red fire.

“You delight me, boy,” Beron mused, his movements slowing.

Eris felt a shiver rake through him, a reflex as old as his first lesson with his father.

“We get to do this once more. And this time,” the High Lord went on, his voice threaded with a feral grin, “I don’t have to hold back.”

Eris could not see the blow coming.

One moment he was drawing in a breath; the next, a kick slammed into his lower back, the force cracking the ground beneath them.

His legs buckled, numbness spreading as a cry tore from him. He spat blood, his body seizing as tremors wracked him.

“Where are you going, boy?” Beron taunted, circling as Eris clawed uselessly at the ground, dragging himself away.

Panic seized him as the seconds passed and feeling did not return to his legs.

“Oh, you want your little toy?” his father laughed, striding toward the cane lying off to the side. He nudged it with his foot before picking it up and spinning it once in the air.

Rain poured now in heavy drops, hissing as it struck the flames around them.

Beron stalked back toward him. Eris lay on his back, breathing hard and wet. Through curling smoke and orange-yellow flame, he saw the impossible white of teeth, canines sharp and vicious.

He braced for the blow, but that did not make it easier to bear.

The carved wood struck his gut once, twice, before Beron dropped it onto him.

“What use would it be? Show me, boy,” he crackled.

The High Lord lowered himself slowly, his weight settling over Eris’ middle. Pain flared anew in his legs, and fresh tears spilled from his eyes despite himself.

“Show me your teeth one last time,” Beron snarled, leaning closer.

Stillness settled over Eris as his hands found the head of the cane.

A suspended breath.

His thoughts dissolved. In that split second, only honed instinct remained. It stripped away everything else, the ache of bruises, the pain of broken bones, the taste of dirt and blood.

His body moved with sudden speed, hands twisting, prying the fox’s head free as the edge of a blade caught the firelight. It flashed purple-blue for a heartbeat before plunging into Beron’s chest.

Beron groaned, crushing Eris’ wrist beneath his grip. He ripped the blade free and flung it aside. Blood welled from the wound, spilling down and soaking through his shirt.

He was furious now.

“Your little trick failed, Eris,” he growled.

The heir coughed, heat gathering in his core.

“No,” he bit out.

Fire tore through him, a column of pressure hurling his father off him.

Beron rolled to the side, eyes wide and bewildered.

“How —” he choked, clutching at his chest as his shirt darkened, dampness spreading beneath his grasp.

“Your favourite, Father,” Eris grinned, his mouth thick with blood. “Indigo.”

“It’s no use, boy,” Beron spat as he rose. “It’ll wear off soon, and you’ll be dead.”

He stepped aside and picked up the head of the cane, rolling it between his fingers in inspection.

“Bringing a knife to a fistfight… I raised you well, after all.”

His head snapped toward Eris, and for the first time the heir saw dread cross his father’s face.

“I hope the truth tastes good, Father. You said it yourself,” Eris groaned as he pushed himself upright, bracing on his palms. Flames surged outward, circling him in a wild haze.

“Remember. High Lords are chosen by the divine,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

The fire ratcheted higher, forming a wall of heat around him.

Yet Eris’ voice carried through it, clear and unbroken. He sang the melody etched into the fabric of his soul, and through sparks and drifting embers the dirge came alive around them.

Speak now the name that stood through fear, 

not meant for dust, nor bound by years. 

It calls the Fae who burned unspent, 

whose boundless light knew no end. 

Beron lurched forward with all his might, his fist slamming against the wall of flame. He roared, fury igniting him as he pushed and drove himself against the barrier. With each word Eris sang, his voice grew louder, echoing through the land.

Fire once named does not depart. 

Fire remembered binds the heart.

You walked the course your days ordained,

through measure kept and meaning gained. 

A chant rose, as if drawn from the flames themselves. Beron winnowed, appearing high above Eris through the blackening smoke. He tore downward through the air as Eris braced and pushed with everything he had. The barrier split and Beron crashed through.

All you sought was strive alone,

for end had never yet been known. 

When all was fought and nothing owed —

Hands closed around Eris’ throat. The heir clawed at them, nails digging deep, tearing him open, the smell of blood thick between them. He stared into his father’s eyes, bright magma flooding the whites and spilling down his cheeks in thick rivulets.

“— return the flame —” Eris rasped, the sound raw and torn, but the words locked into place, threading through the hidden weave of reality. “Be ash. Come home.”

The fire flared bright gold.

It caught Beron, his shirt, then his hair, his beard. The scent of charred skin filled the air. He screamed, hands still clamped around Eris’ throat as the flames consumed him alive.

Eris felt the grip loosen as flesh melted away beneath his hands until only bone remained. Finger joints pressed against him, then gave way to ash brushing against him one last time.

He coughed, his lungs seizing without warning.

The ground buckled beneath him. The earth shuddered, and wind tore through the land, ripping through every tree, bristling every leaf. He heard the animals, the voices of people, all at once, overlapping into a single deafening cacophony.

Amber light flooded his vision. He could see beyond the rain as it threaded through the fields and every living creature upon them.

Then it struck.

The magic slammed into him with a force beyond anything he had known.

It scorched through his veins, tearing through them, raw and merciless. He felt his ribs crack again, his wrist, his leg, his spine, over and over as the magic forced them back into place faster than his body could endure. 

Panic blanched his thoughts.

Through the terror came a sharp clarity. He thought this would be the end. His body, broken and beaten, his channels scarred by faebane, would not survive it.

His muscles strained and spasmed violently. Every fracture he had ever endured snapped open at once and sealed in the same breath, bone grinding and nerves burning, flesh knitting until nothing existed but the agony.

He could not tell if he was screaming anymore. The sound fell away.

It was only him, the rustle of leaves, and the pain.

***

Eris awoke to the sound of his name.

He blinked. Through smoke and thinning haze, he saw a man bending over him, raven curls stark against the washed-grey sky. For a heartbeat the image wavered. The same face stood crowned by the sun, vast black wings unfurling behind him. The two visions overlapped, almost identical, but something wasn’t right about it.

Eris tried to focus, to find the flaw. Then he saw it.

Their expressions were not the same. The one backlit by radiant light snarled down at him, loathing carved into his features. But this one, rain threading through his hair, looked petrified. Desperate.

The man’s mouth moved. The sound came a moment later.

“Eris, please.”

He heard it again, faint beneath the ringing in his ears.

With effort, he lifted a trembling hand.

“Beautiful,” he croaked, his throat raw and spent, his mouth tasting of copper.

His fingers brushed the man’s cheek and came away wet.