Chapter Text
“Again?”
Eris looked at his mother, then at the infant cradled against her chest. The child’s hair caught the firelight, his skin a tint too dark.
Two centuries. Two centuries of silence. Of watching every word. Of shaping himself into something sharp and ruthless so no one would dare question his legitimacy. So no one would look too closely at his mother and brothers.
He had learned to smile at Beron’s cruelties. He had buried the truth of his own blood so deeply that even he sometimes believed the lies.
All of it balanced on a single fragile illusion.
And now this.
Lucien shifted in her arms, small and golden and dangerously obvious.
Despair hollowed Eris out.
“Again?” he repeated, quieter now, as if saying it softly might make it less real. His gaze dragged back to her face, but she would not meet his eyes. “How could you have been so stupid?”
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There was blood on his back and three of his four remaining brothers stood before him.
It was nothing new. Beron had first taken a whip to him long before he reached adulthood. Pain had been part of life for as long as Eris could remember. There was nothing remarkable about today.
And yet, as he knelt on the cold stone in the center of the throne room, something shifted.
The thought came without warning, clear and immovable.
‘This cannot continue.’
Three words. A simple conclusion.
Eris lifted his head, forced his spine a little straighter even as pain burned across his back.
His gaze found Beron’s.
And for the first time, he felt no fear.
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Eris was barely more than a toddler when he stumbled upon a truth that could have cost him his head.
Golden light had spilled from his hands one night, bright and unmistakable. His mother had seized him at once, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. He would always remember her face in that moment, the fear etched into every line of it.
She had knelt before him and made him swear.
No one must ever know.
Eris gave his word.
And he kept it for centuries.
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Beron died screaming.
He died with Eris’ thumbs digging into his eyes, deeper and deeper, until the organs burst and blood streamed down his face. Eris did not stop until his fingers reached the soft matter behind them and even then he pushed deeper.
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There was a careful balance within the Autumn Court, one maintained by deception and chance.
Eris had been born first. That alone had saved them. He had taken after his mother in nearly every visible way, copper hair, sharp amber eyes, a face no one would think to question. Luck, nothing more.
Beron’s hunger for power had done the rest. In his bid to tighten his claim, he had married his own second cousin, binding himself to a branch of the family line that traced back to a former High Lord of Autumn. The blood was close enough to quiet doubt and to give Eris power over flame.
Close enough to keep them all alive.
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There was blood on Eris’s back and his father’s brain matter on his hands.
Three of his four remaining brothers knelt before him as the former Lady of the Autumn announced before the assembled court:
“All hail Eris Vanserra, High Lord of the Autumn Court!”
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As a boy, he had sometimes dreamed of running.
In those quiet, foolish moments, he had imagined seeking out the male whose blood ran true in his veins. He had pictured a court of light instead of flame, a life untouched by Beron’s temper, a childhood that did not demand vigilance at every turn.
He had never let the fantasy linger long.
By morning, it always felt indulgent.
Eris understood, even then, what rested on his shoulders. If he faltered, if he reached for something as selfish as escape, suspicion would follow. And suspicion would lead to questions. Whereas questions would only end in blood.
So he stayed.
And he learned to want nothing.
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There was much to do.
Letters to be written, alliances to secure. Though magic had chosen him as Beron’s successor, patricide made him unpopular in the eyes of many.
He had no time to waste.
That did not stop him from being bent over his desk, Azriel’s hand holding him firmly against it as he pushed into Eris again and again.
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“You’re High Lord now,” Azriel had said, his gaze unreadable.
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Eris knew that Helion was his mother’s mate.
Everyone knew, though most were too polite to speak it aloud. Still, the knowledge shaped how he viewed mating bonds. From the moment fae could understand, they were taught that nothing surpassed this bond, that no honor was greater than to receive one.
He did not much believe it. Not with this as his prime example.
Perhaps it was unfair. Beron had been High Lord for all of Eris’ life, while Helion had only risen to that station fifty years ago. Before that, his biological father would have stood no chance against the High Lord of Autumn.
And yet none of that dulled the resentment he felt for Helion.
With his parents’ mating bond a total failure, it was hardly surprising when his own turned out no better.
Still, it would have been nice if it had not snapped into place with his mate’s fingers curled around his throat, squeezing the life from him in front of all the assembled High Lords.
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Eris was Beron’s son in all the ways that mattered. He had learned cruelty at his father’s knee, under the weight of his hands and the cut of his words. Like his father, he showed no mercy to those who defied him.
So, when civil war threatened to tear the Autumn Court apart, Eris looked upon his opposition and burned them all.
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There were certain truths in the High Courts of Prynthian that everyone understood but no one dared to speak aloud.
A High Lord could do as he pleased.
He could violate his wife or beat his children until they hovered at the edge of death, and the law would remain silent.
There was no such thing as marital rape. There was no such thing as child abuse. There were only duties. Lessons. Discipline required for a child’s proper growth.
The High Lord stood beyond reproach.
Especially one as monstrous as Beron.
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“You’re leaving then.”
The room smelled faintly of cedar and ash. Someone had opened the windows. Autumn air drifted in, cool and sharp, stirring the gauze curtains just enough to make them whisper against the stone.
Eris did not raise his voice. The words were calm, almost idle, as though he were commenting on the weather. Still, his gaze lingered on the packed bag resting at the foot of the bed.
His mother did not bother to deny it.
Aine Vanserra stood before the tall mirror, fastening the clasp of a traveling cloak at her throat. The fabric was pale gold, a color that would have drawn notice anywhere in the Autumn Court. She did not seem concerned by that.
“I am,” she said.
Her tone carried neither apology nor hesitation.
Eris leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. The room looked strange with the signs of departure scattered through it. A few open drawers. Jewelry cases left empty. A traveling bag packed with careful efficiency.
“So that’s it?” he asked.
Aine turned then, regarding him with the same composed expression she had worn for most of his life. She looked younger now than she had in years. Lighter. As though some invisible weight had already begun to lift from her shoulders.
“Beron is dead,” she answered simply. “And I have endured this place long enough.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to the window, where the forest of Autumn stretched out in endless shades of red and gold.
Silence settled between them.
Eris pushed himself away from the doorframe and crossed the room with slow, measured steps. He stopped beside the bed, glancing down at the bag.
“You’re going to him,” he mumured at last.
She held his gaze. For the first time since he had entered the room, something softened there.
“Yes,” she replied.
The silence that followed was longer.
Eris found himself studying her in a way he had not done in years. The sharp line of her jaw. The faint shadows beneath her eyes. The calm certainty in her posture.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether she had always been like this.
Or if living beside Beron for centuries had carved the callousness and indifference into her.
“I see.” After a moment Eris asked, “And what exactly do you intend to tell him when you arrive?”
Aine tilted her head slightly, considering him as though he had asked something of real consequence. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On you.”
Eris’s brow lifted, just slightly.
She stepped closer, stopping a few paces away. Close enough now that he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. Close enough that the scent of her, something soft and distant beneath the sharper edge of Autumn, reached him.
“I have kept this secret for over five centuries,” she said quietly. “I will continue to do so.”
His expression did not change.
“No one will hear the truth from my mouth,” she continued, “unless you wish it.”
The words hung in the air between them.
Eris studied her face, searching for any hint of manipulation. Any trace of guilt.
He found neither.
“How generous,” he settled on.
Aine’s lips curved faintly. Not quite a smile.
“And if I never give you permission?”
She picked up the traveling bag and slung it over her shoulder with effortless grace. “Then it will remain exactly what it has always been,” she said easily. “A secret.”
She moved past him toward the door. Eris stepped aside automatically, though his gaze followed her.
“You’re leaving behind your children, you know that, right?” he questioned.
A faint flicker of amusement passed across her face.
“You're High Lord now,” she replied. “You hardly require a mother hovering over your shoulder.”
“That wasn’t my point.”
“No.” She paused. “I suppose it wasn’t.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then she reached out and adjusted the collar of his jacket with an absent sort of familiarity.
“You’ve done very well.” The praise sounded almost casual.
Eris did not know what to do with it.
Her hand fell away.
“And for what it’s worth,” she added after a moment, “I am proud of you.”
The words were delivered with the same composed ease she used for everything else.
As though they meant nothing at all.
Aine turned toward the corridor again.
“Take care of your brothers,” she ordered over her shoulder.
Then Eris watched her walk away, listened as the sound of her footsteps faded slowly down the hall.
He remained where he was, standing in the doorway of a room that no longer belonged to anyone.
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“Eris,” his mother said softly, her voice worn thin with exhaustion. “Come closer and meet your brother. This is Aion.”
He pattered closer on small feet. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he climbed onto the bed, careful not to jostle her. The room smelled faintly of herbs and smoke, the last traces of the healer’s work lingering in the air. His mother looked pale against the pillows, her copper hair damp and clinging to her temples, but she still managed a tired smile as she adjusted the bundle in her arms.
Eris settled beside her and leaned in.
The infant was very small. Smaller than he had expected. A quiet thing wrapped in soft cloth, his face flushed from birth and scrunched in sleep. Wisps of hair curled against his head. His skin, at first glance, looked like any other newborn’s. His features were delicate, unremarkable even.
Eris studied him with a focus far too intense for a child his age.
He traced every detail with his eyes. The shape of the ears. The curve of the nose. The faint tint of his skin in the firelight. He searched for anything that might betray them. Anything too different.
He found nothing.
No dark skin. No strange light. No flicker of something that did not belong in the Autumn Court.
Still, his small hands curled into the blankets at his knees.
Hope felt dangerous. Relief felt premature. He had learned that lesson early.
His mother watched him in silence, her gaze heavy and searching, as if she, too, were waiting for some sign to reveal itself. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Only the quiet, uneven breaths of the newborn filled the space between them.
Aion shifted faintly in her arms, making a soft, sleepy sound.
Eris swallowed.
He did not reach out to touch him. Instead, he lowered his head slightly, lashes falling to shadow his eyes as a silent prayer formed in the privacy of his thoughts.
He prayed with the fervent desperation of a child who already understood fear. He prayed to any force that might be listening,to the Mother, to fate, to magic, to whatever cruel power governed blood and birth.
He prayed that his brother would be safe.
That no strange light would ever spill from his hands in the dark.
His fingers tightened further in the fabric, knuckles whitening.
Above all, he prayed that their mother had not cursed this child as she had cursed him.
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Eris had assumed their mother would go straight to Lucien.
He had imagined it easily enough. Their mother appearing before him with that same calm certainty she wore like armor. Taking his brother aside. Explaining everything.
Then bringing him to Helion.
The prodigal son brought home at last
It would have been a simple thing.
Lucien had always been the one she cared for most. The one she softened for, even when the rest of them received nothing but quiet composure and distance.
Eris had noticed.
Children noticed those things.
And yet Lucien still stood across the terrace laughing at something one of the Night Court courtiers had said, utterly unaware of the truth.
Eris tilted his head slightly as he studied him.
Perhaps she was waiting for the right moment.
Perhaps she believed the knowledge would hurt him.
Or perhaps she simply enjoyed holding the secret.
It would not surprise him. Their mother had always been… particular in her affections.
Lucien’s laughter carried across the balcony.
Something in Eris’s chest tightened faintly.
He found himself wondering, with a sort of detached curiosity, what exactly Lucien had done to deserve it.
That quiet care.
That instinct to protect.
Eris had spent centuries holding their family together with careful words and sharper violence when necessary. He had endured their father’s temper so the others would not have to. He had shaped himself into something Beron respected enough not to destroy.
And still, when their mother had finally been free to choose where her loyalty lay, she had not chosen him.
Eris’s gaze drifted back to Lucien.
He wondered what would happen when someone finally sat Lucien down and told him that the blood in his veins did not belong to Autumn at all.
That he was not truly a Vanserra.
That his real father was waiting in the Day Court with sunlight in his magic and a crown on his head.
Perhaps Lucien would be happy.
Or perhaps he would feel betrayed.
Eris supposed it depended on how much of their childhood he chose to remember.
Lucien shifted slightly then, turning just enough that the lantern light illuminated his face more clearly.
For a fleeting moment, their eyes met across the terrace.
Lucien offered him a polite, neutral nod.
Eris inclined his head in return.
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Eris knew how the world outside the Autumn Court regarded his mother.
The poor Lady of Autumn, they whispered. Married against her will to her own second cousin. Beaten, violated, robbed of any trace of a life that could have been her own. That was all they ever saw. That was all anyone ever wanted to see.
They did not know her when she looked at her children with indifference, when her desires outweighed their needs. They did not know how selfish she could be, how cold her ambitions could make her, how carefully she measured what she was willing to give.
Eris knew.
He was the first proof of her selfishness. The one who bore the brunt of her choices. He was also the child who learned to raise her children, to protect them when she would not.
He understood it logically. None of it had been easy for her. She was trapped, as much a victim as they were. But understanding did not lessen the weight of it.
She was their mother. She was supposed to stand up for them. Not once did she.
And when Beron sought to hurt his brothers, it was Eris who stepped forward. He became the shield, the parent, the one Beron could not break, while his mother stood on the sidelines, watching it all.
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Eris’s brothers were his brothers by blood, but that was the smallest part of what they were to him.
They were his responsibility. His burden. The lives that had been placed, deliberately or not, beneath his protection. From the moment he was old enough to understand the politics of the court and the danger that lived within it, he had watched over them.
He had learned the moods of their father so he could steer them clear of the worst of it. He had stood between them and anger when he could, and when he could not, he endured what came instead.
They were his brothers.
They were his duty.
And in the quiet ways that mattered most, they had become something very close to his children.
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Most assumed Eris had inherited his cruelty from Beron.
They thought so only because they had never truly known Aine.
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Eris honestly found Rhysand insufferable.
There was a confidence in the other male that felt effortless, a sort of charm that grated against Eris’ own carefully forged composure. And yet, despite the irritation that flickered through him, he did not allow it to show.
“Rhysand,” he greeted, voice even and measured. The single word carried the weight of civility, the careful balance he had perfected over years of courtly life.
It was the first time they had spoken since he had risen to High Lord.
Rhysand inclined his head, that same calm settling over his features as if nothing had changed since the last time they had met. “Eris,” he replied, voice low and steady, carrying an undercurrent of amusement that made Eris’ jaw tighten ever so slightly.
They stood across from one another in the wide hall, surrounded by polished stone and the quiet presence of the Court of Nightmares. Light spilled from the torches behind them, but Eris barely noticed it. His attention remained fixed on the male before him.
Rhysand studied him in that measured way of his, as if he could peel back every layer with a single glance.
Eris had always disliked that look.
“You seem well,” Rhysand observed.
“I'm alive,” Eris replied. “Which is more than can be said for my father.”
A faint ripple of tension passed through the room at the bluntness of it. Rhysand’s expression did not change.
Eris folded his hands behind his back. The movement tugged slightly at the still-healing wounds across his shoulders, though he did not allow it to show.
Rhysand exhaled slowly through his nose. “You are exactly what I expected.”
Eris tilted his head.
“And you,” he replied, “still owe me a favor.”
A quiet murmur passed among the gathered lords.
Rhysand only smiled, faint and cold.
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He wondered if the High Lord of Night knew whose bed his so-called brother warmed at night.
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Things settled after a while.
With his enemies silenced, Eris could finally begin his reign. For a time he considered restraint. Too much change too quickly could fracture any court.
But Eris had waited five hundred years for this moment.
And well, fortune did favor the bold.
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Change would not come easily. It would not come in a single day.
But there were things Eris refused to wait for.
So he began with the laws.
And he made certain that everyone understood the consequences of breaking them.
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For all that the fae believed themselves superior to humans, they were no less barbaric.
They treated their females little better than the humans treated their women. Children were beaten behind closed doors. Girls were promised away before they reached their majority, sold to the highest bidder if the price was right. High Fae looked down on anyone they deemed lesser.
These were not customs that would vanish with polite words.
It was fortunate that Eris had been raised on violence.
And even better that he was no longer afraid to use it.
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Edict of Reform Issued by Eris Vanserra, High Lord of the Autumn Court
By the authority of the High Lord, the following laws are henceforth binding within all lands of the Autumn Court:
1. On Equality Before the Law
All persons residing within the lands of the Autumn Court, regardless of birth, gender, rank, blood, or station, shall stand equal before the law and shall be entitled to its protection.
2. On the Protection of Children
Children are under the direct protection of the law.
Any person who commits acts of violence against a child shall have the offending appendage broken as punishment. A second offense shall result in the removal of that appendage.
Any person who commits sexual violence or predation against a child shall be sentenced to death.
3. On Violence Within the Household
No person shall raise a hand in violence against their spouse.
Any person found guilty of such violence shall have the offending appendage broken. A second offense shall result in the removal of that appendage.
4. On Crimes of Sexual Violence
Any person found guilty of rape shall be gelded, so that they may never again commit such crime.
5. On Enforcement
All lords, magistrates, and officers sworn to the Autumn Court are required to enforce these edicts. Failure to uphold the law shall be treated as defiance of the High Lord’s authority.
These laws take effect immediately upon proclamation and shall be enforced throughout all territories of the Autumn Court.
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Later would come the schools, better healers, and honest work for those who had never been offered it before. Autumn would grow. There would be art and culture, better infrastructure. In time, it would all be better. The people would learn.
But for now, fear served as their leash.
And for the weak, it became their only shield.
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His mother used to walk the halls with bruises hidden beneath silk.
When Eris was small, long before any of his brothers had been born, he had once wandered into her chambers while she was changing. The door had been half open. He had stepped inside without thinking.
He remembered the marks. Dark shadows blooming across her skin. Fingerprints pressed deep into her hips.
At the time, he had not understood what he was seeing.
But Eris was no longer a child.
And he had carried enough bruises of his own to understand.
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Azriel looked as though he wanted to say something.
Eris could feel it in the quiet that lingered between them, in the way Azriel remained seated at the edge of the bed instead of reaching for his clothes. His shadows stirred restlessly along the floor, curling and uncurling like living things.
But that was not what they did.
They did not talk.
Whatever existed between them had never required words. It had been built on something simpler and far less fragile. There was only heat and violence between them. A shared understanding that neither of them would ask for more than the other was willing to give.
Still, Eris had noticed the change.
It had begun slowly. A shift in Azriel’s posture. The way his gaze sometimes lingered a fraction too long. The faintest hesitation in the ruthless certainty that had once defined every movement.
And lately there had been something else as well.
Softness.
It appeared rarely, and only in the smallest flashes. In the quiet moments after. In the way Azriel sometimes watched him now, as though he were seeing something he had not noticed before.
As though he wanted to understand.
Eris had no idea what had caused it. Perhaps the bond had finally settled into place. Perhaps Azriel had simply grown tired of pretending it meant nothing.
It did not matter.
Not now.
Not after everything that had come before.
Eris rose from the bed without a word.
The room was cool against his skin as he crossed to the chair where his clothes lay folded. He dressed with practiced efficiency, fastening buckles and smoothing the lines of his jacket as though the quiet behind him did not exist.
Azriel had still not spoken.
For a brief moment Eris allowed himself to wonder what the Shadowsinger might have said if he had.
An apology, perhaps.
Eris did not turn around to find out.
By the time he reached the door, he had already set the thought aside.
There were letters waiting for his signature. Councils to manage. Borders to secure. A court to rule.
He opened the door and stepped into the corridor without looking back.
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The scent reached him first, blood and an undercurrent of fear.
He slowed, each step more careful than the last, until the trees thinned and the border stones came into view. And there, half in shadow, half in the dying light, lay a body.
Eris stopped.
For a moment, he did not move. Did not breathe. His mind refused to make sense of what he was seeing.
Golden hair, darkened with blood. Torn silk clinging to ruined skin. Bruises already blooming, cruel and deliberate, the kind that were meant to be seen.
Morrigan.
His jaw tightened and he forced himself forward.
Each step felt heavy, like walking to his doom. He had seen violence before. He had lived with it. But this…
This felt somehow more terrible. Morrigan was older than him, though not yet fully grown herself. She was still young, still a child in the face of the law.
He reached her and dropped to one knee.
Up close, it was worse.
He did not let himself look away.
That was the first thing Beron had ever taught him. If you could not look at it, you could not survive it.
Her breathing was shallow. Barely there.
She was still alive.
The thought struck him harder than anything else.
Alive meant something could still be done. For a moment, something sharp and desperate rose in his chest. Take her. Get her out. Do something.
His gaze flicked toward the forest behind him. Toward the long stretch of land that led back to Autumn.
Back to Beron.
The thought died as quickly as it had come.
If he brought her there, she would not be saved. She would belong to Autumn. To his father.
Eris’s hands curled into the dirt.
He already knew what Beron would do. He had seen enough. Lived enough. There were fates worse than death.
And this… this would be one of them.
His throat tightened, but his face remained still.
He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice though there was no one but her to hear it.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured. The words felt useless the moment they left him.
He hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before forcing himself to continue. “But I can’t save you.”
The truth of it settled heavy and final between them.
Eris stayed there for a moment longer, committing the sight to memory. The brutality of it. The helplessness. The choice he was making.
Another thing he would carry.
Then he rose.
He did not look back as he stepped away.
He could not afford to.
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“Peace with the humans will benefit us all,” Tarquin said, his voice smooth, carrying just enough idealism to make it annoying. “If we commit to this treaty, trade will flourish, and our borders will be more secure. Surely that's worth the risk.”
Eris shifted slightly in his throne. “It's not worth the risk,” he retorted, calm but firm. “We know at least one human queen was working with Koschei. How can we be certain this was the only treachery?”
A murmur ran through the hall. Tarquin’s brow furrowed, but before he could respond, Helion leaned back, dark hair spilling over his shoulder. “Of course you would say that,” he remarked lightly, almost casually, but the edge in his tone was unmistakable. “Autumn has never been known for its regard for humans.”
Eris met Helion’s gaze evenly, keeping his expression steady. “Caution is not the same as bigotry,” he replied, measured.
Helion’s eyes narrowed, a subtle shift that carried far more than the words. “Caution, is that what you’re calling it?” His tone remained smooth, mocking without ever breaking the mask of courtesy. And in that instant, Eris understood this was never about the treaty. He saw it in Helion’s eyes, in the way his hand rested near Aine’s.
The other High Lords shifted in their seats, some pretending not to notice the tension, others simply watching.
“Eris has a point, Helion,” Tamlin interjected, voice tight. “Rushing into this treaty could leave us exposed.”
Helion’s jaw ticked. “I’m aware,” he said sharply. “But it's difficult to take such warnings from someone whose court has seen little beyond its borders.”
Eris pressed his lips together, keeping his posture measured. “I’ve seen enough,” he said evenly. “And I trust the Summer Court understands the consequences of a hasty agreement.”
Helion’s gaze lingered, cold and assessing, each movement carrying the weight of a judgment long held. “We shall see,” he said finally, leaning back, fingers steepled. “History will judge your prudence or your failure, Eris.”
Eris inclined his head once, calm and deliberate. “As it will judge us all.”
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Eris had not seen his mother since she had left Autumn. Almost a year had passed since then. He did not have a pressing reason to find her, no summons or official matter, yet some ancient instinct stirred in him, urging him to ensure she was unharmed. The irony was not lost on him. One parent he had killed. The other he had always been too loyal to.
And still, despite everything, some part of him ached at the thought of her suffering.
So he followed Helion and Aine out of the council hall after the High Lord meeting, keeping his steps measured. He did not call out at first, letting them move down the long, sunlit corridor lined with polished stone and tapestries that depicted the Dawn Court.
Only when they began to turn a corner did he speak, voice calm, almost indifferent, as if commenting on the weather. “Mother, a word, please.”
Helion’s head turned, his dark hair catching the sunlight, making it glow ever so slightly. The male moved slightly in front of Aine, a subtle barrier, his posture loose yet possessive. Aine, meanwhile, regarded him with the faint, practiced smile that had never softened in his memory. “Of course, darling,” she replied, her voice quiet, elegant, untouched by hesitation.
For a long moment, the corridor stretched between them, quiet but taut. Eris’ gaze lingered on her, noticing the softening of her posture, the way her shoulders sat lighter than they had in centuries. He added quickly, “Alone.”
Helion released a bitter laugh that cut the stillness. “You must think me foolish. As if I would ever leave you alone with my mate.”
There was a flicker of challenge in his eyes.
Eris’ lips parted slightly, holding back the surge of anger that always rose when it came to Helion. “She’s my mother,” he reminded him evenly, though the words carried the weight of years unspoken.
Helion’s head tilted, a faint sneer touching his lips. “And Beron was your father.”
Eris chafed at the implication. “I would never hurt her.”
“Oh, you would never hurt her?” The other male stepped closer, his shadow falling over Eris. “What about the past? What about all the times you stood by while your father left her bruised and bleeding?”
Eris forced himself not to flinch. He straightened, teeth bare in a half smile that held more venom than warmth. “And what about you?” The words cut like steel, precise and controlled.
Helion’s brow tightened, but he did not move back. “You were there,” he countered, voice low and deliberate. “You could have protected her. Beron favored you.”
Eris laughed, a sound brittle and unkind. “Favored,” he murmured, the word a bitter echo in the stone corridor. “Is that what you call it?”
He barely managed to stop himself. Barely kept from stepping forward, from shoving Helion back, from unleashing every word he had swallowed for centuries at a male who had failed him time and time again without ever knowing it.
“You’ve no idea of the price I paid for his favor,” Eris continued, his voice climbing just enough to slice the space between them. “You’ve no idea of the things I’ve done for her.”
Aine’s eyes flicked between them, calm but watchful. She did not intervene, but the faint crease at her temple betrayed the tension coiling in the air.
“Frankly,” Eris added, his voice low and unyielding, each word sharpened with quiet intent, “you have no concept of the female you stand beside. Of who and what she truly is.”
Helion’s hand tightened around the air near his side, a subtle glow of power curling across his skin. His jaw flexed. The warmth in the corridor shifted, brushing the edges of Eris’ awareness. He could feel it before he saw it fully, the coiled energy of the High Lord of Day ready to ignite.
Eris did not look away. He stepped closer, forcing the space between them to shrink even more. “Oh, was that too much?” he asked with a polite tilt of his head, a smile that felt like a blade. “Let us speak plainly, then.”
The sunlight streaming through the windows caught on Eris’ hair, the copper tones flaring like fire. His hand twitched, fingers brushing against each other. The warmth of his own power coiled beneath his skin.
“Who left her there?” His voice was even, but each syllable carried the weight of all the cruelties he had endured. “Who warmed her bed and rode back to his sunlit court while she remained bound to a male who delighted in breaking what he owned?”
“Be careful.”
“Or what?” Eris snapped.
Helion stiffened, every instinct screaming to push back, to unleash his own wrath, but he held back. The corridor seemed to hold its breath.
“You think I didn't protect her?” Eris pressed. “That I didn't take blows meant for her or my brothers?”
A faint flicker of golden light danced along his fingers. Helion’s breath caught as he saw it.
“You left,” Eris continued, voice low but heavy with judgment. “You had a choice. I didn't.”
The magic erupted fully, a controlled blaze of bright light that shimmered across the polished stone, sharp as a blade, precise as the words that accompanied it, and so very clearly of Day.
Eris raised his hand between them, letting the light trace along his fingers. “You left us there,” he said, voice filled with centuries of restrained bitterness and resentment. “And I will not take the blame for your failure, Father.”
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