Chapter Text
He drowns in his dreams
An exquisite extreme, I know
He's as damned as he seems
And more heaven than a heart could hold
Eris Vanserra was bored. Thankfully, he had been ready to be bored, resigned to an afternoon of tedium with nothing but pale sunlight and the bitter aftertaste of diplomacy to pass the time. Well, that and the absolute shit show that was unfolding before him between Tamlin and the Night Court contingent. If he was being honest with himself, a part of him was glad that someone was finally calling out Rhysand and his merry band of sycophants. Eris may have an alliance with the High Lord, but he didn’t trust a single word that came out of his mouth, especially not about the fate of those Winter Court younglings.
Because suddenly, they were all just supposed to believe that all this time, Amarantha had some other mystery daemati at her disposal? Please. Surely Kallias and the others were not stupid enough to believe that, even if the entirety of Rhysand’s retinue seemed to. His eyes slid over them, most looking amused as Rhysand stopped Tamlin from being able to speak. So childish. These were meant to be the rulers of Prythian, and they were under siege by Hybern. Now was hardly the time to air personal grievances or perform parlour tricks.
It seemed that after his little display, Rhysand was in agreement, as he rather surprisingly endorsed Tamlin’s promise that he was against Hybern and would fight for Prythian. Good. At least now they were getting somewhere.
“War is upon us,” Rhysand declared. “I have no interest in wasting energy arguing amongst ourselves.”
Finally. The male at last said something sensible. But from the corner of his eye, Eris saw his father’s mouth open, and he knew whatever progress they had made was about to be undone.
“You may be inclined to believe him, Rhysand, but as someone who shares a border with his court, I am not so easily swayed.” He gave his fellow High Lord a wry look. “Perhaps my errant son can clarify. Pray, where is he?”
The very mention of Lucien set Eris’s teeth on edge. He had half-hoped that his wayward brother would be in attendance today, if only to soothe his mother’s aching heart and, if he was being honest, his own. It pained him that the last time he had seen his brother it had been under such unfortunate circumstances. Not that such a public occasion as this was the time to make amends, but being in the same room after so many years would be a good start.
The self-proclaimed High Lady gave his father a withering look. “Helping to guard our city.”
Eris snorted, desperate for some diversion from his youngest brother’s whereabouts. The less Beron knew about just how deeply entrenched Lucien was in the Night Court, the better. Eris surveyed Feyre’s sisters, his eyes flickering between them. There. The perfect opportunity.
“I had heard your sister was quite the beauty,” he said mildly, amber eyes settling on Elain. “What a shame our little brother isn’t here to admire it.”
The female blushed at his words, her golden-brown hair framing her face as she lowered her eyes to the floor. A delicate pink coloured her cheeks, making her appear even more fragile than her hunched frame already suggested. How interesting that she should react so. Most fae females he encountered either met his gaze with defiance or tried to seduce him outright. This bashful response was... refreshing. Almost endearing in its sincerity.
“You still certainly like to hear yourself talk, Eris. Good to know some things don’t change over the centuries.”
Eris turned, genuinely surprised to find Morrigan had spoken. Her chin was tilted upward in that familiar haughty manner he remembered all too well. His mouth curled into a smile at the words, the careful game of pretending they had not seen each other in years. Alright, then. If dear Morrigan wanted to play, then he would play.
“Good to know that after five hundred years, you still dress like a slut.”
A light gasp was the last thing he heard before Azriel blasted through his shield with a flare of blue light and tackled him to the ground, wrapping his scarred hands around his throat. Under any other circumstances, being pinned down by the infamous Shadowsinger might have resulted in a more pleasant reaction. Eris was not blind to the male’s annoyingly perfect face and body and wished to take advantage of the rare opportunity for a closer inspection. Unfortunately, however, it seemed the male was actually intent on killing him, which kind of killed the mood.
Eris thrashed and he could vaguely hear his father and Rhysand ordering Azriel to stop. The Shadowsinger did no such thing, digging his knee into Eris’s gut. Perhaps he should have killed the Illyrian brute that day on the ice after all, he thought to himself.
Panic flared in Eris's chest as he struggled to draw breath. He clawed at Azriel's wrists, trying to pry those scarred fingers from his throat, but the Shadowsinger's grip was like iron. The pressure against his windpipe intensified. Shadows gathered around them, responding enthusiastically to their master's rage.
Eris summoned his fire, willing the flames to engulf his attacker, but Azriel's shadows smothered the sparks before they could ignite. Clever bastard. He thrashed harder, bucking his hips to try to throw the Illyrian off balance, but Azriel's weight remained immovable, crushing him against the cold marble floor.
“Enough, Azriel,” someone shouted. The voice sounded distant, muffled by the blood roaring in his ears.
Stars burst behind Eris's eyes as his lungs screamed for air. His vision began to tunnel, the edges darkening. This was it, then. Dying on the floor of the Dawn Court like a common dog, strangled by a territorial Illyrian brute over a female who found the idea of marrying him so detestable, she had preferred Keir’s wrath to whatever horrors she imagined he’d subject her to as his wife.
How pathetic. His father would be pleased, no doubt. One less obstacle to manage. And his brothers—gods, his brothers would tear each other apart for his position before his body was even cold.
His mother would weep, though. And Lucien... Lucien would never know the truth of the part he played that fateful day on the Spring border. Perhaps it was for the best. After all, his youngest brother could hardly mourn him if he had no reason to, if he–like so many others–believed the cruel mask he presented to the world.
“Call off your overgrown bat.”
Eris smirked inwardly, despite his impending death. He’d have quite liked to live long enough to use that apt moniker himself someday. He couldn’t have more than a few seconds left before passing out at this rate and felt a strange sense of resignation settle over him. Life had been hard for the Autumn heir, fraught with danger and deceit, but death… Perhaps death would be peaceful.
Eris was looking forward to finally being able to rest when a sudden, desperate female voice pierced through the roaring in his ears. "Stop it, you’ll kill him!”
Yes, he thought to himself. That was rather the idea.
The pressure on Eris's neck eased instantly. He gasped, dragging in a ragged breath that burned like fire down his ravaged throat. His vision slowly cleared, the darkness receding as he blinked up at his attacker.
The Shadowsinger still loomed above him, those hazel eyes filled with murderous intent, but he had obeyed the command. Interesting.
Eris's gaze slid past Azriel to find the source of his salvation.
He had not expected to see her. The one who’d blushed so prettily at his casual compliment. Elain Archeron stood across the room, face flushed with urgency, those fawn-brown eyes wide with… was that concern? For him? That couldn’t be right. He must be hallucinating.
"Come sit beside me, Azriel," Feyre said, her voice calm as she offered her hand out to the Shadowsinger, the remaining members of the self-proclaimed Court of Dreams eyeing the middle Archeron sister with varying expressions of confusion.
Azriel hesitated, his shadows still writhing around him, but he obeyed his High Lady, stalking back to take his place at the table, though the way he rose off Eris suggested it cost him everything not to finish the job.
As did his parting whispered threat of, “This isn’t over, fireling.”
Eris pushed himself up to his knees, one hand massaging his bruised throat, preparing to make a dignified retreat from this disaster of a meeting.
Beron, of course, was smirking. Eris could feel his father’s gaze burning holes through his skull, the silent calculation of whether to rebuke him for embarrassing the family or congratulate him for surviving. With Beron, it would always be a matter of optics, of power—never anything so base as affection for his son and heir. Eris forced his face into a mask of indifference and dragged himself to his feet. He straightened his jacket and smoothed the silken fall of his hair, as if near death by strangulation was simply a brief inconvenience.
He made to sit down when something tugged inside his chest, a sensation so foreign and unexpected that for a moment, he thought Azriel had damaged something vital within him. It yanked again, a phantom pull just beneath his ribcage and he could feel a thrumming in the very marrow of his bones. Eris grimaced, rolling his shoulders as though the discomfort were nothing more than a muscle spasm.
But then, he made the mistake of looking across the table again, where that Archeron female’s eyes were fixed intently on his own. A curious warmth unfurled in his chest, a kindling that flared up in direct answer to her attention. It was not lust, not the lazy hunger that coloured so many of his dalliances, but an urge deeper and sharper, a compulsion that scraped against his will.
He blinked, and the world shifted. Just like that, something ancient and primal wrenched itself awake inside him, as if he’d stepped from the darkest depths of the Mountain into blinding sunlight.
Oh no.
He looked away, but the sensation only intensified.
No. No, no, no. This could not be happening.
Not here, not now, not her—not with so many eyes watching and calculating. And yet, the word formed in his mind with perfect clarity even as his entire being rebelled against it.
Mate.
The mating bond stretched between them, invisible to all, but unmistakable to him. He could feel it settling into place, linking his soul to hers—to this soft, sheltered female who wouldn’t survive a single day in the Autumn Court. The Mother certainly had a wicked sense of humour, or perhaps this was some sort of punishment. Gods knew, he deserved his fair share of it. But this?
Eris had played too many games, sacrificed far too much, to have his careful plans destroyed by something as uncontrollable as a mating bond.
Even if that bond sang through his blood like wildfire.
Even if every breath that didn't bring him closer to her felt like agony.
He waited, half hoping someone else would launch across the table and finish the job. Instead, silence descended, thick and uncomfortable, every eye trained on him.
Eventually, Eris cleared his throat, the pain a useful distraction. “Well,” he began, gratified to hear that his voice, while hoarse, betrayed nothing else, “if we are quite finished with the theatrics…”
Feyre’s mouth twitched. “I think that very much depends on you, Eris.”
He forced himself to settle back into his chair, to curve his lips into his practiced smirk even as every instinct screamed at him to claim what was his. “Apologies, Morrigan,” he drawled, letting his gaze slide lazily over the Night Court delegation as if he hadn't just had his entire world reordered.
Eris fought to keep his face expressionless even as his mind reeled. Five hundred years he'd managed to avoid this trap, this vulnerability that the Cauldron saw fit to thrust upon him now, at the worst possible moment. Precisely when he needed all his focus, all his cunning to navigate the treacherous path ahead between courts, between his father and his own ambitions. Every plan he’d laid, every alliance he’d cultivated–all of it paled beside the catastrophic reality he now faced.
His ma– Elain tilted her head slightly, those eyes still fixed on him with an intensity that made him wonder if she felt it too. No—there was confusion in her gaze, but not recognition. The bond, it seemed, had snapped for him alone. Small mercies.
For whilst she was sat, intently listening to the negotiations around her, Eris was fighting for his life. He fought the urge to stand, to cross the floor between them and drag her away. He fought the urge to claim her there and then.
Cauldron boil him, he was well and truly fucked.
Eris tried to focus on what they were all saying, on the empty platitudes about cooperation. Rhysand was still droning on, calling for unity and sacrifice and whatever else passed for diplomacy in the Night Court. But all the while, he could feel her. Mother save him, he could feel her very presence like a brand against his skin.
For some reason, Elain kept looking at him, too. It was another mercy that her sisters didn’t seem to notice. Eris risked a glance at Nesta, who was staring holes through Beron with a loathing that bordered on religious.
At least he and the Archeron witch were on the same page about something.
The meeting dragged on like torture. Each word spoken felt distant, muffled, as if Eris sat at the bottom of a deep well while the world carried on above him. He caught fragments—troop movements, supply lines, defensive strategies—but the details slipped through his grasp like water in his hands.
Because she was there. She was right there. Close enough that if he extended his power, he could taste the warmth of her on his tongue.
He didn't dare look at her again. Couldn't trust what his face might reveal. Centuries of practice at the Autumn Court's brutal games, and one doe-eyed female had stripped him bare in an instant. The bond pulled at him with vicious insistence, demanding acknowledgment, demanding action, demanding he cross the room and—
Feyre shifted in his peripheral vision, leaning toward her sister. The movement drew his attention like a moth to a flame, and he caught the edge of Elain's profile—the delicate curve of her jaw, the way she worried her lower lip between her teeth, that… Mother above, was that an iron ring on her finger? He’d have to revisit that (and why he felt the need to immolate whoever had given it to her) later.
The poor thing looked ready to bolt.
The realisation sent something protective and feral rearing up inside him. His hands clenched beneath the table. The sharp pain of his nails pressing into his palms helped ground him, helped him remember where he was, who watched, what would happen if he gave in to the primal need clawing at his chest.
Beron would see this bond as weakness. As leverage. As something to be exploited or destroyed. Gods, his father could never find out about this. He would slaughter them both and make what he did to Jesminda look like a kindness.
The thought chilled him more effectively than any amount of Winter Court ice.
When Thesan finally called for a recess, Eris remained seated while others rose. Moving seemed dangerous. Standing would bring him closer to her, and closer was the last thing either of them needed. He watched the Night Court delegation file toward the doors, noting how Nesta kept a firm grip on her sister's arm, how their spymaster’s shadows writhed with unusual agitation.
By now, they knew something was wrong. Of course they did.
Elain paused at the threshold, and for one catastrophic moment, she looked back.
Their eyes met again, and the bond sang between them—golden and terrible and absolutely undeniable. Her lips parted on a soft gasp he heard across the room as clearly as if she'd breathed it against his neck.
Then Nesta yanked her through the doorway, and she was gone.
Eris sat alone in the empty chamber, staring at the space where she'd been, feeling the echo of her presence like a wound. His carefully constructed world—every plan, every scheme, every calculated move toward his father's throne—had just become infinitely more complicated.
Because Elain Archeron was his mate.
And he had no idea what to do about it.
The marble beneath his palms had warmed from his touch, though the rest of the chamber held Dawn's perpetual coolness. He needed to move. Needed to get out of this room that still carried traces of her scent.
Eris pushed to his feet, each movement deliberate and controlled. The bond pulled tight in his chest, a physical ache that worsened with every step away from where she'd gone. He'd heard others speak of it, this agony, but the reality was far worse than any description.
The corridor outside stretched empty in both directions. Good. He couldn't trust his mask right now, couldn't guarantee what might show on his face. Nearly five centuries of mastering his emotions meant nothing when every fibre of his being ached to find her, to follow that golden thread until–
No.
He turned left, away from where he knew the Night Court were staying. His boots echoed against the pearl floors as he searched for somewhere private, somewhere he could think without the risk of running into her. The bond would settle, he told himself. It had to. He'd witnessed enough newly mated males to know the initial madness would fade to something manageable. Eventually.
A balcony came into view to his right. Perfect. He moved to the stone balustrade and braced his hands against it, letting the gentle breeze whip around him.
She'd felt it too. That much was certain from the look in her eyes as she left, the way she'd pressed her hand to her chest as if she could physically grasp the thread now binding them. Did she know what it meant? The Archeron sisters were still new to their fae bodies, still learning the ways of their world. Perhaps she didn't understand.
The thought offered no comfort. If anything, her ignorance would make this worse. She'd ask questions. Turn to her sisters, her High Lord and Lady, for answers. And when they told her...
Eris closed his eyes, seeing again that moment of recognition. The widening of those brown eyes. The soft gasp that had nearly undone him.
His mate. The word reverberated through him with each heartbeat.
The smart move would be to leave. Now. Return to Autumn and pretend this never happened. Ignore the bond until it withered, if such things even could wither. He'd never heard of a mating bond simply disappearing, but perhaps if they never acted on it, never acknowledged it...
His hands clenched against the stone hard enough to leave a crack.
Who was he fooling? He could no more ignore this than he could stop breathing. Already, the need to see her again consumed him. To learn the exact shade of her eyes in different lights. To discover if her hair was as soft as it looked. To hear his name on her lips–
"Fuck." The curse escaped through gritted teeth.
This changed everything. Not only was having a mate terribly inconvenient, even if he could claim her, she deserved far better than the likes of him. But what was the alternative? If she rejected the bond, there was a high probability that he’d go mad. Worse still, he’d have to watch as some other male—some better, softer, kinder male—took his place beside her. If he wasn’t driven to madness by her rejection, that would certainly do the trick.
Fuck, indeed, he thought to himself as he winnowed home before he did something truly stupid.