@arrowmusings - Tumblr Blog

Jan 9, 2024

In Silent Screams - Elucien Oneshot

Summary: Elain volunteers to look after her nephew so that Rhys and Feyre can get some much needed sleep

A wholesome, fluffy treat with a dash of angst inspired partly by this long ago exchange of headcanons with my friend @arrowmusings, partly by this recent post by @tuzna-pesma-snova, and partly because I think we can never have enough baby nyx content with his doting aunts and uncles! 🥰

Word Count: 2.7k

Read on AO3

A piercing wail woke Elain for the third time that night.

She groaned, rolling over to pull a pillow over her head like it might shield her from the sound. Plumed feathers, as it turned out, were a feeble defense against the piercing lungs of a newborn. At least she was upstairs, safely barricaded behind wood and stone and a firmly shut door.

Elain didn’t know how the others dealt with it—having such sensitive ears, capable of hearing the worms writhing through the soil below the house, and still enduring such close proximity to her crying nephew. Even in the moments of silence, where Feyre and Rhys managed to coax their son to sleep, Elain could still feel the reverberations in her skull.

No wonder Feyre and Rhysand looked so exhausted. They would never say a word in complaint—how could they? Their child was a miracle, and Elain knew they would surrender sleep for eternity if it was in service of their child. But she swore she swore the foundations of the town house tremored from the next bout of wails.

Her ringing ears coaxed her out of bed and down the stairs. She was already awake, still unused to this body and its overwrought sensations, how keenly she could feel existence ebb and throb around her. She’d never mastered how to tune it out. But at least if she couldn’t sleep, Rhys and Feyre could escape to the House of Wind for some peace and quiet while she watched over her nephew for a few hours.

“Are you sure?” Rhysand asked.

He was better at hiding it; a smile glided across his lips as easily as the autumn leaf coasting on the other side of the large window pane he stood before. Nyx caught sight of it and pointed, prompting Rhys to pivot without faltering the rhythm of his slow back-and-forth bouncing. He cooed quietly to Nyx as if his son had discovered something fascinating, and it didn’t take long for Nyx to drift back to sleep. Fatherhood suited him, she thought, even as she noticed the weary draw to his shoulders, the rumpled clothes.

Feyre mentioned that Rhys answered the majority of the midnight cries without being asked, out of duty and apology and pure, unbridled love. He wore it plainly. There was a gentleness in his eyes as he handed his son to Elain, a quality she only truly glimpsed in the High Lord when he was looking at Nyx or Feyre.

Elain’s heart squeezed a bit at the sight of it. Some days, she felt so lost, surrounded by so much love. Half of her was here, in this body that felt and heard and smelled so much, and the other half felt as if she were the fallen leaf outside, being swept by the night-kissed breeze. Only ever observing from the other side of the thick glass. Untouched by the warmth in this house.

“Thank you,” Rhys said, smiling as though he genuinely meant it.

Elain nodded, forcing a smile in return. “Go rest. I’ll alert you if I need anything.”

Or Nyx would. She didn’t speak the thought, but she wasn’t certain it wasn’t as readily communicated through his magic by the way he huffed. Not quite a laugh, but as he nodded his goodbye, she saw a glint in his eye that spoke of humor. He vanished into smoke before she could assess it further, undoubtedly eager to return to his mate for a rare moment of peace.

She didn’t begrudge them that peace. They earned it. She was happy to do what she could to help them, even if that was something as simple as sitting across the soft cushion on the bay window, cradling her nephew to her chest, and staring blankly through the glass. She hardly registered the city beyond, gilded in ribbons of moonlight. Her gaze was fixed on the autumn leaves collected on the ground, wondering what had attracted Nyx’s attention.

The colors, she wondered? She imagined he might have a mind fashioned after Feyre, where he saw and felt and breathed in color. It would be fascinating to a child to witness leaves changing color for the first time. There was a time when Autumn felt like magic to her, too. Long before she ever associated it with cold, with the first creepings of winter. With vibrant red hair and unnervingly perceptive eyes.

A faelight flickered to life in the dining room. The light reflected off the glass, wiping away the night sky and cityscape so that Elain was confronted with her own reflection. And above her shoulder, as though she’d summoned him, Lucien Vanserra had stumbled into the kitchen.

In truth, Nyx’s crying hadn’t been the only thing keeping her awake.

She turned too sharply, forgetting there was a sleeping baby in her arms. Lucien, at least, looked astonished to find her there, and his eyes flitted to the child stirring in her arms, beginning to fuss. He looked as though he were debating the merits of veering straight out of the dining room, abandoning whatever task had lured him to begin with.

Then, the shrieks began.

Elain flinched, holding the child at arm’s length as the sound pierced through her bones. She could feel the vibrations in her teeth, and she wanted to gnash them as her vision went fuzzy around the edges.

“I don’t think that’s how you’re supposed to hold him,” Lucien said, fashioning himself as being helpful.

At twenty-three years, she had admittedly little exposure to child-rearing. She’d been too young to glean anything helpful when Feyre was born, and she’d scarcely been around many children in the years since. As a woman—a female—it was supposed to come naturally to her. Certainly, everyone expected it would come naturally to her, and she had never questioned why it wouldn’t. She’d always felt a nurturing instinct, always felt a compulsion to care for plants and people and wounded things. A baby felt like a natural extension of that affinity.

And yet… yet she felt clumsy with Nyx. Uncertain how to hold him. He had wings, after all, no human child had wings. Should they be included in the swaddle? Could she manipulate them safely, or would they tear at the slightest pull? Would she fracture this beautiful, fragile creature if she accidentally applied too much strength with her new, foreign body? Sometimes, she felt like she was the one who was fragile. The glass slowly splintering from the blow of those piercing wails.

He was crying so loudly Elain couldn’t think.

Lucien was standing before her now, and she scowled at him like this was his fault. If he hadn’t startled her, she wouldn’t have startled Nyx. And Rhysand would be coming back down any second, and she knew he wouldn’t say anything in judgment, that he’d be happy to take back his son and that he’d appreciate her attempt at kindness nonetheless.

But she was tired of feeling so useless. And this was the one thing she was supposed to be good at. Had being fae taken this away from her, too? Was she unfit to be a mother because some part of her was fundamentally broken, flooded and washed away with her humanity during all those agonizing seconds she’d been in the Cauldron? She’d been screaming at the top of her lungs, too, like Nyx was now. The only difference was that water had filled her mouth, her lungs, and no one had heard her screaming.

Her pain had been utterly silent. It always has been. No one saw it, no one heard it.

Elain flashed her teeth at Lucien, some instinctual warning that he was coming too close. He stopped, eyes wide, and raised his palms in surrender.

“I know how to hold a child,” she snapped.

“It doesn’t look like it,” he said dryly.

The cries pitched in volume, and she winced. Nyx had fallen asleep in his father’s arms, utterly content, and by now, he’d surely put together that it was not his mother or father holding him, not even one of his dear uncles, but his insecure, uncertain aunt.

Softer, Lucien added, “Do you want help?”

“I don’t need it,” she said as she stiffly readjusted Nyx, attempting to mimic how Rhys had been cradling him earlier. She sucked in a breath at the newfound proximity, those wails now a close-range weapon assaulting her mind again and again.

Elain squeezed her eyes shut. She recalled Feyre’s lessons on mental shields and wondered if there was some equivalent for shutting out all of this sensation. No one else seemed to find it as overwhelming. Rhys and Feyre, she could excuse as parents blindly devoted to their child. But Lucien, hardly a step away, did not flinch or clench his teeth. He held his shoulder tense, though that was not unusual when they were in the same room as each other.

He was studying her in that unnerving way he often did when he thought she wasn’t looking. Elain braced herself for the tug she occasionally felt on the other side of the bond. She thought it was the last thing she could handle at that moment. It would be the final, frayed edge that, if pulled, would send her unraveling into a pool of shapeless, tangled string. Fortunately, there was no pull. Lucien’s lips parted as if something dawned on him, and then he shifted. The movement was so subtle Elain would have thought nothing of it if Nyx hadn’t immediately seized crying.

Elain blinked, craning to look at her nephew, then again at her mate. Nyx’s mouth was moving, his little face pinched. She could see the back of his throat rattle with the force of his anguish, could feel the vibrations thrum through his tiny body. But there was no sound.

“What did you do?” She wanted the question to sound closer to an accusation, but she could not strain the relief from her voice.

Lucien shrugged. “It’s just a glamor. You seemed overwhelmed.”

Her ears were still ringing in the silence. She moved her jaw back and forth, trying to focus on other sensations—the newborn scent of her nephew, the curious scratch of the wind against the townhouse. The slow, steady beat of her mate’s heart. Elain shut her eyes and began swaying to its rhythm, humming quietly to shut out the echoing remnants of the crying.

When it finally faded, she opened her eyes, unsurprised to find that Lucien hadn’t moved.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “He was… so loud.”

Lucien nodded. “You’ll get used to it one day.”

“The crying?”

“The fae senses.” He glanced thoughtfully at Nyx, and Elain wondered if he could still hear the crying. Did the glamor only impact her? “You’ll get better at tuning out unwelcome sights and smells. And if not—there’s always magic.”

Feeling Nyx start to settle, Elain shifted on the bay window until her back hit the wall. Lucien stared at the space she created on the other side of the cushion but didn’t dare accept the movement as an invitation. Not until Elain nodded, and he cautiously ventured forward, apparently unconvinced this wasn’t a trap.

“I don’t really know how to use magic,” Elain said. “I can… feel it. But I’m not sure how to control it.”

Lucien claimed a tedious seat at the edge of the nook, both feet planted firmly on the ground so that he might bolt at the soonest provocation. Carefully, he asked, “Would you like to learn? I’m sure Feyre would be willing to teach you.”

He didn’t volunteer himself, and she wondered if he had as little interest in teaching her as she had in learning from him. Which was a good thing, she reasoned. But her chest felt tight.

“I don’t know,” she said. It was honest. “I know that I should want to learn. But it sounds like it will be exhausting, and I am already so tired. Every day, it’s too much. All of the people in the city talking over each other, the crying seagulls and the roaring tide. I’d like it to stop. Just for a little while, and then maybe I’ll be ready.”

Ready for what? She could see him wanting to ask. Elain was grateful when he didn’t.

Instead, he glanced around this small, cushioned nook and asked, “How’s that?”

Elan’s brows merged, not following, until she paused her wandering mind long enough to listen. There was no lapping water, no writhing soil, no percussion of even breathing, layered and out of sync as the city slept around them. There were still some sounds. That ever-present heartbeat, twining with her own. Those were more coordinated, just like her slow exhale and his steady inhale. And though she could still hear more than she could as a human, for once, her existence was narrowed solely to this small nook in the world, where it was just Lucien and Elain and her nephew.

She exhaled again, feeling the tension in her body release in that single breath. “Another glamor?”

“A shield,” he said, raising his knuckles to knock against a solid, invisible barrier. “Let me know when you need me to lower it.”

“Are you staying?”

There must have been an edge to her voice. One he misinterpreted, for he shook his head.

“I don’t need to,” he said, already shifting his weight to his feet. “The shield will remain once I leave. You can always tug on the bond when you’d like me to—”

“Will you stay?” Elan wished he didn’t look so stunned. It faltered her confidence enough that she scrambled to add, “So that you can add the glamor in case Nyx starts fussing again.”

“Right,” he said. He cleared his throat. “Of course I can stay.”

Lucien settled back on the cushion, and this time, with the encouragement of a raised brow from Elain, he adjusted himself until his back was against the opposing wall. They were facing each other, and fortunately or unfortunately, there was enough space on the shared cushion for her legs to stretch to one side and Lucien’s to stretch to the other without touching.

What would it be like to touch him? She remembered the one time in Hybern. Cold and trembling on the floor, that first touch had felt like thrusting her skin into an open fire. The heat was too startling against the numb, thawing her too quickly, too soon.

But with the sun breaking the horizon in the distance, gilding all of his loveliest features in soft, glowing light, she thought it wouldn’t feel so excruciating to be touched by him this second time around. Less like burning fire and more like warm, buttery sunshine.

Realizing that they’d fallen into silence, and that she’d been staring at him without saying a word, Elain asked, “What brought you into the dining room to begin with?”

Cast in the rising light, his cheeks had taken on a rosy hue. “Rhysand knew I was awake. He asked me to come in here to light the fire.”

That drew Elain’s attention to the empty hearth, blackened from the fire that had died sometime in the night. She’d seen Rhys light the flames with his magic a hundred times before.

“Why couldn’t Rhys light it?”

“I was coming in here to ask him the same thing,” he said dryly. With a clipped laugh, he muttered, “Nosy bastard.”

Insufferable busybody, was more like it. Elain shook her head, though she was finding in this cocoon of silence that she was grateful Lucien had come.

She asked, “Why were you awake to begin with?”

His eyes met hers. Held, in a way that spoke far more than his explanation of, “the crying baby, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, breathless.

His heart rate picked up, no longer the rolling rhythm she’d used to rock Nyx to sleep.

“And you?” Lucien prompted. “What were you doing awake?”

She’s woken to the sound of that heartbeat. Pulled from whatever dream she’d been having, like some intrinsic part of her thought it was wrong to listen to that heartbeat and not follow its call. It was why she could never sleep very well whenever Lucien stayed in the house.

“The crying baby,” she said. “Same as you.”

arrowmusings

Omg this is so achingly vulnerable and sweet. The denial. The softness. They're everything!!

arrowmusings

Aug 11, 2022

the-lonelybarricade

La Vie En Rose: Chapter 11

Chapter title: Any Way the Wind Blows

Fic Summary: After everyone is freed from Under the Mountain, Elain is given the opportunity to stay in the Spring Court as a human so she can get to know her soulmate. Set in the timeline from A Court of Faded Dreams.

CW: Very mild smut in this chapter. Enjoy <3

Read on A03 ❀ Masterlist

One of the most exciting things about staying in the Night Court was that, for once, Lucien was as equally fascinated and inexperienced as Elain.

“And we can just… go outside?” Lucien asked, standing in the foyer of the townhouse as he glanced out the window to the glittering city beyond.

Lucien had been so patient these last few days as Elain’s sisters fussed over her, biting his tongue against every odd remark from Nesta or Rhysand’s inner circle, trying to stay balanced against the changing winds that threatened to topple him over. She had wanted to give him a day of undivided attention, and had practically begged Feyre to keep Nesta occupied for the day so that she and her mate could go out into the city together.

Now they stood in the entryway, both bundled against the early winter that nipped the air. Rhysand blinked, obviously bemused by the question.

“The air is no less harmful than it is in Spring,” he said with a mocking smile. “And I promise, our food is not poisoned.”

“You don’t…” Lucien’s brows pressed together as he studied Rhysand’s expression. “You’re not concerned I’ll report anything back to Tamlin?”

Rhys leaned against a doorframe and crossed his arms as though this all amused him greatly. “Should I be?”

Elain scowled at her brother-in-law, but Lucien shook his head. “No. Everything I see here will be confidential.”

“Go,” Rhys said, tipping his head toward the door. “Explore, have fun. In a way, Lucien, we’re brothers now. And this city can be your home, if you’d like it to be.”

Though he didn’t comment on it, the High Lord certainly didn’t miss the way Lucien cringed at the word. Home. For an exile, he certainly had many to choose from.

Elain took charge in grabbing for Lucien’s hand and guiding them out into the city streets. Despite the winter chill, it was a sunny day. No snow yet on the ground, some golden leaves still clinging to the trees, though most swept the pavement as they walked.

The weather in Spring was perpetually wonderful, but Elain had admittedly missed the other seasons, too. They all had their own charm, and she liked that in Velaris there was a taste of each of them. Perhaps they would never have to walk through the Spring Court so bundled, and when they held each other’s hands there were no gloves to obstruct the warmth of Lucien’s skin. But watching the breath curl from his lips was its own treat, as was seeing him in the long, dark overcoat that he borrowed from Rhysand.

“Where should we go first?” Elain breathed, darting her eyes over the bridges that led to the market squares.

The scent of grilled meat and the song of a distant street musician carried over to them on the wind. Lucien’s eyes were wide as he took it all in.

“I haven’t been to a city like this in…” he took a heavy breath. “It’s been a long time.”

“I didn’t know that places like this existed,” she admitted, admiring the wide marble bridge they approached. She had heard tales of beautiful kingdoms, but it had been hard for her to conceptualize when all she had known was a poor, muddied village in the human realm.

The river roared in their ears as it rushed under the bridge. Elain stalked to the side of the railing, leaning over to trace its path as far as she could, staring from where it fed into the glittering sea and upwards, into the snow-capped mountains.

“I’ll begrudge that this place is exceptional in its beauty,” Lucien commented, following her eyes to the northern mountains. “I had always imagined the Night Court to be cold, dark, and miserable. But the people here look…” A mother passed them on the bridge, clutching the hand of a wide-eyed child that had caught sight of Lucien. Elain couldn’t decide if it was the scar or the red hair that had earned the child’s attention, but Lucien offered him a friendly smile all the same. The mother and the child went on their way, but something about the moment lingered, tugging at her chest.

Elain’s face felt hot, the idea of Lucien interacting with children was suddenly fascinating to her. She could imagine the way he would hold their babe in his arms, swaddled with blankets as he rocked the child gently against his chest.

“The people here look happy,” Lucien finished, oblivious to her thoughts. He was watching the mother and child walk to the other side of the bridge, back towards the rows of townhouses they had come from.

“Do you think this is where you’d like to live?” she asked gently, blinking away the distracting visions of Lucien as a father.

Lucien shook his head. “This again? I meant it when I said I only care about living where you are.”

“Humor me,” she begged, tucking herself against his arm as they strolled to the other side of the bridge.

The music was louder now, and she could see its source was a small band playing in a square that was brimming with stalls. Patrons carried woven baskets on their arms as they passed through, stopping occasionally to listen to the vendors pedaling bushels of flowers and spools of silk. Burnt sugar clung to the air, and Elain searched until her eyes landed on a male selling confections, unsurprisingly surrounded by children.

“I could see us living here,” Lucien said. Elain turned her head to find him staring at her, expression sweet enough that it could have belonged in the confectioner’s stall.

“It could be fun,” she mused, pausing at a selection of caps. Lucien stopped with her, watching curiously as she took one from the rack and placed it atop his head. She smiled at the sight, privately thinking that he could pull off anything. “Perhaps we could open our own stall.”

Lucien removed the hat immediately, unaware that Elain had been savoring the sight. But he was smiling, always one to rise to her playfulness. “What would we sell?”

She giggled as he put the hat back and tugged her along. “I don’t think it would matter. If you were at the front, the intrigue of that alone would bring us custom.”

They paused at a stall that sold fresh flowers. Elain marveled at the arrangements, thinking how lovely it was to see the wares of so many artisans. During those long years in the cottage, she’d never thought the little flowers she kept would be considered of any value. But here was a bright eyed female, with thick, seaweed-like hair draping down her back, smiling as she placed flowers thoughtfully into a glass vase and handed them to a customer.

“Maybe we would sell flowers,” Lucien suggested. She could see him watching her out of the corner of her eye.

It was a lovely thing to imagine. A life where she was not the human sister of a High Lady, and he was not the illegitimate heir to a throne. A world not muddied by politics and war, where they could indulge in a simple, humble life. Something about standing in the bustling marketplace, where attention slipped past the human and the Autumn male like any other patron, made that feel attainable.

“Or apple tarts?”

She said it so she could hear his laugh, as sweet and lingering as the three bells that chimed through the marketplace to mark the hour.

“Regretfully, I still cannot speak to their quality,” Lucien said, his smile shifting into something darker. Elain’s body thrummed with the underlying challenge.

“We are in a marketplace, afterall,” she hummed, looking about the stalls innocently. “We could always buy some ingredients to take back to the townhouse. So that I can prove my merit as a baker, of course.”

“Of course,” he said easily, eyes roving over her fur-lined coat. Despite being better covered than she had been in all her time in Spring, Elain felt suddenly hyper aware of the way the coat hugged at her hips.

Licking her lips, she asked, “If you tried one, do you think the bond would snap?”

“It’s hard to say,” he answered, the weight of his gaze so heavy as he watched her tongue dart across her mouth. “Would you be willing to risk it?”

“Risk what, exactly? Being your mate?” She noticed he had increased their pace. They were walking away from the crowd, now. Towards quieter shops of jewels and glass. She thought, for a moment, that Lucien might have been taking her to get a ring.

Instead he led her into an alleyway and, trusting her knew where he was going, she followed. Except that Lucien had already found where he was going, and she put it together only once her mate pushed her up against the brick wall.

Her thick coat took some of the edge away from the rough surface, but still she could feel it scrap against her back as Lucien’s warm body bracketed hers, pressing his arms to either side of her head. He ducked his face low, until their lips were just barely brushing. The steam of their breath curled and danced together in that limited space.

“The frenzy,” he whispered. “Would you risk triggering it while we’re staying with your sisters?”

Mother above, when he was staring at her like that, like he was starving and she was his next meal, she was tempted to say yes.

“I think you’re a male who can control yourself,” she answered. But she couldn’t. Elain had to curl her fingers into the masonry to curb the urge to pull him towards her. Preferably by his unbound hair, which hung around them to create the illusion of privacy.

“Nonsense.” He took a deep breath, his pupils going wide and unfocused. Elain knew what he could smell, and she wondered if he could also hear the way her pulse quickened. “I have done nothing but prove the contrary.”

“You’re proving it right now,” Elain protested. “For every second you haven’t kissed me—”

That was all it took for them to become a tangle of lips and tongue and teeth. She whimpered into his mouth as he lifted her by the hips and pushed her harder into the wall. Elain could feel him responding to the sound, starting to ease away, to lighten his grip, and so she sunk her fingers into his shoulders to yank him closer. Her mouth turned furious beneath him, a free hand snaking into his hair to demand he stay.

Lucien groaned at the sharp tugging, responding by licking into her mouth like he meant for her to swallow it. The scents of the market still clung to him, burnt sugar and smoked meats and yet still that refreshing breath of autumn air beneath it.

She bucked against him, already feeling the way he had hardened in his trousers. Elain wanted him closer. With all these layers of clothing between them, it wasn’t enough.

“Lucien,” she complained, tugging urgently at his coat in a poor attempt to get him out of it.

Each gasp of his breath was caught by the winter air so that she could watch the way it curled against her skin, seeking her just like every other inch of his body. It only made her desire that much more demanding, blinding her to anything but the way she steadily rocked her hips against his.

“You want me to fuck you in an alley, lady?” His voice was just as rough as the brick behind her. But where one cut against her coat, the other glided over her bare skin, from her collarbone all the way down to her toes.

It made her shiver. “I want you to fuck me, Lord,” she said in answer. “The where is indiscriminate.”

Lucien clucked his tongue against his teeth. “So far from the modest woman who refused to wear riding leathers.”

Magic stung her nostrils, sharp and tangy, but Elain couldn’t be fussed to see what he had done. There was only Lucien’s hot mouth against the cool air, the way he was tugging down her stockings with same urgency she was unlacing his trousers.

It was like she was drowning, suffocating from the air. And only once Lucien had freed himself enough to slide into her with a single thrust could she breathe again.

Elain sighed contentedly against the now familiar stretch, bowing her head to gasp into the thick padding of his shoulder. The bite of the cold air and hard masonry were harsh against her exposed backside, but Lucien countered it with his warm body. His hands pressed into the plush of her skin, both heating her and securing her hips to his so she could meet him for every thrust.

This was not what she had intended when she’d meant for them to have alone time in the city. But it felt inescapable, this pull to him. The bright shining light that encapsulated their souls. She could feel the soft, distant tug of it, like a cord pulling taut with each thrust of their hips. If this is what it was like before the bond had even snapped, she did not want to imagine what it would feel like once the frenzy took over.

Her desire for him was already a bright, burning thing that crawled in her skin. It made her feel feral and free and wild, so far from the things she was ever allowed to be.

It made her feel fae.

And as she came against her mate in the quiet alley of a magical city, her cries of pleasure swallowed by his rose petal lips, Elain thought that being a faerie sounded more appealing with every passing day.

“Oh good. You’re all here.”

Rhysand’s voice cut through the conversation Lucien and Elain were having with the charming, yet fiery, Queen Vassa.

He was immaculately dressed, as always, in his fine, silver-embroidered black jacket. Feyre stood beside him, hand clasped in his free hand while his other was filled with letters.

Elain’s stomach dropped. She already knew, from the gilded envelope alone, that one of them was from Helion. He had been sending letters daily, imploring Lucien and his mate to visit the Day Court.

The persistence was at least paying off, by the uncertainty that flickered in her mate’s eyes as Rhysand handed him the letter. It was an improvement from the hard frown, the stubborn set of his jaw. A daily letter was not much in the face of a lie that had endured centuries. But still, it was more effort than Beron had ever invested into their relationship. Elain could see that weighing on Lucien as he placed the letter carefully to the side, not daring to open it and expose that level of vulnerability to Rhysand’s court.

Fortunately, Lucien was not the only recipient of a letter today, and the attention turned to Nesta as Rhys extended a folded up note towards her. “For you,” he said.

At first, Nesta refused to accept it. She stared at Rhys with those cunning, blue eyes that demanded an explanation without speaking.

“Cassian is stationed with the Warbands in Winter,” the High Lord explained, with just a touch of the exasperation that seemed to exist naturally in their relationship. “He’s leading the legions South. He asked me to pass along this note.”

Mention of Cassian melted some of the frost in Nesta’s expression. She was stiff-backed as she reached over to accept it, snatching the note out of sight. Then, with an indignant shrug, she said, “What do I care?”

Elain guessed she cared very much. For all Nesta tried to pretend she was indifferent to Cassian’s absence, Elain caught her staring off towards the southern mountain range, sometimes studying the war maps seemingly spread all over the townhouse and eyeing the pieces stationed in Winter Court.

The day Elain had woken up to Lucien preparing for battle had been terrible even before she was kidnapped. But Lucien had promised he would come back, and he did. Elain couldn’t imagine how much she would ache if Lucien had stayed in those camps, too. If it was just the two of them, Elain might have reached for Nesta’s hand. She remembered the way they used to chat excitedly about suitors and proposals. She had read every letter exchanged between Nesta and Tomas.

This felt different, somehow. Nesta had openly admitted to being in love with Tomas, if only to get under Feyre’s skin, but Cassian was a guarded secret. And if Elain knew anything about her older sister, it was that the deeper the emotion, the more viciously she fortified behind those thick, impenetrable walls.

They were up now, with the way Nesta narrowed her eyes and dared anyone to challenge how she truly felt about the war general.

Feyre saw,and was studying Nesta curiously, but Rhys had already averted his attention to the Mortal Queen, holding up the last letter in his hand. “Remarkable that I am the only one who didn’t receive mail this morning, given it’s my home.”

Lucien cocked his head, picking up on the edge to Rhysand’s voice. “No word yet from the other High Lords?”

Rhys released a sigh as he and Feyre slid onto the bench beside Vassa. It had startled Lucien, the first time they’d sat at this table. Tamlin had only ever sat at the head of the table in the Spring Court, but today it was Nesta perched in that seat. A distinction, she supposed, in that Rhys considered his court family. Elain couldn’t help wondering if the informality was the same in Helion’s court.

“No confirmation,” Rhys clarified. “There have been plenty of words.”

“I’m surprised it’s taken so long,” Lucien said, eyes flicking to the war map in the center of the table. That had startled Elain, and she privately thought she would prefer eating without the reminder of the war that loomed over their shoulders. “Thesan was the only one uninvolved in the Battle of Winter.”

“There is some unresolved tension between Kallias and Tarquin,” Rhys said, sounding distracted as he watched the Mortal Queen read over the creased letter.

Naturally, it drew the rest of the table’s attention to the Queen. Vassa must have felt it, because she snapped her eyes away from the page to snap at them, “You could always ask what it says, if you’re so curious.”

Lucien, of course, loved to encounter a temper he could prod at. He leaned forward with a smirk, voice dripping in condescension as he asked, “What does the letter say, your majesty?”

Perhaps Elain had made peace with rutting in an alleyway like she had never had a proper upbringing, but she still drew the line at bad table manners. She kicked out her leg, accompanying it with a reprimanding look that Lucien saw as he turned his head sharply towards her.

His eyes narrowed, but Elain scowled right back.

“It’s from Demetra,” Vassa answered, either oblivious or choosing to ignore the silent communication between mates. She tossed the letter towards them and Rhys snapped it out of the air, holding it so that Feyre could read over his shoulder. “She’s confirmed that the King of Hybern has reassembled the Cauldron and invited my fellow queens to witness the resurrection of a man named Jurian.”

That was enough to tug Lucien back into the conversation. “Jurian?” He repeated, leaning back in his seat. His hand found Elain’s beneath the table and squeezed. Hard. “The Jurian? Like… from the eyeball?”

The odd question stunned Elain out of her irritation. She furrowed her brows, glancing around the table to see if anyone else was confused. Nesta and Vassa didn’t seem to be following, either.

Feyre was frowning. “Yes,” she said. “The Attor fled with his eye and finger, and the King will use them to return him to his mortal body.”

“After 500 years?” Lucien asked in disbelief. Elain decided this was a story she would need to wheedle from him later. “His mortal body should be dust.”

“And Rhys should be dead,” Feyre said with a shrug they all knew she did not mean. Elain was certain she wasn’t the only one politely ignoring the heavy circles beneath Feyre’s eyes, and she wondered when her younger sister had last had a good, full night’s sleep. “It’s easy to break the rules of the world, when the Cauldron is the one who dictates them.”

“In any case, it is helpful to know the King is keeping the Cauldron in Hybern and not in Autumn,” Rhysand said, returning the note to Vassa. He bowed his head respectfully. “Thank you, for sharing this information with us.”

“We are allies, afterall.” Her smile was rueful, and Elain sensed there was a story there, too. “Demetra and I are exchanging letters in secret, and I will continue to let you know if she shares anything of value.”

Just then, Azriel entered the room, looking alert despite the equally dark circles beneath his eyes. Or perhaps that was simply due to the shadows that obscured his face, slithering over his neck and shoulders to curl around his ear. Elain had not had many interactions with him, and she was certain that was because he hardly stayed in the townhouse long enough to eat let alone hold a conversation.

“From the Dawn Court,” Azriel said, sliding a note to Rhys.

Immediately, Rhysand passed the note to Feyre without reading it, staring at Azriel in a strange, almost absent way, as though his mind was somewhere far from his physical body.

“Well, what is it?” Nesta asked impatiently.

Rhys smiled, violet eyes turning sharp with focus. “Confirmation,” he answered. “We meet with the High Lords in three days.”

Elain was admittedly nervous to meet the seven High Lords of Prythian. It was the sort of thing that would have made her feel unwell a few months ago. The thought of standing in a room with the most powerful faeries in the world… it still did make her feel a little queasy.

Ordinarily, she might have pestered Lucien to tell her everything about what she should expect and how she should behave. Three days ago, she had managed to coax an overview out of him. But today, he had gotten up before the sun had even touched the horizon to pace circles over the rug in their bedroom. Elain had thought she was nervous, but that compared little to the way her mate emptied his wardrobe onto the bed, murmuring to himself about which Court colors to represent.

Fortunately Feyre had already helped Elain select a gown of rich amethyst, the same color as the heliotrope she had once grown in their garden. If not for her sister’s intervention, she might have been having a similar breakdown as Lucien, though she understood they would have been for drastically different reasons.

“Lucien,” she murmured from where she stood in front of her vanity. She stepped into the long tulle skirts and pressed the bodice to her chest as she turned, exposing her back. “Could you lace this for me?”

It had the intended effect. The clothes on the bed now forgotten, Lucien immediately seized the opportunity to press his warm fingers to the bare skin of her back.

She shivered, holding her breath as he took his time threading the lace through the small slats. “I don’t think Helion will pay much attention to what you’re wearing.”

“No,” Lucien agreed. “Not if you’re dressed like this. Everyone will be too busy staring at you.”

Elain smiled, grateful her back was to him so he wouldn’t take it as encouragement. “Wear the purple jacket,” she suggested. “If we have no ring and no mating bond, they can at least know we are matched in dress.”

“They’ll be able to smell you,” Lucien said, sounding pleased with that idea. His hands found the slit in her skirt, following the strip of skin it revealed all the way to her mid thigh. “If you truly want to make a statement…”

“I am not meeting all of the High Lords smelling like sex,” Elain said, despite knowing her protests were weakened by the way she craned her neck and leaned into his touch.

Lucien accepted the invitation eagerly, pressing his mouth to the smooth skin. Grateful, she was certain, for the sleeves that fell off her shoulder so there was nothing to interrupt the way he lazily traced his lips away from her throat. “It likely won’t stop Rhysand.”

“Then won’t we look so well behaved, in comparison.”

He snorted. “As easily accomplished as guessing where the sun will rise in the sky.”

Elain elbowed him. “He has been very accommodating.”

“I never claimed otherwise,” Lucien said, stepping away from her in surrender. Elain turned around to face him fully.

His eyes widened, mouth parting slightly as they roved over the gown and lingered on the decolletage that rose carefully beneath her collarbones with each breath. Elain swallowed the sharp, senseless heat that flared in the pit of her stomach.

She had meant it when she said she didn’t want to show up smelling like sex. But the burning desire in Lucien’s eyes made her question, for just a second, if it would truly be so terrible. She wouldn’t be able to smell it, at any rate.

A slow smirk stretched over Lucien’s absurdly full lips, tempting her just as plainly as the fire in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you want me to take that dress off you, after I did such a good job lacing it up.”

A comment about undressing being unnecessary was sure to follow. Elain could still feel the sweet scrape of brick against her backside and had to ignore the way that thought flooded heat straight between her legs.

Lucien took a deep breath, eyes so dark the color difference became nearly imperceptible. “They would be able to smell that, too.”

“Outside,” she snapped, mortified at the thought of her future father-in-law being able to smell her arousal.

With a dark chuckle that clawed at her skin, Lucien obediently stepped out of the room. Elain seized the opportunity to splash water over her face in the bathing room, letting its cool touch ease the flush out of her cheeks.

At least her mate wasn’t pacing the floor any longer.

Only once she’d composed herself did she step outside, finding Lucien waiting patiently.

His expression softened when he saw her. “You truly do look beautiful, Elain.”

“Rogue,” she accused, making him smile as he took her by the waist to lead her carefully down the stairs.

The others were already gathered in the entryway. Elain spotted Feyre first, dressed like she was the Queen of these lands in her silver crown and midnight dress. Rhys stood next to her, wearing its masculine twin and his typical, elegant black jacket. She was certain he had a dozen just like it.

Cassian was just behind them, hardly even paying attention to Elain and Lucien’s arrival for all he was focused on Nesta. Elain thought his attention was appropriate, given that Nesta wore a dark blue gown that made her look like a vengeful goddess. And from Cassian’s expression, he likely would have sworn fealty to her right then, if she asked.

Azriel and Mor joined them moments later, the former vanishing into smoke to scout ahead for any danger.

Beside her, Lucien shifted weight on his feet. The flirting had been enough to distract them in their bedroom, but now they were only moments away from seeing Helion. Elain reached over to squeeze his bicep, and again his tension eased as he looked at her. Like she was the only thing in the room.

She might have leaned up to kiss him, had Cassian not looked over to Nesta with a feral grin and asked, “Miss me, Nes?”

Elain didn’t think anyone had ever gotten away with calling Nesta that nickname, and even Lucien turned his head in intrigue. Perhaps wondering what creature would dare seek the wrath of Nesta Archeron.

Nesta looked bored. “I hardly noticed you were gone.”

“Did you not?” Cassian flared out his wings in what Elain assumed was the Illyrian version of a shrug. “I would have thought you relished in my absence.”

Nesta’s gaze was a blazing fire. “I didn’t think about you at all.”

A blatant lie. Elain wondered if Cassian could tell, or if he would fall for Nesta’s sharp tongue like so many others. Cassian scanned her face, measuring her reaction to each careful step he took towards her. Nesta watched him warily, but didn’t pull away as he took her slim hand in his own and interlaced their fingers.

He said softly, “ I thought about you.”

Elain’s heart melted.

Then he added, “Nearly every night, when I—”

“Az says we’re clear to go,” Rhys interrupted with a short cough.

Lucien snorted quietly beside Elain. He pulled her closer, and together they were enveloped in smoke and promptly deposited onto a golden veranda that overlooked lush farlands far, far below.

They were up high enough that clouds settled over the domed peaks of the palace and drifted so close that she could feel their moisture on her skin. It ought to have been cold with her bare arms and shoulders, considering the altitude, but the air was remarkably warm. The way that Lucien watched her, a faint, affectionate smile on his lips, told Elain that he likely had something to do with the fact that she wasn’t shivering.

Dawn had only just peaked over the horizon, painting the golden stone of the palace, and every person and thing inside it, in a blush the same color as Tamlin’s rose bushes. Good, Elain thought, studying the way the rising sun glinted off of Lucien’s hair, turned his eyes into pools of molten gold and melted caramel. At least it meant she wasn’t the only one blushing.

A male with loose, golden robes draped over his body bowed to Feyre and Rhysand. “This way, High Lord.”

Elain frowned, glancing to Lucien for explanation. He was frowning, too, but she couldn’t detect any surprise that Feyre hadn’t been addressed. Rhysand, for the most part, looked indifferent as he offered his arm to Feyre.

“Feyre’s title is not widely known,” Lucien said in her ear as they walked. “The concept of a High Lady will be forgeign to many of the fae, but we have all seen what Feyre Cursebreaker is capable of.”

Indeed. Prythain’s traditions seemed like a meager issue on the list of things that Feyre had challenged. Time, perhaps, being the most notable and unforgiving of her opponents. And yet the arm her younger sister had looped around Rhysand was testament to who stood victorious in that battle. Thinking of everything that she’d accomplished made Elain’s head spin, which certainly was not helped by the spiral stairs they went around and around. As they moved closer to the top of the tower, Elain thought she could hear the sound of murmured voices.

Elain recalled how terrifying it had been to stand in the presence of Rhysand and Tamlin for the very first time. That raw, ancient power they exuded… Even as a human, with her muted senses, she had instinctively recognized that she was standing before something dangerous.

Now, that feeling clawed at her again. Magnified seven times over as they spilled into the open-air chamber and Elain was met with five of the most powerful faces in the entire world. Four of them were already in their seats, surrounded by their respective circle of courtiers and advisors.

A dark skinned male with hair the color of bleached coral and eyes like blue lilies watched them curiously from his chair across from Helion and Tamlin. Elain assumed he must be the High Lord of Summer, since he was one of the few High Lords who she had not seen before. The other, with brown hair, glowing tan skin, and friendly uptilted eyes, was surely their host. She could have guessed as much because he seemed the embodiment of a golden sunrise, but also because he was the only one who stood and came to greet their court.

But Elain’s eyes slotted over the High Lord of Dawn to the male who had immediately sat up on their arrival and was watching Lucien through wide, unreadable amber eyes.

All those years where Feyre would go out hunting in the woods on her own, Elain used to marvel, with admitted guilt, what it must feel like to stretch a bow taut and aim it at another living creature. How they must look, staring back at you. She wondered if they looked anything like Lucien did, staring across the room towards his biological father. Seeing that empty seat Tamlin had left for him and how Helion had claimed the one beside it. Swallowing as he resigned himself to his fate.

The High Lord of Dawn paused a few feet away, rich brown eyes falling over each of them with a quiet scrutiny.

“Welcome,” he said to Rhysand, smile pleasant on the surface level. “Or, as the one who called this meeting, perhaps you should be doing the welcoming?

Elain could not see Rhysand or Feyre’s expressions, but both their postures spoke of confidence. And from the tone of his voice, Elain could imagine precisely the smug smile Rhysand wore as he said, “I may have requested the meeting, Thesan, but you were the one gracious enough to offer up your beautiful residence.”

Thesan gave a nod of thanks, then turned to Feyre expectantly.

Lucien and Feyre’s Inner Circle bowed to the High Lord, and Elain quickly followed suit. But not Feyre. She only stared, chin poised proudly, shoulders relaxed. Every inch the monarch that Rhysand presented himself as.

“Your home is lovely,” she said, polite yet firm.

Surprise flickered across the High Lord’s expression. He studied Feyre carefully, tracing the tattoos that crawled from her fingers to elbows like intricate lace. Then, he looked up to the crown on her head, and slid his eyes considerately over to Rhysand. Who was undoubtedly still smirking.

With a bemused smile, the High Lord stretched a golden brown arm to the remaining unoccupied seats in acceptance. Lucien took that as his cue to press a kiss to her temple and begrudgingly walk across the room to claim the seat beside Helion.

Elain watched him go as she was ushered to her own seat behind Feyre and Rhys. Only half paying attention, she sat carefully atop her skirts as she watched Tamlin’s lips move, saying something to Lucien in greeting that she could not make out. Helion watched them interact through dark eyes, listening intently to whatever was being said between them.

Lucien pulled out his chair, easing into his role with Tamlin enough that he managed a genuine smile towards the High Lord of Spring. Until someone loudly cleared their throat across the reflection pool that functioned as a table. Lucien’s smile dropped as he turned his attention to the third High Lord Elain had not met. This one looked as though he had just stepped out of a blizzard, from his snow white hair, pale skin, and crystal blue eyes.

They were narrowed towards Lucien. “Are we truly allowing a son of Autumn to attend this meeting?”

Elain was grateful for her seat behind Feyre, which meant no one would be paying close enough attention to see the anger that played openly on her face.

“Lucien hasn’t been involved with Autumn in nearly two centuries,” Tamlin said with thinly veiled exasperation.

“Exactly,” was the Winter Lord’s reply. “How do we know the disgraced son of Autumn won’t use his position in the other Courts to get back in Beron’s good graces? He could trade everything we discuss today.”

With no place to speak at this table, all Elain could do was bite her tongue and hope that the others would come to Lucien’s defense. Her mate leveled a flat look towards the male accusing him, and she could practically see the calculations behind those clever eyes as he gauged the best way to respond.

“If anything,” Feyre cut in sharply. “Lucien is the embodiment of exactly what we hope to achieve in this meeting—unity between multiple Courts.”

“It’s that exact unwavering support that would make him a suitable spy,” the High Lord said with a sneer. “Lucien is a fox, just like the rest of his kin.”

Elain’s hands turned to fists at her side. She eyed the distance between herself and the High Lord, imagining the consequences of leaping across the reflection pool to wipe that sneer off his face. There was a soft, nearly indiscernible tug at her chest. It pulled her attention back towards Lucien, who was staring at her with warm, if not wary, eyes.

It’s okay, he seemed to say.

She bit her lip, nodding back with what she hoped was her own silent encouragement.

Beside him, Helion’s stony expression was the perfect mirror to the fury flaring in her chest. His jaw was clenched, his lips downturned in a disapproving grimace. He had not spoken yet, but even from across the reflection pool his ire radiated like unforgiving rays of sunlight.

“Kallias, Lucien fought against the Autumn forces in defense of your Court,” Tamlin said with clipped impatience.

“And yet, I remember seeing very little of him when I returned to the battlefield.”

Elain’s face burned. It was ridiculous. He had left the Battle of Winter to come after her. Surely if they knew what Beron had done, Kallias would understand that Lucien would never betray them for Autumn?

Her mate looked indifferent from where he remained standing, unphased despite the animosity directed his way. He merely said, voice clear with authority, “I don’t wish to be the subject of bickering when there are larger matters at hand. If my being here is truly such an issue, then I’ll see myself out.”

“No, Lucien,” Helion boomed, his voice cutting through the room like a crack of thunder. “You stay.”

The room shifted at the tone, various guards stiffening as though they might throw themselves between Helion and their charge. None looked so rattled as Lucien, who turned his head to stare at Helion. Their gazes held, each weighing the other carefully.

Finally, Lucien set his jaw and turned unruly eyes to Kallias. “If you must know, I’m higher on Beron’s kill list than any of our present company. No amount of spying on his behalf would change that, because I’m not his son. And Beron knows it.”

Helion who cleared his throat. “Lucien is my son, the heir apparent of the Day Court. So if you insist on kicking him out of this meeting, then you do so at the cost of my allyship.”

It stunned everyone to silence. Tamlin’s mouth fell open, leaning forward for a better glimpse of the father and son side by side. Making the same comparisons that everyone else in the room was now making. Elain would have been mortified, but Lucien held his head high, matching each of their piercing stares with challenge. Daring them to ask more.

“Very well,” Kallias said eventually, conviction evidently weakened by his shock. “The heir of Day Court can stay.”

With that, Lucien briskly claimed his seat. Elain thought he was doing an exceptional job at pretending he was unbothered by the entire exchange, but she could see the way his thumb caught and rubbed at a stray piece of the ribbon around his wrist.

Rhysand leaned forward, brows raised. “As stimulating as it’s been discussing the affairs of Autumn, Lucien is right. There are more important matters to discuss. Like perhaps the Book of Breathings, Kallias?”

Kallias straightened at the accusation, his eyes flickering to the Summer High Lord who was watching him with narrowed eyes. Tarquin, Elain recalled, was the one who was originally in possession of the Book of Breathings.

The High Lord of Winter sighed. “Despite my distrust,” he said to Rhysand, “your Court came to my aid against Hybern. Let’s not waste time pretending your motives were purely selfless—if the Book had fallen into Hybern’s hands, you likely would have never seen it again.” Rhysand’s lips twitched, but Elain could not decide it was from amusement or irritation.

Kallias continued, “Yet even in our vulnerability you focused on helping my people, not retrieving the Book. Reluctant as I may be, I am in your debt. Tell me what you plan on doing with the Book, and it’s yours.”

Tarquin looked as though he were moments from shooting to his feet as he protested, “You speak as if it’s yours to give away!”

Kallias simply offered him a cold once over. “You were planning on giving the book to Rhysand before my intervention, were you not?”

“I’ll admit, I’m curious what the Night Court is planning as well,” The High Lord of Dawn interrupted, redirecting the room’s attention back towards Feyre and Rhsyand with a poised smile. “Especially if it's so convincing that Tarquin was willing to surrender the most precious artifact of his Court.”

“The book can be used to nullify the Cauldron,” Rhys explained, looking briefly to each of the High Lords before he turned his head to Feyre. Not an ounce of his adoration was obscured as he said, “But not by just anyone—only she who has been Made. My darling High Lady of Night.”

A beat of silence followed. It felt significant to Elain, the way everyone held their breath as though they were waiting for an objection to Feyre’s title.

When none came, Feyre stepped in to say, “The King of Hybern intends to use the Cauldron to take down the Wall. He plans on using Prythian as a cautionary tale—an example of what happens to faeries who defend the humans. He wants to conquer our land as a stepping stone in seizing the continent. Right now, the King is in the process of gathering allies from other territories: Valahan, Montessori, and Rask. We’ve been using our information to mitigate potential support, planting seeds for dissent, but we need to act quickly before those territories realize what we’ve been doing—or Hybern gathers support elsewhere.”

“Where is your information coming from?” Thesan asked, lips pressed together.

“You can’t expect the Night Court to reveal all its secrets,” Rhys said smoothly, leaning over to rest his hand against Feyre’s thigh. Elain could practically hear the pride in his voice.

Thesan looked less than satisfied with that answer. “Then how can we know it’s reliable?”

“It is,” Tamlin said. Beside him, Lucien was nodding. “The information coincides with what we’ve gathered as well.”

Kallias laughed sharply at that. “Perhaps you should have been paying closer attention to your northern border. Are we forgetting that Hybern already has allies here in Prythian? What are we to do about the Autumn Court?”

The question made Elain’s heart sink. Lucien’s brothers, the home he had once loved, the place where he had met Jesminda… Despite how things had changed, the thought of turning the place of those memories into a battleground was sickening to her. But Lucien was listening intently, looking very much as though he were biting his tongue.

“Perhaps we could strike a deal with Eris,” Tamlin proposed, watching his courtier very carefully. Lucien must have communicated something in the way he tilted his lips, because Tamlin added, “If we can help him ascend to the throne, I’m sure he’d be more than willing to switch sides.”

Ascend to the throne…

“You’re proposing we kill Beron?” Tarquin asked, sounding appalled by the notion. “And throw an untested High Lord on the throne right before a war?”

“The majority of us are untested,” Helion said with a raised brow. Elain had the sense he was overjoyed that someone else had proposed killing Beron, even as his expression betrayed nothing. “Yourself included, Tarquin.”

“It’s better to have a fresh ruler as our ally than an experienced High Lord as our enemy,” Rhys added.

Lucien cleared his throat. Elain’s heart stopped. “I can lead the negotiations with Eris. And I’ll happily bury the knife in Beron’s chest myself.”

One day, I will go back and cut my way through Autumn.

He had mentioned wanting to kill Beron the night they came to Velaris, but Elain had envisioned it as being something he would attempt in the midst of battle.

Not an assassination.

She looked around, practically begging for one of the High Lords to disagree. Kallias seemed to consider it for a moment and the amber in Helion’s eyes had dulled. But no one said anything, and so Lucien nodded his head in acceptance of his new task.

Killing Beron Vanserra.

“So we put Eris on the throne and give you the second half of the book,” Thesan summarized, offering a small amount of relief in that he made the plan sound simple. Could it truly be so easy as just waltzing into Autumn Court and coming back with Beron’s head? Surely it would have happened sooner, if that was the case. “What’s your plan after that? What do we do with our armies?”

“Start raising them, for one,” Feyre said, the conversation sounding increasingly distant to Elain. She kept her eyes trained on Lucien, watched gold and copper flick between speakers as though this were a sports match. “And you specifically, Thesan, should start mass producing the antidote to faesbane that Nuan has been working on.”

“Has she?”

She only tuned back in when a half smile graced Lucien’s lips. “She has,” he said, sharing a knowing glance with Feyre. “I sent her a sample of the faesbane Hybern uses on their arrows.”

“They have a whole cache of it,” Feyre supplied. “And our only chance against it will be her antidote.”

Feyre nodded at Cassian, who stepped forward from where he had been standing guard behind them. He cleared his throat before he spoke, assuming an authority Elain had not expected from him. “For now, we push south. Establish an encampment on the border between Winter and Summer, close to Autumn. Either Eris’s forces will be joining us, or we’ll be making our stand with Autumn as our battleground.”

“Eris will join us,” Lucien said, raw determination in his eyes.

“And The Wall?” Tarquin prompted, eyes hopeful.

Feyre hesitated. “There’s nothing we can do to prevent The Wall from falling,” she said, her voice dripping with remorse. “But we’ll use it as our signal. An attack like that requires an incredible amount of magic, and the Cauldron will need to recharge before it can be used as a weapon. Once The Wall comes down, our armies advance.”

Elain sat in that chair, listening to the High Lords talk until the sun disappeared on the Horizon. For an entire day, they sat in those chairs discussing the war. Her mate sat between Tamlin and Helion, dutifully listening and contributing to the discussion at hand.

For all she stared, he didn’t meet her eyes once.

Hands clasped firmly in her lap, she twisted and picked at the leather strap around her wrists, thinking over the Forest House she had been brought to, all its sprawling walls and floors that were armed to the teeth with guards. Lucien had claimed the job before every High Lord. There was nothing she could do to convince him to back out of it

They spoke as though it was a simple task, but wasn’t Beron just as powerful as any of the High Lords in attendance? He had certainly worn his crown longer than any of them, and now he had the King of Hybern and his mythical Cauldron as an ally.

Perhaps if Lucien wasn’t avoiding looking towards her, Elain might have felt more at ease. But he knew this would displease her, which meant he knew it was dangerous. And that made her stomach churn to the point that she was looking around the room for a pot she might be able to duck her head into. The nauseating worry ebbed, just slightly, when Thesan stood up and called to his servants to see each of the Courts to their respective wings of the palace. Feyre and Rhys stood, sending Elain immediately to her feet.

Maybe it was poor practice for a human guest of the Night Court not to follow behind its rulers—it certainly seemed so, from the looks she received from the other courtiers—but Elain immediately strayed to find Lucien.

He was still standing on the other side of the koi pond, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he faced Helion. Tamlin was nowhere in sight, likely having filtered out of the room with most of the others and left his friend to fend for himself with his biological father.

Helion raised a large hand into the open space between them, looking as though he might reach for Lucien. He paused, assessing the tension Lucien held in his body, braced like he expected Helion to strike him.

“Lucien,” Helion said, that single word so heavy with grief and heartache. It matched the sadness in his eyes as he stared at his son.

Elain wondered what he saw. Was it the features that were now so clearly an amalgamation of himself and Lucien’s mother? Or perhaps it was something more abstract, like the lost years between them, the milestones and tender moments that would always belong to someone else. Someone who did not deserve Lucien, or love him the way Helion might have.

A son, who he never got to hold as a babe. He did not get to watch him learn to walk. Did not hear his first laugh, his first words. Was never there to soothe his wounds, both the physical and emotional.

The son before him was someone grown, a male who did not need a father to lean on as he had in youth.

And what Elain assumed would be the most devastating was that there wasn’t any solace in that at least his son had been loved. That at least he had those moments with someone else. Instead, it was common knowledge that life had been cruel to Lucien, often at the hands of the man who raised him. And there was no way to take back the childhood he’d endured.

“Lucien,” he began again, his struggle for speech apparent from the crack in his voice. The room was empty now, so there was no one else but Elain to witness the emotion rippling across the High Lord’s face.

“Lucien, I am so sorry. This life that you’ve led… Whilst proud of how you’ve managed to navigate it, it’s so far from what I would have wanted for my son.”

Lucien took a heavy breath. He was doing an exceptional job at looking unruffled, but Elain knew him well enough, now, to see the cracks in his demeanor. To see that he was fighting hard to maintain his composure as he shrugged. “I suppose we’ve all been doing our best with the hands we’ve been dealt.”

“I won’t presume that you’ll hold me in any fatherly regard,” Helion said, studying his son’s face so carefully. “I know you’re a grown male, and that you’ve established a life for yourself outside of the constraints of your bloodline.” His eyes flicked over Lucien’s shoulders to where Elain was standing. He smiled gently, and she could recognize so much of Lucien in that smile that she suddenly felt like weeping.

It dropped as those amber eyes flicked back to Lucien, noting the way he clenched his jaw. “But I want you to know that I do regard you as my son. And that if you wish it, the Day Court can be home to you. To both of you,” he added.

Lucien turned, looking to Elain like he’d only just noticed she was there. He swallowed as their eyes met, letting her in just long enough that she could sense how difficult this was for him. He extended an open palm toward her, and she wasted no time in coming to his side to thread her fingers through his.

A long breath fled those plush, full lips. Lucien returned his eyes to Helion and nodded once, slowly, for the High Lord to continue.

Helion took his own deep breath. “I will treat you as my rightful heir, like you have always been.”

“Thank you,” Lucien said tightly. He was gripping his hand hard enough to hurt. Elain gave him an encouraging squeeze. “How’s my mother?”

“She is…” Helion pressed his lips together in thought. Searching, Elain guessed, for a way to cover up an unpleasant truth. “...concerned for her sons. Especially for you.”

“You can tell her I’m fine,” he said. Then he winced. “Eris…”

“I’m sure you’ll discover how he’s faring shortly,” Helion said, voice too grave to be reassuring.

“Whatever Beron’s done, I’m sure he’ll survive.” There was a hollowness to Lucien’s expression as he spoke that made her wonder if he knew what Beron had done to Eris.

Helion’s eyes darkened. The Lady of Autumn would certainly find no comfort in such reassurance. “Surviving is not the only objective, Lucien.”

It sounded like a warning. Fatherly enough that Lucien looked towards the door impatiently. “We should probably find the Night Court before they start to worry. Elain’s sisters can be exceptionally protective.”

The High Lord smiled politely at the excuse. “If you need any help, Lucien, you know where to find me.”

Lucien was already pulling Elain towards the door. He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder to his watchful father. “Send my mother my regards.”

The stairwell was not nearly so whimsical in the dark, much harder to see the hundreds of steps with only the light of the stars and the flickering faelight. It was cold as well, the damp night air pressing in from the shoreline far below.

Lucien used his freehand to summon a large, glowing flame, providing her warmth and light as he carefully helped them down the stars. Round and round and round until they reached a long corridor.

She didn’t know where they were going—she was certain Lucien didn’t either. But they moved with purpose, footsteps hurried on the smooth, golden stone. The flame in his hand bounced off the polished surface, illuminating the long hallway they walked through. Eventually they came across a private garden that he pulled her into.

The flame in his hand extinguished, leaving a light trail of smoke in its absence.

Lucien turned to her with wide eyes. It was too dark in the garden to see much of his features, but the moonlight still caught those smoldering pairs of russet and gold. Quiet enough that she could hear the mechanical eye clicking as it focused on her.

Escaping—his purpose had been escaping. And now that it was fulfilled, he looked lost. It punctured her anger like it was nothing but a hot ball of air, rushing out of her all at once.

None of today had been easy for him.

“You’ve been making a lot of promises, recently,” she said to him.

It gave him something to focus on. Lucien watched her, nodding his head in a wary encouragement for her to go on.

“That very first day we met,” she whispered, stepping closer to him, “you promised me a garden.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips, enough that it offered her a measure of relief. “Actually, I think I was very clear that providing you one was beyond my means.”

She smiled, too, taking another step towards him. “You promised you would show me every flower in Prythian.”

He gestured around the garden. “And look at where I’ve taken you. We can check Dawn Court off the list of ones to see.”

Another step closer, and now she could see some of the life that returned to his eyes. He was keeping still, trying to measure her intent.

“You promised you would keep me safe.”

Something sparked in his eyes, a kernel of mischief that, if she was clever, she would be fleeing down the hallway to escape. Instead she stepped closer still.

One hand came instinctively to her hips, his palm broad enough that it spanned almost to her backside. The other found her chin, tilting her face so that she could see the way his lips were curling back into that irritating smile she begrudgingly loved.

“And I have spent every second in pursuit of that promise,” Lucien answered. “Even if you haven’t made my job easy.” He pulled at her hips, tugging her closer. “How many humans have survived living in Prythian as long as you have?”

She hummed, keeping her eyes on those full, tilted lips. “I know of at least two.”

“You’ve been here far longer than Nesta,” Lucien countered. “And I would argue I’ve kept you much safer than Feyre was.”

Elain craned her neck defiantly, slipping her chin from his grip to look at him through her thick lashes. “You promised you would come back from the Battle of Winter.”

“I should have made you promise you would be in Spring when I did,” he teased, eyes flicking to her mouth.

“You promised me a ring,” she whispered.

“Any one you want,” he assured. “I’ll go diving in the Adriatic sea and find a pearl to fashion atop your finger, if that would make you happy.”

“And is there a reason, mate,” he shuddered at the way the word rolled from her tongue, “that you are being so accommodating?”

“Because I love you,” was his answer, and Elain knew it was an honest one.

Such a sweet, simple truth.

She swallowed, looking into his eyes of burning metal. Warm like an autumn flame and a summer sun, filled with an excruciating amount of love that lended honesty to his words.

“You promised me you would never treat your life as disposable,” she said, this time an accusation.

“The bargain we made prevents me from doing so.” He raised his wrist so she could see the ribbon still tied around it. “I would not have agreed to go to Autumn if I thought it would kill me.”

“When do you leave?”

His smile dropped. With a sigh, he lowered his head until their foreheads pressed together. “The sooner we can put Eris on the throne, the more powerful Autumn’s support will be in the war. I was going to leave tomorrow.”

It’s what she feared he would say. Quietly, she asked, “How long will it take?”

“It depends,” he said honestly, catching a lock of her hair. He twined the curls around his finger, eyes suddenly distant, contemplative. “It could take a day. It could take… weeks. But by the end of it I will come home to you, all the same.”

“Promise?” she whispered.

He leaned down to capture her mouth in a slow kiss. “Promise.”

Taglist: @arrowmusings@daydreamer-anst@darling-archeron@bridgertononmymind

#I can't wait to read this tomorrow with some morning tea #i already know it's going to be amazing

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs