I decided to reread A Court of Faded Dreams (again) and I just have to tell you that it was very sexy of you to give us Rhys' pov of Calanmai 😘 that whole scene was perfection and might be my favorite bit of Feysand content on ao3.
(Please don't think this is pressure to finish the fic or anything. I just genuinely love it and you!)
This is so sweet 😭😭 I know it's hard to believe but I actually have been working on ACoFD again! I really really want to try and finish it before the next acotar book comes out, so wish me luck!
Summary: Lucien has been tasked with one singular mission: help Eris ascend to the Autumn Court throne. Fortunately, Helion Spell-Cleaver is happy to provide some much needed instruction for breaking past Autumn's wards.
Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter・ ACOFD Masterlist
-
It was a day Lucien relived often.
In an immortal lifespan, memories eroded over time. But never this one.
He could recall every detail, to the exact placement of brown freckles dusted over blood-orange skin. His lips traced over them in a pattern he could replicate now, drawing a constellation of promises that he murmured to her in the low light of dawn, interrupted only by her soft, enticing giggles.
I’ll gather my things.
I’ll meet you after sunset.
We’ll run away once it’s dark.
The path was so clear, then. They would escape to Spring, where he would call in a favor with the young High Lord, an old friend, to seek refuge. He would take Jesminda as his wife and once their bond snapped, they would have it declared by a priestess so that no one, not even the High Lord of the Autumn Court, could deny that the Mother had chosen a flower nymph as an equal match to a High Lord’s son.
Maybe then, he would be forgiven for spurning his bloodline. Or maybe he would live as an exile. It didn’t matter, so long as Jesminda was by his side.
-
The Day Court boasted a thousand libraries, thirteen pegasi, a capital city flowing with commerce, and—of course—a considerable treasure trove.
But it was the sight of the sunflower fields, stretching from the border of the city’s walls and climbing towards the horizon, that Lucien would write about should he ever document the marvels of the Day Court. Wind whipped past them in the golden chariot Helion had insisted they use to traverse his court, and Lucien was grateful he’d chosen to bind his hair into a knot that morning as he wrangled a loose strand out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear.
Helion noticed what fixed his son’s gaze, and grinned as he leaned over the crossbar to guide his steeds lower. “When we say Hyperia is paved in gold, we mean the flower petals you see below.”
It was an impressive sight. One, he thought with a twinge of sadness, that would have delighted Elain. He imagined her bright eyes, drinking in the rows of flowers drenched in the low morning light. He could imagine her running between their stalks, eclipsed by their height and yet still brighter than their petals or any other glittering thing that could be found in Helion’s court.
Lucien missed her. It was only nearing a week since he’d last seen her, and in truth, nothing was stopping him from winnowing to the Night Court for a brief visit. Except that she would distract him from what Helion insisted was his ‘training’, and it would only mean he would need to say goodbye to her again when he left for the Autumn Court.
If he ever left for the Autumn Court. A week of touring the Day Court and studying magic in the ancient libraries, and he still couldn’t break past a ward without shattering it.
“Sunflowers follow the path of the sun as it rises and descends each day,” Helion went on. “They are said to be the first worshipers of the sun. My forefathers planted these fields centuries ago, so that they, along with the sun’s path, could guide travellers to our Western Temple. Our sacred place of respite. We open its doors to any person from any court seeking shelter.”
The Elysian temple. Lucien swallowed past a strange, coppery bitterness that settled over his tongue. He was aware of the temple because he and Jesminda had once considered making pilgrimage to its doors.
“I’m surprised Amarantha left it standing,” he said. “Any of it.”
Helion regarded the flower fields below with a familiar tightness, the same that Lucien felt in his chest whenever he invoked that name. He’d watched Tamlin rip out her throat, yet sometimes he swore he could still feel her looming over his shoulder, cackling at his every misfortune. Old and new.
Her shadow cast over Helion, lingering in his eyes as he pressed his lips together. Then sighed. “She didn’t. When I returned to Hyperia, these fields were ash. The temples fared better, particularly the one in the East, but there was still much that needed to be rebuilt. Too much.”
-
Hands grabbed at him. Unfamiliar, belonging to few or many, he could no longer distinguish. Words were being thrown at and around him. Some panicked, some harsh, some so choked and pathetic they eked out like creaking wood.
“Tam…”
That was his voice. Wet with blood. He was smothered in it, swallowing so much that he would still taste the copper for years to come. But it all weighed little in the face of the agony searing through him.
“Tam, my eye. Is it… Am I…”
He knew it was gone. There were moments, between the nails gouging his skin and blood pouring over his face, where the pain had been so visceral that he’d lost consciousness. But he’d been awake the moment his eye tore loose from its socket; he’d felt the sickening pop and he’d screamed until he gurgled his own blood.
If Tamlin was there, if he heard his friend, he offered no response. Lucien thought he might have heard the sound of someone retching, though his awareness was soon overcome by the coarse rag being pressed to his wounds. To stave the bleeding or cover the ghastly sight, he wasn’t fully certain.
Finally, he heard Tamlin bark to someone, his voice strained, “Get me a fucking healer. Right now!”
A healer wouldn’t be able to fix this, though.
-
If anyone had asked Lucien how he imagined his long-lost father would teach him to break through the Autumn Court wards, Lucien would not have guessed that it would involve holding babies.
The babe in Lucien’s arms stared at him through wide, unblinking eyes, and irises so dark that the pupils nearly swallowed them whole. Lucien stared back, utterly terrified he was holding the child incorrectly.
“Cradle the back of his head,” Helion murmured to him.
Lucien did as he was told, sliding his hand so that he was supporting the babe’s neck and head, marvelling at the soft tuft of hair against his fingers, and how delicate the young faerie felt bundled in his arms.
“You would make an excellent father, lord,” the mother of the babe said to him, a smile gracing her lips that, to Lucien, seemed like she was saying so only to flatter him. “You have a natural affinity for it.”
“I’m too young to be a grandfather,” Helion said, grinning. Lucien felt tempted to remind the High Lord he was older than the temple they were standing in. “Although—”
“Don’t start,” Lucien interrupted. Softly, so as not to alarm the youngling. “I’d like to at least have my mating ceremony before I begin accosting my mate for children.”
“A wise decision,” the babe’s mother agreed with a small laugh. Her eyes, the same dark mahogany color as the child’s, were sparkling with a mirth that was rare to find in Prythian. Especially in recent years. “I’m sure your mating ceremony will be a magnificent day of celebration in our court.”
“Oh—”
“Of course it will be,” Helion said merrily, before Lucien could inform the female that he did not know where he would be hosting his mating ceremony. Or when, given that he was currently separated from his mate. He was here, wasting time in the Elysian Temple, while she waited for him in another court, believing he was doing something important. “I will declare it a public holiday.”
“Ah—”
“We’ll host a full seven-day festival in my son’s honor,” Helion continued before Lucien could finish forming his protest. The shape of it came loose, anyhow, too stunned by the declaration.
He repeated with a healthy dose of incredulity, “Seven days?”
None of his half-brothers had mates that he was aware of, and if they did then they certainly wouldn’t have announced it to Beron, let alone had a public mating ceremony. Not after they had all witnessed what happened to Jesminda.
“Or longer. Tradition dictates one for each day of the frenzy,” Helion said, sharing a conspiratorial glance with the child’s mother. “And while the mated couple will be copulating, our court—”
“I do not want to know what you will be doing.”
Helion chuckled. “For a people famed to be as wild as flame, the Autumn Court's culture seems remarkably… reserved.”
The memories were unbidden—they always were. Scorched earth and charred skin. A brother constantly over his shoulder, hissing for Lucien to keep his head down, his mouth shut. And every scar on his body that was living evidence of the times he failed to heed that warning.
“An untamed fire is a dangerous thing,” Lucien said with a shrug.
When Helion frowned, it was as if the light in the temple dimmed, a cloud passing over the sun to reveal the shadows Lucien hadn’t realized were hiding. But he could see them now, darkening the High Lord’s face, until his eyes were less the color of amber and more a pool of magma.
“Indeed,” Helion said. That tone encouraged Lucien to begin rocking the babe in his arms, soothing the child from the underlying sharpness in the High Lord's voice. “And Beron has decided it's better to let that fire be snuffed than to risk his sons learning to control it.”
Lucien grimaced, looking apologetically to the mother still perched before him, who had certainly not visited the temple to witness their familial tension. He extended the babe outwards to her, and she accepted her son back into her arms with a small bow. “Thank you for holding him, my lord.”
“Remind me again,” Lucien asked once the mother departed through one of the temple’s many open arches. “How will holding children help me break through the Autumn Court’s wards?”
“How better to connect with the Day Court, then to stare directly into the eyes of its future?”
More nonsense dressed up as wisdom, Lucien thought dryly.
Helion gave an exaggerated sigh as if Lucien had spoken the thought out loud. “The priestesses believe the arrival of the Day Court’s heir is a good omen. Children are rare and so sacred, especially during a time of war, so our people are making a pilgrimage to our temple so that you may bless their sons and daughters with good fortune.”
Good fortune. Lucien could have laughed. To think he possessed good fortune in such excess that he could pass it to a child through the simple act of holding one for a few minutes… his life would have been much different, if that were the case.
“Good fortune and I are not exactly well acquainted.”
“No? And is a mating bond not the most rare and precious gift a male could be given?”
Lucien set his jaw. “Elain is the one blessing the Cauldron has ever seen fit to give me. And I—” he stopped himself, eyes flickering to the ribbon tied around his wrist. He stroked his thumb over it, admiring the smooth satin as he thought of the day he’d seen it bound in her hair.
“Go on,” Helion prompted.
But Lucien looked towards the other end of the temple, down the long corridor where he could see hooded priestesses occasionally shuffle through. He would not reveal the biggest weakness of his heart simply because Helion had yet to reproach him.
“You’re worried the Cauldron will take her away, too,” Helion guessed anyway. It would be the obvious fear of any mate, Lucien supposed. “Heir to the Day Court, friend and aid to High Lords and Ladies alike, mated to the sister of the Cursebreaker. On the surface, Lucien, your life would appear overflowing with good fortune. Perhaps the cruelties you have faced were never part of the Mother’s plan. Perhaps your life’s course is finally aligning with its true purpose.”
After several steadying breaths, Lucien turned his head to look at his father. But it was difficult to acknowledge the strange mixture of grief and pride that Helion wore too freely, so instead Lucien focused his attention on the spiked crown atop Helion’s head, which mimicked the stretching rays of the sun.
“My purpose,” he repeated, like the word was foreign. “You mean being a Spell-Cleaver?”
“Allying Prythian,” Helion corrected. “You were an integral part of the Night and Spring alliance, were you not? And now you are responsible for instrumenting Autumn’s compliance as well. Your ties to the other rulers mean that you are uniquely situated to maintain peace after the war has ended. You, Lucien, are the pivotal component to a united Prythian. That is your purpose.”
Purpose also wasn’t something Lucien would consider himself well acquainted with. A seventh son didn’t have much purpose outside of getting into trouble, an exiled seventh son even less so. He had volunteered to kill Beron because he owed it to Jesminda, he’d had no thought of purpose outside of her vengeance and the sway Eris’s crown would bring to the war. To think he was part of a larger purpose, one that the Cauldron had perhaps always intended for him…
Footsteps sounded from the stairs leading up to the temple, and soon another female appeared with a child cradled in her arms. Lucien tried not to shift in his seat as the female’s eyes landed directly on him and her lips parted in awe. He was not used to being regarded with such reverence.
“And so to fulfill my purpose, I need to hold babies?”
Helion hummed, like a masterful tactician laying his piece upon a strategy board. Lucien still couldn’t help feeling like this was all an elaborate ploy to show off his new son to an adoring Court. He allowed the mother to hand him the child anyway.
“Hold the children,” Helion said quietly, “and remember there is innocence worth protecting in this world. Just as yours should have been. Hold them, and forgive them for whatever cruelties they may face. Hold them, and forgive yourself.”
-
“Hold him down.”
Lucien heard Amarantha say those words once before. He willed himself not to tremble at the memory. So much of it was the same—the guards forcing him to his knees, the stone biting into his skin, the wretched court assembling to watch. He forced himself to look at the ceiling. It was better than looking towards the crowd, where he might glimpse the outright glee on his brothers' faces.
Or worse, the grief in his mother’s eyes.
Even if it would offer a tactical opportunity to sift his enemies from his allies, he could not bear to witness her pain. Not again.
“Little Vanserra runt,” Amarantha crooned from her throne on the dais above. “Let me see that pretty eye. I was so generous to let you keep one of them the last time. Now I wonder, should I take it from you as punishment?”
Kill me, he thought, keeping his eyes fixed above. Mother have mercy and allow this wretched life to end.
“Or maybe it’s time to finally end your small, pathetic existence.”
He took a deep, level breath. The mother must have answered his prayer. He couldn’t say that he was relieved, but at least he would finally be reunited with Jesminda.
“No.”
Lucien jerked his attention to the twin thrones, not expecting to find Tamlin braced at the edge of his seat, hands curled into a fist. Breaking his silence at Lucien’s expense.
Amarantha raised her brows. “No?”
Tamlin grit his teeth, as if it was painful for him to choke out the words, “Please. Spare him.”
She considered this. Lucien knew that if she decided to spare him, whatever she decided to do instead would be far worse. And would come at a significant cost to his friend. Lucien tried to meet Tamlin’s eyes, tried to communicate that he would be better off dead than whatever she had in mind.
Amarantha drew her gaze over to the crowd, where Rhysand was observing the scene with a sinister grin. He must have said something to her mind, because she hummed, swivelling her head to glance between Tamlin and Lucien. Then she laughed—a sharp, sickening sound that raised every hair on his body.
“Very well,” she said. “Since you have such a fondness for your little pet, Tamlin, I won’t kill him. But only if you are the one to bestow his punishment.”
Lucien’s spine straightened at the sound of a whip dragging over stone. Tamlin’s mouth tightened and at last he met Lucien’s eyes. There was already an apology in them, and Lucien nodded his head to grant his forgiveness.
One of the guards slid a small piece of wood between Lucien’s teeth. It was only then he realized his lips were trembling. Clawed hands tore at his clothes, not caring if they scratched him in the process of exposing his flesh to the eager spectators. Behind him, the Attor cracked the whip in the air. The crowd snickered at Lucien’s visible flinch.
He could tell from the sound alone—the leather was wet. Soaked in bloodbane, if he had to guess from the cruel smile peeling across Amarantha's face.
“Twenty lashes. And if it looks like you’re holding back, I’ll add ten more.”
-
The shield exploded again.
"It's okay, Lucien," was Helion's immediate response. "It will come with time."
Lucien didn't have time. War was coming, and it wasn't going to wait for him to master a novice party trick.
Shrugging off Helion's touch, Lucien barred his teeth at the open archway and snarled, "Again."
"I think you may have practiced enough for one—"
"Again."
With a resigned sigh, Helion raised his hands, conjuring a ward that spanned the width of the archway, wrapping over the threshold as though someone had blown a great, shimmering bubble. With his mechanical eye, Lucien could track the shape of it—a skill which should have lent an advantage and yet, he was no better off than a blind fledgling.
He pressed his palm to the invisible barrier, feeling it hum against his skin. Eyes fluttering shut, Lucien tried to listen to that hum, allowing it to evoke images of sun-bathed plains and saltwater coves. He heard mallets banging against hide-stretched drums, and people chanting to an ancient song, one that called to his bones.
I am a part of you, he whispered, trying to join that song. He could hear the freedom in their voices, so clear that he could almost see their shadows dancing, could feel the wind lifting their hair. He'd once known that sort of freedom, had once laughed and ran barefoot and sang to the trees.
It was mirth. It was spirit. This magic… it was the essence of life.
And it shattered the moment he tried to become one with it.
"Again."
-
It did not matter that he was exhausted from battle.
It did not matter that he would be walking into a trap.
They had taken his mate. His mate. His precious, beautiful Elain, who he had promised to keep safe.
A haunting image crossed his mind, one of blood-orange skin peeling back from the bones. He could not tell if his throat was raw from shouting throughout the battle, or from the memory of his screams.
"No,” Feyre was saying at his back, “No, nononono—it can’t be like this.”
“It won’t,” Lucien said, his knuckles tightening around the hilt of his swords. “I’m going to get her back. Right now.”
“No,” Feyre said again. Then, more firmly, “We have to be smart about this, Lucien, we can’t just—”
But Lucien had no patience for reason. He was already turning away, already vanishing into smoke. They had his mate, and nothing else mattered, not even his own life. Because if anything happened to her, his life was already forfeit.
He could not survive that kind of loss. Not again.
-
Lucien stared at his reflection in the handheld mirror.
He'd never been very good at admiring his own appearance. Once, perhaps, in arrogant youth, but any pride he managed to summon was quickly snuffed out and eradicated by his brothers. He'd always known he'd looked different from them, had been told by his mother that he'd inherited traits from a distant family line.
Not so distant anymore. Helion hovered directly over him, grinning when Lucien pinned him with an incredulous stare through the glass.
"And I thought holding children was a far-fetched methodology."
"It is not just any mirror," Helion said with boundless patience. "My scholars use it as a form of meditation. Stare into it long enough, and you will find every part of you reflected back. Even the pieces you've long thought buried."
Lucien snorted. "It's a bit on the nose for a teaching on self-reflection."
Helion only stared, his expression uncharacteristically solemn. "I think you are overdue an honest conversation with yourself."
-
"Lucien?"
"Luuuuuucien?"
"Where are you, little brat?"
"Lucien!"
Anxiety spiked through his blood at the sound of those calls. Their voices were distant, drifting from somewhere down the corridor. But he recognized their promise of violence, and the way he reached for the nearest door handle was purely instinctive.
Hide. If he hid, and hid well enough, they would eventually get bored and find something else to torment.
Lucien found himself in a large room, mostly empty save for the odd pieces of furniture draped in dusty slipcovers. They didn't use this wing of the palace often, only when there was an overspill of guests, which was rare. Beron was distrustful on his best days, preferring to keep his social visits short and sparse. People were more easily controlled in smaller groups.
It benefited Lucien at present. He wandered deeper into the abandoned room, eying the covered portraits and dusty floorboards. Then he paused.
There, set into the thick layer of dust, was a trail of footprints.
The sign that this room was occupied would normally have sent him scrambling in the other direction, fearing he'd cornered himself in a closed space with one of his brothers. But Lucien felt oddly calm as he examined the tracks, recognizing the shape of a small, booted foot.
Against his better judgment, he followed the trail. It led him to the heavy floor-to-ceiling curtains at the end of the room, which he pulled back to reveal a large chest. His eyes flicked to the window, wondering if the person responsible for the tracks had used the chest as a stepping stool to climb out the window. It was sealed shut, the locking mechanism snicked carefully in place, and though both feats could be accomplished with a flick of magic, Lucien glanced down at the chest and hummed thoughtfully.
On further assessment, he noticed the soft, shimmering hum of magic. A glamour. The chest was meant to be hidden from sight, he realized, and he'd been able to see through it on account of his mechanical eye.
Lucien reached forward, brushing a curious hand along the shell of the glamour. It held solid, like a shield, and he recognized the pulse of light that zapped through him upon contact.
Day Court magic.
In the Forest House?
He pushed harder against the shield, driven by fervent curiosity. He needed to know where the source of that magic was coming from almost as badly as he wanted to know what was inside the chest.
It wasn't strong. After applying just the slightest bit of pressure, it popped, toppling him forward the minute there was nothing to hold up his weight. He caught himself against the chest with a heavy thud.
Inside, he thought he heard a whimper.
"It's okay," he called as he cracked open the chest. "I'm not going to hurt you."
There was a boy crouched inside. A lean, gangly thing, more bone than muscle. Through thin arms raised protectively over his head, Lucien spied two wet russet eyes, fixed into a fierce scowl despite the tears.
The boy blew out a breath that pushed a strand of unruly scarlet hair out of his face. "Go away," he huffed.
Lucien raised his brows in challenge. "Or you'll what, strike me down?" When the boy didn't lower his arms, Lucien considered that might be exactly what he had in mind. Hiding a smile, he nodded at the chest. "What were you doing in here?"
"Hiding from my brothers."
"Why?"
The boy sniffed. "The glow."
"What?"
"Eris hits me whenever I start glowing." The boy dropped his arms, opening his palms to stare in abject misery at the faint light emitting from them. "This time I couldn't stop it. So I hid."
"Can I see?" Lucien asked.
The boy hesitated, wet eyes full of distrust as he studied Lucien, then reluctantly extended his glowing hand. Lucien was gentle about taking it, studying the light emitting from the center with fascination.
He let go when the boy started trembling, a fresh sob wracking through his small frame as he yanked his arm back into the safety of the chest, turning his shoulder to shield it carefully from sight. He said, tearfully, "I can't control it. I'm—" he hiccuped— "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," Lucien said softly, hand still hovering in the air, holding nothing between his loose fingers. "That magic is powerful. You should be proud of it."
"Eris says i-its a disgrace."
"That's because it scares him," Lucien explained. He had no memory of this magic, nor Eris targeting him for it, but Lucien could guess why it was happening. "He's afraid of what the magic means, and what will happen to you or your mother if it's discovered. He wants you to be afraid of it, too."
"I am," the boy said, voice wobbling. "I don't care if it's powerful—I don't want it." He closed his fist, obscuring the glow between his tightly pressed fingers. "I want it to just go away!"
Just as Lucien opened his mouth, prepared to offer the boy some sort of comfort or wisdom or anything that might ease the self-loathing taking shape before him, hardening like stone inside that little boy's chest, the door snicked open.
"Get out of there!" A voice snarled, echoing through the otherwise empty room.
The boy's eyes widened in panic, staring past Lucien as though he were no longer there. And when the source of the voice strode forward, the male moved through Lucien as though he were a ghost, no more tangible than air.
Eris, younger and more harrowed-looking than Lucien recalled—but still unmistakably Eris—seized the boy around the wrist and hauled him out of the chest.
"Let go of me!" The boy hissed. "I'm sorry!"
"Sorry?" Eris repeated, shoving the boy to the floor. "You will be. What were you thinking, using that magic?" He bared his teeth. "Do you want me to beat you bloody?"
"I-I hid so no one would find me!"
"I found you!" Eris snarled. "And if I could find you, so could anyone else!"
"I'm sorry," the boy whispered, curling his knees into his chest. He raised his arms to shield his head, preparing for blows. "I'm sorry, I-I-I'm sorry."
-
"I'm sorry," Lucien said, staring vacantly into the mirror, watching tears spill from his biological eye. The other remained dry, clicking and whirring as he stared and stared and stared at his reflection. "I'm sorry. I'm—"
"Lucien," Helion called, shaking his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so—"
"Enough!"
The mirror was pried from his hands and sent flying to the other side of the room, where it crashed and skidded across the marble floor, scattering fractals of glass in every direction.
Lucien grasped the empty air, mouth agape as he stared at the shattered mirror. It had to have been expensive, a magic artifact like that. Rare and powerful and not easily replaced.
He sputtered, reaching towards the mess on the floor as if he could somehow undo the damage. "W-why would you…?"
Helion gripped Lucien's shoulder firmly, turning him away from the mirror so he was forced to confront the High Lord's pinched expression. His face was unnervingly close, almost nose-to-nose, and Lucien resisted the urge to flinch away. Especially as Helion cupped Lucien's face and chased the tear away.
It was… mortifying.
"I'm fine," Lucien said, trying to pull away.
Helion kept him arrested in place, expression stern. "You're not."
"My memories aren't exactly the most pleasant to relive," Lucien said, wrestling with his discomfort. At Helion's proximity, at the emotion the High Lord was witnessing, at the look of pity crossing his face. It all left a foul taste at the back of Lucien's mouth, and he wanted to thrash and fight and maybe break that Cauldron-forsaken mirror a second time for good measure.
"Lucien," Helion said, the way one speaks to a spooked horse. "You've been pushing yourself too hard with this, and I've been letting you. I should never have given you that mirror."
"Pushing myself too hard?" Lucien repeated, his voice rising. "I've been here for weeks! Wasting time with these pointless training exercises when I should be in the Autumn Court, completing the mission I was assigned! This was all—" He pushed Helion away, and when there was space between them, he felt like he could finally breathe again. "This was all a mistake. The war will be over by the time I learn how to use this magic."
They regarded each other, shoulders drawn tense, eyes wary. This was new territory in their nascent relationship. A disagreement. An outburst. Beron would have reacted by now, knowing to strike when an opponent is weakest.
Helion only studied him, expression pensive.
"You're right," he said, finally.
There it was—the blow Lucien had been bracing for. He thought, by now, it wouldn't have phased him. How many times had he been told he wasn't good enough? That there was no sense in expecting anything but failure from him?
He clenched his teeth, feeling something deep in his chest coil and wither. Like that little boy was still there, weeping as he stared at his glowing palm and realized that even its source had abandoned him as a lost cause.
"I expected too much from you, too quickly," Helion said, twisting the blade in Lucien's invisible wound. "As I told you, it took me years—decades—to master this magic. Expecting you to learn it in a few meager weeks, having been cut off from the source of your power for your entire life? I gave you an impossible challenge."
"Please," Lucien said, turning his face away. "Enough."
He didn't want to hear any more about how he'd failed. Helion, himself, Prythian. Elain.
A large hand clapped down on his shoulder, once again forcing Lucien to look into the face that was so like his it was unnerving. Like staring into that mirror once again, but this time seeing everything he could have been. All the knowledge and power and confidence that he could have possessed, if things had been different.
"I gave you the impression that you needed to learn this alone." Helion squeezed his fingers, spreading warmth across Lucien's shoulders. "But you are not alone, Lucien. And if you're not ready to cleave Autumn's wards, then I will do it for you."
"And if you're looking for a way to sneak into Autumn," said a feminine voice. They both turned, and Lucien's mouth parted to find his mother standing at the entry to their private room in the Great Library.
He hadn't seen her during his time at the Day Court. Truthfully, he'd been avoiding her, uncertain of what to say or how to confront this truth she'd been keeping from him for centuries.
But at the sight of her, with her cheeks full and her posture proud and her eyes brighter than he'd ever seen them, all of his tangled thoughts of betrayal and deceit came loose. It was like he was meeting her for the first time. A female with a mischievous smile and clever eyes, so familiar and yet entirely different from the mother he'd known before.
She offered them both a haughty smile, crossing her arms over her chest. "Then you'll need someone to show you the passageways that even Beron and his sons don't know about."
I've actually been doing a lot of work on the ACoFD universe recently! No one's more surprised about it than I am
Despite knowing it was hardly a comfort to anyone, Feyre added, "Eris is our ally, however tentatively. He owes us a favor. We can trust he won't hurt them."
I simply love all your work! I am currently reading A Court of Faded Dreams and I see the last time ut was updated was 2023. I'm hoping continuing this story is still in the works! I am slowly making my way through all your work! 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰
Hi thank you!!! Yes, none of my WIPs are abandoned and I still have full intention of continuing A Court of Faded Dreams. It's been getting a lot of love recently and that's been doing wonders for my motiviation to return to that series
But yes, definitely check out some of my other works too! ACoFD was my first fic for this fandom and while I love it, I like to think that my writing has improved a bit in the last 4 years and my more recent works might reflect that growth.
Also, this fandom is overflowing with talent, so definitely be sure to check out some other authors as well! I have a fic rec masterlist here you can check out 💕
Just letting you know it's 1 am where I live, last day of Christmas holidays for me so I should try to get back to "normal" waking hours but I've just started reading A Court of Faded Dreams for the... I don't know, tenth time? And it's totally your fault because the more I read it, the more I love it. I'm so grateful you read ACOTAR and started writing such freaking fantastic stories <3
DID YOU COME HERE TO MAKE ME CRY?? 😭😭
This is so kind, thank you 🥺 I promise I haven’t forgotten about ACoFD. I would really like to be able to finish it this year, if only because of people like you who have been so supportive and patient with me. Thank you for this extra motivation to return to that project ❤️
I’ve had family staying with me the last few weeks so I haven’t had time to write. But in the interest of still making progress in the interim, I’ve been rereading ACoFD in my little snippets of downtime.
I appreciate that ACoFD is my most popular fic and a lot of people seem to enjoy it, but in full honestly it’s been so painful to read my writing from three years ago and not feel tempted to tear everything down and restart
Summary: Captured and held in the dungeons of Hybern's castle, Azriel receives help from the most unexecpted being—a priestess.
This takes place in the A Court of Faded Dreams universe after Chapter 50, though it could possibly function as a stand alone read. I think the context is relatively straight forward, but I definitely recommend reading the main storyline if it interests you!
Read on AO3 ✦ ACoFD Masterlist ✦ Previous Chapter
-
Azriel was going to murder Jurian.
Of course, he would need to make his way down the list of people he was planning to murder first, and that was currently a long, grotesquely detailed list. At the top was the King of Hybern, who stood smugly behind him, carelessly holding Azriel’s restraints like he was little more than leashed chattel to be sold to the highest bidder.
Which led him to the next person on his kill list—the High Lord perched on the dias above him, as well as the litter of red-headed sons standing on either side of the oak-hewn throne. They were grinning, a pack of hyenas prepared to close in for the final kill.
“A gesture of goodwill,” the King of Hybern said, shoving Azriel to his knees. “Yours to do what you wish. Kill him, sell him, trade him back to the Night Court.”
Beron leaned back in his seat, studying his prize carefully. Azriel’s arms and wings were bound tightly behind his back, and though the chains biting into his chest and shoulders were crafted of faesbane, Azriel still liked his chances of putting at least one of the Vanserras on their ass if they got too close. He curled his lips back into a snarl, wanting them to know that if they took him prisoner, he would do everything in his power to make containing him a miserable, tedious affair. Eris smirked, eager to play the very same game.
“The fae do not give gifts freely—particularly none as valuable as the Night Court’s Spymaster.” Beron tipped his chin with an authority that spoke to the centuries he had sat on that throne. Even an instinctual part of Azriel sensed the power thrumming from the High Lord and begged for him to yield.
He raged against it, baring his teeth at the Lord and his sons. Jurian kicked him in the ribs as retribution, and Azriel snarled. With his matted hair and blood stained clothes, he likely looked every inch the primitive beast the Illyrians were usually accused of being.
“As far as I am aware,” Beron continued, paying no attention to Azriel’s show of defiance, “all debts between us are paid. What is it you seek in return?”
The King of Hybern tipped his head back and laughed. The sound rattled through the chamber—as low and hollow as a wooden knocker slamming against a rotted door.
“Still so careful, after all these centuries. Have I not fostered good will between us?” Beron stared ahead at the King, unflinching in the face of so much power. The King shook his head, the way one might at an amusing, petulant child. “Very well, Beron. I wish to add additional reinforcements to the delegation from my Kingdom.”
Beron’s face was stern. “How many?”
“Three of my commanders,” The King said, then made a sweeping gesture towards Jurian. “And my human general. They’ll be overseen by my niece and nephew, who I’ve heard have been greatly enjoying your hospitality.”
To the right of Beron’s throne, there was a whisper of movement. A flicker of red hair, attracting Azriel’s attention as he watched Eris Vanserra quickly reach out and bunch the back of his younger brother’s tunic into his fist, restraining the furious male with that single gesture. It was so subtle that no one else seemed to notice.
“For what purpose?” Eris asked, calmly, drawing a flat look from his father.
“Their mission is to survey the land. Find the best place to stage our battleground. They’ll be making expeditions into Spring to examine the wall.”
Beron gave a slow, if not displeased, nod. “Very well.”
At that, Jurian delivered a sharp kick to the gap between Azriel’s wings. With his hands restrained behind his back, Azriel had nothing to slow the momentum as he fell miserably onto his stomach with a low grunt. The chains rattled through the throne room.
“Eris,” Beron called.
There was no other instruction. Brown polished shoes came into Azriel’s line of sight as Eris stepped forward—a leashed pet in his own right. Azriel was tempted to spit on the fine leather that stopped in front of his face. From the clamor above him and the way his bindings slackened for just a moment, Azriel imagined the Autumn heir was taking the chains from the King.
Then a sturdy hand tangled in his hair, gripping tightly to yank Azriel’s neck upwards, forcing him to peer into the burning amber eyes of Eris Vanserra.
“Welcome to the Autumn Court,” he crooned.
-
“I must admit, I was surprised to hear from you.”
Ianthe’s voice had a lovely cadence and an even lovelier inflection. Soft, lilting, so like the chitter of birdsong in the trees overhead. It was easy to see why she had fast become a voice of influence among the priestesses. And though Gwyn had only heard glowing praise about Ianthe, she couldn’t help feeling nervous to be walking beside the High Priestess. Likely because she was so well renowned, and so kind, and Gwyn had not been entirely honest in her correspondence.
“Many of our sisters are understandably cautious about being assigned to the Autumn Court with the current state of politics,” Ianthe continued, leading Gywn past a pair of bronze-armored sentries standing outside the solid oak doors that led into the Forest House. The personal residence of the High Lord of the Autumn Court.
“Of course,” Ianthe said, pushing the doors open with an unsettling amount of comfort, like she was more than a guest to the High Lord—like this was her home. “We have avowed to stay neutral to such affairs. Regardless, I understand that being in a court central to the conflicts can feel intimidating.” They stepped into a long corridor, their footsteps bouncing endlessly down the empty hall. “But it is precisely for that reason that the people of the Autumn Court need our help more than ever. As you well know, it is faith people turn to in times of crisis. They require our help, ordained by the Hands of the Goddess, to lead them out of despair and darkness.”
“I couldn’t agree more, sister,” Gwyn said, feeling only mildly guilty for the lie. She’d had to feign twice as much enthusiasm in Sangravah to get the transfer approved. Even more to Catrin, who strongly felt this plan was absurd. “My mother is from the Autumn Court and its people did not ask to be part of this conflict. I feel strongly that they could use our support, which is why I asked to be assigned under you.”
“It has been a long while since I had a pupil training under me,” Ianthe mused. There was a fondness in her voice that relaxed some of Gwyn’s nerves. Though it was an unexpected and sudden request, there was no reason for Ianthe to suspect Gwyn was there for anything other than enriching her studies as an acolyte.
“I hope you will find my guidance valuable.” Ianthe said, perfectly content to do the majority of the speaking. “And I’m sure there is plenty I will learn from you, in turn.”
Gwyn bowed her head respectively. “I will strive to learn all I can as your humble pupil.”
“I’ve been told you’re very well studied.” Ianthe’s full lips stretched into a smile. When she reached up to push the hood of her robe down, Gwyn was struck by how beautiful the High Priestess was. Sparkling teal eyes and bright golden hair that cascaded down to her slim waist. Charming and gorgeous and clever, it was all consistent with what Gwyn had been told to expect. She could not fathom why someone like Ianthe would choose to work so closely with a High Lord like Beron.
“I just enjoy reading,” Gwyn said, cheeks already growing warm from the praise.
“Research is a very valuable skill. I can already tell you are going to be a great asset.”
Together they turned down a short corridor where on the other end, Gwyn could see a spiral staircase carved from stone. They stopped just before it, at a wooden door which Ianthe opened to reveal a spacious bedroom.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” Ianthe said. “The temple is just up the staircase, so that you can come and go at your convenience.”
“That is very considerate,” Gwyn murmured, peering into the room. It was much nicer than the accommodation she shared with Catrin in Sangravah. Gwyn eyed the large bed with longing, trying to remind herself that she was here on a mission and that it would be foolish to indulge too readily in the luxuries of Beron’s Court.
“Why don’t you get yourself settled?” Ianthe offered her a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Once you’re ready, meet me in the temple for our afternoon service, then I will give you a tour of the Forest House.”
A tour. It would be the perfect opportunity to collect more information, to see what of the Autumn Court’s ties to Hybern would have encouraged the shadows to send her here.
Gwyn flashed the High Priestess her brightest smile. “That sounds perfect!”
-
“What a pleasure to have one of Rhysand’s dogs as our very own prisoner.”
Azriel had always known that Eris liked to hear himself speak, and he’d truly believed there was nothing that could make the male more insufferable than he already was. As it turned out, Eris’s snide voice was far worsened by the inability to punch him in the face. Regrettably, Azriel’s arms were still restrained behind his back, bound by the chain that wrapped around his neck, his legs, his wings. Two Vanserras hauled him forward by his shoulders on either side. If not for his injuries and the sedative Jurian had given him before they left the Hybern Castle, Azriel would have favored his chances of overpowering them.
Though Eris was capable of winnowing them to wherever Autumn kept its prisoners, he and his brother had decided to drag Azriel through the halls of the Forest House, flaunting their quarry to every courtier and servant that passed them by. It was a means of humiliation, but Azriel was taking full advantage of the rare opportunity to see inside the High Lord’s personal residence. He marked every corridor they turned down, his shadows already slinking away to search for every potential exit. Typical Autumn Court arrogance, betraying valuable intel for the sake of stroking their pride.
“I heard they couldn’t break you in Hybern,” Eris crooned at his back, closer than Azriel expected. “I wonder if a few nights under my care might be more persuasive.”
Azriel gave a low laugh. “From what I’ve heard, a night with you will only leave me disappointed and wanting—” He cut himself off with a low grunt as one of the Vanserra on his left threw his fist into Azriel’s gut.
“Illyrian filth always running their mouth,” he hissed.
“Easy,” Eris chided, unruffled by the insult. “There will be plenty of time for that once we’re downstairs.”
A shadow darted back to Azriel from around the corner. He felt its restlessness, but before it could provide its warning, the Vanserras turned him down the corridor.
Azriel was pinned instantly beneath two pairs of wide, teal-colored eyes. He tried not to stiffen in his shock, desperate not to let his captors know how much the sight of the younger priestess—who looked suddenly to the point of tears—had rattled him. She was wearing the same acolyte robes he had last seen her in, hood pushed back to reveal her rich coppery hair. She raised a freckled hand to cover her mouth, red brows bunched together in abject horror.
No, Azriel internally begged, wishing he had some way to communicate with the priestess that she needed to put her hand back down. You don’t know me. You don’t care about me. I am nameless, nothing.
Ianthe stood beside her, her fair expression arched with intrigue. He was unsurprised that the High Priestess was not grieved to see a prisoner of war, though it made a stark—and almost amusing—comparison to Gwyneth’s outright horror.
“Pardon us,” Ianthe said, pressing a hand to Gwyn’s shoulder to guide her firmly out of the way. “My pupil is young and has just transferred from the Sangravah temple. She’s never been exposed to the facets of war.”
One of the brothers holding Azriel by the shoulder took a breath and Azriel was preparing himself for whatever cutting remark he’d need to repay in blood later.
“Excuse us for the violence, priestesses,” Eris interrupted, with more earnesty than Azriel had anticipated. “We are just transferring a prisoner from Hybern. Continue as you were.”
With that, Azriel was led away. He didn’t dare glance over his shoulder to watch the Priestess as he went, though his mind stayed with her, wondering where she was going, what she was doing here, as he was dragged further and further into the depths of the Forest House.
-
“You’ll get used to seeing such things,” Ianthe said with a frown that made it difficult for Gwyn to subdue her rapid pulse. She knew she needed to calm herself down or it would become obvious that she was disturbed for more than just a passing stranger. “The Autumn Court is rather blatant with its brutality. Other courts observe the same cruelties and simply keep it better concealed. I find that in some aspects, the transparency is refreshing.”
Refreshing. Gwyn felt nauseated.
She stared after the stone staircase, where the Vanserra’s had vanished with a bruised and bloodied Azriel. So close to where she was lodging… she imagined it had to be a sign from the mother. An indication that she was on the right path.
“I am fine, just a bit rattled,” Gwyn assured the High Priestess, putting a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat thrummed beneath her fingers and she willed it to still. “As you can imagine, I’ve never witnessed such violence before.”
Ianthe touched her shoulder sympathetically. “It will be good to get some exposure, so that you can better understand the adversities that others face.”
“Yes,” Gwyn breathed, numbly. All she could see was Azriel’s wide hazel eyes. He always kept to the shadows in the Sangravah temple, so this was the first proper glimpse she’d had of his face, caked in blood and grime as it were. His eyes were so big, trying so desperately to communicate something with her.
Ianthe was staring at her expectantly.
She forced a smile. “As you say, it is helpful to know the hardships of others, so that we can guide them from a place of understanding.”
“Precisely.
The fingers on her shoulder tightened, then released. Ianthe stepped back, pulling her hood back over her hair.
“Get some rest, Gwyneth,” she instructed. “If you need anything, the servants will be happy to accommodate you.”
Gwyn nodded, bowing to her High Priestess before she slipped into her lodgings and shut the door. She held her breath, listening to Ianthe’s footsteps grow distant as she disappeared down the hall.
Then she cracked open the door, peeking through the slit to see if anyone was coming. It was utterly silent, no approaching footsteps and no one in her line of sight.
So with a great, fortifying breath, Gwyn darted towards the staircase.
-
“Ready to play, shadowsinger?”
This time, Azriel did spit on Eris’s polished boots. The satisfaction made the sting of the resulting kick to his jaw slightly more tolerable.
“Leave us,” Eris growled to his brothers. There were huffs of disappointment, but the Vanserra grunts did as they were told, scraping the metal door shut behind them.
The Autumn Court prison was as dark as the one in Hybern, but not nearly as cold. The stone floor felt more welcoming without the biting chill of the sea, a mercy Azriel did not expect to encounter. He raised his head to meet Eris’s cunning eyes. The Autumn Lord bore all the self-importance of a sadistic god, staring at Azriel laying at his feet. His nose scrunched in distaste, the way he might stare at a bug he was considering crushing beneath his boot.
Azriel curled his lips back into a snarl. “Give me your worst, Vanserra.”
“Cut the bullshit,” Eris said, crouching in front of Azriel so that they were eye level. The affronting male reached out to straighten Azriel’s torn collar, as though he were making the least bit of difference in the Illryian’s haggard appearance. “I’ve heard your High Lord’s little alliance has decided to help me take the throne, which makes us allies. Things are about to get very ugly in this court.”
Eris was exactly the kind of male who used the term allies loosely. He never helped anyone if it didn’t benefit him in turn, and Azriel expected that meant he would be the Autumn Court’s prisoner until Eris could make a deal with Rhysand.
“And your vicious pets?” Azriel asked, jerking his head in the direction the other Vanserras had disappeared. “I think they might notice I’m not being tortured.”
Fingers dug, hard, into his chin as Eris pushed Azriel’s face back up, forcing their eyes to meet again. “I’ll keep them out of your cage,” He said through gritted teeth. It was clear his hostility was just barely leashed by their alliance. “But I want a favor from your court in turn. To be redeemed at my leisure.”
Azriel jerked his face away, like he’d been burned by the Autumn male’s touch. “I don’t speak on behalf of my court,” he said, seething.
“Then I want a favor from you,” Eris crooned in a sweet, mocking sing-song.
Torture was preferable.
But Azriel thought of those glistening teal eyes, staring at him as if he meant something. He swallowed roughly past his pride. “Only on the condition that the priestess—the red haired one—stays safe. If anything happens to her while she’s in this court, the deal's off.”
Eris raised an angular brow, intrigued, but clearly not invested enough to pry any further. It was enough that Azriel cared about her safety. An exposed vulnerability, but at least for the moment their interests were aligned.
“Fine. The priestess will be under my protection.”
“Deal,” Azriel said bitterly.
The smirk the crossed Eris’s face was disconcerting. Azriel tried not to think too carefully about what manner of favor he’d be called in to complete. He could worry about that after he was free.
“Good,” Eris said. “Then I hope you enjoy your brief stay. Make yourself comfortable.”
-
Gwyn wasn’t certain how far down they had taken Azriel. She hadn’t realized, until she embarked, just how many levels there were in the Forest House. The staircase twisted downwards indefinitely, growing darker with every step.
It allowed Azriel’s shadows to slip through undetected. Gwyn had nearly shrieked when one jumped out at her four levels ago, tugging at her wrist when she’d been about to push open the corridor. Down, it had told her, and so she kept going. Pausing at every floor only for the shadow to tug her harder. Down.
Down, down, down.
Until she heard footsteps, and paused.
Voices, distant at first, then closer. Bouncing off the stone.
The shadows pulled at her, but Gwyn didn’t need their instruction to dart out of the stairway, slipping through a large oak door. She didn’t let it shut fully—too nervous the sound would alert whoever was coming, and because it allowed her to press her face to the small slit in the door frame.
A pair of red headed males passed by, grumbling about Eris hogging all the fun. They passed by without even glancing her direction, continuing their ascent up the unending staircase. She released a breath once they were gone, counting the seconds in her head. How long should she wait, until she was sure they wouldn’t hear her shut the door?
Glancing behind her shoulder, Gwyn could see that she was in a long, dust-covered hallway, with a single door on the other end. Portraits covered in white cloth decorated the wall and, curiously, Gwyn wandered towards one to lift the cover.
Long, flame red hair greeted her, followed by golden brown skin and bright russet eyes. A handsome male, undoubtedly a Vanserra, though there was something different about him that caused Gwyn to tilt her head to examine him closer. Lucien, she recalled. The exiled son of Autumn.
Well, at least she knew that no one would likely be frequenting this floor.
“What’s this?”
Gwyn shrieked, whirling to find Eris Vanserra standing in the entryway, the wooden door propped open beneath his palm.
“I—” Gwyn scrambled to think of an excuse, and when she came up short, she admitted, “I was curious what was under the portraits.”
He raised a brow. She could tell he didn’t believe her.
“And what are you doing so far from the temple?”
“I think he’s cute,” she blurted, face burning so hot that she hoped it was convincing.
That, at least, seemed to surprise him. But pleasantly. The way a fly surprised a spider when it tangled in his web.
“You think my exiled little brother is… cute?”
“Is this where his room used to be?” She asked, pointing down the hall.
Eris’s expression soured. “Stick to your temple, little priestess. I don’t want to find you down here again.”
There was a threat to those words that made Gwyn feel like she was choking. She bowed her head in shame, hurrying quickly out of the corridor as she mumbled, “Yes, s-Sir. Er, my Lord—Lord Eris.”
He snorted. She couldn’t decipher if it was a sound borne from humor or irritation. He didn’t move as she skulked back into the stairwell, forcing her to duck beneath his arm. Those amber eyes tracked her the whole time, watching her climb back up the stairs. Even once she was out of his line of sight, she didn’t dare turn around to see if he was following.
I want you to know that I think about the way the mating bond snapped in ACoFd at least once a day. 🥵
Can you believe that's the first smut scene I'd ever written? 😂
I always thought it was so rude of SJM to have Rhys winnow away as soon as the mating bond snapped. I wanted to see that man's mental breakdown on page! 😂 And how better to get him there than à la Feyre's pussy juice?
