ASHES OF AUTUMN, BLOOD OF NIGHT
Eris Vanserra x Rhysand’s Sister l Completed
Summary: She survived fifty years Under the Mountain. Prythian survived by forgetting her. Found unclaimed and broken-winged, Rhysand's lost sister is taken into the Autumn Court-not as a guest, but as leverage. Bound to Eris Vanserra through survival and strategy, she must learn how to exist in a world where protection has a price and power is never freely given. Masks hide faces. Festivals become battlefields. And Autumn does not burn kindly.
Warnings: Trauma, PTSD, Past abuse/torture, manipulation, Violence, abandonment, No smut (for now), slight language, emotional tension
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The Autumn Court was never quiet before a festival.
Days beforehand, the air thickened—smoke and spice clinging to every breath, anticipation seeping beneath the skin like heat beneath ash. Servants moved faster, smiles tighter. Courtiers sharpened themselves for spectacle. Even the forest seemed to lean closer, leaves burning brighter shades of red and gold, as if it, too, wished to witness what was coming.
The Harvest Festival was my father’s favorite display.
Power dressed as tradition.
I stood at the edge of the upper balcony, watching embers drift lazily through the twilight, the scent of cider and cinnamon curling through the air. Below, preparations were already underway—long tables carved from ancient wood, banners of flame-threaded silk unfurled with care, lanterns igniting one by one as dusk deepened.
And Beron never hosted without purpose.
“He’s inviting every High Lord,” one of the sentries had murmured earlier, voice pitched low. “And their courts.”
A gathering like this wasn’t celebration—it was assessment. A reminder to Prythian of where Autumn stood. A way to test alliances, probe for weakness, watch fractures form beneath polite smiles.
Now it was something else entirely.
My thoughts drifted upward, toward the tower wing where she slept.
She had taken the room without protest. No demands. No questions. That alone told me how close to breaking she truly was. Most would have clawed for answers, for guarantees. She had simply laid down, exhaustion outweighing pride.
Fifty years would hollow anyone out.
The healers had done what they could. Her strength would return, slowly. But the damage beneath the surface—the fractures carved too deep for magic alone—would take far longer to mend.
Beron had known it the instant I told him who she was. I had seen the calculation spark behind my father’s eyes, fury twisting into something bright and eager.
My father would use her whether I permitted it or not.
So I would control the terms.
I left the balcony and moved through the palace, my footsteps echoing softly against stone still warm from the day’s heat. The corridors glowed with autumn light, reds and golds deepening as night crept closer. Everything in this place was designed to appear welcoming.
That was the lie of Autumn.
Her door remained warded. Undisturbed.
I paused before knocking—not from hesitation, but calculation. This was where the illusion of choice ended. Where she would learn what survival in my court truly required.
She opened the door slowly. Her eyes were still rimmed with exhaustion, but sharper than they’d been the night before. The room behind her glowed softly, reds blending together like banked embers. She looked smaller than the space she occupied—too fragile for the weight already closing in around her.
“We need to talk,” I said.
Her shoulders tensed. “About the demand.”
Straight to the point. I respected that.
“Yes,” I replied. “About the first one.”
I stepped inside, keeping my tone even, unreadable.
“My father is hosting the Harvest Festival,” I began. “Three nights. All seven courts have been invited.”
“Every High Lord,” I continued calmly. “Their families. Their allies. Their spies.”
She said nothing, but her hands curled tightly at her sides.
“You will attend,” I said.
The words settled heavily between us.
“No,” she said immediately—too quickly. Fear bleeding through the defiance. “I can’t.”
“You can,” I corrected. “And you will.”
She shook her head. “They’ll recognize me.”
“They won’t,” I said. “Not with the glamour in place. Not unless someone is already looking too closely.”
“And if they are?” she demanded.
“Then they would have found you already.”
Silence stretched between us.
My voice softened—not kind, but deliberate. “You won’t be presented. You won’t speak unless spoken to. You will remain at my side—or within sight of it—at all times.”
Her voice dropped. “This isn’t protection.”
“No,” I agreed. “It’s positioning.”
Her eyes flashed. “For you.”
I gestured to the room. “Everything you have—these walls, these healers, this safety—exists because I decided it would. My father will use you regardless. The only question is whether you stand exposed… or shielded by me.”
Her jaw tightened. “And if I refuse?”
“Then Beron announces you himself,” I said. “At the height of the festival. As a surprise.”
The color drained from her face.
I let the truth settle before continuing.
“At least this way,” I said quietly, “I control when you enter the room. I control who sees you first. I control the narrative.”
She swallowed. “How long?”
“Three nights,” I replied. “After that, we reassess.”
“Sleep tonight,” I added. “Tomorrow, you’ll be fitted. Trained. Taught where to stand—and when to remain silent.”
She met my gaze then, fire burning beneath the exhaustion.
“And if Rhysand is there?”
“If he is,” I said at last, “you do nothing.”
I turned toward the door, already mapping contingencies, already anticipating bloodless wars and very real ones.
“The Harvest Festival,” I finished, “is the first move.”
And if Prythian was a game board—
Then she was the piece everyone would underestimate.
And I intended to make that mistake fatal.
AN: Hello My Embers, Thank you or reading chapter 3 of AOA BON, I hope you guys love it, please comment if you want to be added to the taglist
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