Rating: E | Erislain (Elucien Endgame) | Read on AO3 | 1/5? or more?
Posted for Day 5 (Favorite Tropes) of @sjmromanceweek but written for the beloved and talented @dawneternal. Your Erislain fic changed my brain chemistry. Here is my thank you.
Summary: Suffocated by choices made for her, Elain takes fate into her own hands only to find herself bound to a different mate. But freedom comes at a cost, and not all bonds are easily broken.
Elain had seen this war before, had seen the way the darkness rippled across the plain to meet the fae armies marching West. The forests of Autumn burned, smoke heavy in the air, as the flames reached upward, but the trees never quite crumbled, holding fast like torches in the dying daylight. Her vision shifted, and the world dimmed at the edges, the scent of wet leaves turning acrid. A shiver ran up her spine, and then a footstep - too heavy. The earth groaned beneath it, and Koschei was in Autumn... read more on ao3
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Rated T | Feysand | Read on AO3 (or under the cut)
Warnings: Major character death, starvation, angst
Even at the end of this world, Rhysand is there.
Special thanks to @popjunkie42, @tunaababee, @chunkypossum, and @acourtofladydeath for beta-ing waaaaay back in Feb/March.
Feyre would die soon. The thought had finally crossed her mind a month ago as she caught sight of herself in the chilly bathwater. The water rippled with her movement, but she could still make out the sharp angles of her face, the dark circles under her eyes.
Tucked away in a remote, run-down cabin in the woods, Feyre was hungry and alone. Her family had been here not so long ago. They all had left their manor in the nearby town before the soldiers marched through to meet the oncoming fae warriors. Her sisters had gathered as much food as possible while Feyre led her limping father to the abandoned shack. For many days after, whenever Feyre searched the woods for rabbits to eat, she could see plumes of smoke rising over the village like grim, swirling ghosts unable to rest.
Today, she had woken up tangled in her warm nest of blankets and pelts. Her hands had been tucked beneath her chin, shoulders to her ears. The fireplace had long since gone cold, a blanket of ash where the last of the wood had been. She’d need some kindling to start the fire again for breakfast.
She stretched and rubbed the sore muscles of her shoulders. These days, Feyre was always sore, always having some nagging ache that reminded her that she was slowly fading away. Her stomach growled.
Feyre was lucky only to have herself to feed. Six weeks ago, she sent her sisters and father on the last caravan to the continent. With only three spots left in the wagon, her father had insisted she go in his stead. But Feyre was stubborn and had stayed, choosing to wait until the bitter cold or the invading fae had claimed her.
Feyre rummaged through the kitchen area, finding procuring jars and wrappings crammed into the cabinets. She discovered the last of her jerky, far less than she remembered having, and some bones for a broth. This wasn’t enough. She searched the cabinets one more time, sorting through each jar carefully in case she missed something. She rubbed her temple, remembering some dried rabbit, but maybe she had eaten it. These days, her memory seemed to be fading along with her.
Sunlight peeked in from under the window curtains, and Feyre pulled it back, munching on the remaining jerky. It was clear out, a rare sunny day. It wasn’t warm enough to melt the snow, but it would keep her warmer when she ventured out today. If the woods were still too dense, she could try her luck in the village. Perhaps the looters hadn’t managed to strip it bare yet.
After starting the fire once more and heating snow in the iron pot her family had left behind, Feyre took a bite of her jerky and ran her fingers along the edge of the table where she had painted foxgloves many weeks ago. The oil colors had been a gift from her sisters. Elain had brought it with them when they had escaped to the woods and had hidden it in her dresser drawer to give it to Feyre for her birthday. But when she learned that Feyre was not coming with them, Elain brought it out for her then.
Feyre had cried that final night together as she painted the dresser they had shared when they first moved in. Nesta, her oldest sister, had complained that the single bedroom now stunk of paint, but Feyre had caught her tracing the swirling flames on her drawer more than once before she left.
But now, Feyre was alone, and to stave off hunger, she had painted every inch of the cabin. She had started with the rickety oak dining table and then moved to the stones of the fireplace, then the cabinets, the wall. She would paint until her eyes were heavy and then start over again the next day. Time began to blur, and Feyre would wake up covered in warm blankets that she didn’t remember crawling into with paintings she only barely remembered painting- a field in spring, a vast blue ocean, a rainbow city, the night sky, and the twinkling stars. Feyre attributed the gaps in her memory to the lack of food. She rationed what little she had every day. It was never enough, and her stomach would protest by nightfall. But she painted. The eyes of her family. A fox in a flower bed. Giant sweeping wings stretching from one wall to the next.
Now, only the black and white paints remained. As she waited for the water to boil, Feyre continued her final piece: a portrait of herself in grayscale—what she remembered of herself, at least. Even without a mirror, she could tell how frail she had become, the bones of her wrists and hands now prominent. She imagined she looked wild, like she had crawled out of the woods a feral creature and holed herself away for the winter.
Feyre picked up the brush and swept it across the wall before her. Her knees ached as she knelt. Hair was easy; she could see it in her mind’s eye. But her freckles? The speckles in her eyes? She couldn’t remember those details. When she closed her eyes, she could envision her reflection in her late mother’s floor-length mirror. But whatever she painted would be an approximation. Maybe one day, when someone found her body, rotting and withered away, they would realize that she was the girl in the portrait. Her memory would live on in someone’s mind even if she never had known them. The thought brought her comfort.
Breakfast came and went, and Feyre’s stomach still complained, so once the sun had finally climbed the sky, she donned her too-big boots and woolen cloak. At least she would be warm. Grabbing her bow and the few arrows she had crafted a week ago, Feyre set out to see what she could find. If she could survive the winter, she’d be fine. But it was still early in the season, and she was already out of food.
Warm to the bone, Feyre stepped into the cold. Her breath clouded in the frigid air, and the winter nipped at her face. She rubbed her skin with her mittens, pulled the scarf her sister Elain had made over her nose, and headed to the village.
Even under the crisp snow, the evidence of the war was still present. As she approached, the trees turned dark, burnt by fire. The air still held a heavy tang of magic that tasted bitter against her tongue. Homes had crumbled in the attack, and the closer she got to the center of town, the more damage she saw. Broken arrows and weapons, damaged armor, bones. Would the homes of the wealthier families still be standing?
Feyre crossed through the center of town on high alert. The smell of fresh corpses tickled her nose as her eyes swept over the blood-streaked ground. There had been a recent skirmish here. She stuck to the walls, running between ruined buildings and hiding in the dark alleyways. Her heart was loud in her ears, and she feared that one of the immortal soldiers would hear her. There were fae fighting on both sides, some wanting to continue the enslavement of humans and others fighting for their rights. She hadn’t learned to tell the difference and didn’t want to take her chances.
When Feyre arrived back at the cabin, the sour feeling of defeat settled heavy in her stomach. She kicked off her soaked boots and hung her coat on a nail she had hammered into the wall. There was no way around the matter. She could try again tomorrow and the day after, but eventually, she’d become too weak to go out, and then all she’d do was tend the fire until her body gave out. This would be the first of her final days. Shame burned in her. A part of her had hoped that something would have changed.
She wiped the tears in her eyes away and changed into dry clothes. Her portrait watched her. That woman was her and yet not her. Portrait-Feyre smiled brightly, joyous and content. She was well-fed and spent her days painting and laughing with her family. She had found a place to belong. Real-Feyre longed to trade places with her other self, but magic wouldn’t save her now. She started the fire once more and tucked herself under the blankets for a nap. With no more paint, there was nothing to do but wait.
Time passed, and Feyre found nothing when she went to hunt. She grew weaker and more tired until the most she could do was burn what she had left to stay warm. And then she’d fall back into the abyss of sleep.
Upon waking, Feyre didn’t immediately notice the man standing in the cabin's living area. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stilled when she saw him. He was tall, with warm brown skin and hair as dark as night. He stood before the portrait, clad in unfamiliar black leathers. Feyre pushed herself up, looking for her knife, and the man turned around and met her gaze with sparkling violet eyes.
He was beautiful. More handsome than any man she had seen before. Her breath hitched as they took each other in. She wondered when he had come inside, how she hadn’t heard the door unlatch, or the hinges squeak as it swung open. And then she realized he wasn’t human. Not with that silence or those eyes.
“You’re fae,” she said, blood running cold. He smiled.
“I am.” His voice was silk against her senses.
He was taller and stronger. He could overpower her easily, but she wouldn’t go down without a fight. She sought out her hunting knife. It was still on the table. She was determined to get at least one good slice in before he ripped her head from her body.
“Are you here to kill me?” Feyre asked. The man - the fae, didn’t answer and turned back to the portrait she had painted. The joyous thing she had created from the remaining paints.
“This is new,” he said, stroking her portrait’s cheek. Feyre swore she could feel the ghost of a touch on her face. She placed a hand on her cheek, and nothing was there.
“Yes,” she said. Feyre let out a sigh. Maybe he wasn’t here to kill her after all. Or perhaps he liked to toy with his victims. He turned back to her.
“My name is Rhysand,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”
Feyre almost believed him. But his posture was too casual, and he was covered in warring leathers. He had no weapons that she could see on him, though she wasn’t so naive to think he wasn’t armed. Fae were armed by nature of being immortal, cruel beings. And there was one in her home.
Rhysand pulled out one of the two chairs at the table and sat on it, laying his hands on the surface near her knife. Feyre watched him with curiosity. His movements were too graceful, too eerie, but she took the opportunity to climb out from under the blankets and approach him.
“Why are you here?” she asked. She took the chair opposite him and tried not to flush under his intense stare. His name sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it. Had her sisters mentioned him before?
“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “For some time now. Your family is gone.”
“They left for the continent months ago.” she offered. “It was my choice to stay.” She swallowed hard as Rhysand considered her. She should have been more concerned, but it felt like someone had put a blanket over her brain, muffling her urge to grab the dagger lying in front of her. His silence was uncomfortable.
“I’m going to die soon,” she said, not sure why she felt the need to tell him. She stared at her hands. Her fingers were thinner than she remembered. “There’s nothing left to eat. Nothing in the forest or…” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to say that. Maybe he would spare her? Or he would end her now, so the hunger didn’t wear her down until she perished, emaciated in the cold. That would be a kinder fate.
“Do you want to die?” he asked as though he could read her thoughts. Feyre looked back at the man, but he was now standing beside her, looking down into her eyes. She flinched, but he smelled of citrus and the sea, and it made her feel like she was somewhere else - somewhere less cold and less terrifying.
“No,” she breathed. She stood up to touch his cheek, and his eyes closed for a moment. Something in her chest stirred, not uncomfortable, just different. “I want to live,” she said. He took her hand in his own and held it there. His skin was warm against hers.
“The fae army will be here any moment now. They will slaughter everything in their way. Including you, Feyre,” he whispered. She trembled at his words, but he kept her hand there. “I can save you,” he said even more softly.
“How,” Feyre dared ask, fearing the answer would be her end. He said nothing. Feyre propped herself, ignoring the ache of her joints. It was far too late for her, and they both knew it.
“I wish I could take you to where I live. You’d be safer.”
“And where is that?” Feyre asked.
And then in her mind she saw a town, colorful and bright, with so many fae everywhere laughing, smiling. No one looked starved or sad or on the verge of death. She saw a giant river of vibrant blue, tall townhouses, art, then a view from above as though she was soaring above the rainbow city.
“Wait,” Feyre said, and she turned to the rainbow town she had painted on the wall weeks ago. It was the same as what she had just seen now. The same painted townhouses with pointed brown roofs and matching windows. “Have I seen this before?”
“Yes.” Rhysand’s voice was pained, shoulders sagging at the admission.
“I…” Feyre paused, her head aching. “Do I know you?”
“Yes. I’ve been here, day after day, keeping the worst of the fighting from you.”
“But why?” Feyre wrapped her arms around herself and turned away, bile rising in her throat. The gaps in her memories, the vibrant dreams she had turned into paints. Was this all from him?
“You found me when you were hunting one day. You brought me back and healed me,” he said, grasping her shoulder. Feyre pulled away from him.
“But you couldn’t be bothered to take me away from here?” she said, voice smaller than she had ever known.
“You wouldn’t let me, darling,” he said. His voice was so gentle it was painful for her. “Kicked me out of the cabin for it. You said I was too weak, and you were right.”
“Why can’t I remember it?” she spit out. “Did you erase my memories? Why did you take them?” Rhysand’s face had gone pale, and he reached out but hesitated to come closer.
“If the fae found you and knew you had aided me, they would have tortured you.”
“Wouldn’t they torture me anyway? Aren’t they on their way here right now?”
“Yes,” Rhysand said. “And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I came to warn you. To offer another option.” Rhysand didn’t offer an explanation. He didn’t need to. Feyre looked him over, the man - the fae - before her. It didn’t matter if she trusted him or not. He was her only option.
“Fine, but I want you to tell me everything,” she said. And somehow, she knew Rhysand could not deny her.
Feyre brought him before the fire, and he sat there, telling her the story of his home, of his friends and family. He dove into her mind and showed her the Courts, the endless seasons, the brilliance of the dawn and the day, and finally, how the stars twinkled and fell across the sky once a year, souls traveling to the next life.
“Will I become a star too?” she asked him after he had finished. She had laid down in his lap. It felt like the right thing to do.
“Yes, Feyre,” he whispered.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll see this world one last time before I’m gone.”
“I suppose so.” Rhysand ran a hand through her hair. It was gentle, like a lover’s caress. She wondered, as sleep drew near if this had happened before. If Rhysand had held her just like this. And finally, the gaps in her memory filled themselves in: Her dragging him into the cabin and nursing him back to health. The paintings on the walls. The shared meals. Fingers laced together. Rhysand’s smile. The laughter. The joy. That Feyre had existed.
“I’m glad,” Feyre said once she remembered. “That I wasn’t alone. That I’m not alone now.”
“Me too,” Rhysand whispered. The fire crackled, warming them to the bone.
Feyre closed her eyes and let herself drift to sleep in his arms, darkness overtaking her senses. She dreamed of him once more - the two of them in that beautiful town, surrounded by friends and laughing. They danced under the falling stars.
She felt something touch her mind, as soft and tender as a kiss. She welcomed the feeling, and then the world ended.
READ ON AO3 | Rating: Explicit | Pairing: Tamlin x Eris
Summary: Eris ensures that Tamlin doesn't ignore the rite this year. Another Calanmai fic, hehe.
A/N: YES I know I'm coming in HOT with this one, but y'all gotta trust me. This is a fun/quick little two parter that I'm working on. Here's the first chapter that I was supposed to post on Wednesday for tamlinweek but then my inner critic squashed that dream.
A special thank you to @chunkypossum, @acourtofladydeath @pippsmcgee and @queercontrarian who dragged me kicking and screaming over the finish line for this one.
cc: @nocasdatsgay b/c you are fantastic and asked me to be tagged on this <3 AND @climbthemountain2020 because I promise I'd post this asap <3
okay rare opportunity kinda? send in some prompts pls. I'm committing to writing 200-300 words per drabble. nothing too complicated! I just want to get some writing stretches in, so to speak.
and yes, if you want to send in a ship thing you can. I promise I won't grumble this time <3
For your prompts post, I wanted to request something with Eris preparing for or fighting in a blood duel! I'm biased towards neris or azris for the pairing, but whatever direction you felt like taking it in would also be perfect :)
SORRY THIS IS SO LATE I got distracted by monster fucking fics. ANYWAY Eris is prepping for a blood duel. Normally I agonize over shit for days (and rewrite it a million times) so this is a new posting record for me. Also I somehow didn't break my 500 word rule. Enjoy!!
This is technically on A03 too but it's short enough to read here.
The duel was to begin shortly after dawn. Eris waited in his chambers as several servants scurried around, strapping the outer layers of his armor onto him. Today, they were as silent as they were meticulous, anxious about the battle to come.
The week prior Eris had issued a challenge to Cassian: a blood duel for his mate. It was unconventional, and Beron wasn’t pleased, but the promise of a daughter-in-law gifted by the cauldron was enough to ease his father’s skepticism. Rhysand, of course, was infuriated, ending their fragile alliance. But it didn’t matter, not when Nesta Archeron would become his wife, his partner.
“Sir, the emissary from Night is here,” a servant said, interrupting his thoughts.
“Well, bring him in,” Eris replied. He waved the servants away, leaving him to finish preparing for the fight ahead. From the mirror’s reflection, Eris observed Lucien’s worried expression as he entered the room.
His youngest brother was dressed in a tailored navy vest buttoned over one of those flowy shirts he had worn ever since he lived in the spring court. Still, the outfit was distinctly from Night, with little stars embroidered on the shoulders mimicking a midnight sky.
“Asking me to reconsider?” Eris drawled.
“You know this won’t end well.” Lucien only said. He watched Eris’s face in the mirror. The older male betrayed no emotion.
“I thought after Tamlin you’d stop licking the boots of a high lord.”
Lucien scoffed. “That’s not what this is about.”
Eris turned around to meet his brother head on. Petty warnings would do nothing to deter him.
“So Rhysand is actually worried I’ll win against his general. Interesting.” Eris gave a wicked grin. “Unless you’re here to tell me Nesta is having second thoughts.”
Lucien shook his head, his brows furrowed as he reviewed the situation repeatedly in his mind. Lucien’s approach to diplomacy was thorough and relentless, always searching for a secret solution or loophole. “You could have chosen any other method. You’re not even her mate.”
“It seemed appropriate,” Eris said.
He would never admit that the blood duel was merely for Nesta’s benefit. Both to relieve her from the burden of choice (for Rhysand would blame for choosing anything other than Cassian), but also because whether or not she liked to admit it, Nesta seemed the type to like these gestures. And cruel as he may be, Eris had a soft spot for that. He understood wanting to be chosen. He’d choose her again and again. Blood duel or not.
Hey all, I'm Secret-Third-Thing! You can call me ST or STT! I write weird fanfic for ACOTAR. Here for Eris Vanserra and all his ships, but will write for others sometimes!
My AO3 | Art Commissions Under Construction | Eris Week
Currently working on too many things. What you get next is always a surprise. Once upon a time I was @koscheionthelake.
MULTI CHAPTER FICS
Blood in the Wine | Eris x Female OC | E | 3/35
Canon-ish Compliant Prythian Universe
Something rotten is happening in Autumn. Eris is determined to figure out why. Too bad a princess across the sea is very distracting. Murder! Romance! Myths! Banter!
His Blood is My Blood | Beron x LoA, Beron x Jesminda E 1/6
Canon-world; semi compliant
When Lucien declares he’s marrying Jesminda, Beron reminds Autumn the price one pays for disobedience.
Like a Heartbeat Drives You Mad | Elucien , Erislain | E | 1/6
Alternate Prythian Universe
Elain takes fate into her own hands only to find herself bound to a different mate.
And the Hounds Bayed | Azris/Neris/Nezriel | E | 3/3
Southern Gothic Horror, Dead Dove
Eris held an unwavering affection for those Hounds.
I Want to Believe | Azris | E | 1/?
Alien AU / X-Files AU, Dub/Non-Con
Azriel travels to Boston to solve a series of murders.
Wild Nights - Wild Nights! | Emorie | M | 1/2
Canon Compliant, Post ACOSF
Emerie and Morrigan fall in love by accident, of course.
Tell Me That You Want Me | Tamris | E | 1/2
Canon Compliant, 2-Shot
Eris ensures Tamlin doesn’t skip Calanmai.
INTERACTIVE FICTION
Dog Days | Game is T, Optional Azris Scene is E
Made for PC; Okay on Mobile
You are a dog. Go find Eris.
ONE SHOTS
The Brothers | Vanserra Bros (Gen Fic) | T
Two dead Vanserra brothers wake up in the Spring Court.
The Worst Person You Know | Emorie | M
Emerie loved the blonde girl she met at the park.
Requiem For Glass Trapped Spiders | Beron | M
Something is wrong with the Forest House. It's Beron's fault.
Never an Honest Word | Gen Eris | T
Eris confronts his mother after Beron’s death.
Spring, Again | Gen Tamlin | T
Tamlin begins to heal after Feyre’s departure.
Now That It's Done | Feysand | T
Even at the end of this world, Rhysand is there.
She Who Holds the Ashes | Eris x Reader| G
Even at the end of this world, Rhysand is there.
DRABBLES
A Word Before War: Eris before a Blood Duel | G
Just One More: A Nezriel bookstore drabble | E
Goodbye, Keir: Emorie Drabbe | T
A Cursed Beron Thing | E
2023 WRITING CIRCLE
Heatwave (Elriel) | Unrated (I wrote part 1)
The Syren (Gwynriel) | Explicit (I wrote part 2)
Fictional (Nessian) | Explicit (I wrote part 3) - Tumblr Only
ART COMS (Under Construction)
2024 Eris Week
Worried Eris Commission
Eris Portrait Commission
Wet Eris Commission
Eris and His Hounds
Armored Eris
Regency AU Eris + Lucien
Modern AU Eris
Horny Eris
2023 Eris Week:
Eris and Hound Commission
Blood Duel Commission
Dancing Commission
AU Eris Commission
Eris, High Lord of Autumn Commission
Eris Voice Acting and Interview the Matthew Bassett
Another Eris chapter. I swear this isn't filler. Lot of fun lil details for the people with their conspiracy boards at home 🧡
Eris x OC | Rated E | Read on AO3 | Read on tumblr below the cut
Read on Tumblr: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
Gianna of Montesere's life is shattered when her family becomes the target of a chilling assassination attempt. Forced into exile at her estranged father's side in the Autumn court, she embarks on a journey that thrusts her into the treacherous depths of Prythian's most perilous family. Amidst the dazzling highs and heart-wrenching lows of cutthroat politics, Gianna discovers an unexpected love in Eris Vanserra that turns her world upside down.
Warnings: Typical violence and scheming, gambling, old-school slut shaming (nothing in this chapter other than more dead bird talk)
If you want to be on a taglist, let me know. I forgot to start one earlier.
No one stopped Eris as he left Forest House and walked to the estate’s perimeter, where the trees of the old Autumn Wood gave way to his father’s home. Here, the trees sparkled in the waning sun of the day; the leaves glimmering brilliant reds, oranges, and greens.
The forest was far older than his ancestral home, far older than the fae themselves. While there were various settlements throughout the Court, they had not been founded through some resource-based strategy, instead emerging where the trees had yielded to the fae. Any place the woods did not want them, their kind did not survive.
Advisor Bassell had not been wrong about what haunted the woods. A handful of Autumn’s tomes, located deep in the royal archives, documented ancient creatures that had once ruled Autumn. Eris had only seen the documents once when he had accompanied Beron into the deep recesses of the archives to search for mentions of some ancient artifact - a sword. From what he recalled, most of the ancients here had been the Daglan, the deathless monsters who had hunted his kind for sport. Several fae in Autumn would swear they could hear the call of the hunting horn echoing within the wood. And many young fae who had wandered into the thicket at night had never been found again. Beron insisted there wasn’t anything notable to report, of course.
Eris walked along the edge of the trees and past piles of birds until the servants removing the creatures were far behind him. He’d ask them questions later when they had finished and weren’t working under the pressure of his father’s watchful eye.
The songbirds that usually warbled at the end of the day were silent, now lifeless on the ground, leaving the surrounding area unusually quiet. Though he wasn’t frightened, Eris wished he had brought his hounds along. Even if his father didn’t believe in ancient beings, he certainly did; He knew what creatures roamed the woods of Spring. He had heard of what monsters the Night Court’s prison held. Eris was certain their kin were here as well.
As the mossy roof of the Forest House vanished from view, Eris noted less fallen birds in the area. He was confident that the servants had yet to make their way out here. It was as though the animals were aiming towards the estate. The cicadas had emerged and perished rather quickly, but the birds…. They had all been swarming Forest House. Something for him to investigate later.
He spotted a finch splayed out on the ground. Eris picked up the tiny thing, cradling it gently in his hands. The feathers of its wings were soft against his fingers. And yet Eris could sense some kind of magic on the bird, like residue. Something old… deep magic… Daglan magic. Bassell’s words echoed in his brain. Once his father’s meeting was done, he’d need to follow up with the advisor, probably tomorrow.
A rustle in the woods interrupted Eris’s train of thought. The male froze, still as a predator, and scanned the woods for any sign of movement. No other animals were in the area, nothing climbing the trees or leaping from branches. Eris stepped forward to the edge of the wood, almost at the threshold, where the roots of the trees emerged from the ground and twisted around each other.
The noise happened again, and Eris gazed into the depths of the forest beyond where he stood. He felt something staring back. Eris lifted a foot to step on a root and approached the creature, but the air seemed to crackle around him. Not quite a warning, but not an invitation. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and his legs were unable to move him forward or away - he was stuck.
“Show yourself,” Eris said, his own voice wavering. He willed his hand to move to the pummel of his dagger belted at his waist, but his body was frozen, still grasping the bird. There was no response. Instead, a gust of wind blew out from the forest, nearly knocking him back, and the scent of oak and sweet moss curled around him.
Eris scoured his brain for a reason, to understand what was happening, but almost as soon as he felt the thing’s presence, it vanished. The only evidence of it being there was a patch of dead foliage on the ground turned a dark, sooty black, as though someone had set the forest floor alight. The air now smelled of smoke. Eris dared to step forward and nudged the soot with his boot. It seemed like simple debris, save for the circling of magic, bitter and earthy, swirling around him.
Eris wasted no time, winnowing back to Forest House and shutting himself away in his study. No creature of the wood would find him here. The study was small, tucked away in a less used area of the manor, but it offered him respite from the endless pestering of courtiers and servants. He sat down in the plush chair of his desk and took a moment to appreciate the solitude.
Soon, Eris examined the finch, turning the creature over in his hands. The bird was still intact, with no apparent harm. If anything, it seemed like it had been frozen in time when its little heart stopped. Eris stroked its head gently. Had it known it would die, a soldier in some death god’s game? Or had it been a surprise?
As Eris sent a tendril of magic into the bird, he encountered resistance, as if the deep magic, as the advisors had dubbed it, wanted him out. He retreated and frowned. Eris tried his magic again, this time ever so gently, letting it seep in rather than prod. He felt the threads of the other magic open until it started weaving with his, trying to pull him into the tapestry of whatever spell had enthralled and killed the creature.
Someone knocked on his study door, and Eris yanked his magic from the bird. It felt like he was ripping a cloth in half, an unsettling, tearing sensation. Eris furrowed his brow and grimaced, wondering if it was safe to have the bird in here at all. After a beat, he set the bird on a cloth and then removed his gloves.
“Come in,” Eris said. The door creaked open, revealing Bassell. The brunette male stole a glance behind him into the hallway before stepping into Eris’s lavish study.
“I was hoping to have a moment alone,” Bassell said softly. Eris flicked his hand, and the door sealed shut, a protective ward shimmering so no one could walk in or listen to their conversation.
“What is it?” Eris asked. Bassell settled into the other chair at Eris’ desk, his eyes fixed on the brown bird between them. He reached to touch the creature, but then hesitated. Gone was the fierce debater from his father’s meeting.
“I stand by what I said before,” he murmured. “The magic in these animals predates the fae. It’s ancient. But why it’s woven into such common creatures, I can’t fathom.”
“Whatever the magic, it’s still active,” Eris said, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. “It reacts and attaches to living magic.”
“Like an arcane parasite,” Bassell said. “May I?” He gestured to the bird.
“Be my guest,” Eris replied. He cocked a brow and watched the male hover his hand over the creature. Bassell closed his eyes and clenched his jaw in concentration. Not a minute later, his hand wavered, and he pulled it back quite suddenly.
“Fascinating,” he said with a shiver. He massaged his palm, likely having experienced the same ripping that Eris had.
“Is it?” Eris asked. “I’d think you’d be more concerned.”
“My apologies,” Bassell said. “It is concerning, but this kind of magic differs from what we know and use. I’m surprised your father isn’t more interested. This power is difficult to control, and more difficult to counter.”
“Give him time. My father will be if he isn’t already,” Eris said, as he watched the male continue to prod at the finch. “How much more do you know?”
Bassell paused, the bird giving off an eerie glow from whatever magic he was using.
“Not much at the moment, but I can send a report when my healers finish their research.” Bassell pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wrapped it around the finch and bought it closer to him. He scanned its body, then turned it over. The eerie glow on the bird stopped. Eris sighed. He might as well give the finch to Bassell.
“I expect you to keep what you relay to my father to a minimum. And if you cannot, let me know what he knows.”
“You have my word.” Bassell replied. He was staring straight into the beady, black eyes of the creature. He didn’t seem like he was leaving any time soon, so Eris cleared his throat.
“Is this really why you’re here? Certainly, this conversation could have waited until tomorrow.”
“Well, yes… and no,” Bassell said. His eyes flickered away from the bird to the portrait of the Vanserra family hanging on the far wall behind the heir and then back to Eris. He gave a thin-lipped smile.
“What is it?” Eris pressed again. Bassell was always so hesitant.
“My daughter...” Bassell began, “She’s coming to Autumn.”
“I didn’t know you had a family,” Eris stated plainly. Well, most of his father’s advisors had a family: a wife, children. It was the respectable thing to do - something the Autumn Court valued. But Bassell never brought a wife with him to court. No children, young or grown, had been introduced to the Vanserras. It was unusual, but Eris hadn’t found a reason to pry until now.
“I don’t. She’s the result of an affair. Her mother is... noteworthy, and I was a fool for not marrying her,” Bassell said. The male possessed the slightest tinge of pink on his cheeks. His eyes were dancing across the room, hiding from Eris’ narrowed stare.
“I hope you are not implying what you seem to be,” Eris said.
Bassell put his hands up, horror plain on his face. “Oh, absolutely not,” he sputtered. “I-I would never presume -“
“Then do get to your point. It’s getting late and I have other things to do, Bassell,” Eris interjected, his voice even and cold.
“Gianna,” Bassell said. “Her name is Gianna.”
Eris frowned at this, waiting for Bassell to continue. It did not matter to him what she was named.
“Gianna is coming to Autumn sometime next week. Her mother is the spymaster,” Bassell said. “But she’s being accompanied by the emissary, not her mother.” This fact obviously meant something to the advisor. His brows were furrowed, and he seemed almost frazzled by the information.
“And does my father know?”
“He informed us after you left.”
Eris paused at this. It was peculiar for his father to allow a strange female from the continent into their court, especially one from Montesere. He recalled from several meetings ago that his father had been in contact with emissaries from the kingdoms on the continent, but a Gianna was not mentioned as someone of interest. It was equally strange that this news had not come from Bassell, the female’s father, but from his father... unless the advisor really did have an awful relationship with his former lover, something that Eris could at least understand.
“What else did he say?” he asked Bassell.
“Nothing. Only that she was staying at Forest House. I’ll be staying here as well.”
“How is this, at all, relevant to the birds?” Eris asked, suspicion lacing his words.
“I want to make a deal,” Bassell replied.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am. Ensure my daughter stays out of trouble, and I’ll use all my resources to help you understand what’s happening in Autumn.” Bassell shifted in his seat. His shoulders were now squared, eyes boring into Eris’s with such confidence Eris hadn’t seen in the male before.
“I am not babysitting a spoiled brat from the continent,” Eris said, his patience wearing thin.
Bassell leaned over the desk, dangerously close. His eyes gleamed. “I know your goals. Use her as leverage, if you must. She has her family’s ear,” Bassell urged, barely above a whisper. Eris refused to acknowledge the implication.
“And did you offer this deal to my father as well? Is this why you sit at his table?” Eris asked. “Did you sell your daughter’s freedom for a chance at power? I recall you come from nothing.” Bassell flinched at Eris’s words.
“I did what any good father would do,” Bassell said. His jaw was set, and he grasped the arms of his chair.
“She was likely fine in Montesere,” Eris spat back. “What does my father intend now you’ve dragged her into this?”
“He only knows her heritage and offered her a place to stay. What else he plans is beyond my knowledge, Eris.”
The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of their unspoken agreement settling between them. Either Bassell was the worst politician he had met this century, or his father set another scheme in motion, one Eris somehow missed.
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t get herself killed,” Eris said. The only kind of agreement he’d willingly make. Bassell seemed satisfied with this and leaned back in his chair, a smile creeping onto his face.
“I think you’ll find the Monteserrans more interesting than you think.”
“If by interesting you mean scandalizing,” Eris said. “I can’t think of a group my father would hate more.”
“But what will you think?”
Eris scoffed at his answer, but Bassell simply hummed, lost in thought.
