"Our esteemed general has arrived late," Father jests, voice booming down and across the room.

A good mood, then, judging by that hint of mirth in his tone—though not to be counted as an advantage yet. Even a small wind can stir up a wildfire. And tonight, he is Father's plaything. "You have my apologies, my lord."

"I am pleased you have decided to rejoin us, Eris." Father's voice lowers around his name. "We have missed you here at court."

A clever play, to paint him errant. The eyes around him watch with unblinking greed, but he knows how to perform his part. This is a role he's played before.

"Not so much as I have missed all of you," Eris replies, bowing with a flourish.

Small wave of murmurs through the crowd. A sound like scratching against the floor.

"Come, let me see you," he says. "You have been away too long."

Eris obliges, just as he always—

No, he thinks. Not always. Not anymore.

At the next impact, a growl ripped through the cell. He paused, allowing the tendrils of leather and ash wood to drape across the ground.  Eris’s back shook with a heavy panting, as if an animal knelt at his feet instead of his son.

“Eris,” he murmured.

No other words were necessary: his breathing hitched before steadying, and Beron’s canvas fell still and obedient again.

A confluence of scarlet rivers slowed dripped patterns across the rippling wounds—between his shoulder blades, down the pointed bones of his spine, around the curves of his hips.

Beron studied the flow, curious.

Did his eldest son see his actions as cruelty?  He knew that his other sons thought so.  Raivis, in his youth, screamed and cried, so different from his usual pathetic silence.  He couldn’t count how many times he heard the words slip from his second eldest son’s mouth: Why?  Why?  He had been a small, dumb little creature, who only used his voice to scream or cry or laugh with his mother.  It wasn’t until his name-day that he finally found the pride and rage every male must utilize.  Then there was Elmar, the proud one with a sharp tongue and snappy words, who groveled as quickly as some pathetic servant before a fist made its landing.  The fourth came less than two years after: Galeti, who spat at the ground and wept before the tenth lash fell.  

Son after son, his bloodline weakened.  He despised it.  He felt it like a rotting between his bones.

The last was born after the Human War, less than two decades ago.  Lucien.  

His golden-brown skin would turn raw and swollen from the constant, and Beron would still hear the stubborn recalcitrance when he screamed.  

And even worse was the grim feeling that the crimson spilt from his back did not match his own.

But Eris.  He was not a groveling son or a bastard filled with hate.  He knelt before him, patient and willing.  And after, with a back bloody and raw under his armor, his eldest gazed around at Autumn with that cold, pragmatic air, assuring Beron that his lessons impacted him in all the right ways.

No, he decided: Eris did understand him.  He did not see a whip as cruel.  Cruelty was black and infecting, like mold, a pullulation, an unhealing, rotten thing.  It tainted his victims mercilessly before clearing the way for new and ameliorated things.  But the color red was the eminence of Autumn that he, the High Lord, had carved.  Rippling scars were of pride and honor and possession.  It was fresh growth, a blooming Autumn leaf, a bloody back.  It was love.

And the back that knelt before him was red with love. 

Finally, the side door which leads to the personal wing of the House opens. He watches it shut quietly.

He shall have to remind himself to have the traitorous maid who denied him his wish defiled.

His eldest stoops to take the place of the youngest.

‘I do not require you,’ he says, voice echoing across the empty hall, melting into the clack of shoes on varnished wood. ‘You overstep.’

Eris is proud, and Beron too is proud of it, so he only dips his head for a moment in suitable reverence, before he comes to stand at the bottom of the dais.

‘Anything Lucien may do for you, Father, I would take on. He is very busy with his studies. I know you value them.’

So fascinating it is to see him in his prime. The polite, genuineness of his tone, the ever-careful son. He conceals much (and did Beron not teach him so well?) but his intentions are plain. Perhaps this is the misguided aim of his intrusion here, to provoke, to needle, as he is so capable of. Perhaps he considers this practice. Perhaps he considers his father a safe and worthy dummy to jab in preparation for the politics of life. Training to stay sharp.

‘You have done nothing worthy of my attention as of late, Eris.’ It is troubling to have him so quiet, but these things happen. As a boy he had been one of fanciful schemes; he would mix with every kind of the Court, learning petty tricks, which Beron thought charmingly clever. Yes. Yes. His heart could swell.

It thrills him to consider what of the like has brought his clever Eris to supplicate himself so readily for a child. The child overly coddled by his mother and his son alike—the thing they keep in common when she detests him so for being the first of her beloved husband. What is it about this wayward son of his that cuts him above the rest in the eyes of cunning Eris, who does nothing without reason, who stands unswayed before him?

He meets his gaze—that blend of russet and brown—to find it steely. ‘And what has Lucien done to garner it? He’s a boy, barely eight, still wetting the bed and begging for Mother to swaddle him.’

How delightfully interesting.

‘You were such a boy once. Do you remember?’

Time is so odd. It feels as though it were yesterday. Beron wonders, does his youngest mark the same? Eris was so willing as a babe. Eager to please and to receive what was given where his other brothers would offer him only pleading to stop. They did not receive the kind of attention he did. Their unscarred skin bears witness to his disappointment.

‘I remember.’

Something harsh lives there in his voice. Were Beron not so sure that Eris be incapable of it, he would call it resentfulness. But no. This is another, learned kind of vice.

‘Come now, Eris,’ he says, standing, working his way down to settle on the step above him, ‘jealousy is so unbecoming of you.’

He fears it, and in his strong position as heir is it only natural, the idea that someone may replace him. Beron understands this kind of distraction undeniably. He has thought in dark moments that Eris may try to take what is his by rights via the traditional means. It would be such a pity to dispatch him. Here he sees that such a fear is unfounded. Clever Eris is still that boy, beneath his trained power and all that magnificent cunning. Still a foolish boy and still his, still vying for unwavering preference.

Beron grips his chin softly. ‘You are my firstborn. My heir. Your brothers are weak, pitiful, and you know as well as I they are unfit to wear our name.’ Beneath his hand, he feels Eris’ jaw clench. Feels him swallow. ‘I did what I could to teach them. You have graciously counselled them. There is no denying that there was rot in their birthing that you were strong enough to overcome. I see it in Lucien, that same salubrity that you carry.’ His hand tightens, but Eris is too enamoured to wince. ‘Do not mistake it for fondness. He is untested and unbalanced. I will see it corrected. I mean only to carve out potential, a partner, not a rival, such as your siblings style themselves without approval.’

He will believe it—lies do not pass his mouth, not when it comes to his family, Eris knows this.

But still he wrenches his face away as though scorned. His red hair—his only fault—comes down to hide his face. ‘He is undeserving of it,’ he tells him quietly. Then, he musters the strength to look up. ‘You must see it, Father. He is just a child.’

The edge of begging. Something only Beron has seen from him. His heart clenches so.

‘Sweet boy, you still have much to learn.’ He touches him gently on the shoulder, but Eris, in the importunate set of his body, flinches. ‘Fetch your brother,’ he tells him kindly. ‘I will show you that which you cannot yet see.’

x

What wonderful things they are, these pretty, pink flowers. Their petals are curled inwards, the pollen kept inside a kind of shimmering golden stamen twisted into ringlets. They grow only here, in this limbo between Autumn and Spring, where the sun is bright but the temperature is controlled, and the ground is still free of fresh green grass. Underfoot, the leaves comfortingly crunch. It is curious when he comes upon them, they seem to shift towards him as though they were connected, bonded with each other despite the way they all stand alone, unbothered by the idea of clustering like a lowly daisy. If he could, he would take one, to press it and keep it, but he has already been absent too long. Eris does not want him to stray.

Still, he knows, he lets himself be distracted for too long. A laugh, dark, mean, sounds behind him.

‘Oh look!’ Oca. ‘He’s prodding at flowers. Pink suits you, little brother. Take it to Mother. She’ll surely doll you up for tea and scones in the ladies’ parlour.’

Another laugh. Low. Deep. Etienne, if he had to guess, but it’s Cyrus that talks. ‘Come on then,’ he says, edgy, ‘I’d rather not test Eris’ patience any longer.’

Oca scoffs, sharp as the jutting angles of his face when it twists into amusement, and waves him off. ‘He’ll come find us if it bothers him, I’m sure. Besides—’ Lucien looks back to see the three of them around the line of trees which mark the edge of this copse, with Oca pushing off a tree to saunter forward—‘there’s something I’ve been meaning to see while we’re here.’

Despite beginning to train, Lucien loses the fight to Oca fairly quickly. It takes little for him to grip him by the back of the shirt, to muffle his shouts of Eris’ name with a harsh hand smacked over his mouth, and to haul him off the ground kicking while he grins. Again, Cyrus protests, but Etienne pulls him along. Lucien doesn’t stop writhing until his brother smacks him round the side of the head, so hard, disorientating, that blood blooms on his tongue. A tooth dislodged, spat unceremoniously, the pain blurring his vision. This too delights them.

They don’t walk for long, Oca seems to know where he’s going, and Lucien is suddenly thrown forward, still leaking blood from his lips, onto soft ground.

‘You like exploring, don’t you, Lu? Well, here we are!’

He manages to roll over, to push himself up, but it’s all wrong. Did the hit make him delirious? Beneath his hands is moss, grass, vibrant. The air is thick and warm and smells so strongly of sap and fresh water.

‘Cauldron, Oca.’ Cyrus again. ‘You’re out of your mind. If Father—’

‘Father,’ he hisses. ‘What would you know of what Father would think?’

Their voices sound somewhat far away, as though muffled under the seas, through a veil of magic, an unguarded ward.

‘I won’t have any part of this.’

‘Yes, run. Run, you fucking coward! Run back to Eris, he’ll keep you safe! Fucking—bastard!’

Lucien spits another bout of blood, his jaw throbbing, and gets to his knees.

For a moment, he thinks he must be mad.

Just to his right, there is no mistaking it. That is his home court, Autumn in its closed expanse of forests and dropping leaves. It calls to him fondly, like an ache settled in his chest, his magic rising to meet the beckon. But to his left, beneath him, all around him…

Lucien scrambles to his feet, fixed on his brothers across the border, on Oca’s face, split gleefully into a wicked grin, as he squares up on the other side.

‘It’s a clever ward,’ he yells. ‘You can get out, but you can’t get back in! Good luck!’

Gripped by some kind of wide-eyed panic—he knows what they do to trespassers in Spring—he advances. He tries to push past the ward, with the aim of gripping at his brother to pull him through too, and perhaps to throw his fist into his stomach, but his hands bounce backwards, pushing him to fall straight onto his backside heavily.

Oca just laughs and laughs and laughs.

His magic calls again, he hears it, come on, come closer, push, push, push, deep in his stomach, bouncing across his ribcage, through his bones, through the blood in his veins as though willpower alone would take him where he wants to go. He kicks at it, but this time his hit sticks. Something thunders, though his brothers don’t flinch. Again, Lucien smacks his foot against the wards and—it’s almost like it shudders, gives way.

Over and over he does it while they watch in utter disarray, mocking him, but with each strike their chortling, high-pitched like squealing pigs, becomes clearer, as though he is carving away at the very border itself.

Then, a final blow, like a sword cleaved through flesh, with a tremendous, deafening crack, his boot cuts straight through and touches Autumn on the other side.

x

He is not above mistakes—they are a rarity which deserve his ire—but sometimes it is the best parts of himself which bring them. Among those, it is always loyalty that works to harm him. Duty. Fairness. Honour. These things are not easily quashed, nor should they be. Yet, even after all these centuries, Beron finds himself learning where his own liabilities lie within their bounds.

It is no surprise to discover his darling wife concealed it from him. She is trained in pretty placations and petty perversions of the truth, as are all ladies of the Court who came in the years after her ascension to his side. A scheme of this calibre, so blatant and so barefaced, a stench under his nose, festering like a carcass stripped by crows, is much her brazen fancy. It falls apart on the slightest scrutiny—his suspicions about her preference for the youngest bear horrid fruit which he feels very deeply.

What stings is the waste of work he had done for her. How he had gone to lengths to teach her his expectations, to have her understand what it means to be his, to call herself his lady and the mother of his children, the mother of the heir and the mother of the Court itself. He saw her once as a thing of potential. A beacon for which he would only need to light the flame within. Her blood is one thing to hold, all that raw power coursing through her, but when she taints it so, when she dares call his mercy mockery with her disdainful, wanton disregard for him, he comes to regret it. Resent it. It. Her. The range between the words is meaningless.

She stares up at him, tears sending streaks of smudged black down her reddened cheeks, as she kneels before him, where she belongs and what he is owed of her. Naked before him, he will have her wretchedness displayed. She will show him exactly where she had been touched, tell him how long it took for him to ready her, to enter her, to spill the offending filth within her which has brought such a stain into the house of his father and his father and his father before him.

He will keep her here, in this darkened room attached to the one that was once theirs but is no longer, where there is only the hearth for warmth and light, until she tells him everything, as she promised she would, and as he was so foolish as to believe she would honour. If it breaks her, he will be pleased. She is an instrument in desperate need of such.

Her betrayal is not the worst of it, for the name she speaks when he bids it is not that of a paramour. He asked who else helped her, and she marks offenders by rank. Midwives, wetnurses, soldiers, handmaidens, certain healers and certain ladies, all in league, each of them identified. Catalogued. Then with a pained sob—perhaps that too a lie to have him pity her—she condemns him, a dishonoured coward made of her, and cries, ‘Eris. Poor Eris! He tries so hard to protect him. I asked him to. It isn’t his fault, Beron.’ The cry twists into a wail. She throws herself at him, head bowed and hands clasping at the fabric of his breeches, unblemished fingers on red silks. ‘Please. I’m sorry. Don’t hurt him. Either of them. Lucien—he—I never told him. He’s just a boy! He’s done nothing to you. It’s me, I swear. It’s all me, Beron. Oh gods, please.’

A well-crafted plea. It tastes of the suitable amount of fear, even more than he would expect. Put together so carefully.

Beron should be merciful. Firm but merciful, as he has ruled all his life.

She fears the sentence her insult brings—death of the slowest kind at the walls, a draining of life before a crowd—but Beron would not have her suffer so. She will bleed, that is no question, but she will do it here. For him. Alone. And she will live to thank him for it.

True enough that the bastard has done nothing but be born, a failing on his part to miss the signs, and a failing on his part to trust too easily. It’s a pity. He had such promise once. Some cannot help what they are; his wife and her bastard too are incorrigible beasts, undoubtedly of use, and he means to use the boy according to his station, but ultimately they are beneath their superiors. He will be punished fairly in due time.

Yes, her betrayal stings, but it does not cut like that of Eris.

Sweet, clever Eris, the best of his sons, who is worthy to carry his titles and his name. Always so dutiful. Shrewd and cunning, silver-tongued Eris.

He will have him.

He will explain.

Beron will know every detail and the extent of his involvement. Even now, he longs to believe her delation of him untrue. Oh the idea of it sickens him, but it grows under his skin.

And still she sobs against him, pleading. The sight is nasty. Nasty! How dare she! This lady.

It irks him. Outrages him.

What utter audacity. She presumes to fool him even still. Still! After all this! As though her apologies might be genuine! She would call her own son a traitor before she gives herself fully to what she is owed. Such fury she deserves.

Mercy.

Hah!

What mercy is afforded to whores?

What retribution do the gods give to vipers?

In his House.

In his home.

She yelps, the floor beneath her starting to smoke as he stares down at her so debauched. Slack-jawed, she watches.

He feels it burning. His bones. His skin. She deserves this. Make her afraid. Break her break her bring her to heel. He allows her her dalliances and she brings into this world the proof of his fucking mercy. He will snuff it, her, out, until the one who makes him cuckold can barely stand the sight of her, until all that is left of that beacon is ash and foundations, ready to be reborn in the way he deserves.

It aches, so long it has been, but it satisfies him. No need to let go fully, only to grow the teeth to bite, the tusks to hit and the strength to snap. He groans as though pleasured when his legs shift, straining his silks, sprout fur, thick and wiry, and his feet stamp down into the blackened form of a boar’s.

His dear wife tries to scramble away, but he catches her, his hands, clawed as a beast’s swiping over her head.

He makes her wail—really, truly wail—and he, in this form of his, delights in the sound of her terrific begging, the scent of her terror. Words don’t pass his lips; his actions will have her understand his meaning. Words do not work for the stupid. They learn only through tight correction their lessons, and by the end of tonight, with his nails drawing blood from her scalp, the copper taste on his tongue so delectable as to bring forth an unbecoming and feral snarl, he intends to make her very, very wise.

His next mistake is one he has faith will be forgiven.

In this state, the doors of this House quiver open for him as he tears through them, even that of Eris’ which is always so impressively warded closed. The wood shatters, but inside, sat relaxed in his armchair with his legs propped up on the sofa opposite, a book open in his lap, his son does not flinch. The fire does not flicker. Even at the sight of him, no doubt bloodied and looking barely a male, Eris shows no surprise. He only stands, book snapping closed and discarded precisely upon the coffee table in front of the fire. A male seeing the lengths of his father’s life before him, seeing that future, and facing it.

‘Father—’

He does not protest when he sweeps into the room, nor when he advances, or when the red-slicked hand of his grips him by the throat and lifts him. He grabs at his wrist—this is acceptable and smart instinct—but he does not resist, he does not even swallow or writhe. It is though he trusts that he would never seek to harm him for no good purpose. He lets him do what must be done. Yes, the dutiful son.

On his tongue the question is roughened by this furious creature overtaking him, but it comes and Eris hears.

‘Did you know?’ he asks, a kind of calmness waiting for him in the admission of it. ‘Did you know of the bastard your whore mother has brought into this House?’

Amber goes wide in shock—at the revelation or the accusation? At the shame or the truth of it? Is it panic for the shaking of his family in its wake, or damnable fear of being discovered?

A wheezed, predictable response. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘What has happened?’

So innocent he sounds, but Beron will not be deceived. No, not any longer. He tightens his grip, and still Eris lets him.

‘Lucien.’ The name snarled out, smoke dripping off his lips. ‘Your favoured brother.’ It makes sense, but how could Eris be so blind? Clever Eris who considers all and backs only the strongest hound. How could he?

Beron watches it come over him: devastation. His face drops, and anguish is there so sudden upon darkening cheeks. What kind? He tries to sniff it out. Is it that of a schemer outmanoeuvred, or of a son, hurting for his father?

‘She named you conspirator,’ he continues. ‘Pronounced you a traitor among traitors who worked to hide it from me. To lie to me for all these years. I would not believe her, but I will not be made a fool of, Eris. You will tell me the truth of it. I know you will.’

To let him speak, and because it pains him so even like this to see him struggle for breath like he did as a babe, Beron releases him and allows him the grace to gasp and cough before he does as he is told. He looks up at him, the natural way of these things, something determined and pure in his expression.

‘I give you my word, Father, I did not know. I would never lie to you. I swear it.’ Then a soul-wrenching fall of his brow. ‘She would say such a thing?’ His heart makes to twinge for him. No son should have to face his mother’s shortcomings. ‘After everything?’

It’s the simple question of a boy who does not understand how cruel the world could be. The truth in it is plain, and Beron feels the rotten pang of guilt for doubting him, though it grates.

Paternal urge takes him. Claws retracted, he brings a soft caress to his face. These things do not change, it seems, even over the bounds of time. But Eris does not lean into the touch as he did when he was a child, too overcome with the slander placed upon him by his own mother, too bidden by the sinking realisation of her treachery, to find fit the comfort he brings.

‘Lucien,’ Eris says, ‘what will you do with him?’

‘You would vouch for mercy?’ he asks. ‘For a bastard not even of your blood?’

‘He is just a boy.’

Still so trusting. It speaks to his own sense of loyalty. Perhaps in the wake of this upheaval, Beron can permit Eris this kindness.

‘It will be discussed,’ he offers. ‘I do not mean for him to suffer unjustly.’

His son nods. Swallows. Seems to regain a surety in his posture—a magnificent thing, to see him unravelled and rebuilt. Then, as though for the first time, he looks upon him, at the tusks on his face and the fur upon his calves.

Beron hums. ‘Does it surprise you so? To see me like this?’

No hesitation, Eris shakes his head. ‘I know what you are capable of, Father.’ He meets his eye. ‘It doesn’t shock me.’ He gestures to the sofa facing the fire. ‘Sit, please. Take this moment. I’m certain you need it, if I am not overstepping.’

Sweet, sweet boy.

It is a lovely, if strange, thing, to have Eris, his son, seek to look after him when it feels as though it should be the other way around. A shift between them, perhaps, and not one unwarranted or underappreciated. This is how it goes, at some point unspecified, between fathers and sons. Beron had vowed to guard that from Eris for as long as he could—for he felt as though he had been pushed so far by his own father, forced to grow up before his time. He never wanted that for him. But here, now, they are more similar than even he could have planned.

So he sits. And breathes. And watches his son make for the decanter of whiskey he keeps beside his desk, pouring a glass. It is not surprising, after such an ordeal, that his hands pour more than a knuckle’s worth, but Beron will permit him this imperfection with such good intention behind it.

Glass in hand, Eris sits across from him in his armchair, half-illuminated by the fire until he leans forward. When he places the glass on the table between them, it bathes him in the heated, bright glow of amber.

The throne room of the Forest House rose in long, unbroken lines of pale stone, vaulted high enough that the ceiling vanished into shadow, where torchlight could not quite reach. No hearth burned in the large space, only iron brackets set into the walls at measured intervals, each holding a single torch whose fire burned narrow and vertical, thin as a blade.

They did not flicker, simply because the High Lord willed them to remain still. 

Light fell in rigid columns, striping the floor in bands of gold and shadow, leaving the spaces between them deeper for the contrast. The air held no familiar lingering of smoke, heat without comfort.

Beron stood below the ancient throne and did not look at it.

He rarely did.

His gaze lowered to where his eldest son knelt. 

The stone beneath Eris bore the wear of time and tradition.

Beron had noticed it long ago, though he had never remarked upon it. The shallow depression had not been carved, had instead been worn smooth by centuries of obedience. 

Eris fit the space with accuracy. 

His hands were placed before him, not splayed, but drawn closer, fingers curled faintly inward as though the strength to hold them fully open had been spent elsewhere. Blood marked them unevenly, darker where it had already begun to dry.

It had fallen freely, at first.

Beron watched as a thin line traced from his son’s mouth again, though less cleanly than before. It caught at the corner of his lips, dragged unevenly across skin that had already begun to swell, before slipping down along his chin. It did not fall in drops. It stretched into a thin, reluctant line that traced the contour of Eris’s chin before slipping lower, marking his throat in a predictable path.

His breathing remained controlled. Each inhale drawn shallow, each exhale released with care.

The torches bent.

Not visibly, Beron noticed with a frown, not in any way that would draw the eye of someone who did not know to look, but their flames narrowed further, drawn subtly toward him, as though the fire itself had shifted its allegiance.

Blood marked his own hand. He had not yet returned it to stillness.

His beringed fingers remained slightly curled, as though the memory of impact had not fully resolved. Blood covered his knuckles, smeared rather than settled, dragged across skin in uneven strokes that marked movement rather than reception.

It had begun to dry.

When he flexed, he felt his own skin split.

A fine line opened along one ridge of bone, and fresh red welled up beneath the darkened surface, slow and deliberate. It gathered, thickened, then slipped free, drawn downward by the same quiet gravity that governed everything else in the room.

It fell in a perfect teardrop onto the stone next to his heir.

Eris did not react, not even when Beron kneeled directly in front of him. 

“Look at me.” The command did not rise, was expected to be obeyed. 

Eris did not move immediately, and Beron noted the delay as the smallest fraction of time required to gather what had been displaced, to reassemble it into something acceptable before presenting it for inspection.

Good. 

His head lifted slowly, effort clear in the tightening at the corner of his mouth, the faint pull at the line of his throat where blood had begun to dry and crack.

His eyes found Beron’s.

Unflinching amber stones. 

There was no disorientation in them. Whatever had been struck from him had already been retrieved, restored to its proper place.

Beron watched the last of it settle before he moved. 

His hand closed around Eris’s jaw with precision.

Fingers found their placement along bone, not flesh, aligning where pressure would translate most effectively. His thumb pressed beneath his son’s high cheekbone, anchoring, while the rest of his grip tightened in measured increments.

He tilted his head upward.

Further.

Past the natural line, past comfort.

Eris made a sound.

It was soft, unintended. A small, fractured thing that escaped before it could be silenced. It lived for less than a second in the space between them before being forced down, swallowed and erased.

Not entirely.

Beron had heard it. Had felt it, in the subtle shift beneath his hand, in the way the muscle tightened reflexively before control reasserted itself.

He did not loosen his grip. He tightened it.

Blood warmed his skin.

It shifted beneath his fingers, smearing across both of them, breaking the clean line along Eris’s chin into thinner, branching paths that crossed his throat without pattern before continuing downward.

“I do not like lies,” Beron said.

The torches did not flicker and Eris’s gaze did not drop.

“I would never lie to you, High Lord.” His voice was controlled, refined.

Each word placed without excess and without strain. Even the breath that carried them was measured, drawn shallow enough that it did not disturb the line of blood that continued its slow descent along his throat.

It was entirely correct, exactly what he wished to hear. 

Beron studied him, dark eyes narrowed. 

Misalignment. 

It revealed itself only in perfection, in the absence of flaw where flaw should have been.

Beron’s grip shifted, not releasing but repositioning.

He forced Eris’s head higher, exposing more of his throat, changing the angle of his gaze. The movement drew a response, a sharper inhale, caught and held for a fraction too long. 

Better.

Closer.

Beron leaned in.

Distance became irrelevant.

The scent of copper sharpened between them. Heat gathered, dry and unyielding, pressed close enough to become something tangible.

“Say it again,” he murmured. 

Eris swallowed, but did not hesitate. “I would never lie to you, High Lord.”

Perfection once more. 

Still, Beron saw it. 

In the eyes.

The torchlight reflected there. It caught, it burned, it existed, and beneath it, something remained separate and unmoved.

A flame that did not answer.

His hand remained where it was for a beat longer before Beron released him roughly. 

Final.

Eris did not fall.

His head lowered with precision, returning to its previous angle as though guided by something internal rather than the absence of force. His hands remained where they had been placed, though his fingers pressed more firmly now into the worn stone, anchoring, holding.

Blood fell.

A single drop slipped from his chin and struck the floor between them, ruby-bright. 

Beron straightened.

The torches stretched taller as he moved, their flames lengthening. Light caught once more along his knuckles, along the red that had begun to darken but had not yet lost its brightness entirely.

He looked down at his son. At the line of his spine. At the stillness that held too tightly to be anything but constructed. At the place where the stone had shaped itself, over centuries, to receive exactly this.

Dynasty.

Built in increments, reinforced, tested.

The young fae, a new server to Forest House, blushed and looked at the Lady of Autumn for guidance. More fool him.

"Look at me when I address you," Beron snapped, resisting the urge to add his mantle of power to the command for educational purposes. The fae blanched and blushed to the linen collar of the white shirt under his Autumn Court livery.

To his left, the Heir of the Autumn Court raised an eyebrow at Beron's tone and watched the interaction silently. Much to Beron's irritation, he saw the amber eyes of his eldest son flick over his shoulder in a look of solidarity with his wife, before returning to Beron with a practiced expression of boredom.

His family was full of fae, too soft to rule a Court, no matter how much he tried to set an example of exemplary leadership. His wife constantly coddled the workers, assuaging their hurt feelings when they should be disciplined for lackluster performance. He needed his staff to run at no less than exemplary levels; his the highest household in the Autumn Court.

He held up the glass to the server. "Drink this. Tell me if this was fit to serve at the table of the High Lord of Autumn."

Meridian motioned for him to stop, and he glared at his wife until she slowly lowered her hand and her eyes back to her lap. Returning his glare to the trembling server, he waited. Hesitant fingers took the glass from his grasp, and the boy raised it tentatively to his lips. His nose wrinkled as the musty scent of the wine reached him, and he took a small sip.

Beron used his finger to tip the glass by the stem, forcing the server to swallow the whole glass quickly or risk dribbling red wine onto his livery, which would earn him a lashing. He gagged as the wine poured into his mouth, but he managed to down every drop before Beron allowed him to lower the glass.

"Thoughts?" Beron purred with a sneer and glanced down at the bottle still held by the server; the implication that the whole bottle would be next if he was displeased with the male's answer.

Licking his lips with nerves and distaste, the fae winced and considered his words. "N-No, High Lord. My apologies, High Lord. The wine is evidently corked, High Lord. I'll get another."

Beron smiled with malicious intent. "And?"

Lips trembling with trepidation, the fae answered with a strained voice, "And I… will taste it first?"

"Wise," Beron said and turned back to his family. "Make haste, and bring us fresh glasses."

The fae ran from the dining room, and Beron sighed. The server did not take the dirty glasses with him. He motioned at his butler, who nodded, understanding immediately. With a few whispered words, the offending glassware disappeared from his and the Lady's places.

An uncomfortable silence fell at the table as all waited for a new bottle to appear, as no one could drink until the High Lord's first sip.

A courier slipped into the room and quietly sidled up to Eris. The Heir and head of the intelligence network for Autumn accepted the missive and broke the seal to read.

"Eris, dear," Meridian chided, "Not at the dinner table."

Without looking up from reading, Eris quipped, "It's not like anyone is talking or eating, Mother, as long as the great wine crisis is at hand."

Beron considered rewarding the snark from his eldest son with a fire whip to his cheek, but found himself looking at a new wineglass, filled with garnet liquid in his field of view. He sighed, plucked the glass from the server's fingertips, and considered the young fae's expression of terror. Slowly, he raised the glass to his lips and took a small sip.

Everyone but Eris watched with anticipation. He swallowed. He considered.

Finally, he nodded, and the sweating server rushed to fill the rest of the glasses. Cutlery clinked as the Vanserra brothers finally picked up their silverware and began eating the rich slices of venison and roasted vegetables before them.

Beron dug into his plate, juicy slices of loin smothered in a rich burgundy sauce, keeping his attention for the first few bites. However, as he chewed, he glanced back over at his eldest son.

Eris sat reading the second page, an unusually soft smile on his face. He glowed in the firelight, his expression radiating… Beron squinted. Pride? Amusement? Something more…

"What holds your attention so closely, Eris, that you ignore the feast in front of you?" Beron's question held a barb that his son picked up by the tightening of his eyes. However, the ember-haired fae calmly folded the missive and put it away before responding.

"Reports from our spies around Koschei's lands and lake," Eris responded, picking up his fork and the sharp knife to slice into his tender cuts. He took a bite, chewing the small tidbit fastidiously before continuing, "It sounds as if the infamous Spymaster of the Night Court managed to infiltrate the wards and stole something from his stronghold." Eris leaned back and smirked at his father. "I will have my spies in the Night Court tell us what he brought."

Beron leaned back in his chair, his gaze assessing. "Bold of you not to ask why your spy network didn't get the intelligence first, before the Night Court took it from under Koschei's nose." A scoff from his right, down the table, sounded where more of his brood sat. He raised an eyebrow down the table, not landing on a specific son.

Eris finished chewing and neatly used his napkin to tap his lips for any excess grease. "Why send my spies to die when the Shadowsinger can do all of the work safer, and I can steal the information en route?" His eldest son smirked and lifted a torn piece of bread to his lips. "Or, better yet, we just copy it from his office, and he doesn't know we have it." He popped the bit of bread into his mouth and fastidiously wiped his fingers on his napkin.

Beron sighed, shaking his head at his Heir and greatest disappointment. The male thought he was clever, but didn't look ahead to what being dependent on another Court meant. He scowled and suggested, "Or train your spies better so you are not running behind another Court's intelligence team."

Eris laughed, a sardonic lilt to the sound, and responded, "You can't train spies in the technique of a Shadowsinger without the powers, Father. We already recruit from the fae that have the best skills in glamour and veils, but only the Spymaster of the Night Court has the ability to fade into the shadows; scentless, soundless, and tucked away from light itself." He speared a piece of roasted roots and cut it into a small bite before continuing, "Best strategy if you want a Shadowsinger is to see if we can breed one, but so far, Azriel has not fallen prey to any Autumn Court females, as far as I am aware."

"Ah yes," Beron leaned forward, now seeing an opportunity to drive a life lesson home, "Speaking of breeding - "

"Damn it, Eris," a baritone mutter sounded down the table, and Beron smiled wickedly as his son Connor glared at Eris, who shrugged. Beron loved it when his eldest walked into a verbal trap, but it tasted sweeter when his brothers showed cracks in their solidarity as a familial team.

Beron turned back to Eris, letting his smile drop to show his displeasure at broaching this topic. "Speaking of breeding," he paused for another interruption, and when one did not arise, "I find it highly interesting that in 500 years, you have never found a single female noble fae worthy enough to marry and start your family."

Eris smirked and put down his fork, "As your Heir, I have high standards, Father. Not any fae will do." He picked up his wine glass and gave it an irreverent swirl. "You demonstrated that so effectively with our youngest sibling and his paramour."

Beron growled at the blatant disrespect of his decision to eliminate the lesser fae that had delusions of grandeur about marrying a Vanserra lord, even the youngest one. That day turned out to be costly, as Lucien's behavior required Beron to punish him, and the twins died pursuing him as he escaped into Spring.

"I have made the standards clear, Eris. There are plenty of eligible, appropriate females in Autumn. Every single one has been presented to you. You have found fault with them all." He leaned forward on his forearm on the table to provide emphasis as he growled, "I begin to think you are avoiding your duties, Heir of mine. As if you have another candidate in mind."

To his credit, Eris kept his cool demeanor as he raised a fiery eyebrow, and his lips grew into a slow smile. "Father, once I have an appropriate candidate, you will be the first to know."

Slamming his fist on the table, Beron raised his voice for emphasis. "By the time I was your age, Eris, I had seven sons."

"Technically, our Lady Mother had seven sons," snarked Connor.

Beron had had enough of his youngest son in residence, and he formed a rope of fire to send whipping down the table and wrap around his wrist. He pulled, and Connor's slimmer frame was forced to turn toward the head of the table. "Enough from you, Connor. Don't make me regret spending the funds on the special tutors to educate your smart mouth."

Letting the fire power go, he sat back and looked at all four of his sons with a frown. "Not one of you has found a wife. Not one of you has started on your obligation to this family to have children. Seven sons, and not one successor for the next generation." He shook his head. "Absolute embarrassments, all of you."

In the silence that followed, all of his sons except Eris glared down at their plates, the table, or each other. Eris sipped his wine, then set it down, chuckling. He picked up his fork and knife and cut another delicate bite of loin. He ate as if his father had not delivered a scathing lecture.

Slowly, each of his sons started eating again, following Eris's lead.

Beron seethed and picked up his wine. He swirled the garnet liquid as he slipped into managing his breathing, as he felt the oncoming symptoms of a stress headache and his increased blood pressure. He took slower, deeper breaths, but his vision still seemed to darken at the edges. At least the exercise kept the edges from encroaching further.

He slipped into a fugue state as he managed his body and mind.

He blinked in surprise.

He sensed it, a mating bond… barely present, but wafting in and out of his perception. He let his mind relax, trying to pinpoint the source… and realized it emanated, fragile and elusive, from his eldest son.

The sense left him, and no matter how much he flexed his power, he couldn't get it back. He huffed, he'd have to try again when he was calmer; his frustration tended to cloud the powers that required finer control.

He focused on what he remembered. The bond's origin at the sternum of his eldest son did not terminate in the room, but had faded into the shadows in the corner of the room, indicating that his mate was not in Forest House, but out in Prythian.

He snorted and picked up his fork to continue his dinner. While the mate bond was present, like his son, it was weak and unfulfilled.

◇◇◇◇◇

That night, as he and his wife prepared for bed, he thought again about the problem of his sons. Every one of his sons had centuries of opportunity to marry. Not one had taken the step, except his youngest. He sighed; he suspected that the resentment over Lucien's exile and the execution of his bride was being held against him by his weak-willed heirs. The enlightening fact that Eris had a mate bond that he ignored added to his consternation.

Meridian ran a brush through her hair, watching him in the reflection of her mirror. He smiled back at her, possessive and smug. Centuries of corrective lessons meant his wife had given up on her subversion of his leadership and attempts on his life. She remained cowed, and his careful planning kept her powers at bay.

He had married Meridian for her power to add it back into his bloodline. There was no doubt her fire and talent outshone Beron, but from the inception of their relationship, he ensured she was dosed with tiny amounts of faebane.

He controlled everything that was purchased and served in his house. She ate only what he ate, and her portions were dosed. Her soaps and her perfumes were tampered with, so that small amounts of faebane were absorbed through the skin. To ensure she couldn't poison him, she drank the same wines and teas, and he never drank alone.

Her attempts to kill him in the past failed because her power, under the barrage of dampening faebane, was weaker than his by comparison. Every attempt she had made to bribe the staff or hire loyal ones to stop her intake had been foiled.

He loved seeing her malleable and complacent after centuries of training.

"I think it is time to consider the succession," he mused out loud, watching her in the reflection. "Your plentiful gift of sons has served us well. We have options."

Meridian set the brush down and turned to face him, eyes flat with dispassion. "What options do you consider, my husband?"

Beron put on his slippers and shrugged on his silk robe before stepping to the chair by the fireplace, where he could watch her dress for bed. "Eris may be the heir, but he may not be the best choice for Autumn. Since disinheriting a son does not change the magic selecting the strongest contender, I may need to take… a more direct hand in the succession."

Meridian stood, unhooked the straps of her slip from her shoulders, and let it pool on the floor. He admired her nude form as she gracefully turned and walked to the dresser to select a nightgown. The firelight played on the curves of her hips and planes of her back in a pleasing manner until she slid into the silken nightdress and shrugged on her own robe.

She spoke as she dressed, "Are we sure that more corrective lessons could not make Eris more conducive to your specifications, my Lord?"

Beron sighed and watched as she moved gracefully over to the side table, where their servants placed the tea set for their nightly blend. "The longest Eris stayed cowed after a session is ten years. I fear that the minute he takes on the High Lord mantle, all that I have worked towards in making Autumn the Court that it is will be for naught."

Meridian raised her selection of herbal tea for his approval, and he nodded. While she busied herself in heating the water and steeping the tea, he continued, "No, I need to consider the long term. Eris's display of disrespect and lack of long-term thinking about power was evident tonight. He's not even bothering to hide it anymore."

Meridian brought the tea tray over and poured into the cups. He continued, "Do you know he has a mate bond? Unfulfilled and ignored, of course. But he has one. An opportunity to find his spouse, and he pretends it does not exist!"

He waited until she brought her own drink to her lips, blew off the steam, and sipped before picking up his own cup. Cowed she may be, but he developed habits over the centuries to protect himself. He continued, after taking a sip of the fragrant herbal tea, "The next powerful is Arthur. He, at least, has the military training to lead, and we tutored him as the spare." Beron smiled smugly and sipped again.

Meridian sat with her teacup, warming her hands. She frowned and asked, "What about Connor? We paid for the special schooling for years. He is by far the most intelligent. His power is strong."

Beron snorted and drained his teacup, setting it down. "He's also used that schooling to become argumentative and even more soft-minded than Eris. You should see the proposals he keeps leaving on my desk, wanting to educate the common citizens and to change the tax structure. He has no concept of how to rule a Court."

The Lady of Autumn finished her tea and poured herself another. She motioned at his teacup, but he shook his head. While the herbal blend aided sleep, too much of it and he'd have to visit the facilities multiple times during the night, which negated the benefits.

Meridian lifted her teacup again, "And Edmond? He has quite the head on his shoulders for the administrative aspects of ruling - "

Beron snorted, though the effort was harder. He'd have to move to bed soon, as his day caught up to him. His head felt heavier, ready for sleep. He interrupted his wife, "Edmond likes administrative tasks as they pertain to coin, dear Lady. He's not a leader. He fancies himself a businessfae. How a son of mine…" He trailed off, too tired to rant about how his son would stoop to such a plebeian hobby.

He stretched. "Tomorrow's problem. I'm for bed." He stood…

… or he tried to. His knees buckled as he rose from his chair, and he caught himself on the low table, knocking aside his teacup. His mind whirled, and he thought of the last few moments… Traitorous bitch!

He reached for his power, but it wasn't there. He reached again in panic, and felt the well of his mantle's magic, but while he could sense it, he could not reach it.

The Lady of Autumn stood gracefully and leaned over as if she was going to help him up. He felt a sting in his armpit as she curled her fingers around his upper bicep to lift him to his feet. His arm went numb.

Meridian drug him to the bed, and he struggled, but his limbs felt heavy and rubbery. The sheets were already turned down to receive him, and she arranged him as he writhed in vain to lie on his back. He tried to sit up, but felt another sting on the inside of his upper thigh as his wife manhandled his legs.

He looked down to see her casually pull out a silvery, needle-thin barb from her thigh and plunge it into the other side.

His leg numbed. His last working arm reached for her throat. His reflexes were too slow, and she easily grabbed his wrist, lifted his arm, and plunged the needle into his armpit, fully incapacitating him.

His heart pounded, and he struggled to move his head to look at his treacherous wife. She sat next to him on the bed, holding a clay crucible. Looking him straight in the eye, she dropped the barb into the clay container, and flexed her fire powers…. far more magic than she should have been able to reach with his constant poisoning.

As the metal melted, her expression changed to furious triumph. He growled at her, "What do you think you are doing, wife?"

Her smile turned serene. She stood and pivoted to his side table, where a plain, small clay brick sat, the seam of the two halves visible yet tightly joined. She poured the molten metal on the top of the brick, into a hole he could not see. Once complete, she set down the crucible and sat down again on the bed.

She picked up his hand. He couldn't feel it. The darkness at the edges of his vision encroached a bit, and his breathing became panicked. "How?" he ground out. He didn't need to ask why.

She patted his hand. "It took years for me to place enough servants that I could trust, who would lie to you about their loyalties." Her voice seemed dreamy, her expression euphoric. "The corked wine was the key. It hid the taste of the faebane."

He narrowed his eyes, thinking back to the beginning of dinner. He drank the wine, but the Lady of Autumn had wrinkled her nose and set it down. He didn't think it through at the time, more focused on punishing the servant. The servant that now, he knew, was under Meridian's thrall.

She continued, "I ensured that the last month, my meals were no longer spiked with your noxious faebane concoction. I have put on five pounds as I have enjoyed eating again." She chuckled and patted his hand. "The tea selection in our room was always faebane-free, as all of our joint beverages, but the latest collection was selected to hide its taste."

"But you drank the tea…" his voice was fading. He struggled again to tap the power of the Autumn mantle, and it eluded him.

She smiled. "I did. The tea was not poisoned. Faebane was coated on the inside of your cup."

He groaned, the darkness in his vision encroaching further, making it look like Meridian sat at the end of a tunnel. She mused, "The timing couldn't have been more perfect. I can tell you have been plotting something against Eris for some time, but on the very evening you decided to share that you were going to change the succession? It was as if the Mother's hand guided me."

She leaned over, her expression furious, and hissed, "You will never again threaten one of my children's lives, Beron. I have made sure of that."

"You will… never… win… my plans… will prevail…" Beron's breaths became labored, but he needed his wife off-kilter. He needed her to believe that the organizations he had built over the millennia would stand.

Meridian threw her head back and laughed. Then she smiled sweetly and purred, "That poison will make it look like you died in your sleep. The stiletto is being molded into a pendant I can wear. No evidence remains." She giggled, her voice sounding young again, "No one will contest your death, Husband."

His vision turned to grey. "Eris will become High Lord," she continued, "I raised him well. He's so smart and driven. I wonder how many years it will take for him to dismantle any evidence of your presence and policies?"

Beron wheezed, "I won't… beg…"

"No need," she said softly, "You will die without me touching you. Revenge, while it would be sweet, is not my goal. I don't need your submission, husband, I just need you dead."

Beron's breath rattled in his chest. His vision went black. His chest stilled. And then…

◇◇◇◇◇

The Lady of Autumn lay out Beron more naturally in repose, before his body stiffened. Smiling with joy, she broke open the clay brick mold and pulled out a shining silver heart with a small loop to hang from a chain.

She brought both the crucible and the mold to her dressing table. The clay pot dropped into a drawer with a pestle, as if she used it to mix the powders of her skincare concoctions. The small mold went into a drawer of her jewelry chest, locked away until she could dispose of it.

Long, elegant fingers searched the chest until she found a delicate silver chain. Before she threaded the pendant on her delicate necklace, she flexed her fire powers with precision, sighing with satisfaction at having the full well of her power available, and engraved the shining silver decoration in swirling script:

"Last Night"

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Thank you for reading my indulgent Head Canon about how the LOA is the one that disposes of Beron for Eris to become High Lord!

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