Lu

Eris' hand is softer than she'd expected as he takes her hand and leads her onto the dance floor, where other couples are already moving to the starting symphony. She had seen how the Illyrians moved: a certain grace of war, to move with heavy blades and stand against foes without balking under the brunt. But Eris embodied grace, carrying the weight of his limbs with confidence and lightness, without the swag of the males she was accustomed to.

They position themselves in front of each other, but he leads her into the dance at a slower and more careful pace than those around them. Nesta wasn't only the most skilled dancer of them all, but she had also been taught what to expect, the steps and songs. It was both thrilling and terrifying, but Elain would have to wing it, to trust Eris.

She had been trained in dance but not for long, given her mother's sickness and eventual death. Her promising golden-eggs hen had been Nesta, fearless and intense, a beauty of queens. Elain, the frail beauty of a flower, had many times bent under the pressure; therefore, most of her mother's teaching had not been wasted on her.

But she could woo him. Nesta had taught her the basics: how to stare and how to speak, where to touch and when to laugh, how to balance charm and modesty and seduction, because that had been their most promising way to escape poverty, to secure an advantageous marriage. She no longer needed them for survival, Cauldron knows, but she would like to put her skills to use once again, this time not to promote herself but her court.

"I must ask, have you acquired your clothes here in the Hewn City, my lord? It's quite impressive craftsmanship."

A genuine compliment. The cut of his tunic coat was inspired by some she had seen in the Night Court, the rich black and purple textured silk satin fabric sewn together with silver thread, forming intricate patterns along the neck and hemline with tiny pearly beads. It wasn't the most suitable color on him, but it contrasted intensely with the coppery wine of his hair and made him particularly pale, as if reflected by moonlight.

"The fabric is imported from Night, but the construction of the garment was made in Autumn, based on local fashion. We have prized seamstresses and tailors back home." He takes an observing gaze of her dress, the dark lace covering her shoulders and neck. "And I see you have fully embraced the Night Court's fashion since I last saw you."

She furrows her brows. "I don't really recall us ever seeing each other."

"On the post-war discussions, we did. I vividly recall you in fair colors."

She tries to think back about that day and realizes why she didn't remember Eris, only half-visions of the High Lords and their unmistakable presence: Greysen had been in that room, had stood there in frightened silence on the other end of it while others spoke. Only occasionally did he glance at her, and never with any warmth, but she had not taken her eyes off him even as his father sneered at her.

"It was such a fraught time, I was hardly paying attention to anything."

"I understand," he says with a tone of care, and she understands why. She had still been thin and shaken by war then, none of the brightness people complimented her on. "It's a testament to your beauty that even in such modest costume, you looked beautiful. But black... well, if it's what you prefer."

She almost laughs. The color had done such a disservice to her that even her post-war look was more pleasant. And to no fault of the dress, cut beautifully with intricate lace sleeves, modest in comparison to those her sisters were wearing but nothing close to what she would pick for herself.

"No, it is not," she says in uncharacteristic frankness, "but it is Night Court custom."

"Would you consider yourself a traditionalist, Lady Archeron?"

"If I say that it depends, that negates the statement, does it not? My sisters and I were gently bred up until I was 13, and then we lost our wealth, and surviving became more important than propriety."

"Admirable that the years of poverty have not destituted you of class."

She doesn't hide her disapproval. "Class has nothing to do with wealth."

"Class is a luxury, I find, that only wealth can provide by virtue of leisure and time." He takes a glance at Cassian and Azriel standing near the dais with crossed arms and expressions darker and colder than those of the beast statues surrounding them. "Some, not even then."

"Agree to disagree, I suppose." They separate for a moment in the choreography, holding up their joined hand before uniting again.

"Lucien has told me of your father at great length, the Prince of Merchants, but what of your mother?"

Prince of Merchants. Had they not been dancing and in public, Elain would've allowed tears to well up in her eyes. Why had he told Eris? What had he told? She had never asked Lucien what had happened in those weeks they shared, and at this point lacked the guts to do so.

"My mother passed away with Typhus fever when we were children."

"Oh, I wasn't aware. It makes the ladies you've become even more admirable without the guidance of a mother."

"I had Nesta." And with it, both turn to look at her sister, trying to feign causality while observing them. "All our mother taught her she passed down to me."

"Yes, from what I've seen of her so far, I can tell she's a remarkable female."

Yes, yes. "Not only is she well-read, but she's also a skilled fighter and an exceptional dancer."

"Fighter too? Interesting. Though I should not be surprised, as she's one side of the Kingslayer duo," he says, grinning.

"I merely stabbed him."

"Well, many tried to stab him and failed, so it is something noteworthy. If you had merely walked over to his side and tapped his back, I would praise you for your courage to do so."

"You don't need courage when someone you love is involved."

His expression softens into something almost human, vulnerable. He understands her, she concludes.

She asks, after a moment of silence to focus on the dancing, "And what of your mother?"

Elain can see an ember of pride glow in his eyes. "A lady of incomparable grace and beauty, and those supplements to her wisdom, intelligence, and sensibility. Given what I heard of your disposition, I believe you two will get along nicely."

"You're certain the two of us will meet?"

"Few have the privilege of meeting their mate's mother, as tragic as it sounds. But the certainty comes at the hope that our alliance, between Night and Autumn, will be successful and we'll have many more gatherings in the future."

"Wouldn't your mother hate us for helping plot your father's demise?"

"I won't say it out loud but..." And gives her a knowing look.

She narrows her eyes. "Are they not mates?"

"No. Just married." To that she cannot hide her questioning face. "Is that so absurd? Not everybody gets to have a mate, even High Lords."

"You said just now that the mating bond is sacred in the Autumn court."

"And I stand by it. The mating bond is sacred, but it is also rare, and a High Lord doesn't have the luxury of waiting for a mating bond before its court starts inquiring about heirs."

She wondered how strongly they would abide by that standard if a mate came to interfere in their predetermined affairs. She doubted they were above killing in such cases.

"Your father seems to be the exception to that. Most High Lords are childless or have been for a long while."

In this, she understood Rhysand's paranoia; if she had waited five centuries to finally conceive a child, she would also protect it tooth and nail.

"Other High Lords had siblings, cousins, nephews who could take over the Lordship should they die, not my father. Some don't care."

She processes his words for a moment. No extended family, odd.

"What difference does it make?"

"A lot if you care about your court. Even after you're gone. In this, I suppose the High Lord of Spring is very fortunate - had he any possible heir, people would've already killed him to allow his court a sane leader."

Eris glances at something behind her as they do a big sweep of the left side of the ballroom. "Given the glares and growls from your fellow court members, I'd say they're not happy to see us dancing together."

"You have a certain reputation with this court."

"Ah, yes, Morrigan. You should think nearly five hundred years should be enough to let go of grudges, but alas."

She squeezes where her hand rests on his shoulder, almost reflexively. "What you did did not leave just a grudge."

"What I did," he repeats contemplatively. "Do you think Morrigan would be happier as my bride?"

"No, but-"

"She would be bound by my court if I had helped her. Fey allegiances and obligations, you'll have time to learn them. I was even younger than you are now then; we both were, but I already knew. She resents me for things outside of my power."

"So you call yourself entirely innocent?"

"None of us are entirely innocent, dear Elain," he says as if testing her name on his tongue.

His eyes take a curious glint, and with it, his cruel beauty is finally unraveled before her eyes. A softness, not negated by the strong jaw or the clever expression, that denoted him as a true prince. But his eyes, she could see in them abysmal sadness, the same shade of brow-red as Lucien's. They don't look very much alike apart from that.

And Elain hates the warm gurgle in her gut as she can't help but conclude that Lucien is more handsome, warmer, and not in objective ways she could point out and compare, but in some intrinsic way, entirely subjective. Even with the scar cutting his left side, even with the mismatched eyes.

"What do you think is my crime?" She mutters, looking for reprieve from those thoughts, looking for accusations. Had Lucien told him that too? Of her behavior? Her silence?

But Eris just smiles softly. "None I know of. Though, if you are my brother's mate, I should hope you bank flames inside you. Your beauty is remarkable, but it means nothing without substance."

She narrows her eyes. "If I am? I thought it left nothing for debate after it was snapped, as you say."

In a quick gesture, he taps beneath her chin to lift her face. "As we say, dear. You are fae now." And returns his hand to her waist. "Yes, even your scent accuses you, but the bond has not yet been accepted, its strings have not yet been knotted."

"How does that occur?"

He makes an irritated noise. "Your sister, your High Lady, has kept you in the shadows, hasn't she? Very unwise."

"I never asked."

"You shouldn't have to; it's her obligation now to educate you. Although she— Never mind."

"You better not offend my family before me."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my Lady. Look who we're surrounded by."

Elain didn't need to look to know that dozens and dozens of eyes tracked their movement, soldiers and partygoers alike.

"The first act of acceptance is intentionally feeding one's mate," he says, answering her starting question. "Ideally, it should be done before a Priestess so the union might be blessed by the Mother, but not obligatory. The locking, well, not something appropriate to be discussed here, especially not between the two of us. But once it starts, let's just say it's not a matter of a single night."

"You know a lot for someone who doesn't have a mate."

"I'm five hundred years old, I've had plenty of time to witness it happening and enough curiosity to inquire about other people's experiences. Certain aspects can be different from couple to couple, but this is the basics of it. For example, the immediacy of your and Lucien's bond is not common at all."

The memory still makes her whole body break out in goosebumps. All it took was for their eyes to meet. How sudden, how strong, a thump in her chest as if her very heart had been struck, and she hadn't been able to look away from his face even as her sister went under the water of the Cauldron.

Only when Lucien had whispered the words had she understood what that terrifying soul shattering feeling meant.

"And why is that?" She asks in a whisper.

"By the Mother, I wish I could answer you. But the Cauldron is as mysterious as it is old, and we have not yet uncovered its secrets." His eyes focus on hers as in them he'd find those answers. "And with that, there is a question: why have you not yet accepted?"

Elain overblinks and looks down at his chest. "He's been awfully busy."

It was not a proper answer but she wasn't about to unveil the intrinsic details of her heart to him of all people. Not even her sisters knew exactly why and Elain herself hadn't been able to put into discernable words what made her hesitate.

"Yes..." He mutters in a mocking tone.

She glares at him. "What are you implying?"

"I would like an honest answer, miss Archeron. I know your sister and Rhysand tied the knot amidst the war, he even made her High Lady then. I don't think those two foolish humans are keeping him that busy."

"He's in Spring now, announcing Feyre's pregnancy to Tamlin."

Eris, centuries old fae, heir to the Autumn court, war veteran, rolls his eyes.

"They're always sending him to do their petty work for them," he nearly spits. "To see a High Lord's son reduced to a busy boy."

"This is important work, Eris. Tamlin will find out sooner or later, and it's better he does so from the mouth of someone he trusts and can keep him under control."

Eris' response is just a head shake of disapproval. "I won't judge you," he continues as if the subject hadn't been derailed, "if your answer is simply that you find him unpleasant or unappealing. But I think you owe him an answer, for the sake of the Cauldron, even if the answer is no."

The worst thing was that neither adjective could be attributed to her mate, at least not from her. But she didn't think she owed him anything, wanted to keep up this silence between them for a hundred years, be frigid and stubborn, but even she recognized that it wasn't good for her to do so. Not even she could ignore the tension that arose every time he walked into the same room as her.

She sighs. "I'm still adapting to this new life. Things started abruptly, and my first few months were quite eventful. And with Jurian, Vassa, the Mortal Queens, Koschei, Tamlin; Lucien has been very busy."

Sometimes she wondered if he had been avoiding her as she had been avoiding him. He, at least, knew exactly where she was and would be, and had the gift of winnowing. She could only dream of being so lucky, so free.

"So your hesitation doesn't have to do with his person, but the circumstances."

"I'm also still getting to know him. And him, me."

"Only fair. But don't forget, you are a very lucky female, Lady Archeron. Or very blessed, considering the bond is a Cauldron boon. Regardless of titles, Lucien has been a coveted male for centuries."

That was a change of pace. Oftentimes people told Greysen that he was the lucky one to get Elain, for her beauty, her sweetness, her class. If he was coveted she was none the wiser, but then again, her life had been reduced to the River House and her occasional ventures through the streets of Velaris. Perhaps in some other court, some other world, Lucien was observed not with caution but admiration, lust.

The thought of it makes something tighten in her throat and she has to swallow hard.

She lifts her chin. "And yet he's been shunted out of your court."

"Has he not told you why?" She shakes her head. "Then it's not my place to tell. Things between him and our father is strained, but as soon as I take lordship of Autumn, I hope he'll return. He has been dallying with the Night Court because of his friendship with your sister, but it's not enough to hitch his horse to their post."

"The Night Court I understand, but do you think he'd leave Spring?"

He makes a disgusted expression. "Why would he stay? To advise a man who spends most of his days as a beast?"

"It's in your father's interest that Spring falls, isn't it? Yours as well?"

"No, my lady. Prythian exists under a delicate balance and every court plays its part in maintaining it." He smirks. "You know more about the comings and goings of Prythian than I imagined."

She allows herself to smirk. "Not as airheaded as you expected me to be? Sorry to disappoint."

He smiles, that same foxy smile she had once seen on Lucien's lips.

"On the contrary. The Cauldron chose well," he says, and his eyes, his tone exude honesty, admiration. She only notices the song has ended around them when Eris takes her hand and bows down to kiss it. "Don't take this for granted, lady Archeron. Few of us have the privilege of knowing the one for which our soul sings and, despite our differences, I know my brother is a good male with the loyalty of a hound."

"I'll consider your words dutifully, my lord." She turns to the dais to find Nesta tapping her foot beneath her dress. "Now I believe my sister would also like to dance."

"How was my brother during Solstice?" Lucien asks Nesta as soon as she sits down in the armchair Cassian had been after taking a sip of his wine. "I hear you had him by the scruff with your dancing skills."

Nesta gives a smug smile. "Well, let's just say that by the end of the night he was a lot friendlier towards us."

"Too friendly for my taste," Azriel says making the whole room turn to the doorway where he stood.

"No need to be jealous, Az," Mor says. If Azriel wasn't already standing still enough, it was as if he had stopped breathing entirely. "I'm sure next year, he'll ask you to dance instead."

He doesn't laugh. "Elain shouldn't have accepted his request."

Words sharp and precise as darts, shot to hurt. And they find its target but not to the extent he had hoped.

"You danced with my brother as well?" Lucien asks softly with touches of curiosity.

She nods. "It is rude to refuse a gentleman's dance request when you're otherwise free... or so we've been taught." She says as much in response to Azriel as to Lucien.

He nods with eyes closed as if in perfect understanding of etiquette. How perfectly wonderful. Eris had danced with his mate while he hadn't even felt the touch of her hand in a handshake.

"Of course. I hope he was not rude to you."

She looks at him, though not directly at his face. "On the contrary, he was perfectly civil."

"He can lace his poison even under perfect civility."

"If he did, I couldn't tell." She shrugs. "He seemed honest to me."

"To the ladies, he's civil," Cassian says, "he usually saves his vitriol for me."

"Me being the exception." Morrigan leans in on her chair towards Elain. "What did you two talk about? I know you said he didn't say anything of value, but he made you talk throughout the whole dance."

"It was mostly small talk. About clothes, customs, magic, and a little about our family."

"Did he say anything about me?"

The lie hangs on the very tip of her tongue, tantalizing, but she didn't know how far went their abilities to sniff out deception. "Yes, but not much; it made him as uncomfortable as it made me."

"Anything about Autumn?" Asks Rhysand.

"Nothing I think you don't already know..." She purses her lips trying to remember, trying to sort out what could she reveal. "Only one thing stood out: he would like Lucien back in Autumn."

She hears him scoff. "Why?"

"You're his brother," Feyre says, "he wants you near."

"He hates me," Lucien says near laughing.

"He does not. Not even a little," Elain says. "Regardless of what I could gather, it was good to have done so. Put into contrast how good a dancer Nesta truly is."

It was only when Nesta took his hand in dancing that all in Hewn City could see that what he had been doing with Elain was only gentle swaying, an excuse to chat. With Nesta, he had come alive, and together they had performed, exuding sensuality.

Nesta smiles. "I won't disagree with you, but he did compliment your skill and whatever answers you gave they left a good impression. He called you 'surprisingly sharp'."

And Elain laughs, the second time for the night, as rare as a hummingbird in rest.

Rhysand alone notes Azriel turning his back to them as if to watch the door beyond, shadow rising to envelope him. And in immediate answer to his query about such behavior, the scent of Elain and Lucien's mating bond hits him like the heat rising off an open oven. His own heart ached in understanding, for his brother first, but as a happily mated male, mostly for Lucien.

He had heard and seen her laugh for the first time and couldn't help but stare.

"What matters is that Nesta accomplished her goal," Rhysand says trying to break the tension.

"I wish I was there to see it," Lucien says. "I've never seen him be so enchanted by someone that he'd propose in one night."

"He knows Nesta is powerful.""

"And that she'd be a ticket to solidify an alliance with our Court," Feyre says with a clever smile on her lips.

"He might even get his little brother back in Autumn," Amren says with a touch of wickedness.

Lucien turns to her, curled on the lap of a sleeping Varian. "What does that mean? You'd send me as a party favor along with Nesta?"

"If you can't see why, I won't bother explaining."

"Enough of this talk," Nesta snaps. "I am not going to accept his proposal. He's despicable."

"Still, he'd be better than Beron, right?" Elain asks, looking at Feyre and Rhysand.

"It's really a hard feat to be worse than my father," Lucien answers instead. "Only Amarantha and Hybern managed to surpass his vitriol."

"I've seen but a glimpse of him in the High Lords meeting," Nesta complements, "as repugnant as a male can get."

"But it was your words he considered in the end," Feyre says, "more than any High Lord."

Nesta takes a sip of her wine. "After Azriel tried to choke his heir to death and Feyre tried to suffocate him with his own powers, I might've seemed amicable."

Feyre laughs, stroking her belly. "Not my finest moment."

"I have no regrets," Azriel says without turning.

"Both of your childish, uncontrolled rages could've set us into a bloodbath," Mor shoots towards his back.

"Hey," Cassian interjects, "he was trying to defend your honor."

It does nothing to quell her anger. "He was trying to—"

"Enough!" Rhysand cuts in. "It is solstice, my mate is pregnant. I don't want fighting tonight. We all did regrettable things during the war. Let's leave it behind us."

Feyre gives him a reassuring smile and shoulder squeeze. "Whatever he is, has done, we honor our word. Eris is our ally and our best chance of getting a terrible man out of Autumn's throne."

"The common folk deserve it," Lucien says adjusting the sleeves of his fine brown jacket. "A better leader."

"Why not you, boy?" Amren purrs, a tone as tempting as that of sirens. "You're far more pleasant to look at than your brother and you have a good head on your shoulders."

He offers her a charming smile. "I should have no head on my shoulders if I even tried."

"We could help you slaughter your brothers if that's encouragement, they wouldn't stand a chance."

"Thanks for the offer, but it's enough that two of them died by Tamlin's hands and mine. I don't love them, but I don't wish them dead either. And it would surely be more cruelty than my mother could endure. Besides, Eris has all the markers of an heir along with a passion for the Court."

"So do you, beneath all your masks. I saw it more clearly before, now these fae eyes deceive me, but I remember."

Lucien waves a hand around his head. "Maybe it was my mesmerizing beauty hazing your vision."

Feyre snickers, parts genuine parts because she feared Amren would say too much too soon.

"Reminded me when the manor glamour went down in Spring, and I could see everyone. I didn't even recognize Alis at first. It was frightening. My one relief was knowing you still looked like you, 'normal'."