Neris Week 2026: Coming Soon!

He’d be gone just two weeks. That’s what he said as they shared their now normal morning tea. He had to do rendezvouses with officers in the Autumn military as well as meetings with members of her family.

“I won’t even be gone long enough to miss me.” He’d joked with wink over his teacup.

But here she was, three weeks and six days later, pacing at all hours of the day, wether it be early morning as the sun rose over the frost filled courtyard or the moon high in the sky.

What if he never came back? What if this was the same as it was that day six months ago? Just without the confirmation of a bond unraveling with the death of the other.

A hand to her swollen stomach had her taking back the thought, afraid even the thought would bring it to fruition.

No, he’d be back.

He had to be. She’d hunt down his very soul in the afterlife to guarantee it.

Her candle hadn’t even burned halfway down when that now familiar scent spiced apples and metal ran over wet stone finally reappeared to her senses.

Turning quickly, tears already building up she saw his tired face, scabbard still attached to him as he led a casual pace to her.

She met him in the middle, tears now truly flowing no matter how hard she tried to quell them. “You’re late.” Was all she could sputter out without everything turning into sobs.

He’s eyes searching over as if running through a checklist to ensure not even a hair was out of place.

“I’m all in one piece.” He’d halfheartedly joked, grabbing her free hand to try to ground her.

“You said two weeks.” She huffed trying to pull away. “How would I know if you were okay after those two were flown through?”

“I know. It wasn’t not by my choice.” He held her hand in a stronger grip, not losing the contact needed.

“I wouldn’t feel it this time.” The words did become sobs this time as she turned her face away. Gods she hated how even at the drop of pin, tears would come rushing forward.

He turned her face back towards him, eyes showing understanding. “I’m here now.” Setting her candle to windowsill, he pulled her into a tight embrace, nuzzling his cheek into the top of her head.

They stood in the night drenched hallway for what could’ve been minutes to hours for all she could know, the only sound being her sniffles as she tried to reregulate herself.

Nesta looks up from the heavy book in front of her for the first time all morning when a to-go coffee mug is placed in front of her. She glances up to see Eris Vanserra, peering down his aristocratic nose at her.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously, glancing between his face and the cup in front of her. She leans back, becoming painfully aware of how bad her posture has been and the ache in the base of her neck, sliding an airpod out of one ear.

“Poison?”

He scoffs. “Surely you know that I’m more clever than to just plop arsenic down in front of you if I wanted to take you out. You’d never see me coming, Archeron.”

Pausing to consider for a moment, she shrugs, conceding his point and recognizing that her need for coffee outweighs her fear of death at the moment. She plucks it up and takes a sip, eyes darting up to his when she tastes it. A flat white. Lucky guess? Her eyes dart quickly away from his piercing amber gaze.

“Thank you,” she mutters, so quiet and mumbled that she’s not sure he hears her, which is the point.

He shoots her a knowing smirk. Then saunters away to set up at a different table.

Nesta is thrown off. He brought her a coffee and now he’s just…leaving her alone? Letting her continue working without a comment that made her want to punch him in the face? Not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, Nesta returns to her work, replacing her airpod, and resuming her horrible posture.

She can’t get her focus back, though, no matter how she tries. Her eyes continue to drift up towards the man at the table across from her of their own volition. Irritatingly, he seems completely content. He sits back in his chair - a rickety old wooden one that makes your butt go numb within minutes - and somehow makes it look like a throne. His spine is straight, one hand holding a book - in a way that shouldn’t be suggestive, but impossibly, is - and the other tilting his coffee cup up periodically to sip slowly. Nesta’s eyes catch on the muscles in his throat working as he swallows.

The burnt umber of his sweater and the dancing light of the nearby fireplace do wonders for him. His hair is thick and lucious, shimmering deep auburn in the dancing light. His eyes, which she watches track across the page in front of him at a quick pace beneath his mahogany lashes, are bright, almost golden.

His hands, though, are the most distracting. They’re obscene. He has long, elegant fingers. Piano fingers. She wouldn’t be surprised if he played. Thick veins and strong tendons nestle beneath pale skin, flexing with each flip of a page. Nesta can’t seem to look away from those fingers, so long and strong looking.

Nesta catches herself, realizing she’s just been ogling Eris, and feels a blush sear her cheeks. Looking back down at her annotations, she realizes she’s not going to get any more work done here. Huffing, she begins packing up her things and stands, grabbing her flat white and pulling it to her chest protectively.

“Leaving already, Archeron?”

Nesta tilts her chin up, taking her turn to look down her nose at him.

“I suddenly can’t focus in here. Must be the stench of asshole.”

One side of his mouth tilts up in a smirk, a knowing glint in his eye, like he knows the only stench in here is Nesta’s bullshit.

“See you in class, then,” he says, infuriatingly smug and calm.

A shadow barrels into her periphery. Nesta barely has time to snap her gaze up before a sleek, muscled dog bounds toward her. Big, black and rust-colored, sharp ears pointed toward the sky.

Her heart stutters, a startled cry caught in her throat.

The german shepherd stops just short of her blanket, tail wagging in powerful, eager swings. Its chest heaves with excited breaths, tongue lolling out as if this is the happiest moment of its life.

Nesta’s pulse races, but the dog isn’t growling. Its whole body radiates friendliness, from the way its eyes soften to the way it lowers its head, sniffing curiously at the edge of her blanket.

“Holy—” she mutters under her breath, pressing a hand to her chest. She stares at the beast. “You nearly killed me.”

The dog blinks, tail thumping harder against the grass.

It steps closer. Nesta’s muscles lock, but then the creature lowers itself onto its belly right at her side, stretching out with a groan as though it’s belonged here all along.

Something cracks in her chest.

“Fine,” she whispers, hesitant, her fingers inching forward. The dog’s warm fur brushes her hand, and then she’s scratching behind its ears. A low rumble of pleasure vibrates from its throat, not threatening but content.

Nesta exhales slowly. She hadn’t realized how badly she needed this—something warm and alive pressed close to her.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says to the dog. “Do you just run up to random people and demand attention?”

The dog rolls onto its side, exposing its stomach. She huffs a laugh before obliging, her palm gliding over glossy fur.

The sound of boots crunching over the grass cuts into the moment.

“Loki. Heel.”

The voice is deep. Smooth and commanding.

Nesta’s hand stills.

The man striding toward her is all sharp edges and striking detail. Tall, broad-shouldered, red hair glowing in the sunlight. He’s in dark slacks and a button-down rolled at the sleeves, looking infuriatingly put-together for someone in a public park. His features are refined, aristocratic even, but softened just slightly by the faintest curve of amusement tugging at his mouth.

Her stomach does a strange little flip.

He stops a few feet away, expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and reluctant apology. “Sorry. He usually listens.”

Nesta arches a brow, reluctant to move her hand from Loki’s fur. “Usually?”

The corner of his mouth curves more. “He has a mind of his own.”

Nesta studies him. He looks like someone who never loses control of anything, which somehow makes the admission even more disarming.

“Well,” she says coolly, though her cheeks feel oddly warm, “I think he decided he likes me.”

Loki huffs as though in agreement, nudging his head against Nesta’s thigh.

That earns her a soft laugh from the stranger. A surprisingly nice sound, rich and low. “Looks like it.”

There’s a brief, suspended moment. The world feels narrower, like the cicadas and distant chatter dim to a hum.

Then, almost reluctantly, he gestures toward the dog. “Still. Thank you for not screaming.”

Nesta tilts her head. “Do women usually scream when he runs up to them?”

“Some,” he admits with a shrug, though the faint sparkle in his amber eyes suggests he enjoys Loki’s defiance.

Nesta strokes Loki’s neck. “Well. I didn’t.”

“No,” he agrees, studying her with quiet intensity. “You didn’t.”

The silence stretches. Her heartbeat thrums uncomfortably fast.

She clears her throat. “So, you named your dog after a Greek god?”

His mouth twitches. “Yes. It’s a bit of a theme I have going. I have eleven more at home.”

Nesta’s eyes widen. Twelve dogs? That’s absurd, but also kind of hot. “And what did this sweet boy do to deserve being named after the god of tricks?”

The man laughs, looking down at Loki with adoration. “Well, there’s two reasons. He was a real troublemaker as a puppy, but he also learned tricks quickly. He’d just… decide not to sometimes. Little shit.”

She can’t help the smile that spreads across her face, imagining this gentle giant wreaking havoc.

He watches her like he’s trying to memorize the image.

“And you?” he asks, voice deceptively casual. “Do you have a name?”

Nesta hesitates. He’s a stranger. A dangerously good-looking stranger. But Loki presses closer, tail thumping again, and something about him feels… safe.

“Nesta.”

His gaze flickers with something like intrigue. “Nesta,” he repeats, as though testing the weight of it on his tongue.

She should look away. Should retreat back into the walls she’s so carefully built. But instead, she hears herself ask, “And you?”

“Eris,” he says simply.

Eris. The name fits him.

For a long moment, they only look at each other, Loki sprawled content between them as though orchestrating this entire encounter.

Eris eventually lowers himself into the grass at the edge of her blanket, unbothered by the expensive clothes he’s wearing. Loki immediately shifts, resting his heavy head in Eris’s lap but keeping his body stretched across Nesta’s. It feels strangely like a claim.

Even more strange, she has a vision of more of this. Of park days and lazy Sundays, lounging together while surrounded by dogs. She shakes her head to get rid of such forward thoughts.

“You’re not from around here,” he says after a beat.

Nesta narrows her eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ve been coming to this park every day for two years, and I’d remember seeing you.”

Her stomach flips again. He says it so matter-of-factly.

“Well, maybe I like being unpredictable.”

His smile sharpens. “I have no doubt you do.”

The air thickens, charged, though nothing overtly flirtatious has passed between them. Just words, looks. The cadence of something building.

Nesta smooths a hand down Loki’s side, grounding herself. “So. Do you always let him terrorize strangers?”

“Not always.” He leans back on his palms, long legs stretching out with easy grace. “Just the ones worth meeting.”

The implication hangs there, bold and unashamed. Nesta’s lips part, but no retort comes.

Eris only smiles faintly, tilting his head as though waiting for her to argue.

Instead, she laughs, quiet and disbelieving. It feels rusty, pulled from a place she hasn’t touched in a long time.

Eris looks almost startled at the sound. Then pleased.

They talk until the shadows stretch long and the sun bleeds orange across the horizon. About Loki, stubborn but loyal. About books—Nesta admits, grudgingly, that she likes romance; Eris confesses to reading philosophy in his free time.

It’s easy. Too easy.

When Loki finally stands, shaking himself off and looking expectantly toward the path, Eris rises with him. He lingers, though, one hand curling around the leash loosely.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he says quietly. Not a question, not even an invitation—just a simple statement of fact.

Nesta should scoff, should tell him not to assume. But instead, she finds herself nodding. “Maybe I will be too.”

His smile is slow. Satisfied. “Good.”

Then he’s gone, striding across the grass with Loki at his side.