#beronvanweekend2026

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"

◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇◇

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!

My usual tags: Please let me know if you want on or off the tag train!

The cradle rocked with a small, uneven rhythm.

Not gentle, never that. One runner caught faintly against the stone with each pass, scraping over the worn grooves in the floor, a soft, irregular drag, breaking the motion before it could settle. Wood against stone. A rhythm that wavered, faltered, refused to become one.

The infant’s cries followed no pattern.

Thin, raw, pulled too quickly from too small a chest. Each one frayed at its edges, splintered, broken into desperate fragments before the next began. The sound pressed outward, struck the walls, and was absorbed into the stone, swallowed by the low-burning fire.

The chamber carried the scent of Autumn in slow decay, of dried leaves crushed under foot, charred maple woodsmoke, a sweetness just past its prime. It clung to the tapestries, the carved beams, the air that moved in slow, uneven waves with each flicker of flame, brushing against Beron’s skin in short, flickering waves.

The High Lord stood at the cradle’s edge, sleeves rolled cleanly to the elbows. Firelight caught along the edges of his rings, turning gold briefly molten before slipping back into shadow.

He did not move.

He watched.

The child wasted breath.

That was the first, clearest truth. Every cry took more than it returned. Every movement spent itself in nothing. His small face flushed with effort, damp curls clinging to his brow and temples. His fists pressed the blanket, not striking and not grasping, insisting, over and over, against something that did not answer.

The cradle creaked.

Beron’s hand rested along its carved edge. Old wood. Dense. It yielded slightly beneath his grip, not enough to fail.

He did not reach for his son.

Behind him, silk shifted.

He had marked his wife’s presence before she spoke, the faint change in the air, the way his flames bent toward her. She had crossed the threshold into the too-large chambers, but seemed hesitant to approach.

Measured.

“He’s so small,” the Lady of Autumn said.

Closer than before.

The child’s cry sharpened in answer, breaking at its peak.

Beron inclined his head once, humming softly in agreement.

He did not turn.

The infant’s breath caught, hitched, then resumed in shorter, thinner pulls that did not quite sustain him. His shoulders jerked with the effort.

Callista took another step behind him, skirts dragging along the stone.

Beron tracked the movement without looking, the careful pause at his side, the hesitation that followed. 

Not fear. 

Not entirely, he had convinced himself that it was something less defined.

Her hand lifted, then froze, fingers curling faintly as though resisting their own instinct.

“Beron—”

He did not answer.

His attention remained fixed on the child’s breathing. The fire dipped, then drew inward. 

Light curled around the cradle, around his hands, around the small, faltering rhythm beneath them. Shadows pressed into the stone seams, deepened in the folds of the tapestry on the wall where autumn forests watched, stitched in thread. 

The child’s cry faltered, broke.

Beron moved.

His hand lifted from the cradle and hovered, measuring, weighing, calculating, before lowering. He ignored the sharp intake of breath that seemed to have been pulled from his wife’s delicate throat. 

Beron’s fingers brushed the auburn curl at the crown of his son’s head.

Warm.

For a moment, the sensation shifted to a sharper heat, smoke thick in his throat. Fingers at the back of his own neck, closing without care.

Hold still.

The memory passed, and Beron frowned as he bent and lifted the child.

The crying fractured. Not ended, but broken into uneven, ragged breaths that failed to gather themselves.

The boy yielded too easily. Limbs unsteady. 

Beron adjusted his hold, and Callista did not retreat.

She had come close enough that he could feel the shift of her breath in the narrow space between them. The faint warmth of it brushed the cooler air.

“Let me—” she said, quieter now.

Beron did not allow her anything, simply cast a look her way only for her dark gaze to shift to the empty cradle. 

The child’s breathing slowed, and he stilled. 

He lowered his own gaze, just as the boy's eyes opened.

Amber.

Clear.

They did not wander, did not flinch from the shifting firelight or the shadows drawn too close. They fixed, immediately and without uncertainty, on his face.

Callista moved closer still, until her skirts fell over Beron’s riding boots. Her pale hand descended, light, tentative, expecting the child to respond to her.

Beron did not stop her.

Her elegant fingers brushed the child’s arm. 

Waited.

The boy did not turn, did not follow his mother’s touch, did not even seem to acknowledge it.

Something in her hand faltered, barely perceptible. Then withdrew, slow, controlled, fingers folding into her palm as though closing around the child’s arm all the same.

Beron noted it.

His heir’s hand lifted instead, unsteady and searching. When he found the smooth edge of Beron’s signet ring, he paused, skin to gold.

The fire snapped. A single, contained crack that did not echo.

The child’s fingers tightened. Once. Deliberate.

Beron watched.

“Eris,” he murmured.

The name settled into the room. He had not chosen it, had given his young wife that much. She found the name lovely. He thought, for the first time, that it seemed to fit. 

The Lady’s voice came again, soft. “He looks like you,” she offered.

For a heartbeat, the words almost fractured the careful stillness he had built. Not accusation, just simple observation. A truth he could not ignore. A tiny hand, a curl of hair, a flare of amber eyes, and suddenly the weight of dynasty pressed heavier than before.

Beron’s grip did not falter. His gaze did not lift. But the thought it might have formed, whatever shape it could take, was cut away before it settled.

He began to rock the child, a controlled and unfamiliar motion. 

The flames answered first. A rise. A fall. Shadows folding inward and releasing again, aligning themselves to the imposed rhythm.

The child did not cry, breathing steadied.

“I think he looks like you,” Beron replied, quiet and final. 

He did not adjust his hold further. Did not offer more.

The Lady of Autumn stood within reach. He did not look at her again, but he was aware of the tension in her hands, the sharp line of her shoulders, the way her russet gaze remained fixed not on him but on the child, on the space where Eris had not turned.

The fire lowered. Shadows withdrew, though not entirely.