#erinia

"Caelum," she whispered, reaching for her husband's hand. Professor Caelum Noxthorne, his blue and green eyes wide with a mixture of anticipation and fear, grasped her fingers tightly.

"I'm here, my love," he murmured, his voice trembling slightly. "The midwives are on their way, and—"

His words were cut short by a sudden, blinding flash from the sky. The couple turned to the window, their personal moment eclipsed by a cosmic spectacle. A comet, its tail a cascade of impossible colors, streaked across Tenebraethia's star-strewn canvas.

Lysandra gasped, not from pain but from the sudden influx of quantum data flooding her mind.

"Caelum, the readings... it's unlike anything we've ever seen. The energy signatures, the temporal fluctuations—"

Caelum squeezed her hand, his own empathic abilities overwhelmed by a wave of emotions not his own—loneliness, purpose, and a depth of knowledge that made his head spin.

"I feel it too, Lysandra. It's as if the comet itself is alive, sentient..."

Their scientific observations were interrupted by Lysandra's cry as another contraction seized her. The midwives burst into the room, their faces a mix of professional calm and awe at the celestial display outside.

As the comet began to break apart in the upper atmosphere, scattering shimmering fragments across Tenebraethia, Lysandra began to push. The air in the birthing chamber grew thick with mist, pulsing with energy that seemed to synchronize with her efforts.

Caelum watched in amazement as the mist coalesced into three distinct swirling patterns around Lysandra's bed.

"Three," he whispered, the revelation hitting him hard.

"Lysandra, we're having triplets!"

The first child slipped into the world as a fragment of the comet struck the crystal forests in the distance, sending a shockwave of light and energy rippling across the landscape. The baby girl's cries harmonized with the resonating crystals, and for a moment, every dreamer on Tenebraethia shared a vision of swirling nebulae and distant stars.

"Eirlys," Lysandra breathed, cradling the newborn.

"Her name is Eirlys."

The second child arrived as another comet fragment pierced the eternal shadows of Voidheart in the Umbra Archipelago. When the baby's eyes opened, they seemed to contain the depth of ages, reflecting the newly illuminated ancient ruins. They named her Erinia, the keeper of memories yet to be made.

As Lysandra prepared to deliver the third child, the largest fragment of the comet—its core—plummeted towards the Whispering Isles. The impact sent a pulse of chrono-energy surging across Tenebraethia. In that moment, the final triplet entered the world, her first breath drawing in the altered mists now infused with alien essence.

"Evyr," Caelum said softly, taking the third child in his arms. As he held her, he felt a sudden, overwhelming connection to every living thing on Tenebraethia, sensing the subtle changes wrought by the comet's passage.

The three newborns, placed side by side, seemed to glow with an inner light that mirrored the cosmic display outside. The midwives stepped back, their expressions a mixture of joy and trepidation. They had assisted in many births, but never one so intertwined with world-shaking events.

As the cosmic storm subsided, leaving a changed Tenebraethia in its wake, Lysandra and Caelum shared a look of understanding. Their daughters, born on this impossible night, were destined for something extraordinary.

In the distance, at the impact site of the comet's core, a figure emerged from a crater of crystallized time. Moiranon, the cosmic exile, took their first steps onto Tenebraethian soil. As if sensing the arrival, the triplets stirred in unison, their tiny hands reaching out to each other.

The Night of Three Stars, as it would come to be known, marked the beginning of a new era for Tenebraethia. In the years to come, as the triplets grew and Moiranon's influence spread, the events of that night would be remembered as both a miracle and a harbinger—the night when the fate of not just a world but perhaps the entire cosmos began to shift.

Tell me what you think of the introduction to my new world! I'm still working on my world of sound magic, but I'd like to know if I should put these two worlds within the same galaxy. Build my own planetary system? Idk honestly, I'm just brainstorming that idea; if anyone has any feedback, don't hesitate to reply or ask! :)

When they weren’t at the Forest Estate, they were in the city of Velaris. Arina had never been and thought she never would. Her mother, the housekeeper of the estate, oversaw the female staff and managed the Vanserra’s home down to the cent, ensuring nothing was ever out of place or fell to ruin. It was an exhausting job, to Arina’s mind anyway.

I work so hard so you will not have to, her mother would remind Arina, collapsing into the little room they shared. They were lucky to have the space at all given the tight quarters most of the serving staff lived in. At least this room did not share a bathroom with anyone else.

Her mothers status gave Arina status. Lady Vanserra paid for Arina’s education, accidentally introducing her to the Archeron sisters. Their family estate buttressed against the Vanserras and, unlike the Duke and his sons, lived there year round for the most part. Lady Vanserra had paid Arina’s tuition so she could study alongside the highborn Archeron’s. 

Unlike Lucien and Eris, who rarely interacted with the staff, the Archeron girls did not seem to mind so much that Arina lacked their soft mannerisms and lilting speech. Elain, in particular, took an immediate liking to Arina, perhaps because Arina encouraged Elain to get her fine skirts muddy on occasion. When they were hunched over books, the four took to the woods from dusk until dawn, screaming and laughing, lost in games of imagination in the enchanted woodland. 

And in the summer, Arina was always called back, shoved in a too-tight, itchy dress, and forced to greet the Vanserra’s on the front drive. She liked Lady Vanserra best, who was like another mother. Amera, she’d once whispered to Arina with a wink. She was younger than her husband by at least ten years and so beautiful Arina understood why the Duke had wanted her so badly. Too much, her mother had once murmured though Arina didn’t understand what that meant at all. She was everything Arina’s mother was trying to turn Arina into. Each year, Arina studied her when she stepped from the carriage, placing a delicate, fair hand into her husbands. She wore her auburn hair off her face, twisted and combed without a stray hair out of place. Russet eyes always swept over them and when she smiled, Arina sometimes pretended it was because she was happy to Arina, and Arina only.

Beron Vanserra was a humorless man in comparison to his beautiful wife. Handsome enough, with muddy brown hair and eyes, Arina wondered what the lady liked about him. He didn’t seem to know they existed at all and spoke only to the steward.  She supposed he must be kind, and he was handsome enough—more handsome than the men in the village, at any rate. He always placed a gloved hand on his wifes back and led her in, his sons trailing just behind.

Lucien would grin when he saw her, his hair a match for his mothers though it was never tidy. His skin was perpetually tanned, even after a winter in the city where Arina was sure he saw very little sun. He grew only darker in the summer when he was left to run wild and the Duke paid very little attention to him. It was for the best—Lucien would join in with the Archeron’s, causing all sorts of mischief with the youngest, Feyre.

Eris was the oldest and his fathers man as far as Arina could tell. Though he shared his mothers coloring, her auburn hair, her russet eyes, Eris held himself like his father even as a boy. He looked down his nose at them if he acknowledged the help at all. He didn’t play games, not even when Lucien cajoled. He holed himself up in the library, her favorite room, and focused on his studies and his fathers other lessons. 

Eris was mean. Two years older than her, Eris already considered himself lord and never let any of them forget it. Tramping home one day, happy and coated in dirt, Lucien and Arina had the misfortune of running into Eris on the grounds just outside the garden. 

“You’re filthy,” he sneered, looking her up and down. “Mother says you’re going to be a great lady but no lady I’ve ever seen takes such joy in mud.”

“What would you know about ladies?” Arina had snapped. Eris’s outrage was not imagined. 

“You can’t speak to me like that,” he’d told her. “Apologize.”

And Arina, foolish and young, had shoved him so hard he’d fallen in the dirt. Eris had his revenge, she supposed, when he told his father. Arina had been marched into the drawing room, trembling like a leaf before the Duke and his wife while Eris smirked from the sofa.

“Tell him you’re sorry,” her mother had whispered, hands on her shoulders.

“Sorry,” Arina muttered petulantly. Eris merely turned up his nose but it was Beron who was determined it would never happen again.

“Put your hands on the table,” he’d ordered and Arina had no choice but to comply. Eris had turned, then, eyes wide when he realized his father meant to strike her. Beron Vanserra took his cane, rapping hard over her knuckles, twice for each side. Arina hadn’t dared to look at Eris, to see if he was still satisfied and instead swallowed her urge to cry. 

When she saw him next, Eris said nothing at all, nose still pointed in the air and when he walked passed her, he shoved his shoulder hard against her body, shoving something into her bruised, still swollen hands. Arina hadn’t dared say a word, instead darting for the woods, for a tree she liked to hide in. She’d unwrapped the little napkin, revealing the prettiest cake she’d ever seen in her entire life.

It was an apology of sorts.

It took another year for Arina to learn she was not the only one who suffered Beron’s particular form of punishment. She woke in the night to a woman screaming. Bolting upright, Arina crept from her bedroom, certain someone must be dying. She made it up the stairs, fumbling in the dark, before a hand gripped her wrist and yanked her backwards.

“Don’t,” Eris whispered, his entire body shaking. “Go back to bed.”

“But–”

“Go back to bed,” he ordered, only eleven years old and somehow the most authoritative voice she’d ever heard in her entire life. Arina did as he said, though she could not sleep. When she woke, Lady Vanserra greeted her at breakfast with a bright smile and swollen eyes. 

“Allergies,” she explained to Arina’s mother, who brought ice without another word. Across the table, neither Eris nor Lucien dared to look at their mother and for the first time in her life, Arina felt badly for the Vanserras. What was it like to live with so much fear?

Arina was always a little too relieved when the first of September arrived and Beron packed his family back into their golden carriage. She was a little sorry to see Lucien go but grateful to have the refuge of the library returned to her. The moment the carriage vanished, the mood in the house lifted as if everyone collectively took a breath. Every year, without fail, until that last one, the year Arina turned thirteen.

The last year Eris Vanserra lived with his family. 

They’d arrived a day earlier than planned. Arina had been holed up in the library, hair unwound in only a braid despite her promise that she would prove to Lady Vanserra the lessons were paying off and Arina could, in fact, act the part of lady. It wasn’t that she couldn’t—it was that the corsets were miserable and the hair pins made Arina’s headache. How Elain stood it, Arina would never know. When she was on her own, no one cared if she wore simple, unstructured dresses or if her hair fell about her shoulders. Apparently men lost their ability to be rational at the sight of a lady’s natural body or her undone hair. Arina thought it was pretty excuses for men to act abominably, though she didn’t dare voice those opinions out loud to anyone but Elain.

The problem was Arina’s face, which had become lovely to look upon, at least if the men in the village were any indication. It made her mother nervous—Arina was the product of pretty promises made by one of those villagers, though who her mother had never said. Though her mother had never outright said it, Arina knew her mother wanted to see her make a better match to a middle-class sort of man. A merchant, perhaps, or banker or judge. Someone who could take care of her, could offer her a nicer life. 

At the house, Arina was safe. The serving men didn’t dare look twice, unwilling to risk the wrath of her mother and the Vanserra’s were never around to notice. It gave Arina leave to lounge about, utterly spoiled when she felt like it.

She hadn’t expected a frustrated fifteen year old Eris Vanserra to stroll in a day early, halting when he saw her draped in a large chair, her legs dangling over the arm, in a plain blue dress better suited for a child. Eris, as always, was still in his jacket and breeches. He paused, gloved hands fisting at his sides.

Arina scrambled upwards, dropping her book to the cushion behind her. “Lord,” she murmured, sinking into a bow as was proper. He only stared, blinking twice before waving a dismissive hand. 

“Don’t get up on my account.” She reached for the book behind her, offering him a thin lipped smile. “I didn’t realize you’d be home today.”

“My apologies for the intrusion,” he replied, not sounding very sorry at all. Arina didn’t stick around to see why he was in such a mood. There were rumors Eris was supposed to go to university that year, halted because his father had changed his mind. Whether that was true or not, Arina felt a prick of sadness for Eris. Beron’s control was absolute and unrelenting. He could wreck his son’s future should he choose. 

Arina and Lucien ran wild, just as they always did, playing the part of Lord and Lady only when it was required of them. Arina pretended she didn’t notice the way Lucien watched Elain, as if he’d only just realized she existed, and Arina knew Lucien pretended he did not see how she studied Eris when she thought no one else was watching. He’d changed since she’d last seen him—become taller, more muscular, handsome, even. The features that had once seemed so sharp and ugly to her had shifted, or perhaps he’d merely grown into them. Eris seemed chiseled, suddenly, beautiful in a way a man should not.

And he wasn’t a man, she reminded herself. He was still a boy but all the pieces were there and for the first time, Arina thought a boy was pleasing to look at. He was no longer his fathers man, at least, not entirely. Eris was prone to outbursts, snapping when Beron demanded too much and putting himself between his mother and his brother. 

Arina felt sick the first time she saw the bruise upon his cheek. Eris didn’t acknowledge it though Arina could look at nothing else but the purple mark against his high cheekbones, marring an otherwise lovely face. It was not the first.

It would not be the last. 

It was raining that day, the moody violence foreshadowing what was to come. Arina had been in the library, slowly reclaiming it from Eris who was packing to leave. He’d been given leave for university and things had settled in the house. He would go in the fall and next summer she knew when Lucien returned, his elder brother would not. She was happy for Eris, she supposed, and confused for herself. She didn’t want to like him, after all. Eris Vanserra was off-limits to people like her. 

She heard the shouting and ignored it, making herself small in the chair.

“Beron, please don’t—”“He needs to learn to take his punishments like a man.”

Those words drew Arina from the library, creeping through the house despite the hour of day, until she’d made it to the stables where she knew Lucien would be watching. He was sheet white, mouth grim, as he watched his brother and father march towards the woods.

“Is that a…” she trailed off, noting the horse whip slung over Beron’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Lucien agreed. “Father is angry Eris got his way. I think he means to show Eris who is still lord.” They all heard the first crack of the whip. Arina counted thirty in total, each one more horrible than the last. Lucien stood stock still while she counted softly between them, eyes fluttering shut each time they heard the air ripple. Eris made no noise at all, or none that carried, at any rate. And when Beron returned, he looked at his youngest son, sweat dripping from his nose. 

“You are not to help him,” Beron ordered, panting as he said it. “Eris will return on his own.” Lucien nodded tightly, satisfying his father. Arina was never part of that agreement–Beron did not acknowledge she stood there at all.

“Are you really going to leave him?” she’d asked as night approached with no sign of Eris at all.

“I have to,” Lucien had replied with a note of regret. Arina couldn’t accept that. Eris would have gone for Lucien. Who would come for him?

She waited until all the lights in the estate winked out before she took off running, ignoring the way the rain pelted against her skin, unusually cold for the end of August. There was no moon, no starlight to guide her way and foolishly, Arina had not thought to light a torch. She plunged into the woods with little more than her memory to guide her.

She practically tripped over his body. “Eris,” she whispered, reaching for him in the dark. She hadn’t meant to touch his wounds, her hands pressed against hot, sticky flesh. He groaned, jerking involuntarily at her touch. He turned his head, letting her press her palm to his forehead.

“Mama?” he whispered, his voice so broken, so sad. 

“No,” she answered, tugging at his bare arm. “Only me. Come on. Will you stand?”

“Leave me,” he moaned, turning his head away from her. Arina tugged again, more insistent this time.

“You’ll die out here,” she explained, managing to get him on his feet. She slung his arm over her shoulders, trying so hard to brace the weight of him without toppling over. 

“If he finds out you helped…” Eris did not finish his sentence and Arina didn’t answer. If Beron found out she’d disobeyed, she supposed he could whip her, too. It was better than doing nothing at all.

It was a long, miserable walk back to the house. She had to set him down multiple times to catch her breath, laying him face down in the grass as carefully as she could. Eris did not complain, perhaps grateful for the help at all.

“To your room,” she’d tried once they reached the stables. Eris had only shook his head.

“No,” he gasped, leaning against an empty horse stall. “Too many steps. Just…you’ve done enough. Go to bed.”

He managed to unlatch the wooden door, tumbling inside without preamble, like he was little more than trash. It felt so wrong to see him that way. Arina wasn’t leaving him. She went into the house, exhausted and wet from sweat and the rain. She changed her clothes and gathered supplies—cloth for his wounds and clean water, ointment to help with the pain and the swelling and something for him to wear, too. She dug out blankets and pillows no one would miss and dragged it all down to that stall where Eris lay, face down in the straw. He was passed out when she returned which made cleaning the criss-crossed slashes over his back all the easier. Arina refilled her bowl of water a total of four times before she finally slathered on the paste and carefully dressed them as best she could. He was heavier than her, impossible to truly move around. Once she’d managed that, Arina slid a pillow beneath his head and tucked a blanket over his body. She meant to leave him like that, to return at dawn and take it all back just in case Beron came looking.

Eris reached out for her, grabbing her by the waist and pulling against him. It was awkward and clumsy, a scared boy looking for comfort.

“Mama?” he asked again, his voice smaller this time. Arina brushed a piece of auburn hair off his sweaty forehead.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I can get her–”

“Don’t,” he replied, opening one eye as if it pained him. “Thank you.”

Eris pressed his forehead against her own, lapsing back into sleep. Arina let him hold her, too tired to actually sleep. She was afraid if she did she’d wake up tucked against a corpse. He was so hot and somehow clammy and shivering. She kept pressing her hand against his cheek, if only to reassure herself.

As dawn broke, Eris began to rouse himself. “Lay back down,” Arina insisted as his shaking arms tried to raise him to his feet. “I’ll hide you here.”

Eris had never looked so young to her. Had she once thought he was a man? The eyes that peered back at her were those of a boy, terrified and alone, not daring to believe anyone would help him at all. Arina wished she could hug him. “I’ll take care of you,” she added. Eris put his head on her shoulder, his tears dripping down his nose and soaking her ruined dress. She didn’t dare move despite the ache of her body as carefully as she could, brought an arm around his back, fingers sliding reassuringly through his hair. It was what her mother had done for her when she was scared, nails gliding over the scalp as she hummed a nonsense song.

The house came to live with the first breath of dawn, and so too, did Eris. Sucking in a breath, he wiped his eyes on the sleeve of her dress. “Look at me,” he whispered, his face drawn, eyes flickering with an ember of defiance. Shuddering, and fingers trembling, Eris held her face in his hands. She thought he might kiss her and Arina found she wanted him to. She didn’t dare move, swallowing hard at the half naked boy covered in his own blood, his skin still too warm to the touch. “Swear to me something.” “Anything,” she agreed foolishly.

“Leave this place,” he whispered, his eyes searching her face as though he’d know if she wasn’t honest with him. “The first chance you get, turn your back and do not come back.”

Arina nodded, her disappointment strange and heavy. “And you?”

Eris’s face was hard. “This is my last summer here. Make it yours, too. Swear.”

“I swear.”

Eris lifted himself to his feet after that, staggering forward without her assistance. She didn’t dare help this time. He needed to show his father he could do what was demanded of him no matter how cruel. Arina merely cleaned up the stall and considered the promise he’d exacted from her. It was the opposite of what she wanted. Not an ask to stay or be faithful or wait, but to go and never look back. To never think of him again.

Arina was certain she would never think of anything but him.

Eris Vanserra upheld his word. Arina never saw him again, though she didn’t leave like he asked her to. That was the winter Eris Vanserra went to university across the channel and the year Arina’s mother became ill. She’d written to Lady Vanserra, begging for any kind of help. Arina’s mother had very little money despite her prestigious position in the house.

The week after Christmas, Beron Vanserra came himself to see her, his wife trotting just behind him. He gestured for her to sit in the drawing room, still only thirteen years old.

“My wife says you are asking for a physician,” he began, sitting across from her, hands folded in his lap. “One you cannot afford.” Arina nodded numbly, hiding her fear as best she could. “Yes, sir.”

“I will provide one,” he told her, leaning forward to examine her carefully. “But it will not be free. You will have to work off the cost.”

“I will,” she promised, ignoring the guilt she felt. Eris was stupid, she told herself. He was gone. She couldn’t abandon her mother to death simply to uphold an impulsive promise between a near stranger, no matter what he thought. Beron had drawn up a contract for her to sign while his wife watched with disapproving eyes. Beron, to his credit, did send a physician from the city and her mother got better…for a time. 

It was a vicious cycle over those next three years. Her mother would recover just enough to send the doctor away only to immediately fall ill with the same coughing spell and Beron would send the physician back. Arina continued her classes as she worked, picking up the shifts in the kitchen without a word about it. Her mother, unaware of the deal she’d made with Beron, thought Arina was merely growing up. She spoke of asking the Archeron’s if Arina could participate in the season with them, as if Arina was not already pledged to Beron Vanserra, likely for the rest of her life.

It didn’t matter. Arina was sixteen when her mother finally passed quietly in the night. The Vanserra’s had just arrived, their first year without either of their sons at all. Lucien, too, had been sent away, leaving just the two of them to flit about the house, avoiding each other the best they could.

Beron paid for a funeral that his wife arranged. He never spoke of the arrangement at all, never rubbed it in her face like a villain might. Arina knew he merely added it all to her ledger, the balance an impossible sum given what she earned. 

Elain Archeron was the only one who knew, outside of Lady and Lord Vanserra. Arina had confessed it all one night when Elain asked if Arina would like to borrow some of her dresses. “Lucien will help.”

“He cannot know,” Arian whispered, thinking he might say something to Eris, who in turn would be furious she’d disobeyed him. “This is the way of things.”

Girls like Elain had pretty, easy lives.

And girls like Arina worked.

Present day- 10 years.

Eris Vanserra didn’t know what was wrong with him. If there was one thing he truly enjoyed, it was fucking. He could have done it every day for the rest of his life in the exact same position and never tired of it. That day he had the finest woman he’d ever seen bent over his desk, her ass poised so perfectly as his cock slid in and out. He couldn’t figure out why he was struggling to enjoy himself. He slapped her ass cheek, earning a loud, theatrical moan.

Right. She was one of those, faking her enjoyment a little too much, cunt clenched around him as she did most of the work. Heir to the Vanserra empire, too many women saw only the title of Duchess when they looked at him. This woman, with her pretty chestnut hair, looked over her shoulder.

“Do you like this?” she asked, her voice smooth and sultry. Eris was surprised to find he didn’t. He was still hard, still moving, still appreciative of the glide of her body against his own…but he had stalled. It was as if his brain could no longer crest that hill. Eris reached for her hips, fingers digging in the skin, and slammed her against him over and over and over until he felt her release quiver around him. 

Come, he demanded of himself but his cock was stubborn. Even wrapped, it did not want to spill in another gold digging lady no matter how lovely her body looked wrapped around his own. Eris pulled himself out her with a growl of frustration, turning his back to force himself to breathe. It wasn’t as if his cock would settle. It would remain half hard in his pants until he was forced to finish himself, leaving Eris more frustrated than before. “Are you well, Lord Vanserra?” she asked him, turning from her desk. Eris felt her hands on his still clothed back, lips pressed against the fabric. 

“I am distracted,” he admitted, sliding the condom from his cock and discarding it in the wastebasket beside his desk. Her eyes flickered when she saw it, as if the entire day had been for nothing. “I’m afraid even you can do little to fix that.”

He pulled his pants back over his hips, having only ever left them at his ankles. 

“I could get on my knees?” she suggested, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. It was too late. The moment passed when Eris pulled his pants on. Instead of outright rejecting her like he ought to, he merely pressed his palm to her pretty cheek.

“Next time,” he said before stepping around her for the door. “Get dressed. I have a meeting I will be late for if you do not hurry.”

She clicked her tongue against her teeth and Eris considered she was not used to her advances being turned down. Get in line, he wanted to say. She was hardly the only woman who thought a pretty pussy and a willing mouth would give her whatever she liked. Women had been falling to their knees for him since he’d been seventeen years old. The longer he remained unmarried, the more desperate some women became.

He hurried her out just in time for his mother to arrive, eyes rich with disapproval. “Mama,” he said, kissing her cheek.

“I hope you rinsed out your mouth, Eris,” she chided. Her disapproval of his activities was well-known. Had he been a better son, like Lucien, he would have gotten married to a wholly appropriate woman and immediately impregnated her. Eris wasn’t Lucien nor was he a particularly good son though he liked to think that, as far as heirs went, he was not as disappointing as he could have been.

He ushered his mother into his town house, taking her to the familiar parlor where tea and sandwiches were laid out just as they always were. Eris had lunch with her once a week, allowing her to moan his status as a bachelor while telling him every little piece of gossip he missed because he was too busy drinking and fucking to participate in polite society. 

“Are you well?” he asked, noting the black dress she wore. It was nearly summer, far too warm for the long sleeves and high collar. 

She sighed. “There is no good way to tell you this. Your father had an accident returning from the continent. It’s unclear if he fell from his horse due to exertion or perhaps a heart attack…he passed this morning.” The world stilled for a moment. Beron Vanserra, the villain of Eris’s childhood, was dead. “What?” He didn’t dare believe it. Beron would live forever, his presence the dark shadow clouding Eris’s life, making him feel as if he were perpetually eight years old.

“There’s no need to pretend,” she said crisply, pouring a cup of tea from the floral patterned pot Elain had given him a mere four months earlier. “Your brother broke into laughter when I informed him–”

“I knew Lucien was your favorite,” he grumbled. “You told him first?”

“He has been staying with me,” she reminded Eris, her russet eyes sharpening. 

“Only because his wife is still cavorting about the countryside–” “Convalescing, I think you mean to say,” she interrupted primly. “Which brings me to several other matters. Lucien wants the Forest Estate–”

“Done,” Eris said easily. “He can have it in perpetuity, can sell it, light it on fire—” “Will you stop?” she asked, pushing a cup of steaming tea towards him. “That home was a gift from the royal family. You cannot sell it even if you wanted to. It is yours, Eris. You are Duke Vanserra now.”

Duke Vanserra. The title rang crisply in his ears, the long promised ascension he’d always wanted. By virtue of blood and birth, Eris had always known and still, had assumed it would take an act of God to kill Beron. He’d only ever be his fathers right hand man, exacting his bidding while trying not to draw too much attention to himself.

“If you expect me to live in that house–”

“I do not,” she replied, reaching her hand over the small, rounded table to hold his own. There were too many ugly memories for Eris. Not just at the country estate but their home in the city as well. He should have been staying with mother instead of Lucien, who had picked up all the responsibilities Eris shrugged off when he moved into his own home. 

“Give it to Lucien…allow his children to inherit it. I think that is a fine plan,” she assured him. “But Beron wanted to be buried out there…and you will need to oversee it.” He’d have to go back. 

“I trust you are handling the arrangements?” he asked, squeezing her thin hand in his own. Beron was dead. Beyond the title and the wealth Eris would inherit, his mother, after thirty-five miserable years, was finally free. She nodded.

“I think, once the mourning period has passed, I will remain with Lucien and Elain. She will need help with the new babe and I do not care for Velaris, if we are being honest. The manor will become yours.” “Yes, alright,” he managed. “I will handle things. Is there anything else or can we discuss the gossip I heard yesterday in the market?”

Her eyes sparkled. “One more thing, I promise. You remember Agatha, our housekeeper?”

No, he thought too quickly, his mind flashing a pair of green eyes set in a golden face. “Of course.”

“She passed away ten years ago,” Amera Vanserra told him, stirring more sugar into her cup. “Her daughter signed a contract with Beron to work as repayment for the debt his mother incurred with a physician he provided.” Eris could hear nothing for a moment. Only a rushing, roaring of blood filled his mind. He remembered very little of Agatha, of that terrible estate he loathed so much he would have danced around the flames should it ever catch fire. He did, however, occasionally think of her daughter Arina. Eris had very few regrets in his life and had always counted not figuring out what happened to her as one of them. He had hoped she’d left, just as she promised she would, and married some decent gentleman far, far away from the Vanserras.

Eris frowned. “Surely her debt is repaid?”

“I have asked Beron about it over the years. I promised her mother I would look after her, I would ensure her future. Beron has been tight-lipped and would not tell me what was left—” “Forgive it,” Eris said quickly. He owed Arina far more than his life. She’d been kind when it would have been easier to not be. She was the only person who had seen him cry. 

“She’ll need papers,” his mother protested. “And I think she would not like thinking this is an act of charity. Elain Archeron wants to see her married and is hoping to use this summer to create a little season for Arina. Will you dredge those old documents up for me? Beron kept meticulous records…I know they must be somewhere in his office.”

“I’ll find them,” he swore. That settled his mother, removing all traces of guilt from her countenance. Eris launched into his pathetic gossip without preamble, delighted when his mother one upped him, sharing all the messy matches being made. Eris was grateful men were not required to participate in the spectacle of courtship unless they wanted, certain he would have been married far, far sooner as he’d never had particularly good sense. He’d have been caught with his pants down over some minor noble's daughter and be halfway towards his own brood by then.

Not unlike his little brother. To Lucien’s credit, he’d only ever wanted one woman–the wife he’d married a year earlier. Lucien had never wavered in his commitment to Elain and the moment she made herself available, Lucien all but murdered the competition at the point of his sword. He’d done everything exactly by the book so there would be no room to doubt his affection and had not, at least publicly, compromised Elain’s virtue or chastity. 

Elain could give his mother a million grandchildren. Since she’d floated into their lives, his mother had brightened innumerably, and Eris’s too, though he’d never admit it. Elain’s presence was a salve, not just to Lucien, but to his mother.

To him.

Eris waited a full day before stalking towards that brick faced manor, set on the nicest street in Velaris. It sucked up an entire block, sprawling both up and out, as if Beron had meant to have seven children instead of just two. Every home Eris had grown up in had been too big, too empty. He preferred his little town house, with its three bedrooms and its tight walls. There was nowhere for ghosts to hide or shadows to lurk. 

Eris noted the mourning flowers scattered about the foyer as he jogged up the polished wood steps. Was anyone truly sad he was dead? Perhaps whichever mistress he’d taken that month was disappointed he’d died before she could sire a bastard to challenge Eris and Lucien though even then Eris had his doubts. Beron had five other children scattered across the city. He doubted Beron had left provisions for them at all. It would be up to Lucien and Eris to decide if they’d inherit anything at all. Eris was not certain he wanted five other men clamoring for the estate and challenging Elain’s new baby for the title as heir. 

Beron’s office was the second biggest room in the house, save for his own bedroom. Eris closed the door behind him, inhaling the smell of tobacco and liquor. He’d hated this room as a boy—it was where Beron chose to punish his sons for whatever wrong doing he’d imagined that day. The office was all immaculate dark wood and leather bound books all arranged around his large desk. Eris wanted to wreck it, to inject a little chaos just because he could.

Instead, he sat in that leather chair and began pulling open drawers. His mother hadn’t been wrong–Beron kept immaculate, precise records down to the cent. Eris knew exactly how much money the family possessed, having gone to the bank earlier that day to take over the accounts so there would be no disruptions but had he not, Beron accounted for it all.

Eris found Elain’s dowry, unspent and tucked away in a little file noting that Beron had not gotten her signature to transfer it from her and Lucien to himself. Eris crumpled that little note and set the file to the side. He’d give that to Lucien, who could do whatever he liked with that money.

His mothers dowry was also unspent, an absurd sum for a man who already possessed so much. All the haggling Beron had done to acquire more coins, more land, was laid out elegantly as if his mother were little more than a flock of geese. That, too, was set in a pile. He intended to give her ownership of it instead of having to rely on him to pay for her things—not that he wouldn’t. Eris dug out their trusts, dug out the information regarding his bastard brothers and the allowance his father had been paying their mothers for upkeep for those who were still babes. Beron had paid for their education and Eris begrudgingly decided he would continue, even if it rankled him. 

Night had fallen before he finally stumbled upon the folder he needed. Tucked inside neatly was a contract drawn up by a lawyer in which Arina Novak agreed to work against the debt she incurred for her mothers health expenses. Arina’s signature was signed below, dated mere months after she’d pulled him from the forest. Eris reclined in his chair, staring at her flowing penmanship. He hadn’t been in a position to help her, he reminded himself…and yet he’d never truly gone looking, either. He’d just closed that door without a backwards glance, indulging himself on occasion to wonder where she’d gone.

No where. Beron had marked the costs of her mothers funeral, tallying it neatly. Three years of physicians who charged a pittance while Beron charged Arina for the cost of his time, for horses, for having to write things in his ledger at all. Eris imagined Arina, at thirteen, had likely not understood what she was agreeing to. 

Her mother had left her a small sum of money. Not much—two years of her salary, carefully saved to provide Arina a future out of the Vanserra household. Beron had taken it, paying himself back without clearing any of Arina’s debt. She would have been freed that day if he’d been honorable. She could have joined Elain at school, could have participated in the marriage market at the same time, be married with her own children…and instead, Beron merely noted he’d promoted her to housekeeper. Eris could imagine his fathers glee at getting a skilled worker for nothing. He hadn’t given Arina a raise for her work while charging her interest each year and adding to her balance for things the household ought to have provided for. Each time a child fell sick or something broke under her watch, Beron merely tallied it up.

Pulling out a piece of paper, Eris quickly noted her account paid for and signed it without consideration. He tucked it into an envelope along with all the other things he felt needed his attention, before going home for the day, his mind racing. She’d be there when he arrived. Agatha had been a strange looking woman with the greenest eyes. Eris remembered very little about Arina.

But he’d never forgotten those green eyes. 

**

“Look at you,” Arina breathed when the carriage door opened. Lucien Vanserra hauled himself from the carriage gracefully, grinning when he saw her. Hand outstretched, he waited patiently for his very pregnant wife to scoot towards the edge. Far from letting her navigate the narrow steps herself, Lucien merely lifted her up and to her feet as if she were a feather in his hands. Elain scowled.

“I hate when you do that,” she complained, pressing a hand against the small of her back. Arina drank in the sight of Elain, eight months pregnant and glowing. She was a dream in pale blue, her stomach rounded beneath the stretchy fabric, her hair pulled neatly off her head. 

Lucien shrugged unrepentantly. “Welcome home, Lord Vanserra,” Arina told him with more than a little amusement. She still worked for him and was still responsible for overseeing this household. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

Elain snorted as Lucien said, “No you’re not. No one is. I have never seen so many smiling faces in the wake of a dead man. His funeral is practically a party, to hear mother talk about it.” “When will she arrive?” Arina asked, checking the mental boxes in her mind. Elain had insisted that she and Lucien preferred to share a room, that Lady Vanserra should take her old room, made exactly as she liked. 

“Tomorrow,” Lucien replied, patiently holding his wife’s hand as she maneuvered up the stone steps. “Eris was still wrapping things up when we left.” Arina pretended the sound of his name did nothing to her. She was terrified to see the new Duke. She hadn’t seen him in the years after he’d left, back straight, chin in the air as if his father hadn’t torn him to ribbons in the woods. What kind of man had he become, she wondered? 

“I’m surprised she didn’t come with you,” Arina admitted, following Elain upwards as well, hand clasped in her own.

“Eris will make an excuse not to come if she doesn’t drag him down,” Elain said sweetly even as she grimaced. “And this funeral is Amera’s attempt at matchmaking, however misguided.”

Lucien smirked, as if the thought of his brother subjected to the manipulations of his mother amused him. 

“Should I put him in the Lord's quarters, then?” Arina asked carefully. She had not let herself think of which room Eris would occupy. She didn’t wish to know where he slept, where he bathed or ate or lived at all. 

“Put him as far from his old room as you can manage,” Lucien replied, leading Elain to a chaise just inside the marble foyer where she could sit. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved an envelope while Elain caught her breath. “Speaking of Eris. Mother asked him to find the contract you signed with father all those years ago.”

Arina’s heart stopped at the sight of Eris’s elegant script, written neatly on the envelope. Just her name and nothing else. She’d inquired only once with Lady Vanserra, four years prior. The matriarch had sworn to do what she could and Arina surmised she had finally lived up to that promise. Arina pulled it up with trembling fingers. There was no note from Eris, no condemnation or polite hello. Only a notice that she had fulfilled her obligation, signed and dated a mere four days earlier. He’d also neatly folded a will, left by her mother, and check for a sum of money she’d left behind that Beron had clearly meant to keep in perpetuity. Lucien read over her shoulder, clearly just as curious.

“What a bastard,” he grumbled, snatching the check from Arina’s hands. It was written in Eris’s same calligraphy, dated the day after he’d closed her contract. “Beron hardly needed the money.”

She swallowed, letting Lucien hold the delicate piece of paper. “You’ll deposit this for me?” she asked, as if there was ever a question. She needed a man to do it on her behalf, given she was unmarried. Lucien smiled.

“I’ll handle it. All of it,” he added pointedly as Elain rose from her chair and waddled towards them. “Consider this your last day—” “Lucien,” Arina tried to protest. He raised a broad hand while Elain grinned brightly beside him. They’d conspired, she realized. 

“I can manage a couple guests in my own home,” he informed her smoothly. “If I catch you working, I will take you out back and dunk you thoroughly in the lake.”

“What Lucien means to say is you’ve done enough,” Elain said gently, looping her arms through Arina’s and forcing her to walk over the polished wood floors deeper into the house “And while no one would blame you for taking a horse and leaving, I was hoping you’d stay here with me this summer as my guest.” Arina rubbed her hands against the blue uniform of her dress. Dread crept through her stomach. All she’d known, for ten years, was working in this house. The education she’d been given felt like a distance memory, hardly useful to her at all. What good was Latin when the toilets stopped working? She licked her lips nervously as Lucien offered, “I could take you to Velaris, if you like?”

That would be worse. “No,” she insisted hastily. “No, I…” 

“Don’t you want to move on?” Elain asked her gently. “Find a family of your own?”

Arina forced a smile on her face. “Let me help you with this, at least. It will take you time to find a new housekeeper.”

“Not as long as you’re hoping,” Lucien warned. “Don’t make me force you–” “Yes, with the lake outback,” she interrupted without malice. “You are still that awful boy, you know.” Lucien’s grin was unrepentant. “I’m glad we understand each other. Let my wife make a fuss over you. It’s quite nice.” He strolled away, hands jammed in his pockets and a skip in his step. “I cannot stand how happy you have made him,” Arina told Elain, watching him walk away. “He is intolerable.”

“I know,” Elain agreed, one hand resting on her stomach. “I will endeavor to humble him.” How Elain chose to do that, Arina did not want to know. Like all of their courtship, Arina kept the pair of them at arms length. Elain and Lucien were her friends separately and, she supposed, together. However watching them fall in love, seeing how it might be between two people only made Arina feel lonlier. She knew Elain wanted that for her and once, Arina had wanted it too.

She was far too old to start. Twenty six and unmarried made it seem as if something was terribly wrong with her. Most girls wed far younger. Elain had been allowed more time than most as her proposal to Lucien was all but assured and she had wanted to travel with her sisters before settling down into motherhood. 

What man would want a wife who was not only as old as she was, but who had spent her life working as she did? Arina hardly had the gentile manners even middle class men dreamt of. She still liked to lurk in trees whenever no one was watching. Hardly wifely qualities. Arina was wild and, as she’d gotten older, had decided she didn’t want to change that. 

Elain dropped off an absurd number of dresses that evening, along with pretty shoes and haircombs. Arina had stared at them in the little room that had once belonged to her and her mother, hanging them neatly in her closet and arranging them gently on the dresser. She had so little—everything in that room belonged to her because she’d earned it. Elain was kind, and it felt bad to ignore those fine dresses and corsets for an easy cream colored dress she could slip over her head, that flowed against her frame without constricting her breathing. 

Instead of her usual bun, Arina opted for a braid over her shoulder. It was the hair of girls, not ladies and yet she decided she would not marry and so what did it matter if she dressed herself for comfort over fashion? Arina had no intention of attending Beron’s funeral though she did make her way to the servants quarters to ensure everyone knew their places. Berta was already waiting, eager eyed and hopeful. She wanted to replace Arina. 

Arina could have made the recommendation to Lucien that day and he’d have done it. She didn’t intend to make Berta wait forever. After all, housekeeper was the most prestigious job within a lord's household for a woman and Arina was sure Lucien paid far better than his father. 

Arina went to the library afterwards, avoiding the bustle around the house she would have usually participated in. She felt so idle. It was uncomfortable, not having anything to do with her time, no projects to organize, no staff to oversee. Just as she’d done when she was a girl, Arina plucked her favorite book from the shelf and fell into her favorite chair, head on the arm of the chair, legs dangling over the sides. No one but her ever came in here. The library was merely for show, for Beron to collect things with his absurd wealth that he’d never use. 

She knew the book in her hand like she knew her own name. Each line was memorized, imprinted on her mind, so when she read, her lips moved too, reciting the words like an actor might. It was a child's story, the kind told to make them think the world smaller and safer than it was. The hero slayed the dragon, the world united. It made her feel better, even as an adult. 

Even when the library door pulled open and a man with amber eyes stepped inside. He didn’t see her for a moment, half hidden beside the window, a table just in front of her. He turned his back, running a hand through his short, auburn hair as he exhaled a noise of frustration.

“Fuck you, father,” he snarled, his voice dark and rich. “If I could kill you myself, I would. You were an absolute…bastard…” his voice trailed off as he turned again, so slow the air seemed to still. Eris Vanserra had returned, every inch the Duke, now. The boy in her memory, with his rounded features and soft, snotty lilt had been replaced with the man standing in front of her. Tall, muscular and lean, Eris Vanserra was impeccably dressed in a silvery blue jacket cut stiffly against his angular, carved jaw. A complementary vest hugged against his chest, tapering against the fine cut of his white trousers that were swallowed at the knee by shiny black riding boots. She’d wondered how he had turned out, if he’d been as handsome as his looks had once suggested he might be.

He was absurd in his beauty, far lovelier than any man had the right to be. A lock of red hair had fallen against his forehead, unnoticed as Eris took her in. Recognition flared over his features.

“Still here, are you?” he finally asked. Arina’s heart sank. They weren’t friends, she reminded herself, and whatever attraction she felt was foolish. Arina closed her book just as she might have done years past.

“Lord Vanserra,” she murmured, dropping into a polite bow. He merely watched, his expression unreadable. She attempted to pass him but Eris was quick, pulling the book she held from her hands. He turned the spine to his face, reading the faded gold lettering with narrowed eyes.

“Still here, still reading the same books,” he stated, eyes snapping to her face. She felt like a child, embarrassed and flustered all at once. “I don’t know why that surprises me.”

He handed her back the book, fingers careful not to touch her. Arina snatched it, holding it against her chest.

“You haven’t changed at all,” she informed him, turning her back to leave.

“You have,” he called after her, his words slowing her. Her hand hesitated on the handle of the door. She dared to look over her shoulder at him, wishing she hadn’t. He seemed angry. “You were supposed to leave.”

Arina wrenched open the door, hating him just a little. “And go where, exactly?” she replied, slamming the door before he could respond. It was all well and good for Eris to uphold the promise he’d forced on her under duress. He’d been half dead, bleeding and crying. She would have promised him anything to make him feel better. That was foolish, childish nonsense and they both knew it. 

And yet, Arina thought perhaps Eris had the right idea after all.

Maybe she should leave. 

**

Eris could not breathe. Pacing the library, he held his hand against his chest and forced air through his nose and out his mouth, over and over and over. This cursed house was a nightmare. Everything held some forgotten memory made new, dragging him into the murky darkness of his mind and his fathers cruelty. The only refuge was the library–Beron had never touched this place, had likely forgotten it existed.

But she hadn’t. And in his desperation to find somewhere free of Beron, he’d strolled right into Arina Novak, the little girl who’d kept him from dying in the woods one night. He remembered so little after the first snap of the whip, had blocked most of it out. He recalled the cool rain against his back and the smell of the warm dirt pressed to his cheek.

And her, soaked in her white dress, pulling him to his feet and dragging him through the woods and over the hilly lawn where he’d collapsed into the stable. He’d passed out, his dreams fraught and had woken to pretty green eyes tucking a blanket around his body. No one but his mother touched him with such care and yet when he’d pulled her into his arms, she’d smelled of sunshine and citrus, hardly his mothers scents. 

He’d put her behind him. Even when he’d honored her mothers will, Eris had given her little thought beyond his hope she did something with her life now that she was freed from Beron’s influence. He hadn’t expected to find her still, dressed in a white dress so reminiscent of the night in the forest, her sunlit blonde hair swept in a messy braid over her shoulder. And her eyes…Eris braced his hand against the table. In his mind, she was a freckled, chubby cheeked girl. 

Not anymore. Arina could have brought Velaris to her knees if she’d ever been given permission to leave. Her beauty was overwhelming, bright like the midday light pouring through the window. Eris understood why Paris might risk his kingdom for Helen of Troy, had she been even half as lovely as Arina was. 

Arina, devoid of a corset and the fussy hairstyles the ladies in Velaris wore, her legs hanging over the side of a chair as she read a book for children. Arina, with her full, unpainted pink lips, her tanned skin, her mossy eyes. She was not for him and never had been—his first awareness of her was being shoved in the dirt by her own hands, only to watch his father bruise them unforgivably when he learned of her transgression. 

Not for him…Eris turned his eyes to the window, unsurprised to see her stalking over the lawn like a petulant child. He wanted to chase after her, to needle her until he was under her skin. Eris turned back to the library, instead going to see his obnoxious brother who had known Arina had been here all these years and said nothing at all.

“If you want the office back, you’ll have to fight me for it,” Lucien said absently, rifling through their fathers old documents. “Or the bedroom.” “I wouldn’t touch that bedroom with a ten foot pole,” Eris retorted, well aware Lucien had likely already done unspeakable things to Lady Elain. Lucien looked up, misunderstanding him. “I had everything changed.” Eris only rolled his eyes. “Did you not give Arina her inheritance?”

Lucien’s brows shot upwards. “Of course I did.”

“Then why is she still here?” Eris demanded, furious that Lucien would allow her to continue working when she ought to go. Escape. 

Lucien steepled his hands in front of his face, regarding Eris with an assessing gaze. Annoyed, Eris dropped to the blue leather chair across from Lucien’s desk, leg crossed over his knee. 

“Elain wants to find her a match,” he finally said, leaning back in his chair. “Who am I to deny my wife?”

“And Arina?” Eris asked petulantly.

“Why do you care?” Lucien shot back smoothly. 

“She…she did me a favor once,” he finally admitted, catching the interest in Lucien’s face. So Arina had never told, had she? She’d just assumed she must, that servants gossiped. What better piece of information than to spread how the lord's son wept like a child in the arms of a maid's daughter? It softened him, if only a little. “I want to see her–” “Settled, yes. We all do,” Lucien agreed. “Dont’ worry, Eris. I can manage just fine without you hovering over my shoulders.” Eris scowled. “You’ll fuck it up. You always do.”

“Reassuring words from Duke Vanserra,” Lucien retorted as Eris stood. “Don’t stay on my account, brother. Go back to Velaris and continue fucking your whores. I am sure that will fix things.”

Eris rounded on his brother, who didn’t have the decency to look scared. “Oh? And has marriage fixed you?”

“Perhaps I was not so deeply broken,” Lucien replied, leveling a cold stare. “Father cared far less for me than he did you, after all.”

“And that’s how you can stand being here? In this fucking house with–” he cut himself off, reaching for a decanter of Beron’s expensive liquor, throwing it forcefully against the wall behind him. Lucien didn’t flinch.

“Beron took too much,” Lucien finally said, drawing Eris’s attention back to Lucien’s face, to the scar from their fathers brutality. “He cannot have my peace. He is dead, and by all accounts, it was a slow, painful, and miserable death out on the road. By himself. No one to torment, to witness him.” “It’s not enough,” Eris said, panting wildly as if he’d just run a race. 

“Then you will always be angry and he will  never care. The apology you want is not coming, Eris. He is not sorry for what he did,” Lucien snarled in response. “Make your peace with it so you can move on.” Eris shook his head, stumbling from the office like a drunk man. He didn’t know where he was going until he yanked open the terrace doors. Sunlight shone around him, illuminating the beautiful grass and gardens. In the distance, Eris could see the sparkling lake juxtaposed against the cheerful green treetops of the forest. Eris pulled off his jacket as he began to walk, each step angrier than the last until he’d thrown the piece of clothing to the grass. He removed his vest, rolling his sleeves to his elbows. 

He took off in a sprint, unsure where he was going or what he was doing. It felt good to unleash himself, to stop trying so hard to be his fathers perfect son, to release the expectations that had always strangled him. Gentlemen didn’t run, they didn’t work, they didn’t care about women or love or fun. They didn’t cry or feel anything but rage and did exactly as they wished so long as it was mostly within the bounds of the law.

The problem was Eris did feel. He felt everything, bottled in his chest until he made a mockery of his very being. Eris cared too much for a Vanserra, and as a result could just barely function. He was Beron in all the ways Beron valued and when he looked at himself in the mirror, Eris hated what he saw.

He slowed after a moment, turning in a circle on the leaf strewn path. “Lost, lordling?” a mocking voice called from a tree. Eris titled his head to find Arina, sitting just above him, her leg dangling once again. He grabbed her ankle and yanked, sending her tumbling to the ground with a screech. 

“Did my mother not instruct you on the ways of being a lady?” he sneered as she rose to her feet, her hair unwound from the loosely tied ribbon. Arina pushed the hair from her face, the top of her head coming to his chin as she strode towards him.

“As well as she taught you to be a gentleman,” Arina snapped. Eris took a step towards her. 

“Apologize,” he demanded.

Arina didn’t yield, her fury only making her more lovely. “I’m sorry you’re such a bastard.”

Eris lunged and Arina took off, avoiding the path entirely to plunge into the forest unbidden, as if she were a child again. He raced after her, irritated she was so much better than he was at navigating his own ancestral lands. While he’d studied, Arina had been given leave to roam wild. Not anymore. He had paid his dues and for what? He was Duke regardless and would have been even if all he’d ever done was fuck his whores, as Lucien so crassly stated. 

He nearly caught her once, arms catching on her dress only to meet a branch to the face. She didn’t stop, not until she burst from the treeline to the dock, stopping so abruptly he slammed into her and sent them both toppling to the grass. Arina exhaled all the air in her lungs, her soft body breaking his fall. Eris was fine, though bruised, and present enough to know that when he hoisted her up over his shoulder, he was violating several fundamental truths regarding how men and women ought to act.

“Eris,” she gasped, kicking at his chest and beating against his back. “Don’t you dare—”He threw her into the lake, watching her flail against the crystal water with satisfaction. He didn’t know why he’d wanted to do any of it at all—why he’d chased after her, why he’d yanked her from the tree or even why it amused him to see her fall into the water. 

Arina didn’t surface for long enough to unsettle him. She could swim, he was certain of it. Still, Eris walked to the end of the dock, crouching on the edge to see if she was injured or drowning. Her hand shot from beneath the glassy surface, fisting in his shirt. Eris howled, tumbling into the chilly water without ceremony. She attempted to lift herself out of the lake as he went under, grabbing at her bare leg and dragging her back beneath him. Arina twisted, pulling from his grasp to surface for air.

“What is wrong with you?” she demanded, pushing away when he surged towards her. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Eris frowned. “No,” he finally admitted. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

“This is a poor way to talk to a woman. Surely you must know that,” she spat, swimming to the dock. He watched her hoist herself up, water sluicing off her body that was now completely visible to him. Eris’s amusement only heightened when Arina stood, her dress clinging to every inch of her skin. Nipples peeked through the sheer fabric, giving Eris the general sense of her shape, of what she might look like undressed. 

She crossed her arms over her chest as he floated. “I’m not trying to talk to you,” he admitted. “Perhaps I wanted to see you naked.”

“I’ll tell,” she threatened, drawing him back to the dock. Eris, too, lifted himself out of the frigid water, running a hand down his own sheer shirt and the toned body beneath. Arina barely glanced, as if she’d seen a million good looking men and he did not impress her. 

“I’m so afraid of Lucien,” Eris taunted, striding past her for the forest beyond. He had water in his boots and his pants were far too heavy to feel comfortable and yet Eris had the sense that if he stripped in front of her, she’d close her hands around his throat. He was so lost in his little victory he’d forgotten everything else. 

“Stop,” she whispered, freezing him in place. Eris had never let anyone see him without his shirt, opting for either utter darkness or to keep it on his body. He swore he meant to snap at her, to turn like a furious dog until she backed away. Only Arina had ever seen, by virtue of being there when it happened. Even his own mother had never looked, had kept her distance as if she could not stand it.

Arina’s fingers slid beneath the wet shirt covering him. Impulsively, Eris pulled his shirt over his head, barring himself to this stranger, to a woman he barely knew. She sucked in a breath and, angry, Eris demanded, “Don’t pity me.” She traced the thin, pink lines over his otherwise taut back. “I don’t pity you, Eris,” she murmured, so close he could feel her breath on his skin. Her hand pressed along his spine before he felt her lips graze the skin.

“I would kill him, if I could.”

Eris spun so abruptly Arina skittered backwards, stumbling back to the wooden dock. Standing over her, half naked and exposed, Eris felt vulnerable and it scared him. “He's' dead.”

Arina drew her knees against her chest. “Maybe it’s not enough.” 

Reality washed over him, returning his sense of decency. He’d chased a woman through the woods and thrown her in the lake. For what purpose, other than she frustrated him? Haunted him, he decided, staring into the golden green eyes he still saw in his nightmares. Far from a monster, Arina was an angel. No one had ever come for him, had cared, had seen him. She had.

And Eris couldn’t explain it.