#neris fic

What’s the point of clawing through another day in a world that offers no warmth, no comfort? A world where love is dangled just out of reach, always slipping through her fingers like ash. She will always be unwanted, unloved, and alone.

She rolls onto her back, staring at the stars. She lets herself imagine for a moment that she is a girl in one of the romance books she likes to read. Imagines that a knight in shining armor will rescue her, love her, save her. But this is no fairytale, and she is no fair maiden worthy of love. She is Nesta Archeron. Cold and angry, sharp and hurtful.

Nesta does not let herself cry. What is the point of tears? Manipulation, if she were to ask her mother. Tears are only to be used when you can gain something from them, Nesta.

She does not wish to gain anything but peace, and crying will not bring her that, so she rolls over again and tries to sleep.

The hairs on the back of her neck rise. She stiffens.

A low growl rolls through the night.

Her head jerks toward the sound, panic lacing her veins. Her first instinct is to wake Cassian, but pride holds her back like a chain. If she disturbed him over nothing—if it turned out to be just the wind or some harmless creature—she’d never hear the end of it. Every mistake she makes, every flaw, is etched into memory and brought up again and again. At the dinner table. In the sitting room. In the sharp corners of her own mind. She can never escape their ridicule.

She refuses to give him something new to tell his precious Inner Circle. She can already picture Rhysand’s smirk, Morrigan’s laughter, and her sister’s quiet, smug smile as they all joke at her expense. The thought curdles in her stomach. She hates it. Hates it so deeply she’d rather take her chances with whatever is prowling out there in the dark. If something came for her, so be it.

She wonders, almost bitterly, what they would say if she vanished—dragged off or devoured by some beast in the woods. Would they blame Cassian and curse him for failing to protect her? Would her sister rage, finally realizing her new family isn’t so perfect after all?

Or would they blame her, as always? Would they claim it was her fault—again?

Nesta is certain she already knows the answer. Even if they were the ones who sent her on this wretched hike, they’d find a way to lay it at her feet. They always do.

Another growl disturbs her thoughts, closer this time. Her breath hitches, and her head swivels as she scans her surroundings.

At the edge of the dying firelight stands a dark silhouette of a creature, and as it comes closer, she recognizes its shape. A smokehound.

It should terrify her. She knows what they are—brutal hunters of Autumn, trained by Eris Vanserra. But instead of lunging, the beast pads toward her with deliberate care. Its molten eyes meet hers, and it dips its head, nudging her with its nose.

Nesta rises slowly, her legs trembling from fatigue. Cassian snores on, oblivious. The hound brushes its nose against her hand and turns back toward the trees.

Beyond the black pines, a figure waits.

Tall, lean, unmistakable even cloaked in shadow. Autumn’s heir—flame-haired and sharp-jawed, watching her with predatory stillness.

Eris.

Nesta’s heart stutters. Confusion floods her, followed by a dangerous pull. She shouldn’t move. She shouldn’t even breathe in his direction. Everything she’s heard about this male has been a warning. He is vile, selfish, and untrustworthy. And yet her feet carry her forward, leaving the fire, leaving Cassian. The smokehound prowls ahead, guiding her straight to Eris.

“Hello, Nesta Archeron,” he says, voice a low purr that slides through the roar of the wind. “Fancied yourself a camping trip, I see.”

Nesta swallows hard. “What are you doing here?”

He smirks, adjusting the cuffs of jacket. “That Spymaster of yours has been sniffing around Autumn. It is only fair that I return the favor. I will say I wasn’t expecting to run into you out here.”

She opens her mouth to tell him to leave, to threaten him with waking Cassian, but something tells her not to. She tells him the truth instead. “I am being punished.”

A scowl takes over his face. “You are a grown female. What are you possibly being punished for?”

“For telling my sister the truth.” She glances over her shoulder at Cassian to make sure he is still asleep. “She’s pregnant, and the baby has wings. Everyone’s been keeping it a secret from her, and I was angry, so I told her. Rhysand demanded I be taken out of the city before he killed me,” she whispers.

Eris’s amber eyes narrow as he looks at her, then back at Cassian. “And of all people, they had the brute take you?”

She scoffs. “He and the others seem to think he is my mate.”

It looks for a moment as if he might laugh—but he catches it, pressing his lips together with theatrical effort. "You can’t be serious."

His eyes flick over her, gleaming with something far too close to amusement. “You—the Nesta Archeron? The female who threatened the King of Hybern with the lift of a finger, who brought my father to heel—and you're mated to a glorified guard dog with wings?"

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head with the slow, deliberate weariness of someone enduring a great trial. Then he lifts his gaze to the sky, as though appealing to the Mother herself for strength. "Truly, the Cauldron has a sense of humor."

"Very well," he says, exhaling like the entire matter bores him. "I’ll extend you an offer—rare, so try not to waste it."

He steps closer, voice smooth and sharp as a blade. "You can come with me. I have a discreet cabin in the Autumn Court, well off the usual paths. I can keep you hidden—for a time. But understand this: my father is not easily deceived, and once he learns of you, what happens next will be entirely beyond my control. He may ignore you. Or he may decide you’re... interesting."

A pause. A smirk.

"Or you can stay here. Finish whatever punishment," he sneers the word like it offends him, "they’ve so generously devised for you—and endure whatever else they’ve tucked up their pompous sleeves."

He tilts his head, gaze cool and unreadable. "Choose wisely."

“Why?” she demands, voice harsher than intended. “Why do you care what happens to me?”

“Care?” He almost laughs again, but his amber eyes are molten. “I don’t care. It would simply be a shame to watch the Night Court ruin a force of a female such as yourself, and perhaps one day you’ll be of use to me. Maybe I’d rather have you on my side than theirs. The why doesn’t matter. Make your decision with the information you’ve been given.”

The honesty in it—raw and bitter—snaps something inside her. She glances back toward the fire. Cassian stirs but does not wake. The guilt that should root her there, that should drag her back, feels strangely hollow.

Nesta meets Eris’s gaze. “Take me, then.”

For the first time, his smile is genuine. He steps forward, the smokehound at his heels. His gloved hand extends, steady and unyielding. “Wise choice.”

Her fingers tremble as she lays them in his.

The world folds in on itself, shadows spinning, and then—

Silence.

They stand in a cabin that is sparse but lived-in; a hearth crackling low, shelves lined with maps and bottles of amber liquor, a great fur-covered bed against the wall. The dining table, chairs, and coffee table are all a matching dark walnut. A burgundy velvet couch sits in front of the hearth, and the smokehound immediately jumps on it.

Eris releases her hand only when she pulls away. He strides to the hearth, snapping a finger, and the flames roar higher, chasing away the cold she hadn’t realized seeped into her bones.

Nesta stays by the door, heart hammering. “This is madness.”

“No,” he corrects smoothly, turning away from the hearth to face her. “This is you deciding your own fate for once.”

She hates that the words sink into her, hates that some piece of her agrees. “Now what? What happens when Cassian wakes up and realizes I’m missing? When they find out you are the one who took me?”

"I didn’t take you," he says coolly, inspecting his nails as if the entire conversation is beneath him. "You came with me of your own volition. Let’s not rewrite history just yet." He flicks his gaze up, sharp and assessing. "As for Rhysand... if he decides to come clawing after you—and if my father hasn’t already discovered your presence—we’ll have to tell him. Use him." A small, cunning smile curls at the corner of his mouth. "He makes an excellent shield from time to time."

“They all underestimate me,” he adds, almost lazily. “But none of them—not even the all-powerful Inner Circle—dares to underestimate my father. Rhysand will see the cost and, as he always does, calculate. He’ll find a way to convince your brute of a mate that you simply aren’t worth the trouble."

She suppresses a bristle at not being worth the trouble, but when Eris’s eyebrows rise as he scans her from head to toe, she surmises her eyes must be glowing silver.

Eris clicks his tongue. “We’re going to have to work on that temper of yours if you’re going to survive here. At the very least, learn to hide it. My father won’t take kindly to such an obvious show of defiance.”

“No one taught me how to control my powers,” she feels compelled to say.

He hums as he gestures for the smokehound to move over and sits on the couch, crossing his legs. “Interesting. We’ll have to work on that too. Once my father hears of you, he will likely want a show, and doesn’t handle disappointment very well. What have they been doing with you if not sharpening you into a weapon no one could stand against?”

Nesta hesitates but eventually moves to sit on the other end of the couch, her hands folded in her lap. “I suppose they had to work on my attitude first. If not, I’d be a weapon that could very well turn against them. I am a wretched female, remember? They probably think I’d kill my sister if given the chance.”

“Would you?” Eris blurts.

“No,” she snarls. “I would never hurt Feyre. Rhysand, Morrigan, and Amren are a different story, but I’d never hurt my sisters. I love them in my own twisted way.”

He makes a low noise in the back of his throat but says nothing more.

Silence falls. The fire snaps, and she can’t suppress her flinch.

Eris notes the movement and waves a hand, silencing the fire in the hearth.

She can’t help but sag into the back of the couch, her body finally feeling safe and warm after being on edge for days. She knows that when she wakes in the morning, she’ll likely question her decision to run away with the Autumn heir. Worry over how everyone will react, if being under Beron’s thumb is a worse fate than the Night Court, and if she really is more trouble than she’s worth. But for now she is exhausted, and Eris has provided her with a safe place to sleep. She would be a fool not to relax while she can.

Eris watches her like he knows exactly what storm brews inside her. And when he finally speaks again, his voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Take the bed,” he murmurs. “I will return to the Forest House so my father doesn’t get suspicious. Tomorrow I will bring some of my mother’s clothes for you to wear. You are unfortunately just as malnourished as she is.”

She watches him rise from the couch, signal for the smokehound to follow, and put his hand on the doorknob.

“Eris,” she blurts.

He turns toward her, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Thank you,” she says. The words feel foreign on her tongue, and Eris must not be used to them either because he freezes for a moment before collecting himself.

He offers her a single dip of his chin before walking out the door.

She also could not bring herself to sleep, nor eat, or even to speak with her sister. Nesta stood by the parlor window, keeping vigil on the road leading to the house. For there was nothing she could do but wait. Nothing but wait, and hate herself for it. And bite back the little clutch of fear in her stomach, the one that had sharp teeth and claws and made her feel too ill to breathe.

By noon on the fifth day of Feyre’s absence, Nesta lost the last of her restraint, and proceeded to dress in clothes suitable for riding. Elain was tugging her arm, begging with tears in her eyes to wait just a little longer. Her betrothed, Lucien, blocked the entryway as though he could prevent her from leaving. A part of Nesta was grateful for his presence, that he had not left Elain alone in this, but the rest of her was furious at how readily he involved himself in her affairs.

“My father’s absence does not make you the head of the family in his stead,” Nesta said to him. The words were sharp enough to draw blood. Perhaps she was not imagining the taste of copper on her tongue. “You have no authority here.”

Lucien’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I cannot in good conscience let you go out alone—”

“Your conscience is irrelevant to me,” Nesta’s voice cracked like a whip, too loud in the small space.

“Please,” Elain said, tightening her grip on Nesta’s wrist. “Don’t do this.” She might have intertwined their fingers, if Nesta’s hands were not already locked into tight fists.

Nesta kept her icy stare fixed upon the man still blocking her path. “You overstep,” she told him lowly. But before she had to resort to threats, a tentative knock sounded.

Nesta moved faster than she ever had before, shoving past Lucien to tear open the door. And there stood Feyre, a sheepish smile on her face. And beside her, a half-step in front, his hand still raised to knock, was the Earl of Spring.

For a moment, Nesta could do nothing but breathe. She felt her lungs expand. On the third inhale, the world filtered back in, bit by bit. Elain was crying quietly behind her, the sound slightly muffled. Lucien was saying something, but Nesta could not make out the words. Feyre’s smile was growing, an incongruous twinkle in her eyes that had no right to be there. And the Earl of Spring was shifting on his feet like a misbehaving child caught in the larder by his mother.

Nesta held up a hand, an unspoken demand for everything to stop. The chatter ground to a halt, the crying subsided, the hulking blonde froze in place. And Feyre stood in the midst of it all, a little furrow forming between her brows as though finally catching up to the turmoil she’d left behind.

“Where,” Nesta bit out, her teeth grinding in an attempt to keep her voice level. “Where have you been?”

“Oh,” Feyre said with a little laugh, stilted and awkward in the silence of the entryway. “Getting married!” And indeed, there was a ring on Feyre’s left hand. A simple gold band, but there, glittering in the afternoon light. It slid down her sister’s finger, a poor fit.

Nesta couldn’t hear anything over the rushing in her ears. She stared at the two of them with a terrible understanding. The dinners, the guests that their father had invited to the house. With Feyre there and no other supervision, because their Mr. Archeron simply did not count in that regard. The note that Feyre had written, talking about true love. The sparkle in her eyes.

For the first time, Nesta wished she was permitted the company of uncivilized men. So that she might have the vocabulary required to articulate herself now. As it was, she could not find a word strong enough to express the feelings roiling beneath her skin, barely contained.

“You will come into the parlor,” she told the Earl. In order to maintain the illusion of calm, she ignored Feyre entirely. “We will speak of it.”

Her youngest sister breezed into the house. “Might we have tea, as well?”

Everything was numb, from her lips to her toes. “You will wait in the drawing room,” Nesta said to the wall above Feyre’s head.

Elain had been watching, observing, and now stepped forward. Her eyes met Nesta’s briefly, and then turned to Feyre with a rarely-used firmness. “You’ll sit with me,” Elain said, no trace of tears in her voice. “Have you eaten?”

“I’ll go see about luncheon, and will join you shortly”, Lucien spoke quietly to Elain, doing his best to remain unobtrusive.

Nesta closed her eyes for a moment when the door closed behind them, muffling their conversation. She did not allow herself any longer than that. On the next breath, she was sweeping down the hall and into the parlor, trusting the Earl to follow. She would handle the matter. She would learn what had happened, what her sister had agreed to, and what could be done to rectify it, if anything. Perhaps the ugly mess in her hands was all that was left.

So yes, she would handle it. She would grit her teeth and smile and say gracious things befitting a lady. And she would do her best to protect her sister. There was no other option. Or at least, not one she could live with.

* * * * *

The Earl left shortly afterwards, their discussion having been brief and to the point. And all of his answers were five words or less. “I proposed,” he told her. “Miss Feyre agreed to marry,” he explained. “It should be published today,” he informed her. “In the county paper.” And worse still, his earnest expression as he promised, “I will ensure her comfort.”

Nesta watched his horse round the bend in the road and understood the raging, aching mess inside her. Understood that Feyre had been young and foolish and hopeful. Understood that Feyre had been wrong and yet so, so lucky. Understood that a quick marriage had perhaps been the only option available to them, and that she should be grateful to the Earl for his eagerness.

Yet, she had never felt further from gratefulness.

The door closed behind her with a solemn thump, or so it seemed to Nesta. Like the final nail in a coffin. Her throat tightened. She ghosted down the hallway rather than dwell on it, and slowed down as she neared the drawing room and caught snippets of the conversation within.

“—tell you the truth, I did not realize the Earl fancied me enough to ask for my hand,” Feyre said. “But then I remembered our dinner, and the way we both liked the same things, and…he says I will have plenty of time to paint, now.”

There was a pause, and Nesta wondered if Elain was thinking the same thing. That Feyre sounded happy. And that maybe, the Earl would let Feyre be her own person, in a way the girl had never experienced while living under Mrs. Archeron’s control. And perhaps it was not too difficult to see what had driven Feyre to run away to find this.

“I am happy for you,” Elain murmured, so softly that Nesta had to strain to hear the words. “But how did you find him? We were so worried for you, worried that you were lost or worse.”

Feyre huffed a laugh, “I did get a bit lost, actually. But the Duke found me and let me ride in his carriage.”

“The Duke?”

“Oh, you know, the one mama wanted Nesta to marry?” Feyre giggled, unaware that Nesta was on the other side of the wall, scarcely willing to breathe, lest she miss any details of her sister’s tale. “He let me ride in his carriage, and brought me to the Earl’s estate, and then Tamlin proposed and said such lovely things,” Feyre said, a dreamy edge to her voice.

Elain stopped her before the story could veer off course. “Eris Vanserra? The Duke of Autumn?”

“Yes, yes, but he’s not the important part,” Feyre said. “Tamlin—I mean, the Earl, but why can’t I call him by his name?”

“Not in polite company,” Elain corrected her, voice strained.

“Well, I hope I don’t need to keep polite company very often, then,” Feyre said simply. “Anyhow, the Duke was our witness for the wedding. But he said I shouldn’t tell anyone, so please keep it a secret.”

Nesta frowned at that, but thankfully Elain asked for clarification, “Keep the wedding a secret?”

“No, no, the Duke just said not to tell Nesta that he was there. And if anyone asks where I was this week, I just say I was getting married.” Feyre made a frustrated sound, “Not that there is anything to tell. I didn’t have a map, and no one was very helpful.”

Relief had Nesta sagging against the wall. Because her youngest sister had been alone on the road, with no idea where she was going, and returned safely home to them. Nesta did not believe in miracles. But now she knew that Eris Vanserra had played a role in this one.

She left her sisters alone—and Lucien, if he was with them, likely sitting quietly in the corner, stuck between manners and comfort—choosing instead to climb the stairs to her room. The latch clicked behind her. She drew the curtains over the windows until everything was blessedly dark and quiet.

Sinking down onto the bed, Nesta closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, because it finally felt like she could. Like the suffocating weight on her chest had lifted just enough to allow it.

Nesta wished she had tears for this, or some way of releasing the pressure that lived inside her. The writhing part of her that was fearful for her sister and furious with the world that had put her at risk. The part that scoffed at how readily Feyre had thrown herself at love, but also wished so desperately for it to be true.

But more than rage and doubt, Nesta struggled against the heaviness that had only grown worse with every hour Feyre was missing. The useless feeling of being the only member of her family capable of solving this crisis, and also not allowed to do so. The powerlessness of staring down Lucien Vanserra and knowing he was right and hating him for it. The wretched need for help, a need she had not voiced, and yet it had been answered anyway.

Her first instinct was to lash out. To reprimand him for interfering without an invitation to do so. Yet he had asked for secrecy. Had not wanted her to know. To prevent her ire? To play the hero without consequence? Or was she simply too quick to accuse, too quick to assume ill intent where…there did not seem to be anything of the sort.

Nesta’s lungs felt tighter, like that weight was settling back into place before she was ready for it. And she wasn’t. Her fingers trembled from the sleepless nights spent convincing herself not to rush out after her sister. Her palms were red from digging her nails into them, aching to move, to act, to do something. Her head pounded, pain pulsing outwards until every thought was an agony.

But Feyre was home. Safe, downstairs. Nesta sighed deeply. She could give herself permission to set everything aside, just for a while.

Yet sleep failed to claim her for hours.

* * * * *

The following week passed in a haze. Nesta felt as though she was watching events unfold from outside of her body, a puppet moving on invisible strings.

Mr. Archeron returned home, pulling Feyre into his arms and crying into her hair. Nesta did not speak to him. Could not look at him for long, or she risked feeling too much.

Lucien spent another day with Elain, all soft smiles and loving glances. He was kind to Feyre. The two got on better than Nesta would have expected. Then he departed for the Forest House. He promised to write to Elain every day until they arrived for the wedding. Nesta was sure he would.

Feyre packed her belongings. Nesta listened to her excited chatter through the walls. Sometimes, she wondered if there was an edge to her youngest sister’s voice. Her happiness sounded different from Elain’s, less breathless and more…longing. Nesta found herself unable to look away from the ring on Feyre’s finger, how it didn’t quite fit. She suspected Feyre was convincing them as much as herself. Nesta let her.

Eventually, the Earl of Spring arrived. Nesta greeted him politely. Feyre smiled at him, clung to the arm he offered. Mr. Archeron looked proud and dismayed all at once, loath to send his favorite daughter away from home so soon. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, chuckled wetly. “My Feyre, all grown up,” he said.

“I’ll come home for visits, papa,” Feyre said with a smile. “And we will all be attending Elain’s wedding.”

Mr. Archeron nodded, before turning to Tamlin and shaking his hand. The men walked over to the carriage, leaving the sisters alone. Elain did not hesitate to embrace Feyre, gripping her tightly, eyes squeezed shut. “Be happy,” Elain whispered.

Nesta’s throat tightened. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around both sisters, squeezing tightly enough that Feyre giggled. She wanted to say something, to say many things, but she couldn’t make a sound. Her eyes were hot, but remained dry despite the desperation clawing at her insides. Her breaths were shallow and uneven, and she hugged her sisters fiercely, wishing they could stay there and never leave.

All too soon, Feyre was pulling away, smiling shyly at Nesta and then gathering the last of her belongings. Tamlin offered to stow them, but Feyre kept one box with her instead of stowing it with the rest of the luggage. The leather case was familiar, with a dent at one corner.

Nesta watched them climb into the carriage, settle on the bench. Watched Feyre clutch her paint set carefully, as though she treasured it too much to risk packing it away. Her heart clenched at the sight.

* * * * *

She spent the rest of the month keeping busy, exchanging letters with the Duchess and planning Elain’s wedding. The endless decisions helped keep her more vicious thoughts at bay. They also distracted Nesta from the quieter thoughts, the ones that crept up behind her when she wasn’t looking. The ones that kept her awake late into the night and stole her attention at the most inopportune moments.

Breakfast reminded her of stolen glances. Hair pins made her cheeks flush. She could no longer wear gloves without first running her fingers over the scars, pretending her touch was heavier, more calloused.

Nesta used to hate rainy days because of the memories. Now she ached for them. She longed for the dark and stormy nights, because then she could curl under the covers and want. She could remember the smell of crackling embers, the delicate press of lips, the way his fingertips seemed to singe her skin. She once hated the sensations that plagued her. Now, Nesta let them consume her.

She did not know when things had changed, but perhaps there was no one moment to point to, but a series of them. Her time at the Forest House had done more than solidify Elain’s engagement. Despite her doubts, Eris had done exactly what he’d promised—he was not the same man that had insulted her, exchanged verbal blows with her, and proposed to her in the shadows. And he had shown her the differences, over and over. He had offered a truce and upheld it. He had been sincere, despite her viciousness.

Nesta was ashamed of the woman she’d been. The cruel things she’d said and done. Was this how he’d felt when he wrote that letter, when he’d offered an earnest apology? She felt that she owed one, too. Yet words eluded her, the words she needed to say but could not quite bring herself to put on paper. Words that felt meaningless, when she did not know if she was capable of changing so much.

After all of the things they had both said and done, would he even accept her apology? What would it accomplish? He told her plainly, he did not want her to reject him again. So why was hope fluttering in her chest like a bird in a cage? Surely any feelings he’d expressed under that pavilion were long gone. She knew better than to believe she was desirable in his eyes any longer, not now that he knew her. Even the things she could not tell her sisters.

She felt like a fool for all the times she’d looked at his lips, and he had turned away. And Nesta knew better than to trust pretty words, like the ones he had given her upon their departure. I look forward to your return. She knew better, for she had also been trained to mask empty sentiments. It only made sense for a Duke to be adept at the art.

So Nesta contented herself with rainy days, with wanting, with knowing she could not have what she wanted. After all, she had accomplished what she set out to do. Her sisters had secured good futures, perhaps even love. She was glad of it. Glad that her sisters had been allowed to dream, to hope, and to find what they’d wished for. Glad that she had never dared to take that hope away from them, the way Mrs. Archeron had. The hope that someone would care for her, would choose her over and over again, would love every part of her.

She thought she would feel triumphant, that success would taste sweeter. She never anticipated that finding happy endings for her sisters would only serve to highlight the lack of her own.

Nesta closed her eyes and listened to the rain outside.

Perhaps her mother had been right all along. Perhaps Feyre and Elain had both found something worthwhile, and it was only Nesta who would go without. Only Nesta who should.

* * * * *

Elain escaped from the carriage the moment the carriage slowed enough to do so, flying out and into Lucien’s arms.

Mr. Archeron exited next, rushing forward to greet his daughter’s betrothed. Leaving Nesta to descend the carriage alone. Unsurprised, she gathered her skirts, eyes on the ground below.

A voice stopped her, made her skin shiver in anticipation. “Miss Archeron.” She lifted her eyes to a familiar golden gaze, felt her heart skip a beat for absolutely no reason at all. Then he lifted a hand to her, an offer of assistance, and Nesta’s pulse jumped again. Without permission.

Then her fingers met his, and her thin cotton gloves were no protection against him. His touch all but burned. She tightened her grip, seeking more, letting her hand rest in his for a few seconds too long. “Your Grace,” she said, more an exhalation than real words.

There was a flock of birds taking flight in her chest.

Clearing her throat, Nesta let her hand slip down to her side. She felt nearly as foolish as Feyre. The thought was enough to sober her, to let her meet his eyes without losing her breath. She’d had a month to come to terms with her infatuation with him. She would not embarrass herself now.

“I hope you have been well,” Eris said. He never looked away from her. It meant nothing.

“Yes, I have.” The lie stung as it left her lips.

His gaze was sharp, too aware for her liking. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he said, gesturing to the carriage that was approaching. Feyre was leaning out of the window, waving.

Nesta swallowed the words she wanted to say, the questions she wanted to ask. Not here, not now, she told herself. But she looked Eris in the eye when she said, “I am very grateful for the way events unfolded to keep my sister safe.”

The faintest blush appeared, but Eris did not acknowledge it, or say a word about his involvement in the marriage. She hoped he would, one day. For now, Nesta was satisfied with knowing, with seeing the confirmation on his face.

She watched him step away to greet the Earl of Spring, and Feyre beside him. She observed his respectful nod, the precision in his every movement. She recognized it, like looking into another mirror. Always a mirror to her.

The fluttering sensation behind her ribs only grew.

* * * * *

The Forest House slowly filled with guests, and by the day of the wedding, Nesta was hard-pressed to find a quiet corner. She was surprised to find that she did not mind it.

Smiling to herself, Nesta slipped into Elain’s room, a plate of pastries in her hand. Her sister had been unable to eat breakfast, from excitement rather than nerves. By the look of her pacing in front of the mirror, Nesta was not sure she would fare any better now.

“Somehow, I doubt that wearing a hole in the floor will get you married any faster,” Nesta teased, setting the plate down on a low table.

Elain spun around, cheeks pink, her smile so wide it could outshine the sun. And she simply laughed, no nerves to be seen. “I feel like I have waited lifetimes for this,” Elain said.

Nesta reached out to pull her sister into a firm embrace, almost unwilling to let her go. “I remember,” she started, then had to stop to clear the tears from her voice. “The night you met him, at the dance. And when we got home you told me you loved him.”

Another laugh bubbled out of Elain, silvery and bright. “I did, and I cannot possibly regret the decision,” she said.

“You knew right from the start,” Nesta murmured. “Even then.”

“You saw it, too,” Elain said, squeezing her arms a little tighter. “You are the reason I had the confidence to pursue it, to hope.” Then Elain pulled away, just far enough to meet Nesta’s eyes. “I know that you are responsible for at least half of our dances. So perhaps we would not be here, if not for you.”

Nesta had never told Elain the sordid details of that time. Never told her about the pavilion, or the letter, or her written demand for the Vanserra family to make amends. She had not wanted to hurt Elain further, to burden her with the knowledge of how careless Eris had been with her feelings. And perhaps, Nesta had not wanted Elain to know that it had taken her months to allow an apology at all. Perhaps, if Nesta had been more forgiving, Lucien might have arrived sooner, might have taken away some of the darkness that shrouded Elain after their mother’s death.

Perhaps Lucien had told her everything, instead.

Her breath shuddered out. But before she could find the words to apologize, or explain, or any number of things she ought to have done long before, Elain interrupted. “Thank you. For everything you have done to bring me here. To bring us all here, today.”

The words made her recoil. “Please don’t thank me.” Nesta could not quite meet her sister’s eyes.

“I think I need to say it more often,” Elain said gently. “Because it’s true.” And then her sister proved how well she understood Nesta, because she did not pause long enough for an argument to commence. Instead, she bustled over to the vanity and dropped into the chair. She met Nesta’s eyes in the mirror, a look of pure delight spreading across her face. “Since I know you won’t accept anything less than perfection, would you arrange my hair today?”

Embracing her sister’s diversion, Nesta stepped forward, letting her lips curve in response to Elain’s. It was a happy occasion, she reminded herself. She would not be a shadow upon the day. And as she reached for the jeweled hair pins sitting in a pretty bowl, she considered that maybe, instead, she could be part of the joy.

* * * * *

The Duchess managed to outperform every wedding Nesta had attended. Despite having taken part in the planning, Nesta was dazzled by the event unfolding before her. It was one thing to know the colors of the bouquets, the musical arrangements, the rooms they would use. It was quite another matter entirely to see the full effect of summer roses, of elegant fabric swags lining the halls, of the decorated arbor where the couple would be formally wed—a special license having been acquired for the garden wedding, just as Elain had wished for.

Needless to say, the Vanserras had spared no expense.

A reasonable number of guests—most of whom she did not know, but the Duchess insisted upon for various reasons—sat in rows before her. The vicar stood to her left, hands folded with a quietude she could not quite emulate. And across from her, dressed finely enough that Nesta refused to look at him for more than a second at a time, was the Duke.

She caught details of his appearance in brief flashes, whenever she could find an excuse to look. She took in the breadth of his shoulders beneath the dark coat. His strong hands, as he adjusted his cravat. The way the pale gold of his waistcoat made his eyes gleam as he inspected the gathered lords and ladies.

Until she realized they were gleaming at her, crinkled at the corners in a smile that never touched his mouth. Nesta froze, mortified at being caught. And then she blinked, because when had she ever been discomfited by a man’s attention? No, Nesta Archeron did not ever lose composure—she made others lose theirs. Defiance straightened her spine, made her lift her chin to better expose the long line of her neck. She parted her lips, let the blush tint her cheeks, and looked at him through her lashes. Watch me, she said to him.

Golden irises flashed at her, but the smile faded. He continued to watch her, but his regard did not stray from her face. Endlessly patient, as though he was waiting for something.

Nesta pursed her lips with no small amount of irritation, abandoning the seduction as easily as she had donned it. And she ignored the way Eris huffed a quiet laugh.

Their unspoken duel was interrupted by Lucien’s arrival, looking just as breathless and giddy as Elain had been all morning. He greeted them briefly, and then stood, all but vibrating, and watched the entrance to the garden. Nesta wondered if he was breathing, and had her suspicion confirmed when Eris clapped a hand on his brother’s shoulder and quietly reminded him, “Take a breath, unless you would like to faint before she gets here.”

She hoped he managed it, because at that moment, Elain rounded the hedgerow on their father’s arm. Resplendent in a dress the color of sunbeams, embroidered with pearl white flowers and trimmed with the finest lace. Diamonds glinted at her ears and neck, but none of it could outshine the happiness radiating from her.

Nesta could tell that their father was struggling to keep her from running down the aisle, and she pressed her lips together to withhold a grin.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here,” the vicar began, but Nesta could hear nothing past the first few words. Because Eris was watching her, not the couple. His attention burned her skin, until she finally dared to meet his gaze. And then she was trapped, caught like a dragonfly in amber.

Air was suddenly hard to obtain, requiring conscious thought and direction to her lungs. Because there was no patience or quiet contemplation in Eris’ features now. Perhaps he’d finally found what he was waiting for. She didn’t know, could not think beyond the next breath. Could not remember if the heat on her face was from the sun overhead, or a blush, or simply the weight of his regard.

The fluttering was back with a vengeance, butterflies set loose within her ribcage. Goosebumps rose on her skin despite the fine weather, and she knew that he’d seen them rising on her upper arms, her neck, because of the nearly imperceptible twitch of his lips.

She finally managed a full breath when he blinked. And since no one was watching but him, she let her eyes drop to his mouth, stay there. The memory of the darkened pavilion was too easy to reach for, too easy to feel. At the time, the words had enraged her. Because of the man saying them, but also because of her longing to hear such a passionate confession. Looking at Eris now, she wished it had been this version of him that night, she wished she had known him then as she did now. She wondered how different things might have been, if she had.

The wanting hurt more in that moment than it had in weeks.

The sound of cheers and applause brought Nesta back to herself, and she blinked at the sight of the couple before her, with rings on their fingers as they shared an exuberant kiss. Her body remembered the correct motions, even as her mind scrambled to catch up. She remembered to smile, to clap, to look anywhere but at the man who could hold all of her attention with half a thought.

* * * * *

Her determination was tested almost immediately, because somehow Nesta had forgotten there would be dancing.

The ballroom had been transformed, the draperies pulled back to illuminate polished floors and glittering crystal chandeliers. The pianoforte was nowhere to be seen, either hidden or removed entirely, and Nesta did not dwell on the question of who had been behind it. Partly because it wasn’t a question at all.

Elain and Lucien had taken to the floor as soon as the music started, and now neared the end of their first dance. Nesta kept to the edges of the room, wanting to watch more than she wished to participate. The thought of being forced to dance with any of the invited guests, of being trapped in stilted conversation, made her stomach tighten uneasily. So she collected her glass of lemonade and skirted the crowd, never straying far from the wall. It felt revolutionary to do so, never having been allowed the luxury of such blatant avoidance before.

Nesta indulged in being unnoticeable, free to observe. She watched Elain dance as though she might never tire of the activity. She watched Lucien, the way his gaze all but sung of devotion, as he guided her sister across the floor. She watched Feyre and Tamlin, the way they did not dance, but instead hovered along the far wall to admire the lush paintings hanging there. She watched her father, the way he puffed his chest with pride over his daughters and their fortuitous matches. She watched the Duchess greet her guests, her smile radiant, her eldest son poised and perfect at her side. She watched them all, tucked the sights and sounds away in her mind—bright memories to revisit later. Nesta hoped she would not forget a single detail.

She tried not to think of the fact that she would soon return to an empty home.

The next time Nesta passed by the table of refreshments, she found a flute of sparkling wine. She downed it in the shadows of the room, focused on the warmth that spread, rather than the prickle of sour apprehension. The second glass improved matters greatly. She knew better than to take a third.

“I did not know you had an appreciation,” a silky voice came from her left. Nesta’s eyes slid to the side, foolishly pleased to find Eris watching her over the rim of his own glass.

“And I did not know I was under such close scrutiny,” Nesta said, placing her drink down on the table with more force than she intended. “Surely you have better things to occupy yourself with.”

Seconds passed with no quick retort. Mouth pursed, Nesta turned to him, only to find Eris wearing a crooked grin. “If you would like my attention, you need only ask,” he said, the taunt rolling easily off his tongue.

Nesta’s spine tightened at the reminder of how he’d distracted her during the ceremony. She spun on one heel, unable to summon a response, and preferring a strategic retreat rather than risk playing the fool once more. Just because her body reacted in his presence did not mean she had to obey it.

“Fleeing already?”

The words stopped her faster than any others would have. Nesta’s slippered feet closed the distance between them as her vision narrowed. “Must you always have the last word?”

“If it brings you storming back, then yes,” he said, brows lifting in emphasis as if to say, look how predictable.

Nesta bristled. “Am I merely a source of entertainment for you?”

He blinked. The smirk dropped from his lips, something more solemn bleeding into his expression. “Far from it,” Eris said, eyes intent upon her face. “Though I find it necessary to acknowledge that you are anything but ordinary.”

The words gave her pause. “If that was meant to be a compliment,” Nesta said slowly. “I now understand why you have yet to find a bride.”

Eris’ attention did not waver from her. “Would you like another? I hear practice is required to sufficiently improve.”

She considered him. Considered the truce they had shared on her last visit, and whether it might still hold. “Is this your attempt at continuing civility between us?”

The corners of his mouth twitched up in answer. “In your absence, I found that I missed our verbal sparring.”

Nesta wondered if he’d spent the month wanting as she had. “Odd. I did not miss you at all.”

Something about her response made Eris smirk, which was decidedly not the reaction she had aimed for. “Miss Archeron,” he said. “Would you accompany me for a turn about the room?”

“I do not know that I wish to dance,” she began, but Eris interrupted any further excuses.

“Merely a walk, then. I need no promise of more.”

Nesta blew out a breath and decided not to argue. “Fine, then.”

“Your enthusiasm is noted,” Eris said, lips twitching again. She glared at him, but placed her hand on his arm regardless. “I shall endeavor to make the experience as painless as possible.”

“You will need to try a bit harder,” she hissed under her breath as they passed a cluster of well-dressed ladies. Nesta felt their attention like a brand upon her back.

“Tell me something,” Eris murmured, bending down slightly so that his voice would not carry. “How long has it been since you last danced?”

“If you aim to convince me—”

“You do not need to answer. But I wanted to ask,” Eris said. His head did not turn, but Nesta knew he was watching her in his periphery. She was doing the same.

Nesta expected him to prod further, or to offer up details of his past as he had done previously. But instead, Eris let the silence linger like a plucked bowstring. Her tension ratcheted higher, acutely aware of the time ticking by without a single word spoken. She refused to break first.

Yet the quiet between them left too much room for her thoughts to wander. Too much space for her to notice the corded strength beneath her fingertips. Or the way every young lady they passed was drawn to the sight of him, with Nesta rendered invisible at his side.

She let her eyes return to the dance floor, to the familiar steps and turns. How long had it been, since her last quadrille or cotillion? Had a whole year truly passed since the Vanserras’ ball at their country estate? She remembered it like yesterday—the diamond collar around her neck, the cracked skin beneath her gloves, and the dreamlike dance she shared with Eris. Looking back, it felt like a fantasy she had constructed.

Even the parts where she hated him, the way her blood boiled in his proximity, even those moments felt like something she had created in the dark recesses of her mind. At least then, when he’d been as wretched as she was, the attraction was plausible. She’d never admit it aloud, but had his proposal gone differently, she might have said yes.

Then again, had his confession been changed, they likely never would have ended up here. And she would not trade her sister’s happiness for anything. Especially not her own.

As Nesta continued to walk sedately beside the Duke, the silence between them felt heavier than before. It pressed in on her, making her fingers tighten reflexively on his sleeve.

He slowed, letting them come to a gentle halt beside one of the many windows. Still he said nothing. Her pulse raced faster with every passing second.

The words escaped like hissing steam. “A year,” Nesta said. She kept her eyes fixed to the dancers, refusing to admit his victory in this. Not wanting to see his expression, in case the smirk was absent. These exchanges had been easier before their agreed-upon civility.

“If you are in need of a partner, I must remind you of my willingness,” Eris said. “In case you have forgotten.”

Their last conversation in this ballroom was etched permanently upon her memory.

“I am sure you have a long list of guests waiting for the opportunity to dance with you,” Nesta said, struggling to force the words through a too-tight throat.

“I am sure you recall my distaste for the activity, Miss Archeron.” His head tilted towards her, just enough that she noticed the movement from the corner of her eye. “And that your singular skill makes everyone else pale by comparison. I simply cannot dance with any other.”

The air felt cold as it traveled past her lips, despite the heat of summer and the warmth of a room filled with too many people. He was too close, near enough to feel her skirts brushing his legs. And still, she turned to him, let herself look up into his face from a distance that threatened to ruin her composure. The muscle beneath her fingers shifted, tightening and releasing so quickly, anyone less attuned would not have noticed.

Oh, how she wanted. To say yes, to sweep across the floors, to place her hand in his, to feel his eyes upon her. To hear his whispered praise, as well as his sharp wit. To feel everything she’d longed for, everything she’d avoided in equal measure. She could drown in regrets later, for they would be her only company from now on. Her mouth opened, the words just there, on the tip of her tongue.

“Your Grace, we were so pleased to receive your invitation,” a voice rasped from behind her.

It seemed to Nesta that the world had stopped for a moment, like time had stuttered a brief step before continuing on. Her body moved slowly, loath to tear her gaze away from him, from the features she recalled with stunning clarity each night. But finally, she found herself facing the two women who had approached without her notice. Awareness returned, and Nesta let her hand drop from Eris’ arm before their closeness drew attention. She need not have worried about her manners, however, as Nesta did not warrant a glance from either guest.

The one who had spoken was older, dressed lavishly for the weather and occasion, as though she needed to demonstrate what was clearly an obscene wealth. The size and multitude of her adornments only served to exaggerate her age, as did the beauty of the young woman at her side. Copper hair and large blue eyes complemented a face that Nesta was sure had inspired many men to beg for her hand.

“Your Royal Highness,” Eris said, the words clipped but still unerringly polite. He bowed to the two women in quick succession, repeating the greeting. Nesta followed suit, dropping into a deep curtsy. She did not have to ponder their identities for long, for Eris swiftly made the appropriate introductions. “Her Royal Highness the Grand Duchess Briallyn, and her niece, Princess Vassa.”

The Grand Duchess waved a hand before Eris could introduce Nesta, as well. “You have not responded to my letters.”

A surprised beat of silence. “Madam, I apologize for any—”

“It has been two years. I should not have to travel from the continent to complete marriage arrangements,” the woman snapped, the lines in her face deepening further. “Your father has been dead long enough for you to wed my niece without complaint.”

Had her necklace grown tighter, or was the air simply more difficult to reach? Nesta edged the barest inch away from Eris, needing the space.

“Madam,” he tried again, eyes flickering towards Nesta and then back to the furious royal. “Perhaps we might continue this discussion at a later time.”

The two women did not look at her, not once. Her throat swelled shut. Somehow, Nesta managed to speak despite it. “Pardon me, I must attend to my sister for a moment,” she said, every word a blade, though she did not think they cut anyone besides herself.

Her feet knew the way out, knew to take her through the doors and down the hallway and into a shadowed room near the stairs. Her legs knew to remain steady until she found a wall to lean against. Her heart, unfortunately, did not know how to stop beating so painfully.

* * * * *

Nesta sank onto the bed. She wondered how long it would take the others to leave, to realise that family dinner was over, once again ruined by the High Lady’s eldest sister. She could practically see Mor’s too-red lips making some joke or other at her expense, her brother-in-law’s violet eyes glimmering in amusement, and Feyre–beautiful, brainwashed Feyre–smiling and laughing along, because she had made her choice about who her family was long ago.

If only she could break through to her youngest sister, get her to see that it wasn’t just Nesta who was trapped–it was her, too. Feyre was young. So, so young. And now, she was a mother and figurehead for a court whose cities she couldn’t name, save the one she lived in. Rhysand had masterfully entangled his mate into his life, dug his claws in so deep that they’d even made that ridiculous death bargain. What a way to keep your pretty little mate close by. It surprised her that Cassian hadn’t tried it with her.

Perhaps he knew deep down that she would not be content with being a trophy wife, or popping out heirs. A flash of guilt overtook her. Nesta loved her nephew, she really did, but it worried her that her baby sister had a baby of her own and that her role had very quickly switched from fledgling politician to full-time mother. She couldn’t recall the last time Feyre had presided over an event in the Hewn City, or been to the studio in the Rainbow. The only paint colours found on her fingers these days were those from Nyx’s paint sets.

But to Feyre, Rhys was her saviour. The male who had protected her while Under the Mountain (although she had heard enough rumours to wonder at the methods of his ‘protection’), who had saved her from cruel, controlling Tamlin (though again, she knew there were bound two sides to that story, as well), and elevated her to be his queen. And yet, how could she not see that he betrayed her as much as he had saved her?

No, it was too late for Feyre. And unfortunately, whether she wished it or not, it was too late for her, too.

Eris's words suddenly echoed in her mind. You're not as trapped as you think you are.

She thought of Eris's amber eyes in the garden, the way he'd looked at her like she was something precious rather than something broken. The way he'd offered her an escape route with no conditions, no expectations of gratitude. She'd tasted freedom that night, just a sip of it, like the wine he'd transformed in her glass. And now, trapped in this gilded cage of her own making, she couldn't stop craving more.

************************************************************************

One

Nesta wouldn’t have remembered it was her birthday if little Feyre hadn’t snuck into her room, jumping onto her bed with a joyful shout. Feyre was still young — and wild — enough not to realize that her older sister might not be thrilled about waking up like this.

“Get off me,” Nesta muttered, pushing her off. Feyre tumbled back onto the white bedsheets with a giggle.

“Happy birthday!” she sang.

Elain entered the room next, a warm and gentle smile on her face. Nesta saw her shifting excitedly from foot to foot, clearly eager to show something, and realized that to her sisters, this day mattered far more than it did to her.

“Happy birthday, Nesta,” Elain said softly, remaining in the doorway.

Reluctantly, Nesta got up and followed them; both her sisters were nearly bouncing from anticipation. The hallways were quiet: the servants were likely downstairs having breakfast or tidying up before their mother could scold them for a speck of dust.

As they went down the stairs, curiosity finally sparked in Nesta. Last year, Feyre had received a pile of dolls — most likely because their parents hadn’t known what else to give her — while Elain had gotten a massive bouquet of flowers and several dresses, which their mother had personally chosen or forced their father to bring from the continent.

They made their way to the dining room, where a crooked little cake sat on the long table. It was uneven, clearly not made by the cooks — those would’ve been dismissed on the spot for such a “masterpiece,” name forgotten immediately. No, Nesta instantly guessed who the baker was, and her eyes almost welled up with tears.

“Congratulations!” Elain sang, her smile so wide and bright that Nesta couldn’t help but return it.

Feyre danced around their feet, about to dive her hand into the cake before they could even grab plates or forks.

Nesta and Elain just laughed, understanding that the nickname “little wildling” fit their youngest sister perfectly.

But the moment was shattered by the sharp click of heels on the marble floor.

Everything froze. The world fell away. Only the sound of approaching steps remained.

Click. Click. Click.

Their mother entered the room, her glare so fierce it could’ve stopped a fae in their tracks. Nesta froze, and so did Elain. Feyre didn’t yet have the experience to know fear, and their mother rarely paid her any attention anyway. She stood tall, though her smile had faded.

“What is the meaning of this?” their mother asked coldly, staring at the mess on the table.

Elain quickly ducked behind Nesta, clearly afraid of being punished. Nesta just sighed and looked up.

“I asked Elain to make it for me,” she said firmly. If there was one thing their mother despised, it was weakness — there was no point in hesitating. She’d been taught to stand tall.

“You asked her?” their mother raised an eyebrow. Her expression darkened, and she ordered the younger girls to leave. They obeyed without argument.

Nesta was left alone with her personal devil. Thankfully, their grandmother wasn’t visiting, or she’d have gotten an earful from her too.

Her mother suddenly grabbed her by the cheeks, cold fingers digging into her skin like a cage. Nesta flinched slightly, wanting to pull away, but couldn’t.

“You won’t touch this mess,” her mother said sharply. “I’ll have the servants throw it out immediately. And don’t you dare waste your time on such barbaric, foolish nonsense again. A cake? Have you grown that arrogant, my dear?”

Nesta clenched her jaw, trying to ease the pain, but it didn’t help. She knew she wasn’t to blame, but she couldn’t let her sisters take the fall. Elain would cry, and Feyre would argue, and if their mother’s mood worsened, the entire household would suffer.

“There’ll be a ball tonight for your celebration,” her mother added in a sweeter tone, finally loosening her grip. But she didn’t lower her hand. “In ten minutes, I want to see you practicing your dancing. Tonight, every lord and heir in the room should be enchanted by you. Understood?”

Nesta only nodded faintly, and her mother finally let her go.

A few minutes later, the servants took away Elain’s crooked cake. It had “Happy Birthday” written in messy letters. That was the first and last time in her childhood her sisters tried to do something kind for her. They never tried again, and Nesta understood why.

She hadn’t expected them to.

She stared blankly at the empty table before heading off to change into her training clothes.

That evening, she danced with some earl, heir to a vast estate across the sea, who kept complimenting her ‘sweet’ appearance, even though Nesta knew she was far from sweet-looking.

She danced flawlessly, as expected. The evening was no different from any other, except that the ball was supposedly for her. For her thirteenth birthday, which in some countries could be considered the age of marriage.

Nesta was only grateful that this wasn’t one of those places — much to her mother’s disappointment, who kept lamenting that by the time Nesta turned sixteen, the earl would already be engaged to some dim-witted girl.

Of course, her mother didn’t know she wouldn’t live long enough to see Nesta turn fifteen, and that the earl would never look her way again.

Two

Nesta didn’t celebrate her eighteenth birthday. Just like she hadn’t celebrated her fifteenth, sixteenth, or seventeenth, and she doubted she’d live to see nineteen. She had stopped growing long ago, ever since food stopped showing up regularly in the house. or shack, really, because it hardly deserved to be called a house. It was only a matter of time before the lack of food finally caught up with her, and she wouldn’t survive another winter. The thought didn’t bother her much.

She’d forgotten it was her birthday again. Time blurred when every day looked like the last, and the disappointment she felt toward her father kept piling on like a snowball, pressing so hard she couldn’t even breathe properly anymore.

Nesta sat by the fire, watching the flames. There had been a heavy storm yesterday, and Feyre hadn’t gone hunting — Elain had talked her out of it. Nesta had watched the two of them from a distance, half-aware that she too should’ve spoken up, should’ve told Feyre not to go, no matter how hungry they were.

But she didn’t. She just watched in silence. Just like now, staring blankly at the dancing flames.

It was cold and damp, and the thin blanket wrapped around her had at least ten holes in it. More would appear soon enough.

Elain was chatting with their father — their conversation soft and pleasant. Nesta felt like she was losing her mind. Every day was a copy of the last. Maybe she had already died, and this was just her version of hell, reliving the same thing again and again until she screamed herself raw.

But instead of screaming, all she felt was a growing emptiness inside. Cold, consuming, and spreading like ice, just like the ice that coated Nesta now, every time she looked at someone who wasn’t Elain.

“A message for you.”

A small pouch landed in front of her. Feyre stood over her, soaking wet in a damp cloak. Judging by the bloody trail from the door to the table, she’d already brought back her kill and was halfway through butchering it, and Nesta hadn’t even noticed.

She should’ve thanked her. Should’ve said something kind, praised her sister for going out in such foul weather, and bringing back food.

“You’re dripping like a drowned rat,” she muttered instead, scooting away from her.

Feyre didn’t flinch. She didn’t bite back either, which hurt even more. She’d grown used to this. Accepted it. Nesta saw that now. Her little sister had simply resigned herself to her fate and to Nesta’s ingratitude. It stung, but Nesta couldn’t stop it.

“Who’s it from?” she asked eventually, picking up the soggy pouch.

“Clare Beddor. Says happy birthday,” Feyre muttered, her focus on skinning a rabbit at the table, struggling with the knife. “Ran into her carriage on the way back.”

Nesta opened the pouch. Inside was a small chain and a soaked piece of paper — the ink had bled so much it was unreadable. Still, she knew it just said something sweet and simple: ‘Happy Birthday, good wishes.’

She tossed the ruined note into the fire and let herself look at the chain for just a second, pretending that maybe, just maybe, she deserved something that delicate and pretty.

But her stomach growled, dragging her back to reality. She closed her hand around the chain and then handed it to Feyre. Said they needed new boots for winter, and the money they could get for the chain should just about cover it.

Feyre muttered something about already knowing what to do, then grabbed the chain and tucked it into her clothes so quickly you’d think someone might try to steal it and blow it on something useless.

Nesta turned back to the fire. And only then did it hit her: it really was her birthday. The flames flickered and danced, almost playfully. For a fleeting moment, Nesta let herself believe they danced for her. That something in this world made them sparkle just for her.

Three

The air reeked of sweat, booze, and tobacco smoke. Around her sat burly males who had already lost to Nesta several rounds in a row. Every time, one of them would moan dramatically about losing to a tiny little thing like her, and she’d just laugh drunkenly, letting some ragged guy wrap an arm around her waist and kiss the top of her head while calling her a little rascal for shamelessly robbing them all.

Nesta was on a lucky streak. She figured birthdays must have some kind of magic to them. At least, the tenth good hand in a row seemed to suggest that, and the males tonight were decent enough—not the usual rough types, but pleasant guys who gladly bought her drinks. Not that it mattered much, she still asked the barkeep to put their whole table’s tab on Rhysand’s name.

Not her problem. Let it be his.

“She’s a real witch, I’m telling you,” one of the players grumbled when he was the first to bust, just because Nesta had the exact card he needed.

She only smirked, flashing a brazen grin. She’d never acted this way before, but gambling loosened her up in ways nothing else did. Besides, she knew everyone here, had seen them countless times. And if not for the booze and the setting, maybe one day she would’ve even called them friends.

She was drunk enough not to feel the ache in her chest. The pain only faded like this—or when it was drowned out by other sensations, like when some boy from the tavern walked her home and then invited himself in. And she let him. Because it helped her stop thinking altogether.

“Witch, yeah,” she laughed hoarsely.

As it got later, the group slowly dispersed one by one, until only a guy named Lorray remained. He had a crooked haircut that made him look funny and kind eyes. His face was rough with stubble, his dark hair messy, and his shirt torn—typical for people around here who still poured every coin into rebuilding their homes and shops because they had no one to rely on but themselves.

“You’re lively tonight, little witch,” Lorray said thoughtfully. Among fae, ‘witch’ was an insult, but not to Lorray. He loved calling her that, and she liked how it sounded coming from him. It scared off the idiots, and the ones who stuck around at least had some guts.

“I’m older now,” she said, with a lopsided smile that looked more like a grimace. “Not that it matters, considering I was gifted immortality.”

The words dripped with poison, but Lorray didn’t try to decipher their origin. He knew she wouldn’t explain. But they stung. There was more sorrow in her eyes than any young female should carry, especially one who somehow ended up here, among them.

“It’s your birthday?” he asked, surprised, and she nodded.

Then he stood up, and she muttered something about even Lorray abandoning her like the others. But he just chuckled softly and promised he’d be back.

Nesta laid her head sideways on her folded arms atop the sticky table. She watched as Lorray walked across the tavern, then disappeared from view. Probably ran away, she thought. Then tried to remember when was the last time she’d managed to bathe—at least tried, because she hadn’t had much success with that lately. Maybe she stank so badly that everyone was just trying to get away for fresh air.

Still, that wasn’t fair. The guys here didn’t smell like fields of flowers either.

Just then, the music stopped abruptly. Nesta frowned, ready to yell, but the musicians started playing again. And she froze, surprised.

It was her favorite tune—one of them, anyway. And then Lorray returned, grinning ear to ear, and she couldn’t help but smile back. A real smile—not one brought on by alcohol or card-game thrill, but because of what he’d done.

Lorray had remembered. He’d actually listened to her ramble about the kind of music she liked and decided to surprise her for her birthday. It felt unreal.

“You won’t shut up about these songs,” he teased, holding out his hand to help her up on wobbly legs. “Dance with me.”

Nesta awkwardly got to her feet, letting him steady her with a hand around her waist. They started dancing, or more like swaying slowly side to side. It wasn’t the kind of dancing she’d been taught. She imagined her mother and grandmother spinning in their graves. Literally.

Still, the music was lovely. Nesta let herself be guided in that slow dance, letting Lorray whisper sweet nonsense in her ear, though she barely listened.

When the song ended, she was smiling faintly, feeling a rare lightness. But then Lorray stepped away, wrapping his arms around the violinist—his fiancé of several years. They’d been saving up for a proper wedding for what felt like forever.

“The witch is trying to steal you,” the violinist teased, playfully jealous.

Lorray whispered something against his lips, then kissed him with a laugh.

Nesta got the message. She made her way home on shaky legs, ignoring their offer to help her walk.

She wasn’t part of their life. Lorray was just a good man, kind to everyone equally. And she tried to ignore the ache in her chest at the realization that good people had good people beside them.

She, broken and bitter as she was, had no one. Probably never would. And if anyone ever did come close, it would only be a matter of time before she lashed out again, and they’d leave her too.

So she wouldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t let anyone in, not even her sisters. Especially not them.

But as she lay on cold sheets that night, Nesta fell asleep with tears in her eyes and a quiet wish in her heart: that someday, she could be in someone’s arms and be the reason someone laughed, not the reason they hurt. It was her last thought before the usual nightmares took over.

Four

When everything became “normal,” Nesta still didn’t celebrate her birthday. When she became “normal,” she still didn’t see the point. Rationally, she understood that all “normal” people around her celebrated birthdays. She herself had urged Gwyn to celebrate hers for the first time in years after losing her sister.

But Nesta also understood, rationally, that she still wasn’t normal.

She wasn’t like that. Not like Feyre’s new family. No, Nesta was completely unlike them, and that was exactly what gnawed at her from the inside out. Ate her away piece by piece, day after day she spent among them.

Nesta knew Cassian wanted to celebrate her birthday. She knew and tried to shut it down from the start. If she were to spend that day differently, she’d do it in her small circle.

They’d have breakfast, just her and Cassian, somewhere outside Velaris. Maybe she’d persuade him to do it in another court, even though she knew he’d never agree. They rarely even let her leave the Night Court. Still, it would be their quiet morning. Just him and her. That tenderness Cassian only allowed himself when they were alone.

Then she would return to the House of Wind. Someone from the Inner Circle—preferably Azriel—would winnow Emerie in, and Gwyn would come up from the library to join them. The three of them would have a simple, cozy little gathering.

Those were Nesta’s fantasies—ones no one rushed to bring to life.

When she shared her little plan with Cassian, he immediately dismissed her wish to leave the Night Court, saying they could find a nice place right there, and that he’d take care of it (if he remembered). Then he kindly reminded her that Emerie would be in Illyria all week, training the new female battalion, which, under her leadership, was slowly but surely earning respect and had finally secured protected status.

As for Gwyn… Nesta couldn’t blame her. She and Azriel had secluded themselves to solidify their mating bond. She could only be happy for them.

And still, the absence of her friends weighed on her. Azriel’s absence meant Rhysand would hand off his duties to Cassian, who would be terribly busy. So Nesta asked her lover not to worry, saying they’d carry out her plan a little later.

Still, that same evening, when she stepped into the sitting room of the House of Wind, she was met by people who, just a few years ago, had wished her dead. They smiled and shouted, “Happy birthday!”

Nesta smiled at Elain and Feyre, both standing beside their loving husbands. Cassian was still held up on a mission, and Nesta didn’t blame him. But here, among these people—people she never called friends—she couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing here.

The entire Inner Circle was already pouring wine, laughing and joking with each other. It was just another Friday for them—or any day of the week, if they so desired. Nesta sat in her chair by the window, staring into the black night.

The night was beautiful, but so alien. A terrifying abyss that consumed her more with each passing day she spent here. Maybe she was just being ungrateful.

How else could she explain her complete lack of joy in response to a celebration held in her honor? They had even brought her gifts—not the most fitting ones, and mostly useless—but they just didn’t know her that well. Nesta wanted to believe they meant well.

The only source of her smile was Nyx, who clambered onto her lap and smiled his sweet, childlike smile.

“Happy birthday, Auntie Nes,” he said in his little voice, fluttering his wings.

Nesta whispered her thanks and kissed the top of his head, then sent him off to play again. No need for a child—even the one she loved most in the world—to drown in her misery with her.

Laughter echoed in the distance, a sound Nesta wasn’t part of and never would be. She slipped out of the room and, realizing no one noticed her absence, returned to her bedroom.

Cassian came back late that night and promised to give her his gift in the morning. But he gave her another kind of gift in the meantime—one that kept them both awake until dawn. Strangely, Nesta felt she would’ve preferred to sleep through it. She wished she’d pretended to be asleep instead.

Five

They ignored her.

Every single one of them.

Nesta could understand. In a breakup, people picked a side. And in her case, everyone chose Cassian. Not that it was some shocking surprise.

Gwyn and Emerie still wrote to her regularly, but now, with her falling out with the entire Inner Circle, she couldn’t see them as often as she wanted.

Azriel helped them meet, secretly winnowing both Emerie and Nesta to the house they shared with Gwyn. But that happened less and less. Rhysand seemed to have caught on and began burdening Azriel with more and more assignments outside the Night Court. He was often away, and when he returned, he was completely drained, lacking even the magic to transport two people.

So they rarely spent days together anymore, and afterward, the girls had to return to their duties.

At one point, Nesta had duties too. Now all she had was a choice: return to the pit she’d clawed her way out of for months if not years, or go crawling on her knees to apologize to Cassian and—worse—to Rhysand. She wasn’t ready to do either just yet.

Lorray, whom she had met along the way, had temporarily taken her in. He and his fiancé still didn’t have the money for the wedding they wanted, and Nesta felt a sharp pang of guilt for not helping them while she still could. Her finances had always been limited, but she could have convinced Cassian, explained to him why she needed a few gold coins.

It wouldn’t have hurt Cassian, but to these people, such money was a fortune earned through years of hard work.

In their home, Nesta was a guest, and she never allowed herself to forget it, no matter how friendly Lorray and his fiancé were to her.

Today, the two of them had gone off together, and she was left alone. She sat by the fireplace, deliberately tormenting herself, trying to drown one kind of emotional pain with another. She had survived the loss of her father. But the loss of that semblance of family she’d had all these years… it hurt just as much.

Strange, considering she hadn’t been happy with them. But then again, her father had never made her happy either.

Nesta stared into the fire, trying to suppress it. She couldn’t allow the crackling of the logs to frighten her. Flame was her magic, her power. She couldn’t let it intimidate her.

And then, suddenly, from the dancing flames, an envelope flew out and landed in her lap. Gold-trimmed, expensive parchment, and a seal… the Autumn Court.

Nesta knew she should burn the letter before opening it. But curiosity got the better of her. Besides, there was no grumbling Amren nearby now, nor the all-knowing Feyre who would’ve snatched the letter away and insisted that they knew best what to do with it.

Nesta suppressed those thoughts. She was the villain in this story, not them. She left Cassian. She betrayed them. She…

She had wanted a little freedom. And now she was drowning in it. It was her fault for such a wretched, selfish desire.

Her fingers broke the seal and unfolded the letter.

“My dearest Nesta,

I admit, it’s rude—one might even say vulgar—to write to you like this, when you haven’t responded to a single one of my letters. Nevertheless, I won’t abandon my yearly tradition and am sending you my birthday wishes.

I would like to write something elaborate, but I’m afraid your guard dog wouldn’t appreciate it. Besides, even a wordsmith like myself has run out of things to say to congratulate you the way you deserve. Not that I hold out hope my letters mean anything.

And still, I cannot forgo courtesy and not congratulate the best dance partner I’ve had in all the centuries I’ve drawn breath.

Enjoy this day, and incinerate anyone who dares to get in your way.

Forever yours, Eris Vanserra.”

She couldn’t believe it. Who did he think he was? Years had passed, and yes, they’d spoken a few times since, even danced once—during Eris’s coronation ceremony, after which Cassian hadn’t spoken to her for nearly a month. But this? They weren’t even friends.

And what other letters was he talking about? Nesta hadn’t received any. They couldn’t have just vanished into thin air...

Cassian. He could have gotten to them before she did. Nesta tried to be understanding—who in their right mind wouldn’t be jealous in a situation like that?— but still, it hurt. Not once in the last few years had Cassian mentioned any letters.

She hadn’t wanted to know their contents, but the fact that they existed… he could have told her at least that much.

Nesta felt the Night pressing in on her. The abyss that the Night Court had always represented was pulling her deeper still. She scrambled, looking for parchment and ink.

+1

Soft sheets, light seeping through the loosely drawn curtains, and Nesta yawned, slowly opening her eyes. She instinctively reached for the other side of the bed, only to find it empty.

It wasn’t the first time — Eris liked waking up far too early for any normal fae, getting some work done before she even stirred, and then returning to bed. But today, Nesta felt a sharp pang of disappointment at his absence.

The summit. Right. How could she have been so stupid to forget?

Eris had been spending days and nights preparing for yet another diplomatic gathering, where Rhysand still acted like a complete asshole, trying to paint Eris in the worst possible light out of personal vendetta for his brother. The other High Lords, for the most part, didn’t want to cross either of them, and so chose their eternally idiotic “neutrality.”

No wonder Eris had gotten up early again this morning to continue preparing. She just… wished he had stayed, just a little longer. Just today.

A strange wave of disappointment washed over her, and Nesta tried to suppress it.

She stretched and yawned again before reluctantly getting out of bed and calling for the maid to help her dress.

"Where is Eris?" Nesta asked, unable to stop herself.

The maid gave her a sheepish smile and shrugged, mumbling that she didn’t know. Nesta narrowed her eyes at her, skeptically, but decided she wouldn’t get an answer anyway.

Dressed, Nesta walked through the long hallways toward the dining room, and only then did she hear quiet bickering.

"I’m telling you, the purple ones!" Nesta froze in place at Gwyn’s voice.

"And I’m telling you I know my wife’s preferences better," came Eris’s reply.

"I’ve known her longer!"

"She’s my wife."

In response, three voices — two female and one male — groaned, then chorused: “We got it!”

Nesta couldn’t suppress a laugh, revealing her presence. Behind the dining room doors came the sounds of sudden motion, like everyone had started scrambling about, but Nesta remained still with a soft smile.

A familiar red head peeked out from the doorway. Eris smiled warmly at her and came close, pulling her into a tight embrace.

"And good morning to you, my clever fox," he murmured into her hair, kissing her crown, then her lips. “Have you been waiting long?”

Nesta shook her head.

"Good, the girls would have been terribly upset if we’d accidentally ruined the surprise," he said gently, smiling even more brightly. "Come, my love."

He took her hand and led her into the dining room, where, instead of the usual long table, a small round one had been set. Standing beside it were Gwyn, Emerie, and Azriel.

"Happy birthday!" they all chorused — Eris included.

Nesta let out a sharp breath. She knew they were here. But something about the way they had snuck in to surprise her…

Before she could react, Gwyn and Emerie crushed her in such tight hugs she had to gasp for air and pat their backs to make them loosen their grips. Azriel laughed from the side at her attempt not to suffocate. Eris, on the other hand, shot him a disapproving glare and clicked his tongue.

"I’d prefer it if you didn’t strangle my—"

"—Wife, yes, we got it!" Emerie scoffed, finally letting Nesta go and stepping back. "It’s been over a year since the wedding and he’s still like this. How do you put up with him?" She shook her head.

Nesta only laughed, catching Eris’s gaze, and he winked at her. She winked back.

"Oh no, no sweet crap, I’m already the fifth wheel here," Emerie grumbled, pulling out a chair and dropping into it unceremoniously.

They all settled around the new little table. It was already set, adorned with various buns, pastries, fruits, and anything the heart could desire. Nesta felt Eris take her hand under the table as he calmly filled his plate with everything on display.

"I get it, you’re the host, but maybe don’t rob the guests?" Emerie commented when he snatched a chocolate bun right in front of her nose. She had clearly been eyeing that one.

Eris, as calm as ever, shrugged. “For my wife.”

And he placed the plate in front of Nesta, who couldn’t help but chuckle at the absolute disapproval on Emerie’s face. Nesta still passed her the bun, and Emerie gave her a grateful nod.

"Do you think they even remember we’re here?" they heard Azriel whisper to Gwyn.

She giggled. "I think they just remembered."

"As if they aren’t just waiting to sneak off and defile the mansion floor somewhere," Emerie shook her head, shamelessly calling them out, making Gwyn blush.

Eris didn’t like that idea one bit and frowned. “Don’t even think about it, Shadowsinger. I’ll cut off your wings.”

"Before we move on to mutual threats, I suggest we have breakfast," Nesta interjected.

Gwyn would normally be the one to protest, threatening Eris. If she did, Nesta would’ve had to defend him — instincts and all. But then Azriel would get involved, and the whole thing would spiral into a closed loop that only Emerie could watch from the sidelines, clearly enjoying the show.

They began chatting, laughing a lot, and sharing life stories from the time they’d spent apart. Nesta spoke about the Autumn Court, Emerie about the Illyrian female battalions — whose numbers had grown considerably over the years — and Gwyn talked about the priestesses, the new studies she found fascinating, speaking about them with glowing eyes.

After the meal, during which each person congratulated her with heartfelt speeches that made Nesta tear up nearly a dozen times, they all rose from the table.

“We’re staying for a few more days,” Gwyn said, smiling with childlike excitement.

Nesta herself felt like a giddy little girl, practically bouncing with joy when she heard it.

“But today we’ll be exploring this court on our own,” added Emerie, throwing her off.

“What? Why?” Nesta asked.

“Because we’ve got plans,” Eris said, wrapping an arm around her waist. “And as much as I want to hand you over to these monsters hiding behind sweet smiles — and trust me, they did threaten what they’d do if I didn’t agree — I still have to take you. Elain won’t forgive me if I lie and don’t bring you to lunch.”

Those words revived Nesta’s spirits. Elain and Lucien lived in the Day Court, alongside Eris’s mother and Helion. That meant they were probably expecting a shared lunch, and the thought made her genuinely happy.

“You’ve got far too many people who want to congratulate you in person,” Eris said with a whiny tone, holding her tighter. “And my brother is too much of a lazy ass to bring them all here. So, we’ll have to go on a little inter-court adventure today.”

“This is getting a little too sickeningly sweet, so time to pack it up!” Emerie declared loudly, grabbing Gwyn’s hand — much to Azriel’s annoyance, who was just about to kiss her crown. “Have fun today, birthday girl!”

Nesta giggled, watching the three of them leave.

Then she turned her gaze to Eris, who looked at her with adoration.

“I was going to wake you myself, but those idiots showed up early and would’ve gotten lost without me,” he said apologetically, placing a hand on her cheek. “And once I brought them here, we spent far too long debating what color the decorations should be.”

He gestured around the festively decorated dining room, and Nesta couldn’t help the pleasant tug in her heart. The hall hadn’t been decorated by magic, but by hand. She could feel it. The magical gleam was missing, and during breakfast, she kept spotting glue residue on her friends’ fingers or bits of ribbon clinging to their clothes.

“Elain is expecting us?” Nesta asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

Her relationship with her sisters had been strained for far too long. Feyre still only spoke to her when necessary. They only saw each other at diplomatic meetings, and otherwise her younger sister didn’t want anything to do with her. They didn’t invite each other to celebrations — not even major ones like the Winter Solstice.

Well, Nesta suspected that Eris still sent them invitations to the Autumn Equinox — the only holiday besides his birthday when she couldn’t stop him from doing what he wanted. But judging by how only Azriel and Gwyn from the Night Court had shown up, those invitations remained unanswered.

“Of course she is,” Eris nodded, with a confidence Nesta could only envy. “And my mother is also looking forward to your visit.”

That made Nesta smile. She loved tea with Eris’s mother with all her heart. They gossiped and shared funny stories constantly. Especially, Nesta loved hearing tales of little Eris, who turned out to be quite the mischievous child.

If Eris ever overheard their conversations, he’d blush in a way that was so uncharacteristic, and scowl, but it all looked so unserious that neither Nesta nor his mother could stop laughing kindly at him.

“We can leave now,” Eris said, glancing at the wall clock. “You’ll have just enough time to talk with your sister one-on-one before Helion shows up with his jokes.”

They both snorted. Then they left to prepare for the trip.

Their visit to the Day Court was just as sunny as expected. With each passing second in the company of her sister and Eris’s mother, and of course Lucien and Helion, who made her laugh like no one else, Nesta felt more and more loved.

She received gifts. Rare books from libraries so difficult to access that Nesta had never even dared to hope. A beautiful bouquet that Elain confessed she had grown specially for her, using seeds she had forced Lucien to bring back from the continent during one of his emissary trips. A stunning brooch with flame captured in a silver setting, which Eris’s mother had commissioned just for her.

And in the evening, when it was time to head home, Eris first took them to the gardens, not the house, grumbling that he wanted to spend time with her alone before her friends inevitably and ruthlessly stole her away after the celebratory dinner.

Nesta only laughed at him, intertwining their fingers as they walked down the gravel paths.

“They don’t visit that often!” she said in her defense.

Eris made a face. “My love, you see each other every two weeks and write each other letters every single day. Dozens of them.”

She had no reply to that, so she simply shrugged, and Eris could only sigh and shake his head, pulling her closer.

Tags | Modern AU, Flower Shop/Tattoo Studio AU, but also, Mafia AU, Detective AU, Noir Vibes, ALL the clichés, Tattoo Artist Eris, Florist Nesta, Mafia princeling Eris, Detective Nesta, POV Alternating, Slow-ish Burn, Rivals to Lovers, Professional Obstacles to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Denial, Banter, Fluff, Humor, Romance, Light Angst, Eventual Smut, Protective Eris, Obsessed Nesta

Summary | Nesta Archeron, suspended for “unjustified vigilante action”, will do anything to prove that Beron Vanserra is guilty. Fortunately, Beron’s oldest son just so happens to run a tattoo studio across from her sister’s struggling flower shop. A perfect spot for some undercover surveillance work.