#neris week

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.

How far could Nesta push them until they snapped? Cassian had the shortest temper, of which Nesta had already felt. Her day had been spent upon a rock in Illyria refusing every desperate plea to train. It was less spite, more pride. They couldn’t control her, couldn’t force her to be what they wanted no matter how much they tried. They had taken her home, but it wasn't the first one to be taken from her. Nesta had learnt to live minimally. She needed nothing except herself.

During the bitterly cold day in Illyria, Cassian undulated between begging with earnest warmth to join in with his stretching to downright vicious fury as she continued to deny him. Maybe she was beastly for enjoying the spike of his anger. It revealed his true colours. He would not have her - not as a warrior nor as a lover. The more he lashed out, the less likely she was to come to heel. He had had over five hundred years to manage his temper. If he could not then he was unlikely to change. Mother always told her that men could not be changed - and Nesta was not inclined to try to do it, least of all to a faerie who had lived a hundred lives before she had even been born.

She did not care. She did not care when Morrigan arrived to berate her out of earshot of Cassian. Did not care when his name was used to try and invoke guilt. Did not care when they called her wicked or used her nightly activities with the males of Velaris to try and shame her. Nesta Archeron did not care what the Night Court had to say about her life.

Nesta was called into an urgent meeting in Velaris to discuss her lack of training - her lack of anything at all - where they descended upon her like vultures upon a carcass. They picked and they prodded, tearing away at what little flesh was left. She folded in on herself to stop their words from cutting.

A waste of life.

Pathetic excuse of a sister.

A liability.

A danger.

Their words smashed into her as waves upon a rock. They would erode her piece by piece over time until she had lost most of herself. Hadn’t her humanity been enough to take from her? Still, they wanted more. They wanted a perfectly trained hound who’d bend the knee to the court’s ways. She was not Elain. Not one to try and keep the peace no matter how much it cost her.

Their argument roared in her ears as they spoke as if she wasn’t present.

Unwanted.

Lost potential.

A father’s wasted sacrifice.

Then, a thought bloomed in her mind. They wanted her to train, not for her well-being but so they had her under control.

‘I will train.’

Although her words had been quiet, they had been heard. Silence rippled through the room.

Cassian’s expression softened with his relief, but before he could speak Nesta pointed a finger in his direction. ‘Not with you.’

‘Azriel is too busy,’ said Rhysand with a dismissive wave of the hand in the Shadowsinger's direction.

Although it would not be the worst situation, Azriel was already spread thin. He stood in the corner, dead on his feet, likely wishing for a rest rather than this meeting. Nesta knew he could not be trusted either. As welcoming and polite as he was, Azriel was Rhysand's hound to his core. Her every move would be reported back to him.

Nesta folded her arms. ‘None of you have the ability to train me. I will train with Eris Vanserra.’

Cassian’s fury was palpable. His shoulders squared and he worked his jaw.

‘You are a real piece of work,’ spat Mor.

Nesta had had enough. Enough of their viciousness. Enough of their constant nagging at her. If they thought her wicked, they had seen nothing yet. She quirked a brow. ‘Last I checked you have the power of truth. I have the power of death. We can train together, Morrigan, but I hardly think it an even match.’

Rhysand cleared his throat. ‘You will not be training with Eris.’

‘Then I will not be training.’

For the first time in a long time, the urge to smile tugged at Nesta. She could play them at their own games - and she could win. They wanted her to train? Fine, she’d do it with the snake of a male that they couldn’t stand. Mother forbid their greatest weapon be in his hands.

There was a clatter of a chair as Cassian stormed from the room. Her sister gave Nesta a look like a mother would to suggest this was all her fault. How dare she disrupt precious Cassian's delicate disposition. Morrigan followed after him as a loyal lapdog should.

Rhysand stood, braced his hands on the table, and announced, ‘You train with Cassian or you don’t train at all.’

This time, Nesta did truly smile. ‘Then I don’t train.’

Realising his threat was useless, Rhysand departed too with Amren following close behind, not hiding their muttering about her.

Feyre in that self-sanctimonious way of hers sighed. ‘You are a guest here, Nesta. It might be worth remembering that fact.’

If Nesta could grow claws she would.

‘A guest thanks to your manipulations in my life, Feyre. A guest whose home was destroyed by your war. A guest whose humanity was ripped away thanks to your faerie family's failure.’ Nesta stared down her sister. ‘I am here because it’s your fault.’

Her jagged words had their intended effect. Feyre struggled to mask her hurts and hurried from the room too.

She turned her attention to Azriel, daring him to pass a comment. Instead, the Shadowsinger stood and extended an arm to her. ‘I can take you back to the House of Wind.’

‘My prison. How generous of you.’

***

Nesta stood on the edge daring them to push her off – to save her the unpleasant duty of jumping. What did she truly want? A return to the mortal lands so that her people could kill the creature she had become? Cassian to wash his hands of her now that he remembered her existence? She didn't know. Didn't care. Didn't want a future.

What Nesta wanted most of all was for it all to stop, no matter how enduring that was.

The doors opened then Rhysand was leading Eris Vanserra into the empty chamber of the Hewn City that had been designated as a training room. His finely-tailored suit was an earthy brown with bronze patterns embroidered around the wrists; a far cry from her unpleasant leathers. Of all the fae that she’d met, Eris was truly faerie. There was something predatory to his mien; sharp angles and keen eyes. To look at him too long unsettled Nesta because he had a way of looking through her. There was always an air of humour on his expression as though he knew a joke that nobody else did; a trick up his sleeve that would bamboozle the opposition.

He extended a hand in greeting which was ignored by Nesta then he asked, ‘How much control do you have?’

Nesta folded her arms tightly over her body and continued to be ignorant. She turned her face away towards the darkened window. Perhaps they'd lock her up here next to deprive her of the light. Or there was always the dungeons.

Eris gave her a few minutes grace before turning his gaze on the others who were lined up, stony-faced, along one wall.

Feyre pushed off from the stone, electing herself as Nesta’s keeper. ‘You are the one who requested that Eris teach you. He has graciously agreed.' Feyre cleared her throat. 'Nesta, Rhys has organised this for you.’

‘Where did I request an audience?’

Her magic slithered beneath her skin in a demand to be released. Not here. Not in front of their raw scrutiny.

‘We are not prepared to leave you two alone.’

Eris stepped closer, brows furrowing. ‘We are allies, High Lady. Your darling sister will be as safe in my hands as Morrigan would have been.’

It was the spark on dry tinder that caused the inferno. She delighted in the chaos that Eris’ comment had caused. He remained steadfast in the face of the shouts and anger and threats. When Rhysand was calming the others down, she could have sworn that Eris smirked in her direction.

They could not force Nesta to train. Her refusals switched to silence and after an hour or so, Eris bent low in a bow. ‘Thank you, Rhysand, for thoroughly wasting my time.’

Twice more across the week, Nesta was hauled into the Hewn City to await Eris Vanserra. Each time, she would sit obstinately in the chair, refusing to engage. Cassian would snatch the book she was reading from her hands and slam it or throw it down on the table to make as much noise as possible. They’d bark at her like dogs for wasting their precious time, as if Nesta had begged them all to accompany her to this humiliation. They had even thrown Elain in her face. Elain is terribly upset, Nesta. Elain doesn't like to come here, Nesta, but she will have to if you keep refusing. It didn't work anymore. Their manipulations with Elain as leverage no longer affected her. Nothing affected her. She was an empty shell with nothing left to give.

Eris grew frustrated too, but not at her; he questioned why they simply could not be left alone in the room if that was the only obstacle to her refusals.

‘Do you understand that I risk myself each time I come here?’

‘Tell her to train then,’ Cassian shot back.

Eris raised a palm to silence him which was as effective as waving a red flag in front of a bull. ‘Nesta has made it abundantly clear that she does not need an observation. Perhaps there are moments of your miserable upbringing in Illyria that you’re glad weren’t observed?’

Cassian snarled at him in warning.

‘There is a reason that you need Nesta to be trained, Rhysand,’ said Eris, ignoring Cassian’s temper entirely. ‘I cannot continue wasting my time here for nothing. Let her train without the audience or you will find my generosity has reached its limits.’

With a silent conversation occurring in the heads of the others, a decision was seemingly made. They filed out, one behind the other, with the door closing softly behind them. She had no doubt that they would be waiting outside, waiting to strike the moment that Nesta still refused to train. 

The chamber was too large – too silent – without the others. It came with no relief either. How could it with Eris Vanserra stalking towards her? 

‘I will not be training.’

Eris reached out a hand to her. ‘I don’t care.’

He gripped her wrist then a hook latched through Nesta’s stomach, tugging her away.

A harsh wind blasted through densely-packed ancient trees. The layer of mulch beneath her boots was dry and crunchy.

The Autumn Court.

‘Take me back right now.’

Eris’s head tipped back with a rich rumble of laughter. ‘Are you so desperate to return to the delights of the Hewn City?’

No, Nesta wasn’t. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she tried to find words, but her mind moved as if she was in mud.

‘You will lose the Night Court as an ally,’ she warned.

‘You’re a clever girl, Nesta. If they run to my father, do you think he would give you up to them? No, no, no. If they move against me, they put you in danger. If Beron got his hands on you, he would never let you go. We all saw your little display during the war.’

Her stomach tensed. Not the king, but the hundreds of soldiers that were turned to ash by her power.

‘You need the Night Court to stand against your father.’

Eris stepped closer and dipped his head. His lips almost brushed her ear. ‘Now, why would I need them when I have the most powerful being in Prythian here with me?’

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.