#nerisweek2025

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.

Nesta 

Nesta Archeron woke to a cold bed a few hours after dawn had broken. The soft cotton sheets were rumpled, her grey satin nightgown lay discarded on the floor, the candles had long burned out. The scent of him, mixed with her own, still lingered in her nostrils.

She had been dreaming again—she could feel it in the damp warmth of her pillow, feel it in the knot of hair tangling at the nape of her neck.

Every month for the past year, a voice had followed her to sleep. It asked her questions she couldn’t answer, as if some force had held her tongue. It spoke with warmth and worry, not like the seductive voice of Lanthys, or the cold whisper of the Cauldron. Where are you? It would ask. Are you alright?

Wholly different to the nightmares of the Kelpie, of the Rite, these dreams though laced with an sense of sadness, of longing, were the most pleasant dreams she had these days. 

Yet she still couldn’t place the voice, the warning tone in it. Male, if she had to guess—the vibration of it deep and soul-piercing, tender. Not other-worldly like the Mother’s voice had been, but not earthly either. Something suspended between the two.

Every time she tried to reach out, to uncover more of him, he’d disappear, and she’d wake up. Always cold, usually alone. 

Upon realising Cassian had not stuck around to rehash the fight they had last night, Nesta shoved the covers off her naked body, and got out of bed. 

The Illyrian leaders kept him busy these days. He was usually gone before dawn and back long after sundown, if he came back at all. 

Despite Feyre’s advice not to go to bed angry, fighting followed by fucking each other boneless usually did the trick. It made Cassian stop talking, it gave Nesta a feeling other than guilt, or anger. She believed that was a win-win scenario. 

This particular tiff had been triggered by Cassian’s idle gossip about Azriel. 

“They’re still up at the cabin?” Cassian asked when Nesta told him Gwyn and Azriel still hadn’t returned from their frenzy. He’d been in Illyria for three days, only returning to freshen up for the night before heading back at dawn. Nesta nodded, not looking up from her food, though she was elated for Gwyn, who hid her feelings for Azriel as badly as he did. It was only a matter of time.

“It’s been two weeks!” He shook his head. “You know I still can’t believe it… He waits 500 years for a bond to snap with Mor, only for him to turn around and have it snap with a twenty-eight year old priestess!”

Nesta played with the leftover potatoes on her plate only half-listening. “Why haven’t you accepted ours yet?” she said without thinking, like a hot stone in frigid water. 

They hadn’t talked about this in months, yet it was all she could think about. When training didn’t distract her enough, or the mind-stilling didn’t work, when even the filthiest books couldn’t pull her away from reality.

From the look on his face, he knew he’d walked right into it. 

“Nes, we’ve been over this.”

The unease, the aching never ceased. The bond that had once felt so fulfilling, so right, had shifted. There was both presence and emptiness, pleasure and pain. As if that tender, taut thread had started to fray. 

“We have time, Nes. There’s still so much we don’t know, ever since that female—”

“Bryce.”

He paused, almost flustered at her interruption. “Bryce—it’s been quiet, yes. But there’s too much at stake to go making rash decisions about this, about our bond.”

He walked over, and kissed her temple. “We have time…”

“We have eternity, Cassian,” she snapped, pulling away from his touch. “Please just admit you don’t want to be shackled to me, so we can at least move forward.”

She knew it would bruise him, to throw that word back at him. It didn’t feel like a shackle to her, not once. She loved him, told him so all the time. 

“You’re never going to let me off for that are you?” His frustration palpable.

“Why should I? It’s how you feel, isn’t it?”

“We live together, Nes, we’re part of a family,” he said, his tone pleading. “Gods, Nesta, we’ve almost died for each other.”

And she would die for him. She wanted to believe he’d die for her.

“You’re still so young, Nes. I want you to be absolutely sure, before we really do this.” He stepped closer to where she sat, placing his hand up her arm with a gentle caress, those rough, calloused fingers whispering over her skin. His voice, so gentle, made her want to melt into him, get lost in the taste of his tongue, the comfort of his weight on top of her, the feel of him inside her. 

She wasn’t satisfied with his answer, but her want for him was overpowering. As soon as she smelled the scent of his arousal, and felt the proof of it pressing against her thigh, it was no use trying to fight any longer.

AsNesta played the conversation in her mind over, and over again, her body went through the motions of her morning routine. 

Breakfast, thanks to the House. 

I want you to be absolutely sure.

Mind-stilling in the library. 

We still have time, Nes.

Changing into her leathers for nine o’clock training. 

You’re still so young.

Training. She would focus on training. 

She was about to head up to the ring when a knock pulled her from the sourness taste of her thoughts. Nesta didn’t need to open the door to know who it was. The knock was a courtesy. 

“Rhysand,” she said by way of greeting when she opened it. 

“Nesta,” he replied, his tone flat. “We need to talk.” 

“Already bored of looking after your son alone?” she asked, trying for dry humour. Rhysand didn’t return it. 

Nesta knew Feyre wouldn’t be home, as she was away with Mor visiting another of Night’s territories. With Nyx almost two, and his routine firmly in place, Feyre had braved being away from him for a week.  

“Very funny,” he said with a faux grin. “Your nephew is currently testing Nuala and Cerridwen’s patience so I can winnow you to the River House.”

She raised a brow, narrowing her gaze on the High Lord. “I could have walked,” she said flatly, gathering her weapons from the chest she kept by the door.

He shrugged. “Thought I’d save you the trouble.”

Nesta hauled Ataraxia, her second sword: Apatheia, and her dagger: Euadimonia in their sheaths across her back and thigh respectively. 

“It really shouldn’t surprise me to know you keep your weapons by the door,” he said with a pained groan. 

“And yet I continue to surprise you.”

He winnowed them directly to his River House office. Rhysand stood behind his desk, pressing his finger tips into the polished oak surface, not yet taking a seat. 

“I need to talk to you about the Trove.”

Nesta sighed. She knew he’d bring this up again eventually, only she hoped Cassian would be here. Then again, he’d probably take Rhys’ side or convince her it was better to let him have his way. 

“I want assurances from you that any actions you take with regard to the Dread Trove are approved by me.”

“And Feyre?”

“And Feyre,” he repeated, though Nesta knew that was only for her benefit. Feyre would agree with Rhysand no matter what. She could almost picture her youngest sister’s pleading face. Rhys is right, she’d say. Cassian would agree too. 

Fighting with Rhys was tiresome, especially since she hoped that saving the lives of his mate and child, and him by extension, would be enough to keep her in his good graces. 

“The Trove answers to me,” she said. 

“Yes, they do,” he replied, taking a seat and not meeting her gaze.

“Yet I am expected to ensure you approve of how I wield them?” she replied curtly. 

“This isn’t personal, Nesta. This is for the good of my Court—our Court.” He quickly corrected himself. “For Prythian.”

Nesta straightened herself, and folded her hands behind her back—diametrically opposed to Rhysand’s more languid posture in the leather chair behind his desk. 

“Giving the mask to that girl—”

“Bryce,” Nesta corrected. They had do be doing this on purpose to get a rise out of her. “Her name is Bryce.” 

She often thought of that mysterious, reckless female, how she and her mate were getting along after saving their own world. How her appearance in Prythian had shaken the Inner Circle, had haunted them still. 

Nesta also thought of Ember. The woman who’d cared for those around her so deeply. How she’d had no qualms standing up to Rhysand, challenging him. A powerless human against a High Lord. It wasn’t an image she’d quickly forget. 

She hoped they were well, and if she would ever see them both again. 

Rhys raised his brows. “Yes. Bryce Quinlan. The stranger from another world who exchanged her own parents for one of the most important objects in Prythian’s history.”

Nesta resisted the urge to snarl at his demeaning tone. “It’s been almost a year, Rhysand, and nothing’s happened.” 

The Mask was still tucked away safely in her own pocket realm, accessible only to her thanks to Helion’s meticulous instruction, along with the Crown, the Harp, and Gwydion. 

Though Nesta had been tempted to wield the so-called Starsword today, she’d decided against it. While there was no reason to have all her weapons on her person, they had quickly become a comfort, particularly around Rhys. They unnerved him still, and that gave Nesta just a smidge of satisfaction. 

He gave her a flat stare. She wanted this conversation over with. “What kind of assurances do you need from me?” 

He stood from his chair, walking over to the window. Still not facing her. 

“I want us to ward The Trove and Gwydion together. Bind them to your blood and mine and keep them under guard in the Hewn City’s archives.”

“No.”

He faced her now. “Excuse me?”

“Incase you’d forgotten, I do not answer to you, and neither does The Trove.”

Nesta felt his power shift the energy in the room. Despite the bright day outside, there was no mistaking the darkness that lurked at her periphery, in every corner of the room. 

“I wield Gwydion. The Trove calls to me. End of discussion.”

He smirked, though Nesta knew he was hiding his own wounded pride at not being the one to wield the legendary blade. She would never forget the faces of the Inner Circle when she presented the weapon thought lost to time after Bryce’s final departure.

“This is not over, Nesta. Not even close.” 

Nesta folded her arms across her chest, already impatient at missing her warm-up session. Her unit had now expanded to almost fifty females, with more priestesses and even citizens of Velaris signing up to train each week simply by word of mouth from Feyre and Elain. 

Would she ever get used to that feeling? That swell of pride when she thought of them all, getting stronger and stronger every week? Of all the strained relationships she had, her Valkyries had never let her down, not once.

Gwyn and Emerie too were now leading squads of ten each, and though Nesta wasn’t sure when she’d become their de facto commander, that’s how she found herself now. 

She didn’t lead a Court, but she was a leader in her own right. She could face down her own brother-in-law. 

“It most certainly is over. The Trove is safe, and while I appreciate your concern, it is not required.” Nesta turned on her heels and walked out of Rhys’ office, resisting the urge to throw a middle finger up at him. 

“Actually,” he said, making Nesta halt at the threshold, “there’s one other thing I need to talk to you about.”

Nesta turned back, straightening the skirts of her dress. “And what is that?” 

He gave her a saccharine smile. Rhysand was a handsome male, but where Feyre saw warmth and affection, Nesta only saw chilled calculation. Takes one to know one, she thought to herself, ensuring her mental shields were iron-clad. 

“Eris has asked to meet us in the Hewn City tomorrow.”

She scoffed. Eris had been quiet the past few months. Not a word from him since Cassian had checked in after Nyx was born, and reported that Eris had not betrayed the details of their alliance to his father. 

Nesta had assumed Eris had returned to Autumn and simply waited to usurp his father.

“What for?” She asked, keeping her own face a mask of cool boredom. 

Rhys shrugged. “He hasn’t said, but he requested you specifically.”

Nesta felt inclined to roll her eyes, but decided irking Rhys further did her no favours. She was already mentally preparing to continue her fight with Cassian from this morning. Knowing Eris might be back in play would make him furious. 

“He knows I’m mated now, right?” Just because Cassian hadn’t officially accepted the bond, didn’t mean she didn’t have one. The thought left a sour taste in her mouth. 

Rhys nodded. “I’m sure he does, but I’m inclined to hear him out. He’s held up his end of our alliance at every turn, and he might have something interesting to say.” 

Nesta took a breath, considering. Eris resurfacing intrigued her, even if he was an arrogant prick.

But it would wound Cassian. 

It wouldn’t be fair to him, to meet with the male who got so under his skin, who never missed the opportunity to insult Cassian. Even the mention of Eris made him go still with fury. Had made Nesta want to rip the prince’s throat out on occasion in defence of him. 

“I won’t be available to speak to him, as I have new recruits to train,” Nesta said simply, keeping her tone disinterested. “Whatever he needs to say to me, he can say to you.”

Rhys cocked a brow in surprise. “Really?” He said, with a hint of challenge in his voice. 

Nesta smiled, bearing all her teeth in warning. “Yes, Rhysand. I trust you to convey his message to me in good faith.” 

Rhys’ bemused expression fell, as Nesta walked out of his office, pleased to have gotten the last word in. As much as she’d have liked to winnow out of his sight, Nesta still hadn’t learned how to do it, and at this point she felt it was too late to ask. 

Climbing the ten thousand steps up to the House was a far easier feat these days. With her enduring strength and stamina, she could make the trip up and only just break a sweat. But she never forgot how hard it had been, how she had fought for every step, almost two years before. She would never take that strength for granted now, but she hadn’t forgotten how she’d had to earn it. How she had to change, what she’d had to give up. 

She had returned her ill-gotten gains from the Cauldron to the Mother in exchange for Feyre and Nyx’s life, and she didn’t regret that, not for a moment. But something still simmered beneath her skin, alongside those icy flames she still hadn’t mastered. Something gnawed at her inside, itching to be let free. 

Nesta opened the door to the training ring, and revelled in the warm sunlight that greeted her, despite the frosty February day. She found Emerie leading the warm-up session, and Roslin inspecting the weapons rack for the sparring drills. She smiled, and rested her swords alongside it. 

“Still no Gwyn today?” Nesta asked Roslin, but the red-headed priestess shook her head in response, a knowing smile on her lips. Nesta gave her an exasperated one in return. 

“Fourteen days with that gorgeous face? I wouldn’t be rushing back either,” Roslin grinned. Nesta didn’t voice her agreement, but she supposed the wry look on her face told Roslin enough. “Cassian away today too?”

“Yes,” she replied flatly. “He’s in Illyria. Probably for a while,” she said, not looking at her fellow Valkyrie. 

“Just us girls today then,” Roslin said with a smile. “Okay ladies!” she called out, “Pair up and get going.” 

Nesta sparred with all of them—Novices, Blades and Valkyries—in rotation, many of whom now wielded Illyrian steel of their own, but they were no match for Ataraxia. Even the legendary Gwydion, the so-called Starsword could not compare to her own. 

Elegant. Beautiful. Deadly. 

Steel through wind, the clang of metal, the sweat on her brow. As resistant as she was to it at first, she did love this aspect of training. The rush of elation and adrenaline when she landed a winning blow. The solidity of her body during the stretches. The relief in her aching muscles when she finished exercising.

But most of all—the sense of camaraderie. Of belonging. Of sisterhood with her fellow Valkyries. Nesta loved Feyre and Elain, it was difficult at times, but it came naturally. But the love she had for these females, for her chosen friends and sorority? She’d earned it, treasured it more than any Made object. 

The morning and afternoon sessions passed her by, and after cooling down and cleaning up, Nesta returned to the House of Wind for an early dinner. She mulled over her conversation with Rhysand. 

The Troves. There hadn’t been a time when they were needed in the last eleven months. Lucien and Elain had been investigating Vassa’s curse, but had no concrete answers. Though if she were being honest, Nesta preferred not to think too hard about what those two were doing in Day, or the human lands. Either bringing them one step closer to another war, or spending too much time making eyes at each other to actually find anything substantial. 

Perhaps the latter was preferable at this rate. 

The House knew her evening routine too. Tonight’s book would be Protecting the Princess by Sellyn Drake. Filthy and romantic, it chronicled the romance between a knight-for-hire falling in love with a bratty princess—exactly what she wanted. A porcelain cup of chamomile tea with honey, followed by an olibanum bath. 

As she settled into bed, her mind couldn’t help but drift towards thoughts of Eris. It was a puzzle, a mystery. She couldn’t imagine why he’d re-emerged now, after so long. 

Perhaps he was finally ready to usurp his father, and he wanted Nesta’s assistance. Or maybe he’d try and ask for her hand again. Or some other plot to piss off Cassian. Or Rhysand. Or Mor. 

She took a breath, trying to still the cogs in her mind and focus on the words on the page, until sleep finally took her. 

Eris

He dreamt of her again. 

That elusive, faceless and nameless female who swam through his mind as he slept. 

Who are you? He’d ask, desperate for a name. 

Find me. She’d reply, her sibilant voice purring. Look for me. 

Where? Desperately wanting to know where she was. How he could find her. He asked her every time she visited him here, in the void. 

Her form was shrouded in darkness, but her eyes shimmered like the moon on water. 

Her heartbeat echoed in the bones of his soul. He could almost feel it beneath his fingertips, but every time he tried to touch her, she was gone. 

And he’d wake up. 

His body devoid of that familiar heat, panting for breath, sheets soaking with sweat. Every time he dreamt of her, every time he lost her. 

She would only visit when the moon was full. Sometimes she was happy, laughing and joyous. 

Other times she was sobbing, the scent of her salty tears overpowering. Or she was furious, cold icy rage surged from her to him, through that invisible thread, accompanied by her screaming. 

A year. It had been a year of torment. Of not knowing who this… being was. Not knowing how she had worked her way into his mind. 

Was she friend or foe? Was she more? Was she his…

No, it wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. He didn’t deserve such a blessing. 

Eris shook off the dream, and took breakfast with his mother as usual, noting her sunnier disposition. Most days she was withdrawn, but she was always happier when the sun shone through the stain glass windows of her private chambers, setting her russet eyes aglow and her hair gleaming. Eris didn’t need to wonder why, but even the idea of voicing his suspicions, even to himself, was too much of a risk. One day that conversation would take place, but it wouldn’t be today.

After breakfast, he’d convened with his lieutenants for a progress report on the Spring border. He had managed to dissuade his father from invading Tamlin’s shaken territory under the guise of “peacekeeping” efforts, for the time being, but there was no guarantee it would keep him away for long. 

Trusted males who had served Eris well over the centuries, they reported nothing out of the ordinary. Tamlin still roamed in his beast form, yet a council of lower lords and sentinels had formed to try and re-establish order. A promising, if still ongoing development. 

His younger brother, Donovan—Autumn’s spymaster—had suggested the idea. Plant a few seeds of hope among Spring’s leadership, in the hopes of drawing Tamlin back to a team, rather than a tattered manor. Of course Beron hadn’t caught wind of this yet, but it was only a matter of time before his own spies reported the movements. 

Thankfully, either scenario was fortuitous for Autumn. Eris understood his father well enough to know that Beron would resent losing the opportunity to expand his own territory, but the sooner trade with Spring resumed, the better. If he couldn’t have more land and power, he’d settle for wealth. 

Two of Eris’ hounds had dozed on velvet mats during the meeting, but both jolted awake at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Juno and Artemis stood snarling at the unexpected visitor, who knocked only a few moments later. 

“Enter,” Eris said flatly, not looking up from the papers on his desk, not commanding the hounds to stand down. He noted the usual acrid scent of fear from the young lesser-fae messenger, and knew it would be a summons from Beron. No one else, other than himseld, could make anyone feel that way. 

The young male teetered in, trembling yes but standing straight. “Speak,” Eris commanded. 

“The High Lord requests your presence in the throne room, my Lord,” he said, looking straight ahead to the wall behind Eris.

He studied the male, not recognising his features. “Name?” he asked. 

“Fergus, my lord.”

He must be a new hire to the Forest House, and it reminded him to check in with Lorcan, the keep’s seneschal, for a debrief on staff changes.  

“Message received. You are dismissed.” 

The male bowed at the waist and turned on his heels, as the hounds watched him leave. Eris took a deep breath before winnowing to the doors of the High Lord’s throne room. 

He paused at the great stone doors, and steadied himself. Juno and Artemis stood at either side of him. The sentries opened them, as a steward announced his arrival. 

Strong, unfaltering feet carried him to whatever news awaited him at the stone dais. He’d spotted Finn and Alden at the foot, no doubt waiting for their own assignments from their father. 

Eris halted and bowed in place. “Father,” he said, being the only one able to address his father without needing to be spoken to first. 

“Eris,” Beron said flatly, “how nice of you to join us.”

Eris hadn’t been late, but he let the barb slide.

“Donovan won’t be joining us today, as he is still leading the search for Narben.”

Good, Eris thought. Good that Beron was still looking. 

Eris stood ramrod straight before his father, Finn and Alden did the same to Eris’ left. 

“I have a few orders of business for all of you,” Beron announced, swirling a pewter goblet of port wine in his hands, the cloying scent of which hit Eris immediately. 

He looked to Alden first. “Go to Vaksara.” 

Winter’s capital, and the seat of Kallias’ power. Vivienne would likely be ready to receive audiences after the birth of their daughter. 

“Offer the usual congratulations,” he said with his usual distaste for such pleasantries, “and remind Kallias that any close alliance with Night will not be looked up on favourably when the time comes to renew our trade agreements.”

Eris’ heartbeat stuttered every time Beron talked of the Night Court. He had been careful, and would continue to be, but this covert alliance was treacherous. Treasonous. He willed his face to stony indifference, but Beron thankfully didn’t even glance his way. 

“Yes, father,” Alden said. The middle Vanserra brother had been Autumn’s Chief Emissary since Lucien had been forced to vacate the position. He was decent, though he lacked Lucien’s wit and charm. 

“You’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.” 

“As my High Lord commands,” Alden said flatly. Eris knew Alden was secretly delighted to have the chance to officially visit Winter, thanks to a certain white-haired sister of Vivianne’s, but Eris wasn’t going to mention that. Especially since said sister was already married to a lower Winter lord. 

Alden had been discreet enough, but Eris’ had scented the tell-tale fir and sweet apple scent on his brother on his last diplomatic trip, and warned him to be more careful. Alden played none-the-wiser, but heeded his warning—thankfully Beron’s scent abilities weren’t as keen as Eris’, and it was another secret for Eris to wield should he need to. 

“Finbar,” Beron called to the second eldest Vanserra, who stood forward as Alden retreated. “You are to escort your brother to Bharat,” he said, inspecting the nails on his free hand.

Finbar, or Finn as he preferred to be known, didn’t respond, but simply titled his head ever so slightly in what Eris could only assume was confusion. As he was not allowed to speak unprompted, Eris saved him the trouble of having to answer back. 

“This is the first I’m hearing of a trip to Bharat,” Eris asked, taking a cautious step forward to stand beside Finn. 

“So it is, my son.” Beron pulled his usually cold, sullen face into a tight smile. “Would you like to take a guess as to whom he is to escort there?” Cold, smooth words slipped from his father’s mouth.

Bharat. What on the Mother’s green earth could possibly be of interest to his father in Bharat? Spices? Fine silks? He tried in vain to recall all he knew about the land thousands of miles to the south of Prythian, connected to the larger continent. 

Eris enjoyed playing games, perhaps even more so than his father did, but it felt increasingly like he would have to fold his hand. Lose the battle, to win the war. 

“Since Alden will be dishing out niceties in Vaskara, and Donovan is absent from this gathering,” Eris said, chancing a glance at Finn, who had straightened his neck and posture once more. “I presume that will be me?”

Beron smirked. “Still as sharp as ever, my boy,” he said with an uncharacteristic hint of mirth. “The Empress of Bharat has been in touch these past weeks.”

Eris stilled. He hadn’t known about that, and Eris had been sure to keep an eye on his father’s personal correspondence for centuries. This had been deliberately kept away from Autumn’s formal messengers, then. Direct correspondence with a foreign royal, aside, Eris maintained his composure, asking, “And how is Empress Rohan faring these days?”

Empress Aarya Rohan, ruler of the wealthy and powerful southern fae empire, was a formidable female. He tried to recall his lessons as a youth—she had ruled for four hundred years, succeeding her mother upon the elder Empress’ death. The Bharati crown was matrilineal, meaning females inherited the throne over males.

“She is well, and keen to marry off her children and secure alliances throughout our world.”

Shit. 

“As any wise ruler would,” Eris replied, knowing full well that despite Beron’s numerous attempts over the years, not one of the Vanserras had seen a betrothal through. 

Beron’s smirk fell, ignoring Eris’ comment and continuing to speak. “Since you have all driven away every eligible noble lady in Prythian,” he said, standing from his throne and walking towards Eris, “I have been forced to take matters into my own hands and look further a field.” 

Beron stood before Eris now. They were the same height, but Eris forced himself to stand tall. There was no need to cower, no need to allow Beron to think he had the upper hand. Eris would worm his way out of another betrothal, just as he had with the others. 

Well, all but one. He’d intended to keep his end of the deal up on the last one, but fate, it seemed, had other plans for Nesta Archeron. The loss of her to Cassian of all people stung more than he cared to admit, even to himself. But she’d made her choice, and Eris would not force her to do otherwise. He hoped she was happy. He shared enough traits with his father without resorting to keeping an unwilling bride. 

“You are to sail to Bharat with your brother, retrieve your betrothed and bring her to Autumn. You will wed here, and you will produce an heir come next Nynsar,” Beron said, the smug ire in his voice rising with each word. He watched Eris’ eyes, almost begging for some kind of reaction.

“I had originally planned to bring her here without your knowledge, but the Empress wants to meet you, and I have obliged her.” 

Eris kept his mask of cool indifference, while he burned beneath his skin. Beron’s smile didn’t meet his eyes, and it was at this moment, Eris knew his hourglass had been turned upside down for the last time. 

“If you fail to impress her or botch this betrothal,” he said, glancing at Alden and Finn before returning to Eris, “I will ensure another Vanserra inherits the throne.”

He didn’t need to look at this brothers’ faces to know that threat had made its mark. The four that remained had agreed to stop the scheming and in-fighting after Lucien left, after Hamish and Darragh had died. They had bargained between them—our mother will not lose another son—and for centuries that bargain had held. Eris had the markers—he was the clear successor, and they all knew it. 

But ambition was a Vanserra trait—hotter than their fire, sharper than their minds, as natural as their capacity for cruelty—and Eris knew the temptation was always there. 

“No more dalliances.” He looked to Alden, who didn’t rise to Beron’s implication. 

“No more whoring,” he said with a pointed look to Finn, who merely blinked behind his spectacles. 

His brown eyes settled on Eris. “No more excuses. Your mother was pregnant with you within the year we married.”

Eris felt cold fury prickling beneath his skin. His mother had been no more than a child, shackled to a monster. Trapped with Eris in her womb. 

He walked slowly before Eris and his brothers. “And since the Cauldron has not blessed any of you fools with mates, perhaps it is no longer necessary to look to the divine for assistance.”

He returned to his throne. “Bharati females are said to be some of the fairest in our world, and I’m willing to settle for foreign blood to secure their power and wealth for Autumn.”

He continued, “Night has an heir. Winter has an heir. It’s only a matter of time before Tarquin finds a bride to secure his own line.”

Eris didn’t dare mention Spring or Day’s predicaments. High Lord Thesan had already declared that he planned to allow the land to choose his successor upon his death. Tamlin might follow suit, if his broken heart ever healed enough to codify it. As for Helion… Eris would cross that bridge when he got there. 

Eris also refrained from reminding his father that he already had multiple living heirs—and that another generation so soon wasn’t necessary. But he’d made up his mind and excluded Eris from this particular scheme to affirm his control, that perpetual noose. 

He gave Eris a cold, unrepentant smile. “I hate to think that my favoured son would deny me the joy of grandchildren. Think of how… happy it would make your mother.”

That was his game. Sink his claws into another generation, continue the cycle he’d perpetuated. Like his father before him. A cold shiver passed through him at the thought of his grandfather.

“You are dismissed,” he said, his voice gravelly. Finn and Alden turned on their heels and walked to the other end of the throne room. Eris’ hounds remained in place, waiting for his signal. “You too, boy.” 

Eris seethed internally at the insincere pet name. Never missing a chance to remind Eris who had the power, the title and the crown. 

“Father, if I may—”

“You may not,” Beron cut him off, clicking his fingers to the silent steward who took the now-empty goblet of wine from him. “Prepare to sail for Bharat.”

Eris chewed inside of his cheek. 

“Or do you need reminding of how persuasive I can be?” He asked, as casually as if he were inquiring after the weather. 

“No, father,” Eris conceded. “Thank you for graciously arranging it on my behalf.” There was simply no point in fighting it anymore. Eris was more than happy to risk anything to usurp Beron, but he would have to draw the line at his own life. 

He turned, in tandem with his hounds, and left the throne room—heading straight for the Forest House library. 

If he had to pick a sanctuary, it would always be the library. The calming, familiar scent of leather and parchment, the tomes and books, most of which he’d read more than once. No great archive, but impressive all the same, the Forest House library would give him answers, a way to prepare. 

Eris would acquiesce to his father on this, but clearly the birth of Rhysand’s son and Kallias’ daughter had him thinking about ways to shape the next generation of Prythian’s leaders. 

Eris had been resisting betrothals for that very reason. He would not stand for any child of his, or those of his brothers, to be subject to Beron, who would think himself entitled to them. 

The betrothal could happen. He could marry this foreign princess, Bharati females were known for their beauty, and Eris wasn’t a monk. But to have child with her, to give Beron what he wanted… He’d think on it later. 

She would have to be a younger daughter then, if the Empress had no qualms about marrying her off to a foreign prince. 

Eris pulled all he could about Bharat from the library, and winnowed to his study, where Juno and Artemis awaited him. He took in all he could, learning about its history. A Fae realm, similar to Prythian. More egalitarian both between sexes, and High and lesser fae, but still feudal in most respects. 

But it wasn’t until he combed through their military history when an idea sparked in his mind.  

The Durga Maya. Bharat’s all-female elite fighting force. Mysterious, specialist and highly selective. 

Elegant. Beautiful. Deadly. 

Like someone else he knew, he thought with a smile. 

And then it hit him.