#onlybeewrites

The third wasn’t particularly her favorite option, but between the three choices? It seemed to be one the Cauldron was favoring. 

How long had it been? Weeks? It had to have been that at least. But she couldn’t tell. There was nothing in that Cauldron damned cell that would help her tell, or even hint. The only thing that allowed her to have an idea of time was when the autumn court soldier would come by with her food. Never anything substantial. Just enough food and water to keep her alive. 

She could feel the weakness of it effecting her. She could only a few days in after her first interrogation. It was the classic beating. The threats. Urging her to share what her High Lord has been up to. What her brother had been up to. 

But she didn’t utter a word. She hadn’t spoken a word, not to them. Unlike her smartass brother, Elara always knew when to keep her mouth shut. Though that always seemed to piss them off more. 

But it told her one thing.

Beron was paranoid. 

Why? She was still trying to figure that out. The concussion didn’t help either but that wasn’t the point. It didn’t matter what she knew if she couldn’t get out.

But that was the hard part wasn’t it? Her eyes could barely stay open those days. Exhaustion settling deep into her bones. Her wings, though cut up, they were still in tact, sagging behind her. Her dark hair matted, sticking to her forehead, covered in dirt and grime. 

Cauldron she really needed a bath. And Madja. And Rhys. Mor. Az. Cassian.

It wasn’t unusual for them all to be away for weeks at a time. Whether it be Cassian to the camps or Azriel when he would be away on a spying mission for Rhys. 

A pained breath left her cracked lips, her head rolling forward, her chin resting against her sternum. It had been hours since she had been fed. Almost a day. Maybe a day? 

Her mind was growing more and more cloudy each day. Weaker. None of it was good. The longer she waited. The longer she was held there the more difficult it would be to escape. 

Her hands flexed slightly against the chains that bound them at her sides. The same ones where her emerald green siphons would be. But those were taken too. Everything was taken. Her blades. Her two Illyrian daggers that were always at her waist; gifts from Azriel. And her Illyrian sword, Avisra; her gift from Cassian. 

She wasn’t sure where they were, but she wanted—needed—to get them back before she even thought about escaping.

It was times like this where she really wished she had some of Rhy’s fancy powers. And it was times like this where she hated it, but she felt completely helpless. Weak. And for once in a very long time….hopeless.

“For an Illyrian warrior…” a voice crooned, breaking the silence of the damp cell, and clearing the running ongoing thoughts that ran through Elara’s head, “I’m surprised it only took a few weeks to get you all broken and quiet like this,”

Her hazel eyes dragged their way up. Looking from the floor under her, all the way up to spot Eris. Heirs to the Autumn Court. And she wanted nothing more than to smack that stupid fucking grin on his stupid face.

“C’mon, little bird. Don’t you want to go home? I doubt you want to stay here with me for longer than you need to,” he taunted, walking across the cell to where she was bound to the stone wall. His hands were comfortably tucked in his pockets, his boots echoing off the floor.

Elara just glared at him. Hating him, first of all because she fucking despised the guy. And she didn’t forget what he had done to Mor; who had grown to be like her own sister. And just like Cassian, Elara became incredibly protective. So she gathered up whatever moisture was left in her dry mouth and *spat* at Eris and staring him down.

Eris’ amusement flickered away, like snuffing out a light. Quick and instant. He wiped away the spit before reaching up and grabbing her cheeks with his hand, causing her lips to pucker.

“I’m trying to help you get out of here. If you stopped being a stubborn brat you’d see that.” He growled before gripping her face tighter and letting go with such force, her hair jerked sideways.

“So I’m going to give you this one chance. I’m going to leave the door unlocked. And you’re going to have about….ten minutes before the next guards come for your interrogation. Good luck, little bird,” 

Eris turned on his heel stalking away from the Illyrian female. His expression blank, though Elara couldn’t see it. Though the last thing she saw was a wave of his hand, leaving the door open. 

And the next thing she knew she fell to her knees. Her torn leathers scraping against the cold and dirt stained ground. 

Her eyes widened in disbelief as she pulled her sore arms close to her. Her wrists red and raw. But free.She didn’t think twice after that, stumbling to her feet, she let out a groan as her body screamed in protest. Cuts, bruises, burns littered her skin along with grime and dirt and sweat.

She sure was a sight to behold.

She stretched out her wings, thanking the Mother that they were unharmed. A few cuts here, but nothing that would hinder her ability to fly. Her wings weren’t the biggest. And she may not have been the strongest. But by the Cauldron, she was fast. Faster than her brothers. And being fast was all that she needed.

Tucking her wings then tightly to her back, she waited for her vision to stop swimming before she moved through the dim corridors of the Autumn Court dungeons. Or at least what she assumed it was. 

Though before she could find a way out, she needed a few things. 

She needed her weapons. Her daggers, sword, and siphons. 

Barefoot, clad in torn leathers, she pressed herself against the cold stone walls, her every sense on high alert. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of blood—not hers, not this time. The guards would notice her absence soon when they came around and she needed to be long gone before then.

The hallway opened into a larger chamber, the dim torchlight barely cutting through the darkness. And there, at the far end of the room, she saw them.

Her daggers. Her sword.

Relief and adrenaline surged through her veins as she staggered toward them, ignoring the way her vision swam. 

Almost there.

But then, she stopped.

Something was wrong.

Very wrong.

The metallic scent of blood was stronger here, more pungent. It wasn’t just the lingering stench of violence. But was fresh.

Elara’s hand reached for the hilt of her sword, but she hesitated as her eyes darted around the room. And then she saw them.

The autumn court guards.

All three of them lay sprawled across the floor, their bodies still warm, throats slit cleanly—too cleanly. There was no sign of a struggle. No sound of a fight.

Just silence.

And then—movement.

The shadows stirred before she could react, curling at the edges of the room, slithering toward her like living things. Her body tensed, instinct screaming at her to *run*, but a familiar presence swept over her, dark and comforting all at once.

Elara turned sharply, her heart still hammering from the adrenaline.

Azriel stood at the other end of the room, his siphons glowing faintly, shadows swirling around his boots like a second skin. His scarred hands were relaxed at his sides, but there was a sharpness in his hazel eyes—a fury barely contained.

She exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“Az.” Her voice was hoarse, relief thick in the single syllable.

His gaze swept over her, assessing, calculating. He didn’t miss the bruises and raw red skin on her wrists, the cut above her brow, the way she swayed slightly as if her body was on the verge of giving out. Her usual tawny skin was now a concerning paler shade.

Then, with a single, slow blink, he said, “Took you long enough.”

Elara huffed a tired laugh, though the sound was laced with exhaustion. Her body now relaxing as she felt the security of her brother, “You could have gotten here sooner.”

Azriel stepped forward, his movements fluid, silent—always so damn silent. “You seemed to have things under control.”

She rolled her eyes, but when she went to grab her daggers, her hands trembled. Azriel saw it, of course he did, but he said nothing. Instead, he reached out, gently pressing one of the blades into her palm. The weight of it was grounding.

Elara tightened her grip around the hilt, her fingers flexing as she forced her breathing to steady. Now wasn’t the time to break. She could do that in the privacy of her own room. Maybe while in the bath. After her report to Rhys. Swallowing she then fastened the siphons to the back of her gloves. 

“Cassian?” she asked after a moment, her voice quiet. Trying to remain steady. Trying to remain the warrior she was trained to be.

“He’s waiting.” Azriel’s expression didn’t change, but there was something softer in the way he spoke, in the way his shadows curled toward her as if offering comfort. “Rhys sent me ahead.”

Elara nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Azriel reached for her sword, fastening it to her back with swift, efficient movements, as if sensing she didn’t have the strength to do it herself.

She should have said thank you. Should have let herself lean into the comfort of his presence. But she only nodded again, steeling herself.

Azriel watched her carefully, then, in that quiet, steady voice of his, he said, “Let’s go home.”

And this time, Elara let out a breath of relief, because home had never sounded so good.

It wasn’t long before she bathed, changing into some comfortable clothes. But her mind kept wonder back to how she got home in the first place. It was almost infuriating that she didn’t escape on her own. No. She wouldn’t have been able to break out of that cell by herself. Not without his help.

Him. Eris. The heir to the autumn court. Went and helped her. Why? She had no idea. And she went over it hundreds of times in her head, almost as if she missed something. Anything, really. Though what stuck out was his last words to her before he left.

“Good luck, little bird,”

~~~~

The night air was cold as Azriel pulled them through the shadows, the tendrils of darkness wrapping around them like a second skin. Elara clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay upright, but the exhaustion was creeping in, threatening to drag her under. Her body ached, bruises deepening with every breath, but she refused to let it slow her down.

She had fought her way out of that cell. She had survived. She could make it home.

Azriel’s grip on her arm was firm, steady—grounding. The first tingling of comfort she’d felt in weeks. Three weeks maybe? It seemed to have been that long according to what Eris hinted at.

“Almost there,” Azriel murmured, his voice cutting through the stillness between them. But his grip tightened slightly on her, urgent, eager to get her back home. 

She swallowed hard, nodding even though her legs trembled beneath her. Shadow traveling had always left her disoriented. She didn’t do it often, always opting for flying. But after everything she had been through, it felt like her bones were being pulled in a hundred directions at once.

The wind shifted, and then, in an instant, Velaris came into view. The soft glow of the Sidra, the twinkling lights of the city—home.

Elara barely had time to process it before they landed just outside the townhouse. Her knees buckled, her balance slipping, but before she could hit the ground, Azriel’s arms were around her.

“Steady,” he murmured, holding her against him.

She gritted her teeth, frustrated by the weakness in her limbs. “I’m fine.”

Azriel huffed quietly, unimpressed. “You’re barely standing.”

She wanted to argue, but before she could, the door to the townhouse was wrenched open.

Cassian.

His face was a storm of emotion—anger, worry, relief all crashing together as his gaze landed on her.

“Elara.”

She barely had time to brace herself before he was there, his arms wrapping around her tightly. The impact sent a fresh wave of pain through her ribs, but she didn’t care.

She let herself sink into the warmth of her brother’s embrace, let herself breathe for the first time since she had been taken.

“I’m fine,” she murmured against his shoulder.

Cassian pulled back just enough to cup her face, his eyes scanning every bruise, every cut, his jaw tightening. “You are *not* fine.”

Before she could snap back, more figures appeared in the doorway.

Rhys. Mor. Amren. Her family. 

Their eyes were sharp, their worry evident, but Elara could barely focus on them before Cassian was turning on Azriel.

“What happened?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Azriel didn’t flinch. “Autumn Court ambush. She escaped on her own. I tracked her before they could find her again.”

Cassian’s fists clenched at his sides, fury simmering in his hazel eyes. “They’re dead?”

Azriel gave a slow, cold nod. “Every single one. That I saw at least.”

Elara swallowed, watching as Cassian’s shoulders tensed, his breathing heavy. But then he looked back at her, and all the fight drained from his face.

“I should have been there.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

Elara shook her head. “You were. I just had to find my way back.”

Cassian exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before pulling her in again, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Then, Mor was there, stepping forward with soft but determined eyes. “Let’s get you inside.”

Elara wanted to protest—wanted to tell them she was fine—but her body betrayed her, her exhaustion catching up all at once.

Azriel’s hand brushed against her back, a silent reassurance, before Cassian lifted her effortlessly into his arms.

She didn’t fight him. Didn’t argue.

Because for the first time in weeks, she was safe.

Elara sat in one of the armchairs in Rhysand’s study, the flickering fire casting long shadows along the bookshelves. Right, She thought to herself, it was time to give Rhys a report on what had happened. To tell him everything she had seen and heard. To try and figure out why they had taken her in the first place, and to get to the bottom of what the hell they were looking for. 

Rhys sat across from her, his violet eyes unreadable, but flashed of concern flickered behind them. She could feel his power stretching, brushing against the edges of her mind—not probing, just waiting. He was always kind like that. Always let her start off first, especially when it came to hard assignments or for those that went wrong.

“They came out of no where,” Elara started after a minute, pursing her lips that were once cracked, split and bleeding. She had so much water and yet her mouth still felt dry. So dry. No water—no she had water. At the side table to her right. A class of cool water sat there untouched. And it remained there. Full.

Elara swallowed again before she continued. Rhys, patient as ever, remained quiet allowing her to speak, to continue at her own pace. Kind, Rhys was so kind. They were all so kind, her family. “I was patrolling the borders to make sure we had no one slipping in after the incident last month. I landed because I thought I spotted a fire near the borders our borders with the Fay Court. Turns out it had been a trap. I landed and…there was eight of them. I managed to take down half before they over took me..”

The memory of it replaying in her mind. The realization of it all hitting her too late before she could safely take off back into the air. It had started off with just three of them. She was so sure of herself that she could take just three soldiers. She’d been able to handle Illyrian males, so how hard could Autumn Court soldiers be? 

But then more came from the trees. Two more. Then three more. The next thing she knew she was surrounded by these soldiers. Each carrying swords, all closing in on her. She had managed to kill three of them before everything had gone dark. 

Elara remembered waking up that first day in the cell. Her wings were bound, her wrists shackled to the wall so they could only move a few inches forward. The cuffs cutting into her wrists already. And cold. So fucking cold. Cold and damp. And she remembered the first soldier that came into her cell to start questioning her. The sick sadistic grin in his face; and later seeing him dead on the floor. 

Thank you, Azriel.

The female Illyrian sighed, her wings shifting behind her uneasily before getting right to the point. She didn’t want to relive it any longer than she had to. She didn’t even want to show Rhys that part. Didn’t want to show anyone that. She wanted to tell him and just leave it.

“They were looking for someone,” Elara said, voice steady despite the lingering rasp from days without water. Her hands playing with a stray thread that frayed from the sweater Mor got for her. A soft deep green sweater and some soft black pants. Much comfier to wear comparing she had been wearing her torn leathers for three or four weeks straight. It was always nice to wear clothes that didn’t smell like blood and dirt.

Rhys didn’t react outwardly, but his focus sharpened. “Who?” His tone careful, but firm as he looked at the slightly younger female across from him. Patient as always. 

Elara shook her head. “They never gave a name. Or said one. Not around me. But the way they were speaking, I think they’re looking for a female. Beron’s soldiers kept pressing me for information—asking if I had heard anything in the Hewn City. If I knew where this female was.” She leaned forward slightly. “Whoever it is, Beron wants them first. Or wants a name. He’s paranoid and he’s afraid. That much I can tell,”

Rhys was quiet for a moment, fingers drumming once against the armrest. She could see the gears turning in his head, “Did they say why?”

“No. Just that it was urgent.” She met his gaze. “They think you know something. Or at least know where they are,”

Rhys exhaled slowly, his power coiling tighter around the room. “Which means it’s not just Beron looking. 

Elara shrugged, “I can’t say for sure. I don’t think so….i haven’t heard anything from Helion or Kallias or Thesan. If there was a concern from the other High Lords I would have heard of it by now.”

Rhys studied her for a beat before asking, “Alright. We’ll keep an eye on it for now. Let Helion know what happened on our borders. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled. Especially when it comes to his favorite Illyrian,” he said, the corner of his mouth turning up into a playful smirk, “Thank the Couldron you managed to get out of that cell..”

Elara hesitated for a moment. Debating on whether or not to tell him. And the words spilled from her lips before she even realized what she was saying. “I didn’t.”

His brows lifted slightly, a silent demand for her to explain. The playfulness disappearing from his expression, and something along the lines of concern replaced it. 

She swallowed hard. Knowing this would be going one of a few ways and finally got the words that struggled to come up her throat, “Eris let me out.”

The air in the room shifted, darkened, as if the very walls had tensed. The energy of the room shifted at the mention of the heir. The oldest of the Vanserra children. The cruelest some say. Heartless. Like a predator that enjoys watching its pray struggle before it finally makes that life ending bite at the neck.

Rhys sat back, his expression still carefully neutral, but she could feel the thoughts running through his mind. She could see him putting those handy High Lords skills, as Elara called them, to good use.

“Did he say why?”

“No,” she murmured. “Just that he ‘felt like evening the odds.’ He hadn’t come down at all either. That was the first and only time I’ve seen him the entire time I was there.”

Rhys let out a quiet hum, though there was no amusement in it. “Eris doesn’t do anything without reason.” His fingers drummed against the solid oak wood of his desk. Eh soft thumping filling the air.

“Trust me, Rhys. I know.” Elara’s fingers curled against her knee, gripping onto the soft cloth. Grounding herself there. She couldn’t let herself go back into those depths of her mind. Not yet anyways. “That’s what worries me.”

Rhys was silent, watching her closely. Then, his voice quieter, more careful, he asked, “Did it feel like a debt?”

Elara stiffened, replaying that moment in her mind—Eris standing in the dim torchlight, his face unreadable, his power crackling in the air between them. He had let her go. Had risked everything by doing it. And he hadn’t asked for anything in return. 

Not yet, at least.

Elara swallowed. “No,” she admitted. “It didn’t feel like a debt. Though I’m not sure to be fair I was pretty out of it..”

Rhys’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then what did it feel like?” He asked, pushing cautiously. But this was important. If Eris did get a favor? He’d be sure to cash in that favor from Elara when the proper time came. They all knew it.

She didn’t have an answer. And that, more than anything, unsettled her. But Rhys was looking at her—no. Not Rhys. Rhysand was looking at her. Her High Lord. And his eyes bore into hers, into her very heart and soul. 

But Elara didn’t know what it was that Eris left her with. She had been down there for weeks. And Eris hadn’t once come down to see her. To taunt or tease or mock like she was more than sure he would. The idea alone made her want to punch him in the face. Or have him meet Avisra. But he had done nothing. Teased and taunted her. And then let her go. 

Rhys sighed at her silence, knowing best to leave it at that. Knowing that Beron was paranoid, that they were looking for some female was good enough for now. Later on he’d be sure to ask if she’d seen anything else. Heard anything else. And perhaps peak inside her mind to make sure there was nothing she missed.

“Thank you, Elara. You should probably go get some sleep now. I’m sure you’re exhausted. We can talk more about it after you’ve rested,” Rhys said, giving her an assuring nod. Taking that as her queue to leave, she got to her feet and nodded, before leaving his study without another word. Words felt like too much right now.

The townhouse was quiet, the low hum of the city outside barely audible through the thick walls. The faint smell of the sea lingered on the breeze, and for a moment, Elara allowed herself to breathe deeply, trying to push the shadows from her mind.

She was safe.

She was safe and out of that cell. Safe and away from the Autumn Court. But the words kept circling in her head—they think we know something. They think she had the answers. Or she would know. But she didn’t. She had no idea who they were looking for. Why this female seemed to important to them. Why Beron seemed so paranoid. Afraid even. He had to be afraid if he were to go to such lengths

Elara rubbed her temples as she walked to the bed, her thoughts heavy, but exhaustion finally creeping in. Her limbs felt heavier and heavier. Her wings starting to droop behind her—Cassian would kill her if he saw she wasn’t lifting her wings. But she had to sleep.

The second her head hit the pillow, sleep over took her like an eager friend. But not a kind one.

Everything quickly shifted as sleep dragged her further and further under. The memories of the past several weeks refusing to be pushed aside, refusing to allow her a moments peace and seemed to resurface.

Her breath caught. The memories started as flashes—sharp, cruel images of the Autumn Court soldiers, their faces twisted with malice, the way their hands gripped her, how they tried to rip the answers from her. The cold steel of the bars, the weight of the chains that had held her. She could still hear their voices echoing, their threats, their twisted promises of what would come if she didn’t speak.

And then the shadows deepened. The cold dark pulling her further and further downward. Sinking its teeth into her flesh to keep her steady with it.

The cold air of the Illyrian camps swept in, and the distant sounds of the harsh winds of the mountain filled her ears. She could hear the crackling of the fires, the shouts of the warriors training, and in the distance—the cries of her mother. 

Her heart slammed against her chest. Her mother’s face, pale and bloodied, haunted her from the corners of her memory. The cruel punishments. The cruel work. The harshness of the camps, the brutal beatings, the relentless days of being pushed to the edge. Pushed. Taunted.

A sharp gasp tore from Elara’s throat as the images bled into one another. The soldiers in the Autumn Court had been cruel, but the scars left by the Illyrian camps—by those who had raised her—were deeper, more jagged. They all mixed together in a cruel kaleidoscope of memories she tried to ignore.  

Her mother’s wings. The way they had damaged them, the way her mother had never recovered from the humiliation, the trauma. The screams of pain Elara had never been able to forget. Ones she was grateful that Cassian never had to hear. 

It’s not real. 

Not anymore.

Her eyes bulged open then, waking finally from the cruel nightmare her mind decided to play that night. Elara stared up at the ceiling of her room while she gripped the blankets, her fingers digging into the soft fabric as her breath quickened. Her wings flexing, twitching and flinching as if she were ready to take off into the air right then and there.

She felt like the walls were closing in. The panic set in fast—too fast—and she couldn’t stop it. The room spun. The memories, the faces, the pain—it all collided. Building on and on. Continuing and never ending. Like a spiral staircase and Elara just keeps going down, down, down. Deeper into the grasp of darkness and cold.

But she couldn’t scream.

I can’t…

She shut her eyes, pulling the blankets tighter around her, trying to ground herself. She couldn’t let it take over. Not again. Not like last time.

Elara swallowed hard, trying to force air into her lungs, the panic clawing at her chest. It sank its claws into her and was refusing to let her go. 

Breathe. Just breathe.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind—calm, steady, even as she lay broken in that cold, cruel place. You’re stronger than this, Elara. Don’t let them break you. Never let them break you.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, and the memories mixed with the physical sensations of the torture. It was too much. It was always too much Too much. 

Elara forced herself to sit up, wrapping her arms around her legs, her breath shallow but steadying. She needed to get control, now. And quickly. 

Elara’s chest heaved, the air suffocating in that suddenly too small room. She pressed her hand over her heart, feeling it pound wildly as she fought for control. She fought for silence. She had to. 

She had already worried her brothers so much. It wasn’t her fault, that she knew. But it still didn’t stop the guilt that bubbled within her for worrying them. For worrying them all. And if any of them got a sense of this? Cassian would never let her be alone. 

Focus, she told herself, forcing her breathing to slow. Slow. In. Out. The words in her mind, each one a lifeline.

One… two… three… four…

She repeated it over and over again, matching the rhythm with her breaths. Slowly, bit by bit, her heart stopped pounding as fast, and the pressure in her chest eased, if only slightly. But it was something. 

The panic didn’t fully dissipate, but it was receding. The shadows of the past slowly loosened their grip on her mind. The present returned. She was in the townhouse. She was safe.

Elara squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the last remnants of the nightmare from her mind. She couldn’t let it consume her. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t afford to do that. She couldn’t afford to fall into the darkness of her own thoughts. Her mind. Her nightmares and anxiety. Not when she had a job to get back too. Protecting Velaris was more important than anything on this earth. 

But even as the panic ebbed, the ache lingered, the quiet terror of those memories still pressing against her ribs. She wasn’t sure she could ever escape them. She wasn’t sure she ever would. 

But for tonight, she would fight them. Alone, if she had to. But she was used to that. She knew she didn’t have to. She had her family. Mor. Rhys. Az. Cassian. Technically Amren but she wouldn’t listen nor really care.

Though this wasn’t new nor the first time that nightmares plagued her in these hours. Her heart returned back to his normal steady beat. Her hands still shaking like after shocks as she slowly laid back down. Turning on her side she watched out the window at the city that she loved so much. The city that she was entrusted with to protect her life with. And she allowed the city that she loved, to lure her back into sleep

A sweet, empty, quiet, sleep.

~~~~~

The next morning wasn’t much better. Neither was the next. And neither was the following day when Rhys told them they had to make a family trip to the Hewn City. Kier had apparently been causing some trouble. They all needed to go down to remind him of his place-Rhys mainly. It had been a while since they had all gone. But any time Rhys went, so did Elara.

So after everyone had gotten ready, they traveled down under the Moonstone Palace, deep under the mountain and to the Court of Nightmares

The Hewn City was a pit of shadows and deception, its very air thick with the scent of stone, smoke, and the sickly-sweet perfume of courtiers vying for power. The obsidian throne room gleamed under dim faelight, casting long, jagged shadows across the polished floors. It was a place of veiled threats and sharpened smiles—a place Elara had learned to navigate with her own blade-edged poise.

“You know I’m still not convinced you have to wear that. Can’t you just wear your leathers and siphons like me and Azriel? I don’t think it’s appropriate for the head guard to look like that,” Cassian complained to his sister, distaste and repulsion written shamelessly over his expression. 

Elara rolled her eyes they entered the throne room of the Court of Nightmares. One of Elara’s least favorite places to be. Cassian always did this. Every single fucking time. She didn’t care much for the clothes. She knew she looked hot. Everyone did. It was the dress code down there. Down in the Hewn City, Elara was still the highest guard in the room. Unfortunately, they didn’t take kindly to females in positions of power. 

So she had to make them listen. And one way to get males and people in the Hewn City to listen? Violence and sex.

So she did what she had to do. Just as they all did when they had to go down there. Playing into each of their own little roles they were given. Unforgiving. Unapologetic.

Elara glanced down at her attire for a moment, capturing. The clothes that had a mix of authority and allurement. It was a perfect combination for the lead guard of the night court.

She was dressed in a fitted black leather corset, the boning structured enough to highlight her figure while still allowing her to move with ease. The deep neckline exposed just enough skin to be daring but not impractical. A flowing sheer skirt, slit high on both thighs, billowed around her legs, revealing the sturdy black leather boots that laced up to her calves. Twin daggers were strapped to her thighs, their hilts peeking out just beneath the fabric. The sword at her hip gleamed under the dim light, a reminder that she was more than just decoration in this court of vipers.

Her hair, usually tied back for practicality, had been left loose, cascading down in soft waves, though two small braids had been twisted back from her temples and fastened with silver pins. A faint touch of makeup that Mor had insisted on dusted her eyes. Simple dark eyeshadow above her hazel eyes—all added together to provide her a sharp, dangerous edge. Mor insisted she looked hot, but she just felt like she smeared dirt on her eyelids. Though she trusted Mor’s judgment.

“We have the same conversation every time we come here, Cass. It’s just for a few hours. You really need to grow up,” she grumbled, “if I was a male I would but unfortunately they wouldn’t take me seriously if I wore your dress code.” Have said rolling her eyes as she glared at the courtiers around them.

The place smelled. Smelled of ill intentions. Of evilness. Of pain. Of fear. The males, particularly. It all reminded her too much of growing up with the Illyrians. All entitled to what they believe they earned—no, deserved. And she had a feeling Cassian and Azriel knew that too as she felt an assuring cool caress on her back; Az’s shadows. Always assuring. Always so kind and playful. With her at least. Probably because she wasn’t as obnoxious as her brother.

Elara could feel the eyes of the court on her. The savage hungry looks that reached out like grasping hands. For hunger. A hunger for lust. A hunger for blood. 

It didn’t matter.

As their family took their places around the Dias, Elara stood at Rhysand’s side, a sentinel draped in both allure and lethality. His personal guard here. She’d been called his guard dog by countless courtiers. But she didn’t care. As long as she wasn’t alone, they could call her whatever they’d like.

Elara kept her focus on Rhysand, who lounged in his throne. By now he had already scolded the court before demanding the music to play. Drinks flowed, music echoed, people danced, kissed, gossiped. Everything in between. Rhys was now speaking to Kier in that silk-lined voice of command, every word laced with subtle warning. Elara had moved to the bottom of the dias, keeping an eye out over the crowd. 

Then the air shifted.

A ripple of awareness moved through the court, whispers barely hushed behind jeweled goblets, beyond the music that echoed off the walls. Elara caught the flicker of movement at the far end of the chamber, the way the gathered nobility straightened, some stiffening in apprehension, others watching with intrigue. Many avoiding and shifting their gaze away.

And then she saw him.

Eris Vanserra strode into the room with all the effortless arrogance of a male who belonged in the shadows but refused to be swallowed by them. He was a vision of Autumn’s fire and ice, dressed in a deep crimson shirt, the open collar exposing the sharp lines of his throat. His long coat, black and gold, swept behind him as he walked, the embroidered flames along its hem flickering like embers in the low light. His short red-gold hair was neatly done, sweeping neatly to the right; allowing none of his features to be hidden.

His molten gaze swept over the room before landing on her.

Elara tensed, fingers flexing around the hilt of her dagger, ready—though for what, she wasn’t sure. But wherever Eris Vanserra was concerned? It was never good.

She watched as he stalked across the room, walking through like a predator before stopping right in front of her. Eris smirked, “Hello, Little Bird. You certainly are looking better than the last time I saw you,” he commented, allowing his eyes to rather shamelessly roam over her form before dragging them up to meet her hazel eyes.

She took a step forward. Swiftly she pulled her dagger out, lifting it so the very spark point of her blade was almost touching his throat. She glared to up at him. He wasn’t that much taller than herself, five or six inches or so. Regardless, she blocked his path before he could get any closer to Rhys. “The High Lord is busy,” she said smoothly, voice cold as steel. “Come back later and he might have time to speak with you,”

Eris watched with great amusement. Though not moving. Not even seeming afraid of the Illyrian blade that could easily slice his jugular with one quick swipe, or one wrong move. Instead, he tilting his head as if amused by the very idea of being turned away or being threatened by the shorter female.

“I’m not here for him,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing.

Elara brows furrowed slightly, but she didn’t let her confusion show. And instead remained silent as she continued to stare him down, waiting for him to continue. 

Eris took another step closer. The blade pressing into his neck a bit more now, not enough to draw blood but almost. But now he was close enough that she could catch the faint scent of embers and cedarwood. His scent alone caused her head to spin.

Eris continued to smirk down at her, almost as if he knew. Knew that his actions kept her up at night. Pleased to know he had this sort of effect on the female.

It was not that you felt like you were unattractive in some sort of way, you were rather pretty. But it was the fact that you were best friends with Benedict that caused you to think this way. There was a chance of him not returning those feelings. There was a chance that he would laugh in your face assuming it was a joke. There was a chance of him scoffing in your face and cutting you and your friendship off completely.

There was no chance that you would even consider taking that risk—no matter how often Daphne or hell, even Elouise would reassure you that he had returned those feelings to you.

Though one afternoon, you sat with him in the Bridgerton’s drawing room. You had been having some tea that Rose had gotten for you while Benedict drew. He drew with his charcoaled that made his long fingers turning an odd shade of black within his drawing pad. You had always admired the way he looked to serious when he drew. His eyebrows furrowed, causing wrinkles to cover his forehead. He also had this habit of tilting his head; you assumed it was to get a different angle on whatever his latest creations was. But your most favorite thing was when he would be stuck on something. Maybe it was because he could not draw it correctly, or the art was not coming out the way he wanted it to. But once he figures it out, or it comes out the way that he had wanted and the ways his eyes lit up with pride and eureka was your absolute favorite.

“what is it you are drawing today?” You asked, lifting the fragile porcelain to your lips as you take a small sip of the warm tea. Your eyes flicker from your cup to the Bridgerton across from you. And just in time too because was already looking at you. His body tensed slightly before he attempted to play it off.

“Nothing you must worry your head about,” he said in a teasing tone, as he most often did. But he was just trying to play it off when in reality it was you. He was drawing you, in your beautiful soft green dress, your hair done up into a neat braid to keep from your beautiful face. You looked stunning and he wanted to capture it like he had done many time before.

It was always you that he drew, especially when you plagued his thoughts in the late. Hours. Oh if you only knew that you were his muse. The very figure and image of you filled pages and pages of his work. Two of the things he loves most wrapped into one. But what if you were to find out? You would never return and that would break his heart. He was so in love with you it ached to not be able to hold you, kiss you when he wanted. He felt this especially at balls and suitors would come up to your constantly, it made his blood boil. But he had hoped he kept it well hidden. Well, enough to keep it from you. His family on the other hand seemed to know or notice it for quite sometime. According to his mother, both of your mother’s knew of it. Everyone seem to know. Everyone but you.

Too busy in his thoughts, he did not feel the dip in the sofa until it was too late. You had seated yourself right next to him with a small huff as you tried to peak at this new creation before he was able to hide it. But he managed, which caused you to pout slightly. Of those lips…he wanted nothing more to cup your face and kiss you right then and there.

“Benedict. You always show me your drawings,” you had insisted, which just caused the other to shake his head.

“Nonsense. There are plenty of work that you have not seen. Besides it is no good anyways, there is no point in showing it off if it is no good.” He said, giving his best friend a look. This only made you want to see more. “you always saw your work is no good and it is always beautiful. Let me see, please?” You pleaded as you took hold of a part of his drawing pad. There was some back and forth, some ‘no’s’ and ‘oh please’ as you both struggled to take proper hold of the pad.

Eventually his hands slipped and lost its grip on the pad, landing it right into your smaller grasp. “ha! I have got it now. Now, let us see what you have been working so hard on,” you tease before looking at the drawing Benedict had been working so hard on. It was a lady, a rather beautiful one. But the longer you looked, the more you realized that this lady in the charcoal had the same features as you. the same face shape, body type, hair—even the little scar that was right on the bridge of your nose that you had gotten as a child. And you face began to redden as you slowly looked towards Benedict. “Are…is this of me?” You ask in wonder, amazement and without a single sound of disgust or hated—this reassures Benedict a bit more at least.

He nods and before he could utter another word, you flip through pages; more drawings of you. “You make me look beautiful..” you say in wonder and this causes Benedict to furrow his eyebrows once more but not in concentration but confusion.

“Because you are beautiful. I draw what I see and what I see from you is…” he stopped himself from speaking another word, too afraid to come across as too forward. He took a breath, figuring now is a better time than ever. The Bridgerton boy took the drawing pad from your hands and placed it next to him before giving you his full attention. Your face is covered with blush, flustered from this whole thing.

“I suppose now I must explain myself before it comes across strangely. But I do draw you. More times than not because you plague my every waking moment, you have since we were children. You have captured my heart from years and you have refused to return it to me. My dearest friend…..my feelings for you grow into one where I want you by my side forever, not just in my drawings. You are my muse for everything I do and I cannot bear it being another nor you being with anyone else..” he said, “So I suppose-“

You cut him off by leaning forward and giving him a kiss. Your soft ones pressed against his own. It was bold and improper. But his words were moving and your heart would not stop its fluttering. So you had kissed him, hoping no one would see. The kiss was everything you both had imagined it would be like and more.

So once you had pulled away to his surprised but smug reaction, you simply nodded, “Of course, it would be delighted to court you, my dearest. I have been waiting so long for this moment.” You say, still almost not believing that your love was also your best friend.

“I suppose we both were a bit too blind and afraid to admit it, hm?” He chuckled, taking your hands in his, getting a bit of the charcoal onto your hands. You giggle and nod,

“Yes I suppose so. But I also would love to see these other drawings of me that you have mentioned,” you teased him, now making it his turn to blush as he realized what he had admitted.

“Perhaps another time…?” He asked hopefully and you grin mischievously, almost impishly.

“Or perhaps we can give you something else to draw,” you said suggestively continuing to tease him about such thing.

This House was an escape for him, to blend and mingle with like minded people to find inspiration. To get honest feedback about his work instead of his family constantly praising him just because. There he had gotten feedback about his work before, genuine feedback about what he could do instead, ways to improve it all.

It was his escape from the pressures of society, where he had seen such talent from people who had to work for each meal every day. Fantastic work from pig farmers, but hey cannot do much since it is not affordable to be an artist when it does not pay well from lower statuses.

The the beauty of it was that, at the Delaney House, you can. Or at least have an escape where people only cared about your abilities and talent; not how rich your family was.

So there was a sense of relief to know no one would see the second eldest Bridgerton and treat him any differently.

It was a Sunday morning when Benedict had decided to visit the Delaney House, his family usually would not question when he would slip out of the house for a few hours.

He entered the front doors and made his way down the long corridor that led to other halls and wings of the building, like a spiderweb of artists. It was early so there were not entirely a lot of people there, though to the ones he had seen he gave a polite nod of his head.

Benedict was making his way towards his usual painting room when he heard something that made him stop in his tracts. It was some sort of violin music? It was not like any formal performance he had attended. The quick sharp, perfect notes filled the hallway to the right, and drifted presently to his ears.

It was never odd for a violinist os such to be here either, though for some reason this music intrigued him. So he took a little detour and followed the sound of the music. He walked further down the hall until he stopped outside one of the smaller practice rooms where the door was just slightly ajar.

Benedict peaked inside and a grin grew on his face as he just recognized the person playing. It was a young woman, in her twenties. As the mysterious player slowly turned, her face was exposed and he realized he had recognized the young women. It was the young woman who he had seen Elouise talking before his family’s Ball just a week or so ago.

It was the young violinist that had instructed himself and his brothers. For some reason, knowing that she had attended the same artistic building as him made his chest swell. It was like a little secret place, that only they knew about. It also told him that she was passionate about her music.

Benedict watched as her fingers moved carefully against the strings to make an array of beautiful notes that was so different that was usually played.

As she came to the finish of the song, Benedict couldn’t help but open the door a bit and speak up.

“Forgive me for interrupting, Miss. But I heard you playing and your melody is truly enchanting,” he praised the stranger, smirking as he watched the girl jump, clearly all lost in the music she created; Benedict knew how that was.

Y/N jumped, quickly turning towards the voice that had startled the silence that filled the room once she had finished playin the song.

“Mr. Bridgerton! You frightened me, I had not heard you approach.” She said as she caught her breath, carefully placing her bow and violin in her case for a moment. Though while she turned to place her instrument down, it gave her a moment to collect herself from his compliments. “And thank you, that is incredibly kind of you to say,” Y/N said before returning her attention back to the second eldest Bridgerton.

Benedict gave her a look, “you know the rules here Miss. Formalities are barred at the doorway to this building,” he playfully teased her, leaning against the door way.

Y/N then raised an eyebrow, “then why do you?” She questioned

Benedict let out a laugh, “Because I am yet to properly know your name,” he hummed, watching as the realization grew over the girl.

Growing ever more flustered she cleared her throat, “Oh forgive me. Y/N Lyndon. A pleasure to…properly meet you,” she said with an added chuckle.

Benedict smirked and bowed his head, “An absolute pleasure Y/N.” He said rather boldly. Y/N. Y/N. It was a beautiful name. The painter only worried if it would ever leave his mind.

“Of course,” Y/N said as she gathered her sheet music placing it away in her bag that held a bunch of other sorts of music. “I am to assume you come here often? I am not surprised with he word of how good you are with your drawings and paints. I think I am just surprised I had yet to see you here before today,” she commented.

Benedict adored the rather casual conversation. It was like a silent agreement that within the walls of the Delaney House that there would be no formalities regardless of who you were. It allowed everyone to be almost on an even playing field.

“Yes I don’t usually come Sundays, often I attend during the week, usually later in the days.” He explained.

Y/N nodded as she closed the case to hr things. “I suppose that makes sense. I am only here Sunday mornings. It is the only time I am free to practice what I wish,” she said with a smile.

Benedict hummed and nodded, “I see. Perhaps I will have to start attending Sunday mornings then,” he said with a grin.

“if that is the case, Benedict, you must come rather early. I come when the sun comes up in the sky. Because…” she glanced to the clock that was handing in the corner. “I must be returning home within the hour.” She said, and she could see Benedict’s grin slowly grow into almost a pout.

“Oh truly? You cannot stay just a little bit longer?” He asked, almost like when a child wishes that their mother would allow them to stay up late.

“Unfortunately not this time. I have family visiting from the country and I have to go get ready. Though perhaps next week you can find me at the Featherington’s Ball on Friday. Or early next Sunday,” she said as she passed him in the doorway, a smirk on her face as she playfully brush against the taller man.

Benedict small pout grew into a smirk at her playfulness and almost minx like behavior. He turned and watched her. “Oh truly you can bet that I shall.” He said. Y/N laughed a bit and gave him a wave over her shoulder before walking down the hallway.