#penultimate chapter

A very silly Elucien fic with an Eris Vanserra POV, inspired by the works of Oscar Wilde.

Rated M, Chapters 5/6, Elucien endgame

Summary:

Charm, style, speedy proposals and a villainous reputation… Eris Vanserra would be the perfect main character in an Oscar Wilde drawing room comedy. So now he is one.

In a Prythian re-imagined as Victorian England, Eris is enjoying a life of leisure as temporary steward of the Spring Court. That is, until a letter from the Night Court threatens to reveal a very delicate secret…

Brace yourself for Wilde-style tropes such as: double lives, mistaken identity, unnecessary flirtation, attempts at wit, overuse of adverbs, unforgivable idiocy, inept clergymen, backstage debauchery, comedic misunderstandings, convenient couplings, soft everyone, and a handbag.

“I’ve now realised, for the first time in my life, the vital Importance of Being Eris.”

(Hopefully this goes without saying, but... this fic is not to be taken too seriously!)

Taglist: @chaol-apologist, @themadmorrigan, @tinyy-jj, @crazy-ache, @fierling, @zenkindoflove

She stood half-concealed in the shadows of the far wall, arms crossed over her chest as the room filled with murmuring noblemen. Some familiar faces, some not. A few of them she had once served wine to. Bowed to.

Not tonight.

Her job was simple: observe. Listen. Catalogue every twitch, every uncertain glance, every heartbeat of hesitation. If any of these males planned to betray Eris, she would know as soon as they blinked.

And she would deal with it accordingly.

Jasper was already there when she arrived — tall and broad and quiet as ever, his auburn hair tied back, his pale face drawn. The third-eldest of their siblings, he had always kept to the shadows of Beron’s court, never defying but never participating in the worst of it either. Unlike the twins, he never delighted in torturing her, and only ever caused her harm when Beron was present to demand it. But tonight, he stood by Eris’s side. That alone said everything.

Eris had changed into ceremonial red. It was not the ostentatious robes Beron preferred, but a clean, sharp-cut tunic and matching mantle that shimmered faintly like firelight when he moved. His sword rested at his hip. He was no longer just a general, he looked every inch a High Lord.

And when he stepped forward, the room fell into immediate silence.

Adara felt her throat tighten.

“You all know why we are here,” Eris said, his voice clear and steady, though not loud. He didn’t need volume. He had presence. “Our court is bleeding. Our people are starving. And our High Lord has lost his mind.”

A ripple moved through the crowd, but none interrupted. Eris continued.

“We all saw what he did to the villages below the western ridge. He claimed it was retribution. I call it what it was, a massacre. And if we do nothing, it will not be the last.”

Adara’s eyes swept the room. Most of the lords nodded grimly. A few exchanged wary glances. She noted them all.

“I am not here to ask for treason,” Eris said, pacing slowly across the stone floor. “I am asking for justice. For leadership. For a future.”

Adara's heart pounded in her chest, not with fear, but with something like awe. She had always known he would be a better High Lord than Beron. But now, watching him speak to these powerful males and watching them hang onto his every word, it became something more than a dream. 

He was fighting for their people.

He was giving them a future.

The silence that followed Eris’s declaration stretched tight as a drawn bow.

And then—

The door exploded inward in a blast of heat and smoke.

Adara was moving before the flames had even cleared the doorway, shoving a stunned noble out of her way, the scent of scorched stone already thick in her nose. Her dagger was in her hand before the body hit the floor.

Beron strode into the room like a living wildfire, the crown atop his brown hair gleaming.

Aster and Archer flanked him, wicked grins splitting their faces. They wore their brutality like cologne, reveling in the panic now rippling through the nobles who had gathered. Behind them came Beron’s personal guard, his hand-picked sadists, cloaked in iron and cruelty.

“You miserable little traitor,” Beron hissed at Eris, voice echoing off the stone walls like the crack of a whip. “Plotting your pitiful little coup right under my roof.”

Adara slipped farther into the shadows, muscles taut, eyes on the guards. But a hand slammed into her back before she could react, and Archer forced her forward with cruel delight. Aster caught her other arm, twisting it until pain lanced up her shoulder.

She bit down on a cry, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

Beron didn’t even look at her.

He was too focused on Eris, who had not drawn his sword. Who stood tall in the middle of the carnage, refusing to flinch as his father approached.

“You always were too soft,” Beron snarled. “Too clever for your own good. Do you think you’ll rule this court with speeches and diplomacy?” He spat the word like venom. “You’ll never rule. You’ll die in chains.”

Several nobles surged toward the exits, panic overtaking their loyalty. Flame swept out in a wave from Beron’s palm, consuming five of them in a blink. Their screams echoed even as their bodies turned to ash. The rest scrambled backwards, Jasper hidden among them.

“Cowards,” Beron sneered. “Every last one of you. I should burn this entire hall and start anew.”

Adara thrashed in Archer’s grip, but he only laughed, tightening his hold. She caught Eris’s eye across the chaos. A silent message passed between them. This is it. This ends tonight.

Beron lifted a hand and with a simple flick, a glowing rope of fire unfurled into existence, lashing forward with a crack and wrapping tight around Eris’s throat.

Adara lunged, only to be yanked back by the twins. “Don’t worry, little sister,” Aster murmured in her ear, his voice dripping with mockery, “we wouldn’t want you to miss the show.”

Beron turned on his heel, dragging Eris along the stones by his neck like a prize animal, the whip of fire tightening with every step. “To the throne room,” he barked. “If my son wishes to challenge me for my crown, let it be a public execution.”

Archer and Aster began hauling Adara behind them, half-dragging, half-shoving her as she struggled against their unforgiving grip.

The stone halls swirled with smoke and screams, the scent of ash following her all the way to the main level.

The doors to the throne room slammed shut behind them with a finality that made Adara’s skin crawl.

Beron stalked toward his gilded throne like a lion on a hunt, dragging Eris behind him with a lazy flick of the fire-whip clutched in one hand. The other was tucked behind his back, casual and composed, as if he hadn’t just burned half of his own nobility. As if this were a performance.

His personal guards lined the room in tense silence. Watching. Waiting. None dared move.

Adara was shoved to her knees at the foot of the dais, Aster and Archer close behind her, like wolves guarding a meal. Their hands gripped her shoulders like talons, but her focus stayed locked on Eris.

Her brother had already shot to his feet, though blood trickled down his forearms and the skin of his neck was blistered and angry. Still, he met Beron’s fury with steady defiance.

“You will kneel,” Beron yelled from where he now stood in front of his throne, jerking the rope of fire to pull Eris down in the centre of the grand room.

Eris dropped to one knee, but raised his chin. “Not in respect,” he panted. “Only to make it easier to kill you.”

Beron hissed and flew down the dias steps until he stood in front of Eris, backhanding him with a flame-wrapped hand. Eris’s head snapped sideways with the impact, blood flying from his mouth and splattering across the shimmering floor.

Adara’s vision went red.

But Aster laughed, actually laughed, leaning down beside her ear. “He always did have a mouth on him,” he drawled, brushing her hair back like a lover. Bile rose in her throat. “Think Beron’ll burn that off next?”

Archer crouched beside her, fingers tapping a dagger at his belt. “Think she’ll cry? I think she will. Little tears like our pathetic little mother.”

Adara stilled.

Her muscles went taut, her own powers heating her skin. Not yet. She had to pick her moment.

Beron lifted Eris by the collar and threw him into the marble pillar beside the dais. The crack that followed might have been his shoulder or a rib, but Eris gritted his teeth and pushed himself up again.

“Still alive?” Beron spat. “Maybe I’ll have to carve the traitor out of you instead.”

The guards along the walls remained frozen like statues. The twins just laughed with cruel delight.

Adara let her head bow, let her body go slack just enough that Archer’s grip loosened.

Just a little more—

A flick of Beron’s wrist sent a fresh lash of flame across Eris’s chest, but he blocked it with a shield of his own power at the same time that Adara surged into motion.

She pivoted hard, smashing her elbow into Archer’s nose with a satisfying crunch. He stumbled back with a howl of pain, and she used his momentum to twist and slam her boot into Aster’s knee. The pop of bone dislocating was drowned by his shout of rage as he went down.

Adara didn’t stop.

She launched herself at Archer, slamming the heel of her palm into his throat before following it up with a strike to his temple that sent him crumpling to the floor, unconscious. She turned in time to catch Aster lunging for her, knife drawn, and she dropped low, sweeping his legs from under him with a spinning kick. He hit the ground with a snarl, but her fist came down hard and fast — once, twice — until his eyes rolled back and he went still.

Silence rippled through the room. She chanced a glance to the side, her heart clenching painfully as she watched Eris dodge brutal attacks from Beron.

Then—

“Seize her!” one of the guards bellowed.

Several began to charge forward, swords drawn.

Adara straightened, blood dripping from her knuckles, her chest heaving with breath. She turned to face them, spine straight, chin lifted.

She would not go down begging.

Adara braced herself for the first guard, drawing her sword and letting fire dance along her skin in hot, pulsing waves. She forced her breathing to steady. She didn’t know how long she could last, how many of them she could cut down before the next one got close enough to—

Snap.

Snap.

The two guards closest to her crumpled to the stone floor mid-sprint, necks twisted at unnatural angles. Shadows slithered away from their corpses, melting back toward the doorway.

Azriel stood there, framed by flame and blood and smoke.

He looked like vengeance made flesh. His wings were flared, all seven Siphons blazing cobalt, his shadows whipping around him with lethal purpose. His expression was carved from stone, cold and merciless.

He met her eyes across the throne room. And then he moved.

But before she could breathe a sigh of relief, before she could say thank the gods—

Another guard was on her.

Adara ducked beneath the swing of a halberd, parried a second blade with the narrow edge of her own, and sent a whip of fire spiraling outward in a ring. It caught two more, sending them reeling backward, but she didn’t hesitate. She lunged after them, cutting one across the thigh, and then spun to drive her blade into the other’s side.

The next guard knocked her sword from her hand with brutal precision.

She lashed out with her flames, molten-hot and roaring from her palms. The brute howled as fire engulfed him, but more were coming.

Too many.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Azriel carving his way through them like a dark tornado, his blades flashing, Siphons erupting in controlled bursts of power. He was fighting through the guards between them. Fighting to reach her.

But Beron’s elite didn’t break easily. These were the monsters who had trained in silence and blood since boyhood, raised in the image of their High Lord: brutal, efficient, merciless. They closed in again.

Adara kicked off one and slammed her elbow into another, grabbed her fallen sword from the ground and rose, only to catch a blow across her ribs that sent her crashing back to the floor.

Pain exploded through her back. Her lungs stuttered.

A boot caught her shoulder, trying to pin her. Another hand yanked at her hair.

She fought anyway, snarling. Fire roared from her body in an uncontrolled burst, driving them back for half a heartbeat.

She rose again. Prepared herself for another onslaught.

And then—

A roar of flame erupted behind her. Not her own.

The soldiers in front of her faltered. Even Azriel paused, shadows flickering as he looked past her shoulder.

Adara turned—

And her mother stood at the edge of the dais, arms outstretched, fire blooming from her hands like a phoenix reborn.

The light of it threw the throne room into searing relief. Beron’s snarling face as he met Eris’ sword with his own, the stunned expressions of the few remaining soldiers, Azriel’s hazel eyes as they fixed on her.

The Lady of Autumn stepped forward, fire licking down her arms like snakes.

Adara’s heart stopped.

Lady Angelica Vanserra, who had never once raised her voice, never once fought back, not even when Beron had hurt her children in front of her, surveyed the room with the gaze of a warrior-queen. Of a High Lady. 

Her mother lifted her hand, and a spear of flame shot across the room, stabbing through three of Beron’s guards in a single breath. 

Adara could only gape.

She hadn’t even known her mother still had power.

Certainly not enough to turn the tide of a losing battle.

But she was here. And gods help anyone who tried to touch her daughter again.

*****

Neither Beron nor Eris noticed the arrival of Lady Autumn.

They were locked together in a war of fire and fury at the far end of the throne room. Twin infernos clashing like gods of old, flame against flame, will against will. Neither could afford to look away even for a heartbeat.

Their magic cracked and roared, setting the air alight with heat that shimmered across the broken floor. The gilded throne stood behind them, scorched and cracked, but neither male seemed to care.

Eris bled from a cut along his brow, fire dancing along his forearms as he met his father blow for blow, never backing down. And Beron was grinning like a beast unchained, incandescent with rage, hurling blasts of magic that shook the very walls.

Adara could spare them only a glance before her mother stepped to her side.

Without a word, Lady Autumn extended a hand, elegant and scarred, burning with a white-hot flame Adara hadn’t seen in centuries. A flame Adara had never even imagined she still possessed. Her mother had always been silent and distant, a ghost in her own skin, unresponsive even when her children suffered. But now, fire crowned her like a halo, and for the first time, Adara thought she looked powerful. Beautiful.

Adara straightened beside her, shoulders squared, her own fire flaring bright and eager, and together they faced the guards remaining.

There were fewer now. A handful of Beron’s most loyal soldiers, who had so far kept out of the fray as they waited near their High Lord, ready for orders. They were the most dangerous of all.

Azriel fought on the far end of the fray, a whirlwind of shadows and steel. She saw him drive a blade through one soldier’s back, duck another’s strike, then vanish into a mist of shadow to reappear across the room, inching closer to her with each heartbeat.

But the next wave of guards was already descending on her and her mother.

They moved as one.

Fire coiled from Adara’s palms and erupted toward the nearest guards, catching two square in the chest. The blaze slammed them back, their weapons clattering to the floor.

Her mother’s flame surged alongside hers, cool and clean and devastating. A controlled burn that wrapped around their enemies without touching her daughter.

Adara launched forward, slicing through a distracted soldier with brutal efficiency. Another came at her, only to be consumed by a wall of white fire as her mother stepped in behind her.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

For the first time in Adara’s life, her mother fought for her. Fought with her. Shoulder to shoulder, flame to flame, they scorched a path through the final remnants of Beron’s guard.

And still Beron and Eris dueled behind them, fire raging, locked in a battle that could only end in death.

But Adara had no time to worry for her brother yet, because one more soldier lunged for her—

And this time, Azriel was there.

His shadows burst forward in a wave, dragging the male into darkness. Azriel’s Siphons pulsed once, then the soldier collapsed, dead at his feet.

Azriel’s breath was ragged. Blood streaked his leathers. But when he met Adara’s eyes, something fierce and steady burned behind them. Something that made her heart swell. There was still so much left unsaid between them—so much pain and guilt—but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

He reached for her, his mouth opening to speak, but a terrible scream tore through the air.

Both of them whirled.

Eris was on his knees, flames licking up his body. His shield, a wall of pale gold fire, was buckling under the onslaught of Beron’s relentless inferno. His scream cut off in a choking gasp as he threw all that he had into keeping his shield from crumbling.

“No,” Adara breathed.

But her mother was already moving.

With a bellow of fury, Angelica Vanserra raced across the scorched floor, her own flames flaring bright and uncontrolled behind her. It was the first time Adara had ever heard her mother raise her voice, let alone roar like a beast.

Beron turned at the sound. He faltered for just a heartbeat. Shock flared across his face as he took in her fire, her fury, the sheer presence of the female he had dismissed for centuries.

“Angelica?” he snarled, voice thick with disbelief. Then rage overtook him. “You dare?”

With a casual, brutal gesture, Beron released a burst of power.

Eris was flung back like a broken rag doll, crashing into the stone wall with a sound that made Adara’s stomach turn. She cried out and sprinted to him, Azriel at her side in an instant.

Eris was alive, but only barely. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. Blood seeped from a wound at his temple, and his skin was blistered and scorched. He’d nearly drained his magic completely.

Adara’s hands trembled as she reached for him. “Stay with me”

“You should have died years ago,” Beron snarled somewhere behind her.

She looked up just in time to see him step toward his wife, who stood tall despite her age, despite her centuries of cowering from him.

“I should have ended your pitiful existence long before now,” he spat. “Whore.”

His eyes snapped to Adara, gleaming with hatred. “Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.”

Angelica launched a blast of fire, her magic a white-hot stream of anguish and rage, but Beron was ready. He swept a hand through the air and snuffed it out, his own power dwarfing hers like the sun eclipsing a single star.

Then, with a flick of his wrist, a lasso of fire snaked through the air and wrapped around her neck.

She gasped, clutching at the blaze, her knees buckling.

“Mother!” Adara shouted, leaping to her feet.

She didn’t even make it a step before Beron raised his other hand.

Another lasso of fire shot forward and looped around Azriel’s neck.

He stumbled, catching himself on one knee, but didn’t cry out. His shadows surged wildly around him, trying to smother the fire, but they had no impact on the magic flames.

Adara froze.

Beron’s cruel smile widened. “Now what, little girl?” he purred, fire crackling in both hands. “Go on. Make a move. Let’s see who dies first.”

Adara’s chest heaved, her hands clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. 

She couldn’t move. 

Everyone she loved was in this room, and they were all going to die.

Beron’s gaze didn’t waver. “Did you know,” he said softly, almost conversationally, “that when I was young and freshly married, what I wanted most in this world was a daughter?”

The world stopped turning. Eris, Azriel, her mother — they all faded as those dark eyes bore into her. 

“I knew I needed a strong son,” Beron went on, voice calm despite his ragged breathing. “An heir. Someone to learn war and politics. But I craved a daughter.”

The fire that looped around Lady Autumn’s throat began to shift, drawn toward his other hand, curling and merging with the flames already binding Azriel. He was consolidating his grip, as if preparing for the final blow.

“I imagined a little girl with my own brown eyes,” he murmured, stepping toward Adara. “And her mother’s vivid hair.”

Even as he approached, she couldn’t bring her legs to move. Not with so much at stake. Beron reached her, and carefully rested a hand against the side of her head. His thumb smoothed over her hair almost tenderly. “When you were born, it was the happiest day of my life,” he whispered. “I planned to spoil you rotten.” 

She wasn’t sure she was breathing. His hand slid backwards, threading through her hair until—

He tightened his fingers into a fist and yanked, vicious and sudden. She couldn’t stop her yelp at the sudden flash of pain. Beron’s eyes were hard granite as he leant closer, his voice low as he spat, “and then I saw you.” 

She knew what he had seen. Her golden eyes, her darker skin, her round face. All features she inherited from neither Beron nor her mother, but from Helion. Her father.

Tears slipped free before she could stop them, burning hot and silent. Beron was not her father, and yet even after she had discovered her true parentage, she had spent years trying and failing to prove herself to him. Trying and failing to impress him, in the hopes he might one day come to love her as a daughter. 

A flash of silver streaked across the room.

Beron snarled, jerking back just as the dagger buried itself deep into his arm, the same hand tangled in Adara’s hair. He released her with a hiss, his face twisting as he yanked the blade free, his blood sizzling where it dripped to the marble floor.

Adara staggered backwards, turning to where the blade had come from. “Lucien,” she gasped.

He stood tall and proud next to Eris, one arm wrapped around their eldest brother, supporting his weight. Eris was swaying, his eyes bleary but burning. Pale and drained, but upright. 

Beron whirled on them.

“Well, well,” he growled, his eyes fixed on Lucien. “The other pathetic bastard.”

Adara backed toward her older brothers, and Azriel rose to stand at her side, the fire that had held him disappearing as Beron focused his full attention on Lucien. In the background, her mother gasped in a ragged breath, her hands clutching at her own released throat as she sunk to her knees.

“What are you doing here, boy?” There was nothing but disgust on Beron's face. “Last I heard, you were hiding among dirty humans like the coward you are.”

Lucien’s metallic eye caught the light as he lifted his chin, staring unflinchingly at the male who had once murdered his lover. 

“Let them go,” Lucien said, voice steady despite the heat rippling in the air between them. “Adara. Eris. Our mother. The Shadowsinger. Fight me instead.”

Beron laughed, cold and cruel. “Touching. The little stray pretending to be a hero.” His gaze swept over Lucien, mocking. “I don’t remember you being so brave when I slit that farm girl’s throat. What was her name? Jasmine?”

Lucien didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened.

Adara’s heart hammered, breath shallow. Every twitch of Beron’s muscles, every coil of flame, she tracked with unblinking precision. She felt rough, scarred fingers slip between her own, and gripped Azriel’s hand back tightly.

“Ah that’s right. Jesminda,” Beron sneered. “You couldn't even fight for her. Just ran away to Spring with your tail between your legs.”

Lucien’s voice was steady. “I'm not running now.”

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Then, with the terrifying speed of a High Lord, Beron hurled the blood-slicked dagger clutched in his hand, straight at Lucien’s remaining eye.

Adara’s gasp caught in her throat as she stretched a useless hand out, but before the dagger could strike, Eris shoved Lucien aside. The blade sang past, grazing Lucien’s temple, and clattered against the far wall.

Eris didn’t stop moving. Using the shove as momentum, he launched himself at Beron in a burst of flame and fury.

Beron surged forward to meet him, but as they collided, Eris’ fire sputtered in his palms like dying embers.

He was spent.

And Beron knew it.

With a frenzied roar, Beron sent a column of flame barreling toward his eldest son. It hit Eris square in the chest, and he flew back, landing with a sickening thud against the base of the throne.

He didn’t rise. 

“Eris!” Adara screamed. He didn’t even stir, even as Beron advanced, murder etched into his cruel smirk.

She bolted toward him, but strong arms wrapped around her from behind, anchoring her in place.

“No!” she thrashed against Azriel’s hold, kicked and shoved, claws of fire curling in her fists. “Let me go!”

But he didn’t. His grip was unyielding iron, even as she twisted and screamed. “Azriel—he’s going to kill him! Let me go!”

Her mother was already running, faster than she’d ever seen her move. Straight toward the inferno Beron summoned, his arm rearing back for the killing blow.

“No!” her mother shrieked.

And she flung herself between Beron and Eris, her arms spread wide.

The fire struck her full in the chest.

Adara went still in Azriel’s arms. Her breath caught in her throat. “Mama—”

Her mother’s scream echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Flame engulfed her, searing flesh and silk, the scent of burning filling the air. But she endured it, shielding Eris with her own body, even as her skin blistered and blackened.

Adara sobbed, lunging again. “Azriel, let me go. Please—please—he’s killing her—let me go—”

“I can’t,” he whispered against her temple, voice ragged, broken. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“I’ll never forgive you,” she spat, thrashing harder. “I’ll never—”

“I know.”

And it wasn’t until she felt the hiss, the burn under her skin, that she realized her power was surging uncontrolled, flames pouring from her. She was burning Azriel. Her fire lashed across his hands, his forearms, his chest where he held her tight, but he didn’t let go. Didn’t even flinch, save for the way his jaw clenched and trembled against her shoulder.

She felt another drop strike her skin and she looked down as his tears hit her shoulder and turned to steam.

Still, he held her.

And still, her mother screamed.

Adara sobbed, the sound ripped from somewhere deep and raw, her body trembling as she fought Azriel’s grip, as she looked up through blurred tears…

A blur of movement behind Beron. A gasp. A wet, gurgling cough.

Beron staggered, flames sputtering out midair, and Adara’s breath returned in a rush.

Azriel’s grip on her slackened in surprise. 

She tore from his arms, sprinting forward just as Beron dropped to one knee, twisting to see what had pierced him. Behind him stood Lucien, his eyes wide with shock, hands shaking around the hilt of the dagger he had driven between Beron’s ribs. He looked equal parts triumphant and horrified, like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d done.

Beron made to strike at him, but Adara was already there.

Her blade sang as she drew it. And In one clean, sure movement, she drove it through Beron’s heart.

His body arched, then stilled.

For a beat, everything stopped, and she was left in deafening silence.

Adara stood over him, chest heaving, her blade buried to the hilt in the male she had feared above any other. The High Lord who had burned and bruised and broken her. Who had stolen her childhood, crushed her spirit, tried to erase her flame.

And now he was nothing but a corpse at her feet.

She yanked the blade free. It clattered to the floor with a ringing finality.

Only then did she turn. And the world shattered anew.

There was no body. Just ash.

A pile of it, grey and fine, dusted across the floor where her mother had kneeled, shielding Eris. The heat had consumed her completely, leaving no shape, no sign, only the faint shimmer of scorched air.

Adara collapsed beside it, her breath shattering from her lungs. Her shaking fingers reached for something solid, something to cling to… but there was nothing. Just the faintest scent of sun-warmed apples and rose perfume, already fading.

A sob broke from her throat.

She crumpled to the ground, curled around the memory of a body that was no longer there, tears falling freely, mixing with the soot that streaked her arms. She didn’t even hear Lucien kneel beside her. Didn’t feel his hand on her back.

She barely remembered checking Eris, barely registered the slow, steady pulse beneath her palm.

All she could see was the ash.

All she could hear was her own voice, whispering prayers that came too late.

She didn’t know how long they stayed like that. A moment. A lifetime.

It was Lucien who finally roused her, his voice hoarse. “Adara…”

She lifted her head, and her breath caught.

Eris was glowing.

A soft, amber light pulsed from his chest, like fire held just beneath the skin. A wind stirred in the throne room, gentle but powerful, and the scent of crisp leaves swept through the space.

She reached for his hand as he gasped awake, his honey-brown eyes flickering open.

Beron Vanserra was dead, and the power of the Autumn Court had chosen.

Eris sat up slowly, groaning as the magic settled over him like a blanket. He looked first to Adara, then to the scattering of ash beside him.

His expression broke.

They huddled there, the three siblings, around what was left of the woman who had once been their greatest mystery, and who had saved them in the end.

Adara didn’t notice Azriel was gone until much later.

No sound. No goodbye.

Only the faintest trace of shadow in the doorway, already fading into the wind.

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