The Night Court assumes Eris Vanserra’s mate is nothing more than decoration at his side.
They learn very quickly that some females do not need to raise their voice to remind a room exactly where power sits.
Requested by @alexof90s — I hope this is close to what you were picturing! (Once again I didn't proof read this at all so feel free to let me know if there are any spelling errors!)
The first mistake the Night Court made was assuming you were decoration.
Not intentionally or obviously.
They were too polite for that.
But you saw it in the way their eyes moved over you when they entered the meeting room.
Briefly, if not dismissively.
A female beside Eris Vanserra.
Something ornamental, perhaps.
Something placed at his side to soften the image of Autumn’s new High Lord.
You did not correct them.
Eris noticed.
Of course he did.
The corner of his mouth shifted just barely.
You didn’t look at him.
“Try not to look so pleased,” you murmured.
“I am not pleased.”
“You are nearly smiling.”
“That would be unbecoming.”
“Then by all means,” you said softly, folding your hands in your lap, “continue suffering.”
Across the table, Cassian’s brows rose.
Azriel’s shadows shifted once behind his shoulders.
Rhysand, to his credit, noticed the exchange for what it was.
A warning.
Mor noticed something else entirely.
Her gaze lingered on Eris with the same familiar disdain it always held.
Cold and sharp. Nothing if not practiced.
“You’ve redecorated,” she said, glancing around the council room. “How charming. I almost forgot where we were.”
Eris did not respond.
He only looked down at the treaty papers in front of him.
You watched the movement.
The restraint it took him not to bite at her.
Rhysand cleared his throat.
“We’re here to discuss the border villages.”
“Then let us discuss them,” Eris said.
His voice was smooth.
It always was in rooms like this.
The meeting began as most meetings did.
With maps and numbers. Along with men pretending history had not shaped every inch of land they were negotiating over.
Rhysand spoke well.
You would give him that.
Azriel said very little, but missed nothing.
Cassian shifted in his chair like diplomacy physically pained him.
And Mor…
Mor watched Eris like she was waiting for a monster to show its teeth.
You let it continue for twenty-three minutes.
Twenty-three minutes of clipped words. Quiet tension. Little glances that held nothing but daggers. Along with subtle jabs dressed up as moral certainty.
The last straw was when Mor finally said, “Forgive me if I find Autumn’s sudden interest in protecting vulnerable people difficult to believe.”
Eris’s fingers stilled on the paper.
Only for a moment.
You gently set down your tea.
The cup barely made a sound against the saucer.
But somehow, the room noticed.
Mor’s eyes flicked to you.
You smiled.
Not warmly. Not cruelly. Politely.
The sort of smile court ladies were taught to wear even if swallowing poison.
“Difficult to believe,” you repeated.
Mor lifted her chin.
“Yes.”
“How interesting.”
Cassian leaned back slightly.
Azriel’s shadows went still.
Eris did not move beside you.
He knew better.
Mor’s gaze narrowed. “Do you have something to say?”
You tilted your head.
“I was deciding whether it would be rude.”
“And?”
“Oh, it’s terribly rude I’m afraid.”
Rhysand’s attention sharpened.
You turned your cup once, slow and deliberate, before looking back at Mor.
“But since we are clearly past the point of pretending this room is governed by courtesy, I suppose I might as well.”
Eris exhaled once through his nose.
Almost amused.
You continued.
“You speak of Autumn’s cruelty as though anyone at this table intends to dispute it. We do not. Autumn has teeth. It has always had teeth.” Your gaze swept briefly toward Eris. “Some of us have spent years removing them one by one.”
Mor’s mouth tightened.
“But what fascinates me,” you went on, voice still calm, “is the Night Court’s remarkable talent for selective outrage.”
Cassian straightened.
Rhysand’s face went very still.
There it was.
The shift.
The moment they realized you were not decoration.
You smiled again.
Softer this time.
“You condemn Autumn for what it allowed to happen beneath Beron’s rule. Fair. You should. But I do find it curious how rarely that same scrutiny turns inward.”
Mor’s eyes flashed.
“Careful.”
You looked at her then.
Truly looked.
“I would advise caution, Morrigan,” you said softly. “Not because I fear what you might say, but because I know what you have chosen not to.”
The room went still.
You leaned back slightly in your chair.
“Careless would be asking why the Court of Dreams feels entitled to sneer at every cruel tradition in Prythian while still ruling over the Hewn City.”
Cassian’s jaw flexed.
Azriel said nothing.
Rhysand did not look away from you.
Good.
At least one of them understood where this was going.
Mor’s voice was low. “You know nothing about the Hewn City.”
“No,” you agreed. “I know what survived the retelling.”
You tilted your head slightly before continuing
“Interesting that you speak so confidently for someone whose version of events requires several omissions to survive.”
Mor stood slowly.
“You have no right to speak to me about what I survived.”
There it was.
The part you had been waiting for.
Your smile faded.
Not because you were afraid.
Because some things deserved seriousness.
“No,” you said. “I do not.”
The room stilled.
Even Eris glanced at you then.
You met Mor’s gaze without flinching.
“What was done to you was monstrous. No one in this room should deny that. I certainly will not.” Your voice lowered. “But your pain does not make every omission holy.”
Mor went utterly still.
“You have allowed them to believe one version of the story because it is easier than dragging the whole thing into the light,” you said. “And perhaps you had reason. Perhaps silence was all you had. I will not fault a girl for surviving the only way she could.”
A breath.
Then another.
“But I will fault a court for building policy around half a truth and calling it justice.”
Rhysand’s eyes flicked, briefly, toward Eris.
Eris remained expressionless.
But his hand had shifted closer to yours on the table.
Not to stop you.
Not to guide you.
Just there.
Mor’s voice was colder now.
“And what truth do you think you know?”
You folded your hands again.
“The kind men leave out when the facts are inconvenient.”
A sad smile played on your lips.
“The kind women bury because being believed costs too much.”
For the first time, Mor had no immediate response.
Good.
You had not wanted to hurt her.
Not really.
But you were very tired of watching Eris bleed quietly under everyone else’s certainty.
“You may hate my mate,” you said, and only then did your tone sharpen. “That is your right. Hate him forever, if it comforts you.”
Eris’s gaze moved to you.
You did not look at him.
“But do not sit in his court, at his table, beneath laws he bled to change, and pretend your hatred is the same thing as truth.”
Silence pressed against the walls.
Cassian looked between you and Mor, unusually quiet.
Azriel’s shadows curled close to his shoulders.
Rhysand leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.
You picked up your tea again.
It had gone cold.
Mor did not sit.
Not immediately.
Her face was pale with anger, but beneath it there was something else.
Something older. Something less certain.
Eris finally spoke. Calm and measured.
“My mate raises a wonderful point.”
Rhysand looked at him.
Eris’s eyes did not leave Mor.
“Do you intend to discuss the border villages,” he said, “or continue mistaking personal history for governance?”
Your mouth twitched.
Only slightly.
Mor saw it.
Cassian definitely saw it.
Rhysand looked as though he was reevaluating several decisions at once.
Good.
That meant they were listening.
You took one careful sip of cold tea and set it back down.
“Now,” you said pleasantly, as though you hadn’t just gutted the room and asked for the next topic. “Shall we return to the villages, or would anyone else like to confuse emotion with policy first?”
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Now Xaden Riorson won’t leave you alone, your dragon is playing matchmaker, and everything is getting way more complicated than it should be.
Part One Here
Part 3 Here
A shortcut. That’s what you were told. This is very clearly not a shortcut.
Trying to get from one side of Basgiath to the other should have been easy, but the path you’re on is so long and winding it might as well take you across the entire continent.
By the time you reach the end of the tunnel, you nearly sag in relief. Finally,
You push the door open and light floods your vision. You squint, blinking rapidly. “Didn’t think it was that bright in the dorms, but okay,” you mutter under your breath as you step inside, pushing the door shut behind you. You give your eyes a second to adjust, then take another step forward.
Only to walk straight into something solid.
You freeze.
That is not a wall. Walls are not warm. And they are definitely not scaled.
Slowly, very slowly, you tilt your head up just enough to catch a glimpse of piercing yellow eyes. Your stomach drops.
Not the healers’ dorms.
Right. Mira said something about this. Don’t look them in the eyes.
You drop your gaze immediately. “Sorry about that,” you say, like you just bumped into someone in a hallway.
You step around the dragon carefully, giving it space as you move past. If it decides to torch you, honestly? That would be fair.
You keep walking. Don’t run. Running feels like a bad idea.
It’s only when you hear another dragon somewhere off to your left that it clicks.
Threshing.
You just walked into the middle of threshing.
“Great,” you mutter. Just fantastic.
No time to panic. Just time to leave.
You pick a direction and keep moving, hoping there’s another exit somewhere that does not involve dragons.
After what feels like far too long, at least half an hour, you come across a small clearing. Mostly flat, rocks scattered across the ground.
And that’s not a rock.
You move closer, faster now.
It’s a boy.
He’s on his side, barely moving, a deep gash carved across his hip.
You drop to your knees beside him immediately. “Hey, hey, can you hear me?”
No response.
You don’t wait.
You tear the sleeves from your uniform and press them hard against the wound, applying pressure. The fabric soaks through almost instantly, so you fold it over and press harder.
The boy groans.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Okay. Okay, that’s good. Stay with me.”
Alive. Maybe not for long but alive.
You keep pressure on the wound until the bleeding finally starts to slow. Your mind races as you glance around, trying to orient yourself.
Think.
There has to be a way back. There has to be.
You look up
and freeze.
Dragons.
Dozens of them.
The flight field.
Help would be there.
You look back down at the boy, then toward the edge of the clearing. It’s a drop. A steep one.
You could maybe climb it.
Maybe.
But not with him. Not like this.
You swallow.
You’re not making it back without help.
You glance back toward the sky.
A dragon.
“It would be unwise to try and move him.”
You jump, head snapping up as you scan the clearing. Nothing. No one. Your heart starts to pound.
“Okay… dehydration,” you mutter under your breath. “That’s the only logical answer.”
Silence.
Then the voice returns.
“It is always amusing what you humans think when being bonded for the first time.”
You freeze.
Nope. Absolutely not. You are not hearing voices. You have officially lost it.
“Cool,” you whisper. “That’s fine. That’s great, actually.”
A heavy thud sounds behind you.
That is new.
You turn slowly.
There is a shadow large, massive.
A dragon.
On the ground. Behind you. In front of you. Everywhere, really.
You tilt your head up and meet those same piercing yellow eyes from earlier.
“You again,” you breathe.
You hadn’t noticed the color before. Too busy not getting burned alive.
Blue.
Of course it’s blue.
“Could you… move him?” you ask, gesturing toward the boy, not entirely convinced this is real.
No. He is not worthy of a dragon.
Your shoulders slump a little. “Yeah,” you murmur. “That tracks.”
Do not feel pity, young one. He is not worthy, but if you make it to the flight field…
Your eyes widen. “Could you get me to the flight field?”
The dragon huffs not annoyed, just unimpressed.
Can you hold on long enough?
You glance at the boy, then back at the dragon. “No idea,” you admit.
Then you stand anyway.
Because there isn’t another option.
You secure the makeshift bandage as best you can, then move toward the dragon. Climbing is easier than it should be. There’s a place near its neck almost like a seat.
You pause. “Well,” you say, slightly breathless, “this feels important.”
Then you blink. “Oh. Right. That was rude.”
You steady yourself. “I’m Y/N. Y/N Sorrengail.”
I am aware of your name, young one.
“Cool,” you mutter. “Great. Love that.”
You brace yourself just as the dragon launches into the air.
The ground disappears.
Your stomach does not come with you.
Your grip tightens instantly.
And that’s when it hits you.
Bonded.
“Bealith.”
You blink. “What?”
There is no need to yell. I can hear your thoughts.
A pause. Calm. Measured.
I will say this once more. Bealith is my full name. You will give it to the scribe once we reach the flight field.
Your brain is barely keeping up. “I… okay. Yeah. Got it. Bealith.”
A beat.
“I think I like Bea better.”
You feel the irritation. If a dragon could roll its eyes, this one just did.
Without warning, Bealith drops.
Fast. Very fast.
Your stomach absolutely does not come with you.
“Okay, nope. Don’t like that.”
Then the ground rushes back up.
The flight field.
Dragons everywhere.
Before Bealith even fully lands, you’re already sliding down its front leg. “Thank you. Appreciate you. Don’t kill me later.”
You hit the ground running, straight for the healer’s tent.
You spot Professor Kaori and immediately freeze.
Right. Healers are not supposed to be here.
Too late.
He’s already looking at you, eyes wide. “You are not supposed to be on the flight field, and what happened to ”
“Boy,” you cut in, breathless. “Threshing. Hip wound. Won’t make it.”
The words tumble out between gasps.
Another healer grabs your arm, guiding you down into a seat, pressing water into your hands.
You barely notice. Your chest is still heaving.
“As for me being here…”
You lift a hand and point your thumb behind you.
Toward the massive blue dragon.
“Dragon.”
The word barely leaves your mouth before the energy on the flight field shifts.
It’s subtle but it’s there.
Heads turn. Even the dragons seem to still, just slightly.
Professor Kaori follows the direction of your thumb.
And then he freezes.
Not completely, but enough. Enough that the healer beside you goes still too.
“…you bonded.”
It’s not a question.
You blink up at him. “Yeah, I think so.”
A shadow falls over you.
You don’t have to turn to know who it is.
But you do anyway.
Xaden Riorson.
He’s already looking at you, not confused, not surprised. Just focused. Like he’s trying to figure something out and not liking the answers.
His gaze flicks past you, to Bealith, then back.
“You,” he says. “Stay seated.”
You don’t move mostly because you’re still trying to catch your breath, but also because something in his tone says that moving would be a bad idea.
Riders start to gather near the edge of the field. Whispers start. All of them looking at you.
Another dragon lands somewhere behind Bealith, but no one looks away.
Because now this is the problem.
A healer.
On the flight field.
Bonded.
Professor Kaori exhales slowly before turning and heading toward General Sorrengail.
Xaden’s eyes flick back to you. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
And there it is.
You blink. “I ”
“You crossed the parapet.” He takes a step closer. “Then the gauntlet.” Another step. “And now threshing.”
He stops in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.
“I told you to stay away from threshing.”
There’s no heat in his voice.
That’s what makes it worse.
You swallow. “I didn’t mean to.”
That sounds weak even to you.
“I got lost,” you add quickly. “There was a tunnel, and I thought it was a shortcut, and then there was a door, and then there was a dragon, then there was a boy and he was bleeding and ”
You stop.
Because you’re rambling.
And because he’s staring at you.
Not interrupting.
Not mocking.
Just… watching.
You take a breath. “He was going to die.”
That lands.
Something shifts in his expression, small, almost unnoticeable, but it’s there.
“And the dragon?” he asks, quieter now.
You glance over your shoulder.
Bealith is still there. Watching. Very aware.
“He said the boy wasn’t worthy,” you answer honestly. “But he’d help me if I made it to the flight field.”
A pause.
Then, softer
“And then he… didn’t leave.”
I did not “not leave.”
You are mine.
You blink.
“…right,” you mutter under your breath.
Xaden’s jaw tightens.
Of course he didn’t.
Sgaeyl’s presence brushes against his mind.
You told her not to come here.
He ignores her.
“You understand,” he says, looking back at you, “that this changes things.”
You blink. “I figured that part out when I got launched into the air.”
A few riders nearby choke back laughs.
Xaden does not.
“You’re not a rider,” he continued, not unkind, just stating facts. “You weren’t trained for this.”
You lift a brow slightly. “I did the gauntlet.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “That doesn’t count.”
“I didn’t fall.”
“That doesn’t make it better.”
“It kind of does.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then something shifts again.
Not gone, the irritation is still there but it’s… different now. Less sharp. More focused.
Like he’s recalculating.
“You bonded a blue dragon,” he says finally. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”
You open your mouth. “…I mean.”
You gesture vaguely. “I walked into a door.”
Someone behind him actually laughs this time.
Xaden doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge it.
His eyes stay on you.
“You’re going to be watched,” he says. “Closely.”
You nod slowly. “Okay.”
“And if you get yourself killed,” he adds, voice dropping just slightly, “I’m not explaining this to your sister.”
That almost sounded like concern.
Almost.
You tilt your head. “I thought you said I wouldn’t last two days.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“We’ll see if you survive tomorrow then.”
After he walks away, you make your way over to the scribe.
Your mother stands beside them, glare already locked on you.
Impressive, honestly.
You give the scribe your name, then Bealith’s. They write it down quickly, but you can feel the weight of your mother’s stare the entire time.
You do not look at her.
Not even once.
The second you’re done, you turn and head back to the dragon.
Your dragon.
That feels strange.
“You do know I’m not a rider, correct?”
That feels important to say out loud.
That fact is not something I care about, young one.
You open your mouth to argue because that feels like something worth arguing about but before you can get a word out, Bealith shifts suddenly.
One second you’re standing there, the next you’re being nudged out of the way by his talons.
You stumble, catching yourself.
“What was that for ”
You look up.
And stop.
That is the largest dragon you have ever seen. Possibly the largest dragon in existence.
Your brain struggles to process the size of it.
“He is,” Bealith’s voice cuts in calmly. “Koda is the only one who rivals him in size.”
You nod automatically, even though he probably can’t see you.
Then you see who’s on his back.
Your breath catches.
“Violet?”
It comes out as a whisper.
Then you’re moving.
You don’t think you just sprint.
She barely has time to hit the ground before you’re wrapping your arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug.
Alive.
She’s alive.
You pull back just enough to look at her.
Her brows furrow immediately.
“Why. Are you. On the flight field.”
Each word is sharp. Measured. She’s already scanning the area like someone’s about to drag you off.
“Dragon,” you answer simply. “Long story.”
“But you need to check in. Then go to the healer’s tent.”
She stares at you for half a second longer, then nods and does exactly that.
You watch her go, just to make sure.
Then you turn back.
And promptly sit down, leaning your back against Bealith’s front leg.
It’s warm. Solid.
Comforting, in a strange way.
I am not a chair, young one.
You laugh softly. “I don’t see you moving. And I’m exhausted anyway. It’s been a day.”
If you are this tired after one day, then perhaps the wing leader is correct and you will not make it to tomorrow.
You lean forward, craning your neck to look up at him, rolling your eyes.
“I can’t believe you would side with Xaden of all people.”
Silence.
You narrow your eyes slightly. “Wow. Betrayal.”
Still nothing.
A few minutes pass. The field starts to shift again, energy building, tension rising.
Then dragons begin launching into the air, one after another.
You barely have time to react before Bealith moves.
You lean forward quickly, trying not to get scraped as his body shifts
and then he takes off.
After the dragons return and announce that not only will Violet be allowed to keep both dragons, but that you are allowed to keep yours as well
chaos ensues.
Riders shout. Leadership whispers.
All because you thought you found a shortcut.
Why can’t I do anything right?
The thought hits harder than anything physical could.
Bealith’s head tilts slightly.
“Dragons do not make mistakes. I choose you. That is final.”
You nod.
It doesn’t fully settle the feeling but it helps.
A little.
Then you turn and head toward your new room.
Gods.
What are you supposed to tell Sofie and Cortland?
The three of you were supposed to stick together.
The following weeks are rough.
Battle brief. Flying lessons. Sparring matches.
Avoiding Xaden.
The only consistent problem is Xaden.
You’re sitting in battle brief, staring at the board but not really seeing it when
“If you do not pay attention, you will get us both killed.”
You roll your eyes. “I am paying attention.”
“Thinking about the wing leader is not paying attention. Focus.”
You shake your head slightly, catching Violet’s attention.
You tap your temple.
She gets it immediately.
Of course she does.
She scribbles something down and slides the note to you.
Is everything alright?
You smile faintly, writing back.
Dragons apparently know everything we think. It is incredibly annoying.
She huffs quietly, amused, before both of you turn your attention back to the front.
Later that night, you find yourself sprawled across Rhiannon’s bed with her and Violet.
You’re halfway through a drink when Rhi turns toward you. “So how much longer are you going to play cat and mouse with Riorson?”
You choke. Actually choke. Water goes down the wrong pipe and you sit up quickly, coughing.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Violet gives you a look.
The look.
The one that says she knows you better than you know yourself.
“I’ve known you my whole life,” she says. “You have never avoided someone the way you avoid him.”
You try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “He’s brooding. And shadowy. Definitely not my type.”
“And I can’t tell if he wants me dead or if he’s trying to run me out of the quadrant.”
Rhi laughs. “That is not the look he gives you.”
You blink between them. “What look?”
Violet leans in slightly, lowering her voice. “If you haven’t seen it, you’re missing out.”
She leans back like that answers anything.
It does not.
“I would kill,” she adds casually, “to have someone track my every movement the way he tracks yours.”
You stare at her. “He does not.”
“He walked you to the healer’s wing after sparring,” Rhi cuts in. “Xaden Riorson. Willingly.”
You open your mouth
“Or,” she continues, “the time your dragon dropped you in the lake and he just happened to be there.”
“That doesn’t count,” you argue. “He was already there.”
You push yourself up on your elbows. “I do not control where Bealith drops me. We are supposed to be doing basic maneuvers and he insists on ‘real movement.’ That is not my fault.”
They both just stare at you.
Like you’ve completely missed something obvious.
Which you probably have.
Outside the door, the hallway is quiet.
Mostly.
Xaden had not meant to stop. Had not meant to listen.
But your voice he recognizes it instantly.
Then he hears his own name.
And he stills.
“…definitely not my type.”
That should be enough. Should be the end of it.
He should walk away.
He doesn’t.
“I can’t tell if he wants me dead…”
His jaw tightens.
“…or if he’s trying to run me out of the quadrant.”
That lands harder than it should.
Sgaeyl hums quietly in the back of his mind.
Amused.
He ignores her.
“I would kill to have someone track my every movement the way he tracks yours.”
Silence follows.
Then your voice
“He does not.”
Xaden exhales slowly.
He does.
More than he should. More than is necessary. More than is smart.
“…definitely not my type.”
The words echo.
He should leave.
Instead, he shifts slightly just enough to hear the rest.
The lake. The healer’s wing. All the moments he hadn’t thought twice about.
Apparently not as subtle as he thought.
He leans back against the wall, staring at nothing.
Then closes his eyes briefly.
“…damn it.”
Sgaeyl’s amusement spikes.
He ignores that too.
Because the problem is not that you noticed him.
The problem is you didn’t.
Not the way he wanted.
Not the way he’s starting to realize he wants.
And that is new.
The training rings are loud metal, boots, grunts.
You’re currently regretting every life decision that led you here.
Imogen circles slowly. Violet stands across from you, rolling her shoulders.
“This was your idea,” Violet says.
You nod once. “I know. I hate it.”
Imogen snorts. “Focus.”
Right.
Focus.
You shift your stance, adjusting your footing.
Bealith is quiet for once.
Which is suspicious.
“Again,” Imogen says.
Violet moves first. Fast.
You react on instinct, stepping in instead of back.
Your fist connects.
Solid.
Too solid.
There’s a sharp crack.
Everything stops.
Violet blinks.
Then there’s blood.
“Oh no.”
You freeze. “Oh no, no, no”
“I’m fine,” Violet says immediately, though her voice is slightly off.
Her nose is definitely not straight.
“I broke your nose.”
“You did,” Imogen confirms, far too calm about it.
“Okay, hold on, don’t move,” you say quickly, stepping closer.
Your hands come up instinctively, cupping Violet’s face gently. “Do not move,” you repeat, softer now.
You close your eyes for half a second.
Think.
There’s swelling. She needs pressure.
You need something to reduce it.
Your fingers tighten slightly.
There’s a shift.
Something cool brushes your palm.
You blink.
Look down.
An aloe leaf.
Fresh. Cleanly cut.
You stare at it.
“…okay.”
That is new.
“Bea?”
Silence.
“Unhelpful.”
Imogen leans in slightly. “What did you just do?”
“I don’t ” you stop, not trusting it. “I think I… needed it.”
That sounds ridiculous out loud.
You press the aloe gently against Violet’s nose.
She hisses slightly. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she mutters. “Keep going.”
You adjust your hold, more careful now.
The swelling already looks like it’s starting to slow.
That shouldn’t be happening that fast.
“You’re going to the healers after this,” you tell her.
“That was already the plan.”
From the edge of the ring, Xaden watches.
He had not planned to stop. Had not planned to stay.
But then you stepped into the ring.
And that was the end of that.
He watches the hit. The crack. The immediate shift in your expression.
No panic.
Just action.
You move without hesitation, hands steady, voice calm.
And then the leaf.
He sees it appear.
Sgaeyl goes still in his mind.
Xaden’s gaze sharpens.
You don’t react like it’s power.
You react like it’s a tool.
Like this is normal.
Like you’ve always done it.
“That is not a standard healer ability,” Garrick mutters behind him.
No.
It isn’t.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Later, battle brief is quiet.
Too quiet.
You’re writing.
Or trying to.
Your quill slips from your fingers, clattering to the floor.
You stare at it for a second, debating if it’s worth the effort of bending down.
It is not.
Before you can move
It lifts.
Just slightly.
Then settles back onto your desk.
Right in front of you.
You blink and look around.
No one is looking at you.
Except…
You glance across the room.
Xaden is already looking away.
Like he wasn’t just watching.
You look back at the quill.
“…okay.”
You pick it up slowly.
“That’s not normal,” you whisper under your breath.
“Nothing about this place is normal,” Bealith replies.
Fair.
You glance back toward Xaden.
He hasn’t moved.
Hasn’t looked at you again.
So probably nothing.
Right.
Xaden doesn’t look at you again, not directly.
But his shadows linger.
Just slightly closer than they should.
And when your quill slips again later
it doesn’t hit the floor.
The second year is bigger than you.
Sparing days are, by far, your most unlucky days.
The boy lunges.
You move but too slow this time.
His arm hooks around your neck, locking you in place.
Tight.
You grab at his forearm, trying to pull free.
It doesn’t work.
“Tap out,” he mutters.
“Not happening.”
Your voice comes out strained.
Air is becoming a problem.
Think.
You shift your weight, bringing your hand up blindly.
Your fingers find his face.
His nose.
You shove hard.
He jerks back slightly.
Just enough space.
You inhale sharply
and think.
Pain. Distraction. Something that will make him let go.
Something blooms in your hand.
You don’t question it.
You shove it straight into his face.
“Hey what the hell ”
He lets go immediately, coughing, stumbling back as he tries to wipe it away.
You drop to your knees, dragging in air.
“Do not,” you start, voice rough, “touch your face ”
Too late.
He blinks rapidly.
Unsteady.
“What did you ”
He sways.
Then drops.
The entire ring goes quiet.
You stare at him.
“…okay.”
That might be bad.
Imogen steps forward immediately, crouching beside him. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know,” you say quickly. “I mean, I do but I don’t ”
“You grew that.”
You look down at your hand.
The plant is still there.
There in your palm is a small, white flower.
“…yeah.”
“That’s not normal,” someone says from the edge of the ring.
“No,” Imogen agrees. “It’s not.”
Footsteps cut through the silence.
Professor Kaori.
He takes in the scene the downed cadet, the plant, you.
“Explain.”
You swallow.
“He had me in a chokehold,” you say. “I couldn’t breathe. I needed him to let go.”
Plants show up when you need them. A salve leaf when someone’s burned. A binding vine when someone won’t stay still. A sedative bloom when pain gets too sharp.
People start noticing.
Watching.
Giving you just a little more space than before.
You notice other things too.
A book appears on your desk one morning, thick and worn, full of botanical diagrams and poison properties.
You stare at it. “…I did not bring this.”
“I did not either,” Bealith replies.
“If you could fit in my room, I’d treat you like a pet.”
You glance around.
No one is paying attention.
You open it anyway.
Shadows linger more now.
You tell yourself it’s normal.
This place is full of strange things. Dragons. Signets. People who can kill you without blinking.
So shadows following you down the hall?
Probably fine.
It is not fine.
Night settles over the quadrant.
You slip out quietly.
You know the path now, the one that leads to the flight field.
Sofie and Cortland are already there when you arrive.
“You’re late,” Sofie whispers.
“I got distracted.”
“You always get distracted,” Cortland mutters.
“That’s not true.”
It is.
A low rumble draws their attention.
Bealith lands a moment later, wings folding neatly at his sides.
Sofie freezes.
Cortland goes completely still.
“That’s”
“Yep,” you say. “That’s him.”
Bealith lowers his head slightly, studying them.
“They are small,” he comments.
“Please do not say that out loud,” you whisper.
“I am not speaking out loud.”
“Still counts.”
Sofie takes a hesitant step forward. “…he’s huge.”
“I’ve been told,” you reply.
From the shadows at the edge of the field, Xaden watches.
Of course you snuck out.
He tells himself he’s here to make sure you don’t do something stupid.
That’s all.
Nothing else.
“Following her now?”
Violet’s voice cuts in beside him.
He doesn’t flinch. “I’m not following her.”
“You are literally hiding in the shadows watching her.”
“I’m observing.”
Violet snorts. “Right. Observing.”
She crosses her arms, watching you laugh with your friends.
“You know,” she says casually, “she’s not going to figure it out.”
Xaden doesn’t look at her. “There’s nothing to figure out.”
“Oh please.”
She gestures toward you. “You track her like she’s the only thing in the room.”
“I don’t.”
“You do, and yet she thinks you’re trying to kill her.”
“She avoids you,” Violet continues. “Not because she’s scared. Because she thinks you don’t like her.”
Xaden exhales slowly. “That’s not my problem.”
Violet turns to him fully now. “Yes, it is.”
Silence.
“You might be subtle,” she adds, “but she’s oblivious.”
“I’m not being subtle.”
Violet laughs. “Exactly my point.”
They sit in silence for a moment before she continues, “If you don’t tell her, she’s not going to see it.”
Xaden’s gaze drifts back to you.
You’re smiling.
“…I’m not telling her anything.”
Violet just hums. “Sure.”
Then she turns, heading back toward Tairn.
“You’re not as slick as you think you are.”
Xaden stays where he is.
Because for the first time, this isn’t just curiosity anymore.
It started as a stupid comment to your dragon, that comment now becoming a full on argument on the flight field.
“You are wrong.”
You don’t even look up from where you’re sitting on the ground, pulling small rocks out of Bea’s talons.
Bea, unlike Tairn, doesn’t mind being fussed over. At least, according to Violet. Tairn hates the checks you are supposed to do.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
Bealith huffs behind you. Low. Annoyed.
“You continue to insist on being incorrect.”
You finally turn, glaring up at him.
“He does not like me.”
“He watches you constantly.”
“He watches everyone.”
“He does not follow everyone into hallways when they drop things.”
You pause.
“…that happened once.”
“It has happened more than once.”
You narrow your eyes.
“That proves nothing.”
Bealith goes quiet for a moment.
Thinking.
Which is never a good sign.
“Very well,” he says finally. “We will make this interesting.”
You immediately regret everything.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“If I am correct, I will choose the next training exercise.”
You freeze.
“…you always choose the worst ones.”
“Correct.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
He tilts his head slightly.
“Then we will fly with the group.”
You blink.
That’s…
actually reasonable.
Suspiciously reasonable.
“You’re that confident?”
“Yes.”
You sit there for a second, thinking it through.
There is no way.
No possible way.
“…fine.”
His satisfaction is immediate.
“Go on, then,” he says.
You hesitate.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
You stare at him.
Then groan quietly.
“Fine.”
Sgaeyl is insufferable.
Xaden knows this.
He has always known this.
But lately it has become a problem.
Bealith and I have a running bet.
He doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t even acknowledge it.
That usually works.
Not today.
You will go find the young one and help us settle it.
His jaw tightens.
“No.”
He says it out loud.
Because maybe that will make it more final.
It doesn’t.
You will.
“I’m not doing this.”
You are.
Silence stretches.
He focuses on the courtyard below.
Cadets moving through their routines.
Predictable.
Manageable.
Unlike this.
You have been avoiding it.
That gets his attention.
Barely.
“I haven’t been avoiding anything.”
You have been circling it.
His eyes narrow slightly.
“I don’t circle.”
Sgaeyl hums.
You watch her.
He doesn’t deny it.
There’s no point.
You follow her.
“I observe.”
You intervene.
He exhales slowly.
Through his nose.
“That is strategic.”
You are a poor liar.
That almost earns a reaction.
Almost.
“She thinks I’m trying to kill her,” he mutters.
Yes.
Sgaeyl sounds pleased about that.
Which is concerning.
“She’s avoiding me.”
Yes.
“That’s not my problem.”
It is now.
He goes still.
There’s a shift in the bond.
Bealith insists she does not understand.
“Good.”
I disagree.
Of course she does.
Go find her.
He closes his eyes briefly.
Counts to three.
Opens them again.
Still there.
Still thinking about you.
Go.
He exhales.
“…fine.”
He doesn’t have to look far.
Of course he doesn’t.
You’re exactly where he expected.
The courtyard.
Looking like you’re about to argue with the air.
He stays in the shadows for a moment.
Watching.
Because that has become a habit.
One he has not broken.
One he is not going to examine.
Not now.
You shift slightly.
Glance around once.
Twice.
“I know you’re there.”
His mouth tightens.
Of course you do.
Shadows give him away.
He steps out anyway.
“You know,” he says, voice low, “if you’re caught out here, there are consequences.”
You gesture toward him without missing a beat.
“Right back at you.”
His mouth almost moves.
He stops it.
“What do you want?”
Straight to the point.
He does not have the patience for anything else tonight.
You clasp your hands behind your back, rocking slightly on your heels.
He notices that.
He notices everything.
“I need help settling a bet.”
Of course you do.
He says nothing.
Waits.
You continue.
“Bea thinks you like me.”
There it is.
Finally.
“I think he’s insane.”
Something in his chest snaps.
Weeks of this.
Watching you.
Being watched.
Being questioned.
Being wrong.
He is not wrong.
He knows exactly what this is.
You just don’t.
He steps closer.
You don’t move.
You don’t understand what you just said.
You don’t understand what you’ve been doing.
You don’t understand what you’ve been doing to him.
“Your dragon,” he says quietly, “is not entirely wrong.”
You blink.
Confused.
Still not getting it.
Of course you’re not.
That’s the problem.
He closes the distance.
One hand lifts.
Fingers brushing lightly along your jaw.
You go still.
Finally paying attention.
Good.
Then he kisses you.
It’s quick.
Not hesitant.
Not soft.
But not lingering either.
Like he made a decision.
And already moved past it.
When he pulls back, your expression is exactly what he expected.
This Was Not the Plan Part I
Xaden Riorson x Reader
You take the steps two at a time. There has to be a better way between the Healers and Riders Quadrants. There just has to be.
At the top, you almost run straight into two people. You recognize one of them. Xaden Riorson. That thought gets pushed aside just as quickly as it comes. The book in your arms matters more.
You slip between them with a quiet “sorry,” already moving. No hesitation. You step onto the parapet like it’s just another path, like it’s meant to be used.
Wind pulls at your skirt. You adjust it without thinking. One foot in front of the other, light and quick.
You almost make it the whole way without issue. Almost.
Your foot slips once, a small misstep but your body corrects before your mind even catches up. Years of dance kick in as you steady yourself and keep going.
By the time you reach the other side, you’re already scanning the crowd. Cadets everywhere. Too many.
You shift the book in your arms. “Okay… think.”
“Dain. Find Dain.”
It takes a second. Then you spot him.
Which means Violet.
Relief hits first.
You weave through the crowd, slipping past people until you’re right behind her. You tap her shoulder.
She spins so fast it almost startles you.
“What on earth are you doing here? How did you even get in here?”
You blink, then shrug, pointing back over your shoulder.
“I didn’t think there was another way in, so I just… used that.” A small pause. “Pretended it was a balance beam. Well. Jogged it. But the same idea.”
Violet doesn’t say anything. Her face goes pale. Slowly.
“You walked the parapet.”
You nod, like that’s the least interesting part of this conversation. Dain looks about the same as she does.
You don’t really have time to unpack that.
You hold the book out to her.
“You forgot this.”
Utterly stupid.
That’s what this whole day is. More cadets. More deaths. More responsibility he doesn’t have time for.
At least it’s over. The last of them have already crossed the parapet.
Xaden turns, ready to head across and deal with the rest of the squad leaders and someone shoves past him.
Gone before he can properly react. A quiet, “sorry.”
He turns.
The girl is already stepping onto the parapet. Alone. With no pack. With zero hesitation, just a book clutched in her hands.
Is she…
She is.
She’s walking the parapet like it’s nothing.
She’s going to fall.
Halfway across, her foot slips. A small misstep enough to kill most cadets.
She corrects it before it becomes a problem. Doesn’t even stop. Just keeps going like it never happened.
He moves to the courtyard with the others, but his eyes don’t leave her. Not once.
She hits the other side and immediately starts scanning the crowd. Not for help. Not for approval.
For someone specific.
Xaden finds Imogen beside him.
“Did she give you a name?”
He tilts his chin toward the girl. She’s weaving through the cadets now, slipping between them until she stops behind Sorrengail.
Something clicks.
Not identical. But close enough.
The silver at the ends of her hair gives it away curled, pinned back with small gold pieces.
“No.”
He doesn’t look at Imogen. “Didn’t stay long enough to give one.”
Imogen watches her for a second longer.
“If you ask me, she won’t survive two minutes here.”
That should be the end of it. Should be easy to agree.
The Riders Quadrant eats people like her alivesoft, unprepared, out of place.
He glances back to where she stands, holding something out to Sorrengail like none of this matters. Like she didn’t just walk the parapet for it.
“…maybe.”
But she didn’t fall.
And she should have.
You leave before formation. Dain helps. Apparently there’s a safer way in and out of the Riders Quadrant. Something about that feels wrong, but you don’t question it. You just… go.
The dragons torch the cadets who tried to run. Screams don’t last long. They never do.
Xaden watches it without flinching.
But as the line forms, something is off.
His gaze drags over the crowd once. Twice.
She isn’t there.
The girl from earlier.
Gone.
Maybe she did fall. Maybe she made it halfway back and misstepped. Maybe the dragons got her after all.
Wouldn’t be the first. Wouldn’t matter.
She’s not here.
The thought is quiet. Annoying. Unwanted.
The girl is a healer. She didn’t stay for the demonstration.
Sgaeyl’s voice cuts cleanly through his mind.
Xaden’s jaw tightens.
Then why the hell did she cross the damn parapet.
That remains to be seen.
He exhales sharply through his nose.
Of course it does.
They head toward the dining hall, boots against stone, voices low around them. Garrick falls into step at his side.
“You’re brooding.”
Xaden doesn’t look at him. “I’m not.”
Garrick huffs a quiet laugh. “You are.”
A beat.
“The girl from earlier. Didn’t see her in formation.”
Xaden glances over then, just briefly.
So Garrick noticed too.
Good.
That makes this less…
No.
It doesn’t make it anything.
“Healer,” Xaden says, flat. “If Sgaeyl’s right.”
Garrick lifts a brow. “A healer walked the parapet for fun?”
Xaden looks ahead again, jaw set.
“She didn’t do it for fun.”
He doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t know why he’s certain.
But he is.
It’s during sparring that he sees you again.
He wasn’t looking for you.
He tells himself that, at least.
A first year nearly loses his arm, and Xaden is the one who gets stuck escorting him to the healer’s wing.
Annoying.
You’re moving between beds, quick and light on your feet. Not rushed. Not panicked.
You laugh at something one of the other healers says.
And that smile,
it doesn’t leave your face.
Xaden stills.
No.
Absolutely not.
He is not about to stand here and be distracted by some first year healer with a pretty smile.
You step up to the injured cadet without hesitation. Hands steady. Voice calm. You assess the damage, already working as you speak.
Clear. Confident.
Like you’ve done this a hundred times before.
By the time he’s processed what you’re doing, you’re already finishing.
You glance up just for a second.
Your eyes meet his, just for a second.
Then you’re looking back at the cadet like he doesn’t exist.
“No sparring,” you say, voice firm and unyielding. “Don’t care if it makes you look weak. If you want to keep both arms, stay off the mat.”
The cadet nods immediately.
Smart enough to listen.
He slides off the bed and heads for the door.
Xaden doesn’t move.
Doesn’t realize he hasn’t moved until
“Did you need fixing, wing leader?”
He blinks.
You’re looking at him now, head tilted slightly, that same easy expression, but there’s something under it. Recognition. You knew he was staring. Of course you did.
He steps closer before he can stop himself.
“Why cross the parapet if you’re a healer?”
The question leaves his mouth sharp. Unplanned.
Your brows pull together, confused only for a second. “Oh.” It clicks for you, that smile shifting just slightly. “Is that what you call the giant balance beam?”
He knows you know what it’s called. He heard you that day. He doesn’t call you on it.
You continue like it’s nothing. “Violet forgot her book. I just wanted to make sure she got it.”
A small shrug, like that explains everything.
“Was I not supposed to do that?”
You weren’t. You both know that. But you say it like you genuinely don’t care about the answer.
Xaden studies you. Really looks this time.
You’re soft, put together, completely out of place in the Riders Quadrant. And yet, you walked the parapet. Didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t fall.
He exhales slowly. “…most people don’t survive it.”
Your expression doesn’t change much. Just a small blink.
“Good to know for next time.”
There shouldn’t be a next time. There won’t be a next time. He tells himself that immediately.
But something in his chest tightens anyway.
Because if there is,
he’s not entirely sure you wouldn’t do it again.
The next time he sees you is after he finds Violet in that damn tree.
He’s heading back to the dorms. Done with the day. Done with the chaos.
That’s when he spots movement in the courtyard.
Three figures. Hoods up. Moving like they don’t want to be seen.
So he does the only logical thing.
He follows.
They don’t stop until they reach the flight field.
Xaden is already over it. Whatever this is, it’s not worth it.
The hoods come down.
And there you are.
With two other healers. In the middle of the damn flight field.
He stills, slipping back into the shadows instead, watching.
Probably doing something stupid.
It doesn’t look stupid.
Not exactly. Not once he actually pays attention.
You’re climbing, up boulders, through trees, using anything you can get your hands on like it was made for training.
Deliberate. Controlled. Not clumsy in the slightest.
The humming starts a second later. Soft. Barely there.
It takes him a moment to realize,
it’s you.
Of course it is.
He exhales slowly.
No.
He’s not doing this.
He’s not about to stand here and feel something. Not for a Sorrengail. Definitely not for one that looks as breakable as Violet.
Breakable isn’t how I would describe her.
Sgaeyl’s voice is quiet. Measured.
And you don’t either, not if your thoughts are anything to go by.
His jaw tightens. “She’s breakable,” he mutters under his breath. “She wouldn’t last two days here.”
Sgaeyl doesn’t argue. Just a low huff.
Then silence.
Movement draws his attention back to you.
You’re in the trees now, walking from branch to branch like it’s the ground, balanced, making it look almost easy. Like you’ve done it your entire life.
That’s how she did it.
You slip.
Just slightly.
Enough for his body to react before his mind does.
One step forward
He stops himself.
You catch yourself. Just barely. Then drop to the ground, rolling into your feet like it was intentional. Like it didn’t almost go very wrong.
You laugh.
Like it’s nothing.
“I swear, for someone who bumps into everything and apologizes, you weirdly have balance.”
He freezes.
That… tracks.
Of course it does.
You grin, brushing your hands off. “I only did that once.”
Your friend snorts. “Yeah, once just today. I saw you bump into a tray and say sorry to it.”
“A tray.”
You shake your head, glancing up at the sky. “We should go. It’s getting late.”
Just like that, the three of you slip off the field, disappearing toward one of the hidden entrances.
Like you were never there.
Xaden stays where he is. In the shadows. Not moving.
He didn’t follow you.
There was no reason to.
…
His shadows shift anyway, curling and restless as they slip after you.
But unlike you,
they always come back.
“Should we really be out here?”
Sofie’s voice comes from your right.
You don’t stop walking. “Sofie, we’re fine. Nolan said we have the day off.” You gesture vaguely ahead of you. “And I don’t see anyone out here to tell us otherwise.”
She gives you a look.
You know that look.
The this is a bad idea and you know it look.
You ignore it.
“Besides,” she says, nodding toward the structure in front of you, “we don’t have the strength to even do…”
She hesitates, like saying it will make it worse.
“The gauntlet.”
You pause. Tilt your head. Then smile.
“Obstacle course,” you correct. “If you give it a name that sounds like it’s going to crush you, then it will.”
Cortland snorts from your left. “I can’t tell if your ego’s too big or if your confidence is overcompensating.”
You glance at her. “Why not both?”
That earns a quiet laugh.
You look back up at the course.
It’s… tall. More than tall. Complicated.
But not impossible.
Not really.
“Relax,” you say, stepping forward. “We watched Sawyer do it the other day.”
You reach for the first hold without hesitation. Grip. Pull. Your body follows, natural, like you’ve already decided this is happening.
“Besides,” you add, climbing, “we can just use the ropes to get down. Not that big of a deal.”
Behind you, your friends go quiet, sharing a look you can practically feel.
But a second later, you hear them move to follow anyway.
Because if you’re doing it,
they’re not letting you do it alone.
It’s when the three of you reach the top that you notice it.
People.
A lot of people.
Riders gathered below the gauntlet.
Watching.
Your stomach drops just a little.
“…oh.”
Cortland leans forward beside you, squinting. “The guy in the back looks ready to kill you,” she mutters.
You follow her line of sight.
Yeah, you see him.
Xaden Riorson.
Even from this high up, you can feel it.
You can’t tell if he’s surprised…
or if he’s about to climb up here and drag you back down himself.
“I think,” you say slowly, “that might be because we just did the gauntlet.”
A beat.
“And didn’t die.”
Which feels important.
Did you almost slip halfway up?
Yes.
Did you actually fall?
No.
And that’s what counts.
Right?
You glance at your friends. All three of you are breathing a little heavier but steady. Fine. More than fine.
Because the truth is, you’ve been training.
Not like riders. Not officially.
Long enough that this didn’t feel impossible.
Just… difficult.
The three of you sit on the edge for a second longer, catching your breath. Pretending the crowd below doesn’t exist.
A throat clears behind you.
All three of you freeze.
Slowly, you turn.
Professor Devera stands a few steps back, watching. Almost amused.
That’s… worse than angry.
“Causing quite the stir today, are we, ladies?”
Heat creeps up your neck instantly.
You push to your feet, stepping away from the ledge. All three of you move just a little closer together.
“We weren’t aware we couldn’t climb it,” you say.
And even to your own ears, it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself.
Her brow lifts. Just slightly.
You wince.
“…okay, so maybe it’s a little unorthodox,” you add quickly. “But we didn’t die.”
A small, hopeful pause.
“So that has to count for something… right?”
It’s when you reach the Rotunda that Devera finally stops.
The three of you nearly run into her when she turns.
“You do realize,” she says, looking between you, “that outside of sparring, you’re very close to qualifying as riders.”
That gets your attention.
You blink.
“What?”
Devera doesn’t answer right away.
Your stomach drops.
Just a little.
“You crossed the parapet,” Devera continues. “Then the gauntlet.”
Her gaze settles on you.
“Neither of those is taken lightly here.”
He shouldn’t be here.
This has nothing to do with him.
And yet, Xaden doesn’t leave.
He watches you.
Really watches this time.
You don’t look proud. You don’t look like you’re trying to prove anything.
You look…
confused.
Like this wasn’t intentional. Like you didn’t realize what you were doing.
That doesn’t make sense.
No one accidentally does both.
Sgaeyl hums low in his mind.
You already know that isn’t true.
His jaw tightens.
You shift on your feet, not steady now, not like earlier. Fingers fidgeting slightly at your sides.
And yet, you walked it. You climbed it. Didn’t fall, and certainly didn’t break.
“…she shouldn’t be able to do that,” Garrick mutters behind him.
Xaden doesn’t respond.
Because he’s starting to realize you didn’t do it to be impressive.
You did it because you wanted to.
And that is far more dangerous.
It’s when the three of you are halfway down the Healers Quadrant’s main hallway that he makes himself known.
“You keep that up,” he says from behind you, “you’ll end up with targets on your backs.”
All three of you turn. Too fast.
Nervous.
He can feel it. Rolling off you in waves.
Good.
That’s how it’s supposed to be.
“Try not to wind up on the threshing field,” he continues. “You might’ve managed the parapet and the gauntlet, but threshing isn’t for the weak.”
The second it leaves his mouth, he knows.
Since when do you toy with female emotions?
Sgaeyl’s voice is dry.
Since now, he snaps back. And since when do you care what I do with them?
The day you stop thinking about the Sorrengail healer is the day I assume you’ve gone mad.
His jaw tightens.
He doesn’t think about you that often.
…does he?
Shields slam into place. Hard.
He’s not doing this. Not here. Not about you.
“I’m sorry, did you just call us weak?”
He looks at the other two first.
Predictable.
Defensive.
He opens his mouth
“Some nerve you have.”
You.
Of course it’s you.
“You think just because it’s ‘oh, I’m Xaden Riorson, I’m big and scary and my dragon’s scary’ that you get to be a dick?”
There’s no hesitation. No fear in your voice.
Just clear, unfiltered annoyance.
“News flash,” you continue, stepping forward just enough to close the space between you, “no one asked for your opinion.”
“And if I want it”
You pause. Glance around like you’re genuinely considering it.
Then smile.
“I’ll throw my shoe at you.”
Silence.
Behind you, your friends look like they want to disappear into the floor.
You don’t wait for a response.
You just turn, link your arms with theirs, and walk away.
Like that was nothing.
You mocked him.
Him.
Of all people.
And it wasn’t even a good impression.
Not accurate.
Not threatening.
Barely passable.
…
He huffs a quiet breath, something dangerously close to a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Azriel’s missing informant leads the Night Court straight to a tavern in Autumn.
Unfortunately for them, Eris Vanserra’s mate is not only the informant in question, but apparently running half of Prythian through back alley trades, coded deliveries, and sheer audacity.
Gathering in Autumn was risky.
Especially for Eris, who was currently looking at the 3 Illyiarn males across the table.
“She’s been quiet.”
Yes the informant that Azriel had in Autumn.
Eris knew Azriel had people in each court.
He did as well.
But accoring to the 3 males this informant in particular had been quiet for days.
Much like Eris’s own.
That’s when Eris speaks.
“I know someone who can us information.”
Rhys glances at him.
“You have a contact here?”
Eris raises his eyebrow.
“It is my court after all, my father might be high lord but, loyalty doesn’t always sit with the current Lords.”
Rhys nods.
“They’re reliable as well. Usually.”
Cassian huffs.
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
Eris almost smiles.
Before pushing up and out of his chair.
Turning to Azriel.
“I assume you know where the tavern is?”
Azriel nods before the four men winnow out.
The tavern is loud.
Messy.
Alive.
And wrong.
Azriel feels it first.
His shadows slip out.
Like they’ve found something.
And lost it again.
Eris scans the room.
Once.
Twice.
“She should be here.”
Azriel’s head tilts.
“She.”
“My contact.”
The tavern owner spots them.
And waves them over.
“Haven’t seen your girl in days.”
Cassian blinks.
“His what?”
Eris doesn’t react.
“How long.”
“Three. Maybe four.”
Too long.
Azriel’s shadows visibly tighten.
Eris only nodds and closes his eyes.
When he feels it the tug in his chest.
His gaze flicks upward
At the same moment Azriel’s shadows surge.
“There,” Azriel says.
Movement.
Up the wall.
Fluid and effortless.
She drops onto the bar.
Grinning.
Already mid-trade.
“Pleasure doin’ business.”
The female looks up and makes eye contact with each male, before hoping down from the bar top.
“Well,” she says, bright,
“This is convenient.”
Gone.
Cassian blinks.
Hands cover Eris’s eyes.
“Guess who.”
Eris doesn’t move.
“Remove your hands.”
You laugh.
Lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Missed you too.”
You step around him.
Like you’ve always been there.
Azriel steps forward.
“You’ve been quiet for days….”
You nod and turn to face the shadowsinger.
“I was busy is all.”
Rhys blinks at you, before recognition crosses his face.
Your Azriels contact he’s seen you in Valaris from time to time.
“How do you know Eris.”
The question comes from Cassian.
You pause.
Look at him.
Then Eris.
And light up.
“Oh,” you say.
“Oh this is fun.”
You hop up onto the table behind you.
Boot hitting a glass.
You don’t notice.
You lean forward
boop.
Right to Eris’s nose.
“What,” you say, mock offense,
“fifty years and you say nothing?”
Cassian chokes.
Eris pinches the bridge of his nose.
“We agreed,” he says, controlled,
“to wait until it was necessary.”
You grin.
“Nah.”
Cassian laughs.
“You mentioned that,” you add.
“I never agreed, good try though, hun.”
You start pulling things from your pockets, muttering as you pull out each item.
A ring.
“Guard. Wrongfully taken.”
A pouch.
“Overtaxed.”
You pause.
Tilt your head, and whistle.
Someone moves across the tavern.
Cassian leans in.
“…no way.”
You don’t turn.
Just hold your hand out.
“Summer. Tuesday. Noon. You know where.”
They nod.
“Yeah. Medicine.”
The trade happens so quickly.
They leave.
You watch them go.
“Medicine,” you echo.
A beat.
“Suuure.”
You turn back.
Already reaching into another pocket.
“As I was saying”
You pull out a folded parchment.
Flicking it toward Rhys without looking.
“Spring Court.”
He unfolds it.
“…when did you get this?”
“Got it last week,” you mumble.
Like you maybe shouldn’t have said that like that.
“…was going to drop it off.”
A small shrug.
“Got distracted.”
Azriel’s shadows go still.
“You went into the Spring Court.”
You glance at the shadowsinger.
“Mm.”
Cassian lets out a disbelieving laugh.
“She’s efficient,” Eris says flatly.
You glance at him.
The corner of your mouth twitches.
Just slightly.
Eris pinches the bridge of his nose again.
“You were meant to wait.”
You hop down.
Walk up to him.
“You needed it. I saw the paper work in your office.”
You wait just a beat, before continuing.
“You’re welcome.”
Azriel steps forward.
“So you’re working for both courts.”
You look at him.
Really look.
Then laugh.
“Culdron no, I do what I please.”
Silence settles around the table.
“And if my loyalty’s in question”
Your gaze flicks to Eris.
Your mouth moves before you think too hard about it
“I love to disappoint you.”
You smile slightly looking at each male, before settling on Eris.
“My loyalty is with my mate.”
Silence.
They all exhale.
You blink once after saying it.
Like maybe you hadn’t meant to say it out loud quite like that.
But you don’t take it back.
Cassian looks at Rhys.
“…I think she might be the most terrifying person in this tavern.”
“Incorrect,” you say immediately.
You point lazily toward the bartender.
“That male waters down his liquor.”
Before they could question you anymore another whistle goes out in the tavern.
You perk up a bit before turning and looking up at the second floor, and nod.
“Well gentleman, I have trading to do.”
Just like that your moving quick, and swift.
It’s not even 10 seconds later that they can see you and another patron exchanging words and goods above them.
Eris huffs.
“Well at least we know where our contact went.”
They turn and leave the tavern, heading back to the palace that houses the Autumn courts high lord.
Dinner in the Autumnn Court is… polished.
Controlled.
Every movement is measured.
Every word weighed.
Which is why when you walk in it throws the entire room off.
No longer in the leather and boots from the tavern.
A dress of Autumn tones. Elegant, and effortless.
Two of the smokehounds at your sides.
Cassian chokes on his drink.
“…that’s the same person?” he mutters.
Azriel doesn’t answer.
He’s watching you.
Rhys is too.
But differently.
Calculating.
Eris doesn’t look surprised.
Of course he doesn’t.
“You’re late,” he says.
You smile.
“I was busy.”
A glance passes between you and eris, just long enough to be anything more than casual.
The other heirs of Autumnns thrown sit at the table.
Being told that Barron was in Summer, and that Eris was handling the treaty with the Nightcourt.
You float from brother to brother on your way to your seat.
Eris tracking your movements the whole way.
Light conversation.
Easy smiles.
A hand on a shoulder here.
A quiet laugh there.
No one questions it.
Why would they?
You look like you belong.
One of them frowns before turning to you.
“Strangest thing,” he mutters.
“I had a vial earlier.”
Another scoffs.
“You lose everything.”
You tilt your head slightly, before taking your seat at the table.
“Oh?” you ask softly.
“What kind of vial?”
He shrugs.
“Nothing important.”
You smile, one that almost shows concern.
“Then I’m sure it’ll turn up.”
You move on before he can think too hard about it.
Cassian is staring now.
Really staring.
“…she’s doing something.” It’s muttered low enough that only Rhys and Azriel hear it.
Azriel’s shadows drift lazily after you.
Watching.
Tracking.
Rhys notices the pattern second.
Each brother you speak to something shifts.
A weight added.
A weight removed.
And none of them notice.
Not one.
The youngest brother at the table leans back in his chair.
“I’m heading into town after dinner,” he says casually.
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In Autumn, rain turned the forest floor slick with mud and rot. It drowned kindling, ruined roads, and made the hounds restless. It crept beneath collars and cuffs, cold and persistent, until even the finest velvet felt like a second skin made of discomfort.
Rain in Autumn was not beautiful.
It was inconvenient.
It was another thing to endure.
So when the skies over Adriata darkened halfway through negotiations, Eris felt the first thread of annoyance coil behind his ribs.
Not enough to show, of course.
He sat perfectly still at Tarquin’s left, one ankle crossed neatly over the other, spine straight, expression carved into the sort of mild interest that had made older, crueler males underestimate him for centuries.
Across the table, Tarquin spoke of trade routes and border protections with the easy grace of a High Lord who had never needed to raise his voice to be heard.
That, more than anything, irritated Eris.
Summer was too bright.
Too open.
Too warm even with storm clouds gathering over the sea.
The palace smelled of salt and citrus and rain-soaked stone. The windows had been left open to catch the breeze, sheer curtains lifting and falling like slow breaths along the walls.
In Autumn, windows were closed before storms.
Doors were barred.
Fires were fed.
Here, no one seemed concerned that the sky had begun to split itself open.
A low roll of thunder passed over the city.
One of Tarquin’s advisors glanced toward the balcony and smiled.
Smiled.
As if rain were a guest.
Eris looked back down at the parchment in front of him and reminded himself, again, why he was there.
Beron wanted information and he wanted weaknesses.
Beron wanted to know whether Summer’s young High Lord had grown comfortable enough on his throne to become careless.
Eris had been sent to watch and listen.
To smile when necessary and remember everything.
He had not been sent to think about the way the people in the courtyard below laughed when the first heavy drops began to fall.
He had not been sent to notice how no one ran for shelter.
He certainly had not been sent to wonder what it must be like, to live somewhere a storm did not make everyone flinch.
“Lord Vanserra?”
Eris lifted his gaze.
Tarquin was watching him from the head of the table, mouth curved in something that was almost polite. Almost amused.
“Do you find the proposal disagreeable?”
Eris let his own smile answer first.
A careful thing.
Court-trained.
Empty where it needed to be.
“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “I was merely considering whether your merchants would honor the same protections on Autumn roads.”
“They would,” Tarquin said.
“So confidently?”
“My people do not break agreements made under my name.”
A simple statement.
No threat tucked beneath it.
No sharp edge.
Eris inclined his head. “How fortunate for them.”
Tarquin’s smile did not change, but something in his eyes sharpened.
There was the High Lord beneath all that summer charm after all .
The meeting continued.
Rain tapped against the balcony tiles. Then it fell harder. Then harder still, until the open windows filled the room with the sound of it, steady and endless.
Eris could hear the city beyond the palace.
The distant call of vendors covering their stalls. The delighted shriek of children somewhere below. Music, faint at first, then rising in uneven bursts as if someone had taken shelter under an awning and decided the storm was reason enough to play.
He ignored it.
He was very good at ignoring beautiful things.
Beauty was often a distraction.
A polished blade. A painted trap. A pretty smile hiding a clever mouth.
Another laugh rose from below.
Bright and young.
Several voices this time.
Tarquin paused.
Not long enough for anyone else to notice, perhaps.
But Eris did.
The High Lord’s attention shifted, just briefly, toward the balcony. His expression softened in a way Eris had no name for.
Then one of the advisors near the door chuckled.
“She must have made it back from the lower district.”
Another answered, “Of course she did. The children would have dragged her by the skirts if she tried to stay away.”
Tarquin shook his head, but there was no reprimand in it.
Only fondness.
Open and unashamed.
Eris looked from one face to the next, filing the reaction away.
There it was.
A weakness, perhaps.
Or at least something worth knowing.
“She?” he asked lightly.
The conversation stilled by half a breath.
Not with fear. With surprise.
As if the idea of him not knowing was stranger than the question itself.
Tarquin leaned back in his chair.
“My sister,” he said.
Eris kept his expression pleasant.
“I was not aware Summer had another royal figure so involved in trade negotiations.”
“She is not involved in trade negotiations.”
“No?”
“No,” Tarquin said, that sharpness returning beneath the warmth. “She is a healer.”
A healer.
Eris almost lost interest.
Then the music below grew louder, joined by clapping. Children’s voices rang through the rain, chanting a name.
Her name, he realized.
Again and again.
Not milady.
Not Lady.
Not some polished title set carefully behind rank and distance.
Her name.
Spoken like a blessing.
Spoken like a favorite song.
Something in Eris went very still.
Tarquin noticed.
Of course he did.
“My sister is well loved here,” the High Lord said.
It sounded casual.
Eris smiled faintly. “So I hear.”
A child shrieked with laughter below, so loudly that even the eldest advisor at the table looked toward the balcony.
Tarquin sighed, but the sound had no irritation in it.
Only resignation and what Eris could only assume to be affection.
Then he stood, the room shifting with him.
“I believe we have earned a pause,” Tarquin said, gathering the signed parchments with one hand. “The rain will make the eastern docks difficult to inspect until it passes.”
Eris rose with the others.
“How unfortunate,” he said.
Tarquin glanced at him before gesturing to an arch way that seemed to lead to the square in the town below.
Eris followed the High Lord of Summer, curiosity about this ‘she’ getting the best of him.
“Do you dislike rain, Lord Vanserra?”
“I dislike most things that make a mess.”
That earned a quiet laugh from one of the advisors.
Tarquin only smiled.
“Then Summer may prove challenging for you.”
The next few minutes passed in silence.
Or what would have been silence, if not for the rain and the music in the square before them.
Eris looked toward the square.
Beyond the rain-slick stone, Adriata gleamed beneath the storm. White buildings curved toward the sea, their golden rooftops dulled beneath silver rain. The bay beyond them was restless and shining, waves folding over themselves beneath the dark sky.
People had gathered.
Not fled, like they would in Autumn, but gathered.
Children splashed through puddles. Women lifted their skirts and laughed beneath awnings. An old man played a fiddle with a pipe clenched between his teeth while two younger males clapped beside him.
And at the center of it all was her.
Eris knew before anyone said it.
She stood barefoot in the rain, skirts soaked around her ankles, darkened by water and movement. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, healer’s satchel still hanging crookedly from one shoulder. Flowers had been tucked into her hair by small, clumsy hands, and more were scattered in the puddles around her feet.
A little boy stood in front of her, one knee freshly bandaged, tears still drying on his cheeks.
She bowed to him with all the solemn grace of a court lady greeting a king.
The child giggled.
Then she offered him her hand.
The boy took it, and she spun him once, carefully, mindful of his injured knee. He laughed so hard he nearly tripped, and she caught him before he could fall, laughing with him like the rain had washed every bit of rank from her shoulders.
Another child ran forward.
Then another.
Someone threw more flowers.
They landed in her hair, against her shoulders, in the puddles, bright petals scattered over rainwater like pieces of sunlight the storm had failed to drown.
Eris did not move.
He should have looked away.
There were too many eyes.
Too many witnesses.
Too much softness in the scene, and softness was dangerous when seen by anyone who knew how to use it against you.
But he could not look away.
She danced as if the whole city knew the steps and she had merely remembered them first.
A baker took her hand, spinning her beneath his arm.
An old woman swatted him aside and stole the next turn, laughing when the healer kissed her wrinkled cheek.
A guard in Summer blue bowed deeply, one hand pressed over his heart, and she rolled her eyes before letting him lead her through three dramatic steps that made the children howl with delight.
Then Tarquin appeared at the edge of the square.
Eris had not realized the High Lord had moved.
She saw him immediately.
Her face lighting up.
Not with duty. Not with practiced respect.
With the kind of joy Eris had only ever seen children give freely before someone taught them better.
She crossed the square in three quick steps, seized her brother’s hand, and dragged him into the rain.
Tarquin protested.
Badly.
No one stopped her.
Not the children chanting louder. Not the advisors watching from the edge of the square with Eris. Not the guards pretending not to smile.
Certainly not Eris.
Tarquin allowed himself to be pulled into the dance for one full turn before catching his sister by the waist and spinning her away from him. She laughed, head tipped back, rain clinging to her lashes and flowers slipping loose from her hair.
And Eris forgot, for one terrible second, where he was.
No wonder, he thought.
The words came unbidden.
Unwelcome even.
No wonder they love her.
She was not beautiful in the way Autumn preferred beauty.
Not arranged or contained, not polished into something cold enough to admire from a distance, not quiet and unseen like his mother.
She was rain-warm skin and bare feet on stone. A healer’s hands and a royal spine. A laugh that made children brave enough to reach for her. A face turned toward the storm like she trusted the sky not to strike her down for daring to be happy beneath it.
In Autumn, joy like that would have been punished.
In Autumn, someone would have told her to lower her voice.
To fix her hair.
To remember who was watching.
Here, they only loved her louder.
Eris felt something ancient and foolish twist behind his ribs.
A memory, perhaps.
Or the ghost of one.
There once had been a boy who looked like him.
A boy with a wandering mind and a heart too large for the house that raised him.
A boy who had looked out rain-streaked windows and imagined roads beyond the forest. A boy who dreamed of seas he had never touched. Cities where no one knew his father’s name.
That boy had been corrected.
Sharpened and buried.
And yet, watching Tarquin’s sister dance barefoot in the rain with flowers in her hair, Eris felt the earth shift over the grave.
As if something underneath had heard the music.
As if something dead had remembered it had once wanted to live.
Then she looked up.
Straight at him.
The dance continued around her, but her steps slowed.
Only for a breath.
Only long enough for their eyes to meet through the silver fall of rain.
Eris held her gaze.
He did not smile. He did not bow. He did not let a single piece of himself reach for the strange, impossible warmth blooming in his chest.
But she smiled.
Not politely.
Not because he was a lord from another court and she had been trained to offer pleasant expressions to dangerous males.
She smiled like she had caught him standing too far from the music.
Like she knew. Like she could see, somehow, that he had forgotten how to step into the rain.
Then a child tugged on her hand, and she turned away, laughing as she was pulled back into the spinning heart of the square.
Eris remained where he was.
Dry beneath the awning above. Perfectly composed.
Untouched by the rain.
Yet somehow utterly ruined by it.
He had lost sight of her.
For one brief, foolish moment, Eris hated that he noticed.
The square had shifted again, bodies turning with the music, children cutting through the spaces between adults like bright little fish through water. Flowers floated in the puddles and collected along the edges of the stone streets, petals bruised beneath dancing feet.
Tarquin made his way back to Eris with rain dripping from his curls and a grin he did not bother hiding.
It looked strange on a High Lord.
Joy being worn so openly. Being given so carelessly it would have been a death sentence anywhere else.
“You survived,” Eris said.
Tarquin glanced down at his soaked sleeves, then back at him. “Barely.”
“You may want better guards.”
“My sister is more dangerous than most of them.”
Eris looked toward the square before he could stop himself.
Tarquin noticed. Of course he noticed.
But whatever he might have said was stolen by a burst of laughter from the crowd.
The music changed. Faster now. Brighter. Hands clapping in rhythm beneath the rain. Someone called out a count, and the children answered too loudly, their voices tripping over each other in their excitement.
Then the crowd parted. Not dramatically, or out of fear.
Simply because people made room for her the way flowers turned toward the sun.
She stepped out from between a laughing pair of fishermen, cheeks flushed from the dance, hair damp and curling around the flowers tangled there. Her healer’s satchel had been abandoned somewhere. One sleeve had slipped loose from where she had rolled it, and a child’s ribbon was tied messily around her wrist.
She looked less like a milady than she did a story the city had agreed to keep telling.
Eris went still.
She came toward them. Not toward Tarquin, but toward him.
Each step splashed lightly through the rain-slick stone. Close enough now that Eris could see the droplets clinging to her lashes. Close enough to see the small scar near the base of her thumb, pale against wet skin. A healer’s scar, perhaps. Or a child’s accident. Or something sharper.
She stopped just beyond the awning.
Just far enough into the rain that reaching for her would require him to leave the shelter.
Clever, he thought.
Then hated that he thought it.
Her eyes flicked over him, not rudely, not with the cold assessment most courts favored, but with something warmer. Curiosity, perhaps.
As if he were a puzzle someone had left unfinished.
“Lord Vanserra,” she said.
Her voice was softer than he expected.
Eris inclined his head. "Milady."
Her nose wrinkled.
Tarquin huffed a laugh beside him.
“No one calls me that here,” she said.
“I gathered.”
“Then why did you?”
“Habit.”
“Well, we all have our bad habits.”
Eris’s mouth almost curved.
“That is a bold accusation from a female standing barefoot in a storm.”
She looked down at her feet, as if only just remembering the rain existed, then back at him with a smile that made something in his chest tighten in warning.
“It is only water.”
“In Autumn, water usually becomes mud.”
“In Summer, it becomes music.”
As if to prove her point, the crowd behind her clapped louder, the rhythm rolling over the square like a second heartbeat. Children shouted her name again, begging her to return.
She did not look back, instead she held out her hand.
Rain slipped over her knuckles and down the lines of her palm.
Eris stared at it.
The offer was simple, and that was what made the whole ordeal so unbearable.
There was no courtly trap. No demand hidden beneath sweet words. No watching nobles waiting to see whether he would make a mistake they could sharpen later.
Just her hand.
Open, an invitation being presented patiently. As if she had all the time in the world.
“Dance with us,” she said.
Tarquin went rigid beside him..
The square seemed to breathe around them.
Eris could feel every possible answer arrange itself behind his teeth.
A flirtation. A refusal. A clever remark. A cruelty. Anything to put distance between him and the feeling in his chest.
He had always known how to make distance.
It was one of the first things Autumn had taught him. How to keep space between himself and anything soft enough to bruise. How to turn longing into disdain before anyone else could see it. How to look at an open door and convince himself it was a cage.
Her hand remained between them.
Wet from the rain.
Flower petals stuck to the hem of her dress.
He did not take it.
“I do not dance in the rain,” Eris said.
The words came out smooth.
A lie dressed well enough to pass inspection.
Her smile did not falter.
That was the worst of it.
She did not seem embarrassed. She did not withdraw as if rejected. She did not look at him like he had disappointed her.
She only lowered her hand slowly, fingers curling back toward her palm.
“That’s all right,” she said.
Eris waited for the pity. The teasing. The little cut that would make this easier.
It never came.
Her gaze softened instead, and somehow that was far more devastating.
“Not everyone knows how to dance in the rain.”
The sentence struck with no edge at all.
Still, Eris felt it land.
Beneath the mask he had so carefully put on that morning. Beneath the cruel words and glares he gave others.
In some forgotten place he had stopped guarding because he had assumed it dead.
Tarquin looked away.
A kindness, perhaps.
Eris held her gaze and gave her nothing. Not even the truth.
If he had been younger, perhaps he would have taken her hand.
If Autumn had not already carved him into something they deemed useful.
But he was not younger.
He was a Vanserra.
The next in line to be High Lord of Autumn.
“Then I will leave the talent to Summer,” he said.
She nodded once, as if accepting that too.
Then she turned, stepping back further into the rain as if returning to something that had never once questioned whether she belonged.
A little girl darted toward her immediately, clutching a fistful of yellow flowers. She bent to listen, serious as any general receiving orders before battle.
Whatever the child said made her laugh.
The sound slipped under the awning.
Eris hated how easily it found him.
The girl thrust the flowers up, and Tarquin’s sister accepted them with a bow before pressing one behind the child’s ear. Then she kept one for herself, twirling the stem between her fingers while the music rose again.
She did not return to the center immediately.
Instead, she stood with the others at the edge of the circle and clapped along.
A young mother leaned close to say something in her ear. She listened, brow knitting with concern, then touched the woman’s arm gently. Whatever answer she gave made the woman exhale as if she had been holding worry in both hands.
A boy tugged at her skirt.
An elderly male kissed her knuckles.
A guard bent his head so she could scold him about the bandage wrapped beneath his sleeve.
Loved, Eris thought again.
Not admired. Not obeyed out of fear.
Loved.
And she wore it like rain.
As if it had never occurred to her to be afraid of what people might do with that much of her heart exposed.
“You are staring,” Tarquin said quietly.
Eris did not look at him. “I am observing.”
“Is that what Autumn calls it?”
“Among other things.”
Tarquin’s gaze remained on his sister. His face had softened again, but the High Lord beneath it was still there. Watching. Weighing. Deciding how close a male like Eris Vanserra was allowed to stand to something so clearly cherished.
“She asks everyone, you know,” Tarquin said.
“To dance?”
“To join in.”
Eris finally looked at him.
Tarquin’s expression was unreadable now.
“She believes most people want to,” he continued. “Even when they pretend otherwise.”
Rain dripped steadily from the awning between them.
Tarquin watched his sister clap with the crowd, flowers in her hand, head tilted toward another child who had begun speaking animatedly at her side.
“She claims it’s freeing. I suppose that would be worse in Autumn than it is here.”
Eris said nothing.
There was no useful answer to that.
The music softened eventually. Not ended, not truly. It only loosened its grip on the square, becoming background noise again as vendors returned to their stalls and children were gathered by damp, laughing parents.
Tarquin gestured back toward the palace.
“We should finish the agreements before the docks flood.”
“How practical of you.”
“I do try.”
Eris followed him back beneath the archways, away from the rain, away from the music, away from her.
He did not look back.
Not once.
That, at least, was something he could control.
The rest of the meeting passed as meetings did.
Ink dried. Terms were adjusted. Tarquin argued with irritating fairness.
Eris smiled when expected, countered when necessary, and tucked away every detail Beron would demand from him upon his return.
Trade routes. Dock schedules. Guard rotations. Names.
Weaknesses.
He should have counted Tarquin’s sister among them.
The beloved healer.
The lady who walked barefoot through storms and made an entire city soften around her.
She was an obvious vulnerability.
A thread that, pulled correctly, could unravel a High Lord.
Eris wrote nothing of her.
When he returned to Autumn, the rain followed three days later.
It came in the evening, cold and gray, tapping against the windows of his private rooms like impatient fingers.
Eris stood before the glass and watched the forest darken beneath it.
Mud gathering between roots.
Mist curling through the trees.
The hounds shifting restlessly in the kennels below.
Rain in Autumn was not beautiful.
It was inconvenient.
It was another thing to endure.
Still, when thunder rolled over the estate, Eris thought of golden rooftops dulled beneath silver light.
Of flowers in puddles and a hand held out just beyond shelter.
Not everyone knows how to dance in the rain.
His fingers curled at his side.
For one strange, impossible moment, he wondered what would have happened if he had stepped forward.
Then he turned from the window.
In Summer, when the rain returned to Adriata and the city gathered again near the bay, Tarquin’s sister paused at the edge of the dancing crowd.
Tarquin’s sister paused at the edge of the dancing crowd.
Across the square, beneath the awning, there was a flash of red and gold.
There for a breath.
Then gone.
She smiled anyway.
And when the children called her name, she stepped into the rain.
