lily!

Your hand clutched your chest as you shot up in bed.

Gods, what was that? Sweat dripped down your forehead, and you glanced down to notice the bedsheets completely drenched underneath you.

You hadn’t had a night terror like that since you were a girl. You remembered how the estate would seem to shake beneath your wails, and your father often rushed in to soothe you back to sleep. Breakfast was always awkward the next morning; your mother was not a fan of interrupted sleep.

You swept the hair from your brow and rose from the bed, cold floors a welcome comfort to your overheating skin. The sun had not yet risen past the horizon.

Glancing back at the empty bed, you realised sleep would take you no longer. The house robe hung on your door gave small solace as it wrapped your frame, and a small tug gave way to the darkness of the manor.

You didn’t know how Tamlin would feel about you wandering the halls at night. Considering you and your sister were his… prisoners? Captives? Yet, he had told you he didn’t care what you did with your time; this was supposedly your home now.

That was permission enough.

The halls were foreboding at night, you noticed. The long expanses of white walls and trim seemed to loom and creak in the absence of light, and you suddenly regretted not bringing a candle with you.

Luckily, the way to the kitchens was one of the few routes you’d mapped out in your short time here. Tea would do the trick.

The large, wooden doors at the end of the hall were already open. A faint light, orange and welcoming, flickered from the room. The air was rich with the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg, and somewhere beyond, a gentle clinking echoed through the stillness.

Soft steps led you to the entrance, and inside, Lucien was stirring something in a pot.

“Hello, human.” He didn’t need to turn to know you were there. Was your human heartbeat different from that of fae? Or, could he scent your simmering fear miles away?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb. I’ll leave you to it.”

“No, no. Please,” A humorous sigh left his lips, “The damage is done, why leave now?”

You levelled a glare at him and perched on one of the stools around the kitchen island.

“Tea?” He gestured to the pot simmering on the stove.

You gave a small nod his way, and the hot drink was placed in front of you soon after.

“Thank you,” You looked back up at the emissary and noticed his casual attire. His red hair was unbound, cascading down his back. It was clearly dishevelled, yet he still looked as pristine as always. He donned sleep trousers that were loosely tied at the hip, and a shirt that was too relaxed for the version of himself he presented in the day. “Why are you awake?”

“Ah,” A chuckle loosed from Lucien’s lips, “Well, my closest friend chose to house two strange mortals in our home, and one of them likes to scream through the night. Surprisingly, it’s hard to sleep through.”

Flames licked your cheeks as they reddened in embarrassment, “Oh.”

“I suppose you’d like to talk about it.”

“Then it seems you don’t know me very well.”

A challenging look gleamed in his eyes, “Shall we change that? After all, it seems I’ll be dealing with you for the rest of your mortal life.”

A huffed laugh escaped you as you sipped your tea, “Gods, that’s good. What is that?”

“A family recipe,” Lucien crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. Something you couldn’t discern flickered across his face, “My mother used to make it for me when I was young.”

“Your mother,” Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to you that Lucien must have a family - somewhere. You wondered how common loss must be to immortal beings. “…Do you see her often?”

He shook his head and glanced at his feet, shuffling, “It’s been a long time.”

“Does she live in the Spring Court?”

“No,” Lucien barked a laugh, “Not quite.”

You sensed he was not keen to continue that conversation. Your fingers played a silent melody on the side of your mug as you slowly drew your gaze from him to the table.

“Were you with Feyre when she killed Andras?”

Your head snapped back up at his question, and you tried to decipher the complicated expression on his face.

“No,” You sighed, “I wasn’t. I should’ve been.”

“I’m trying to figure out how you ended up here with your sister. You know you’re free to leave at any point?” He kicked one foot over the other, back relaxing even further against the counter.

“I know that,” You chastised his condescension, “Tamlin didn’t tell you?”

“He’s distracted as of late.”

Because of the blight? You held back from asking.

“All we’ve ever had is each other,” You shrugged, “Protecting her is the only thing I care about.”

“Noble.” You doubted he was impressed at all. “Why didn’t Tam just kill you there and then?”

You looked back down at your tea, “I… threatened to kill Feyre if he didn’t take me, too. I assumed he wouldn’t call my bluff.”

A joyous sound came from Lucien, one you’d never heard before. Genuine laughter shook his body as his hand reached up to cover his eyes. You bit your lip as a chuckle escaped you, too, and for a moment you forgot that this wasn’t safe. He wasn’t supposed to be funny, or kind, or close enough that you could hear the rough edge of his laughter and want to hear it again.

“You know,” Lucien huffed incredulously, “You keep surprising me. I hate it.”

“I am sorry, you know,” You sobered up, “About your friend.”

Lucien waved a hand in dismissal, “You were only surviving. Andras knew what he’d signed up for; I’m just bitter about it.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

“I’ve lived quite a while, Y/N,” He smirked, “I’ll be okay without the grief counselling. Come on, this is morbid. Tell me what you got up to in that hovel.”

“Day to day?” You didn’t correct Lucien on his derogatory term for your cottage. You supposed it was just that.

“Sure.”

“Well, Feyre did all the hunting. I taught her simple snares and traps in the beginning, but she was always more adept at it than I was.” You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “My sisters are useless. They didn’t have any skills to keep us alive and didn’t care to learn, so it fell to us.”

“What did you do? To keep your family alive?” He leaned his elbows on the table in front of you, leaning in closer.

“Oh,” You suddenly felt embarrassed, “I used to fight.”

“Fight?”

“Mhm,” You stroked the rim of your mug to distract yourself from Lucien’s piercing gaze, “There was this back alley near the market; men used to fight me, and their friends would bet on it. I’d take a percentage of the earnings if I won.”

Lucien’s mouth was agape. “Your father let you do this?”

“My father would watch me come home bloody and bruised, and turn away so he didn’t have to look at me.” You laughed bitterly, “My father is many things. Honourable is not one of them.”

“How often did you win?” Lucien’s question held something unspoken. Probing.

“Most of the time.”

Lucien looked at you a long while, contemplatively. When he seemed as though he’d made his mind up, he collected the crockery and placed it all in the sink. A mischievous smirk blessed his face as he turned back to you.

“How would you feel about training properly?”

“Properly?”

“You fought in alleys; that’s brawling,” He went on, “It’s a start, but it’s sloppy. I’m talking about honing some real skill.”

You raised a brow, “With what? Your shining personality?”

He scoffed, “Swords, daggers. Maybe a bow if you don’t shoot me in the back. What do you say?”

Your beaming grin was answer enough.

Every morning in the Spring Court was as beautiful as the last.

The mare in front of you was astounding; her coat was a shining auburn, and her temperament was mild as she chomped an apple out of your hand.

“She likes you,” Lucien commented atop his gelding.

“What’s her name?” The horse nuzzled at your cheek.

“Aurelia.”

Lucien had invited you out on his morning patrol, perhaps a half-hearted attempt at making peace with your presence. You hadn’t seen your sister in a long while, and it was starting to frighten you. You went to seek her out before leaving, but Alis had swept you up before you could. Was Tamlin purposefully keeping you apart?

Luckily, your questions were answered soon enough as your sister strode through the stables.

“Morning, Feyre,” Lucien smiled, and didn’t comment on the stiffening of her shoulders, and terribly faked nonchalance. “Going for a ride, or merely reconsidering Tam’s offer to live with us?”

You tucked a strand of hair behind Feyre’s ear and smiled softly. “Lucien is patrolling the southern woods today. Join us?”

She simply arched a brow at you.

“Come now,” The faerie laughed, “I’m curious about the… abilities you used to bring down my friend, whether accidental or not. It’s been a while since I encountered humans, let alone a Fae-killer. Indulge me in a hunt.”

He accepted a quiver of arrows from the stableboy with a nod of thanks as you climbed atop Aurelia.

“Well… I suppose I’m already dressed for the hunt.” Feyre shrugged. You could see through that facade of hers. What game was she playing?

A horse was soon prepared for her, and your journey began. Feyre kept her distance from Lucien, sidling up to you, instead. Your sidelong, curious glance at her was cut short when sunlight split through the canopy, setting the leaves aglow and catching on the purple flowers sprouting from the soft earth. The forest felt almost empty, save for the low hum of unseen wildlife thrumming around you; a quiet, living presence that stirred a deep excitement in your chest.

“Well, you both certainly have the quiet part of hunting down.”

“You said you were an emissary for Tamlin,” Feyre ventured, “Do emissaries usually patrol the grounds?”

Lucien clicked his tongue. “I’m Tamlin’s emissary for formal uses, but this was Andras’s shift. So, someone needed to fill in. It’s an honour to do it.”

Oh. You shared a glance with your sister. It was easy to forget that Andras had a life and a place here, a place that you were both bitterly taking up.

“I’m… sorry,” Feyre said. You could tell she meant it. “I didn’t know what he meant to all of you.”

Lucien shrugged. “Tamlin said as much, which was no doubt why he brought you here. Or maybe you looked so pathetic in those rags that he took pity on you.”

“You brought us on this ride just to insult us the entire way?” You raised a brow.

Lucien looked back at you with a smirk, “Apologies, my lady.”

You scoffed as he continued, “So, Feyre, when are you going to start trying to persuade me to beseech Tamlin to find a way to free you from the Treaty’s rules?”

Your eyes grew wide as your sister sat stock still. “What?”

“That’s why she agreed to come out here, isn’t it?” He angled to Feyre now, “Why you wound up at the stables exactly as I was leaving? Honestly, I’m flattered you think I have that kind of sway with Tamlin.”

“What are you talking about?” Feyre huffed.

Lucien cocked his head and chuckled, “Before you waste one of your precious few human breaths, let me explain two things to you. One: if I had my way, you’d be gone, so it wouldn’t take much convincing on your part. Two: I can’t have my way, because there is no alternative to what the Treaty demands. There’s no extra loophole.”

“But… but there has to be something-” She stumbled.

“I admire your balls, Feyre - I really do. Or maybe it’s stupidity. But since Tam won’t gut you, which was my first choice,” You sneered at him in answer, “You’re stuck here. Unless you want to rough it on your own in Prythian, which I’d advise against.”

Feyre mastered her uneven breathing, and you could see her shoving away the panicked, bleating thoughts. You got it, you did. But was this honestly so bad? You didn’t mind being away from home and your family. Feyre was here, and that was all you needed. And Gods, this place was so much nicer than your village.

Then again, at any point, they could decide they were bored with you and murder you both in cold blood. Perhaps your sister was right.

“A valiant effort,” Lucien said with a smirk.

“You’re a dick.” You glared at him. He just smiled in response. “So, where is the rest of Tamlin’s court? Did they all flee the blight?”

“How’d you know about the court?” He asked so quickly that you realised he thought you meant something different. You shared an inquisitive look with Feyre and schooled your face.

“Do normal estates have emissaries? And servants chatter. Isn’t that why you made them wear bird masks to that party?” Feyre’s lip curled upwards.

You let out a loud laugh at Lucien’s scowling face, “We each chose what to wear that night to honour Tamlin’s shape-shifting gifts. The servants, too. But now, if we had the choice, we’d peel them off with our bare hands.”

He emphasised by tugging on his own mask. It didn’t move.

“What happened to the magic to make it act that way?” You asked.

Lucien let out a harsh laugh. “Something was sent from the shit-holes of Hell,” he said, then glanced around and swore. “I shouldn’t have said that. If word got back to her-”

“Who?” You and Feyre asked at the same time.

“Never mind,” The colour had drained from Lucien’s pretty face, “The less you know, the better. Tam might not find it troublesome to tell you about the blight, but I wouldn’t put it past humans to sell the information to the highest bidder.”

“Well, that was my first point of call,” You sighed dramatically, “Now I’ll have to think of something else.”

“How old are you?” Feyre asked after a beat of silence.

“Old,” Lucien replied, absentmindedly. He scanned the brush warily, and you had a feeling it wasn’t game he was searching for.

After a while more of wandering, Lucien had confirmed (after your incessant questions) that he did not bear shape-shifting powers like Tamlin; apparently, High Fae didn’t have special, fancy tricks like the lesser fae did. They just existed - to rule.

The emissary also revealed that he’d received his scar as punishment; he hadn’t kept his mouth shut when he should have, and it resulted in this replacement given to him by Tamlin. You wondered if that punishment had anything to do with this she they were so frightened of.

“So, is it true there are really faeries that will answer any question if you trap them?” You asked. Maybe they’d give Feyre the way out of this treaty that she desperately craved.

“Yes,” Lucien replied tightly, eyeing you, “The Suriel. But they’re old and wicked, and not worth the danger of going out to find them. And if you’re stupid enough to keep looking so intrigued, I’m going to become rather suspicious and tell Tam to put you two under house arrest. Though I suppose you would deserve it if you were indeed stupid enough to seek one out.”

All of a sudden, he whipped his head to the right, listening. The hair on your neck stood up, and it was now that you realised you were unarmed. When had you become so content in Lucien’s company that you forgot about your safety? Feyre had her bow drawn in a heartbeat, pointing in the direction Lucien had stared.

“Put your bow down,” he whispered, voice low and rough, “Put your damned bow down, and look straight ahead. Both of you.”

You did as he said, fingers tightening on Aurelia’s reins as something rustled in the bush.

“Don’t react,” Lucien said, forcing his gaze ahead, “No matter what you feel or see, don’t react. Don’t look. Just stare ahead.”

You sat stock-still, trying to control the trembling you felt climbing up your body. Lucien’s face had gone very, very pale. Your horses’ ears flattened against their heads, but they continued walking, as if they’d also understood Lucien’s command.

Then, you felt it.

The Bogge had terrified you.

You remembered how it whispered past, circling you. How it taunted: I will grind your bones between my claws; I will drink your marrow; I will feast on your flesh. I am what you fear; I am what you dread … Look at me. Look at me.

It was all around you, and it took all of your strength to keep your eyes off of it. Every instinct had screamed at you to look.

That was all you could think about on the ride back. How a creature could exist that you couldn’t hunt, or kill, and only became real when you saw it was far beyond your realm of understanding.

Tamlin was lounging in his usual seat at the dinner table when you all returned. His green eyes pinned on Feyre as you entered, you and Lucien hot on her heels.

“We went on a hunt,” Lucien’s face turned grave as Tamlin slowly looked at him.

“I heard,” Tamlin said roughly as you all took your seats, “And did you have fun?”

“Sort of,” Feyre mumbled.

“Did you catch anything?” Every word was clipped.

“No.” Lucien gave your sister a pointed cough, urging her to say more. When she didn’t, he continued, “Tam. The Bogge was in the forest today.”

Tamlin was up and out quickly after a short conversation. He threw a glance in Feyre’s direction before stalking out of the room and shutting the door behind him with unnerving gentleness.

“Where is he going?” You asked as Lucien pushed his food away and began rubbing his temples.

“To hunt the Bogge.”

“You said it couldn’t be killed - that you can’t face it.” Feyre finished your thought.

“Tam can.”

After dinner, in which Lucien hadn’t eaten a thing, Feyre stood to return upstairs. Your blank stare was so focused on the table in front of you, you didn’t notice as she placed a loving hand on your shoulder and slipped out of the room.

“Are you okay?” Lucien’s voice pulled you out of your rumination.

“Yes,” You rubbed a hand over your face, “This is just the most excitement my life has ever seen.”

Lucien stood, rounded the table, and began pouring you a glass of water. He placed it in front of you, and you willed your hands not to shake as you took a sip.

“We start your training tomorrow,” Lucien said, his voice so close that it reverberated under your skin. “You need to learn to protect yourself if I’m not there.”

“Okay,” You attempted, but it came out as merely a whisper. You met Lucien’s eyes as he looked down at you, and the world stilled for just a moment. A beat passed between you before he cleared his throat and made to move.

“You should get to bed,” He walked to the door, “We’ll start early.”

“Okay,” It seemed to be all you could say, “Goodnight.”

Lucien chuckled, surprised.

“Well,” The red-haired Fae continued, “you don’t look half as bad now. A relief, I suppose, that you can both scrub up well, since you’re to live with us. Though the tunics aren’t as pretty as dresses.”

Of course, that was to be expected of you here; subservient women, bowing to men in your frocks and pearls. Well, males now, you supposed.

“We’d prefer not to wear those dresses.” Feyre had not lost the chill to her voice.

“And why not?” Lucien crooned.

It was Tamlin who answered for your sister, “Because killing us is easier in pants.”

“Now that we’re here, what do you plan on doing with us? With me?” Feyre kept her face blank, and you attempted not to flush red at the insinuation. Was that something they did here? Was this a land of multiple wives and mortal slaves?

Lucien snorted, but Tamlin snarled with annoyance, “Just sit down.”

An empty seat had been pulled out for Feyre at the end of the table, opposite Tamlin. Subsequently, the only open chair that remained for you sat opposite Lucien. You resigned to the seat, as Lucien’s eyes followed you the whole way.

“We’re not going to bite.” Lucien’s grin gleamed in a way that suggested otherwise.

Tamlin rose and stalked around the table, reaching for your sister’s plate, as you held eye contact with Lucien.

“I can serve myself.” She had said, once he’d reached her end of the table. You stifled a laugh; even in the face of imminent danger, your sister could still be hilarious.

The two strangers watched you both closely as Tamlin sat back down in his seat. You didn’t know what they were looking for, but you knew you didn’t want them to find it.

“You look… better than before.” You looked quizzically at Tamlin as he straightened in his seat. You could’ve sworn Lucien gave him an encouraging nod. “And your hair is… clean.”

…What?

“You’re High Fae - faerie nobility?” Feyre recovered quickly after you’d swung your head to her and shared that same confused look.

Lucien coughed and looked to Tamlin, “You can take that question.”

“Yes,” He’d said, frowning, “We are.”

“Well, that clears it up.”

“Y/N.” Feyre chastised.

“Apologies.”

“What do you plan to do with us now that we’re here?” Feyre repeated her earlier question as Tamlin tore a frustrated look away from you. You were certain you’d caught a humorous glint in Lucien’s eyes.

Tamlin’s eyes didn’t leave your sister’s face as he said, “Nothing. Do whatever you want.”

“So, we’re not to be your slaves?” She dared to ask.

Lucien choked on his wine. But Tamlin didn’t smile. “I don’t keep slaves.”

“So… what? We’re to earn our keep?” A stupid question you’d asked, considering Lucien’s chuckle.

“We can work if you wish us to.” Your sister had followed on.

“What you do with your life isn’t my problem.” Tamlin had replied, and it seemed to be directed at Feyre.

It was curious - how Lucien cleared his throat to correct the blonde man’s behaviour. Was he Tamlin’s keeper, or was there something riding on your sister’s impression of him?

After an exchanged look you couldn’t read, Tamlin settled on, “Don’t you have any… interests?”

“No.” A lie, clearly. To you, anyway. You recalled the talents shared in your childhood fondly. You whiled away the days sitting at the piano in your estate, and you remember Feyre’s incessant begging to paint the wood.

You’d allowed it, directly after Nesta had told you not to; Feyre had been so young then, and you didn’t want that passion to dwindle. She’d spent hours at your feet, gently brushing the stain of the instrument as you played for her. She requested a different tune every day, and you’d soon started to invent them to appease her appetite.

After that, you’d picked up the lute and the harp, begging your mother to let you skip out on your dancing lessons. She rarely relented, yet the music’s call was impossible to ignore.

Dancing was Nesta’s thing. You were good, you were fine, but Nesta had been magnificent. When your mother had seen you weren’t getting close to your sister’s level, she’d let you drop a session a week.

You suspected Feyre was not willing to share such intimate stories with the beast who had stolen her away in the night. You couldn’t blame her.

“So typically human.” Lucien muttered.

Tamlin’s mouth quirked to the side. “Do whatever you want with your time. Just stay out of trouble.”

“So, you truly mean for us to stay here forever.” You thought to your family as you spoke. Feyre had always been gentler with them - kinder. She was so protective and so willing to forgive; it was commendable, considering everything she’d been through.

You did not share the same generosity. You could picture them in that cottage, wandering aimlessly and starving to death now that you’d both left. That was your family, of course, it saddened you. But some part, deep down, revelled in their misery. You hadn’t had a life outside of caring for them in nearly a decade; it was about time they learned their lesson.

“I didn’t make the rules,” Tamlin said tersely.

“Our family is starving,” Feyre said. “Please let us go. There must be - must be some other loophole out of the Treaty’s rules. Some other way to atone.”

“Atone?” Lucien combatted. “Have you even apologised yet?”

“I’m sorry.” Feyre had looked him right in the eye.

Lucien leaned back in his chair. “How did you kill him? Was it a bloody fight, or just cold-blooded murder?”

“Hey,” You snapped, “Maybe he shouldn’t have been on our side of the Wall in the first place.”

Feyre lifted a placating hand to you as Lucien snarled in your direction, “I shot him with an ash arrow. And then an ordinary arrow through the eye. He didn’t put up a fight. After the first shot, he just stared at me.”

“Yet you killed him anyway, though he made no move to attack you. And then you skinned him.” Lucien hissed.

“Enough, Lucien,” Tamlin said to the man - male - with a snarl. “I don’t want to hear details.”

“Our family won’t last a month without us.” Lucien chuckled at her, and Feyre just gritted her teeth. “Do you know what it’s like to be hungry? Do you know what it’s like to not know when your next meal will be?”

Tamlin’s jaw tightened. “Your family is alive and well-cared for. You think so low of faeries that you believe I’d take their only source of income and nourishment and not replace it?”

“You swear it?” Feyre straightened. A futile endeavour, you thought. All the fables swore that faeries could not lie. Unless that was hogwash, like the silver.

A low, incredulous laugh. “On everything that I am and possess.”

“Why not tell us when we left the cottage?” You asked.

“Would you have believed me? Do you even believe me now?” Tamlin’s claws embedded in the arms of his chair.

Feyre and Tamlin argued for a while. She was adamant about not trusting him, obviously; still, he found it insulting. He’d brought you both here, shown you mercy, and you were both throwing it in his face.

At one point, Feyre had shot out of her seat in offence, and you’d lunged for Tamlin as he used magic to sit her back down. He’d used that same power on you to hold you in place.

“I’m going to warn you once,” Tamlin said too softly. “Only once, and then it’s on you, human. I don’t care if you go live somewhere else in Prythian. But if you cross the wall, if you flee, your family will no longer be cared for.”

Feyre opened her mouth, but his snarl rattled the glasses, “Is that not a fair bargain? And if you flee, then you might not be so lucky with whoever comes to retrieve you next. The food is not enchanted, or drugged, and it will be your own damn fault if you faint. So you’re going to sit at this table and eat, both of you. And Lucien will do his best to be polite.”

Lucien just shrugged in your direction.

You reached for a fork as the invisible bonds loosened up. You gave Feyre a subtle once over - she seemed… okay. Shaken up, definitely, but he hadn’t harmed her. You’d take what you could get.

You ate the food embarrassingly quickly; you may have taken down an entire chicken by yourself, but you couldn’t quite remember. You swallowed a bite of dessert, and as Feyre reached for second helpings, the food disappeared. Like it had never existed in the first place.

You licked your lips and looked up, “Is it supposed to do that?”

“One more bite and you’ll hurl your guts up.” Tamlin said, drinking from his goblet.

“Thank you for the meal.” Feyre had begun to rise - you followed suit.

“Won’t you stay for wine?” Lucien looked at you from over his goblet, voice dripping with treacle and venom.

“I’m tired.” Feyre cut in, “I’d like to sleep.”

“And your sister must follow?”

“I go where she goes.” You planted yourself firmly to the ground, trying not to wither under Lucien’s watchful eyes.

“It’s been a few decades since I last saw one of you,” Lucien drawled, “but you humans never change, so I don’t think I’m wrong in asking why you find our company to be so unpleasant, when surely the men back home aren’t much to look at.”

At the other end of the table, Tamlin gave him a long, warning look. Lucien ignored it.

“You’re High Fae,” Your sister said tightly. “I’d ask why you’d even bother inviting us here at all - or dining with us.”

“True. But indulge me; you’re a human woman, and yet you’d rather eat hot coals than sit here longer than necessary. Ignoring this,” Lucien waved a hand at the metal eye and brutal scar on his face, “Surely we’re not so miserable to look at.”

If you weren’t incredibly aware of the danger in this manor, perhaps you would have indulged in his clear vanity. The Children of the Blessed would have killed to be a part of this conversation.

“Unless you have someone back home,” Lucien continued, “Y/N, spare me the pain of knowing you have someone waiting for you.”

The tone was condescending. You weren’t a fool.

“Feyre was close with a man back in our village. I was not inclined to keep them around for long after they’d served their purpose.”

Tamlin and Lucien exchanged glances, but it was Tamlin who said, “Are you in love with this man?”

“No.” Feyre had responded with a faux confidence.

“And do you… love anyone else?”

A harsh laugh barked out of your sister. You looked at her as if she’d grown another head.

“Is this truly what you care about?” She was hysterical now, “If I find you more handsome than human men, and if I have a man back home? Why bother to ask at all, when I’ll be stuck here for the rest of my life?”

“We wanted to learn more about you, since you’ll be here for a good while,” Tamlin said, his lips a thin line. “But Lucien’s pride tends to get in the way of his manners.”

He sighed, as if ready to be done with you both, and said, “Go rest. We’re both busy most days, so if you need anything, ask the staff. They’ll help you.”

“Why are you being so generous?” You scrutinised him.

Lucien gave you a look that suggested he had no idea, either, given that Feyre had murdered their companion, but Tamlin stared at you for a long moment.

“I kill too often as it is,” Tamlin said finally, shrugging his broad shoulders. “And you’re insignificant enough to not ruffle this estate. Unless your sister decides to start killing us.”

You saw warmth bloom on Feyre’s cheeks as she responded, “Well… thank you.”

He gave a distant nod and motioned for you to leave. Dismissed. Unworthy. Lucien propped his chin on a fist and gave you a lazy half smile.

Feyre soon stomped out of the room; she had not taken lightly to the condescension.

You mocked a ridiculously deep bow to the blonde faerie, “Your most radiant excellency.” You looked at him a moment longer before slipping out of the door to follow your sister.

A moment later, Lucien’s barking laugh echoed into the halls, followed by a sharp, vicious growl that shut him up.

Much to your chagrin, you were in a different room from Feyre.

You’d initially followed her into the suite, but Alis had found you quickly and forced you into a room further down the hall.

You were inclined to fight her as you watched the image of your sister shrink from view, but Alis’ answering glare was enough to quiet you. You remembered there wasn’t a faerie in this place who couldn’t kill you where you stood.

Tamlin had probably encouraged them to, anyway.

You’d woken long before dawn; the apricot sheets were the most luxurious fabric you’d ever felt, but nothing could stop the instincts screaming in your body.

You felt awkward as you rose, unsure of what was expected of you. Not long after, however, maids and servants had filled your room to bathe, dress, and feed you. That would take a lot of getting used to.

You stared at the dress in Alis’ arms for a long time.

”Please, take your time.” Her tone was flat, but not unkind. You wondered what Feyre had already put her through this morning.

You took a deep sigh, eyes running over the stunning lengths of the frock in front of you. The deep mahogany was beautiful, and particularly out of place among the colours of your room.

You shook your head at Alis.

“Okay,” She released a sigh herself, moving to hang it up in the wardrobe, “Lucien will be disappointed. He picked it out himself.”

“Pardon?” Your eyes widened as you whirled on Alis.

“Beats me.” Alis reached for a pair of brown trousers and a dark green tunic, “What goes through that male’s mind is beyond my understanding. I gave up trying long ago. Don’t spend too long in here - go explore.”

With that, she was gone.

You reached for the clothes Alis had left and dressed quickly. If you were to spend the rest of your life in this place, you’d use the time wisely.

You left your room and attempted to follow the path you’d taken last night, but every turn seemed to lead you through a maze. You were pretty sure you were on the ground floor now; the surprising lack of windows through the manor was starting to hurt your head.

Halfway through a hall you were sure you’d been in before, you noticed bright light spilling out from open double doors. You crept closer to it, now afraid you’d found something meant to be hidden from you.

Placing a hand on the trim of the doorway, you peeked your head around to see the source of light. It was spilling from huge windows covering the entire length of the wall, showcasing the gardens outside.

But that wasn’t what forced the gasp out of your body.

A grand piano.

Perhaps the grandest piano you had ever seen. It sat directly in the middle of the room, reflecting sunbeams like the glare off of midnight waters. You then noticed that the room was lined with every instrument you could think of, but as you delved further in, the dust that had settled on them all became visible.

You laid a hand atop the lid, feeling the coolness on your fingertips.

“Are you going to stand there all day, or are you actually going to play?”

You jumped out of your skin at the sound of Lucien’s voice, placing a hand to your beating chest and spinning to him.

“Mortals are fragile, you know. You’ll kill me if you’re not careful.”

Lucien leaned against the doorframe, both hands in his trouser pockets. The tunic he sported today was a deep brown, matching darker pants. He tilted his head at you as he chuckled at your statement, walking further into the room.

“Do you play?”

You turned back to the piano, back now facing him. You could feel his stare burning your skin.

“I do,” You sighed, “Probably not as well as the folk around here, but I grew up playing.”

“So, you could afford pianos, but not food?”

Lucien held his hands up in mock surrender at your scornful gaze, “My father used to be a wealthy man. He lost it all when I was young; I’d learned to play in our estate. After we moved to the cottage, I visited the market and found an old, beaten-up - well, it was a sad excuse of a piano, really. But it did the job.”

Lucien hummed pensively.

“Every instrument in here…” You turned to face him, “They all look like they haven’t been touched in decades.”

“This room belonged to Tamlin’s mother.” Lucien took a deep breath. “He still plays occasionally, but he doesn’t set foot in here.”

“That’s a shame.” A beat. “It’s really beautiful.”

“You should play. It’d be a nice change of pace around here. I just hope you’re actually good.”

A beat passed between you before he narrowed his eyes, inclining his head.

“You’re not wearing the dress.”

“Oh,” You looked down at your trousers, “No.”

“Was it not to your liking?” Lucien teased.

“No!” You scrambled, “It was lovely, really. I just, um, haven’t worn a dress in a very long time.”

He blinked at you, “And that means you can’t now?”

“Maybe one day,” You looked back at the piano, “Just not today.”

The air between you grew thicker, like some unspoken, slightly awkward understanding. You didn’t look back at him as he shuffled his feet.

“Okay,” He drew out the vowels, “Well, I’d best be off. I'd better hear you playing that thing.”

You tucked your hair behind your ear as his footsteps receded, just catching a glimpse of his disappearing form. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest - you attributed it to the lingering fear this place had over you.

You spun on your heels, marching out to the gardens quickly. Fresh air. You needed fresh air.

You hadn’t made it far before something grabbed you by the crook of your elbow, yanking you and throwing its hand over your mouth.

“Gods, Feyre!” You smacked her retreating arm. “You frightened the life out of me.”

Feyre’s returning look was not humorous.

“What is it?” You searched her face, not knowing what you were looking for.

“There’s a blight.”

“A blight?”

“Tamlin told me.” She ignored the silent interrogation in your gaze, “That’s why they wear the masks - they’re stuck on. Apparently, the magic gets funny when the blight spreads, and they were all caught in it at a masquerade ball.”

Her tone fell lower as she pulled you further into shadow, “That’s why Andras was in the mortal lands; he was searching for a cure. Tamlin said it’ll kill us all if they can’t fix it.”

Panic washed over you as your sister spoke, and your hands tightened in hers. You looked around you - the greenery and the sunshine and that pine fresh air. It’s perfection loomed over you.

“We can eat half the meat this week,” Feyre’s muffled voice bled through the widening crack in the bathroom door, “We can dry the other half.”

On the table in front of you lay what you could only call a beast. The deer was giant, and so was the wolf pelt covering it. You tilted your head; that wolf pelt was a bit too big for your liking.

“I’ll take the hides to the market tomorrow,” Your youngest sister’s eyes lit up at the sound of your voice, “This is amazing, Feyre. We’d starve without you.”

You heard Nesta tsk behind you. She and Elain quickly began bartering over who would receive the money. You walked a few steps to the destitute kitchenette you had to work with - too blunt knives scattered along the countertops. You didn’t waste your breath joining in the argument over Nesta’s wood-chopping abilities. She was a lost cause - just as guilty as your father in your suffering. Elain was, too, and you detested treating her as the child she acted, but certainly wasn’t.

A long glance was shared with Feyre before she disappeared into the bedroom. A sigh escaped you as you began slicing.

Dinner had been… well, as pleasant as it could’ve been.

“Nesta, you cannot marry Tomas Mandray.”

“And, why not?”

Feyre came to your defence at Nesta’s sneer, “You can’t chop wood for us, but you want to marry a woodcutter’s son?”

Cutlery scraped and clattered as you rose to start the dishes; the argument did not die down behind you.

“At least I don’t have to resort to rutting in the hay with Isaac Hale like an animal.”

“Nesta.” You couldn’t stand it when she got like this. She was so quick to cast judgement - so quick to look anywhere but her own hurt and self-righteousness. “Feyre is right. Tomas’ family can barely afford food as it is, and we can’t afford a dowry. This is off the table.”

“We’re in love.” She declared.

Mother, help me. Your eyes might have never rolled this hard in your life.

“Love won’t feed a hungry belly.”

Feyre’s remark had done it. Nesta had exploded, calling her a wild beast to knock her down a few pegs. That wasn’t new from her - for either of you. She was fond of reminding you both how forgotten you would be when your time came.

You glanced at your father. “I don’t suppose you have anything to say.” A little harsh, maybe. You chose not to care.

“You know what she’s like, nugget,” A nickname from many years ago. It had soured over time. “What can I say? If it’s love-”

“It can’t be love,” Feyre exclaimed, “Not with his wretched family. I’ve seen the way he acts around the village. There’s one thing he wants from her, and it’s not her hand in marriage.”

“I don’t know if there’s anyone who could tame Nesta well enough for her to be wed, anyway.” You knew you were stropping as well now - you didn’t want to think about how similar you could be to your eldest sister sometimes. At least you exhibit a little bit of restraint, you reminded yourself.

It would all seem inconsequential soon enough; only one more day passed before the beast showed up at your door.

Your father was terror-stricken.

Stuck in his chair, awoken by the noise of wood splintering, he had no choice but to watch as Nesta and Elain shrieked in the corner of the room.

You held Feyre by her arm, positioned just slightly behind you. You could feel the hilt of her hunting knife pressing against your back. Where the fuck was your dagger?

The beast roared at you. “Murderers!”

He was fae. Oh, dear fucking Gods.

Nesta sobbed, “W-we didn’t kill anyone!”

You took a second to glance away from the golden-haired monstrosity to your eldest sister. She was holding her silver bracelet high above her head, toward the door. You doubted it could do anything at this point.

“Get out,” Feyre’s voice from behind you. “Get out, and begone.”

Your leg began to shake in your boot. Come on, you thought, now is not the time for fear. Feyre, Feyre, Feyre.

The cottage shook as the beast bellowed and you reached for your sister instinctively. Plates shattered and wood clattered as the beast set his paw on the dining table, snarling. You watched as his claws embedded in the groaning wood.

“Who killed him?!”

“Killed who?” Your voice finally rose above the noise.

His eyes flickered to you now, previously honed in on Feyre behind you. They weren’t animal eyes; they were green and flickering with something you couldn’t put your finger on.

“The wolf,” His voice was low, “A large wolf with a grey coat.”

Fuck.

You considered running. You considered begging. You considered throwing Feyre over your shoulder and through the nearest window just to give her a chance. You glanced at her behind you.

“If it was mistakenly killed,” Feyre’s voice barely trembled, “what payment could we offer in exchange?”

Feyre’s bravery was something you’d always admired about her. You liked to think it of yourself - brave, steely, unwavering. But Feyre? She seemed so fortified, so invulnerable, it was hard to remember she was so much younger than you.

You supposed that’s why your sisters took advantage of her so. Perhaps, this was what your mother had seen in her all those years ago when she made Feyre promise to look after you all. In reality, you knew it was just nonsense from a dying woman.

Thus, you refused to let her go it alone.

The beast laughed bitterly, “The payment you must offer is the one demanded by the Treaty between our realms.”

“What the fuck?”

“For a wolf?” Feyre had taken a gentler approach, it seemed.

“Who killed the wolf?”

“I did.” Your own voice surprised you.

The beast whirled on you, “Surely, you lie to save one of them.”

“We didn’t kill anything!” Elain wept, “Please, please, spare us!”

Typical.

“It was me,” Feyre touched your arm, “I killed it. We sold its hide today, at the market. If I had known it was a faerie, I wouldn’t have touched it.”

“Liar,” He snarled, “You knew. You would have been more tempted to slaughter it had you known it was one of my kind.”

“Can you blame her?” You stepped in front of your sister, anger bubbling over. “Considering all your kind have done to us, and still like to do might I add, it was deserved.”

All he did was growl.

“What is the payment the Treaty requires?”

The wolf looked back at your sister now, “A life for a life. Any unprovoked attacks on faerie-kind by humans are to be paid only by a human life in exchange.”

Your blood ran cold. This couldn’t be. This couldn’t be it. Your heart pounded in your chest, mind looking for something - anything - that could save your sister from this fate. You glanced around the room quickly, searching for the answer. You came up short.

“Do it outside,” Your head whipped around to Feyre, “Not… here.”

The faerie huffed a vicious laugh. “Willing to accept your fate so easily? For having the nerve to request where I slaughter you, I’ll let you in on a secret, human; Prythian must claim your life in some way, for the life you took from it. So as a representative of the immortal realm, I can either gut you like swine, or you can cross the wall and live out the remainder of your days in Prythian.”

“Do it, Feyre” Your father whispered, “Go.”

Your eyes watered, lip trembling as you looked at him, “Stay out of this.”

“Live where? Every inch of Prythian is lethal to me.” Feyre asked incredulously.

“I have lands,” The faerie said quietly, now. You tilted your head, curious. “I will grant you permission to live there.”

“You can’t take her.”

The beast blinked at you, and you suddenly realised your mistake. “Can’t? You tell me what I can and cannot do? She murdered my friend. Murdered him, skinned his corpse, sold it at the market - and yet, you have the nerve to question my generosity?”

“I sold the hide. Am I guilty too?”

“Foolish human,” He snarled, drawing closer to you. “You think I won’t kill you where you stand?”

“I think your mercy is shallow,” You attempted to stand taller, “And I think this is a game to you. What was your friend doing this side of the Wall, hm? You’re so quick to offer my sister salvation - why?”

For a split second, he seemed taken aback. He was back to unbridled rage so quickly you were sure to have imagined it. You looked at Feyre now, hoping she’d see through you. She always did.

“Take me as well,” You steeled yourself against the faerie’s wrath, “Or, I stab her in the heart.”

You could feel Nesta’s stare from across the room. Elain shrieked loudly.

The beast looked between you both, contemplatively. “You bluff.”

You quickly grabbed Feyre by the elbow, pulling her in front of you and the knife out of her hand. You wrapped your arm around her chest, pulling her back, and placed the sharp edge against her sternum. You could feel her heart racing. It matched your own.

“Would you like to find out?”

You were on a horse.

Conversation had been clipped and short from the beast, and Feyre had soon fallen asleep, back against your chest. You found it odd how the mare trailed behind him, calm and serene, when just one wrong swipe could maim her.

The sun was high by the time your sister jolted awake and you shared a long look as large, golden gates swung open ahead of you.

It was magnificent.

Feyre squeezed your knee as the horse casually trotted upon the hills of green. The massive estate lay before you - willow and ivy and roses covered trellises and balconies, and the woods spread as far as you could see.

The impeccable marble was beautiful, but alarmingly domineering. The smell of metal tinged the flower frosted air; it was the magic. Of course, an eternal season would have to be kept in place by magic. The smell of early spring was tainted with the harsh reminder that this was punishment. This was not luck.

Dread crawled down your spine as you considered what may await you behind the mammoth front doors.

You could almost see Feyre’s thoughts whirring through her head as you both dismounted the horse - she had realised running was futile. Her shaky legs began the ascent up the grand staircase towards the door and every instinct within you screamed.

She was getting closer and closer to the door and you couldn’t breathe. There was nothing you could do. No escape plan you could hatch to save your little sister from this. Gods, you felt sick.

One look back from Feyre had you climbing the stairs immediately.

You resisted the urge to gnaw at your nails as you both crossed the threshold. You held your head high, keeping your gaze cold. You would not let your guard down in this place. And you certainly wouldn’t look nervous.

A long table lay in front of you as you followed the faerie into a nearby room. It was larger than any piece of furniture you’d ever seen, overflowing with steaming food - meats, vegetables, and cheeses clouded your vision and it was as if you felt your stomach shrink from your starvation.

You practically jumped out of your skin when the beast transformed into a man and simply slumped down into a chair.

You held a hand to your chest as you leaned against the wall, “What the fuck.”

The man rubbed his temples. “You should both eat.”

You looked at him properly now. He was blonde, and young as far as you could tell, and a peculiar golden mask shimmered on his face. He was large, to say the least. Tall and fair, and even as he slumped, he filled every part of the chair. The pointy ears were very weird. You wondered how long it would take to get used to this side of the Wall, if you even lived long enough to see any more of it.

“You should eat something.”

“Who are you?” Feyre’s words were clipped, stolen breath fighting its way back into her body.

“Sit,” He gestured lazily, “Eat.”

You looked at Feyre and shook your head.

“It’s not safe for humans.” She settled on.

The man huffed a laugh, “The food is fine for you to eat, human. Leave if you want. I’m not your jailer. The gates are open; you can live anywhere in Prythian.”

“That’s hilarious,” You drawled, “We all know we’d be dead the second we stepped outside of this estate.”

He looked you - you couldn’t place with what. You and your sister made no move to sit.

“Fine.” He said, and began serving himself.

Someone strode into the room from another door, right past you both as he headed for the table. He hadn’t seen either of you - you took this chance to gaze at him from your place against the wall. The first thing you noticed was how impeccably dressed he was. He had long, red hair cascading down his back, which was covered in a very fine tunic of muted silver. You could see from the side that he also sported a mask across his eyes. Was that meant to be fashion here?

“Well?” The man sketched a bow to the seated male and crossed his arms. The deep timbre of his voice filled the room nicely, you noted.

“Well, what?”

You wondered how anyone put up with this guy. Or, were all faeries this rude?

“Is Andras dead, then?”

A nod from your captor, “I’m sorry.”

You decided this was a moment you were very uncomfortable witnessing. Feyre seemed to be fiddling with her clothes just as you were.

“How?” The stranger demanded, his knuckles white as he gripped his muscled arms.

“An ash arrow,” The red-haired man hissed, “The Treaty’s summons led me to the mortal. I gave her safe haven. She came with a… companion.”

“A girl? A mortal girl actually killed Andras?” The man shook his head in confusion, “And, I’m sorry, a companion?”

The blonde man huffed a bitter laugh and nodded his head towards you and your sister. “The Treaty’s magic led me right to her - their - doorstep.”

The stranger whirled with grace to look at you both. You stood straighter under his molten gaze. You could see his mask now - it was bronze and fashioned in a fox-like appearance, and despite still being rather odd, you noticed how beautiful it was. It was delicate and intricate and you realised that this stranger took far more care into his appearance than anyone you’d seen before.

He had a scar too, slashing down his face from his brow to his jaw as it peeked out from under the mask. It seemed to slice directly through one eye - a missing eye that had been replaced with a golden substitute. His other eye russet and widening.

His lip curled, revealing perfectly white teeth, “You’re joking. One of these scrawny humans took down Andras?”

“She admitted to it,” The blonde one pointed to Feyre first, and then his finger fell to you, “And she lied to protect her.”

“Lied?” The red-haired man chuckled and looked at you, “She lied in the face of absolutely certain death?”

“I have learned mortals are… foolish.”

You snarled at the man, “You’re the one who broke into my home, screaming that she’d broken some rule you were destined to punish her for. Forgive me if I didn’t place my sister directly into your hands.”

The man in the fox mask sized you up now, it seemed. He sank onto the edge of the table, fingers gripping the wood and light catching in his fire-red hair.

“Well,” He said, “Now we’re stuck with them, thanks to your useless mercy, and you’ve ruined-”

Feyre stepped forward. She didn’t say anything, but she set that steely look onto the man.

“Did you enjoy killing my friend, human?” He leaned forward, “Did you hesitate, or was the hatred in your heart riding you too hard to consider sparing him? It must have been so satisfying for a small mortal thing like you to take him down.”

“Lucien,” The blonde one chastised quietly, “Behave.”

Lucien. Now he’d said it, it seemed like a name you’d known forever.

He went rigid, but hopped off the table nonetheless, and bowed to you both.

“My apologies, ladies,” A joke, it seemed. He looked to Feyre. “Your eyes are like stars, and your hair like burnished gold."

He whirled to you now and drawled, “And, you burn as intensely as a flame. If I had known mortals could look as beautiful as this, I would have visited your lands long ago.”

“Is that meant to be working on me?” You raised a brow.

He gave you a feline grin, “You tell me.”

He seemed to be waiting for either of you to respond.

“Her name is Feyre,” Your blonde captor beat you to it, gesturing to your sister before you. “And this is Y/N.”

You’d never told him your name. You hoped he’d learned it at the cottage instead of having some thought-reading power. Gods, you hoped he didn’t have a thought-reading power.

“Alis will show you to your rooms,” He said then, “You could use a bath and some fresh clothes.”

A brown haired woman appeared suddenly, also donned in a mask. You followed her as she tugged your sister on her elbow, and you gave one last glance into the dining room behind you as Lucien began to speak.

“That’s the hand the Cauldron thought to deal us? She brought Andras down? We never should have sent him out there—none of them should have been out there. It was a fool’s mission.” He growled, yet no bite lay in his tone, “Maybe we should just take a stand—maybe it’s time to say enough. Dump the girl somewhere, kill her, I don’t care—she’s nothing but a burden here. She’d sooner put a knife in your back than talk to you—or any of us.”

“No,” the other bit out. “Not until we know for certain that there is no other way will we make a move. And as for the girl, she stays. Unharmed. End of discussion. Her life in that hovel was Hell enough. Besides, I don’t need that sister of hers causing me an unnecessary headache.”

“Then you’ve got your work cut out for you, old son,” Lucien said. “I’m sure her life will be a fine replacement for Andras’s - maybe she can even train with the others on the border.”

This seemed to irritate the blonde one greatly.

The conversation thinned out as you and your sister delved deeper into the manor.

Alis had scrubbed you thoroughly. Her conversation was pleasant, yet she seemed particularly disturbed that you and your sister refused to leave the room as the other was bathed.

Embarrassment had no place in survival.

She had detested your argument over dresses - you couldn’t afford them back home anyway, and they were ridiculously impractical. Maybe, there was a part of you that longed to feel gentle, cascading fabric against your skin as you twirled and gleamed through a room. That version of you had been asleep for a long time now. Today was not the day she would wake.

Finally, you both had dressed in tunics and trousers, and Alis had given you both words of warning before she escorted you back to the dining room.

“If you’re wise, you’ll keep your mouth shut and your ears open. It’ll do you more good here than a loose tongue.” You did not approve. “Some folk are bound to be upset about Andras, but I say he was a good sentinel who knew what he was facing when he crossed that wall. So keep your head down, and none of them will bother you. Though, Lucien - he could do with someone snapping at him, if you’ve the courage for it.”

The path widened finally as she set her sights on the village market before her. A sad excuse of a place to shop - a perfect match to the sad excuse of a place to live, she regarded.

Money was tight this summer. Her father was getting worse, becoming a shell of himself more and more every day, and her sisters were practically dead weight. Feyre was the only one that was working alongside her. The share of the workload was simple - Feyre had taught herself to hunt, whilst Y/N had taught herself to fight.

Every day, Feyre would take herself to the woods and return in the evening, supplying whatever food she could for supper, and Y/N would take herself to the market. She would spend all day bartering with locals, selling what she could, and stealing from stalls. Occasionally, on days where she knew her presence at home wouldn’t be missed, she fought men for money down a back alley by the church.

It was bloody work, literally, and when she started out, she had her ass handed to her more times than she could count. She never did make up any excuses for her injuries - Nesta, Elain, and their father didn’t seem to ever care. So she would return home in the early hours of the morning with a black eye, or scratches down her face, or a nose bleed that didn’t seem to stop. And when they woke the next day, their eyes would widen - and they would turn from her.

Today, however, she was bruise free and set to whip her silver-tongue at any poor stranger that passed her by.

“Hello, Ciaran.” She was familiar with the boy working the fruit stall. His father was a kind man, round-faced and short, and he had slipped her an apple or two in the past. Ciaran couldn’t have been older than fourteen, and unfortunately for him, Y/N no longer had the compassion to spare him the webs she could spin.

“Oh, hello,” A blush crept up his neck, “It’s been, um, it’s been a while. What can I do for you?”

Y/N leant her hands on the table, “Where’s your father?”

“He’s tending to mother this morning, but he knew he could trust me to handle the stall by myself.” He was fidgeting now, a hand toying with the seam of his trouser leg. He was a cute boy, and would undoubtedly grow up to be quite handsome, but he hadn’t yet grown out of his bashfulness.

“Could I get some fruit, Ciaran?” Y/N was looking down at the boy now. She used one hand to tuck her hair behind an ear, and cocked her head just slightly in his direction, “Surprise me with the selection.”

He quickly began packing different fruits into the bag she handed him, colours vibrant enough to make her mouth water. The summer was the only season slightly bearable in the village - their native crops bloomed and ripened perfectly, and even after recovering from a harsh winter, the anticipation of biting into a succulent plum almost made her forget the freezing of her toes just months before.

He’d packed the bag full, hands fumbling to pass it over to her quickly. She regarded the innocence on his face - the desperation to please, and simply reached into the satchel by her side, and faked a gasp.

“Oh, Ciaran,” Her lips quirked into a frown, “I don’t have enough coin. I’m sorry, you must take it back.”

And before she could thrust the bag in his direction, his hands were covering hers, “No, keep it. I insist.”

Y/N almost cringed at the sincerity in his gaze.

“Thank you so much,” She faked a teary gaze, “I’ll find a way to repay you.”

She sauntered off before he could get another word in, throwing the bag over her shoulder and moving onto her next conquest.

“Get back here, you wretched fucking thief!”

Y/N laughed loudly, winding through the bushes and trees, coins spilling out of her pockets. The raging man had been the one running a stall full of trinkets and jewellery. She’d never seen him, nor his stall, before at the market - so naturally she’d deduced that there would be no consequence for snatching as much as her hands could carry whilst he was distracted.

Her lungs burned and her thighs chafed but still she couldn’t stop running, and running, and running. This was the most fun she’d had in weeks, and the wind whipping through her hair created a thrill that she couldn’t stop chasing. Leaves crunched under her thundering steps - the first signs of autumn were more than welcome to her.

Something about the season had always felt special to her. She craved the turning of colours; from a harsh, bright green to the decadence of a chilly evening encompassed by amber hues and a light mist flowing through the street.

The girl was almost home now, running up the hill that led to the collection of cottages where her family resided. Finally as she crowned atop the grass, she noticed golden hair dancing in the wind. The strands escaping a loose braid that billowed down an armoured back, the usually tensed shoulders (now seemingly loose and dropped), and most importantly - the glaringly large bow.

“Feyre?”

Y/N’s sister was a blindingly beautiful girl. Two years her junior, Feyre had already grown out of her baby face and was beginning to look a lot like their mother. She smiled softly at the girl jogging up the hill, before turning back to gaze at the fields below.

“It’s early, what are you doing back?” Y/N stuffed as many jewels into her pockets as possible, and rested against the wood of the fence next to her sister.

“Caught a good one today,” Feyre shot a teasing look, “Nesta will find it very difficult to complain tonight.”

Y/N barked a laugh, “And, yet, she’ll still try.”

A comfortable silence blanketed the two.

“How was the market?” Feyre’s voice was quieter now - just a whisper among the wind. She was always this way with Y/N; she found she could be more comfortable, more daring, and there was never danger in the quiet - only peace.

Y/N didn’t take her eyes off the view.

“Boring. Busy. Oh, and I got these.”

Her sister gasped as Y/N pulled a handful of strawberries out of her woven bag. Feyre was quick to stuff them into her mouth, forming an illegible How?! around the fruit.

“That boy, Ciaran, at the fruit stall. Poor thing never saw me coming.” Y/N chuckled as she wiped juice from her sister’s chin.

“Well, exploitation of children’s feelings is fine by me if you keep this coming.”

The sisters shared a long, explosive laugh - that kind of infectious feeling that sticks around for an hour. They’d have to make their way home soon, before the wind picked up, but just for this moment - this second - they could forget. Forget what they’d be going home to, forget the cards they’d been dealt, forget all the things they could’ve been. Y/N’s thoughts didn’t drift to the dusty piano waiting for her, or the abandoned canvases in the kitchen.