Chapter Text
Sunlight streamed through the gossamer curtains of Elain's bedroom, casting a warm glow over the chaos within. Nuala and Cerridwen flitted about like shadows, their ethereal forms occasionally solidifying as they sorted through the various dresses, books, and trinkets scattered across the bed.
Elain stood before her wardrobe, fingers trailing over silken gowns and delicate lace as she contemplated what to bring for her stay in the Autumn Court. In truth, she did not know much about Autumn Court fashion, but she supposed it must be more conservative than what her sisters had grown accustomed to wearing in Velaris and certainly in the Hewn City.
While she was no prude, Elain felt no need to parade her body like that, especially not in front of the leering males that resided in the seat of the High Lord’s power.
"Perhaps the amber dress, my lady?" Nuala suggested, her wispy voice barely above a whisper. "It would complement the falling leaves."
Elain nodded, a soft smile gracing her lips. "Yes, and the russet shawl to go with it."
She placed the items carefully in her trunk, smoothing out any wrinkles.
Cerridwen appeared at her side, holding a pair of sturdy leather boots. "For walking in the woods, should you desire it."
“Thank you,” Elain murmured. "Do you think I'll need my gardening gloves?" She mused, holding up a pair of well-worn leather gloves. Her brow furrowed as she considered the unknown terrain of the Autumn Court. She usually preferred the feel the earth between her fingers while she gardened, but one could never be too careful.
She had heard tales of stinging worms and insects with pincers resided in the soils of the Summer Court, so who knows what sort of fire-bred creatures thrived elsewhere.
Nuala's smoky voice drifted through the air. "Better to be prepared, my lady. The Autumn Court is known for its vast forests and vibrant flora."
Cerridwen nodded in agreement, her misty form materialising beside her, handing Elain a delicate silver hairbrush. "And what of your gardens here, my lady? Shall we tend to them in your absence?"
Elain's eyes softened at the mention of her beloved gardens. "Would you? I'd hate to see them wither while I'm away." She paused, a hint of worry creeping into her voice. "Especially when I don’t know how long we’ll be visiting."
The wraiths exchanged a knowing glance, their smoky forms shimmering with concern. Elain pretended not to notice, busying herself with folding a few more dresses into her trunk.
"My lady," Nuala began hesitantly, "are you certain about this... arrangement? We were under the impression that you did not care for the Autumn Court prince.” The two wraiths had learned long ago not to refer to Lucien as her mate.
Elain's hands stilled on a pale blue gown.
A gentle breeze rustled the curtains, carrying with it the scent of blooming roses from her garden below. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, savouring the familiar fragrance before turning to face her handmaidens. Her friends.
"This isn't about Lucien," she said softly, but with a newfound conviction. "This is about me."
She moved to the window, pushing aside the curtains to gaze out at the sprawling city of Velaris. The Sidra glittered in the distance, a silver ribbon winding through the vibrant tapestry of the city she had come to call home.
“For so long, I’ve been defined by who I am to other people,” Elain continued, her voice growing stronger with each word. “My father’s favourite, Nesta’s little sister, Graysen’s fiancée, Lucien’s… well, you know.” She shook her head, golden-brown curls bouncing with the movement. “Maybe this trip will help me figure out who I am away from all of that, not anyone’s anything, just… me. Just Elain.”
Nuala and Cerridwen shared another glance, this time tinged with pride and a hint of sadness. They had watched Elain grow into herself, into her new Fae form, and now it seemed she was ready to spread her wings even further.
"We understand, my lady," Cerridwen said softly. "And we will support you in any way we can."
Elain turned back to them, a grateful smile lighting up her face. "Thank you, both of you. I don't know what I'd do without you." She paused, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "Besides, perhaps you could even coax the moonflowers to bloom while I'm away."
She smiled gratefully, reaching out to squeeze Cerridwen's hand. The wraith's form solidified just enough to return the gesture.
As she resumed packing, a knock sounded at the door. Feyre's voice called out, "Elain? Are you ready? Lucien is just in the foyer.”
Elain's heart skipped a beat. This was it. The moment she'd been both dreading and anticipating since she agreed to accompany Lucien last night. She took a deep breath and opened the door, finding her youngest sister standing there, wrapped in a soft cream jumper and black pants—a quiet reflection of the ease and contentment she had finally reclaimed after months of hardship and war.
"I'm ready," she said softly, smoothing down the front of her pale lavender dress. She glanced over her shoulder at her packed trunk, a symbol of the unknown journey that lay ahead. "Where’s Nesta? I thought she would be here to-" She trailed off as a familiar voice thundered up the stairs, sharp and unyielding as steel.
"It is out of the question! You know what your brothers are like, what your father is like. How can you even consider letting her anywhere near them?!"
Elain's heart sank. She had hoped for a peaceful departure, but it seemed Nesta had other plans. She exchanged a worried glance with Feyre, who winced and shook her head.
Together, they moved towards the grand staircase, its ornate railings twisting like vines beneath their hands. As they descended, Elain clutching at the beading on the front of her dress, the scene before them unfolded like a tempestuous painting.
Rhysand stood near the ornate fireplace, his violet eyes clouded with concern and apology. His wings were tucked tightly against his back, a telltale sign of his discomfort.
Beside him, Lucien shifted uneasily, his russet hair gleaming in the firelight as he tried to avoid Nesta's piercing glare. The golden eye whirred softly, its mechanisms seeming to echo the tension in the room.
But it was Nesta who commanded attention, her fury a palpable force that seemed to crackle in the air around her. Her steel-grey eyes blazed with righteous anger, her slender form vibrating with barely contained rage. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Nesta's gaze snapped to her, her sister's expression nearly making Elain stumble back.
"And you!" Nesta snarled, jabbing a finger in Elain's direction. "What on earth are you thinking? You don't even like him!"
Lucien winced visibly, his good eye flickering with hurt before he masked it behind a carefully neutral expression. His shoulders hunched slightly, and Elain felt a pang of sympathy despite herself.
Rhys stepped forward, his hands outstretched as though taming a wild beast. "Nesta," he said, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to her fiery outburst. "We need to calm down and remember that this is Elain's choice."
Nesta's laugh was cold and brittle. "Oh yes, Rhysand, we know - you're all about choices, aren't you, until it doesn't suit you," she spat, her lips curling into a sneer. “So tell me, how does sending my sister into that den of wolves serve the interests of the illustrious Night Court?”
Elain's cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration. She stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Nesta's arm. "Nesta, please," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not a child being sent away, I chose to go.”
“You don’t understand what you’re walking into. You've barely left the house since..." She trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. Since the Cauldron. Since the war. Since everything changed.
Elain felt a flicker of something unfamiliar stirring in her chest. Not fear, not uncertainty, but... determination. “I know you’re worried, but I need to do this. For myself.” She met Nesta's gaze, unflinching. "I can't hide away forever."
The room fell silent, all eyes on Elain. Even Nesta seemed taken aback by her sister's sudden assertion. Lucien shifted, his golden eye whirring as he studied Elain with a mixture of surprise and... was that admiration?
Feyre stepped forward, placing a supportive hand on Elain's shoulder. "Nesta, we've discussed this. The Autumn Court has extended an official invitation, and refusing it could be seen as an insult. Besides, Elain will have protection."
Nesta's eyes narrowed. "Protection? You mean him?" She jerked her chin towards Lucien, who stiffened.
"I give you my word, Nesta," he said, his voice low and earnest. "No harm will come to Elain while she's in my care. She'll be under my protection, and that of my-”
Nesta's lip curled. "Oh yes, because your family has such a sterling reputation for hospitality.”
“I am all too aware of my family’s… shortcomings.” Lucien flinched as if struck, his golden eye whirring faster. For a moment, raw pain flashed across his face before he schooled his features back into careful neutrality. “Which is precisely why I will ensure Elain’s safety personally,” he said, voice tight. “She will be treated with the utmost respect and care during her stay.”
For a moment, Elain wondered whether she was trading one gilded cage for another but as she watched Lucien, a male she had rejected time and time again, fighting her corner, for her to have the right to choose for herself, she felt a twinge of… something… at his words. Guilt? Gratitude? She couldn’t quite place it.
Despite her own mixed feelings about him, she knew he didn't deserve Nesta's venom. She stepped forward, placing herself between her sister and Lucien.
He turned to Elain, his mismatched eyes softening as they met hers. "I swear to you, on my life and whatever honour I have left, that no harm will come to you in the Autumn Court. You will be free to leave at any time, should you wish it."
Elain felt a flutter in her chest at the intensity of his gaze, the sincerity in his voice. She nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Thank you, Lucien. But it’s not me that needs convincing." She turned back to Nesta, who had opened her mouth to speak, but as she took in Elain’s determined stance, something in her expression softened ever so slightly.
“Fine,” she bit out. “But if anything happens to her, anything at all…”
Lucien nodded solemnly. "I would expect nothing less.”
"Well then," Rhysand interjected smoothly, breaking the tension. "Shall we see you off?"
Elain nodded, her heart racing as the reality of her decision began to sink in. She turned to Nuala and Cerridwen, who had materialised silently behind her. "My trunk?"
“Here, my lady.” Nuala replied softly, handing it to Lucien, who squirrelled it away in some pocket realm she had not yet quite figured out how to access herself.
Elain took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. "Well then, I suppose we should be on our way." She turned to Feyre, who enveloped her in a tight hug.
"Be safe," Feyre whispered. "And remember, you can come home anytime."
Elain nodded, blinking back tears as she pulled away. She faced Nesta, whose anger had faded to a simmering worry.
"Nesta, I-"
Before she could finish, Nesta pulled her into a crushing embrace. "You better write," she muttered fiercely. "Every day."
"I will," Elain promised, her voice muffled against Nesta's shoulder. “I’ll be okay, I promise.”
As they separated, Rhys stepped forward and flashed her an amused smirk. “Give them hell.” He said with a wink.
Elain only smiled at her brother-in-law, as he put his arm around Feyre who leaned into his touch like a flower seeking out the warmth of the midday sun.
A quick nod to Lucien who held out his hand, and in a flash of flame, they were gone.
It took a few stops to winnow from the Night Court to the borders of Autumn, where the pair were met with six sentries dressed in Autumn Court colours. Their thick wool uniforms seemed fit for the colder climate on the border with winter, but as they mounted up and rode further south, Elain noticed that the frigid cold turned into a pleasant chill.
The first thing she noticed was the vast array of colours. Feyre had once told her of the beauty of Beron’s domain - albeit she’d seen it under less welcoming circumstances - but it was an altogether different thing to see it for herself.
Golds, reds, browns, and oranges all blended in a tapestry of warmth that had her enthralled. She may not have been the artist in the family, but the wild, untamed forests and plants around her were like nature’s canvas, and she realised in that moment how small her world had been until now.
Lucien had been giving her a quick history lesson along with some advice on how to handle his family, his father and brothers in particular, and to try and never find herself alone with any of them, if possible. As they crossed a shallow stream, Elain turned to him, Nesta’s words from before haunting her conscience.
“What Nesta said earlier…” She began, faltering as he looked at her with what she could only describe as resignation. “It isn’t true.”
She watched as a flash of understanding crossed his face. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him, it was that she didn’t like him the way he wanted, the way she was supposed to.
Feyre and Rhys had tried to explain the mating bond to her once everything had settled down but it just felt like one more example of how she had been stripped of choice.
But no. She didn’t dislike him.
A small smile tugged at his lips. “Well, Lady, that’s certainly a good place to start.”
Elain couldn't help but marvel at the sights around her as their horses slowed down and walked gently towards the Forest House.
Her senses were overwhelmed with the scents of pine and wood smoke, the sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling underfoot, and the sight of lush forests and colourful foliage.
The Autumn Court gates yawned open, and the scent of burning leaves filled the crisp air. Gold and crimson leaves spiraled around them as if welcoming them into the fire itself.
Elain had thought Velaris was beautiful.
But Autumn was something else entirely—wild, untamed beauty, regal and harsh in equal measure. The palace was carved into the forest itself, the towering ironwood structure merging seamlessly with the land. But beneath the amber glow of the setting sun, it looked more like a trap than a home.
Lucien had gone rigid beside her as their horses trotted through the courtyard. He did not look at the guards who watched him with veiled contempt, no doubt bristling at the return of the traitorous seventh son. Neither did he look at the group of males waiting at the base of the grand staircase.
But Elain did.
Eight more sentries stood in a semi-circle, flanking a tall male who stood in the centre, unmoving, unreadable.
Eris.
She had met him before, but only from a distance, both during and after the war with Hybern but his attention had always been fixed elsewhere, either on fighting the enemy, on verbally sparring with Rhysand, or - most recently - on Nesta that night they danced in the Hewn City.
Eris was striking, as all High Fae males were, and as heir to his father’s court - a future High Lord - he exuded a sense of power that she had only ever experienced around her brother-in-law. One look at him and she knew his put-together appearance was intentional, ever the courtier, ever his father’s obedient son. If only Beron knew what treachery he plotted when visiting the Night Court. She silently wondered when he would finally strike.
The High Lord to be was dressed in a fine dark gold tunic and a long ember-red cloak, a fox fur mantle resting across his shoulders. His hair—a rich, burning auburn—caught the light, but it was his amber eyes that locked onto her. Not with curiosity, not with surprise, but with something closer to calculated indifference.
Lucien dismounted first, his russet eye hardening. “Eris.”
"Brother." Eris regarded him for a long moment before drawling, “I see you still know how to find your way home.”
The taunt landed.
Elain felt the tension in Lucien’s shoulders, the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. But instead of snapping back, Lucien turned to help her down from the horse, reaching his arms up to catch her.
But she did not need the help.
Elain slid from the saddle, landing lightly on her feet. Eris’s gaze flickered to her then.
She met his stare evenly.
And for a fraction of a second—barely even a moment—something flickered in his expression.
A note of recognition, a quiet acknowledgment. Not just for her beauty, which she had long been used to males noticing, but for something else. The way she stood a precise distance away from Lucien—not far enough to be openly rude, but enough that the gap was noticeable.
Eris tilted his head slightly, reminding Elain of a predator sizing up its prey.
Then he turned on his heel without a word and strode toward the palace doors.
Lucien exhaled, the tension in his frame barely loosening. “Well. That went about as expected.”
Elain only gathered her skirts and followed.
The palace doors groaned open, spilling them into a grand, cavernous hall lined with deep ironwood pillars. A thousand candles burned in the golden sconces, their flickering glow making the towering stained glass windows cast shifting pools of crimson, amber, and gold along the polished stone floor.
She let her gaze drift across the room, trying to take in every detail. The tapestries on the walls depicted great battles—Autumn warriors wreathed in flame, their blades cutting through enemies in the name of their High Lord. She wondered how much of it was real and how much was propaganda.
Eris did not slow as he strode forward, and Lucien’s steps beside Elain remained steady—controlled. Only the twitch of his fingers at his sides betrayed his tension.
The moment they stepped deeper into the room, Elain felt it.
Eyes.
Three imposing figures leaned against the edge of a massive oak table, each fair-skinned and sharp-featured, the family resemblance undeniable. Lucien’s surviving brothers.
She did not need their names to know exactly who they were.
Their laughter had died upon seeing her, their mirth twisting into something colder, more predatory.
Assessing. Weighing. Waiting.
The eldest of them, a male with close-cropped auburn hair and a jagged scar down the side of his neck, smirked as his gaze dragged over her like she was something to be consumed.
The one beside him—a darker-haired male with high, sculpted cheekbones and a mouth full of quiet mockery—whistled softly.
Elain felt her skin crawl under their scrutiny, but she kept her chin high and her gaze steady. She would not cower before these males, no matter how they looked at her. She did not know much aside from their reputation for debauchery and cruelty, and the fact that they had once threatened Feyre. That was quite enough in itself.
The third brother, lean and wiry with a shock of copper hair, pushed off from the table and sauntered towards them. His amber eyes, so similar to Eris's, glinted with malicious amusement.
"Well, well," he drawled, circling Elain like a wolf sizing up its prey. “The prodigal son returns home with his mate. And what a pretty little thing she is.”
Lucien tensed beside her, his hand twitching towards the sword at his hip. "Back off, Calix," he growled, low and warning.
Calix’s grin only widened, revealing teeth that seemed just a touch too sharp. "Oh come now, little Lucien, don't be so touchy. We're just getting acquainted with our new sister-in-law."
Elain felt a chill run down her spine at those words. Sister-in-law. As if the mating bond had already been accepted, as if her choices didn't matter. She opened her mouth to speak, but before Elain could find her voice, the dark-haired brother stepped forward, his movements as fluid and graceful as a dancing flame.
"Now, now, Calix," he purred, his voice smooth as honey but with an underlying edge that made Elain's skin prickle. "Where are your manners? That's no way to welcome a lady. After all, we are nothing if not... hospitable."
"I'm Sevan," he said, bowing with exaggerated flourish. "And I must say, you're far lovelier than the rumours suggested.”
The final brother raised his eyebrows. “You really mean to tell me this slip of a girl took down the King of Hybern?” He raised a hand to his chin as if studying her. “Poor thing looks terrified.”
“Like a lamb to the slaughter.” Sevan crooned. “Though if I recall, it was the sister tangled up with that Illyrian brute who struck the killing blow. It seems you Archerons have a penchant for bringing powerful males to their knees." His smile sharpened, voice dripping with unspoken meaning. "I’d much prefer to see you on yours."
His eyes, the colour of burnished copper, raked over Elain's form, lingering on the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts beneath her dress. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face, revealing his sharp teeth.
Calix took a step back, nodding in agreement. "Draped in that? Gods, she may as well be on her knees already." He let out a harsh laugh, his lips curling upwards. "Not that it's a surprise—Night Court whores do love to put on a show."
Lucien stepped forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Elain.
"You will show Lady Elain the respect she deserves, or—"
"Or what, little brother?" the eldest sneered, pushing off from the table. “Are you going to cut another one of us down?”
Calix sneered. “Calm down, Vale. Our brother doesn’t stand a chance without Tamlin by his side. And once we kill him, who will there be to protect his little mate from Sevan’s attention?”
Elain’s cheeks heated, a mix of anger and mortification clawing at her, but she refused to waver. She would not let these males intimidate her. Drawing herself up to her full height, she fixed them with a steely gaze that would have made Nesta proud.
"I assure you, I do not need protecting," she said, her voice cool and steady. "And I would prefer it if you addressed me directly, rather than speaking about me as if I were not present."
A flicker of surprise passed over the brothers' faces, quickly masked by amusement. Sevan's grin widened, a predatory glint in his eyes.
"Oh, she has fire," he purred. "I like that in a female." Sevan smirked, licking his lips. “Tell me, sweet thing–” his smirk turned downright filthy as he ran a finger up her arm, "do you burn just as hot when you're underneath your mate? Or perhaps you'd like to find out if all Vanserras fuck like we have fire in our blood."
Elain's spine stiffened at Sevan's words, her mind racing to formulate a response that was neither too meek nor too combative. But before she could speak, Eris's cold voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"Enough."
He hadn't raised his voice, but the power behind that single word was unmistakable. Elain watched as Sevan immediately stepped back, his playful demeanour evaporating, and Calix’s expression quickly smoothing into careful neutrality.
Even the scarred brother by the table straightened slightly.
Eris moved to stand before them, his amber eyes sweeping over the scene with cool disdain. "You forget yourselves. She is our guest.” His voice was low and dangerous when he spoke.
Something unspoken crackled between them. A challenge, but none of the brothers pushed back.
Eris’s eyes flitted to Elain, his gaze assessing as if deciding whether she was a potential ally or an enemy.
She felt the weight of his eyes pressing against her skin, but she did not shrink. Perhaps she should have.
"My apologies, Lady Elain, for my brothers' lack of manners. I assure you, such behaviour will not be tolerated during your stay."
Elain met his gaze steadily, chin lifted. "Thank you, Lord Eris.
A flicker of something—perhaps surprise or intrigue—passed through Eris's eyes before he turned back to his brothers. "Leave us. Now."
The three males exchanged glances but didn't argue. As they filed out, Sevan paused by Elain, leaning in close enough that she could feel his hot breath on her ear.
"Until next time, little flower," he murmured, his voice a silky promise that sent a chill down her spine.
Lucien growled low in his throat but they hastened their exit as the double doors behind the dais swung open, revealing Beron entering the throne room and ascending the steps to his throne.
Beron Vanserra had the look of a man who had never been denied anything.
His crown of twisted ironwood glinted dully in the candlelight, its jagged peaks echoing the ridges of his sharp cheekbones. Though his hair had begun to silver, his body remained strong, unbent by time. Eyes like banked embers studied them from his throne, where he sat with one leg slung casually over the other, a wolf who knew he did not need to bare his teeth to command fear.
Lucien stopped at the base of the dais, spine rigid.
“Father,” he greeted coolly.
It should have bothered him that Beron did not respond. Did not so much as acknowledge him.
But what bothered Lucien more is that his father’s gaze was already elsewhere, landing resolutely on Elain.
Something shifted in the atmosphere.
It was a slow, deliberate perusal. Not lascivious, not leering, but something worse. Something thoughtful.
The look of a male who had just been presented with an unpolished gemstone, assessing how best to carve it into a jewel.
Elain did not falter. She did not even bow. She merely inclined her head, slow and measured, before raising her honey brown eyes to look at the striking female gliding into the room moments later, her movements as fluid and graceful as an autumn leaf caught in a gentle breeze.
This, then, must be the Lady of the Autumn Court. Lucien's mother.
Her hair was the colour of burnished copper, cascading down her back in loose waves. Her eyes, a warm amber flecked with gold, held a depth of wisdom and sorrow that made Elain's heart clench. She had heard the rumours of the poor treatment the lady was subject to, but it gave Elain some comfort as she saw the twinges of a smile crossing her face when Lucien and his mother’s eyes met.
Eris stood at her side, his gaze flitting between her and his brother, whom she had not seen properly in centuries. The last time had been Under the Mountain, and those had been far from ideal circumstances.
The silence was oppressive until Beron finally leaned back in his throne and said, “How fortunate we are to be blessed with such rare company.”
The words were meant for her, but Beron’s gaze flicked to Lucien at last. His mouth curled.
“You and your mate will dine with me tonight,” he said simply.
Not an invitation. No veiled attempt at reconciliation. It was a command, as though he and Elain were one of Eris’s prized smokehounds.
Lucien stiffened, but nodded. “As you wish.”
Beron only smiled before dismissing them with a flick of his wrist.
It was not until they turned to leave that Elain felt Eris fall in step beside her.
But Beron called after them, and when Eris and Lucien paused just before the throne room doors, Elain remained oblivious—too drawn in by the sheer beauty of the throne room.
It was carved from ancient ironwood, grown over centuries to shape itself into a great, twisting structure, its branches still alive, its leaves glimmering with veins of gold. A throne quite literally born of the forest.
Beron, however, had eyes only for Lucien.
His voice was barely more than a murmur, yet the weight of it pinned Lucien in place.
“I must say,” Beron mused, tilting his head in contemplation, “for a mated pair, you two seem rather... distant.”
Lucien went rigid.
Eris cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. "Father, if there's nothing else, perhaps we should allow our guests to settle in before dinner."
Beron smiled, before turning his attention back toward Lucien. “I do hope, for your sake, that this was not a wasted opportunity.”
Then he waved a dismissive hand again, the parallels to Eris’s hounds uncanny.
Eris, to his credit, said nothing. He simply watched as his father twisted the blade, as Lucien’s jaw ticked in barely suppressed fury, and he watched Elain who, at last, turned back toward them - oblivious to the threat that had just been made.
Then, without another word, Eris led them out.