Chapter Text
I was reading A Court of Silver Flames again. Pages stained with old tears, words half-blurred from where my fingers had lingered too long on the same lines. Lines I had highlighted in different colors: blue for moments that made me ache with longing, pink for passages that brought tears to my eyes, and orange—always orange—for the rare, precious mentions of the Autumn Court prince. Bottles littered the floor around me, their contents long gone—cheap, burning alcohol that did nothing to quiet the ache beneath my ribs.
I didn't know when I'd started slipping. When everything around me had dulled and blurred. But recently, the only time anything mattered was when I was asleep.
Because in my dreams... he was there.
The fae male with wildfire in his hair and shadows in his eyes. The Autumn Court prince. Red-haired, sharp-tongued, hardly spoken of in the books—but enough that I'd fallen. Not for what the story told me, but for what I saw when I closed my eyes.
He would stand just out of reach, always watching me from beneath flame-colored leaves, golden eyes flickering with something I could never name. Sometimes, he'd reach for me—fingers brushing air, as if trying to touch me across a world neither of us understood. But I always woke before he spoke. Always before I could hear his voice.
I wanted to live in my dreams. Not in this reality where everything felt hollow, where every touch fell short. But in that world where he existed, where I could feel the warmth of his presence that no real touch had ever given me.
So I drank. I read. I sank.
And when I downed the last of the bottle and slumped against my bed, the world blurred—room spinning, heart numb, soul flickering out at the edges.
Then a voice—soft and unfamiliar—echoed in my ears.
"I'm sorry, child. I should not have kept you two apart. But with this... perhaps he can help you find your way."
My eyes snapped open. But my bedroom was already fading.
Just a flash of light—too bright to bear—and then everything was nothing .
I must be hallucinating, I thought. Must be dreaming again. That was all this could be.
And yet... I didn't wake.
The darkness gave way to a crisp autumn breeze carrying the scent of fallen leaves and wood smoke. My fingers no longer clutched a book but pressed against cool earth. And somewhere nearby, I could hear the rustle of footsteps approaching through the forest.
I was no longer in my world.
I was in Prythian. I just didn't know it yet.
Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court—and next in line for the throne, if his father didn't kill him first .
He was on his way to train with his hounds when he felt it. A shift in the wards— his wards—woven through the eastern borders near the edge of Summer territory. That pulse of magic shouldn't have been possible.
Someone had slipped through.
He frowned, slowing his steps. The wards were layered, reinforced—nearly impossible to breach without detection. And yet… something had triggered them. Not violently. Not like a warrior charging through. More like… a ripple. A whisper through the trees.
It wasn't the Shadowsinger. He would've felt that cold, precise signature a mile away.
No, this was something else. Something strange.
With a sharp whistle, he summoned his hounds. They surged toward the disturbance like smoke through trees—silent, deadly, disciplined.
If it was a spy, or someone foolish enough to flee Autumn's grip, they wouldn't get far. His hounds would see to that.
But even as he moved through the forest, firelight flickering beneath his skin, Eris couldn't shake the sense that whatever had slipped through the wards wasn't trying to escape.
It was being delivered .
Eris followed the trail of disturbed magic, each step measured, careful. The forest around him seemed to hold its breath—the usual whisper of leaves unnaturally quiet. Even the hounds, trained to be silent predators, were unusually tense, their muscles coiled tight beneath sleek fur.
Something about this felt wrong. Or perhaps... too right.
He slowed as they approached a small clearing, raising one hand to halt his hounds. There, crumpled against the mossy ground, lay a figure.
A female. Small. Dressed in strange clothing.
But something was not right about her.
His wards were meticulous, crafted over decades to detect even the slightest intrusion. And yet there was no trace of how she'd arrived—
The female stirred, a soft sound escaping her lips.
For reasons he couldn't explain, Eris signaled the hounds to stay back. But they circled around her. He approached alone first, his steps silent on the carpet of autumn leaves. Power thrummed beneath his skin, ready to unleash at the first sign of threat.
But as he drew closer, he realized there was no threat here. Just confusion—and something else. Something that made his ancient blood run cold.
She smelled wrong . Not just as a fae in wrong territory, but impossible -wrong. Like paper and ink and strange chemicals he couldn't name. Like a world that shouldn't exist alongside his own.
Eris crouched beside her. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow. Blonde hair spilled across the forest floor, delicate fae ears poking through the golden strands. And yet, her features were subtly different than any fae he'd encountered. She looked... fragile. Breakable in a way that made his fingers itch to reach out, to see if she would shatter at his touch.
Instead, he extended his senses, searching for a trace of the magic that had brought her here. Nothing. Not even the residual signature of a portal or spell.
One of the hounds whined softly, breaking his concentration.
"Quiet," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper.
The female's eyelids fluttered.
Eris went still, watching as her consciousness returned. He could kill her now—should kill her, before she saw him, before whatever scheme had brought her here could unfold. That's what his father would do. What was expected of the heir to Autumn's cruel throne.
And yet, he found himself waiting.
He wanted to see her eyes when they opened. To see if they held answers— or more questions he didn’t yet know he was asking.
The hounds behind him shifted restlessly. Magic sparked at his fingertips.
And the female opened her eyes. Honey brown—a color he'd never seen on fae. It was close to hazel but not quite, more similar to his own golden eyes but warmer, richer. Like amber caught in sunlight.
I felt the ground beneath me first.
Not the threadbare carpet of my apartment, but something soft and damp. Moss. Leaves. Earth that smelled of decay and renewal. The kind of scent that couldn't be manufactured, couldn't be bottled and sold as a "forest breeze" candle.
For a moment, I kept my eyes closed, certain that when I opened them, I'd find myself back in my bedroom, surrounded by empty bottles and dog-eared books. That the fleeting sensation of breeze against my skin was just my ceiling fan, the scent of autumn just another hallucination.
My head pounded, a dull ache that spread from my temples to the base of my skull. Either the worst hangover of my life, or...
I forced my eyes open, blinking against the dappled sunlight filtering through a canopy of red and gold. Trees. So many trees. Stretching upward, impossibly tall, their trunks wider than any I'd seen outside of redwood forests. But these weren't redwoods. These were maples, oaks, aspens— autumn trees, their leaves turned to fire.
Then I saw him—the most beautiful man I had ever seen. Wine-red hair pulled back in a ponytail and eyes like molten gold. He crouched before me, watching with an expression I couldn't read.
I scrambled backward, but froze at the sound of something stepping on fallen branches. Behind me stood a creature—like a dog but larger than any I had ever seen. Its fangs bared, ready to pounce, a low growl rumbling from its chest.
"This isn't real," I whispered, my voice sounding thin and hollow in the vast silence of the woods. "This is just a dream. A really detailed, really fucked-up dream."
But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true. Dreams didn't have this kind of dimension—didn't smell of moss and loam, didn't prick your skin with cold air or fill your lungs with unfamiliar sweetness. Dreams didn't make your heart race with a terror so visceral you could taste it metallic on your tongue.
I tried to get away, but the beasts were all around me. Nowhere to go. I swayed slightly as my vision swam. Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to do? There was no instruction manual for being transported to another world, no WikiHow article on "So You've Been Magically Abducted to a Fantasy Realm."
A sound behind me—the snap of a twig, so slight I almost missed it. Another male appeared, with the same red hair but cut short. He said something to the first one, who stood up and responded angrily.
That's when I noticed something else—something I hadn't felt in the shock of waking in a new world.
My fingertips were tingling with an unfamiliar energy. My skin felt different—not just goosebumped from the chill, but somehow more . As if a layer of myself had been peeled away, revealing something luminous beneath.
I looked down at my hands, expecting to see them trembling.
Instead, I saw delicate, tapered fingers. Stronger than they'd been before. And at the tips... the faintest glow of power. I touched my ears frantically, and my eyes widened as I felt them—pointed at the tips like a fae from all the fanarts and TikTok videos I'd watched.
This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real. But the world beneath my hands was moss, not carpet—and the golden-eyed male staring at me was not a hallucination.
As I looked at the man who I saw first, I realized who he was.
Eris Vanserra of the Autumn Court.
No, this couldn't be happening. I couldn't be in Prythian. It wasn't a real place.
Yet here I was.
Chapter Text
She was awake now.
Eris watched as awareness flickered across her features—not full consciousness, but enough. Her eyes darted wildly from tree to tree, to his hounds, then finally landing on him with a mixture of confusion and unmistakable terror. The shadow of understanding passed behind her eyes, followed immediately by something that made his spine stiffen.
Recognition. Then betrayal.
But that was impossible. He had never seen this female before in his life.
One thing became increasingly clear to Eris as he studied her: she did not belong here.
Her scent alone confirmed it—strange and foreign, threaded with smoke and something ancient that he couldn't place. The power simmering beneath her skin flickered at her fingertips like unformed clay, as if the magic hadn't yet decided what she was meant to become. Or perhaps, more unsettling still, as if it were adapting to this place.
Eris's jaw clenched. This was no ordinary fae. No ordinary anything.
The snap of a twig broke his concentration. He didn't need to look—he'd felt his brother's presence before hearing him. The familiar scent of pine and arrogance drifted through the clearing seconds before his younger brother stepped into view. His hair was shorter than usual, but the same red flame ran in his blood. None of Eris's control, though. Never that.
His brother took in the scene with a slow, deliberate smirk that had always meant trouble.
"Well, well," the male drawled, voice rich with amusement. "What did you find, brother? A little stray?"
Eris didn't answer. Any response would only encourage him.
His brother's gaze slid to the female now seated on the ground, her breathing shallow, her form trembling visibly. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable—the same hunger their father would show, but cruder, less refined.
"Does she even know where she is?" A laugh escaped his throat, sharp and mocking. "Maybe I should take her to Father. He'll be very interested in this one."
Eris's head snapped toward him, a growl building low in his chest. "No."
A single word. Low. Controlled. Lethal.
His brother raised a brow, surprise flashing across his features. "No? You want her for yourself, then?" He stepped closer, gaze narrowing as he assessed Eris with newfound curiosity. "You think Father won't notice a strange fae appeared in our territory?"
"She didn't breach our territory," Eris said coolly, the lie forming easily on his tongue. "She was delivered."
That made his brother pause, uncertainty creeping into his expression.
Eris didn't give him time to speak again. He stepped forward and—before she could scramble away—reached down, grabbed her firmly, and hauled her over his shoulder. Not too gently, either. A necessary show of dominance, both for his brother and for whatever creatures might be watching from the shadows.
She gasped, struggling against him with surprising strength. He ignored it, tightening his grip as she twisted on his shoulder. She hissed foreign words at him—words he didn't know, didn't recognize, but didn't need to. Her tone made the meaning perfectly clear.
Not begging. Not afraid.
Angry.
He felt her magic spark against his skin in response to her emotion—wild and flickering, still unshaped, still unclaimed—but burning beneath her skin with unmistakable potential. The sensation sent an unexpected chill down his spine. Power recognized power, and hers called to something within him he'd thought long buried.
Whatever she was, she was not tame.
And she was certainly not pleased.
"She's mine," he said sharply, voice like a blade unsheathed. The words surprised even him—possessive and absolute.
His brother blinked. "What?"
Eris met his gaze without flinching, allowing his power to rise slightly to the surface—a silent warning. "I will take her to Father."
The words hung between them—a promise and a dismissal. This is not your concern.
His brother hesitated, then nodded with visible reluctance. "I hope you know what you're doing, Eris." The words carried a weight of doubt, perhaps even concern, unusual for his typically callous sibling.
But he followed behind Eris nonetheless, keeping pace as the female wore herself out struggling against Eris's iron grip. Her movements grew less frantic but no less determined, and when Eris glanced down, the fury in her eyes made something inside him shift uncomfortably.
She looked at him not as a stranger, but as someone who had betrayed her trust. As if she had expected better of him. As if she knew him.
That made Eris falter, his stride breaking momentarily before he forced himself to continue forward. A question formed in his mind, one he couldn't dismiss no matter how he tried.
Why did she look at him as if she knew exactly who he was?
And why did some buried part of him feel as though he should know her too?
I had stopped fighting against his grip as he walked. This wasn't what I expected if I ever met Eris Vanserra from my dreams. In my fantasies, he would have treated me kindly. Instead, I only simmered in anger. They were probably taking me to Beron. Well, better to die than go back to my pitiful existence.
The trees parted, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. I let out a gasp as I felt Eris shift beneath me.
What came into view wasn't a palace—it was something older, more primal. A structure carved from the cliffs and coaxed from the land itself, nestled so seamlessly into the mountain it looked as though the stone had cracked open just to cradle it. Towers rose in uneven tiers, golden stone and polished wood entwined with spiraling roots and ivy, as if the forest had tried to swallow it whole—and failed, becoming part of it instead.
Waterfalls spilled from high ridges, tumbling past vine-covered arches and winding balconies. The sound echoed through the air—a low, steady whisper that wrapped around the palace like a heartbeat. Leaves drifted on the breeze, amber and rust-colored, carried by wind that smelled of cedar, smoke, and spice.
A colossal tree grew through part of the structure—its roots twisting around stairwells and doorways, its branches arching high, crowned in flame-tipped leaves. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in golden shafts, casting shifting patterns across carved doors and stained-glass windows that glowed with warm, flickering light.
It didn't look built. It looked summoned—shaped by time, magic, and something older than either.
It was stunning.
And it terrified me.
I'd never seen anything so impossibly beautiful—and yet, it didn't feel welcoming. It felt watchful. Alive. Like the house itself was aware of me. Judging me. Deciding whether to accept me… or devour me.
In my dreams, I thought bitterly, the Autumn Court had always seemed softer. Warmer. Glowing. But this was flame and stone and root and sky—a throne carved into the world itself.
It wasn't warm.
It was waiting.
Eris shifted my weight, not that I was heavy, but almost like he was preparing himself for something. The other red-haired male had disappeared into another corridor when we entered. He had looked colder, like he wanted to get rewarded himself for bringing me to Beron.
We were still walking when we came to a door—tall, carved, and dark as old blood.
Eris knocked three times. Not demanding, but firm—controlled, deliberate.
Silence followed. Long enough that tension coiled in my spine, heavy and cold.
Then a voice answered.
I didn't understand the words, but I didn't need to. The sound of it alone was enough to make my skin crawl—low and cruel, threaded with something sharp that scraped beneath my bones.
I knew who it was.
The High Lord of Autumn—Beron Vanserra.
Eris opened the door and stepped inside.
I don't know what I expected. Some grand throne room, maybe—something extravagant and cold, just like in all the fics I'd read. But it wasn't that. It was a study. Quiet. Shelves of old books lined the walls, the scent of ink and dust thick in the air, curling beneath the ever-present burn of firewood.
And then Eris dropped me—unceremoniously, like I was something beneath him.
I hit the floor hard, knees stinging, breath catching in my throat.
At his feet, and directly in front of me, sat the High Lord of Autumn.
Beron.
He was... horrifying in a way that had nothing to do with monstrous features or twisted power. He looked like he could've been in his thirties—tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp-boned face and golden eyes like Eris's, but colder, crueler, devoid of anything resembling mercy.
But everything in me knew I should be afraid of him.
It radiated from him like poison. Not just power, but control. Brutality wrapped in silk. The kind of presence that didn't need to raise his voice to make you bleed.
I scrambled back on instinct, but Eris moved behind me, cutting off any escape.
There was nowhere to go.
Nowhere to run.
Eris and Beron began speaking—their words falling around me like shards of ice. I couldn't understand a single syllable, the language foreign and ancient to my ears, but their tones told me everything I needed to know. The cadence of their voices rose and fell like a tide—Eris's measured and tense, Beron's sharp and cutting.
Beron's gaze flicked to me, his eyes narrowing to golden slits. He gestured toward me with a dismissive flick of his fingers, his voice dropping to something that sounded like a command. Whatever he said made Eris stiffen slightly behind me.
I pressed myself backward, inching closer to Eris's feet. Not because I trusted him, but because in this moment, he seemed the lesser of two evils. Their conversation continued, words exchanged in that strange, beautiful, terrifying language. Though I couldn't comprehend them, I understood their meaning all too well.
They were deciding my fate. And from the cold smile spreading across Beron's face, whatever they had planned, I wouldn't like it.
The female trembled at Beron's feet, her fear a palpable thing that scented the air with jasmine and thunder. Good. Fear might keep her alive a little longer in this court of predators.
"She breached the eastern wards," Eris said in the Old Fae, keeping his voice cool and detached as befitted the heir to the Autumn Court. "Appeared out of nowhere—no scent trail, no magic signature. My hounds found her wandering near the boundary stones." His gaze flickered briefly to her strange attire—the fitted jeans, loose blouse, and flat shoes unlike anything worn in their realm. He'd been surprised her shoes hadn't fallen off when he carried her through the forest.
His father's eyes never left the female, assessing her like a predator sizing up prey. The ember-glow in Beron's dark irises intensified—that familiar, dangerous gleam that meant someone would soon bleed. The room itself seemed to hold its breath.
"Impossible," Beron replied, his voice deceptively soft as velvet stretched over steel. "No one breaches my wards without my knowledge. No one." A small flame danced across his knuckles as his fingers curled into a fist.
The temperature in the study surged. The fire in the hearth—always burning in the heart of the Autumn Court—roared higher, flames licking dangerously close to the mantle, responding to Beron's darkening mood. Eris kept his face carefully blank as the wooden panels of the walls began to smoke slightly, heat warping the air between them in deadly warning.
"And yet she did," Eris replied, gesturing to the female cowering at his feet. His eyes glinted with practiced cruelty—the mask he'd perfected over centuries. "She speaks a language I've never heard. And she knew my name."
That last part seized his father's full attention. Beron's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Eris's with savage intensity that would have made lesser fae dissolve into shadows.
"What did you say?" The words were barely more than a whisper, but they carried the weight of centuries of paranoia.
Eris didn't flinch under his stare. He'd long since learned that showing weakness before his father only invited more of his particular brand of cruelty.
"She recognized me," Eris said calmly, though his heart betrayed him with a quickened beat he masked with centuries of practice. "Called me by name. Called Rhaiven by name too when he appeared to investigate. She seems to know things about our court that no outsider should."
Beron rose from his chair slowly, the movement predatory and graceful despite his sturdy build. Magic crackled around him, fire and shadow intertwining—a warning none in their court could misinterpret. The female must have sensed the danger too—she pressed herself against Eris's legs, as if seeking protection from the very male who had dragged her here.
Ironic. And futile.
"You should have brought her directly to the dungeons," Beron snarled, circling his desk with the measured pace of a hunter. Sparks fell from his fingers, singeing the carpet beneath his feet. "Not paraded her through my home like some trophy."
"I thought you'd want to interrogate her personally." Eris kept his voice neutral, a careful mask over his true intentions. "Given the unprecedented breach in security." He flicked his wrist dismissively toward the female, a gesture of disdain that concealed the calculation beneath.
The truth was he'd brought her straight to Beron because he knew the dungeons would mean her immediate death. Here, at least, his father's curiosity might keep her breathing a bit longer. Long enough for Eris to figure out what she was and how she'd managed to slip through protections that had stood for millennia.
Beron stopped before her, then crouched down, bringing his face level with hers. The movement was almost gentle, a terrifying contrast to the power radiating from him. He spoke in the common tongue, his voice dangerously soft.
"What are you?"
The female's eyes—a color Eris still couldn't quite name—widened with confusion and fear. She didn't understand. Or was pretending not to.
Beron switched to another language, ancient syllables rolling off his tongue. "How did you cross my borders?"
Again, no comprehension flickered in her eyes. Just raw terror that made her scent sharper, stronger.
Beron's patience—what little he possessed—was already wearing thin. He grabbed her chin, fingers digging cruelly into her skin, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises. The female's delicate pointed ears flattened against her head, a primal response to the threat before her.
"I said, how did you breach my wards?" he growled, sending a pulse of magic through his fingers. The female cried out, the sound laced with genuine pain and confusion that even Eris couldn't dismiss as artifice. Her skin reddened where Beron's fingers pressed, tiny blisters forming as his heat seeped into her flesh.
"She doesn't understand you," Eris said flatly, forcing indifference into his tone. "I've tried five languages already. She responds to none of them." He allowed a flicker of contempt to cross his features—not for the female, but for the situation. A subtle redirect of his father's growing rage.
His father released her with a disgusted shove that sent her sprawling. He turned to Eris, his face a mask of cold rage that had made High Lords think twice about crossing him.
"Then we'll have to find other ways to make her talk," he said, returning to the Old Fae. "Take her to the western tower. Post guards. I'll send Balthazar to extract whatever secrets she's hiding."
Eris kept his expression carefully blank even as dread settled in his stomach like a stone. Balthazar's methods of extracting information were infamous within their court—and horrific beyond measure. The female wouldn't survive an hour under his attention, and whatever knowledge she carried would die with her.
"I could bring her to the Night Court," Eris suggested, his tone implying nothing more than practical consideration, though the words themselves were blasphemy in his father's study. "Rhysand could use his daemati powers to extract the truth directly from her mind, regardless of language barriers. If she's a spy for Brylynn, we need accurate information, not whatever lies she might invent to stop the pain."
Beron's eyes narrowed, seeing through Eris's suggestion to the mercy that lay beneath it. His lip curled in disgust—whether at the suggestion itself or the weakness he perceived in his son, Eris couldn't tell. A tendril of flame snaked around his wrist, coiling like a living thing. His gaze drifted to the female's strange clothing once more—the fabric and cut unlike anything in their realm, further evidence of her foreignness.
"And give Rhysand access to a potential weapon that breached my wards?" He circled back to his desk, his decision made. "You think I'd hand such knowledge to that arrogant prick who'd use it against me at the first opportunity? No, Balthazar will break through whatever enchantment shields her mind and tongue. If there's anything to know, he'll extract it before the female dies."
He glanced at the female again, and Eris saw calculation replacing anger in his gaze—a look far more dangerous. The female had curled into herself, shoulders hunched and body tense—the kind of posture that spoke of a life spent avoiding notice.
"Besides, if she somehow breached my wards... imagine what else she might be capable of. We need to understand how, in case others attempt the same. She could be from Hybern, testing our defenses."
Eris considered his next words carefully, weighing each one like the double-edged blades they were. "I could make a bargain with Rhysand instead," he said, his voice measured. "Or better yet, with his mate. She's shown herself... amenable to such arrangements in the past. Unlike Rhysand, she wouldn't be seeking to gather intelligence on our court. She'd simply extract what we need to know."
Beron's nostrils flared at the suggestion, and heat rippled through the air between them. The fireplace roared suddenly, flames lunging outward before retreating. "You presume much, Eris. Your alliance with the Night Court doesn't give you the authority to make such decisions."
"Of course not, father," Eris replied smoothly, bowing his head in feigned deference. Beneath the gesture, he assessed the female from the corner of his eye. Something about her magic signature was... wrong. Different. Not like any faerie he'd encountered in his long existence. "Just offering an option. Balthazar will break her before she realizes what's happening, and any secrets she had will be lost forever."
Beron's eyes narrowed slightly at the logic, prey to the trap of his own paranoia. A calculated silence stretched between them as he studied his son's face, searching for any hint of deception or hidden agenda. Eris kept his expression neutral, a skill honed by centuries of survival in his father's shadow.
"I will... consider it," Beron finally said, the concession clearly painful for him to make. The flames in the hearth bent toward him, as if seeking approval. "Take her to the holding cells for now. Not the tower. Keep her isolated and under guard. I want to know more about how she breached our wards before I decide her fate."
It wasn't much, but it was a reprieve—however temporary. A few more hours of life for the female. A few more hours for Eris to unravel this mystery.
Beron waved a dismissive hand. "Get her out of my sight. And Eris?" His voice dropped to that silken tone that always preceded his most dangerous commands.
Eris paused at the door, the female stumbling as he yanked her to her feet, his grip cruelly tight around her slender wrist. Her warmth pressed against his side, a trembling contrast to the cold calculation he maintained.
"Find Rhaiven. If she knew both your names, I want to know if she recognized any other members of this court." He tapped a finger against his desk, claws emerging just enough to scrape the polished wood—a sound that echoed like a death knell. "And reinforce the eastern border. If one stranger found a way through, others could follow. I want scouts deployed and the shadow-sentries doubled."
"Yes, father," Eris replied, his voice the perfect mask of obedience that had kept him alive all these centuries. "I'll see to it immediately." He gave the female's arm a cruel twist for his father's benefit, drawing a whimper from her lips.
He steered her out of the study, maintaining his bruising grip until they were several corridors away. She stumbled alongside him, her breathing quick and panicked. The scent of her fear filled his senses, along with something else—something he couldn't quite place. Not just terror, but... determination?
In the dimly lit corridor, away from Beron's watchful gaze, Eris leaned close to her ear. He knew she wouldn't understand, but perhaps his tone would convey what his words could not.
"Listen carefully," he murmured, softening his grip slightly but keeping his features hard and cold. The walls in the Autumn Court had eyes—and his father's spies were everywhere. "Your life hangs by a thread. One wrong move, one sound, and not even I can save you from what comes next."
Her eyes widened. Something flashed there. Not just fear. Recognition, perhaps? Understanding beyond the barrier of language? She held his gaze for a moment too long, with a courage that didn't match her trembling body.
Smart female. But intelligence alone wouldn't save her from Balthazar or Beron's wrath.
Eris had hours, at most, before his father changed his mind. Hours to unravel the mystery of how she breached their borders, what she knew of their court, and why fate had delivered her to his hands instead of his brothers'.
Hours to decide if she was worth saving.
And if so, what price he was willing to pay.
Despite everything, she still had that look in her eye—not just fear, but something else. Almost like... disappointment. In him. But why? She feared his father—any sane creature would—but with Eris, her gaze held something different. As if she expected more from him. As if she knew him in some way he couldn't fathom. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
And for the first time in years, Eris wondered if he was becoming the very thing she already believed him to be.
I was being dragged by Eris Vanserra.
The name I'd whispered to myself countless times as I traced his rare mentions in the books. The character I'd dreamed about night after night. The prince whose imagined voice had been my only comfort when everything else felt hollow.
But why was he being so cruel to me?
Even if he had just met me—why like this? Why take me to Beron, of all people? In the stories I clung to, in the words I'd read a hundred times over, he wasn't cruel. He had protected Mor, hadn't he? He wasn't like the others. He wasn't like this.
I had spent so many nights defending him to myself, creating elaborate explanations for his actions in the books. I'd convinced myself he was misunderstood, that beneath that cold exterior was someone worth loving. Someone who made hard choices for good reasons. Someone whose heart, if I could just reach it, would be worth all the pain. I'd even argued with myself that Nesta should have accepted his marriage offer—that she'd missed the chance to see the real him, to discover what I was certain existed beneath that carefully constructed facade.
But that voice—the one that used to defend him—was growing quieter. Smaller. Drowned beneath the echo of my flats scuffing across the stone floor, the burn of his grip around my wrist, the weight of this place pressing down on me like a second skin.
This wasn't the Eris from my dreams. This was someone else entirely—someone hard and cold and nothing like the complex, tortured soul I'd imagined he would be.
Finally, he stopped.
We were alone again—just the two of us, in a quiet corridor lit by flickering sconces and shadows that stretched long across the walls.
He turned to me, then pointed to himself.
"Eris," he said clearly, slowly, as if teaching me a name I didn't already know.
As if I hadn't whispered it a thousand times into my pillow. As if I hadn't written it in the margins of my books. As if I hadn't fallen asleep with it on my lips more nights than I could count.
Then he pointed to me—one brow raised, expectant.
He wants my name.
Why? Was this some kind of game to him? Did he enjoy toying with me, this strange girl who'd appeared in his forest? In my dreams, our first meeting had been different. He'd been wary, yes, but there had been a spark of recognition. A sense that somehow, despite everything, he knew me. That we were connected.
There was nothing like that in his golden eyes now. Just cold assessment. Calculation.
Still breathless, still disoriented, I gave it anyway.
"Isilra," I whispered.
His eyes widened—just a flicker—but he said nothing. Just repeated it, softer this time.
"Isilra."
The sound of it in his voice sent a strange warmth through me. It wasn't kind, exactly—but it wasn't cruel either. Just… careful. Deliberate.
And gods, I'd always wondered what it would sound like—hearing my name in his voice. I used to imagine it, back in the quiet hours when my apartment walls pressed too close, when the only comfort I had was the stories and the dream of him pulled from paper and ink. I'd whisper conversations between us in the dark, pretending he was there, that those golden eyes saw me as something precious rather than a burden, a curiosity, or worse—a threat. On the loneliest nights, my fantasies would deepen, my body aching for his touch. I'd close my eyes and imagine his hands on my skin, his fingers tracing paths between my thighs, bringing me to that sweet release as I whispered his name into the darkness of my empty room.
Now he was real.
And somehow, hearing him say my name hurt more than it ever comforted. Because it reminded me of the gulf between the Eris I had created in my mind and the male standing before me—beautiful and dangerous and utterly unknown.
Eris had heard her speak her name—and he'd gone still.
His eyes had narrowed, something ancient and feral flickering behind them. He didn't know what he expected, but it hadn't been that . With the strange clothing she wore, the odd cadence of her movements, he'd anticipated something foreign. Unfamiliar. A name that didn't belong here.
But it was Isilra.
A perfectly normal name. Fae in every way.
And that made him question everything all over again.
She didn't belong in this world—everything about her screamed foreign, out of place. And yet she carried a name as if she'd been born of this land, shaped by its forests and fire. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
She was still struggling against his grip, though her movements had lost some of their earlier wildness—tired now, frustrated, angry. Like a flame burning lower but no less hot.
He stopped in front of a thick oak door at the far end of the corridor, the wood carved with ancient symbols of binding and containment. Symbols he himself had helped renew after the last solstice. He called out to the guards stationed nearby, his voice carrying the weight of command that centuries of being heir had perfected.
They came at once—two males in Autumn Court armor, burnished copper and bronze that caught the dying light. Stone-faced and silent as the mountain that housed them.
Eris didn't hesitate.
He yanked the door open and shoved her inside.
Not hard enough to injure—but hard enough to humiliate. To remind her of where she stood in this world. A creature dragged from nowhere, unknown, untrusted. The gesture was calculated, deliberate—the way everything in the Autumn Court had to be.
The room was sparse—more holding cell than guest chamber—but not a dungeon. Not yet. A single bed with linens the color of fallen leaves. A small window cut high into the wall, too narrow for escape but wide enough to remind a prisoner of what they couldn't have.
She stumbled forward, catching herself just before she hit the stone floor. Her hair was a mess around her shoulders, her breathing unsteady. When she finally turned to face him, something flashed in her eyes—a defiance that should have been broken by now.
She whispered something then, in a language he did not understand. The words were soft, foreign—and yet he felt their weight like a stone dropping in still water.
He didn't need to comprehend the words to recognize a promise when he heard one. And promises, in his world, were binding things—dangerous things. Though he couldn't translate a single syllable, something primal in him understood her intent all the same.
The door swung shut with a sound like thunder, the enchanted lock clicking into place. The corridor seemed to exhale around them, as if the very stones of the palace had been holding their breath.
"Keep an eye on her," he said to the guards, voice clipped and cold. "If she speaks in any strange tongue, if she says anything you recognize—report it immediately. And make sure she doesn't disappear. If she vanishes from under our watch, Beron will be... displeased."
The guards nodded without a word, stepping into position like well-trained hounds. Their hands rested on weapons that could kill in an instant—overkill, perhaps, for one small female. But Eris had learned long ago never to underestimate what seemed harmless.
But even as he turned to walk away, he couldn't shake her from his thoughts.
Who was she?
And more importantly—why did that name feel like a thread being pulled loose inside him?
The further he walked from her door, the more the questions tangled in his mind. Questions that shouldn't have mattered. Questions he didn't want to be asking.
But they circled anyway.
The name. The scent. The way her magic felt unfinished, untethered—like a book with half its pages torn out. It wasn't just strange. It was wrong .
And most of all—that look she'd given him.
Not fear. Not even hatred.
Betrayal.
As if she'd expected more from him.
As if, somehow, he'd already failed her.
Eris paused at the end of the corridor, glancing back at the door now shut firmly behind him. Something whispered at the edges of his mind—a memory he couldn't quite grasp, a dream half-forgotten upon waking. Like trying to catch smoke between his fingers.
He shook his head, dispelling the thought. Whatever game was being played here, he would not be a pawn in it. He'd survived centuries of Beron's cruelty by keeping his own counsel, by playing the ruthless son when necessary. This would be no different.
And yet...
As he descended the spiraling stairs toward Rhaiven's wing, autumn light spilling through stained glass windows painted his skin in shades of fire and gold. Outside, the wind picked up, rustling leaves that had begun to fall, carrying with it the scent of change. Of possibility.
The sound of her whispered promise seemed to follow him, clinging to his shoulders like a cape he couldn't remove.
Something had shifted in the Autumn Court today.
And for the first time in centuries, Eris Vanserra felt the stirrings of something unfamiliar—uncertainty.
Chapter Text
The stone was cold beneath my legs. Not the fleeting cold of an open window or the negligent cold of a forgotten heater. This was primal cold—ancient and unforgiving. The floor itself had been holding on to centuries of silence and frost, waiting for someone foolish enough to dream of worlds that weren't their own.
I sat at the edge of the narrow bed, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the wall across from me. Strange symbols curved along the stone, their edges worn but still sharp. Some of them glowed faintly, amber-gold like dying embers, like something burning far away behind layers I couldn't see. They pulsed with a rhythm that reminded me of a heartbeat—the heart of this place, this prison disguised as sanctuary.
"This isn't what autumn was supposed to be," I whispered, voice barely audible even to myself.
In my dreams—in all those dog-eared pages I'd clung to through sleepless nights—the Autumn Court had been warm and inviting. A place of fire and comfort despite its wildness. The Autumn Court prince had been distant but intriguing. Misunderstood. Someone who would see me when no one else had bothered to look beyond the surface.
I laughed bitterly, the sound swallowed by the heavy stone walls like it had never existed.
Eris Vanserra was nothing like my dreams. His eyes had been cold when he shoved me into this room and ordered the guards to lock the door. After parading me before Beron, after letting his father grab my chin with burning fingers that left blisters on my skin that still throbbed—he'd thrown me in here like something contaminated, something to be contained and forgotten.
When I'd tried to explain, to tell him I knew him, knew this world, my words had fallen on deaf ears. Literally. He couldn't understand a single thing I said. I'd seen the frustration flash across his face, watched as he spoke back to me in a language that sounded like wind through autumn leaves and crackling fire. Beautiful, but completely incomprehensible.
"Why couldn't I understand him?" I murmured, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the rough blanket beneath me. "In every isekai, the girl just got it. Magic fixed the language gap." I clenched my hand into a fist, nails digging into my palm. "But magic, it seems, doesn't care about convenience—or me."
Here I was, transformed physically into something fae—pointed ears, a subtle glow beneath my skin, that strange tingling power at my fingertips—yet still unable to understand a single word. This wasn't following the rules. This wasn't how isekai stories were supposed to work. Just another cruel reminder that reality—even magical reality—was nothing like fiction.
Our attempt at communication had ended with him making a sharp gesture to the guards. The last thing he'd said before the heavy wooden door slammed shut was something musical and threatening. I couldn't understand the words, but his tone made the meaning clear enough. I couldn't tell if it was for the guards or me as he shoved me inside the room—I was a problem to be contained.
The room was silent. Even the torch above the door barely crackled, as if it knew not to disturb whatever this place was—this prison cell dressed up as a guest chamber. The silence had weight, pressing against my ears until I could hear my own heartbeat, quick and unsteady.
Eventually, I moved. Slid off the bed and crossed the cell. My flats remained under the bed. The stone bit at my bare feet with teeth of ice, each step a reminder that I wasn't welcome here.
I stopped in front of one of the glowing marks. Reached toward it, drawn by some instinct I couldn't name.
My fingers hovered just shy of the surface.
And it pulsed. A silent throb of power that sent ripples through the air.
Not loudly. Just enough for the hair on my arms to rise. Just enough for my breath to stutter and catch in my throat.
I pulled my hand back fast, pressing it against my chest where my heart hammered against my ribs. My skin tingled, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker across my fingertips—a spark of amber light, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
The symbol dimmed slightly, as if responding to my retreat, as if disappointed.
A ward, I realized. Had to be. Containing me. Watching me. Maybe even learning from me.
I glanced at the door, where shadows of boots shifted beneath the crack. Guards. Not just the magical barriers keeping me contained, but physical ones too. The Autumn Court was taking no chances with their strange visitor.
Not dead yet, at least. After the way Eris had looked at me, after watching Beron's eyes narrow with cruel curiosity, after hearing that name—Balthazar—mentioned in tones that made Eris's expression tighten ever so slightly, that counted for something. I didn't know who Balthazar was, but the way both of them had said his name made my blood run cold. Whoever he was, whatever he did, it couldn't be good. The hint of dread that had flashed across Eris's otherwise controlled features told me everything I needed to know.
I backed away and slid down into the corner, knees tucked under my chin, arms around them. I didn't cry. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction, even if they couldn't see me. I just watched the light fade from the wall like nothing had happened, like my presence meant nothing to this ancient magic.
How had I even gotten here? The memories were fragmented, slipping through my fingers like water whenever I tried to grasp them.
I remembered my apartment. The books scattered across my bed. The empty bottles that had long since stopped numbing the pain. The loneliness that had hollowed me out until reading and drinking were the only things that dulled the ache. I remembered passing out, my face pressed against the tear-stained pages of A Court of Silver Flames.
Then... a voice? A flash of light? Words I couldn't quite recall but that had seemed so important in the moment.
Everything after that came in pieces: waking on forest floor, the massive hounds surrounding me with teeth bared and eyes gleaming, Eris's cold, beautiful face hovering above mine. The shock of realizing what I'd become—what my ears and fingers and skin now were. The crushing weight of Beron's gaze, like burning coals resting on my skin. Eris yanking me through corridors, his grip leaving bruises on my wrist that now bloomed purple against my pale skin.
But the how and the why—those were lost to me. Like trying to remember a dream that fades with each passing second, each attempt to grasp it only pushing it further away.
I looked down at my hands, studying the subtle glow beneath my skin. I wasn't human anymore. That much was clear. But I wasn't truly fae either—not in the ways that mattered. I was something between, a creature with a foot in both worlds and a home in neither.
I didn't remember lying down. But eventually I did. Curled on my side, face to the stone. I let the quiet wrap around me like a second skin. Let it hold me in its cold embrace, the only comfort this world seemed willing to offer.
And then I dreamed.
A tree stood above me. Not a normal one, but a silver sentinel rooted in autumn soil, its crown ablaze with gold and flame. Its branches reached upward as if grasping for something forever beyond reach, stretching past the sky until lost among stars I couldn't name. Below, its roots twisted down into a red sea that moved like blood, while its branches swayed with an eerie rhythm, as though the tree itself were breathing.
I took a step closer—barefoot—and the world shifted beneath me.
The tree became a hallway. Narrow. Suffocating.
The air changed. Thick. Stale. The walls turned into old paint and thin drywall, and I knew where I was before I turned the corner, knew what waited for me there. My heart clenched in my chest, a child's instinctive fear that never quite leaves, even when the child is grown.
"You're nothing like your sister," my mother hissed, her face twisted with the familiar contempt I'd come to expect. "Always in your head. Always daydreaming. You think that's going to get you anywhere in life?"
Then the kitchen. The hum of the fluorescent light overhead, flickering just enough to make my eyes hurt. The slap—sharp, sudden, not unexpected. My cheek burning, eyes downcast.
"You just embarrass me," she said, voice heavy with disappointment and something else—something that might have been fear, if I'd known to look for it then.
I didn't speak. I never did. Speaking just made it worse. Made her angrier. Made her see how different I was, how wrong.
My younger self grabbed a backpack. The old one with the broken zipper that caught on everything. I left without a coat. Didn't look back. Just kept walking, the weight of her words heavier than any bag could be.
Rain soaking through my shoes. Train tickets purchased with my last paycheck. Plane humming beneath me as I flew toward anywhere-but-here, stomach empty, savings nearly depleted.
Japan. A school. A tiny apartment with walls so thin I could hear my neighbor breathe. Hours spent learning the language, then reading essays, then books. Then wine. Then nothing at all.
Safer than going home.
Better than being a disappointment.
Better than trying.
Better than failing again.
But the tree came back.
And I was still barefoot, still small. Still looking up at something I couldn't comprehend, couldn't reach.
Why did you want to escape so badly? a voice whispered.
It wasn't my mother's.
It wasn't cruel.
Just curious. Almost sad, like it already knew the answer but needed to hear me say it.
Did you think it would be better here?
I woke up fast, breath caught in my throat like I'd swallowed something sharp. My heart hammered against my ribs, a caged thing desperate for freedom.
Still in the cell. Still on the bed. Still not a dream.
The torch was burning.
But it had turned.
I didn't know how I knew that—but it had. It faced the bed now, tilted slightly down. Watching. The flame wasn't orange anymore, but a deep, burnished gold, casting shadows that seemed to move independently of the light.
And on the wall near my pillow… one of the symbols had changed.
I stared at it, transfixed. My mouth was dry, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Not a big change. Just a curve where there hadn't been one. A new line. Barely there, but unmistakable. As if the ward was adapting, learning, responding to my very presence.
I didn't get up. Didn't reach for it again. Some instinct told me that would be dangerous, that whatever was happening here was beyond my understanding.
Heavy footsteps sounded outside the door. The guards, changing shift perhaps. Would Eris return? Would anyone tell me what was happening? Why I was here? Had Eris convinced Beron not to send that Balthazar person, whoever he was?
Or was I just another curiosity for the Autumn Court to lock away and forget?
I thought of Eris saying my name—"Isilra"—the way it had sounded in his voice. Nothing like the tender whisper I'd imagined in my dreams. Just cold assessment, another piece of information to be cataloged.
And yet, something had flickered in his eyes when I'd said it. A brief flash of... recognition? Surprise? I couldn't place it, but for that split second, his perfect mask had slipped. Something real had shown through, something that made me wonder if the Eris I'd dreamed about—the one behind the cruel façade—might exist after all.
It was the one thing my mother had given me that I'd never questioned—my strange name that always set me apart. "Isilra." I'd spent my childhood being teased for it, my adolescence hating it, and my adulthood realizing how perfectly it would fit in a world like this. I'd always wondered why she chose it—why the same mother who slapped me for daydreaming had given me a name that sounded like it belonged in a fantasy novel.
Now here I was, a human turned fae in a world I'd only read about, and my name was the only thing that seemed to belong.
I just stayed there, eyes open, listening to the guards murmur to each other—their voices too low to make out the words. Trying to remember how I'd wished so desperately to be in this world, to escape my own hollow life.
Now all I could think was that I'd traded one prison for another—one cage for another that glittered more beautifully but held me just as tightly.
The torch crackled once, as if in response to my thoughts. Then quiet again.
And I stayed still, waiting for a dawn I wasn't sure would come, wondering if Eris would return—and if he did, whether it would be as the cold, cruel heir I'd met, or something closer to the male I'd dreamed of for so long.
If I survived Beron and his court, I'd have to learn quickly. This wasn't the Autumn Court from my dog-eared books or late-night fantasies. This was real—with real dangers my stories never prepared me for. The symbols on these walls, the language they spoke, the politics that might decide whether I lived or died—none of it matched the comfortable fiction I'd escaped into.
I had to be ready. If I was going to survive this world, I would need to be stronger, smarter, more adaptable than I'd ever been before. No more hiding in books and bottles. No more escaping into worlds that couldn't hurt me.
This time, there would be no retreat into fantasy. I would have to fight for my place in a world where the pages weren't written for me.
He should have walked away.
Shrouded in firelight's edge, Eris watched as the guards changed shift without a word, armored bodies sliding past each other in practiced silence. They never noticed him—the heir to the Autumn Court had long ago mastered the art of going unseen when he wished it. He stood perfectly still, letting the amber-tinged darkness embrace him as his golden eyes tracked their movements with predatory focus.
The torchlight on the stone walls flickered low and steady, casting long shadows that twisted with every breath of magic in the air. Her cell remained strangely silent behind the heavy door. No desperate escape attempts. No frantic pounding or scraping against stone. No begging or bargaining.
Nothing.
It unsettled him. Any creature who found themselves in Beron's grasp should have been clawing at the walls by now, driven mad with terror at what awaited them. Yet she made no sound at all. As if she held secrets beyond his reach. As if she was waiting—not for rescue, but for him.
And still—he lingered, a creature of flame rendered motionless by curiosity he couldn't dismiss.
That name.
Isilra.
He'd spoken it back to her like a test, watching for deceit in those strange honey-brown eyes. But her gaze had only darkened—not with confusion, not even with fear.
With disappointment.
As if he should have remembered her. As if he had already failed her once before.
The name shouldn't have mattered. There had been Isilras in Autumn before, scattered through history like fallen leaves. But something about the way she'd said it… it stuck in his chest like a thorn he couldn't pull loose. A splinter of memory that refused to be forgotten or ignored.
He went deeper. Beneath the forest house, into the roots of the mountain itself. Past the gilded vaults and blood-bonded ledgers that recorded debts and oaths. Through the upper archives with their attendants and scribes who cataloged the everyday histories of the court. Down spiral stairs worn smooth by centuries of careful steps, descending into the oldest passages where few were permitted to tread.
It was only in the deepest chambers, far below even the dungeons, that he finally encountered them—the Voiceless Ones. The priestesses of memory who dwelled in perpetual silence, guarding the most dangerous truths of the Autumn Court.
The priestesses of memory.
They moved like ghosts through the stacks, pale robes whispering against stone. Each bore the mark of their dedication—tongues cut from their mouths so they could never speak of what they preserved. Secret-keepers of the court, they guarded knowledge too dangerous to destroy but too volatile to leave unattended. Even Beron dared not cross them, for they held records that could topple even High Lords.
One of the priestesses turned as he entered their domain, eyes milky with age but sharp with recognition. She did not bow. Here, even the heir to Autumn walked with humility. No attendants, no guards, no witnesses—only the ancient keepers of forbidden knowledge who answered to no High Lord. Her gnarled hands rose, fingers twisted with arthritis yet still elegant as they traced an invisible sigil in the air—part warning, part acknowledgment of his presence. Then she stepped closer, her ancient eyes studying him with an intensity that made even his centuries-old confidence waver slightly.
Eris met her gaze steadily. In this sacred space, intent mattered more than rank.
Eris stepped forward, pausing beside her. "I seek a name that should not matter," he murmured, voice barely disturbing the silence.
The priestess's eyes narrowed, ancient and knowing. She tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that made his skin prickle with unease. Then she reached out, her withered fingers hovering just above his chest—where his heart beat steady and strong. A question without words.
He understood. In this sacred space, intention mattered more than rank. She was asking why he sought this knowledge.
"Not for my father," he answered truthfully. "And not for power."
Something shifted in her gaze—not softening, but a flicker of... was it approval? Or perhaps recognition of a pattern she'd witnessed across centuries, played out with different faces but the same ending. Or maybe she possessed foreknowledge about his quest already preserved in these ancient records. She nodded once, decisively, then turned and glided between the shelves, beckoning him to follow.
She led him deeper into their sacred domain, through chambers no outsider had seen in centuries. Here in these lowest depths, no attendants served, no scribes recorded, no guards watched. This was the exclusive sanctuary of the priestesses, where even Beron himself could not tread without their blessing.
These innermost chambers belonged solely to the priestesses by ancient right. When the first Vanserra had claimed Autumn's throne, they had struck a covenant that still held to this day: the High Lords would rule the court and its lands, but the Voiceless Ones would remain the sole keepers of its deepest truths. Some knowledge was too dangerous to be wielded by those who craved power; some secrets were meant to be preserved, not used.
The air changed as they moved through these forbidden archives. Became older. Denser. A stillness pressed against Eris's skin like silent judgment, heavy with the weight of forgotten years. Even his fire-bright magic—the birthright of his bloodline—dimmed here, flames retreating within him as if the ancient darkness had earned its right to remain undisturbed.
The priestess stopped before a section of wall that appeared seamless at first glance. With deliberate movements, she pressed her palm against the stone. Ancient magic stirred, reluctant and groaning, as a hidden door revealed itself. She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter alone.
Eris hesitated. "What's in there?"
She simply tapped her chest, then his. Then she held up her hands, palms facing each other but not touching—as if holding something fragile between them. Some kind of connection, or perhaps a warning about the past reaching toward the present.
The message was clear enough. Whatever awaited him inside was personal. Connected to him in ways he might not yet understand.
It took time.
The leather of his gloves whispered against stone as he traced family lines and house sigils. Dust clung to the edges of scrolls like forgotten breath, stirred only by his motion. The torches on the walls—few and far between—flickered dimly, their flames guttering as if reluctant to burn too brightly in this place.
His magic dimmed here, hushed by the cold weight of memory that pressed down from every shelf and corner. He didn't know how long he'd been searching—time had no voice in these ancient depths—but the ache in his spine and the heaviness in his eyes hinted at hours, not minutes.
He searched the Bloodlines Index first—names carved in marble walls, catalogued by house and rank. Dozens of Isilras surfaced beneath his fingertips. Most were common-born, brief notations of lives long forgotten. A few noble, their lines extinguished like candles pinched between cruel fingers.
None matched her.
Scroll after scroll. Sigil after sigil. Pages crumbled beneath his touch, their knowledge turning to dust before yielding answers.
Nothing.
He was ready to stop—to dismiss the weight in his chest as weakness, as misplaced curiosity that would earn nothing but his father's contempt.
Then—near the end of a shelf warded so old it smelled of iron and burnt pine—he found it.
A seal worn smooth, the parchment darker than the rest, as if stained by time itself. A scroll nearly erased by design, not accident. The wax cracked when he touched it, ancient magic recognizing the blood of those who had ordered its creation... and the blood of those who had ordered its destruction.
And there, written in a language even older than the one he spoke now:
House Aelvrynth.
The name pulsed faintly beneath his fingertips, embers of memory refusing to cool, like a heartbeat that refused to fade entirely.
The sigil was nearly invisible—a silver tree rooted in autumn soil, crowned in gold and flame. Its branches reached upward as if grasping for something forever beyond reach.
He unrolled it with a care he didn't understand, as if his hands remembered a reverence his mind had forgotten.
Midway down, in lettering so fine it looked hand-spun from twilight itself:
Isilra of House Aelvrynth, Second Daughter of the Line. Vanished during the Great Purging of Autumn. Fate: Unknown. Blood-Right: Severed. House: Dissolved by Decree. Lineage: Extinguished by Royal Edict of the Sovereign House Vanserra, Eternal Flame of Autumn.
Eris stared at the words, his breath catching in his throat. His own family name—Vanserra—burned alongside the record of extinction like an accusation. His fingers trembled slightly before he could master them, an instinctive recoil from the weight of ancestral sin.
It was one thing to know, abstractly, that his bloodline had built its power on the ashes of others. The politics of the Autumn Court had always been brutal, and his father had made certain Eris understood that legacy early. But to see it documented so clearly—to realize that the female in his cell might be connected to a house his family had personally destroyed—sent a ripple of something uncomfortable through him. Not quite guilt; Eris had long ago learned that particular emotion was a luxury he couldn't afford. But unease, certainly. A sense that some long-dormant debt had suddenly come due.
The stones around him seemed to hold their breath, as if the very air was listening.
House Aelvrynth.
The name itself was ancient—so old that Eris had never heard it spoken, not even in his father's most private councils where forgotten histories were sometimes resurrected for strategic purposes. Two thousand years had passed since this house had walked the Autumn lands, their existence reduced to this single, fading scroll.
The record was sparse, most details lost to time or deliberately erased. But small notations in the margins, written in a script so old Eris could barely decipher it, hinted at what had earned their extinction: unorthodox magic... refused allegiance... dangerous potential... unpredictable power...
The Vanserras had never tolerated competition to their flame.
And yet, something had survived—or returned. If this was truly the same Isilra, if somehow she had been delivered here from across time itself... what did that mean for his court? For his carefully constructed future?
But the second daughter had vanished before the Purge. No body. No bones. No story to finish the circle of their destruction.
Only a name.
And now she sat in his cell—transformed, terrified, and utterly foreign. Could there possibly be a connection to that long-vanished fae of the same name? It seemed impossible. Two thousand years had passed—empires had risen and fallen, courts had transformed, magic itself had changed its nature. The original Isilra Aelvrynth was dust and memory, nothing more.
Yet her scent troubled him—familiar and foreign all at once. Autumn, but distorted, as if reflected in rippled water. Her magic, when his fingers had closed around her wrist, had whispered against his own—untamed, uncertain, like embers not yet committed to their purpose.
And since that first moment in the clearing, when those honey-brown eyes had found his, something had stirred within him. A recognition he couldn't place. An awareness that defied reason. He'd felt it like a thread pulled taut between them—not attraction, nothing so simple. It was deeper, more unsettling. As if his centuries-old magic remembered something his mind had forgotten.
It was that instinct, more than anything, that had kept him from simply turning her over to Balthazar's tender mercies. That had compelled him to bargain with his father for time. That had drawn him here, to ancient records, searching for answers to mysteries he couldn't yet articulate.
And the way she spoke…
Not just a single language he didn't know. She had switched between several—some that shouldn't exist, that no realm in Prythian had ever spoken. As if she were reaching for something he might understand. As if she were trying to find the right tongue to reach him before he shoved her into the cell and locked the door behind her.
He shouldn't believe it.
There were other Isilras. Other strange fae who might have slipped through cracks in the world.
But she had slipped through the Autumn wards like she was being delivered—not breaching, not invading. Like something had placed her here with purpose and intent. And when she'd looked at him, dazed and trembling, it hadn't been with terror.
It had been with recognition. With knowing.
The sigils on her cell door had changed the moment she entered—ancient runes shifting from containment to something else. Something he couldn't decipher.
And Autumn magic did not stir for strangers—or for the dead. Only for something remembered.
As he prepared to leave, scroll carefully tucked into his tunic, the priestess appeared in the doorway. Her eyes drifted to where he'd concealed the document, then back to his face. Something in her expression shifted—a knowing look that bordered on sympathy.
She reached out, touching his wrist with fingertips as light as autumn leaves. With her other hand, she traced a sign
in the air—circles within circles, an ancient symbol for fate's repetition. Then she pointed toward the surface, toward where the girl waited in her cell, and drew a line connecting that direction to his heart.
The message couldn't have been clearer if she'd spoken it aloud: This path has been walked before.
Eris rolled the scroll closed slowly, sealing it as gently as if it might shatter. The wax didn't take easily, resisting his attempt to hide it away again.
Some names, it seemed, did not want to be forgotten.
But he remembered now.
And that was enough to make the fire inside him burn colder, enough to make him question everything he thought he knew about his court, his family, and the stranger with familiar eyes who looked at him as if he had already betrayed her once before.
Time was not on his side. He knew his father well enough to understand that Beron's patience was a fleeting thing, his mercy non-existent. By morning, he would either grow bored with waiting or suspicious of delay—and the female would face Balthazar's particular skills. What remained of her after that would yield no answers, only more questions that would never be resolved.
If he meant to save this strange fae from his father's cruelty, he needed to act quickly. The pieces were aligning in ways he didn't yet understand, but one thing was becoming clear—she had not appeared in the Autumn Court by accident. And he was not prepared to let her disappear again before he discovered why.
As he ascended the spiral staircase, leaving the whispers of ancient scrolls behind, Eris felt a certainty settle into his bones. The female—this Isilra—was connected to him somehow. Connected to a past his family had tried to erase. And whatever game the universe was playing with them both, he had the uneasy feeling they were pieces that had been moved before.
Whatever connection lay between them, he would not allow his family's history of cruelty to repeat itself with her.
He had hours. His father's interest had bought them that much, at least.
Eris's mind shifted into cold calculation as he considered his options. The girl meant nothing to Beron beyond her potential as a spy or weapon from a rival court. But what if she were something else entirely? Something unprecedented that even Beron, with all his centuries of paranoia and power, had never encountered?
Another world. That was the key. Not a spy from the Night Court or a weapon from Hybern, but a visitor from a realm beyond Prythian itself. A realm with its own magic, its own powers—powers that brought her here for a purpose none of them yet understood.
His father would hesitate to destroy such a prize before extracting every advantage from it. Beron's paranoia was matched only by his hunger for dominance. If travel between worlds was possible... if Eris could make his father believe it was possible... then the territorial squabbles of the seven courts would suddenly seem insignificant by comparison. And Beron Vanserra, ever calculating, would want to claim this new frontier before any other High Lord even knew it existed.
But if Eris failed—if the lie didn't hold, or the girl said the wrong thing—Balthazar would arrive with Beron's order. And once he took her, there would be no saving what remained.
Notes:
I wasn’t entirely sure what direction I wanted to take this fic when I started, but after writing this chapter, everything finally clicked into place. I have a solid plan now—and I hope you’ll be just as excited for it as I am.
Thanks for sticking with me through the slow build so far. Things are about to shift, and I can’t wait to share what’s coming.
Chapter Text
I had fallen asleep again, my dreams plagued with stories I couldn't quite follow and a voice I couldn't understand. But I saw her .
A beautiful fae female—hair the color of a blood moon cascading down her back like liquid flame, eyes like mine: honey-golden and unblinking. She moved with ancient grace, trailing fingers along stone walls identical to my prison. Her lips formed words I desperately needed to hear.
I tried to reach her. Tried to hear what she was saying. My fingers stretched across the void between us, aching to touch her, to understand.
But the words slipped through my grasp, a language half-remembered, half-imagined—like water through cupped hands. And then—
I woke.
A presence tickled down my spine, cold and certain as frost forming on glass. The hair on my arms stood on end before my eyes had fully opened.
The fae from my dreams was already fading, her image dissolving like mist in harsh sunlight, leaving only the faint echo of familiarity buried in my bones.
Then I saw him .
A male sat perched on the edge of the desk like it belonged to him—like the cell itself was his personal study and I was merely an interruption. He had the same wine-red hair as Eris, but his face was softer. Not kind, not gentle—just softer around the edges. Still cruel in the corners of his mouth. Still dangerous in the way his eyes tracked my every movement with predatory interest.
His hair was pulled back into a tight braid that followed the elegant curve of his spine, with several smaller braids draped artfully in front of his face. Gold clips glinted from within them, catching the torchlight like embers trapped in metal—designed to be noticed, to draw attention to wealth and status without a single word. I caught sight of a seal etched into each clip—delicate, curling lines that I instinctively knew must be the Autumn Court's crest. There was no mention of such details in the stories I'd devoured, but it felt right . Like something ancient and true that was never meant for outsiders like me to witness.
He was eating an apple.
Biting into the crimson fruit lazily, golden juice trailing down his fingers, the sharp crunch echoing in the silent chamber. His posture was relaxed, one booted foot swinging slightly as though he wasn't in a holding cell, as though I was the one intruding upon his space. I knew then—with bone-deep certainty—that he must be one of Eris's brothers.
They were barely mentioned in the books beyond Lucien, these shadowy heirs to Autumn's brutality. But this one... he was real, and here, and watching me like I was a puzzle he'd solve whether I cooperated or not.
I scrambled back until my spine hit cold stone, panic cutting through the lingering fog of my dream like a knife.
He laughed.
A quiet, amused sound that slithered through the air like smoke, wrapping around my throat without touching me. He took another deliberate bite, teeth sinking into flesh with unsettling precision, and then spoke—his voice musical and menacing all at once.
I didn't understand a word of it.
The bitter irony wasn't lost on me. The world I had dreamed of for so long, the escape I'd craved through countless empty nights... and I couldn't understand a single word. My fantasies had never accounted for language barriers—in my dreams, we'd always understood each other perfectly.
He finished the apple with a final, decisive crunch, then summoned flame with a casual flick of his long fingers. The core vanished in a puff of fire that momentarily lit his face from below, casting his features in demonic relief—leaving only a curl of ash that drifted to the floor like gray snow.
That was all the warning I had.
The next moment, he was in front of me. Too fast. Too quiet. The kind of fae speed I’d read about. But never truly understood—not until now.”
His hand caught my face—not rough, but not gentle either—his thumb brushing just below my eye, leaving a trail of apple-scented warmth on my skin. He stared into me like he was trying to read something written in my bones, in the marrow of my being. Like he was searching for comprehension—or something deeper, more ancient that I couldn't name.
I stared back, trapped in his gaze. I should have been afraid. Maybe I was, somewhere beneath the shock and fascination. But I couldn't look away from those eyes—darker gold than Eris's, flecked with amber and bronze, windows into a predator's soul.
His mouth curled at the edges, and he spoke again—low and dangerous, each syllable dripping with intent I couldn't decipher.
I still didn't understand the words.
But when I rasped out, "What do you want?"—something shifted in him. A flicker of intrigue, perhaps. Or recognition.
He smiled.
It was almost a real smile—but not quite. It was wrong in some quiet, instinctive way that made my skin crawl. A ghost of warmth with no real heat behind it. Like he was mimicking something he'd seen once, long ago, and had forgotten how it was meant to feel. The smile of a creature who had learned emotion through observation rather than experience.
Then he let me go, his hand falling away from my face as though he'd lost interest.
He said something else—something that almost felt like a goodbye, though the tone carried more threat than farewell—and turned to leave. The door closed behind him with a shimmer of power that rippled through the air like heat above summer asphalt. I felt the wards settle again, like a lock clicking into place around my ribs, tightening with each breath.
He unnerved me. Not just because of what he'd done.
But because I didn't even know his name.
Unlike the other brother—Rhaiven, the one I'd glimpsed when I first woke in this world while slung over Eris's shoulder—this one was still a mystery. And I had a feeling there were others. More I hadn't seen. More I didn't know, despite my obsessive reading of every scrap of lore I could find.
I think there are seven Vanserra sons. Children of Beron and his Lady of Autumn. Though the number was never specifically mentioned in the books, I'd pieced it together through the years—scattered clues, brief lines, forgotten references in the appendices and fan theories.
Lucien. Eris. Rhaiven—his name only whispered once in passing within the pages of the Court of Thorns series.
Then the brother who had just visited me, all fire and braids and that uncanny smile that didn't reach his ancient eyes.
Two more were dead—killed by Tamlin at the Spring Court border when they hunted Lucien like a fox. That left one I hadn't met, one more shadow lurking in the endless corridors of this burning mountain.
In all my reading, in all those dog-eared pages and late-night internet searches, there was never any way to truly know who the Vanserra brothers were beneath their brief mentions. Outside of Lucien—and fragments of Eris—they existed as shadows. Myths. Warnings of what happened when cruelty became an inheritance passed from father to sons.
Now they were real.
And one by one, they were finding me, circling closer like flames drawn to fresh fuel. I shivered, wondering what would happen when all the brothers had their turn examining the strange creature in their midst.
I wrapped my arms around myself, lost in a world where my fantasies were crumbling against the sharp edges of reality. I had spent years defending him in my mind, creating elaborate justifications for his actions, seeing depth where there was only darkness.
What a fool I'd been.
The truth of Eris Vanserra was written in the memory of his iron grip and Beron's burning touch. Even if the marks had already faded—some strange fae healing I hadn't known I possessed—the phantom pain remained. No misunderstood hero, no secret protector—just another cruel son of a cruel father.
And the death of that last desperate hope terrified me more than his cruelty ever could.
Eris walked the hall, a wooden tray balanced in his hands, his footsteps barely audible against the ancient stone floor. The corridor smelled of flame and autumn—that particular scent that belonged only to his court, a mingling of fallen leaves, smoke, and magic as old as the mountains that housed them.
He didn't know why he bothered. She couldn't be the fae from that house. Couldn't be.
And yet—those eyes. The way they'd looked at him with recognition, with disappointment. The name that shouldn't have mattered but somehow did. The memory of that ancient scroll he'd discovered in the archives still burned in his mind, as if the parchment had seared its contents directly into his thoughts, refusing to be forgotten.
He knew she probably wouldn't get food unless someone ordered it. Beron rarely fed prisoners in the first few days. Not out of cruelty, exactly. Just control. Keep them alive, but uncomfortable. Starvation softened pride. Hunger made the mind pliable, the soul willing to trade dignity for sustenance. Eris had seen it before. Had orchestrated it before, when necessary.
Still, Eris wanted to look into her eyes again. To see if what he'd felt in the clearing—that strange, unsettling resonance—had been real or merely the product of an ancient name stirring forgotten ghosts within him.
He reached the cell door and paused. Two guards stood posted. He shifted the tray slightly, eyes flicking to the one on the right. His gaze took in the details others might miss—the slight fatigue in their posture, the tension around their eyes, the way their fingers rested against weapons with practiced ease.
"Did she try to escape?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral, detached. The tone of a jailer, not a savior.
No sound from the cell. He'd half-expected to hear pacing, or crying, or even the faint whisper of someone plotting—something to indicate life beyond the heavy door. But there was nothing. The silence put him on edge more than screams would have.
The guard answered evenly. "No, sir."
What was his name again? Emeric? Emalri? His mind flicked through possibilities, cataloging and discarding.
Emiren. That was it.
Eris didn't bother learning every name. But most of the men under his command respected him—unlike those who served his brothers. Unlike those who served Beron. His men followed not because they feared him, but because they chose him. He cared if they lived. That mattered in a court where death was currency, where loyalty was bought with blood and terror more often than honor.
Some had even said they'd follow him to death.
The meaning had been clear: when the time came—when he finally moved against Beron—they would stand behind him. Not out of blind obedience or fear of reprisal, but from conviction. They had seen enough of Beron's cruelty, of the twisted court he'd forged through centuries of terror and manipulation. They believed Eris could be different. That he would help them burn away the corruption that had rotted Autumn from within, forging something tempered and strong from the ashes of his father's reign.
The other guard's gaze flicked, barely perceptible. A micro-expression, a flicker of unease that lasted less than a heartbeat.
Eris caught it instantly, his senses honed by centuries of survival in a court where missing such subtleties meant death. "What is it?" he asked, his voice still calm, but with an edge that demanded truth.
Emiren hesitated, then said, "Your brother visited the prisoner."
These men weren't just sentries; they were his sentries. Handpicked. Tested. Trusted as much as anyone could be trusted in the Autumn Court. They understood the labyrinthine politics well enough to recognize a potential threat—Auren's unexpected interest in this prisoner was a deviation from patterns, a ripple in still waters that might herald something dangerous beneath the surface.
Eris's tone stayed flat, but inside, alarm spread like wildfire. His brothers never involved themselves in matters of mere curiosity. "Which one?"
"Auren," Emiren replied, shifting. Uneasy. His weight moved from one foot to the other, subtle but clear as shouting to Eris's trained eye.
Eris didn't move. Didn't blink. His face remained a perfect mask while his mind worked through the implications.
Auren. Why?
He didn't do visits. He let others do the work—those who tortured, questioned, broke. Auren preferred to keep his hands clean. Polished. Flashy. If he stepped into a cell, it was with a purpose. A message. A game. The youngest of his brothers before Lucian was born, Auren understood how to use cruelty as a scalpel rather than a hammer. The one who knew that sometimes the deepest wounds left no visible scars.
"How long was he in there?" Eris asked, every syllable precise, controlled.
"Thirty, maybe forty minutes."
Too long. Far too long.
No screams. No sound. Just time.
That wasn't an interrogation. That was a performance. Especially considering she didn't even understand the language. What was he planning? What had he said to her? What had he done?
Eris's jaw tightened, the only outward sign of the tension coiling inside him. His magic stirred beneath his skin, a reflection of the anger he wouldn't allow himself to display. "Open it," he commanded, his voice carrying the quiet authority that defined his leadership.
The bolt slid free with a metallic groan. The guard moved with practiced efficiency, a reflection of the discipline Eris had instilled in his units. The door opened, heavy and reluctant, as if the very wood and iron protested the intrusion.
The wards recognized him and let him pass—ancient magic breathing across his skin like a whisper. He stepped into the sparse holding cell, with its simple furnishings and high window. The air smelled of stone, iron, and something faint—almost like ozone or the edge of a storm. Her scent, perhaps. Foreign. Different. Wrong in ways he couldn't define but instantly recognized.
She sat on the edge of the bed—not where they'd left her. She'd moved, explored her confines perhaps. Inside this locked cell with its ancient wards and vigilant guards outside, she hadn't tried to escape. Hadn't screamed or begged as most prisoners did.
Her posture was quiet. Not slumped, not shaken. Thoughtful. Like someone caught mid-thought in a language not their own. Her shoulders were straight, but not rigid with fear. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers loose, not clenched in terror or anticipation.
Her gaze didn't lift as he entered. She stared at some invisible point on the far wall, as if seeing through it to somewhere else—somewhere beyond this prison, beyond this court, perhaps beyond this world entirely.
Eris set the tray down on the desk. Slowly. Deliberately. He didn't push it toward her. Didn't make any gesture that might be construed as aggressive. Or worse—as pity. He knew the weight of both, how each could cut in different ways.
He waited.
Then, voice calm, quiet:
"Auren doesn't spend forty minutes with a prisoner."
It was a statement, an observation, but also a question. What happened? What did he want? What did he say to you? The unspoken queries hung in the air between them, trapped by the barrier of language neither could cross.
She finally looked at him. Her honey-gold eyes flicked to his—but only for a moment—before sliding to the wall. Not even a glance at the food, though he could see the slight hollowness in her cheeks, the dullness around her eyes that spoke of hunger, of need. She hadn't eaten since he'd found her in the forest yesterday.
But he could tell. She hadn't understood him. Not the words. But perhaps she'd caught the meaning beneath them—the warning, the concern barely concealed beneath layers of practiced indifference.
He tilted his head—not in mockery, just calculation. Watching. Measuring. The light from the single torch caught the angles of her face, throwing shadows that accentuated the delicate points of her ears, the subtle differences in her features. He noticed how she looked more fae now, as if whatever magic had brought her here had completed its transformation of her.
Yesterday in the forest, she'd seemed caught between worlds—not quite mortal, not entirely fae—but now the shift was complete. Her ears fully pointed, her features refined with that otherworldly symmetry, her skin holding that subtle luminescence that marked their kind. But he knew she couldn't be a true fae, no matter how convincing the disguise. Even her scent had changed since yesterday—less jarring, more aligned with this world—but still fundamentally wrong in ways only someone with his training would notice.
He frowned. Had the transformation accelerated on its own… or had Auren done something? Said something? The thought slid under his skin like a splinter.
Perhaps that would save her, he thought. If Beron or Balthazar couldn't detect what he could, if they believed her simply an oddity rather than something impossible... But Auren's interest suggested otherwise. His younger brother had always possessed an uncanny instinct for finding valuable secrets, for uncovering weaknesses that could be exploited. If Auren had spent that much time with her, he'd seen something worth his attention. And anything that caught Auren's eye inevitably drew Beron's gaze soon after.
How was he supposed to communicate with her? To warn her of the dangers that lurked in his family's shadow? To understand what she knew of the name Aelvrynth, of the house his ancestors had burned to ash and memory? The frustration of it burned in his chest, but he kept it contained, controlled, as he did all emotions that might reveal weakness.
"Isilra," he said finally, softening his voice just enough that she might hear he meant no harm. Or not yet. Her name felt familiar on his tongue, as if he'd spoken it before in some forgotten time, some life that existed only in the dust of ancient records.
She ignored him. Or seemed to. But he saw the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the almost imperceptible pause in her breathing when he spoke her name. She heard. She understood that much, at least.
But her lips curled slightly. Not in fear—in defiance. A quiet, sharp little expression that spoke volumes without words. Anyone else would be begging by now. Pleading for release, for answers. Even in just a holding cell. The dungeons of the Autumn Court were legendary for breaking even the strongest wills, and this was merely the antechamber to that hell.
But not her. There was a steel in her spine that intrigued him, a fire behind those unusual eyes that reminded him, unsettlingly, of something he'd once glimpsed in his own reflection—before centuries of Beron's cruelty had taught him to hide it away.
He pointed to the tray. "You're probably hungry." The words were meaningless to her, he knew, but the gesture wasn't. Food was a universal language, an offering that transcended words. Not kindness exactly—he couldn't afford that—but perhaps a momentary truce.
Crossing the room, he let his magic rise just slightly—enough to warm the food that had cooled during his trek through the cold corridors. Flames danced beneath his skin, warming his fingertips as they hovered near the tray. The scent lifted, rich and tempting: earthy grains, roasted vegetables, a hint of honey and thyme. The kind of meal served to honored guests, not prisoners. He'd taken it from the kitchen himself, ignoring the curious glances of the servants.
"Don't worry," he said, voice dry. "It's not poisoned." Another wasted sentence, but somehow saying it aloud made it feel more like a conversation than an interrogation. Made him feel less like his father's son and more like... something else. Someone else.
He placed a wooden spoon gently beside the tray. Not a knife, of course. Not even a fork that could be sharpened into a weapon. The gesture was calculated, like everything in this court, but the care behind it wasn't entirely false.
Finally, she looked at him—then at the food, like she was deciding whether it was worth it. Her eyes gave her away. Hunger, sharp and real, flickered through them. Longing, reluctant and raw. And beneath that, something else that caught him off guard—curiosity. A calculating assessment of the unfamiliar food before her, the strange colors and textures of Autumn Court cuisine he'd brought.
And then—her stomach growled.
A soft, traitorous sound that cut through the silence of the cell like the rustle of leaves in still air.
Color touched her cheeks, a faint hint of pink rising against the grime and stubbornness. She looked away quickly, jaw tightening as if she could will the sound, the need, the shame back into silence. As if her body's betrayal was somehow worse than the imprisonment itself.
Eris said nothing.
But something in him eased—just slightly. Not quite relief, not quite sympathy. Just recognition that beneath the mystery and the defiance, she was still flesh and blood. Still vulnerable in ways that made her real, not just a puzzle to be solved or a threat to be neutralized.
That vulnerability didn't make her weaker in his eyes. Somehow, paired with her defiance, it made her more dangerous—more real—than anything he'd encountered in centuries of court politics and power plays.
He took a step back, giving her space. Giving her the dignity of choice, at least in this small thing. Eat or starve. Accept or refuse. Even here, caged and powerless, she could still decide that much for herself.
And as he watched her internal struggle play across her face, Eris felt a stirring of something he hadn't allowed himself to feel in longer than he cared to remember. Not pity. Not exactly interest.
Respect, perhaps. For someone who, even caught in the jaws of his father's court, still managed to maintain that flicker of defiance. That refusal to be broken, even when broken was all that was expected of her.
It reminded him, uncomfortably, of another time. Another choice. Another female who'd looked at him with eyes that expected more than the cruelty his name demanded.
And for just a moment, as the torchlight played across her features and the scent of autumn magic swirled around them both, Eris wondered what it might be like to be the male she seemed to think he was—or could be—rather than the one his father had spent centuries forging him to become.
I looked longingly at the food again—at the plate on the desk near where Eris stood. The smell wafted toward me: roasted vegetables, something sweet like honey, and warm spices I couldn't name. My stomach betrayed me a second time with a low, desperate growl.
Still, I didn't move.
My eyes flickered back to Eris, suspicion twisting in my gut. What was he playing at? First his brother came to gawk at me like I was some exotic pet, and now him with this offering of food. Was this some twisted game the Autumn Court played with their prisoners? Build trust, then destroy it? Or was this part of his father's interrogation strategy?
But despite my suspicions, I wanted to eat. Gods, I wanted to. The last thing I'd had back in my world was whiskey and a half-forgotten sandwich—probably two days or so since I'd eaten anything substantial. My body, now transformed and likely requiring even more nourishment, was screaming for sustenance.
My eyes flicked to Eris. The way the food had been described in A Court of Thorns and Roses had always made me want to try it. Autumn Court meals especially. I'd imagined crisp fruit and fire-warmed breads, roasted meats glazed with wine, spices that clung to the air like perfume.
This didn't look like prisoner food.
Eris leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his posture deceptively casual. But there was nothing casual about his gaze—sharp, calculating, watching my every reaction like I was a puzzle with missing pieces. His wine-red hair was pulled back tightly, emphasizing the severe angles of his face, the cold calculation in those golden eyes.
He gestured toward the food with a sharp flick of his wrist, then pointed to the window where shadows were lengthening across the stone floor.
I finally gave in and stood, feeling the strange pull of my shifting body. My flats no longer fit—my feet had outgrown them—and my clothes strained at the seams from the growth I hadn't meant to undergo. The fabric stretched uncomfortably across my shoulders and chest, the stitching pulling tighter with every breath.
Eris's eyes flicked to my clothes instantly. His gaze sharpened, taking in every detail of my altered form with cold, penetrating precision—not with desire, but with clinical assessment, like a predator cataloging weaknesses.
When I moved toward the food, he stepped back—deliberately—giving me space. Not out of kindness, I realized, but strategy. Like a hunter letting prey approach the bait.
What a laugh.
He already had hurt me. Yesterday.
He didn't protect me like I'd imagined he would. Like I had—expected him to. Which was stupid. I knew it was stupid.
Why did I expect him to protect me?
He was just a story. A character. A name in a book.
And now he was real—and I was the one trapped in his world, not the other way around.
I probably would end up tortured. Or dead. And even if the food was poisoned… at least I got to see the Autumn Court once. Just once.
The first bite was hesitant.
A simple bowl of lentil and sweet potato soup—warm, spiced with cumin and something smoky I couldn't name. Comforting. Grounding. It settled in my stomach like warmth made real, like something ancient and good.
I dipped the sourdough next, tearing off a piece just as Eris had. The crust cracked under my fingers, the center soft and airy. No butter. No oil. Just bread. Honest and perfect.
Then the pear—peeled, sliced, arranged in a delicate fan like someone had actually cared. The juice was cold and sweet, the texture smooth, a contrast to the earthiness of the soup.
I hadn't realized how bland everything in the modern world had tasted until now. How dull. How flat.
This wasn't just food. This was flavor that meant something.
My eyes lit up with amazement before I could stop myself.
I quickly tried to school my features, to push the expression away, but it was too late.
Eris noticed.
A cold smile curved his lips, not reaching his eyes. He didn't say anything, just watched me with that calculating gaze, his head tilting slightly as he studied my reaction like I was some curious specimen. Fire flickered beneath his skin, a subtle glow that betrayed his agitation despite his controlled demeanor.
Then, he asked, his voice low and steady: "Do you like it?"
I froze.
Because I understood him.
Not just the tone—but the words.
I didn't know how. I just… did.
My throat tightened as I nodded slowly, then whispered, "It's very delicious. I've never had anything like it before."
Eris didn't respond.
Didn't speak. Didn't move.
But I saw the flicker of something across his face. A flash of surprise in those golden eyes, a slight narrowing—not because he understood my response, but because I had actually spoken to him at all. Until now, I'd only cowered or nodded. But the moment of interest passed, dismissed as inconsequential.
He recovered instantly, expression hardening back into that mask of cold indifference. But he'd moved closer without me noticing, his tall frame casting a long shadow over where I sat.
He spoke again, but the words were just musical, crackling sounds—incomprehensible once more. The brief window of understanding had closed as suddenly as it had opened. I shook my head helplessly, bewilderment clear on my face. It must have been a fluke, I thought—my hunger playing tricks on me or this world's magic toying with my senses.
Among his unintelligible words, only one stood out clearly: "Balthazar." The name sent a chill down my spine. I remembered how Beron had said it with cruel anticipation and how Eris's expression had tightened at its mention. I shrank back instinctively, body going rigid. Was this Balthazar a torturer? An executioner? Was Eris telling me that's where I was heading next?
I shook my head again, confusion evident in my expression.
Frustration flashed across his features. He reached out suddenly—I flinched back, but he was faster. His fingers caught my chin, tilting my face up toward his. Not brutally, like Beron had done, but firmly. Inescapably. His skin was warm, warmer than human, like sunlight trapped beneath flesh.
He said my name—"Isilra"—the only word I recognized among the stream of unfamiliar syllables. His golden eyes searched mine intensely, as if trying to see through them to whatever lay behind.
This close, I could see flecks of amber in his golden eyes, smell the scent of burning leaves and cedar that clung to him. He was beautiful in the way wildfires were beautiful—mesmerizing and deadly.
Something shifted in his expression then—subtle, nearly imperceptible. Not softness, not exactly. But recognition, perhaps. Of a connection that had flared and faded just as quickly.
He released my chin and stepped back, resuming his mask of cold disinterest. But it was different now—thinner, like paper that had been crumpled and smoothed out again.
He pointed to the remaining food, then gestured toward my mouth. The meaning was clear: finish eating. Moving toward the door, he turned back one final time, golden eyes reflecting flames even where none burned. Though I couldn't understand his words, his tone carried an unmistakable warning.
The door closed behind him, heavy and final. But I sat there, the taste of Autumn Court food still on my tongue, the memory of that strange moment lingering in my mind.
I wasn't foolish enough to mistake that fleeting connection for anything meaningful. Just a strange magical hiccup in a world I didn't understand. Eris hadn't even seemed to realize I'd comprehended his words for that brief moment—and even if he had, it clearly meant nothing to him.
He was still the cruel heir to a cruel court. Still the male who'd dragged me before Beron. Still nothing like the Eris I'd dreamed about during those desperate nights back in my apartment.
And yet...
He'd brought me food—real food, not scraps. There was calculation in that, surely. I was a puzzle he wanted to solve before his father did. Or perhaps this was my last decent meal before being handed over to this Balthazar person tomorrow. The mention of that name had made even Eris tense. Whatever awaited me with Balthazar, it wouldn't be merciful.
But beneath Eris's cruelty, beneath his cold assessment, I'd seen something flicker in those golden eyes—something that betrayed more than simple duty to his sire.
Curiosity.
It wasn't kindness. It wasn't protection. It certainly wasn't anything like the Eris from my dreams.
But it was something.
And in the Autumn Court, perhaps that was the best I could expect. A slightly fuller stomach before whatever torments awaited me.
Tomorrow would come soon enough, bringing with it a future I couldn't predict in a world I thought I knew from books and dreams. But reality, it seemed, was crueler than fiction. And far less forgiving.
star_the_human on Chapter 1 Mon 24 Mar 2025 05:36AM UTC
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Abteris on Chapter 2 Mon 24 Mar 2025 06:53PM UTC
Last Edited Mon 24 Mar 2025 06:54PM UTC
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