Chapter Text
The High Lord and Lady of the Autumn Court
Chapter One: A Weird Day indeed.
Eris felt the first tug three days ago—subtle at first, like a fleeting whisper in the wind, an irritation he could easily dismiss. But this morning? This morning, it was undeniable. The force nearly wrenched him off his feet, a pressure so sharp and consuming that fire seemed to explode down his spine. His breath hitched in his chest as he planted his boots firmly into the damp earth of the human forest. His muscles strained as he forced himself to move forward, each step through the tangled underbrush a battle against the pull in his chest. The air smelled thick with pine and decay, the earth beneath him soft and treacherous.
He knew what this was. The bond. The mating bond. A slow, relentless ache had gnawed at him, familiar and bitter. He had felt it before—the brutal, unforgiving sting of rejection when he severed the bond with Morrigan. That choice had cost him more than he was willing to admit. But if Mor was lying on the edge of death somewhere in this cursed forest, he would leave her this time. He’d made his peace with that. He wouldn’t go running back for her. This time... this time, the pull was different.
Another tug. Stronger. More insistent. It nearly stole his breath away.
"I'm coming, I’m coming," Eris muttered under his breath, pushing through the undergrowth, his hand steady on his blade.
Every step was a risk. His departure from Autumn had been sudden, reckless—unplanned. Beron would notice. Beron would punish him for this. If his father barged into his chambers and found them empty, the guards at his door would pay. Not as much as Eris would, but they’d pay. The consequences would be severe.
A root caught his boot. He stumbled but caught himself, cursing under his breath—then froze.
There, lying half-submerged in a creek, ensnared in a cruel Fae trap, was Nesta Archeron. The sight of her nearly stole the air from his lungs. A rope was wrapped tightly around her leg, bent at an unnatural angle, the wound seeping blood into the water. Her golden-brown hair, matted and tangled with dirt, clung to her pale face. Her once-elegant dress hung from her frame, barely clinging to her skin. She was barefoot. Fragile. Hollow.
A ghost of the fierce woman he had seen in the war.
“What did they do to you?” Eris whispered, stepping into the creek, his voice barely above a breath.
Her silver eyes, once fierce, flickered open, but there was nothing there. No light. No fire. Empty. She stared at him, her gaze dull and lifeless. He’d seen more life in a corpse.
“Just make it quick,” she rasped, her voice cracked, devoid of any emotion.
Eris’s chest tightened. His heart, once iron, cracked. “I will,” he said hoarsely, crouching beside her. His hands moved with purpose, but they trembled. He had to find the snare’s stake. His fingers dug through the mud, through the roots, until finally, they curled around the wooden stake buried deep in the soil. He yanked it free with a grunt.
Her breath was shallow, a painful rasp.
“You’re going to kill me now?” she murmured, her voice a mere whisper. No anger. No fear. Just... resignation.
“I’m not,” Eris muttered, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Not yet.”
“Pity,” she whispered, her body trembling, her breath hitching. Then, her eyes fluttered shut, and her entire form seemed to surrender to the dark.
Eris’s mind raced. He couldn’t leave her here—not like this. Not in this state. But he couldn’t take her back to Autumn, either. Not with Beron still in power. He couldn’t.
He swallowed, steeling himself. “Why are you here? Below the wall?” he demanded, but the words seemed too harsh for the fragile woman lying before him.
A long pause followed, silence hanging heavy in the air.
“Feyre...” she breathed, her voice barely audible. “Feyre banished me to the human lands.”
The world tilted beneath him.
Feyre.
Fuck. That meant taking her back to Night was out of the question. Day? Too risky. Dawn? Thesan would tell Rhysand. Summer? Tarquin would never allow it. Winter? Viviane was loyal to Mor. Spring? Tamlin had broken beyond repair.
Eris cursed softly under his breath, kneeling beside her once more. His fingers brushed over her wrist, finding the faint pulse beneath her skin. Faint. Fragile. But it was there.
Then came the howls.
His head snapped up.
Hounds.
The hunters had caught her scent. They were coming.
Without another thought, he scooped Nesta up in his arms, cradling her against his chest, and winnowed.
The familiar scent of cinnamon and embers filled his senses as he arrived in his chambers, Nesta limp in his arms. The warm, golden light of the room did little to soothe the unease curling in his gut. He moved quickly, placing her on the bed, as gentle as he could manage. Her breathing was shallow, slow. But she was alive.
Barely.
Eris’s mind was racing. He needed a healer. But calling for one would alert Beron. And Beron would kill her.
His mother... His mother had trained under Thesan’s mother, learned the secrets of healing. But bringing her here... that was a risk. A huge risk. Nesta and Eris would be dead.
Eris turned back to Nesta, his resolve hardening. Then, slowly, he tugged on the bond, just to make sure. He wanted no doubts if he was about to do what he was about to do.
Nesta stirred, her eyes flickering open for a brief moment.
Eris exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You killed a tyrant, any advice?”
Her dull eyes flickered over him. A beat of silence passed.
And then, the harp appeared. Unbidden, in her outstretched hand.
Eris froze. His breath caught in his throat.
“Where did you get this?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Nesta winced, shifting weakly. “It... appears. The mask too. They follow me sometimes. The second string stops time.”
Eris’s stomach clenched, cold dread pooling in his gut. The Harp. The Mask. The Dread Trove.
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t.
His mate was wielding the forgotten artifacts of the Cauldron. The power of death, of destruction.
He swallowed hard, his voice barely a murmur. “When I heal you,” he said quietly, “we’ll have a lot to talk about. If I die, make sure Lucien gets my dogs.”
Nesta only nodded before slipping back into unconsciousness.
Eris clenched his jaw, pushing down the urge to panic, and tucked the Harp into his coat. He left the room, his mind already working, already strategizing.
Servants bowed as he passed. His brothers called after him, but he didn’t acknowledge them. He was focused, intent.
The doors to Beron’s study loomed ahead. He pushed them open, stepping inside, the smell of smoke and cedar filling his lungs.
Beron was there, standing before the hearth, his eyes cold and calculating.
Eris didn’t speak. He only stepped forward, his hand brushing the second string of the Harp.
The world froze.
Time—once flowing, once fluid—stilled.
The fire, once crackling with life, was suspended in midair, frozen in time. His mother, passing down the hall, was suspended mid-step, her form caught in an eternal moment. The crows outside, wings spread wide, were motionless, their flight arrested in midair. Even Beron stood still, like a statue.
Eris took a slow, deliberate step forward, drawing the dagger from his side.
He plunged it into Beron’s chest. The resistance of flesh and bone was minimal. The blade sank deep, the cold steel tasting the warmth of life itself. He twisted the hilt, watching the blood bloom across Beron’s fine robes.
The second string was plucked.
Time resumed.
Beron gasped, his eyes wide with shock. "Eris... how did you—?"
Blood poured from his mouth, bubbling thick and red.
Eris twisted the blade, driving it into his father’s heart once more.
Beron collapsed, his body limp.
The power of Autumn surged through Eris, filling him with a warmth so intense it nearly burned him from the inside out.
A gasp sounded from the doorway.
His mother stood there, pale, her eyes locked on Beron’s lifeless body.
“What…” she whispered. “What did you do?”
Eris straightened, his expression unreadable. “I killed him.” He sheathed the dagger. “With a dagger.”
His mother swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper. “How?”
“Surprise attack.”
The silence between them stretched thick and heavy, before Eris spoke again, his tone sharp with urgency.
“Mother,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I need your help. I have my mate lying unconscious in my bed, and I don’t know how I’m going to control myself when the healers touch her to heal her.”