I Just KNOW That This Is Going To WRECK Me.

I just KNOW that this is going to WRECK me.

The Fire Won't Burn Me

All I know is this could either break my heart or bring it back to life

for @elucienweekofficial

Summary: Princess Elain Archeron wants nothing more than to be reunited with her missing youngest sister and to see her father finally emerge from the fog of grief he's been living under since her mother died. When her step mother arranges for her older sister to fetch her youngest to celebrate Elain's impending engagement to a neighboring prince, it seems like she'll get her wish. That is, until her father's fearsome huntsman steps in and wrecks it all. Now she's on the run, hiding in the forest to keep herself- and her heart- intact.

In her quest to understand why someone would want her heart carved from her chest, Elain will have to reconcile what it means to truly be the fairest of them all

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Prologue:

Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all? 

Elain was nine years old when her mother died. She hadn’t known she was sick until the bells began ringing. Nesta scooped up little Feyre, only six at the time, eyes wide with surprise. Elain trotted after her, hands fisting her skirt. Stepping into the warm spring air, the three of them looked upward at the black spires of the palace they lived in, stretching like spider fingers toward the cloudless sky.  

Their father’s cry of anguish told them the truth. Eleven year old Nesta had hurried them inside. Shoulders squared, spine straight, she told them what would happen next.

“We need to stay out of everyone’s way,” she began, her severe gaze wholly on Feyre. Feyre wiggled from the little bench at the piano in Nesta’s room, already bored. “Everyone will be wondering what father means to do with us. If we are very good, he will let us stay.”

“Why would he send us away?” Elain demanded. Their father loved them. He said so every night when he came to her room to read her a story and give her a kiss. 

But Nesta was older and smarter and if she was worried, Elain thought maybe she was right to be. Elain reached for Feyre’s little hand, pulling her closer. “We can be good.” Nesta’s smile told Elain she didn’t think that was true. 

They tried, though. For three years oh how the little princesses tried. Nesta took to harassing their father into managing the small kingdom they occupied while Elain began learning all the duties her mother had once done. All Feyre was responsible for was her education, a thing made impossible when the tutors stopped coming.

Too unmanageable.

Unladylike.

A little monster.

Their father didn’t care. He didn’t care his youngest daughter wasn’t getting an education or that their kingdom was on the verge of bankruptcy. War had broken out on the border and by the time Elain was twelve, there were talks of marrying off Nesta to solve their problems. 

No one wanted a poor princess as a wife. Many, many offers were made for her—but none of them in good faith. Elain learned, right then, that the only way they were going to survive would be to stick together.

To take care of each other. 

Stick together, Nesta would say before grabbing both their hands and marching them to see their father. They only needed each other. And that was never truer than when their father announced he would remarry for the sake of the kingdom. It wouldn’t be love—his only love, his true love, had been buried years before.

This was for security. To give his daughters a future, he picked an incredibly beautiful women from the northern reaches of their world. Elain had been mesmerized the first time she’d seen her. Her hair was like ruby silk, her eyes the most stunning shade of brown, her skin unmarred alabaster. She’d walked to the three of them, pausing when she saw Elain.

“Aren’t you a pretty little thing?” she’d cooed before moving on with her train of ladies. 

“I like her,” Elain had whispered, squeezing Nesta’s hand. Nesta hadn’t responded. Feyre did, though.

“Well, I don’t,” she’d whispered. Nesta’s answering sigh had said enough. 

And in the end, Feyre and Nesta had been right. 

Present day:

Elain moved through the empty palace halls, skirts gathered in her hands. She missed the courtiers who had once crowded around, gossiping and sharing news of the kingdom. Elain missed the servants, too—nearly all of them had been dismissed. For the life of her, Elain could not figure out why. Only that her step-mother deemed it unnecessary and her father was too lost in the past to argue.

A lot of things had changed in the twelve years since her mother had died. Feyre was gone—and neither Elain nor Nesta could figure out where, exactly, she’d been sent. Only that ten years ago, when Feyre was nine, their step mother had informed them all Feyre could not read. That was news to Elain, though in retrospect why was she surprised? Their father had forgotten Feyre’s education and the tutors had left long before their step-mother ever arrived.

They’d spent ten years trying to track Feyre down. The only clue they had was Feyre was somewhere out by the wall, a mysterious place far, far beyond the borders of their own home. The wall separated the Illyrian Mountains and the Velarian woods from the rest of civilization. Monsters were said to roam, and if that was true, Elain couldn’t understand why a princess would ever be sent out there. 

Their father didn’t care. He wasn’t at the breakfast table when Elain arrived, though both Nesta and their step-mother were. They both looked at her when she entered though Elain kept her eyes on her slippered feet.

“Mother,” she said, ignoring the hiss of air that escaped Nesta. “Sister.”

“Did you sleep well?” 

Elain sat politely, sliding her skirts beneath her legs. “Thank you for asking. I did.”

Elain dared a look at Nesta, straight-backed as ever. Something Elain didn’t recognize flashed over Nesta’s pretty features, smoothed into placid nothing when their step mother began speaking again.

“I have two pieces of good news. Which would you like to hear first?”

“How could we possibly differentiate between them?” Nesta snapped. Elain said nothing at all, didn’t dare react. This was a familiar showdown between her sister and her faux mother. Their step-mother narrowed those cerulean eyes, brushing a piece of blonde hair from her face. She was still impossibly beautiful. Elain had always admired her. Time had begun to show, lining the severe frown of her perfect lips and creasing just beneath her lids. Elain had heard her screaming in front of a mirror months earlier over several silver strands of hair. She was dedicated to her looks and sometimes Elain wondered if she didn’t feel that way because of how little attention their father paid her.

“Your sister, Feyre, can receive one visitor–”

“I’m going,” Nesta said before Elain could volunteer. Elain spread jam over a burned piece of toast, thinking she never would have been allowed, anyway. Their step mother offered a rare smile.

“Yes, I thought you might say that. Of course, if you do go, you’ll miss Elain’s engagement.”

“Engagement?” Elain interrupted. That was news to her. “To who?”

“Prince Graysen of Lyonesse. Your father signed the treaty just last night. Did he not tell you?”

A cheshire’s smile told Elain she knew damn well their father had said nothing. “What is he like?”

“I’m told he’s exceptionally handsome,” she began, gritting out the words as though it pained her. Elain’s beauty had become contentious of the years. No longer did she coo that Elain was a pretty little girl. Now she looked at Elain like competition. Like Elain had stolen something from her. And no matter how often Elain wished she was less, nothing changed. Every year she became prettier and every year her step-mother became angrier. 

Elain supposed she ought to be grateful for this arranged marriage. She wouldn’t have to watch her father mope through the rest of his life. Sometimes Elain wished he’d died, too. That he could have followed their mother and Nesta had been made regent. 

“Is he kind?” Elain asked. That was all that mattered to her. She wanted love like her parents had before her mother died.

Nesta exhaled softly as their step-mother shrugged. “How would I know that? You should be grateful, Elain. Prince Graysen is far younger than all the other suitors your father considered.” More news that Elain had been unaware of. 

“When is the wedding?” Nesta interrupted, clearly trying to work out just how long she could be away.

“Six months from now,” their step-mother replied. “In the spring.”

There was time to get to know him, then. Time to figure the whole thing out, to make the best of it. Elain had been afraid it would happen in the next week and she’d be completely alone. Nesta, too, seemed to relax at the news. She’d get Feyre and bring her back and Elain would stay and try and wake their father from his endless melancholy. She didn’t need to speak to Nesta to know that’s what Nesta’s plan was. 

Elain offered their step-mother a smile. “Thank you for this. I hope it wasn’t any trouble.”

Her answering sneer made Elain wilt. “No trouble at all,” she replied, her tone very much implying it had been immensely troubling. The meal became unbearably silent, the three of them eating until their step-mother made a comment about Nesta’s weight that sent both sisters scurrying from the table.

“Even if the weather is rough,” Nesta began the mere second they were out of ear shot, “I won’t be gone longer than three months. That’s enough time to hold on, right?”

“What do you imagine is going to happen?”

“I don’t know,” Nesta admitted. “I’ve heard of Prince Graysen. People say he’s very nice.”

“And handsome?” Elain teased, bumping Nesta in the shoulder. 

“If you care about that,” Nesta replied, unwilling to take the bait. Of course Elain cared—Nesta did, too, though she’d never admit it. “I wonder why you…”

Why not me?

Elain offered Nesta a strained smile. “I’m sure she’s working something out for you as well.”

And that was the problem, because Nesta ought to have been first. The grimace on her older sister's face told Elain she wouldn’t accept an arranged marriage, regardless of how perfect that man might be for her. It could have been true love and Nesta would have rejected the entire thing on principle. Elain was the safer option. 

“Do you think this is about money again?” Elain dared to ask, following Nesta up a winding set of dark marble stairs. Nesta was going to the library again, leaving Elain to amuse herself once they reached those carved, oak doors.

“I think she just wants us out of her way. She’ll marry you, and then myself and Feyre and she’ll have this miserable palace all to herself.”

“Just promise you’ll be careful,” Elain urged, reaching for Nesta’s arm at the top of the stairs. “And you’ll bring Feyre home.”

Nesta rolled her eyes just like she always did in moments when

Elain’s worries were vocalized. “Of course I will.”

Elain remained at the top of the stairs, framed in a shaft of gray sunlight as her sister strode away. Imperious and self-assured as ever. Elain wished she had even an ounce of Nesta’s self-assurance. She didn’t, though. And Elain was afraid of what would happen when her sister was gone and she was left all alone with nothing but the ghost of her father. 

Elain wandered toward the garden, well-aware no amount of digging and de-weeding would save it from the ravages of winter. Autumn was upon them, bringing jewel bright leaves from the forest just beyond the garden. Elain was forbidden from going outside the gates of the palace—she’d never even seen the village at the very bottom of the hill. Sometimes Elain imagined strolling through the wrought iron just to see if there were truly as many wolves as her father had once claimed.

A bluebird trilled from a nearby branch, drawing a smile from her. Lifting a finger, Elain waited until the creature fluttered from the branch it had been hiding on before perching on her finger. Elain whistled softly, a little tune her father had once hummed to her when she’d been a child. Cocking its blue feathered head, the bird chirped right back. She might have sang to the creature all day had someone not cleared their throat. The sound caused her to jump, startling the bird back into the treetops overhead. 

Turning, Elain found her fathers huntsman—Lucien. He stood just outside a dying trellis of winding pink and purple lilies, his back facing her. He worked for her father technically, though the last time she’d seen him, he’d been reporting to her step-mother. He was a huntsman, or so they said. What he truly did with that sword hanging at the heavy brown belt slung over his hips, or with the knife strapped against his powerful thigh, Elain didn’t think she wanted to know. 

The wind caught his tied off auburn hair, blowing strands over a broad shoulder. She stepped closer, uncomfortable with his proximity. It was the way he never smiled, she supposed…or that trio of scars raking over one of his admittedly pretty russet brown eyes. He glanced over as Elain slipped past, murmuring, “Princess,” with a respectful bow of his head. Elain didn’t acknowledge him at all. And when she turned back to see if he was still watching, Lucien had vanished seemingly into thin air. She ought to have relaxed.

But Elain swore she could feel eyes on her. 

Watching her every move. 

–

Nesta set off the next morning. Their father managed to rouse himself from whatever stupor he’d been in to see her off. Standing hunched beside his beautiful wife, Elain thought time was being particularly cruel to him. He seemed twice as old as he was, his hair more gray than brown. Dull eyes stared at Nesta in her riding clothes as the remaining servants helped her load up her things and get into the saddle.

“I’ll be home by solstice,” she promised, not bothering to look or speak to anyone but Elain. “I’ll send word when I arrive.”

“We’ll miss you terribly, sweet Nesta,” their step-mother crooned. “Do hurry back.”

Elain wondered if their father ever looked at Nesta and saw his late wife. Of the three of them, Nesta favored her the most. She might have been alive in Nesta’s silvery blue gaze or the way she pressed her lips together. Nesta bit her tongue, swallowing whatever it was she wanted to say.

Elain knew it would be a week of hard traveling if Nesta wanted to reach the wall. A rolled up map, tucked beneath Nesta’s arm, was the only proof Feyre existed at all.

“Be safe,” Elain said impulsively, stepping from the stone to grab Nesta’s slim calf. She stopped herself at the last minute, only because she’d been about to beg her older sister not to leave her. It would have been a humiliation too great for either of them to bear.

Nesta nodded her head and then she was off, riding down the long, smooth drive on that coal colored horse. Elain wished she was leaving, too. Her eyes found the forest in the distance, with treetops so dense they seemed to form a blanket of orange, yellow, red and greens. Nesta would have to pass through that forest in order to find Feyre.

Nesta was brave enough to risk it. But Elain was not, and so she allowed her step-mother to loop her arm through her own. 

“Are you terribly excited for the prince's arrival?”

No. “Yes,” she said, smiling brightly. Her father barely reacted at all to her presence, though he fell into step beside her. Elain wanted to shake him. Wake up! We still need you! 

She’d read stories of kings who fell under spells, who needed nothing more than a kiss from their true love to come back to life. Elain had tried once, kissing her father as he sat in his chair. Gently, on the cheek, as she wished for him to be the man he’d once been. But his true love was dead and his spell was merely grief. There was no bringing him back. 

“I have everything planned out,” her step-mother pulled Elain from her thoughts. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

“You’re so kind,” Elain told her, making a point to look her in the eyes. “I’m so grateful for this.”

There, just behind her painted black lashes, was that look of hatred Elain swore she saw from time to time. The nicer Elain tried to be, the more often she saw that look. 

“Anything for you,” her step-mother replied, a forced smile on her beautiful face. Elain left her then, hand on her fathers back as she led him further into the palace. Elain wondered if it bothered her, not having an heir. She’d only ever be consort—not even queen. That title was reserved for Nesta, passed down and promised by her mother when they’d been children.

Her father could have made his new wife his queen, which would have disinherited his three older daughters. And in the preceding months after his marriage, all three of them had expected that. 

He never had. For all his faults and failings, he’d ensured that Nesta would one day ascend, her husband a mere king's consort. Maybe that was why their step-mother was so reluctant to marry Nesta off. Their father was likely to abdicate in favor of Nesta, who was more than capable, especially if a continuation of their line was assured.

For all her beauty, for all her vivacious smiles and too-tight dresses, Elain’s stepmother had never once given their father the one thing he needed in order to secure her future—a child. And Elain knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that when Feyre and Nesta returned, it would be to bury her for good.

Elain would continue with her engagement. In this war, there was no place for her. She was simply too soft-hearted to endure the constant fighting. Elain was equally unwilling to watch her father slowly march toward the grave. She wanted an escape. If Graysen was offering her a new home in a place filled with real people rather than memories, Elain would take it.

Anything was better than the constant silence. 

—

Prince Graysen arrived three days after Nesta left. Elain had been going a little stir crazy by then. Her stepmother had brought staff back into the palace with almost gleeful abandon. It was nice to not have to worry about drawing her own bath or restarting her own fireplace in the evenings—and Elain couldn’t pretend she didn’t appreciate the help dressing that morning. Elain was put in a gown of rich, cobalt blue—the colors of her soon-to-be fiance's crest. Her hair was woven around pretty white flowers and curled carefully under the watchful eye of her stepmother's new servants. 

“Is there anything I should know?” Elain asked one of the silent women. No one spoke to her, though she thought their eyes were filled with pity. With no one to guide her and no one she could lean on for support, Elain made her way toward the grand dining hall they’d once used to host her mothers lavish parties. It was strange to see the tables made up again, draped in shimmering white. The windows had been thrown open, allowing golden, autumn sunlight to stream against the immaculate ivory. 

Elain paused just outside the doors, ignoring the sound of her stepmother's delighted laughter in favor of looking at a family portrait still hanging just outside the door. She’d been so beautiful. So happy, too, if the soft smile on her face was an indicator. Elain didn’t linger, though she wanted to. Her stepmother’s raucous giggling drew her curiosity. Was the prince truly so funny? That was a good sign, she decided. If he had a sense of humor it was possible he was also a good conversationalist. And perhaps all that meant he was kind, too. 

Inside, she found her stepmother seated in her fathers usual chair, holding court with the retinue Graysen had brought with him. Graysen, she realized, was just at her stepmother's right. And he was handsome. Oh, but he was lovely with warm, brown eyes and hair that glinted gold in the sunlight. His skin was tanned and when he saw her come into the room, he stood, betraying him as tall and muscular.

“Princess,” he breathed, a smile gracing his face. One cheek dimpled quite sweetly, causing her heart to race. “I’d heard tales of your beauty, but to see it in person is quite different.” Elain didn’t know what to say to that. 

Elain didn’t know what drew her eyes to her stepmother. Far from smiling, she looked furious. Her rage was out in full force for reasons Elain couldn’t discern. Had something happened? Was she merely placating the prince until they were alone and could explain why he was a bad match? Elain was stiff when the prince approached, falling to one knee in front of her. With reverence, he took her hand and pressed a soft kiss along the back.

“How lovely to finally meet you, future wife.”

Elain curtseyed, eyes drifting toward her angry stepmother watching the scene. Elain had a flash of memory—of her father’s very public marriage to her stepmother…and how he’d forgotten her name up at the altar. The crushing disappointment that etched itself over her lovely face, smoothed out as she reminded him her name was, in fact, Amarantha. 

Elain looked back at Graysen, heart thudding for an entirely different reason. Anxiety flooded through her chest, threatening to drown her as she realized it wasn’t that Graysen was a bad choice—but merely her stepmother’s jealousy that Elain was getting what she did not. 

“Please stand,” Elain urged him, giving the prince her full attention. “You don’t have to kneel.”

Graysen did, his expression earnest. He didn’t drop her hand, though. Not until one of his courtiers began giggling softly in the background.

“How lovely that the prince is so taken,” someone commented, pulling the two of them apart.

“Who knew the princess would be so beautiful,” came another whispered voice. 

“Yes,” her stepmother said, rising from her chair. “Our Elain is quite pretty, isn’t she?”

Somehow, when her stepmother said those words, it sounded like an insult. Elain suddenly missed Nesta, who was still tracking down Feyre at whatever school she’d been sent to. Nesta would know how to handle this, what to say to stop the whole thing. 

Elain didn’t, though. So she smiled, pretending her stepmother paid her nothing but compliments. 

“It must run in the family,” Graysen began, though he didn’t take his eyes off Elain.

“She’s only my stepmother,” Elain blurted out. The room went silent under the implication of Elain’s words. Elain didn’t dare turn. Didn’t dare move, even when her stepmother's blood red nails gripped her shoulder. 

“Come,” her stepmother murmured, squeezing so tight Elain whimpered. Graysen didn’t notice which was a small mercy. Elain wondered if she’d be punished for what she said once everyone was gone. “Let me show you Elain’s garden.”

Elain dared to take a breath when Graysen laced his fingers through her own. “Well, my lady. Lead the way.”

LUCIEN:

Being summoned by the would-be queen was the bane of Lucien Vanserra’s existence. He worked for the king, not his obnoxious, meddling wife. In the years since the queen had died, Amarantha had taken over most of his affairs. And that included Lucien. In exchange for safety within King Archeron’s realm, Lucien was bound to his every whim. He’d been young when his mothers infidelity had been revealed—little more than a boy when he’d fled to avoid being killed. 

No longer a prince, but a huntsman who kept the forest cleared of poachers. Lately, though, he’d been summoned for more personal jobs. Threats to the regime, to the queen herself. Lucien hated her—hated her vanity, how she couldn’t take her eyes off her own reflection. Her obsession with her appearance, with being young. She couldn’t go five minutes without requiring some amount of self-assurance.

“There you are,” she said when Lucien stepped into her private chambers. “Tell me, what do you think of this shade of purple?”

Ugly, he wanted to say. She was a beautiful woman, he supposed, made ugly by how vain and self-obsessed she was. There was no use in being truthful. Not when his life hung in the balance. So he smiled, swept into an easy bow, and replied, “Stunning as always, my lady.” She didn’t look at him as she reached for her hairbrush, pulling at the strands of her ruby colored hair. 

“You swore once that you would do anything required of you to keep this kingdom safe.”

“Yes.” That was true. 

“I need you to take Princess Elain out into the forest,” she began, her eyes glittering. “I want you to bring me back her heart.”

Lucien paused. “Her heart, my lady?”

Amarantha turned, her smile twisting her face into something truly wretched. “Yes, huntsman. Her heart. I require it—”

“For what?” Lucien demanded. He barely knew the princess but she seemed harmless enough. Engaged, if the rumors were true. Amarantha would have had a hand in that given how distracted her father was. She’d be gone in a matter of months—Lucien had heard that the prince was quite taken with his soon-to-be wife. 

“Since when does the kings favored huntsman ask questions when given a command?”

Lucien didn’t bother to mention she’d never asked him to carve out someone's heart before, either. 

“Fine,” he said. What did it matter, in the long run? The princess was nothing to him, but disobeying risked being sent back to Beron where he’d be executed. The princess was nothing to him. If the queen wanted her heart—and Lucien suspected she wanted it for something perverse—that was no business of his.

“Good man,” Amarantha purred, turning back to her reflection. “Take her out close to sunset. I’ll tell her betrothed she ran away.”

“And how am I supposed to convince the princess to follow me into the woods?” Lucien demanded through gritted teeth.

“You’re resourceful. Figure it out.”

Great. With a final bow, Lucien extricated himself from her bedroom and the cloying, perfumed smell she wore. Lucien made his way toward the palace gates, encountering more servants than he’d seen since before the queen had died. He supposed that was in response to the foreign prince. Couldn’t let him know just how poor they were. Lucien knew the marriage between the king and his new wife had been somewhat fraudulent. She didn’t have as much money as her family had promised.

If they’d been smart, they would have married off Nesta the minute she turned eighteen. Smarter, to let Elain go through with her marriage to a prince so smitten he’d overlook what Lucien imagined was a very small dowry. Amarantha wasn’t smart, though, and the king was still lost to grief, the likes of which he was never going to recover from.

Which left Lucien to stalk through the garden like a wolf, looking for the trembling fawn that would be his prey. Elain sat on a crumbling marble bench, eyes glassy as she stared out into the distance. All he needed was a lie to lure her out. 

“Princess,” he began, bowing at the waist. What had she done, he wondered? What horrific offense had been committed? She turned to look at him, stalling the very breath in his chest. He’d never truly looked at her, but here, framed by the golden light of late afternoon, he was certain Elain was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The memory of her voice whistling to a bird in the garden floated through his memory. Lucien was quick to banish it. 

“Lord Lucien,” she murmured, averting wide, brown eyes quickly.

Ignoring the way his gut tightened, Lucien took a breath. She must be awful, he told himself. Why else would the queen want her heart? It was too personal, the sort of trophy one took from a hated enemy.

“Lucien is perfectly fine,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. “I…”

Elain turned again, a loose curl falling over her shoulder. She was lovely in that amethyst dress. His chest restricted a second time—not because she’d called him lord, but because it seemed criminal to defile her in any way. For a moment, Lucien felt revenant, an acolyte meeting a god for the  very first time. Touching her would be holy—and forbidden. 

“It’s your sister,” he lied, scrambling to think of what he knew about Elain. She and her sisters had been close—he’d often seen them together talking quietly, heads pressed together. “She is injured in the woods. I can’t convince her to return home with me but perhaps you…”

“Nesta?” Elain asked, rising quickly to her feet. It was horrific how easy it was to lure her out of the palace. 

“Yes,” he lied, fingers brushing the knife strapped against his thigh. “Will you come with me? She’s not far from here. Thrown, I think, from a horse.”

“Oh, gods,” Elain breathed. Lucien kept waiting for the mask to slip—for some hint of the evil that lay behind her beautiful face. Why else would the queen want her to die? The princess was to be married, and would leave in five short months. 

No, it must be treason, he told himself. Something so heinously unforgivable that this was the only path forward. And Lucien did as he was told, regardless of his personal feelings. If the queen wanted the princesses heart, Lucien would deliver it to her. 

“It’s easier and faster to set out on foot,” he lied. It would have been faster to set out with a horse, especially if there was an injured woman involved. Elain didn’t know any better. 

“Can you carry her?” Elain questioned, looking him over. Lucien scoffed.

“Of course I can.”

She raised her palms defensively. “I wasn’t…I just…if it's a far walk, I just thought…” 

Her cheeks bloomed pink from her embarrassment while Lucien felt guilty. Where was the monster? He wanted to see some hint of whatever had offended Amarantha so unreasonably that she’d order the king's favorite daughter executed. 

“I can manage it.”

“Nesta can be…difficult, especially if she’s scared,” Elain tried to explain earnestly, bouncing on the balls of her feet to keep up with him. Lucien took a breath of crisp air, trying to steady himself. She was trusting, which would make everything easier. Lucien led her through the garden, curious now.

“Difficult?”

Elain nodded, tucking hair behind her ears. “She means well. She just…doesn’t trust easily.”

“And you do?”

Red crawled up her neck. “I…”

Lucien forced himself to smile. “Relax, princess. I’m only giving you trouble.”

Elain’s shoulders relaxed, though some of the bounciness in her step faded. Lucien pulled open the gate at the far end of the dying garden, revealing the stone path that would fade to dirt once they reached the edge of the forest. Elain hesitated.

“I’ve never been allowed to leave before,” she admitted, biting her bottom lip. 

He felt like a miserable bastard as he said, “Consider it practice for your new husband.”

Elain swallowed and then followed him out, letting the gate swing closed behind her. She smiled, unaware of how the sight eroded a little more of his confidence. He could figure it out, he told himself desperately. He could untease it simply by asking careful questions.

“So,” he began, hands fisted at his sides, “are you excited to leave?”

“Um,” she began, toying with the strands of her hair. “I suppose I am. I’m looking forward to having someone to talk to again.”

“What about your sisters?”

Lucien knew very little about the royal family, mainly by choice. He didn’t want to be involved in their lives nor did he want to draw attention to the fact that he was, technically, still a prince of a neighboring kingdom. Beron likely thought him dead—and Lucien very much wanted to keep it that way. 

“Feyre had been gone for so long…and Nesta is…” she bit her bottom lip again. “They just prefer solitude. I miss having friends.”

She was strangely pathetic. Another surge of pity speared in his gut as Lucien realized they shared this in common. He missed having friends, too. Missed his home and just feeling like he belonged somewhere. 

“Well, that’ll change soon, right?”

Elain sighed softly. “I suppose. The prince is kind, he just—” She cut herself off, looking up at him as if she’d just remembered who he was. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“No, please. He just, what?”

“He just thinks I’m beautiful,” she mumbled, her whole face the shade of a tomato. It was at that moment they passed into the forest, leaving the palace in the distance. His knife against his thigh was heavy, weighing him down like rocks tied to his ankles. 

“You disagree with him?” 

Lucien didn’t. Elain was beautiful—you’d have to be blind not to see it. 

Her eyes cast toward the leaf strewn ground, kicking them up like confetti. “No, I guess not. I just…hoped…for more than that.”

“What else is there?” he asked stupidly. Shadows covered her face, leaving only her eyes visible in the remaining shafts of light peeking from the treetops. 

“Friendship,” she said quickly, her words heavy. “Love.”

Lucien didn’t know what to say to that. Silent, he let her continue.

“My parents had that before my mother died. I guess I was hoping…”

Overhead, far in the distance, thunder rumbled. It was as if the very gods themselves were watching things play out between them and warning him to stay his hand. Lucien didn’t understand and he knew, without a doubt, that if she returned home the queen would merely find someone else to carry out this task. There were plenty of people who wouldn’t be moved by Elain’s beautiful face. 

“Your father has that with your stepmother, does he not?”

She scoffed, kicking more leaves into the air. “No. He chose her out of duty, not love, and I feel so badly for her. She must be lonely, too.”

Lucien opened his mouth only to close it again. 

“I’m sure once things get settled and he becomes accustomed to me, I’ll learn more about him,” Elain continued, blithely unaware of what was happening. Lucien needed to figure something out and get her far, far from the palace. While Elain continued speaking, he began scanning the forest for anything that might help.

Deer, he decided, noting telltale marks on the trees. He’d carve out a deer heart and present it to Amarantha. She wouldn’t know the difference. Elain would have to give up her engagement and her home, but at least she’d still have her life.

Lucien had a sinking, sick suspicion why Amarantha wanted her dead. Not because Elain was a monster…but because Elain was beautiful. He couldn’t prove it, of course, but nothing else made sense to him. That was nothing to die over. Especially when it was clear she valued her own looks so little in comparison to things like friendship and kindness. 

All he had to do was scare her a little. 

“Where did you say my sister was?” Elain asked when the silenced stretched too thin between them. Lucien reached for the knife strapped to his thigh, twirling it aimlessly in his hand. 

“Will you answer me something, first?”

Elain was looking only at that blade, dull in the rapidly falling dark of the forest. The scent of rain wafted through the trees. A storm would hide her tracks. Lucien could say he left her body in the river knowing anything would be washed out to sea. 

“Lucien–”

“Why does the queen want you dead?”

Elain froze. “What?”

“What did you do, princess? Why did she ask me to cut out your heart?”

Elain scrambled away from him but Lucien was quicker. Grabbing her by the arm, he shoved her against a tree. “Tell me,” he demanded. He just needed to know the truth—needed to know if he was right. 

“I don’t know,” Elain whispered, blinking rapidly as tears began to slide down her face. “Please, I—”

“I think she’s jealous of you, princess. I think you’re about to get the life she wanted and she can’t stand to see you happy.”

“Lucien, please,” she whispered, fighting against his arm pressed just beneath her collarbone. “Please—”

“You’re going to run,” he said, lowering his mouth so only she could hear him. “And you’re never coming back. Do you understand me?”

She looked up at him, eyes wide. “I—”

“If I find you, I’ll kill you,” he lied. If she returned, Lucien knew it would be he who died. He could no sooner bring that blade down on her than he could do it to himself. Elain swallowed, nodding her head. Tears clung to her long lashes, glittering before those wide, gold flecked eyes. He wanted to kiss them away.

Lucien stepped far from her, still holding that knife.

“Go,” he ordered.

And to her credit, princess Elain turned her back and fled.

Hanging out with Aunt Fennec! “Fine, you can have one sip. But don’t tell your dad.”

Did I just get back to service and wifi after months of work travel with sporadic cell signal at best (after being LIED to that there was both cell signal and wifi available)?

Yes.

Did I plan for it to happen right before Elucien Week and Speak Now (Taylor’s Version)? (And also missed half of the Rise of the Pink Ladies that’s now apparently just gone?)

No, but I’m certainly not complaining (except for ROTPL. I am complaining about that. Bitterly). Let’s goooooooo!

Also, I missed this and everyone here and all the people I follow. 💖💖

Get ready for a bunch of reblogs.

No TV show or movie I will ever watch is worth starving a writer from their home.

I haven’t gotten to this chapter yet (I’m on Part 4), but I am in LOVE with this. The premise, the dialogue, the pacing?! It’s phenomenal!!!!

To get back what the Cauldron has taken from her, Elain Archeron makes a deal with Prythian’s most dangerous enemy.

Now, a servant of a cruel Death God, Elain must make sure her efforts are not discovered—especially not by someone tied to her darkening heart by a golden thread.

Someone like her mate.

Notes: My humble offering for @elucienweekofficial. This fic is a post-ACOSF story — and very close to my heart as it’s based on the very first one-shot I’ve ever written.

Tags: Post-ACOSF, Canon Compliant, NSFW

Read on AO3 || Chapter 1 || Masterlist

Chapter 5 - Leave My Body Glowing

Helion did not show up for breakfast the next morning. Elain ate in solitude, since Lucien had gone—well, only the Gods knew where. He’d been up before sunrise, the sudden absence of his heartbeat ripping her from sleep.

Strangely, no nightmares had plagued her last night. She’d woken up to the soft whoosh of the sea the palace overlooked, and the soft neighing of a pegasus somewhere above her bedchamber. She watched it roam happily in the sky as the sun had fully come into view, something like content settling in her chest as she snacked on the colourful pastries the maids had delivered earlier.

She’d asked for their help in dressing—there was no way Elain would ask Lucien for advice—and, to Elain’s utter delight, they absolutely delivered. She stood in front of her wall-length mirror now, her reflection almost unrecognisable as a new woman stared back.

Female, Elain reminded herself, though no bitterness seemed to accompany the thought this time. Her mind seemed too occupied with the change to resort to its usual storm of regret and anger, instead soaking up the light beaming from her reflection.

Elain looked like she’d been born to live in the Day Court.

Her corseted gown had been replaced by a flowy dress of rich sapphire—a thread similar to that worn by the High Lord yesterday, the colour resembling the surface of Day’s quiet sea as it soaked up the afternoon sky. The fabrics fell just below her knees loosely, flowing like a gentle breeze as she moved and revealing her legs—the golden sandals adorning her feet. Their heels clicked lightly on the marble floor with every step, making her feel giddy—like a sudden surge of joy rushing through her despite such simple of an accessory. She’d even asked one of the maids to line her eyes with kohl, a thin, slightly curled line at her lashes, pigmented with a colour similar to that of the gown, bringing out the brown of her eyes and making them look like pools of honey. She looked so different to the female from yesterday—and yet, it was still Elain looking back at her in the mirror. She still had her full lips, though they were curled up in an open smile now instead of their usual tight expression, her whole body relaxed and seemingly flowing along with the morning breeze.

It carried her all the way to the library as Elain walked to the High Lord’s famed collection, praying Lucien had not yet managed to find his way there, giving her at least a few minutes to do some research of her own.

A Day Court scholar she’d bumped into on the way—an elderly male carrying what seemed like a mountain of scrolls and texts, their combined weight surely exceeding his own—directed her toward the tall door at the end of a corridor decorated with sandstone walls and ivory statues. This part of the palace seemed older, somehow, more ancient than the marbled floors and pillars of her own wing, as though the foundations of the library held as much important history as the knowledge they stored.

Elain was not entirely sure what to expect from the space, but not even in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the sight unravelled before her.

Helion’s grand library spanned across what seemed to be the full height of the palace, climbing at least seven floors upward until she could no longer see anything but the sunlight pouring in through the ceiling—or rather the lack of it, as Elain realised, with no glass dome shielding the circular space. Instead, the sun shone freely into the halls, Helion’s own magic no doubt shielding the parchments and tomes from the weather and any other outside disruptions. Somehow, Elain doubted it ever rained here, the land seemingly covered in perpetual light and guarded by bright, fluffy clouds.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the musky scent of heavy tomes and dried-up ink. There were so many books in here that she doubted even a lifetime of immortality would be enough to make her way through them all. Elain began making her way inside, through the endless walls of bookshelves and desks, with piles upon piles of documents stacked in every corner of the space, the overwhelming prospect of knowledge and information like a magnet pulling in her sight. Her eyes flickered from one shelf to another, growing wider and wider at the sheer amount, her heart quickening as she realised just how much there was to be learned about the world.

She hadn’t ever left the human lands beneath the Wall—and then, in this new life, she’d hidden deep in the Night Court, dreaming about the home she’d abandoned. She had no idea…

Her steps carried her to the second floor as thought with a mind of their own, and Elain did not realise she found herself in a secluded section of tomes shining a spectrum of vibrant greens and yellows, the texts practically calling out her name. She moved in closer, hands reaching for a heavy tome with an elegant, leathery cover of a grassy shade of green. A small gasp escaped her lips as she opened it, a hand-painted picture of tulips gleaming softly from the page.

The text beneath read, The Tulip Fields of Cordana—a small human kingdom bordering the faerie lands deep into the Continent. Elain’s heart quickened as her father’s words came back to life in her mind.

My dear Elain, I promise to take you there one day. The fields are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—other than my lovely daughters, of course, he’d added quickly, making Elain giggle.

Her mother died shortly after that, and then…well.

Her father was right, though. Elain didn’t need to stand in the fields to marvel at their beauty. The bright colours of yellow and pink and amethyst were vibrant even on the yellowed page, and Elain began reading through the fields’ history, nearly devouring the story of the young human queen who’d first planted them centuries ago.

She was just flipping the page when a smooth, quiet voice sounded behind her. “Tulips?”

Elain jolted—and winced as a sharp sting cut through her finger, the paper slicing her skin when she whined back.

“Shit!” she swore as droplets of blood began beading at the small wound, staining the old page with a fresh red.

Lucien chuckled. “I had no idea you were capable of such foul language,” he mocked.

She glared at him. “Helion is going to kill me—I hope you know I’m going to tell him whose fault this was.”

But Lucien did not seem to mind, his gaze elsewhere as he stepped back an inch, sweeping it over her form. Her own heartbeat picked up as she heard his breath catch in his throat, mouth parting slightly in surprise as he took her in—the long, exposed legs, the bare skin of her shoulders, the golden-brown hair framing her face in loose, cascading waves. The sapphire-lined eyes as she returned his gaze, waiting for him to say something—anything before her cheeks truly and openly heated under his stare.

“You…” he started, the word no more than a gasp on his lips.

“Yes?” she asked, her own question breathless.

Lucien’s throat bobbed as he opened his mouth—but then, his gaze slid down to her hand.

“You’re hurt,” he managed to say.

“What?” Elain followed his gaze. “Oh. Oh—it’s nothing.” She looked back to him again. “Where were you this morning?”

Lucien ignored the question. “Why don’t you heal it?” he asked tightly, his body growing rigid with the question. He was holding himself back, she realised, something—that beast—purring in her chest as her Fae instincts responded to his own. He’d scented her blood, the same way she’d scented his during the War—and Elain knew that, unreasonable as it was, everything inside him screamed to protect.

Elain swallowed hard. “It’s fine—it’s just a cut.”

“Still.”

“I don’t—I mean, I simply don’t see the point—”

Lucien’s eyes flickered back to hers at that, something like surprise shining in his stare. “You don’t know how, do you?”

Anger simmered in her at last—finally, an emotion she was familiar with. She’d take it any day over this—over this hot breathlessness in her chest, one that would not stop burning until it got what it wanted. Touch him, smell him, taste him.

No, anger was good. “You have no right to speculate—”

Lucien laughed—actually laughed, a deep, throaty sound as though her frustration amused him. “Are you telling me they never taught you? It’s really quite simple, Elain.”

“I never asked,” Elain seethed now, “It’s not natural—”

She stopped herself before the sentence fully spilled from her tongue, as if some ancient magic was mercifully holding her back. 

Too late. Frowning, Lucien asked, “Not natural?” He stepped in closer, backing her into the sandstone wall. “Elain, magic is the most natural thing in the world. It’s part of you—“

“Stop,” Elain breathed.

“Why?”

“It’s not—it isn’t part of me,” she said, the words no more than a whisper—as that ancient magic could hear. “It can’t be. I didn’t—I didn’t ask for it.”

I didn’t ask for you.

Lucien said, his voice strangely quiet, “I know. But sometimes…sometimes we have to make do with what we’re given.”

There was something in his tone that made her pause—that made her want to ask him more. Had someone hurt him the way she’d been hurt? Had he lost, too, had it drowned him, pulled him into the same desperate darkness?

Elain couldn’t—could not do what he said. Could not simply accept it and move on—not when she was so close, so close to…to going back.

Lucien’s eyes softened. “Then allow me,” he said, and placed her hand in his palm.

He’d never touched her before.

Her hand was small against his, his broad warmth enveloping her, wrapping itself around the cut until she could no longer feel it stinging. Her veins pulsed as the golden thread began thrumming around her rib, pulling her closer toward him, begging her to move until their bodies became one.

Elain forced herself still, every nerve inside her fighting to keep from trembling.

Lucien strained against her, too, but his gaze remained focused on the bleeding finger, a soft glow starting to gleam from his hand. She watched, transfixed as the wound soaked up the light, waiting for the wound to close—except that, a few seconds after, nothing seemed to have changed.

Elain’s brow arched. “Quite simple, huh?” she teased, unable to help herself.

But Lucien’s attention remained fixed on the wound—the blood still thick at its hem. “It’s…not me.”

Elain froze. “What do you mean?”

A bead of sweat formed at his hairline. “I’m trying to heal it, but—it’s like your magic…there’s something in it that’s holding me back.”

Elain kept her face cool. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s like…” he continued, entirely focused on the feeling, “like a thorn in a rose. Like the stem will not smooth out until you remove it, but—” He frowned.

My magic is part of you now, little Seer, that silky voice slid into her mind with the memory. It will live in your veins, a symbol of our bargain, until you fulfil your end.

“—but it’s almost like healing is against its nature,” Lucien finished.

“That can’t be true,” Elain countered, her mind racing for an excuse. “I’ve been healed before—after…after Hybern—”

Lucien stilled for a moment. Then, “Hold on—just let me…” the words faded as he frowned again, his eyes closing as his palm emitted a new light—a golden light, like the the thread that connected their souls.

There was a tug—the tug—somewhere in her chest, and Koschei’s magic…it recoiled.

Elain tried not to gasp as the wound closed slowly, not even a thin scar creasing her skin—even the blood vanishing under the healing light.

A second later, and he was done.

“There,” he said quietly. “I know you asked me not to,” he added, knowing perfectly well she knew what he was referring to, “but I…I had to try.”

Elain swallowed. “Thank you.”

Lucien smiled, not entirely teasing as he said, “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me.”

Elain huffed, making him chuckle.

“So, tulips?” he asked.

Elain blinked, the spell gone entirely as she stepped back, her cover still intact. “It doesn’t matter.” The tulips were part of her old life—unlike him. She’d see them when she was turned, and Lucien…And she wouldn’t see Lucien again.

She wasn’t sure why her heart clenched at the thought.

Lucien’s face fell an inch. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I found something.”

Elain thanked the Gods for the change in subject. “Oh?”

Lucien nodded. “Come.”

She followed him a floor up, to what had to have been the darkest corner of the library—as though even the sunlight wanted to shy away from the secrets it held. The sandstone was older here, a deeper shade of beige, scraped by the passing years. There were no scholars roaming this wing—strange, Elain thought, when the tomes seemed to almost sing of the knowledge they possessed. Their subtle hum slid beneath her skin, stirring her blood, as though compelling her to reach out for them as she and Lucien stopped in front the bookshelf standing farthest from the light.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

Lucien’s auburn brows knitted as he looked at her. “Hear…what?”

Oh.

“I must’ve imagined it,” Elain lied. “So what did you find?”

“Elain.” One word—not exactly a warning, but…a plea. As if it took everything inside him not to beg her to push him away.

She gave in—just this one time. “The books, they…” she hesitated, wondering how to best phrase the feeling without sounding like an utter lunatic. “I think they may be enchanted. It feels like they’re calling out to me.”

Lucien looked at her incredulously. “They know your name?”

She listened in—but the song seemed more of a melody than a language—and if it was a language indeed, it was not one Elain was in any way familiar with. “No,” she finally decided. “But…I think they can feel my magic, and it resonates with whatever the books had been spelled with.”

Lucien loosed a shaky breath. “That would make sense.”

Elain frowned. “How?”

He reached up for one of the brownish tomes, resting on a shelf far above Elain’s head—far out of reach. Elain’s eyes trailed the movement—focusing, to her exasperation, less on the book itself but on Lucien’s hand, the same one that had just been holding hers, his sun-warmed skin soft as it welcomed her touch.

She ran a hand through her curls nervously, Lucien’s own eyes darting towards them as he wordlessly handed her the book. “What is it?” she asked him.

Lucien did not look at her as he explained, “You’ve grown out your hair.”

That, Elain did not expect. “Oh. Yes, I—I suppose I did.”

There was a moment of silence, as if Lucien was weighing the risk of his words before he finally said, “It suits you.”

She could have sworn the thread glimmered in answer.

Elain swallowed the light, “So what’s in that book?”

Lucien hid it well—the disappointment. She tried not to let it affect her as he said, “Open it. Page two hundred forty-six.”

She did as instructed, carefully flipping through the nearly disintegrated pages—the books must have been centuries, if not millennia old, no doubt preserved by the library’s magic—until she found the one she was looking for.

“Is that…” she begun, unable to find the words. She’d never been there personally, but Feyre and Nesta’s stories had been painted vividly enough that she recognised the blurry image immediately.

“The Prison,” Lucien nodded. “And this,” he pointed to an old, wrinkled creature, its teeth sharp and exposed, “is the Bone Carver.”

Elain countered, “I thought he looked different.”

“He could appear as whatever he wished. This must be how the author saw him. From what this text says,” he added, pointing to the strange language Elain did not recognise, “the image haunted him until the end of his days.”

Elain asked, “How does this relate to the Trove?”

“Take a look at what he’s holding.”

She glanced at the page. “Well, obviously—a bone. But—” she looked in closer. “Oh.”

Lucien nodded. “This one is different. The bone is curved—like in the image I told you about.”

“The one Nesta’s friend found?”

“Yeah. That one was U-shaped, too. And, look—this one isn’t matted, or scraped, even. There are no old bloodstains, either. It’s too clean, too pristine to not be magical.”

“And it gleams, too,” Elain murmured.

Lucien looked at her weirdly. “It does?”

Elain shifted on her feet. “You don’t see it?”

He hummed. “No. This only confirms my theory—this bone is calling out to you, a Seer, even through the page. Like a pet to its master.”

Elain shivered. “I-I still don’t think we need the Bone,” she stuttered, repeating the same words she’d told him when he’d announced their sudden trip to Day. “We’ve been making progress—with Vassa, that is—I can do it, I can find out how—how to kill him, without it.”

“Elain,” Lucien pressed softly. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” she argued. She needed to be back at the house—needed to find the box Lucien must’ve hidden before her time was up.

“Aren’t you tired of being in the dark?” he asked her, making her limbs grow still. “Of not knowing? This Trove could hold all the answers—could help you navigate and understand your visions. Gwyneth even said…she said it could alleviate the pain, too.”

Elain whispered, “You know about the pain?”

He hesitated.

“Lucien,” she urged.

“I feel it,” he said quietly. “I feel it when you sleep. Every night—your visions, all of endless pain. Of fire—and of death.” He released a long, long breath. “Elain—”

“We need to return to the Night Court,” Elain cut in, her voice unrecognisable even to herself. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—speak to him about the bond. Not when…not when it threatened to consume her.

Not when the idea started to no longer fill her soul with dread.

Lucien looked at her until she began to worry he might not speak to her at all.

“We need to visit the Prison,” she pressed.

Lucien sighed, resignation rolling off of him in waves. “We’re going to need an escort.”

Elain nodded, a new plan already sprouting to life in her head. “Alright.”

His eyes dimming, Lucien turned away, his voice quiet as he said, “I will contact Feyre immediately.”

———

“No,” Nesta said immediately.

Lucien chuckled.

“I’m going,” Elain pressed, shooting him a glare.

“Elain,” her sister repeated. “It isn’t safe—”

“Lucien will be there with me,” she said, and thought the words had been meant to appease Nesta, Elain found that they brought her comfort, too.

Surprise flickered from across the room, quickly followed by something else—a deep, intoxicating heat, like the midday sun warming her skin. Elain didn’t have to turn to know its source—to feel Lucien’s gaze on her, his mouth no doubt twisted in a purely male, smug smile.

Lucien was not the only one her words seemed to have affected—Feyre watched, too, from where she and Rhysand sat on the couch, little Nyx babbling happily as she bounced him on her knees. Her younger sister angled her head curiously, Rhys’s lips twitching beside her—Elain had no doubt the two of them were already passing their comments mind-to-mind. She sighed, exasperated—there was nothing between her and Lucien—other than the very unfortunate fact that he seemed to be the key to her finally getting what she truly desired.

Which was not a mate. Especially not an infuriating, cocky, completely improper—

“Elain knows what she’s doing,” came his response. He shot her a wry smile. “And if she doesn’t, she’ll be safe with me.” Lucien looked at Nesta. “You have my word.”

Nesta’s jaw tightened as she turned to Elain. “And there is no changing your mind on this?”

Elain loosed a sigh of relief. “No.”

“Nesta,” Feyre interjected. “I will be there, too.” The Prison’s enchantments had always required the presence of Night’s High Lord—or Lady—to even enter the structure at all.

The eldest Archeron gritted her teeth. “I just—I don’t understand why you need to go there at all. The Bone Carver is dead—what good will going to his cell do?”

“Elain might find some answers there,” Rhysand supplied smoothly, “or clues, even. Revisiting his old…” he hesitate, “home—could potentially trigger a vision.”

“Potentially is not good enough for me,” Nesta barked.

“It is for me,” Elain said firmly. “We’re going.”

Her tone left no room for argument, and Nesta pinched the bridge of her nose—a habit she seemed to have picked up from Cassian, a fact that made Elain stir. She glanced at Lucien quickly, her gaze sweeping over his stance to see if it mirrored her own—but Lucien simply stood there, leaning against Feyre’s couch, his powerful arms crossed over his chest. He’d rolled up his sleeves, Elain noted, golden-brown muscles on display under the afternoon light.

Get it together, she scowled at the beast. It only smirked at her in return.

Feyre sighed, handing her son over to Rhys. Nyx cooed as his father’s arms wrapped around him, wings rising over his head as though preparing for flight.

Rhys chuckled, “Soon, buddy. I promise.”

Elain’s smile faded. Soon, Nyx’s aunt would be human again—when would she see him again? When would she see Feyre and Nesta? When would she see…?

“Are you alright?” Lucien’s voice sounded beside her. She didn’t even notice when he’d stepped in to her side.

Elain simply nodded, turning to Feyre. “We should go now. There’s no…there’s no time to waste.”

After all, she only had a few days.

Bring me the box, little Seer, and you will be human again.

Feyre rose, reaching out a hand. “When we cross the gates, we’re going to have some…company,” she said mysteriously. “Try not to listen to them. They’ll say anything to get you to try and free them.”

Elain nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat.

Feyre’s blue-grey eyes softened. “Ready?”

“Wait,” Nesta stopped them. She took a step towards her, pulling something from the sheath strapped to her side.

Something long, and sharp. Gleaming.

“This is the dagger I Made,” Nesta explained, then looked at Lucien with a mocking smile. “Your brother had been quite displeased about it slipping from his grasp. I want you to take it,” she said to Elain, a quiet worry filling her gaze. “Just in case.”

Elain swallowed. She didn’t take well to knives.

“Please,” Nesta only said.

The word had never come easily to her sister—and perhaps that was why Elain silently accepted, Nesta’s shoulders loosening with relief.

Feyre nodded, slipping a tattooed hand into Elain’s. “You know where to winnow?” she asked Lucien, who nodded.

A thick, slithering cloud began forming around them—reality folding in on itself, leaving nothing but darkness in its wake. The living room blurred out, and the last thing she saw were Nyx’s eyes, the crushing blue twinkling curiously at his family.

“See you on the other side, Cursebreaker,” Lucien grinned.

Elain closed her eyes and did not open them until a hard wall of wind slammed into her.

The Prison waited beneath the cliff, its very foundations thrumming with the power it contained. Elain let her gaze adjust to the building storm above, the dark waves crashing furiously into the rock. Beside her, Feyre seemed tense, as though lost in the memory of her last time there—or perhaps anxious for what laid ahead.

Lucien looked at them both, his long, auburn hair swept back and floating with the angry wind. “Shall we?”

Elain shivered. “We shall.”

They walked the pebbled path, Elain nearly slipping on the wet rocks as the sea spilled over. Lucien graciously offered his arm, no sly remark falling from his tongue—only his steady presence as they reached the iron entrance. The gates cried heavily as Feyre waved a hand, the ancient metal bending under the will of its High Lady, and finally, darkness enveloped them at last.

The very first thing Elain realised was how silent it was, not even a whisper of an echo as they descended down to the pit of the mountain’s belly. The shadows seemed to swallow every move, every breath, every bead of sweat from Elain’s forehead as she moved, her breathing falling flat.

Elain was not sure how long they walked. She clung to Lucien’s arm as he led them down behind Feyre, his soul the only source of light in the darkness. She could not see the light, perhaps—warm and golden, even in the coldest, most wretched of places.

“The Bone Carver rested beneath the roots of the mountain,” Feyre said quietly, answering the silent question she hadn’t dared to ask out loud. 

Elain nodded, though she doubted her sister could somehow see the movement.

“Do you need some water?” Lucien’s soft voice brushed past her ear. “Thank you,” Elain whispered, the first words she’d spoken since they entered. She could almost feel his smile as he drank. Yet another thank you in one day, his soul teased playfully. I should consider myself a very lucky male.

Elain rolled her eyes, though the tension washed down her body all the same.

“We’re here,” Feyre announced after a few minutes, though all Elain could make out was a smooth wall of stone.

But then her sister pressed her palm to it, and the stone trembled beneath it, tattoos swirling atop her skin. Both Lucien and Elain watched with their mouths agape as the stone shifted and morphed into bone, the ivory gates revealing another space of darkness behind.

Elain did not have the time to study the old markings carved into the gates, a familiar voice penetrating her, smooth and deep.

“Hello, little traitor,” Lucien said.

Elain whirled back.

“What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.

Lucien frowned, the soft glow from Feyre’s palm illuminating his confusion. “I didn’t say anything.”

A low chuckle. “I’ve never known Seers to be so blind.”

Elain shook violently, Lucien’s confusion shifting into concern. “Elain, what’s wrong?” he asked, placing two, strong hands atop her shoulders, her body instinctively leaning into his chest.

“Good,” Lucien’s voice giggled. “Good, little traitor. Lean into your mate before you burn his bones to ash.”

Her breathing came short, her hands trembling as she placed them atop Lucien’s chest. “I don’t understand.”

Feyre angled her head. “Is someone speaking to you?”

“I—I thought it was Lucien,” Elain panted. “He sounds like Lucien.”

“What did he say?” Lucien asked carefully.

“Tell him, Elain Archeron. Tell your mate you’re only here to betray him.” Another giggle—an ugly sound, one she’d never heard fall from Lucien’s mouth, one that seemed to claw at her very bones.

“Who are you?” she breathed.

Lucien squeezed her shoulders. “Elain—”

“Why does your heart race at your mate’s touch, pretty Seer? Does it not still long for another?”

“It does,” Elain said immediately, Koschei’s magic purring in her veins at the words. “It does—”

“What does, Elain?” Feyre asked, urgency rushing into her tone. “Who are you talking to?”

“Very well, then. I suppose you could call me…a memory,” not-Lucien said, the sound coming from somewhere behind her now.

“Elain—”

“From the past?” Elain asked, turning away from Lucien’s warm chest.

The voice clicked its tongue in disappointment. “How truly helpless you are, little Seer. You should know by now that the lines between past, present and future are as blurred as they get.”

Elain breathed, “What does that mean?”

His next chuckle came from behind her back. “It means you should finally open your eyes.”

Elain whirled again, meeting a pair of gold and russet, shining with concern.

“Tell me how to help you,” Lucien begged, desperation creeping into his voice—his real voice, grounding her to reality.

Elain loosed a breath. “I…I think it was the Bone Carver.”

Feyre stepped in closer to them both. “The Bone Carver is dead, Elain,” she reminded her, the cell sounding with a quiet laugh at the words.

Elain shook her head. “No—a part of him—a part of him is still…” she trailed off, finally calm enough to look around the cave.

“Now you See,” the voice purred.

She could make out the gleam beneath the earth even without the ball of sunlight shining in Feyre’s hand. It rippled as she approached, glistening an almost blinding white.

“Come closer, little Seer,” it crooned. “Come closer to me.”

“Elain,” Feyre’s warning came distantly from somewhere behind her.

Elain stopped an inch from the gleam. “It’s here,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it.”

A warm presence enveloped her once more. “What is?”

But Elain didn’t respond, transfixed on the quiet hum coming from deep beneath, her mind once more being pulled into a daze.

“Touch me, pretty traitor. Take what you deserve.”

Elain crouched, reaching for the ground—

A strong hand wrapped around her wrist. “Elain.”

Elain blinked. “Lucien?”

He nodded, lacing their fingers together, her skin tingling at the touch. “What is it that you’re seeing?” he asked softly.

Clarity sucked her in once more. “Lucien,” she repeated. “We need to dig.”

“What do you see?” Feyre asked, parroting Lucien’s question.

“The Bone,” Elain answered. “It gleams beneath the earth.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.” She looked to the ground where Elain pointed, squinting as though trying to make out the supposed shine. “The Bone…but why wouldn’t he…?”

“We need to dig,” Elain said again. Lucien wasted no time.

His magic tore through the earth, the rock cracking beneath its weight, Elain directing its direction quietly. The Fourth Trove—all this time…It couldn’t have been.

And yet, with Lucien’s final surge of power into the rock, a curved, white bone was revealed, resting between the cracks of the earth. Unstained by as much as a droplet of blood.

“That bastard,” Feyre whispered. The voice chuckled again, the sound echoing off the stone.

Elain reached for it again.

“Wait,” Lucien said. “You shouldn’t—not yet. Not until we know it’s safe.”

Elain hesitated. “I think it has to be me.”

“We don’t risk it,” Feyre agreed. “We’ll take the Trove to the House—it’ll be safer without all those prisoners around us.”

That was enough for Elain to agree. If there was any chance the Bone’s powers could release the creatures that lurked in the Prison’s darkness, she was more than content to wait.

Feyre waved a hand, her magic making the Bone float upwards and into the High Lady’s palm.

“Bad call.”

The cave shook.

Elain started, “What is happening—”

“My purpose is complete. Good luck, little traitor.” A final, bone-shuddering laugh. “If you manage to get out of here alive, that is.”

The stone above their heads began to crack.

“Elain!” Lucien roared, and before she could blink, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her as they lunged forward. A second later, a rock the size of her head fell exactly to where she’d kneeled a moment ago.

Elain gaped at him. “Lucien—”

“No time,” Feyre panted beside them. “Let’s get out of there.”

Elain took Lucien’s hand as they ran out, the cave roaring behind them. Blood rushed in her ears, too hot and loud to hear Feyre’s shouted commands as she led them past the ivory gates, the same bones that had survived millennia now crumbling into dust, one by one. Elain looked back just in time to see the cave collapse.

The only thing Elain could see in the darkness was the faint gleam of the Bone in Feyre’s hand, the excited purring of the Prison’s captives leading them back upwards. There was no time to take breaks now, and even time seemed to pass by quicker as they ran, three heartbeats melting into one sound of pure, unrestrained terror.

The greyish light of the sky finally came into view, the Prison gates towering high above them as Feyre grasped at one of the iron bars.

“Feyre,” Lucien breathed. “What—”

Feyre shoved the Bone into Lucien’s hand. “I need to get Rhysand,” she panted. “Take her—take her to the manor. Take her to safety.” She looked him straight in the eyes, determination momentarily replacing her panic as the High Lady commanded, “Now.”

Lucien did not need to be told twice. His arms wrapped around her waist once more, and with that, the crumbling Prison vanished.

———

“We need to go back,” Elain told Lucien a second later.

Lucien ran a shaky hand through his hair. “We have a mission to complete, Elain.”

“Not yet,” Elain pressed, Koschei’s ticking clock no longer of importance. “Not until we make sure they’re okay.”

“Feyre gave me the Bone for a reason, Elain,” Lucien said, his expression pained. “We will go back as soon as we can.” He squeezed her hand, still placed safely in his own. “They have each other. They’ll be okay.”

Elain loosed a breath and closed her eyes. They would be okay—her sister and Rhysand both held a power she’d never been able to fully grasp, as though the very darkness coiled within their shared souls. If anyone could contain the magic ruining the Prison…it would be the High Lord and Lady of the Night. Together.

Elain opened her eyes. “Alright.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Jurian asked, a shivering Vassa following closely behind him. It only took one look for the General to understand, his brown eyes wide as he saw Lucien’s face. “Get inside.”

Elain had to physically keep from running as they navigated the corridor, its dim light welcoming her back—so different from the sunlit halls of Day. This morning seemed like forever ago.

They finally reached the living room, Jurian gently leading Vassa to the couch. The sun had only just set, Elain realised—Vassa must’ve turned back minutes ago, if not less. “Are you alright?” she asked the queen carefully.

Jurian glowered at her. “A side effect from the elixir.” He looked at Lucien. “She’s cold.”

Vassa waved a hand. “It’s nothing worth mentioning,” she said. Jurian looked inclined to protest, and she added with a sigh, “Not yet, at least.”

That seemed to appease him enough. The Mad General turned to the two Fae in front of him again, his gaze immediately darting to the Trove in Lucien’s hand. “Is that…”

Lucien nodded. “We got it.”

Vassa seemed a little breathless. “Have you used it?”

“We’re about to,” Elain said. “There…there is no time to waste.”

Vassa nodded. “Do you need me?” she asked, reaching out her palm without a second of hesitation. Jurian growled lowly.

“I think…It’s safer if I do it myself.” Jurian grunted his agreement.

Lucien looked into her eyes before handing her the Trove. “Elain,” he began. “I…I’m here if you need me.”

Elain swallowed. “I know.” And with that, she wrapped her fingers around the Bone.

Tell me how to get what I desire, she asked it silently.

What appeared before her made her chest clenched so tight all the air was knocked out from her lungs.

She was still at the manor—still veiled in that old, dusty dimness, still waiting on the mole-eaten couch, except…

“Are you alright, Elain?” Graysen asked her, blue eyes shining with concern.

Elain only stared.

“I’ve asked for some tea to be made for you,” he continued, the words strangely resembling one of the last conversations they’d ever had. “Chamomile, right?”

“Jasmine,” Elain choked out.

“Oh. Right.”

She was back—Elain was back home, with her fiancé less than a few feet away from her. Making her tea. 

So why did her chest still feel so tight?

Elain's gaze fell.

An iron ring glinted atop her finger.

A pale-skinned palm covered it as it took her hand into its own. “I’ve missed you,” Graysen said. “You’ve been away far too long.”

She wasn’t sure she was breathing anymore. “You did?”

“Of course,” Graysen said, as if the answer was obvious. “All I ever thought about was having my beautiful Elain back in my arms.”

Something flitted in the window behind him, Elain’s eyes darting toward the movement.

Her heart stopped entirely as a large, tawny owl winked back at her.

Elain’s gasp made her choke on air, like a drowning person being pulled out from underwater. She coughed into her hand, the Bone discarded on the cushion beside her, a soothing hand on her back.

“Breathe, Elain,” Lucien commanded softly. “Breathe.”

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, but Elain couldn’t help but look past the window—and her shoulders fell as she realised that the only thing staring back at her was the starless night. “I think,” she breathed out, “I’m going to need some practice.”

“What did you see?” Jurian asked, wasting no time on letting her adjust.

What, indeed?

She’d asked the Trove to show her how to get what she desired—and the Trove, an object of a power so ancient had shown her her human life. Was that the future awaiting her? Had it meant…

Elain’s eyes burned.

Had it meant she had a chance?”

“Well?” Jurian urged.

But Elain looked at Lucien, his gaze still shining with concern—as though the Bone, the vision, mattered as little as the dust the Bone Carver’s legacy had turned into.

He was a good male, Elain realised—in some way, she had always known. He was cocky and infuriating, yes, but it was his presence that pulled her back when she needed it most. And if Graysen really was the future awaiting her, then Lucien…Lucien deserved happiness, too. Not a mate who’d been…who’d been thrown at him. Not a mate who was no more than a lie. A mistake.

The thought should have brought her peace. But all Elain felt was the suffocating dark as she told them all, “I know how to kill him. I know…I know how to kill Koschei.”

Vassa stifled a sob.

Jurian narrowed his gaze on her. “How?”

“Jurian,” Lucien cut in, his voice calm yet stern. “There’s no need to be so hostile anymore—Elain risked her life to find the Trove.” He looked at her with more certainty than anyone else ever had in her life as he added, “We can trust her.”

No, Elain thought, her heart rotting into mould her chest. You can’t.

She could no longer look into his eyes. She had gone too far now to even dare.

I’m sorry, Lucien.

“There is a box,” Elain told Jurian, her voice unable to keep from shaking. She could only hope they dismissed it for nervousness—not the cold, piercing guilt eating up the last of her aching heart. “Koschei’s soul is stored within it. The only way to kill him is to destroy it.”

Come on, the rot in her blood urged. Say you have it. Tell me where.

Elain was too weak to stop it.

Lucien, Jurian and Vassa exchanged one look before the decision was made.

“I stole it,” Vassa said thickly. “When your father struck a deal with Koschei—I took it from him and hid it, hoping that, one day, I could barter it back for what he took from me.”

Her humanity.

Elain would never atone for this.

Lucien waved a hand, a flicker of light appearing at his fingertips. A gasp tore from her as the onyx box came into view as though it had been crafted from thin air, floating downward until it rested atop the splintered, wooden table.

Well done, my sweet, the box seemed to purr.

Jurian simply said, “Tell us how.”

Bile rose in Elain’s throat with the lie, too quick to stop as she uttered, “You must place it atop Koschei’s lake. The magic beneath the water works against the laws of nature, crying out with the women he’d enslaved into swans. It will seek to punish him—it will weaken the box, allowing you to strike.”

The Band of Exiles looked at each other wordlessly.

“We must go to the Continent,” Elain managed before her throat gave out entirely.

Lucien only nodded, her command the only instruction he needed. “I will contact the Night Court immediately.”

———

“Rest, girl.”

Feyre shook her head, the movement alone making the world spin around her.

“Rest,” Amren pressed. “You and Rhysand have done enough.”

A warm hand rested at her back. “I will take her to bed.”

The female nodded, silver eyes sharp. “Cassian is on site. Nesta will join him shortly—for now, the wards are contained.”

Beside her, Rhysand loosed a shaky breath. “Good. Thank you, Amren.”

“Yes, well. You know how much you owe me.”

He managed a laugh, the sound strained even more than his depleted power. “Make sure to bill it to my office.”

Amren huffed. “You need to rest, too, you know.” And with that, she was gone.

Rhys sighed deeply. “Let’s go, Feyre,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “There’s not much more we can do now.”

She began to protest, but Rhys’s warm lips on her temple were enough to stop her in her tracks. “I’m so tired,” Feyre admitted.

“Let’s go to bed. We can stay there forever, if you’d like.”

Feyre nodded, taking a swaying step forward.

Forever did not last long enough—did not even truly manage to begin as the study shook, the snapping sound of Rhysand’s wards being cleaved in two their only warning as a blinding light erupted at its centre.

Helion Spell-Cleaver’s booming presence was enough to sharpen every last one of her nerves as the High Lord of Day appeared in their study, sunlight scorching around him without mercy. “Tell me, Cursebreaker,” Helion began, his voice just barely restraining his anger, “When were you going to tell me about my son?”

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