WAIT WHAT! This Sounds SO Good. LB, Youve Done It Again. I Can Already Tell!!

WAIT WHAT! This sounds SO good. LB, you’ve done it again. I can already tell!!

A Blaze in the Dark - (1/7)

Chapter Title: A Faith Forgotten Land

Summary: On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, Elain uses a spell to meet her true love in her dreams.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 1: Mates. This chapter gets very spicy 🌶️🌶️

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist

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Elain, I’m afraid I have a favor I must ask you. Do you recall the magic spell I told you about, the night I tried to run away? The one where you place a butterfly wing beneath your tongue so that you will meet your true love in your dreams? I’m afraid the context has become too complex and confusing to divulge to you in its entirety over letter, but I suspect that my husband is, in a strange turn of events, my true love. I know it is a gruesome task, but I desperately need you to send me a butterfly wing so that I can confirm it. Once you have a butterfly wing, I believe you will be able to send it to me by folding it into this letter. Add a lock of your hair and a trinket that reminds you of me, then burn them all, and this letter, after sundown. Don’t give up on true love, Elain. It’s still there, waiting for you. -Feyre

Elain twisted an aster stem between her thumb and forefinger, watching the petals blur into a circle as they twirled. It had arrived with the letter from Feyre—the trinket, presumably, that had reminded Feyre of Elain. An aster flower, a symbol of afterthought, or the wish that things had ended differently.

It was a fitting gift, Elain supposed, though she doubted Feyre was aware of its meaning.

She was happy for her sister, truly. After spending so many days in grief, fearing for what was to become of her sister after Prince Rhysand stole her away to the cruel and oppressive North, it was a relief to discover her sister had potentially found a life with her true love, after all.

It was also difficult not to be consumed with envy.

The lone butterfly wing taunted her from where she’d left it, hastily discarded, atop the drawing table. She’d gagged through the entire ordeal of ripping it from the poor insect, and now that she’d sent one of the wings to Feyre, Elain was uncertain what to do with the second one. It seemed cruel to rip them from a living creature only to discard them, but the prospect of putting it beneath her tongue… Elain’s skin pimpled with disgust at just the thought.

It wouldn’t be practical, besides. Tomorrow, Elain would be marrying the youngest son of the Eastern Kingdom’s royal family. So really, she had no use for the folly of magic and supposed true loves. Even if she met her true love in her dreams, there would be no backing out of tomorrow’s ceremony. It was for the best to leave her fated other half unknown—it would be less painful that way.

Still, the wing rested on that table, just to the side of Feyre’s letter and the words that jumped out towards Elain.

Don’t give up on true love.

It was an easy assurance for someone to make once they had found themselves conveniently married to their true love. But Elain knew, with decided certainty, that such a fate would not apply to her own marriage. Not that she had ever met her soon to be husband.

From what she had heard, Lucien Vanserra was as cruel and miserable as the six brothers before him. Elain hadn’t yet decided what to make of the rumors surrounding the Vanserra men, but what she did find offensive was that Lucien hadn’t had the decency to so much as write her a letter since their engagement was announced. And given he’d made no effort to know her before their marriage, Elain had the sinking suspicion that she was merely the byproduct of a far more interesting transaction.

“You’ll be marrying a prince,” her father had told her proudly. “Just like Feyre. I wouldn’t expect anything less for my beautiful Elain.”

It hadn’t occurred to him to ask if she wanted to marry a prince, but why would it? Before Prince Rhysand had stormed into the manor, the best their father had hoped for was a Duke from their own Kingdom. Now he had letters spanning not just the Kingdoms of Prythian, but even from the distant shores of the continent. And with the abundance of interest in the unwedded Archeron sisters, it had become rapidly clear that their father had no intention of seeking his daughter’s input on their potential matches.

Nesta continued to rage against it, but Elain had been resigned to their father’s will. Despite his less than complimentary reputation, Elain hadn’t exactly loathed the idea of being married to a prince. But when she asked her father when Lucien would be visiting the manor to begin their courtship and he had frowned in response, Elain realized Lucien Vanserra had no interest in romancing his betrothed.

On the eve of her wedding, knowing nothing about her husband besides his apparent disinterest in his soon-to-be wife, the butterfly wing was inviting in ways Elain shouldn’t allow. She was not Feyre. She would never be brave enough to pack a bag and run away in the pursuit of true love. She was good, obedient Elain, who only ever stirred trouble for the sake of gardening. But this... this was not being scolded for “forgetting” to wear gardening gloves, this was magic. Magic that would only cause her heartache. It would only make tomorrow that much more unbearable.

Except the butterfly wing would go to waste otherwise. And it was easier to pretend she was a victim of her empathy than her curiosity.

When she went to bed that night, she did so with the butterfly wing placed under her tongue. And when she woke up, it was to darkness.

She sat up, feeling the slide of silk sheets and blankets that certainly did not belong to the bed she’d fallen asleep in. It was too dark to see anything. Even when she held her hand in front of her face, Elain could not distinguish her fingers from the gaps between. She frowned, thinking it was odd that Feyre had not mentioned this part of the spell. Had she done something wrong?

After a bout of blindly patting the mattress, she determined there was no one else in the bed with her. A relief, she supposed, though she was crestfallen to think her true love had decided he wanted nothing to do with her, too.

Then, the sound of footsteps. Light. Curious.

“Who’s there?” she called.

The footsteps paused.

“Who are you?” he answered, with an accent that was certainly not from the Southern Kingdom.

She wished she’d encountered more people beyond the walls of the manor, if only so she was better equipped to place where he was from. Even so, she could admire the richness of his voice. Warm, honeyed, but with a rasp that made her skin feel heated.

“I’m your true love,” she said.

He took a single step forward. Cautious. “Is that so?”

“Do you know anything of magic?”

“Yes, lady.” There was a lightness to his tone. A humor. “One could say I’m familiar.”

“I placed a butterfly wing under my tongue,” she said. “Apparently doing so will cause you to dream of your true love, and here you are.”

“Here I am,” he echoed.

“And you are?”

He hesitated. Which Elain could not blame him, seeing as she had no intention of providing her own name.

“Are you married?” she asked, seeing no other reason for his reluctance to tell her.

“Betrothed.”

Her heart sank, despite knowing that even if he wasn’t, it would not change the fact that she was to be married tomorrow.

“It is not the sort of engagement I can easily break,” he added.

Elain mulled that over. “But you want to?”

It was a dangerous question. She could tell by the way he laughed. There was an edge to it that sliced through the dark space between them. “It’s not often I encounter a lady so direct,” he commented. “What’s your name?”

Direct was not how she would usually be described—that was for Nesta. Elain was the sister who was always polite, always poised. Always swallowing her tongue, so that every would-be sharp word cut its way down her throat instead. She imagined each bladed thought was slowly slicing away the undesirable pieces of herself and, one day, she would fit effortlessly into the mold of perfect Elain Archeron without needing to swallow anything at all.

Evidently, today would not be good practice.

If governess could see her, she would surely have a fit. Elain had already broken convention by simply being present. She’d used magic to be in the lone company of a man when she was to be wed tomorrow. What was being a little more direct, for an evening? Being someone other than perfect Elain.

“My name?” She asked innocently. “When you won’t tell me yours? That hardly seems equitable.”

He was getting closer to the bed, and she felt her pulse echo each step as the distance closed between them.

“Names are meaningless, anyhow,” he said, with a sort of wry amusement that she would hardly encounter in the stiff social circles of the Southern Kingdom. She found a smile drawing to her lips, leaning towards the open darkness like if she concentrated hard enough, his face would suddenly appear. “They describe nothing of ourselves, besides the people we are related to. A name carries too much prejudice. Instead, tell me about the person your name belongs to.”

Elain could agree on that much. Being an Archeron was wearisome on the best of days, and it was not helped by their father’s insistence of keeping his daughters shut inside the walls of the manor. It left the rest of society much too curious—a fact which Elain had only truly discovered on their societal debut, the night of the Solstice Ball, which had been spent seeking potential suitors just as much as it had been dodging a slew of prying questions. It didn’t help that a foreign Prince had stormed into the ballroom, magic aflare, demanding that he dance with Feyre. Nor did it help that King Beron of the East had taken an interest in the remaining two sisters once word of Feyre’s marriage had spread.

Regardless of where he was from, the name Archeron would be recognizable to her true love. And then he would know not only that she was to be married, but precisely who she was to be married to. If he was spiteful, he could inform her betrothed of their clandestine meeting and disrupt the ceremony, ruining her family’s name in the process. Elain could practically hear Nesta whispering in her ear, reminding her that was dangerous information to hand over to a man, even one that was allegedly her true love.

So she lied.

“I’m from a poor village,” she said. “The only daughter of a farmer—”

“That’s not who you are.”

Elain reeled back from the interruption. It was firm, though not unkind. She tightened her grip on the bed sheets, thumb absently working over the wrinkles to smooth them out, trying to decide what about her lie had given her away. “Wh—what do you mean?”

“Those things don’t define a person, not really.” She could hear a frown in his voice. “What I’m asking is, what drives you? What makes you happy?”

In polite society, one’s occupation and financial status seemed to be all that defined a person. She blinked into the darkness, wishing she could glimpse his expression. If only so she could measure how much space she was permitted to take up in her answer. Should she answer like a lady ought to, the way she had been primed by her governess, so that she sounded desirable and interesting? She could feign an affinity for playing the harpsichord, or something quieter, like sewing.

But his interest sounded sincere.

“Gardening,” she said. “I like feeling the sun on my face and the earth beneath my fingers.”

“Gardening,” he repeated, softly. Elain listened carefully, searching for the usual traces of disapproval. “Is that something you do in your leisure? Or do you help your father plant crops?”

Of course. Elain smothered a laugh at the mental image of her father lowering himself on his cane to plant crops into the dirt. He wasn’t a man well suited to manual labor.

“In my leisure,” she answered, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her lips. “I like to plant flowers.”

“Do you have a favorite?”

Elain gave the question more consideration than it was likely owed. The Archeron manor was nestled in a region of the Southern Kingdom where spring bloomed eternal, and she was cautious not to choose a flower that grew exclusively in their lands. In reality, she had many favorites, depending on the quality she was using to assess them. Did she select a flower for its appearance, its meaning, or the ease with which she could care for it?

Don’t overcomplicate things, she chided herself. He was asking to be polite, and though she sensed the question was genuine, his interest in the answer would be surface level at best. Flowers did little to serve men outside of being a pretty, quiet object they could cast their eyes upon. Perhaps that’s why Elain felt such a kinship in them.

Perhaps that’s why she answered, “sweet alyssum.”

Worth beyond beauty. He wouldn’t recognise the flower’s meaning, she was certain, but he made a noise like he was familiar with the name.

“And why’s that one your favorite?” He asked, voice so close now that Elain was certain he was standing just in front of her. She couldn’t quite summon the courage to reach her hand out to confirm.

“Wherever they grow, the garden looks like it’s been covered in lace,” she said. “They’re also thought to preserve the sweetness of the soul. The ladies in our family are known for a wicked temper, so I used to dry the blossoms to brew them into a calming tea.”

“Is that so?” He must have leaned in, because the next words were so close to her ear that she jumped. “So which do you have then, a wicked temper or a sweet soul?”

“Can I not have both?”

She asked for the sake of the game, because she could tell that it intrigued him, but deep down Elain knew that the wicked temper belonged only to her sisters. The Archeron spirit must have skipped over her entirely, because she lacked the wildness of Feyre and the unbreakable rage of Nesta. Maybe she’d been spending too much time tending the sweet alyssum and the flowers had cured her of a temper—as well as any courage it provides.

“Certainly,” he said. She felt the softest tug at her scalp and thought he must have snagged a lock of her hair. “In fact, for a lady who enjoys gardening, I would expect nothing less.”

Elain cocked her head. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he murmured thoughtfully, “plants often have hidden dangers, don’t they? Thorns and thistles and poisons. A foolish man gets cut by a rose for choosing to only see its beauty.”

For a moment, Elain was stunned into silence. Then she asked, “and do you consider yourself a foolish man?”

“Not often,” he said wryly. “Though I have been cut by a rose or two. In the nature of learning.”

She found herself laughing at the unexpected candor. “It’s a hard lesson learned.”

“An important one,” he agreed. The hand at her hair dropped. She felt the lock fall back to her shoulder, a moment before warm fingers found her jaw. It was a light, barely there touch that raised her chin until her neck angled upwards, giving her the impression that her true love was tall. She wondered how far away he was from her face, if in the light she would be able to count his number of eyelashes.

In a low voice, he murmured, “Now I know how to handle a rose, should I ever come across one again.”

Elain was so caught off guard by the slight touch, that the implication of his words hardly registered until several heartbeats later, leaving her floundering for a response as she realized that he was flirting with her. It was an effort to smother the fluttering in her chest, reminding herself that he was betrothed and so was she.

“How fortunate for your wife to be,” she said primly.

He dropped his hand like she’d scalded him.

It should have been enough to leave it there, but the accusation fled from her lips before she could clamp down her anger, “Does she know that she’s marrying a rake?”

Elain knew it was unfair. She had summoned him, despite being betrothed herself.

He laughed. Dryly. “Wicked temper, indeed.”

“Tell me more about her,” she pressed.

A heavy sigh, strong enough that she felt it ghost over her scalp.

“It’s an arranged marriage. A means for my father to punish and control his unruly son.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised her. Elain straightened. “What did you do to warrant such a punishment?”

A sudden dip in the bed caused Elain’s weight to lurch sideways, pulling a gasp from her as their shoulders brushed and the entire side of her body prickled with heat. Painfully aware that she was in nothing but a nightgown, Elain quickly scrambled to the side, grateful to the dark for obscuring her reddening cheeks.

“Nothing heinous,” he soothed. “I became too comfortable in my liberties, set my sights on a lover that he didn’t approve of, and now he’s stepped in to remind me that he’s the one in control.”

Elain’s stomach dropped. She could relate all too well to the pain of having her liberties suddenly striped away.

In a quiet voice, she asked, “is your betrothed kind, at least?”

“So I’m told.” His voice was flat. “I’ll be amicable with her, of course, but I’m not certain I could ever love her. Doing so would mean submitting to my father’s will, and I’ll never allow him to have that control over my heart.”

Just as much as Elain was envious of his betrothed, she found herself pitying the woman, as well. How painful would it be to have a husband so disinterested in their life together? It was the very thing she feared, and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone—not even the woman marrying the love of her life.

“What about you?” he prompted, once silence had fallen in the space of her melancholy. “Any plans for marriage?”

After he had been so honest with her, it seemed unfair not to return the favor.

“I’m betrothed as well,” she answered, tangling her hands together in her lap. “My wedding is tomorrow, in fact.”

Another dry laugh, like the sound of cracking branches. “You’re kidding.”

“I also don’t want to marry him. It was all my father’s arrangement, and I’m expected to simply be grateful that I’m marrying so high above my station.”

“Ah.” There was scathing judgment cast in that sound. “A poor farmer using his pretty, weddable daughter to pay off debts?”

Elain squeezed her fingers tightly together, trying to contrast the sensation to the tension building in her chest, behind her eyes. But when worded like that… it was too late. She was rapidly blinking back tears as she sniffled, “Exactly that.”

A hand fell to her back, zapping her again with his heat as he traced a slow circle through the thin fabric of her nightgown. “Is he kind, at least?”

She shrugged. “I know nothing about him, besides that he is older than me. I am… I am terrified, really. Of who he is, and how he might treat a wife that he purchased as if her opinion—as if she—didn’t matter at all.”

The fingers at her back flexed. “Do you know the nature of your father’s debt? I could arrange for—“

“No.” Elain shook her head, though he couldn’t see. “No, that’s not—that’s not why I called you here. I don’t expect you to pay my fathers debts. Nor do I want you to.”

“So then… why did you call me here?”

A question she should be asking herself, really. What was there to take from this meeting besides hopelessness, besides misery? Besides his hand against the back of her nightgown, warm and soothing and much too indecent for a woman about to be married.

“I don’t know why,” she admitted. “I guess I just… wanted to see what the alternative could have been. All my life I’d fantasized about marrying for love. Now I fear that—” she could hear her voice shaking. She forced herself to swallow. Tried not to let it break, but the words crumbled anyway. “Now I fear that is no longer possible.”

The hand at her back slid to her shoulder, coaxing her into his side. Elain took a sharp breath as she leaned in, inhaling the scent of woodsmoke and warmed apples. It was comforting to her, in addition to the circles he smoothed against her bare shoulder, down her arm.

He took a deep breath, and she was relieved to hear it was shaky, too. “That is precisely how I feel.”

“I suppose I can see how we’re compatible,” she said, a touch dryly.

He snorted. “I’ve never known fate to deal its hand kindly.”

Elain wondered what hidden pain lived beneath such a statement, but thought better of prying. Instead, she murmured, “Curious how in a world filled with butterflies, so many love stories are plagued by tragedy.”

He said, softly, “Your story doesn’t have to be a tragedy.”

It was echo enough to the pacifications made by her father and governess that Elain turned her head away. They had asserted that love matches were rare, that she should make the most out of the arrangement and be grateful to have obtained a match so favorable. Perhaps even to her true love, she sounded like a horrid pessimist in assuming her married life would be miserable.

When she said nothing, her true love added, “What I mean to say is, I could help you, if it came to it. If he is unkind, you do not have to suffer through life with him.”

But he didn’t know. In his mind, she was a poor farmer’s daughter, marrying a Lord’s son at best, someone he clearly expected he was capable of buying off. In reality, her husband was a prince and whatever resources her true love possessed, she doubted they exceeded Lucien Vanserra’s.

“Thank you.”

It was all she could think to say. It must not have been a convincing show of gratitude, because he sighed like he was hollowing all the air in his chest.

“Of course,” he said, a gentleman resigned to her polite rejection. “If you need anything, anything at all, you know how to find me.”

Elain had the sense that it bothered him, the inability to help both himself and his true love out of their unfortunate circumstances. Guilt stirred in her chest, feeling like she had added to both their emotional burdens by summoning him here.

In the interest of searching for something to offer him, one request did cross her mind. An impropriety that was Feyre levels of bold and reckless. Elain faltered, uncertain if she was willing to risk offending him by asking. Or worse, that she would find the courage to ask and he might lack the sense to deny her.

“What is it?” he asked, picking up on the tension underlying her silence.

Elain played through all the possible variations in her head and only once she was certain that the choice to not ask him would be the most painful of, she murmured, coyly, “When you say anything at all, do you mean it?”

There was an allure to her voice that belonged to another woman, one Elain had never met until this moment, when his hand stilled midway down her arm and he asked, too carefully to be casual, “Are you insinuating that I am not a man of my word?”

A dangerous question. A promise that whatever she asked would be fulfilled.

“Certainly not,” she breathed.

“Then tell me, lady.” He moved closer, so that the next time he spoke, each of his words brushed the shell of her ear. “What is it that you’re after?”

His hand was searing where he still held it against her arm, unmoving. And as he waited for her response, she could feel every breath skitter over her neck, prickling her skin in its wake.

It was all a trick of some kind, to convince her to screw her eyes shut and blurt, “I want you to kiss me.”

Likely not the most sensual invitation he’d ever received. But her voice didn’t waver, and she counted that a victory. Again, Elain cursed the dark for preventing her from seeing his expression. Her sight could have prepared her for the hand that raised to her jaw, so startling in its heat that she gasped.

His fingers guided her gently, tilting her face to the side, then up.

She could feel him lean in, voice low and lovely, “Tell me what this means to you, and I’ll oblige.”

“I’ve never been kissed before,” she said, resolute. “I want the first time to be with someone of my choosing.”

She thought she heard him swallow.

“I can understand that,” he said. Then, “It’s a shame it wasn’t my irresistible charms that persuaded you.”

If he was trying to ease her nerves, it only worked so far as to coax a curve at the corner of her lips. “Was this you being irresistibly charming?”

“Well, I’m in the company of a betrothed woman, so I’ve been more restrained than usual.”

“Than usual?” She hummed, feeling the warmth of each spoken word, her lips tingling with the promise of their proximity. “Do you use your irresistible charms on every woman?”

“Only those with sweet souls and wicked tempers,” he said with a small, tantalizing laugh that made her long to seize the game entirely so she could savor the sound against her mouth. “Tell me, lady, which will you taste like?”

“Find out,” she challenged, breathy and utterly unrecognizable to her ears.

Just as he promised, her true love obliged. His lips were soft and plush, warmed like he’d been lounging beside a fire before coming here. Or conversely, as if the fire lived beneath his skin, and now seeped into her body as the kiss deepened.

She tasted the smoke on his tongue, but it was countered by a sweetness that reminded her of burnt sugar. The taste made her feel dizzy, just as she had felt at the ball after one too many glasses of sparkling wine. Like the world was spinning, threatening that she might topple over or bubble right up to the sky if she didn’t grab hold of something.

His hair seemed like a good choice.

It was long, spun silk at his back, parting easily for her fingers to grab hold. She wondered absently what color it was, but the thought was abandoned once he groaned into her mouth in response to a curious tug.

Elain tugged again, to see what would happen.

He broke away, murmuring, “Is a kiss all that you seek this evening, lady?”

If her entire body hadn’t already been set aflame, the implication would have been enough to color her cheeks. Was a kiss all she sought?

“I—I—”

“I’ll pass no judgment on my part,” her true love was quick to say. “The Mother knows I haven’t saved myself for marriage. I expect regardless of what your future husband expects of you, he has not paid you that courtesy either.”

The idea of being touched for the first time here, where it was safe and lovely and tranquil… It had not occurred to her to betray her husband this way, but now the thought of seizing that small piece of control for herself felt comforting.

“Will—will he be able to tell?”

“Certainly not. I doubt a dream will leave any physical evidence. So long as you play the part of a timid, blushing bride on your wedding night, he will be nonethewiser.”

It would not be hard to play that role, since she was certain to be cowering beneath her husband’s touch. And that was precisely why she found she couldn’t turn her true love’s offer away, when his touch was so gentle, so inviting.

“Will it hurt?”

His mouth found hers again, and his tongue parted her lips open for an obscene taste that kindled a moan in the back of her throat, before he broke away. “You have my word, lady, that it will be nothing but pleasurable to you. And should my advances prove me wrong, you’ll have license to ensure I never receive a peaceful night’s rest again.”

“What about—what about your wife?”

He seemed to falter at that. She could feel him searching for an answer that was honest, but would still please her.

“I am not married yet,” he said finally. “And once I am, I’ll be discussing with my wife my intention to live separate lives. She’ll be well looked after and encouraged to take on lovers, and I think that will be agreeable for both of us.”

Elain, once again, was struck with sorrow for his soon-to-be wife, even as she agreed that his plan was considerate—generous, even, given that most men took mistresses while expecting their wives to continue to be faithful. She supposed she should be envious. No such consideration would be extended towards her. But then again, it wasn’t his wife that her true love grabbed at the hips and settled into his lap. This connection to him—this dreamworld—was something that would only ever belong to Elain.

It was perhaps the only thing in the world that was uniquely hers. The only thing that she had full dominion over. Not even her body was fully hers. It belonged partially to another man, but she still used it to slide her hands over her true love’s chest, feeling the strong, solid muscle obscured beneath his clothes.

“Tell me what to do,” she said. “I know the mechanics, vaguely. I’m to lie on my back and you’re to put—“

He chuckled.

Elain’s cheeks burned. Her voice came out sharper as she asked, “Am I wrong?”

“That’s one way it can be done, certainly.”

“And I’ve amused you because?”

“Because of course that’s all they’d tell you.” One of his broad hands found her hip, his steady fingers curling intimately towards her backside. The other hand reached up, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Lie on your back. Be still. Try not to cry. Sound familiar?”

Elain flinched. Her governess hadn’t told her not to cry—but Nesta had. She wished she could deny it, but the silence was condemning, and her true love clicked his tongue in response.

“It’s shameful to tell you that there’s pleasure to be had in it. You’re meant to be afraid, to discourage you from seeking it elsewhere. They don’t want you seizing that control for yourself.”

His fingers brushed over the curve of her ear, sliding forward into her hair at the base of her skull, where he gathered the loose curls into a fist and gave it a deliciously slow tug. Elain allowed him to arch her head backwards, exposing her throat so he could leave an open mouthed kiss at her hammering pulse.

He said roughly against her skin, “But I want you to take that control. I want you writhing in pleasure. I want you desperate for it.”

Already, she was trembling. And he hadn’t even touched her yet.

“Tell me what to do,” she said again.

“You’re doing it. You stay exactly as you are. Well—”

Using the hand at her hip, he tugged her forward until their torsos were completely flush. He was so solid, so shockingly warm. But what was worse than the heat seeping insistently through her flimsy nightgown was what she felt herself sitting on top of, pressing insistently against her cotton underthings. She could guess what it was and tried her best not to squirm in response as she shifted through all the new emotions that washed over her. Some she recognized—like shame and uncertainty and exhilaration—and others were harder to decipher, like the strange ache that was slowly coursing through her.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now you stay as you are.”

Elain knew if she opened her mouth, only stuttered nonsense would escape, so she elected to nod. With the fist in her hair, her true love would be able to feel it.

“I can’t see your expression,” he said to her. “So while we do this, I’m going to need you to use your words. Okay?”

Her mouth had gone so dry that her tongue was stuck to the roof. She had to swallow before she managed, “Okay.”

“I’m going to touch you. I need you to tell me if you don’t like it, or if you want me to stop. And if you’re enjoying it—” she could imagine the smug smile that crossed his face— “then I want you to tell me that, too. Loudly.”

“W-wait.” He completely froze, his touch on her relaxing, though he did not withdraw. Elain trusted that if she asked him to, he would, and that comforted her enough to ask, “What should I call you?”

The silence turned considerate. “Whatever you want,” he said. “Love, my lord, sir.”

His voice lowered on the last word, and Elain filed that information away for a later time. There would no names, then. It was for the best, truly, though Elain still wished selfishly to know who he was.

“Okay,” she said, steadying herself. “Then please, touch me, my lord.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Elain expected it all to happen suddenly. For him to pull her hair and crash their lips together as he ravished her with his body. Instead, it was slow as dripping honey. He kept his hands tangled in her hair, with just enough tension to keep her arched against him while the other settled back in its place at her hips, creeping ever-so-slowly downwards.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, once his fingers slipped past the nightgown and found the bare skin of her thigh. He stroked his palm in rhythmic circles, the breadth of his fingers spanning the entire width of her thigh, and then some. “How does this feel?”

It was nice. Soothing, even.

Elain released her breath in one short burst. “It feels good.”

“Yeah?” He leaned in, nose skimming across the slant of her shoulder. “I could feel you tense, but you’ve seemed to relax now.”

“It’s... I suppose I thought you would be doing more all at once.”

He released a small, breathy laugh. Like that was exactly what he’d expected her to say.

“The anticipation is half the fun.”

Actually, the anticipation was driving her mad. His hands were creeping up, pulling the hem of her nightgown with it, but it was far from where she felt all the ache and tension building, where she was beginning to realize she needed him to touch her.

“I feel…” she hesitated, not certain how to describe the sensation. The fluttering heat concentrated between her thighs.

“Go on.”

She settled on, “Flushed. Like I have a fever.”

“Feverish for me. Hmm.” His hands curved into her inner thigh, still leaving those idle strokes as they crept painfully higher. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

“What did you expect me to say?”

Then his fingers stopped, just as his thumb brushed the seem where her underthings met her thigh. Then, he hooked his thumb beneath the fabric and slipped two of his fingers beneath the cotton.

She gasped at the same time he hissed, “This.” He swore under his breath. “I was expecting you to tell me how wet you feel.”

Elain hadn’t realized it, until he said it. Until he had his fingers there, slipping against more lubrication than she was ever used to feeling. Before she’d even gotten a chance to relish being touched so intimately, he withdrew his hand.

“Have I done something wrong?” She asked into the dark, feeling the way his chest had begun rising and falling more rapidly.

“Wrong?” he echoed. “You’re soaked and I haven’t even touched you yet. Believe me, lady, I am insufferably pleased.”

“Then—” she paused when his thumb found her jaw, tracing its shape until it arrived at the peak of her chin.

“Open your mouth.”

His voice was low, heated, and it made her feel as though someone had placed a glowing ember deep in her stomach. She obeyed with a breathless, “Yes, my lord.”

Fingertips brushed against her lips, slick with the arousal he’d found between her thighs. Elain’s eyes widened as she realized his intentions, but she kept herself still—and her mouth open—as he slipped those two fingers into her mouth.

“Close,” he said, resting them against her tongue. She did as she was told, and was rewarded with an exhaled, “Good girl.”

The words surprised her. How they made her body feel tight and hot at the same time, how she instinctively swallowed against his fingers and slanted her hips forward to writhe against the erection straining in his trousers. The relief was almost instant—and addictive. She rolled her hips forward again, shutting her eyes as the ache ebbed into pleasure.

His laugh was rasped. “I’ll remember that you enjoy being praised. Now suck on my fingers, sweet soul. Taste how wet you are for me.”

Elain lapped her tongue against his fingers curiously, finding that the taste of her own arousal wasn’t offensive—not nearly so much as the action itself, of having his fingers in her mouth at all. Just the thought of what they were doing, how lewd it was to be tasting her own arousal as drool collected at the corners of her lips, caused a moan to build in the back of her throat. Was this what it felt like to be bold, to be reckless?

“Do you taste good?” he prompted.

She nodded.

“Am I allowed to have a taste, too?”

Thinking it would mean he’d put his fingers back between her legs—where she was physically aching for him to touch—Elain nodded again. Slowly, he pulled his fingers out of her mouth, and she smothered the urge to apologize for the string of saliva that fell against her chin.

If he noticed, he was far too occupied with the task of lowering himself onto his back. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her steady as she balanced on his lap, where his erection continued to press into her. The urge to grind against it was quickly becoming insurmountable.

She was stopped by the hands at her hips tightening. “Come here,” he said, nudging her forward. “Crawl up my body.”

When her governess, who functioned more as a surrogate for their mother than Elain would have cared for, had given her a brief and nondescript overview of what she could expect on her wedding night, she had not mentioned anything about the man lying on his back. Nesta had attempted to fill in the gaps, afterwards, but even her explanations had lacked anything resembling crawling up the bed until Elain was half sitting on a man’s chest.

She paused uncertainly when the tops of her knees brushed the underside of his arms. His broad hands were still encouraging her forward, but Elain had nowhere else to go—unless she was to crawl over his head.

“You’re almost there,” he said, lifting her hips to guide her the rest of the way. Until she was kneeling over his face, trembling slightly at the anticipation of what he might do. “Good,” he murmured. His fingers teased under the lace at her hip bone. ”Stay exactly where you are.”

“W-when you said taste…”

He was tugging the lace down, now, working it slowly down her thigh. “Yeah?”

“Did… did you mean—”

His next laugh cut through the darkness, scraping her raw. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“I didn’t,” she protested.

Now that he was wearing her underthings like a necklace, and she could feel him ducking his head beneath her nightgown, his jaw scratching along her inner thigh, she had a better idea. When the heat of his breath caressed her, it was all Elain could do to keep her knees from collapsing on top of him.

“But you’re a clever girl, aren’t you?” He crooned. “What do you think I’m about to do now?”

Elain thought of his tongue slipping into her mouth, the way he’d stroked her like a promise for this moment. She fought a shiver. “You’re going to—” she struggled for a way to phrase it, all of the verbiage of polite society suddenly failing her.

“I’m going to pleasure you with my tongue,” he said. “And if that doesn’t sound agreeable, tell me to stop now.”

She couldn’t. Not as he angled his head up and, slowly, took that first lick of her.

Elain felt like she was on fire. Her hands flew into his hair, gripping tightly out of fear that she would come untethered right then and there.

His tongue explored her leisurely, parting her folds like he truly was doing so out of enjoyment of the taste. She wished she could see his expression to gauge how much of this he was doing for her pleasure—all of it, she would have expected, but from the way his hands flew to her hips to rock her body against his mouth, she thought better of it.

Maybe he did enjoy this.

And so did Elain. She had been warned to expect pain, but there wasn’t an ounce of it to be found here. It was only pleasure—pure, hot pleasure—building with every stroke of his tongue. Her fingers wound in his hair, yanking him closer as she was overcome with the sudden, unbridled impulse to chase it, to demand more.

His responding grunt was gargled by her arousal, but from the way he squeezed her thighs tighter and sucked her clit into his mouth, she thought that maybe he was telling her what his words couldn’t: Good girl.

“I—my lord—”

She wished, desperately, that she had the words to communicate how he was making her feel. What she wanted him to do.

A broken moan erupted past her lips. She settled with, “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

Stomach tightening, Elain felt distinctly like a candle lit from within, her body slowly warming, slowly melting from the center, while the threat of collapsing became more and more imminent.

The motions of his tongue became hurried. He kissed her with urgent, open-mouthed strokes against her clit, before he sucked on her with such abandon that she keened, falling forward onto her hands.

His grip remained iron tight, sealing her bottom half to his mouth, even as she began panting, a hot flush spreading through body. She gasped, “I—I—” she didn’t know what she wanted. Her entire body was trembling and still he kept fucking her with his tongue. An embarrassing whimper built in her throat.

She managed a splintered, “Please.”

Blinding, white hot pleasure overtook her. Elain cried out as she half collapsed into the bed, fingers grappling aimlessly in the blankets like it might do anything to counteract the wave after wave of soul-shattering euphoria that crashed over her.

Ignoring the way her body twitched, now oversensitive, he continued licking her through the release. Sweat broke out on her body, now foreignly too-hot, and with her face buried in the mattress she pleaded, “My lord. It’s too much. It’s—”

He slowed, then stopped altogether. Briefly, she wondered what would have happened if she’d let him keep going. Would he have licked her to delirium, until she was sobbing beneath him? Though the idea wasn’t unwelcome to her, it seemed a curiosity for another day. Reality felt frayed enough as it was.

He lowered her gently off his face, allowing her to collapse on her stomach atop the bed. A moment later, a weight settled beside her, and a warm hand fell against her back.

“How did you find that?”

Beyond description. Beyond, certainly, any words that she could muster in that moment. She mumbled something unintelligible against the blankets.

“Was it too much?” He asked, and she could hear the frown—the doubt—in his voice.

Elain lifted her head. “No! Not at all. I’m just—” her breathing was still ragged. She needed to take a moment to catch her breath before she said, “I’m just recovering.”

That must have been the right thing to say, because he hummed, climbing over her to lavish kisses along the path of her spine.

“This worn out from just my tongue?” His laughter brushed against her back. The lightest, most decadent touch. “We can stop for now, then. I’ll let you rest before your wedding.”

Despite the promise of leaving her, his lips continue their path, now between her shoulder blades. Elain, having grown up in a house full of women, was well versed in the meaning disguised behind words. She recognized the question, as well as the challenge.

Do you want to leave? Are you brave enough to keep going?

His lips were at her neck now. She could feel his erection pressing into her backside. Elain wasn’t quite yet brave enough to tell him that she wanted to stay and find out what happens next, but she did find the courage to lift her hips, pressing into his with a stunted breath at how hard he was.

“Show me,” she breathed. “I want you to… to…”

“Fuck you?” He whispered in her ear, grinding his hips against her ass for emphasis.

Elain’s mouth went dry.

“Say it,” he murmured.

“I want you to fuck me, my lord. Please.”

He groaned. “How am I to deny a lady with such nice manners?” He said, before pushing her nightgown up her back, exposing her backside to the cool air.

Buttons whispered against fabric as he quickly scrambled to free himself from his trousers. Elain thought it was likely for the better that she couldn’t see it. Better not to be intimidated before he’d even had a chance to touch her with it.

She knew when he’d finished unlacing his trousers because the next moment, something hard and smooth and warm was resting against her bare ass.

“Fuck.” He used a hand to direct himself between her thighs, thrusting forward so the length of him could slide through her arousal. His forehead fell against her shoulder. She could hear him breathing heavily in her ear. “Though you have the loveliest ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of grinding my cock against, maybe it is for the better that you lie on your back.”

In response, Elain raised her hips higher, begging, “Why?”

He must not have expected the movement, because the head of his cock nudged against her entrance and he swore. “Because if I’m going to steal the honor from your husband, I should at least do it like a gentleman.”

Elain couldn’t help laughing. “Do you often fuck other men’s wives like a gentleman?”

She yelped at the resulting swat he laid against her ass, though it wasn't remotely hard enough to sting.

“Is this the famed wicked temper, then? What happened to my stuttering sweet soul?”

Truthfully, Elain didn’t know where that girl had gone, but she had certainly left far before the dream began. She would never have ended up here, in bed with another man on the eve of her wedding. She ought to be ashamed, but then her true love thrust his hips forward until his cock bumped against her clit, and she didn’t at all mind not being that girl for a night.

“If you’ve abandoned your modesty, then why don’t you ask me to give you my cock?”

Elain had never once uttered that word out loud. Indignantly, she said, “I’ve already asked you to fuck me.”

“Very well.” He slipped a hand between her thighs and teased her entrance with his forefinger. “I’ll fuck you on my fingers then. Or better yet, I’ll put you back on my tongue.”

“My lord—”

“Ask me.”

With a small, exasperated huff, she said, “Please give me your cock.”

“Good girl.” She could hear the smile in his voice.

Elain’s heart fluttered. She lifted her hips higher, grinding back against his fingers in the hope that he would hurry with whatever preparation he needed. But just as she felt him adjust his body over hers, like he might proceed in earnest, the edges of the dream began splitting into fragments.

“W—what’s happening?”

“I think one of us is waking up,” he said.

“No.” No, no, no. She wasn’t ready. It couldn’t possibly be morning. “No, please—”

“Hey.” A hand smoothed down the back of her head. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. No matter what happens, you can find me here, and I’ll help you. Okay? No matter who he is. I promise.”

Elain pressed a hand to her mouth to smother a sob.

“Sweetheart, please. I can’t leave you like this. Please tell me your—”

Even if she had decided to reveal herself to him, it was too late.

Dawn had come. And the morning of Elain’s wedding had arrived.

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.

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

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?”

Elucien Week Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @labellefleur-sauvage @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

Happy @elucienweekofficial! I've been dying to share this one from @mellendraws since I first saw it!

When @gracie-rosee and I were discussing the vibes for this piece, I said I wanted it to feel like, "Something sacred, between two people who know each other better than anyone else in the entire world. This place is holy BECAUSE we're here, and not the other way around."

Or, you know- right there where we stood was holy ground.

And oh, did she deliver

@elucienweekofficial