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clockworknightmares · 3 years

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The Gift

I’ve had the ideas of this fumbling around in my drafts for a long time now and I finally finished it. I’m glad I waited thought because I had time to think long and hard about the way in which Rowena acquired Dray and what that might look like. This is from Vys’ POV, however I might write Dray’s POV at some point too.

Tw for “it” as pronouns, dehumanization, slavery, blood, muzzles, drugged whumpee (only briefly mentioned).

“That one.”

Vysthrain’s gaze follows to where Rowena’s finger is pointing. “That one? You can’t be serious, your Majesty. That one is- looks unremarkable. If- if I may be so bold.” He catches himself at the last moment. It never bodes well to contradict the Empress. He glances at her, gauging her reaction to his blunder. However- his opinion stands. The bloodied… boy in the arena below looks one more hit away from his demise.

Rowena laughs, a melodic sound with an edge that sends a shiver curling down Vys’ spine. She doesn’t seem bothered at his difference of opinion. “Ostra Ailmer doesn’t know what he has.”

“But you do.” It’s a statement, not a question. He can see the cogs in her head turning, that slight twitch of her lips when she’s thinking. More like scheming, his brain provides unhelpfully.

“That I do.” She keeps her eyes trained on the man in the arena as he runs his opponent through with the short spear he wields in his hand. It’s clearly not his weapon of choice, but he’s making it work. “You see, that is a half dragon.”

Vys snorts and plucks a grape from the bunch on the table next to them. Her majesty seems to be in a light mood, a mood in which he is allowed to converse freely. Within reason. “A half dragon. I think you have had one too many glasses, your Majesty. Everyone knows there’s no such thing as male halfbreed dragons.” He pops the firm grape into his mouth and rolls it around on his tongue. “Besides, if there was, surely they would be more… impressing.” He keeps his eyes on her and away from the blood splattered sand below.

“And that’s where you’re wrong.” Rowena sits back and smiles to herself. “You see, it’s not that there’s no such thing, it’s that they’re incredibly rare, almost unheard of and Ostra Ailmer doesn’t know just how valuable that possession is.” Her eyes narrow as she turns her attention to watching again, fingers steepled in the way she does when she’s thinking. Vys recognizes the look as that dark shimmering greed of hers. He’s seen it a few times- and knows if it’s something she truly desires, nothing will stop her until it’s in her possession.

“And you’re going to get it, how exactly? Whether he knows what he has or not, Ailmer won’t give up a winning fighter easily.” Because- despite all odds, they were currently naming the object of Rowena’s attention the winner.

She leans over and pats his cheek like he’s a child asking a silly question. “Vys dear, when have I ever not found a way to get what I want?” It’s a rhetorical question. One that doesn’t even warrant an answer. He knows very well she has her ways. Even as Empress she can not simply demand what she wants, but there are ways.

“Sounds like you are already coming up with a wonderful plan, your Majesty.” He leans into her touch, as he knows she likes and gives her an easy smile. The heat of the day is not so unbearable to him in this moment. “Is there anything I may do to assist you in it?” If she becomes infatuated with some new object, will he be forgotten? He will never let that happen.

“Perhaps”, she says, idly watching the guards half guide, half drag the winner out of the arena. “However there might be no need for any form of coercion.” She gives him another smile. He knows all her smiles by now. This one is self satisfaction, security in her own plans, and just a hint of mirth. “My birthday will be arriving soon. And with it- gifts.”

…

There are such practices in court, that on the ruling monarch’s day of birth, they host many grand parties leading up to the day. These days are important as they allow the mingling of many Ostri and other important personages, officials and relatives, ambassadors and priestesses. It is the time to make important connections, vie for favors and with the right maneuvering, raise your position in court and the eyes of the Empress. A very difficult thing to do indeed.

It is one of the busiest times of Vys’ year, being both companion and spy for the Empress. Her eyes and ears in court, as she must keep herself from mingling too much. He knows Rowena keeps him to herself, not only because he owes her his life, his very existence, but also because he is invisible and they both know it. He is fae, lesser. And therefore apparently- deaf and blind.

The festivities begin several weeks before the actual day, plenty of time for Vys to worm his way into many circles, sometimes through rather unpleasant means. But if it solidifies his usefulness, his position in Rowena’s eyes- He will give all he has. He may not have need to coerce Ailmer into giving up this new arena rat, but the Ostra might need a nudge in the right direction.

The first time he makes contact with Ostra Ailmer is at a social gathering of the more relaxed nature and the man in question- appearing to have had one too many of the overflowing cups of wine, was in the perfect condition for Vys to begin his plan. The air is warm and thick, cloying in only the way that incense and perfumes bring in small spaces. Vys was more than happy to keep the Ostra’s cup full, hang on his arm, whisper the seeds of Rowena’s desire into this man’s ear.

“The Empress is very fond of the sport”, he says silkily, gliding his fingers along the man’s arm.

“Indeed, so they say”, the Ostra replies, twisting the sheer fabric of Vys’ shirt around his fingers. They are pressed close in some low, overstuffed seat, no other ears around.

“I have heard such wonderful things about your champions though. Some say a stock even to rival hers.” The flattery was working, Vys can tell. This man, wrapped up so much in his own self importance, wouldn’t notice a trap until it was too late for him.

“But of course. My lot is the best in all of Athyx Cyreos. I import you know. Better than pulling from the same pools that seem to go around here.”

“Have you ever found anything...extraordinary in your imports?” Vys knows he has to be careful in his words, Ostra Ailmer must never know what he has.

“I do believe I’ve found a champion, a survivor. Not much to look at of course, I did not think it would make it past initial training, but it has done surprisingly well for itself. That is- hasn’t died on me yet.” He laughs, an ear grating thing, and somehow Vys finds it difficult to laugh along with him.

“You know, I have heard some gossip about what the queen desires for her gifts this year, you seem like the type of man that would do well in her court, one I would enjoy seeing around more often.” Vys trails his long fingers down the row of tiny buttons that make up the front of the Ostra’s tunic.

That gets the man’s attention. Vysthrain, however not known to be the Empress' ear, is certainly known as a permanent fixture of the court and Her Majesty’s upper circles. He has access most Ostri can only ever dream of. The gossip of the upper circles is as close to facts as he will ever get. And the gift presented to the Empress has a direct effect on the status and placement you can hope to achieve that year. A gift well received means favors and power. A gift ill-suited to her Majesty’s desires can bring shame and loss of influence.

“You say the Empress might have desire for some of my imports?” Ailmer says, sitting up and glancing around to see if any stray eyes and ears are on them. There are none, save those soaking in his every reaction to take straight back to Rowena. “Tell me fae, what you know of this.”

“Well, you never heard it from me”, Vys says, pulling the Ostra back down to be seated. “But she does have an eye for the unique. Something… different from what others have. She is our Empress after all.” How many more hints must he drop before this man gets it through his wine-addled head? Then again, Rowena had said that Ostra Ailmer did not know what he had.

“She wants a strong champion, one to win for her?” Ailmer asks, missing the point entirely.

“No-” he starts, nearly frustrated but stops. He’s better than this. “No, I have heard the Empress desires it to be nothing, so that she may turn it into something” He recalls the image of the bloodstained boy in the arena. It had won, but barely. There was certainly nothing there, but that was the appeal for Rowena. She likes to rub her victories into her opponents faces.

“I- I will take this information into account. It has been… most helpful.”

Vys gave a lazy grin and stroked the line of the Ostra’s jaw. “I am most pleased to be of assistance to you. In any way that I can.”

…

With the Empress’ desire secured, or at least he prays it is, Vys leans back into his job of attending every gathering, rooting out every gossip, avoiding those few people he knows better than to tangle with. The day of Rowena’s birth arrives, and with it, the gifts and delicacies and flatteries that never seem to cease. He can tell that she soaks it all in, but with a scrutiny in her eye that he knows sees through the genuine devotion and the false praise. Vys knows most of it is fake, simply a vie for attention and power. But so must it be, it is their way.

She has become fixated in these weeks, wondering more often than not if she can simply buy the thing she wants. But Vys reassures her that letting this be gifted could lead to an established connection with the Ostra and his imports and also the ability to show him up, simply giving away something so valuable (according to Rowena). Vys knows not of dragons and their worth, but it does seem to be a point of fascination with Her Majesty.

So it is of no surprise to him when she awaits this moment with a form of anticipation, not shown on her face, but in the way she sits up straighter, leans forward slightly, jeweled claws tapping slightly on the arm of her throne. She is raised a good deal above the court, stairs to a platform where her council and inner circle have their places, then still more stairs to her. The Ostri are allowed to ascend to the first platform to present their gifts.

Vys lingers there, keeping an eye on them, watching and mentally recording their gifts. The Empress allows him at her side, near the throne to be at her call, so he often moves between, catching a whisper from her in his ear, making (slightly) judgmental comments about persons of the court. He has not succeeded in making her laugh on her throne, but wonders what would happen if he did. She would either find it extremely amusing or highly punishable. He fears the latter, so he keeps his tone even, with the dry humor he knows she is fond of.

There are many people in court today, many gifts being presented. But Vys knows that Rowena waits for only one. When Ostra Ailmer approaches, she straightens ever so slightly and pulls on her look of disinterest.

Vys tunes out most of the scraping and bowing and presenting, instead peering around for the thing that Rowena continues to fixate on. His heart begins to beat quicker when he doesn’t see it. If Rowena doesn't get it today, she is going to be most displeased. Particularly with him.

“And what have you brought for me today, Ostra Ailmer”, he hears Rowena say, clear and strong. She knows how to project her voice if nothing else.

“Your Majesty, I know you hold a great love of sport and pride yourself in having only the best in the arena. Your choices are always unique and with great might. I myself am in the humble occupation of procuring such items. Yet it has come to my attention that you wish for something to craft yourself, mould to your desires. And I hope that on this day, I can present you with such a thing.”

Vys finds himself holding his breath. If what Ailmer procured is not-

The two guards that flank the Ostra part and Vys realizes why he hadn’t been able to see it, dwarfed by Ailmer’s guards of imposing size. Vys looks it over, and feels Rowena next to him doing the same. It was a rather dismal-looking individual with two short horns curling from a shaved head, hands chained in front connected to a thick collar around its neck, a muzzle strapped tightly against its face, clothed only from the waist down. They have it shackled at the ankles, barefoot. Ailmer obviously had tried to clean it up, but the traces of freshly healed wounds are still evident across its body. It keeps its head low, its eyes on the ground. Ailmer has been able to train it that much at least.

The light catches in a glint on something at its chest, and Vys tries to get a closer look before realizing the room has fallen into silence and Ostra Ailmer has paled to the point of looking a rather sickly grey.

It has been several long moments and Rowena has still not given an indication on whether or not the gift was worthy. She too- as Vys has been- is studying the thing before her, lost in thought. It made sense to Vys, of course. They had been discussing this moment for weeks now, but he realized to the rest of the court and especially to Ostra Ailmer in hindsight, this appeared to be a very poor excuse for a gift. It was a single worthless looking thing. It was not as if Ailmer was offering the Empress his best champion. No. This was some untrained waif that he had drug up from who knows where.

“Y-your your Majesty, I-” Ostra Ailmer begins, quaking in his boots, and cuts himself off sharply with an undignified squeak as Rowena stands from her throne.

A sickening hush fell across the entire court. Even Vys, who knew that this was the gift Rowena desired, felt his breath catch in his throat. She never stood. She never walked down the steps.

Ailmer and his guards bow low, dropping to their knees and not daring to look up at her face. Her inner circle even bows their heads, backing away to give her space as she descends. Only Vys watches as she comes to the bottom of the stairs, in front of the thing in chains who is neither bowing, nor trying to move away from her. Vys thinks he hears Ailmer whimper.

Rowena’s dress pools at her feet, many lengths of dark red fabric like a waterfall of blood behind her.

A single gold clawed fingertip reaches out and catches underneath the thing’s muzzle, tipping it’s face up to meet her gaze. It’s eyes lock to hers, blue against gold, unblinking.

Vys isn't sure how long they stay that way, the oppressive silence across the vast room, the shivering Ostra at the Empress’ feet before she tugs the gift a step forward by the chain connected to the collar and cuffs.

“Ostra Ailmer”, she says, voice ringing loudly. Vys’ ears burn from the noise after so much deafening quiet. “Your gift is accepted.”

A general murmur comes over the entire court, first nervous tittering, then a few polite claps, then the court quickly recovers, returning to the claps and cheers of normal.

Ostra Ailmer looks as if his ghost has already taken leave of his body and ascended to the Mother.

“T-thank you your Majesty”, he whispers, not quite all there as his guards help him down the stairs. Vys has to try and not smile at the sight. The man will recover with time and most likely prosper well from this happenstance, but he will never forget this moment where he believed himself to be seconds from seeing his ancestors.

Vys watches one of the Empress’ personal guards approach as if to remove her new gift further behind scenes, but she waves them away with a subtle flick of her wrist, and ascends the stairs to her throne, chained gift in tow, stopping only once again seated as if nothing had happened.

Vys shoots a look across her to where she’s pushed it down next to her throne on the opposite side, golden claws slowly scraping across its shorn scalp. He meets its eyes for a moment, a cloudy blue, not quite there look. He recognizes the cloudiness. Ailmer must have had it drugged before bringing it into a room full of high profile individuals. Smart.

The look doesn't last long, as it turns its gaze and head downward. But there had been something in those eyes that didn’t settle him. A slight shudder rippled through his shoulders and he returned his attention to the remainder of the presentation.

Rowena had another smile on her face, one that he knew very well to be only one thing.

Victory.

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rwolf19 · 6 years

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Star of Spring (ACOTAR Fic) - Chapter 8

Length: 6863

Chapter Rating: M, SFW

Tagging: @ourbooksuniverse @bluephoenix222 @reallyangryrn @readingismycopingmechanism @alphaomegahybrid@illyrianinterrasen @wolffrising

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A/N: Looks like I have to whip the next chapter up real quick before ACOFAS comes and ruins all my SoS-canon. Hell. Thanks to everyone who has commented/replied (whatever tf it is), you guys make my freaking day. Anyway, enjoy, and try not to freak out too bad ;)

Mated

“What?!” Tamlin snarled, standing. Sera flinched. Eris growled, shooting to his feet as well. Azriel rose next. Night’s High Lady grabbed his arm to hold him back.

“Don’t you threaten her,” Eris said lowly. Sera reached for his hand. She did not shy away from the heat under his skin.

“Eris, I’m all right,” she said gently.

“Tamlin, I recommend you sit down,” hissed Cresseida. Her brother had one hand on his sword, though Amren snarled a warning at him.

Eris didn’t look away from the High Lord, and the High Lord didn’t look away from her. Sera refused to hide behind Eris, not if it meant he could get hurt. “Eris, please.”

“How do you know?” the High Lord of Night asked. Sera glanced away from Eris for a moment. Tamlin still looked poised to tear apart the world, but Azriel slowly sank back into his chair.

Sera’s voice refused to steady. “Beron made Eris’s mother take him to the cells.” Eris’s youngest brother—half-brother—let out a pained breath, his head bowing. Rhysand touched his shoulder. “She had me come with her. I had . . .” Sera took a deep breath. Eris squeezed her hand gently. “She thought—knew—that Beron . . . That doesn’t matter. Cervan left us with him. And she tried to tell him. To warn him not to mess with the Fae bane cuffs, because it was stifling their bond. Beron won’t be able to sense it as long as they remain.”

“But?” Helion promoted gently.

“He has your smile,” Sera said, meeting the High Lady of Night’s eyes. She quickly looked down at her hand in Eris’s. “And he didn’t even let Eris’s mother finish. He just said ‘I know’ and sat down in the middle of the cell to wait for Derren to bring her.”

“They’re still being held together then?” The youngest of the Illyrians said. Sera had heard his name but she couldn’t quite recall it on demand.

“Last we knew,” Eris answered. Sera wished he and the High Lord would sit. It felt like they were pulling the room off balance, even if there were more tenuous bonds than theirs. She squeezed Eris’s hand lightly.

“Did Casrien have time to access Derren’s mind?” Rhysand asked. Sera shuddered at the thought. She’d been given brief training on daemati in her youth, but the first month of her marriage had been nothing but bedding Eris and learning how to keep them out completely.

Sera looked to Eris for the answer. She had no experience with attacking or accessing others’ minds. And even the thought of her training was bringing inappropriate color to her cheeks. Eris just shrugged, though she thought his lips twitched to see her flush, “I wouldn’t know. He was healing for so long . . .”

“What did you do?” asked Vivianne slowly. Sera watched a smile curl across the violet-eyed male’s face. He was very handsome, and she’d heard tell of his sexual perversions. Eris’s thumb stroked along the back of her hand softly. She looked up at him once more and found a dizzying open look on his face. They weren’t alone and yet he was wearing his every thought there. He must have trusted the others a great deal.

“Well, if you must know,” Rhysand said, as though he was a peddler of gossip. Sera returned her attention to him, gooseflesh rising over her arms. His High Lady was watching Tamlin, a slight frown on her face. Sera had heard the stories. She wasn’t sure how they applied to her current situation. “Derren is going to prove more useful than ever.”

—:—:—:—

Lyssa was straddling his lap. He was sitting on the stone floor with his back to the wall, his hands on her hips. He still had the presence of mind that she wore her open robe. He had lost his boots but not his trousers.

Casrien was going mad from it. He needed to tell her quite a few things, but she was adamant in her distraction. He couldn’t bring himself to truly mind. She was captivating.

“They’ll be coming any moment,” Casrien groaned as she canted her hips against his. She bit her lip to hide her grin, but Casrien surged forward to kiss her. He would never tire of her tongue, of her mouth moving against his. It was like a dance only they knew, and her soft gasps a symphony.

“They aren’t here yet,” Lyssa murmured, her hands pulling at his hair. Her lips were on his again. He was starting to forget why his hands were shackled. It seemed to serve only to frustrate him. She tugged his hand between her legs.

“Well, then, he is like his father; he’ll fuck anything that breathes.”

Casrien had barely opened his eyes when Lyssa was thrown off him. She skipped across the ground like a flat stone on a lake. She crashed into the bars, stopping on her side, her back to Beron and her robe, thankfully, falling to cover her where she needed covering. Casrien’s mind quieted everything into little more than a dull roar. “Lyssa!”

But he couldn’t move.

Beron was standing opposite him on the other side of the bars. He was flanked by four male fae, each with dark hair and slightly uplifted eyes. They wore intricate maroon armor that was less functional than aesthetically pleasing, interlocking pieces that weren’t close enough to be as secure as the fish scales of the Summer Court. Wicked, curved blades hung by their sides, and the bulk of them spoke to their profession.

“No,” Casrien whispered, unable to move. Beron had him pinned with magic. “Lyssa?” She didn’t stir, though he could see that she was breathing out of the corner of his eye. But he could not turn to look at her fully. Something started to crack inside him. “Lyssa!”

“As you can see, he is quite capable in the area he is required for, and not opposed to bedding his enemies,” Beron drawled. The fae snickered at the bulge in his trousers which he could not hide. Casrien spat a curse at him and strained against the magic keeping him down. The Fae were Monteseran. Casrien let out a frustrated shout. Beron just chuckled.

“Lyssa!”

“He is much more manageable with the Fae bane. I recommend you keep it,” Beron said.

“We do not need a showcase of his abilities now,” said the one to Beron’s left. He smirked at Casrien. “We believe your testimony about his manipulation of your son.”

“No,” Casrien seethed. “Shut your lying mouth-“

“See if she knows about it,” the Monteseran gestured to Lyssa. Casrien couldn’t do anything. His powers were gone. His family was far away. There were no more tricks or games. He was out of options. He was out of time.

“Impressive shields,” murmured another Monteseran. Casrien tried to pull free vainly.

Lyssa’s mental shields were strange and beautiful, a twisting forest that sent one in circles and to dead ends, hills that rolled endlessly on, a singing willow that dragged one to sleep. Through it all, a well hidden path that allowed one to skirt the dangers and find her true mind.

“Get out of her head,” Casrien ordered lowly. Lyssa jerked as she stirred, starting to sit up. Her eyes found him, and they were her own. But she bowed her head, cradling it in her hands. A low moan rasped out of her. “Leave her alone!”

She flinched, her face falling into terror for a moment before a triumphant smile split her face. He did not know who had won. Casrien almost didn’t notice Beron enter the cage with them. Lyssa picked herself up, tying her robe shut with shaking movements. Casrien followed her every step as she approached Beron. The High Lord grinned.

She punched him.

He hit her back.

Casrien stopped seeing and hearing it all. He was watching her waver on her feet as her mind was again attacked. Beron smacked her, and then Casrien was trying to slam Beron into the bars, his head specifically. Flame erupted across his vision, sending him soaring backward into the stone. He crashed to the ground, groaning as his bruises only compounded on one another.

“Casrien!” Lyssa reached for him. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she fell to the ground. Casrien crawled to her. He couldn’t move his feet. He could hardly feel them. What had Beron done?

“Lyssa?” He gripped her arm, feeling her pulse throb at her wrist.

“She threw me out. Most impressive.”

“Lyssa,” Casrien whispered, smoothing her hair out of the way. He kissed her forehead, her lips. She didn’t wake. “No, no, Lyssa. Lyssa, please.”

She murmured lowly. Casrien put his mouth to her ear. “You just have to tell Derren that the time has come for the sun to rise. He’ll take you to Summer. Lyssa?”

“Sunrise,” she said. Casrien smiled, touching his forehead to hers, gripping her hand tightly. “Casrien?”

“Get out. Don’t come after me.”

“I think she ought to see you off, don’t you?” Beron crouched, grabbing Casrien by the scruff of his neck. Casrien tried to pull out of his pinching grasp. Beron took Lyssa by the arm.

Casrien didn’t know how the Monteserans got out. There were hundreds of them waiting. It took him a moment to realize his vision had doubled. But there were still hundreds.

Casrien thrashed at Beron’s hold as a team of Monteserans came forward. They were at some kind of dock. Three massive ships sat in the harbor. Two were being unloaded of precious stones. The last held more soldiers than Casrien could fight through on his own. He tried anyway, harming wherever he could, however he could. Mostly, he kicked shins and smacked people with his shackles. Lyssa was snarling and screaming, but she stayed Fae. Cervan grabbed her arm, and they disappeared. Casrien roared. Monteseran soldiers stepped aside and let Casrien be dragged aboard the nearest ship, cursing and spitting all the while.

He was nearly dropped into the sea. Casrien tried to crawl to freedom, scrambling to get up. He was smacked in the head with something that felt like wood. He wasn’t exactly sure until the fourth blow. He tried to clear his vision of stars as he was hauled up into the ship.

“Casrien!” Her voice came from too far away.

“Thank you, Lord Beron.” said the Monteseran. To another, he said, “He goes to the Thunderwing!” More hands grabbed Casrien. A sack was shoved over his head, which was just offensive. He’d already seen the ships and the harbor. “What of the other, Beron?”

Casrien snarled. They couldn’t take Israen. He wouldn’t let them.

“Do your part to draw their forces. They won’t let her join the assault. She isn’t trained for it.”

She?

—:—:—:—

“Devlon refused to give any more,” Cassian said, holding out the stones to his son. Israen gaped at them. “He thinks you might need something that doesn’t exist.”

“Three?!” Israen cried. “I haven’t worn three since I was seventeen!”

“I’m well aware,” Cassian said lightly. He was going to strangle Devlon. Israen just stared at the red stones.

“Fuck!” Israen turned on his heel, pacing back into Aelia’s room. Cassian stood in the door. They were gathering their troops on the Winter Court border at the moment. He really needed his son to help lead some of those troops, but letting him go without Siphons was probably worse than making him stay. Nesta thought separating him from Aelia was going to be bad. But Israen would do his duty.

So long as the Siphons held.

Aelia’s voice chimed lowly, but Cassian missed what she said. Israen grumbled back, “I can’t fucking believe this, fucking three of them?!”

“Israen,” Cassian said. “I’m not going to do jack shit with them, so would you please-“

Israen gave a long, suffering groan. Cassian looked around the door with enough time to see him flop onto the unmade bed. He’d certainly inherited Rhys’s flair for dramatics. Nesta snorted down the bond.

He gets it from you, you blind bat.

Aelia walked around him, the sheets draped artfully around herself. She came to the door, her cheeks bright. She held out one hand. Cassian deposited the Siphons into it. “You’d fit in with Helion’s lot wearing that.”

Aelia grinned sheepishly, retreating. Cassian turned away as she tripped on the sheet. Israen cursed, the door slamming shut so quickly it nearly cracked.

Cassian let out a low chuckle, rapping on the door, “Is she all right?”

Israen cursed again, louder. Cassian strained to hear. “What did you do? What did you do, what did you do, whatdidyoudo?”

“Israen?” Cassian called, pressing a hand to the door. He wondered if he’d be banned from Adriata for actual eternity if he entered the room and Aelia wasn’t decent. He shuddered at the thought. “Israen, what’s going on?”

The door swung open. Israen was wearing three giant opalescent stones, one on the back of either hand with the last over his heart. Aelia was still wrapped in the sheet. They were gaping at one another.

“Are those the Siphons?!” Cassian demanded. “Devlon’s going to kill you!”

“Da,” Israen said shakily, finally looking at him. He held up a hand.

A wall of pearl sprang up at Israen’s fingertips, translucent and glimmering. Cassian’s jaw dropped. He glanced at Aelia, then his son. “She- You changed the Siphons?”

“It feels like . . .” Israen’s smile spread quickly as his wall dropped. He whispered, “Remember when I stole all your Siphons, before I could fill one? It feels like that. Like . . . There’s just space, endless space.”

“That’s good, right?” Aelia whispered.

“Room to grow,” Cassian shrugged. He was only given Siphons because the camp lords feared him. He couldn’t fill an eighth Siphon, so he wasn’t given one. He’d never felt like his power grew. It was either full, draining, empty, or refilling. Israen was something new. Fuck if Cassian knew how to do things right.

Nesta was going to be over the moon. He called down the bond to her, sending an image of the way Israen and Aelia were looking at each other. She tugged back, Leave them alone.

I’m only here to deliver the Siphons. Cassian gestured to his son. He kissed him on his brow, then Aelia. He left after, smirking as he shut the door. I have no interest in seeing or hearing what happens next.

You filthy-minded bat.

Is that not what you meant? Cassian chuckled to himself, saluting Cresseida as he passed. She gave him an odd, almost offended look and kept going. Cassian cleared his throat, “I wouldn’t interrupt them.”

“Them?” Cresseida’s head tilted slightly. Cassian frowned.

“Israen’s with her.”

“Oh,” said Cresseida, touching her chest lightly. “Forgive me. It’s been a strange day.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed, trying to break through whatever glamour Cresseida was casting over herself. Something was wrong with her. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be just fine,” she said with a small nod. Cassian answered it in kind, turning away. He cast a glance over his shoulder as he left, trying to keep the paranoid feeling from overtaking him.

Last time you felt like this, the Goldaba nearly killed you, Nesta said, her voice soft and harsh all at once. Cassian acknowledged her words with a mental grunt. Monteseran magic?

Unless they have daemati, I’m not incredibly sure how they would manage that. It’d have to be close by, and Cresseida has enough skill to keep one out, Cassian said. Nesta indicated she was going to warn Tarquin and Rhysand. Cassian rolled his eyes. He didn’t know why she insisted on antagonizing her brother-in-law, but it’d been nearly a century of Rhys telling her not to use his full name and she showed no sign of giving it up.

I can hear you calling me unnecessarily stubborn.

I love your stubbornness. It makes things more interesting.

What things?

I am not going into battle with a raging hard on, Nesta. Stop.

If you get here soon enough, I can take care of it first.

Cassian leapt from the first balcony he found into the skies.

—:—:—:—

Lyssa bowed her head, cradling it against the screaming in her mind. They’d taken him from her. They’d shackled him and sold him and now they were in her mind again, keeping her from ripping out their throats.

Her mind was a maze. A labyrinth, but at the heart of it, there was nothing. There were walls of obsidian, each thicker and broader than the last. He was clawing at them, scratching them but only just. Only just.

Claws ripped out of her fingers. Her broken sob became a scream of rage as she shifted.

They should not have taken him from her.

She wanted Beron’s blood. She wanted Derren’s blood. She wanted Cervan’s blood.

And she would have it.

The Monteseran daemati cursed violently. Cervan had taken her and the blasted daemati up to the trees. The harbor spread out before her, five Monteseran ships laying anchor within. She could see Casrien struggling as he was brought up onto the center one.

She was a jungle cat, sleek and fierce and faster than the wind. Her sharp teeth tore into Cervan’s arm as he struggled to contain her. His shout was loud and wild. She lunged for the daemati next. His blood was sweet, but it was not what she needed. Cervan winnowed before she could return for his throat. She roared into the forest.

She leapt from the broad branch into the air, her form shifting as she went, becoming small and light and all-seeing. She dove, her falcon’s form quickest of all the birds she’d ever known. They had a sack over Casrien’s head, and his movements were uncoordinated. There was blood on his hands as she dropped, the wind tugging at her feathers. She gave a piercing cry.

A Monteseran grabbed Casrien, and they winnowed.

Lyssa scanned the ships for him. There was no flurry of movement, no sign that he was close. They couldn’t have winnowed him all the way to the continent. Not even Tarquin could’ve. Lyssa banked on the sea breeze, taking her wolf form as she alighted in front of Beron.

He wouldn’t know or care where Casrien was. Lyssa tore at him, growling. He’d done this, he was enjoying this. Fire sparked in front of her. Lyssa shifted, fur and skin becoming hardened scales, a clear lid sliding down over her eyes to protect them. The fire did not harm her, dancing around her skin without burning it. She snapped poison filled teeth, struck with claws and webbed arms, a spiked tail whipping around. She was taller than the ships as she took flight, screeching in agony as her senses still failed to find Casrien.

In the face of a brilliantly green wyvern, Beron shouted for the Monteserans to run as he winnowed. Lyssa shot higher into the sky, watching the world fall away. She could see everything and nothing. Not enough and too much. She could hardly think, her form telling her to hunt and hunt now.

She would find Casrien. She would kill Beron.

Find Casrien. Kill Beron.

Find Casrien.

Kill Beron.

Her cry tore over the water as she began her hunt.

—:—:—:—

“You are insane!”

Vivianne only laughed, steadying herself on top of the massive beast tearing into Autumn Court lands. With legions of Illyrians, Summer Warriors, Sun Guards, Spring Sentries and her own Winter Soldiers at her back, it was hard not to feel invincible.

Still, she was standing in the saddle of the great bear instead of sitting because Kallias, in his eternal wisdom, had suggested she stay in Adriata with Sonya and Aelia. But she was his High Lady, and if she wanted to do something incredibly stupid, that was her prerogative.

Nesta and Mor flanked her, her sister riding directly behind. Vivianne would’ve preferred to ride with Feyre as opposed to Nesta, but she’d have to do.

The Monteserans winnowed into a trap. They were already being flanked, shoved back into a mountain passage as Illyrians rained down death from above. Vivianne gave a fierce shout as her group plowed into the lines, jumping lithely from her mount. Mor and Dramina fought toward her, Nesta weaving through the legions to her mate.

“Come on!” Lucien’s shout pulled her attention. He was a sight to behold, glowing and burning like fire itself, a pillar of light ripping through the ranks carelessly. Rhys dropped from the sky to protect his back. Vivianne shook her head.

“Israen!” Cassian bellowed. Vivianne’s head whipped toward him. His son was taking flight, away from the battle, opalescent Siphons gleaming.

“Cass, I have it!” Vivianne shouted. As Israen soared over the mountains, Tamlin’s beast followed. Vivianne started to run, letting Mor and Nesta carve a path for her. She winnowed through the trees, tracking Tamlin as he tracked Israen through the sky.

They were already at the front steps when Vivianne arrived. Tamlin shifted into his Fae form. Vivianne looked up at the massive structure. It lay in the trees and beneath the earth, and it seemed to disappear if you looked away for too long. A shudder ran down her spine. It was too quiet.

The doors opened before they could decide to even climb the steps. Vivianne gasped at the form that appeared there. The girl was wearing a tattered and singed robe, a gash in her thigh. Her eyes seemed to glow as she took them in. She stumbled as she started down the steps, racing the thing that dropped from her grip. Tamlin rushed up the steps to her, cradling her against his chest as the object rolled to a stop at Israen’s feet.

Lucien’s brother. Half-brother. Cervan. His head, and his head alone.

Vivianne’s stomach curdled in spite of the knowledge that she’d seen far worse.

“They took him,” the girl was almost incoherent, sobbing and repeating the words over and over. “Father, they took him, they took him.”

“Where?” Israen demanded. Vivianne watched the girl carefully as Tamlin picked her up andcarried her back down the steps.

“Winnowed into the sea,” Lyssa murmured. “Beron’s going to take a female for Montesere’s prince.”

“Why wouldn’t he use you?” Vivianne asked carefully. Lyssa shook her head. Israen started up the steps, but Vivianne quickly grabbed his arm to hold him back, digging in her heels. “Where is Lady Autumn?”

“Aelia,” Israen said quietly. Lyssa looked at him, and the entire world seemed to pause in the wake of that stare. His Siphons gleamed.

“We have to stop them.”

“You didn’t think I’d given up so easily, did you?” Vivianne’s head whipped toward Beron.

Beron had his wife, son, and a Monteseran commander at his side. Vivianne could feel more foreigner’s winnowing in around them. They’d sent the inexperienced to battle without their superiors. Vivianne sent an accidental spike of panic down her mating bond as she dragged Israen away. He settled into a fighting stance with his back against hers. His wings were an odd feeling.

Tamlin retreated back toward them, Lyssa trying to push out of his arms. Tamlin let her down carefully. She dropped to her knees and vomited.

Amidst all the blood and bile was a finger.

“Where is my nephew, you utter sack of shit?” Vivianne snarled at the High Lord. Tamlin knelt by his daughter, tucking her against his side as he murmured comforts to her. She was still crying.

“They took him. He’s gone.”

Fire flared toward them. Vivianne met in with a crushing wave of ice and cold, whipping deadly spikes around them, moving her hands through the air to focus her energy. Soon, there was a hurricane of ice circling them, keeping Beron’s fire at bay.

“Fire always melts ice, young one.”

“Fucking bet,” Vivianne growled back.

—:—:—:—

“Aelia, go!” Cresseida ordered, pointing down the hall. She raised her hands and and a wall of vines sprung forth from the marble, curling over one another. Her cousin didn’t listen, stepping forward to touch the vines, “What are you doing, get out of here!”

She’d hardly touched Aelia’s arm when a wave of cold crept down her spine. The vines popped as they turned to some silvery metal that looked sturdy. Platinum perhaps. Cresseida didn’t care. She grabbed Aelia’s arm and started hauling her down the hallway. “You go to the vaults, you stay there until your father returns.”

“That’s awfully boring, isn’t it?” Cresseida raised her hands. Vines tore around the Monteseran bastard, immobilizing him. He winked at Cresseida, and she snarled. How had he gotten behind them? Fae couldn’t winnow someplace they’d never been—they tended to end up in walls or half in the floor. There had been no reported infiltrations back towards the end of the hall they were in.

“Now, Aelia,” Cresseida ordered.

“I want to try something,” Aelia whispered, stepping forward. “I can change vines, and those are alive.” The Monteseran squirmed. Cresseida flinched. Aelia had picked up a bit of Night Court terrorizing, it seemed. “Do you think I can change you, you murderous bastard?”

“I’m not here to kill anyone,” the Monteseran shook his head. “My name is Kegin. I’m here to . . . see the people.”

“Is Lucien’s eye gold, or bronze?” Aelia mused, glancing back at Cresseida. She shrugged. Aelia turned to the Monteseran. “Maybe, I’ll give you one of each.”

“Fucking the Illyrian gave you a spine,” the Monteseran grinned. Then he was gone. He shouldn’t have been able to winnow if Cresseida had him held down. They needed to get out of there. Something was very wrong with that male.

“What the fuck?” Aelia snapped, whirling to scan the empty hallway. Cresseida grabbed her wrist and shoved aside a painting, pulling her into the secret passageway. The painting swung shut with a soft click. “You know about-“

Cresseida tugged them back into a run, though Aelia probably could’ve outpaced her. “Honey, I’ve been sneaking out of this palace a hell of a lot longer than you have,” Cresseida answered, skidding to a stop and pressing through a fake panel. “The vaults aren’t far. Come on.”

“Is Mother already-“

“Yes, I got her first,” Cresseida said. Sonya had been much easier to convince. Aelia nodded, pushing past her as they headed down a set of spiraling stairs.

“I’m going back-“

“You aren’t a fighter!” Aelia caught her wrist as Cresseida let go. They came to a stop on the last few steps. Cresseida shook her head.

“I don’t care. I’d rather they take me than you,” said Cresseida blithely. “I don’t care what they do to me. But I’ll be damned before I let them touch you.”

“We do this together,” Aelia growled.

“I’m not your Illyrian,” Cresseida dropped down a step so she was eye-level with Aelia (even if her cousin was a step below that). “I’m not your friend. I’m your family, Aelia.” Cresseida dropped her voice as footsteps began to echo through the passages above them. “And that means you get to the vaults and stay there, and you let me protect you.”

“I can help,” Aelia insisted.

“You have a week of training, if that. I know they think that every second counts, but you’re more likely to get hurt,” Cresseida twisted out of Aelia’s grip and cradled her face in her hands. She kissed her brown. “Now, go.”

“Cress,” Aelia whispered. “I want to stay with you.”

“Sorry, Princess,” Cresseida answered, stepping away. “I outrank you. Get the hell out of here.”

“I love you,” Aelia said quietly.

“I love you, too,” Cresseida smiled and ran back up the stairs. She was wiping at her eyes by the time she reached the top. They hadn’t found the hallway to the stairs yet. Cresseida waited until it was quiet before slipping out of the fake panel. She sprinted through the passage way, dodging around Monteseran’s as they tried to catch her. She left them behind, calling a twisting vine to her aid, riding it to the end of the passage. She sprung out from behind the bust of Nostrus and kept running, up a grand staircase and into the guest wing. She could hear them giving chase. She blocked the passage enough that they would have to work to get out, but not so much that they would turn to go other ways. Cresseida swung to a stop as an Illyrian broke out of one of the rooms.

“Israen?! What are you doing here?!” Cresseida demanded shrilly. Cassian was going to kill him if he’d abandoned the battle, a she doubted her cousin could stop him.

“Where is she?!” he shouted. Cresseida wondered what he’d been told.

“The vaults,” she said, pointing.

She stared after him, shaking her head. She hadn’t realized he’d already replaced all six of his Siphons.

—:—:—:—

Kallias winnowed to his mate. Her recklessness was quickly becoming his dread. He loved her wild unpredictability, just as he loved every fiber of her heart and soul. If she lost a single hair on her head or an ounce of that untamable spirit, Kallias would never forgive himself.

A wall of ice ten feet thick and thirty feet high rose around them. Kallias clicked shields into place around Vivianne and Israen. The Illyrian was seething, half-wild with panic.

“They’re attacking Adriata,” Kallias said lowly. Israen’s eyes went truly mad. Kallias gripped his elbow, “Israen, look at me. Look at me!” Kallias waited. Israen looked. “Going back to her is instinct. But think, think what they will do if they find they can use you against one another. They put a knife to you and she does unspeakable things for them. Staying here is your best bet. Let’s get little Cas.”

“But Aelia,” Israen’s voice cracked. “She’s- I have to protect her.”

“This is protecting her,” Kallias said calmly. Israen’s brows furrowed. “This is protecting her, Israen. I promise, this is better than the alternative.”

“Okay,” Israen closed his eyes. Kallias kept his grip as Israen took several deep breaths. “This is for the best.”

“That’s right. Let’s focus on Beron,” Kallias released Israen carefully. He nodded, turning to face Beron through the wall.

You’re a father and we haven’t even conceived yet, Vivianne purred down the bond. Kallias cut his eyes at her. It wasn’t exactly the time.

“Baby, you’ll be all right, I promise, I promise, we’ll get you home,” Tamlin murmured to Lyssa.

“He’s gone. I can’t feel him. I can’t feel him. They took him.”

“Lyssa, please,” Tamlin’s voice broke.

“I let them take him. I couldn’t stop them.”

“Lyssa, it wasn’t your fault,” Tamlin said. “You’ve done enough, let us take things from here.”

“Promise me you’ll find him, Father. Promise me, promise me.”

“I- I swear it, Lyssa. We’ll find him, I promise.”

Kallias met his mate’s eyes for a moment too long. Tamlin snarled at them. Kallias just kept a neutral face, turning to Israen. “If you fly up, can you shield yourself long enough to catch a glimpse of what’s happening?”

Israen’s eyes went vacant for a moment. He shook himself, “My uncle says the Monteserans have surrendered. Tarquin and Helion are returning to Summer and-“

Darkness covered the forest before he could finish. Rhysand was coming there. Kallias banished the ice from around them. When the darkness cleared, Night’s High Lord and Lady were with them. Feyre knelt by Lyssa and spoke softly, “I’ll take her to the manor.” She winnowed away with the girl. Rhysand’s shoulders loosened minutely. Tamlin rose, his eyes glinting dangerously as Beron looked down at them. Rhysand’s wings were gone, his hands in his pockets, looking bored more than anything.

“Where is my son?” Rhysand asked, softly, for there was nothing that did not quiet at the dangerous edge in his voice and the power flickering out of him. It begged caution and spoke of glittering cold rage that Kallias knew all too well. He shifted toward Vivianne instinctively, though her attention was on Israen. Beron did not answer, and Rhysand drawled, “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Tamlin said. Kallias merely nodded, raising a wall of ice at their backs. He felt Rhysand’s power spear for Autumn’s High Lord, chills rushing down his back. Beron stiffened, and the Monteserans began to advance down the steps. Tamlin shifted into his animal form to meet them.

“Israen!” Vivianne called. Kallias followed Israen’s brief flight but could not stop him without hurting him. Israen moved through the Monteserans at Tamlin’s side. Blood gathered on the steps before the Forest House. Kallias stayed near Rhysand—though he trusted the High Lord to protect himself, he knew breaking into Beron’s mind would not be an easy task.

When Israen engaged Derren, the Autumnling gave an impressive defense. Fire raged against pearlescent Illyrian power, but Israen did not falter. Fighting up the steps was not to his advantage, but he took flight only briefly, summoning a spear and throwing it. Derren deflected it from his chest, but it landed in his knee instead. Beron’s fingers barely twitched at his son’s scream, but the Lady Autumn shouted as well. Vivianne sprinted up the steps, drawing her away from them.

“He’s still my son, he’s still mine!” She thrashed in Vivianne’s grip. “You have to stop, please! Don’t kill him, don’t– don’t do it . . .”

Israen hesitated. He let his guard drop, his conflict visible as he looked to Lady Autumn. Kallias surged forward, tackling Israen as fire raced from Derren’s fingertips. Kallias encased him in ice, shifting off of his nephew quickly enough.

“Kal!”

Beron dissolved into red mist, reaching still to slit Kallias’s throat. His wife screamed again, but Vivianne had released her. She fell to her knees, clutching at her own hair. Rhys wandered up the steps, watching Derren as he tried to break out of the ice.

Israen cried out in pain, clutching at his chest, just above his heart. Rhysand moved closer, but never got to ask what was wrong. There was sheer horror in his eyes.

“Aelia,” Israen murmured, and he winnowed before anyone could warn him not to.

—:—:—:—

“Take me back!” Feyre winnowed away from the girl’s slashing claws. They were on the gravel road, feet from the manor. It hadn’t changed. The sickening smell of roses still clung heavily to the air. And that was Hart, running inside, no doubt to find his Lady. Feyre again dodged Lyssa’s movements. “Let me help!” The girl dropped to her knees and vomited blood and gore, sobbing. Feyre nudged her mind gently. She flinched, then touched the girl’s shoulder, pulling back her hair as she continued to vomit. She stroked her back lightly. “Please, it has to stop. It has to.”

“You’re home. You’re safe here,” Feyre said softly, holding the girl up as her strength failed her. “There is no one to hurt you here.” Her eyes lifted as Arrianne burst from the house, her dress and hair streaming behind her. She ran barefoot across the gravel, narrowly avoiding the puddle of sick and blood before Lyssa.

“Oh, baby,” Arrianne pulled her from Feyre carefully, cradling Lyssa against her chest. “You’re home. You’re home.”

“They took him from me. I can’t feel him anymore,” the girl sobbed. Pure terror ripped through Feyre, such that she nearly toppled over. The girl continued to babble and repeat herself, switching between anguish and anger, vomiting sporadically all the while.

“May I?” Feyre asked softly. Arrianne nodded. Feyre pressed her mind to Lyssa’s. Casrien had been bound in fae bane. The Monteseran daemati who had tried to restrain Lyssa had torn part of her reasoning from her, like a bridge ripped up to drift downstream. Feyre carefully rebuilt it, keeping the girl from panic while she did. She tried to keep from invading too much of her privacy.

When she was done, the girl quieted. It was a long while before she said, “Cas isn’t dead, those cuffs are muting it.”

“Muting what?” Arrianne asked. Lyssa flinched, wiping at her mouth. Hart passed her a water skin before she could ask for it. She thanked him and rinsed her mouth, spitting onto the stones.

“They were taking him to a ship. It was too far out to see, but it can’t have been more than halfway to the continent,” Lyssa said, then gurgled water for a moment.

“They’d have to be moored, otherwise they’d move and whoever was winnowing would end up in the wrong place,” Feyre nodded, carefully rising to her feet. Her center of balance was all off.

“They were going to take a female. Israen and I believe Aelia is the clear choice, if Beron’s children have failed to prove their worth,” Lyssa drank, then coughed out water and blood. She cursed vilely and glared at the skin. “Especially since I’ve killed Cervan.”

“You’ve what?!”

“If we get to Aelia fast enough, we can find some method of tracking them as they take her,” Feyre murmured.

Beron is dead. Rhys said down their bond. Feyre signaled that he should wait.

“I can hide on her,” said Lyssa, glancing at her mother. “I could become something small, something no one would notice.”

“You’ll have to be quick,” Arrianne said. “Or your father will try to stop you.”

“Are you sure?” Feyre asked, offering her hand. The girl grasped it immediately.

“Yes.”

—:—:—:—

“Unhand me, you useless rats!” The door to the wooden cell opened and shut abruptly, a small form stuffed inside hastily. The lock clicked back into place. Casrien was still trying not to vomit. He hated boats and their ceaseless rocking. He had no control of it, not like when he flew. The female pounded at the door. She gave up when there was no answer. “You’re the one I’m meant to fuck?”

“I’d rather not,” Casrien answered with a groan. Lying down was better than standing, but his wings were in an uncomfortable position. He missed Lyssa, the call and answer in his blood and heart and soul. It ached strangely, like something left unfinished at the last possible moment.

The female sniffed at the air. “You’re mated.” Casrien didn’t answer. She slid down to the floor. “I just want to go home.” Casrien closed his eyes. He’d been within reach of home. Still, home did not mean Lyssa yet. Not until he convinced his and her parents. “You’re quiet, for a privileged male.”

“I found out perhaps a day ago that I am mated to the daughter of the male who killed my grandparents and aunt. She doesn’t yet know. Forgive me if I’m not entirely enthusiastic at my presence here,” Casrien said without opening his eyes. He didn’t know if it made sense. He couldn’t think through his nausea.

“I was supposed to be with Lin by now,” said the female bitterly. “She was supposed to—gah, why am I talking to you?!” Casrien said nothing in answer. “I may well talk to myself. I would, if you weren’t there. Gods, I hate this. I don’t need an heir. Father’s not even dead yet! And Kegin is the one who’s supposed to rule! It’s not fair!”

Casrien wished she would be quiet.

It was not granted him.

—:—:—:—

“AELIA!” Israen screamed. She was thrown over someone’s shoulder, her wrists and ankles bound, her mouth gagged. His aunt winnowed in beside him, but he paid her no heed, tearing after the bastard. His tattoo was burning into his flesh. He was failing her. He wasn’t going to let her slip away.

He winnowed over top of them, dropping onto the male. Aelia fell on a shield of his power as he twisted the male onto his back and straddled him, driving his fist through the male’s nose. The male flung him off, racing for Aelia. Casrien reached out a hand, his power slicing through Aelia’s bonds. She kicked the Monterseran away from her, scrambling to get up. Israen launched himself onto the male’s back, twisting him away.

“Aelia, get to my aunt,” Israen ground out. He was elbowed in the side but did not give up his hold. Aelia stumbled away. She leaned against the wall, panting and dazed. Israen seethed, “What did you do to her?!”

“Something about fae bane powder.” Fine blue dust clouded his vision. His power flared—then died. The Monteseran delivered a savage blow to Israen’s head.

“Israen!” His aunt shouted. He coughed, letting go of the Monteseran. He had to get to Aelia. If he could get to her, they could winnow. One touch, and the bastard lost his prize.

“Aelia!” That was her father. He couldn’t fail, he had to save her. He moved clumsily toward her, reaching as he did. Her hand brushed his, and he clasped it desperately.

There was a hand on the back of his neck, “Looks like I get both after all.”

“No!”

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #post-acowar #star of spring #acotar fanfiction #acotar next-gen #feysand #nessian #elucien #Vivianne x kallias #tamlin #beron #eris #eris x oc #tamlin x oc #prythian

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