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Eris set his crown on the mantle, then ran one hand through his hair, trying to smooth it into something that didn’t look like he’d just survived a political meeting and three arguments he hadn’t started.
Fenris was sprawled across the bed like he owned it—and possibly the room, and possibly Eris’s patience too. Watching him with that lazy, satisfied attention that always meant trouble.
Eris’s lip curled. “Gods, get dressed.”
His lover grinned wider. “But—”
“No.”
“Errrrrris,” Fenris drawled, stretching the name out like it was something he could tug on. Like it belonged to him.
Eris turned slightly in his chair, already tired of this conversation. “We have to leave in half an hour.”
Fenris pushed himself upright slowly, utterly unbothered by the fact he was still only in undershorts, and crossed the room barefoot. He stopped just behind Eris’s chair, leaning down until his voice brushed closer.
“But you’re so pretty,” he said, far too pleased with himself.
Eris snorted despite himself—but he could feel the faint heat rise anyway, which was infuriating in its own right. “I know.”
Fenris hummed, as if that was exactly the answer he wanted. “And I don’t want to get dressed. I want you to get undressed.”
Eris froze for half a second, then spun in his chair to glare up at him. “We have obligations.”
The male just grinned.
Eris scowled, turning back before he did something regrettable like forget the entire evening existed. “You do not look presentable.”
Fenris gave him a wounded look. “Fine.”
He stalked toward the wardrobe, finally giving in—at least temporarily. Eris exhaled through his nose and turned back to the mantle, picking up a pair of earrings he hadn’t decided on yet. Amber or rubies. Gold or blood-red.
Hm. “Fen, which—”
“Eris,” Fenris calls without turning around, “love, I’m sure they’re both lovely.”
Eris scowls at him. “You wouldn’t know lovely if it hit you over the head.”
That isn’t true.
Fenris is beautiful in a way that still manages to annoy him, even after all this time. Eris had been enamored the moment he saw him—infuriated by it, yes, but still enamored.
As if to prove the point, Fenris adds, “Has anyone ever told you you’re a little vain?”
Eris sighed, long-suffering. “I am a High Lord. It’s called presentation.”
Fenris stepped back into view now, pulling on a shirt but not bothering to fasten it properly. “It’s called vanity.”
Eris pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Fenris calls back, voice lighter now, “you keep me around.”
That earns him silence for a moment.
Eris reaches for the amber piece again, then pauses, gaze flicking toward the mirror without really seeing it. His expression softens in a way he would never allow in court, or anywhere with an audience that mattered.
“You’re meant to be dressed,” he says finally.
“I am getting dressed,” Fenris replies. “Just slowly. With resentment.”
Eris huffs a small laugh despite himself.
Behind him, fabric shifts again, then Fenris reappears, mostly presentable. He leans against the doorframe, watching Eris with open fondness.
“You’re doing it again,” Fenris says.
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you pretend you’re not thinking about anything at all.”
Eris doesn’t look at him. “I’m deciding.”
“On jewelry.”
“Yes.”
Fenris hums like he doesn’t believe him in the slightest. “Liar.”
Eris finally turns, eyes sharp again out of instinct. “Excuse me?”
But Fenris only pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room, slower this time, less teasing. He stops beside him and gently takes the amber piece from Eris’s fingers before he can argue.
“This one,” Fenris says simply.
Eris studies him. “Why.”
Fenris shrugs. “Warmer. Less… courtly. More you.”
Eris takes the rubies back anyway, because he refuses to look too pleased. “Hm.”
“Love, what are you worried about?”
Eris refuses to let anything show on his face. “I’m not.”
Fenris sighs, but it isn’t frustrated—just patient in that infuriating way of his. He reaches out and taps Eris’s forearm gently. Their signal.
Eris hesitates, then gives a small nod.
Immediately, Fenris closes the distance and wraps his arms around him.
Eris goes stiff for half a second before slowly letting himself lean in. He has always been a bit strange about touch—because it has always, always, come accompanied by pain. They are still figuring it out. Slowly. Carefully.
And now Beron is dead, and Eris is High Lord, and there is no one left to punish him for being seen like this. At least, not in this room.
Mostly.
Eris exhales, the tension in him not fully gone but shifting. “I am worried.” The words come out rough, like they’ve been scraped from somewhere too deep.
Fenris doesn’t loosen his hold. “What about?”
“I don’t know.”
And that, more than anything, is the truth that’s been sitting in his chest all morning.
This is the first meeting where Eris will be representing Autumn in an absolute capacity. Not as a son. Not as an extension of Beron’s cruelty. Not as something tolerated for political convenience.
Him.
And he is expected to sit at a table with High Lords and walk in as if he has always belonged there.
He is also bringing Fenris.
Who is not High Fae. Not female. Not anything Eris was ever taught was acceptable, or safe, or survivable in a room full of ancient pride and sharper teeth.
It feels far too vulnerable.
Eris doesn’t say any of that out loud. He can’t quite force it into words. He just shakes his head once, small and tight.
Fenris shifts back slightly, just enough to look at him properly, then gently pulls him up from the chair so they’re both standing.
“You’ll be fine,” Fenris says simply. “And Carmine and Felix will be there. And Thesan, remember.”
That earns the smallest flicker of something in Eris’s expression.
True.
He likes Thesan. They have had something like a friendship for a century—careful, but real. Probably the closest thing Eris has ever had to trust outside of Fenris and his brothers.
“Yes,” Eris says flatly. “But everyone else hates me.”
Fenris snorts immediately. “Then they’re idiots.”
“They’re High Lords.”
“So are you.”
Oh.
Yes. That still took getting used to.
The title fit strangely across his shoulders sometimes—not because he doubted he could rule, but because part of him still expected Beron to walk back into the room and take it away again.
Fenris hesitates, then tilts his head slightly. “You could try, like, being nice?”
Eris stares at him. “I am not nice. They will think I’m possessed.”
Fenris gives him a slow, assessing look, then snorts. “Yes, you might have a point. You’re horrible.”
Eris raised a brow, slow and unimpressed.
Fenris rolled his eyes dramatically. “You know what I mean.”
“No, do elaborate. I enjoy hearing your critiques of my personality.”
“You’d enjoy hearing critiques of your personality from a firing squad.”
“Only if they were articulate.”
That drags another laugh out of Fenris, warmer this time. The sound loosens something in Eris’s chest he hadn’t realized was tight.
Eris’s mouth twitches faintly.
Then Fenris’s expression softens again, some of the humor fading. “I’ll be with you.”
“I know.”
The words come out quieter than the others had.
Because that is the one thing keeping this from feeling unbearable. Fenris presses a quick kiss to his temple, casual and familiar in a way that still occasionally startles Eris with its gentleness. “And if anyone gives you trouble, I’ll bite them.”
Eris huffs softly. “That is not diplomatic.”
“No,” Fenris agrees. “But it would be satisfying.”
Eris snorts.
Then he sighs. “We have to go.”
His eyes drift toward the door, and in the space of a breath, his expression wipes clean. Smooth. Controlled. Untouchable.
It is an expression he knows very, very well.
Fenris watches it happen with faint disapproval but says nothing this time.
Eris looks them both over one final time instead. He is dressed in amber and cream, gold threaded subtly through the fabric like firelight caught in silk. Fenris had been right, unfortunately. The softer colors make him look less severe. Less like a threat waiting for an excuse.
Fenris, meanwhile, is in dark red with a smoky brown tint. The color suits him irritatingly well against dark hair and warm skin.
And his eyes—gods.
Shockingly pale blue grey, so light they’re nearly white in certain lighting. Impossible eyes. Unsettling eyes. Beautiful eyes.
Eris loves his eyes.
The thought arrives quietly, with the simple certainty of something long accepted.
He judges Fenris presentable at last and opens the door.
Cool air greets them immediately as they step into the corridor beyond. The Forest House at night always feels different than during the day—quieter, older somehow. Shadows stretch long across polished floors, torchlight flickering against carved wood and autumn-colored stone. Servants bow quickly as they pass, careful and observant in that way everyone in this court learns to become.
Eris walks with measured ease, every movement precise. Fenris keeps pace beside him, close enough to touch but not quite touching.
They are both still learning the shape of what is allowed now.
The corridors gradually widen as they approach the main throne room. Voices echo faintly ahead. Courtiers. Advisors. Guards shifting position. The pulse of the court gathering itself around its new ruler.
Eris feels his spine straighten instinctively.
The doors open before them.
Felix and Carmine are already there. Both look up immediately as Eris and Fenris enter, conversation cutting off mid-sentence. Eris had decided deliberately to bring them tonight, though several advisors had argued against it in increasingly horrified tones. Too risky, they’d said. Too unconventional. Too soft.
As if kindness were weakness instead of restraint.
Historically, Autumn High Lords dealt with surviving family members quickly upon ascension. Public, brutal executions, a spectacle. Exile, if they were kind.
Beron certainly would have expected blood.
Eris had given none.
Partly because he was making a point.
Partly because he was exhausted by cruelty masquerading as strength.
And partly because, despite everything, he loved his brothers.
Felix leans back slightly against the arm of a chair, looking between the two of them with open scrutiny. Carmine’s expression is harder to read, though his gaze lingers briefly on Fenris before flicking back to Eris.
Eris considers, suddenly, that they might be unsettled by this too.
The realization catches him mildly off guard.
He had spent so long preparing for judgment from the other courts that he had not fully considered the possibility of uncertainty from his own family. Not rejection, exactly. Just adjustment.
Fenris seems to notice the shift in mood immediately. Of course he does.
He inclines his head casually toward the brothers. “Hello, you two.”
They both nod back.
Polite. Careful.
Eris knows they are still figuring out the dynamics of this new court as much as he is. Carmine is his heir now. Felix remains a prince of Autumn. Those roles are straightforward enough, even if the reality behind them is not.
Fenris is…
Eris honestly isn’t sure. Lover sounds strangely insufficient for someone who has rooted himself this deeply into Eris’s life. Consort feels too formal, too political, like reducing Fenris to a decorative extension of Eris’s title rather than the male who had stayed beside him long before the crown existed.
It is unusual. And Eris can practically see his brothers trying to determine whether Fenris ranks below them or above them now. Whether he should be treated like family, nobility, advisor, or something entirely separate.
Fenris, infuriatingly, appears completely unbothered by the uncertainty. Eris suspects he enjoys throwing them for a loop. Pissing off royalty is something of a hobby for him.
Eris clears his throat sharply before the silence can stretch further. “Right. Ground rules.”
Immediately, all three males look at him with varying degrees of suspicion.
“Be respectful,” Eris continues. “Absolutely no setting anything on fire. Felix, keep your shadows away. Even if Azriel has his out. It is not a competition.”
Eris points a warning finger at all of them before continuing. “And Rhys will probably bring Lucien.”
That gets everyone’s attention immediately.
“Do not hunt him down,” Eris says firmly. “You may speak to him politely if he wishes. But I want him to like us, so do not ruin it.”
Both Vanserras nod, an array of emotion on their faces.
“Alright,” Eris says. “We’re already late.”
He holds out a hand toward Fenris automatically.
Fenris takes it without hesitation.
The contact still startles Eris sometimes—not because it feels wrong, but because it feels so natural now. Easy in a way almost nothing else in his life ever has been.
Magic curls around them a second later, warm and sharp, and the world folds.
Dawn Court opens around them in a wash of pale gold light.
The air smells different here. Cleaner somehow. Crisp stone, flowering citrus trees, cool morning water despite the late hour. The architecture stretches elegant and open toward the sky, all soft ivory and sunlight-colored marble glowing beneath enchanted lanterns. Music drifts faintly from somewhere deeper within the palace halls.
Eris straightens instinctively the moment they arrive.
His brothers appear behind them a heartbeat later in flickers of Autumn flame.
For a moment, Eris simply looks at them all standing together beneath the shining arches of Dawn—the surviving sons of Beron, alive and free and not tearing each other apart.
The image feels strange enough that he has to look away first. He clears his throat lightly. “Let’s all go find Thesan together. Then you can go socialize.”
They nod easily enough.
Fenris’s hand is still in his.
Eris squeezes it once before letting go. Brief. Controlled. But deliberate.
He is getting better at affection.
Slowly.
Fenris notices anyway, glancing sideways at him with that infuriatingly soft expression that always makes Eris feel far too perceived.
Eris ignores it with dignity and starts toward the main hall.
They get a few looks from courtiers, but none important enough to draw attention—just curiosity that flickers and dies quickly in the face of Autumn’s new High Lord. Eris does not slow down for any of it.
He leads them into the main room.
The hall opens wide, all pale stone and sunlit banners, the air filled with the low hum of conversation and careful diplomacy. Eris spots Thesan almost immediately and angles toward him without hesitation.
The Dawn Lord looks up as he approaches. “Eris, hello.” He smiles, easy and genuine.
Eris nods once, allowing himself to relax a fraction. “Thesan.”
Thesan’s gaze flicks over him, then sharpens slightly with amusement. “You look exhausted.”
“I do not,” Eris replies automatically.
Thesan laughs. His attention shifts past Eris. “Prince Carmine, Felix. Nice to see you both.”
They exchange polite greetings—measured, practiced, appropriate. Carmine more reserved, Felix slightly more relaxed but still observant.
Then Thesan turns his attention to Fenris.
He pauses for a fraction longer than before, head tilting slightly. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before.”
Eris steps in immediately, before Fenris can decide to make this worse purely out of habit. “This is Fenris,” Eris says. A beat. Then, because his brain refuses to cooperate, he adds, “He’s… Fenris.”
It might be the single most inelegant thing Eris has ever said in his entire life. Fuck.
Behind him, Felix snickers.
Eris does not turn around. He refuses.
Thesan tilts his head, scrutinising them, before something warm shifts into his expression. “Ah,” he says softly. “Then I am most grateful to meet you.”
Eris exhales very quietly through his nose. Relief, subtle but real.
Fenris inclines his head with easy grace. “The pleasure is mine.”
Thesan studies him a moment longer—not unkindly, just perceptive in the way he rarely bothers to hide. Then his gaze flicks briefly back to Eris.
“Eris…” Thesan murmurs.
Eris shoots him a look that says don’t start.
Thesan’s mouth curves slightly, but he doesn’t press. He gestures for Eris to follow him, and Eris nods once at his brothers. Felix gives him a lazy salute before disappearing smoothly into the crowd with Carmine beside him.
Fenris stays. Of course he does.
The rest of the High Lords are gathered roughly toward the back of the hall in a loose semicircle of polished hostility and political exhaustion.
Tamlin is not there.
Well, Eris thinks a little hysterically, at least they might hate someone else a little more than me tonight.
Silver linings.
As they approach, violet eyes lock onto him immediately.
Rhysand.
The Night Lord lounges with calculated ease, one arm draped over the back of his chair like the entire meeting is mildly beneath him. But his attention sharpens the second it lands fully on Eris.
Eris makes certain his shields are solid out of instinct alone. No cracks. No openings.
And then he realizes, with a cold flicker low in his stomach, that Fenris cannot shield well.
Not against Rhysand.
If the Night Lord went digging, he could see far too much. Every ugly thing Eris had spent centuries hiding. Every time Fenris had held him together after Beron tore him apart piece by piece. Every exhausted collapse. Every shaking hand. Every scar touched with unbearable gentleness afterward.
And Rhys could hurt him with that knowledge.
The thought arrives sharp enough that Eris feels claws threaten beneath his skin.
And worse—Rhysand could hurt Fenris.
As leverage, if nothing else.
Eris has spent so long loving nothing openly that the existence of something precious still feels inherently dangerous. Weakness to be exploited. A vulnerability waiting to be noticed by the wrong person.
Beron had taught that lesson thoroughly.
Care for something, and eventually someone will use it to carve you apart.
The instinctive terror of that realization coils cold and vicious through Eris before he can fully suppress it. Not fear for himself. Never that. He knows exactly how much damage he can survive.
But Fenris—
Fenris, who had looked at all the ugliness in him and stayed anyway.
If Rhys reached into his mind and found that—found the depth of it—
He would rip out Rhysand’s throat if he let those claws anywhere near Fenris’s mind. The instinct is immediate. Violent. Absolute.
Beside him, Fenris shifts slightly, close enough that his sleeve brushes Eris’s hand once. A quiet grounding pressure. Whether intentional or not, Eris cannot tell.
Rhysand blinks first.
The smallest curl of satisfaction twists through Eris before he smooths it away.
He lets his gaze drift instead, assessing the Night Court retinue.
No sign of the cursebreaker. Or Lucien.
Interesting.
But Mor is there, elegant and sharp-eyed in crimson silk, lounging with the confidence of someone entirely capable of becoming a battlefield at a moment’s notice. Azriel stands slightly behind the others, silent as shadow and somehow more watchful than everyone else combined.
Hm.
Azriel’s shadows stir faintly around him, curling and shifting with quiet awareness. Felix would absolutely make this into a competition if he were here. Now the secrets out—shocker, the Vanserras have a Shadowsinger—Felix always has his little pests curling around him.
Eris suddenly feels vindicated in separating them.
Rhys’s gaze flicks briefly toward Fenris now. Not invasive. Just curious in the irritating way Night Court people always seem to be.
Fenris, infuriatingly fearless, looks directly back at him.
Wonderful.
Thesan, apparently sensing the tension before it can become a diplomatic incident, steps smoothly into the conversational gap. “Rhysand,” he says pleasantly, “try not to antagonize my guests before we’ve even sat down.”
Rhys looks deeply unrepentant. “No promises.”
“Shocking,” Eris mutters.
Rhys’s grin sharpens.
Eris resists the urge to sigh aloud. Gods, he missed the simplicity of enemies who simply tried to stab each other.
Mor is glaring at him.
Ugh.
He rolls his eyes at her. Subtly.
Her expression somehow becomes even more offended.
Rhys stands then, all smooth confidence and calculated ease, and strides toward him like this is a social call rather than a gathering of predators pretending to behave.
“Eris,” Rhys says warmly, which is how one speaks to people they are absolutely mocking. “Welcome to the club.”
The words drip with sarcasm.
Eris scowls internally. He hates Rhysand. Unfortunately, diplomacy requires tolerating insufferable people occasionally.
So Eris inclines his head the exact appropriate amount and sighs in defeat. “Hello, Rhysand.”
No public snubs.
He needs allies more than he needs satisfaction.
Rhys’s mouth curves slightly, like he knows exactly how much effort that greeting cost him. Indigo eyes slide past Eris then, settling on the male beside him.
Eris fights not to stiffen.
“And you are?” Rhys asks.
“Fenris.”
The grin Fenris gives him is entirely irreverent and shows far too many teeth to count as polite. “Nice to meet you. Eris has told me so many things.”
There is a subtle threat woven beneath the words. Barely there. But there.
Eris has two immediate and deeply conflicting urges: to slap Fenris for antagonizing the most powerful daemati on the continent within thirty seconds of meeting him—
—and to kiss him senseless for it.
Rhys stares at Fenris for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly in something like confusion.
Not offense.
Confusion.
As though he cannot quite place what Fenris is to Eris.
Frankly, Eris relates.
Mor snorts, lip curling faintly. “And why is he here?”
Gods, get over it. It was centuries ago. And your own fault.
“I invited him,” Eris says flatly.
That does not appear to satisfy anyone.
Azriel’s shadows have begun snaking quietly across the floor toward their feet, curious little wisps of darkness pooling around Fenris’s boots like cautious cats.
Eris looks up at the shadowsinger.
Hazel eyes are narrowed slightly. Assessing. Thinking.
Eris just blinks back at him.
Azriel’s gaze flicks between Eris and Fenris once. Twice. Then his eyes widen almost imperceptibly.
Oh.
Naturally.
Eris sighs internally. Of course the spymaster noticed first. “Fenris is here because I want him here,” Eris says, more sharply now. “He’s with me.”
The words settle heavily into the space between them.
Before he can reconsider it, Eris reaches out.
Fenris takes his hand immediately. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Warm fingers threading through his like this is the easiest thing in the world.
There.
A statement.
Eris lifts his chin slightly and gives everyone his best you will regret it if you try anything look. Years of court training settle neatly into place around the panic beginning to rise underneath.
Rhysand’s eyes go wide.
Actually wide.
Mor looks stunned into silence for perhaps the first time in recorded history. Azriel has gone eerily still in that way dangerous people sometimes do when processing new information.
Fenris, traitorous male that he is, looks deeply pleased.
And Eris can feel the beginnings of panic clawing slowly up his throat.
Because this is real now.
Not hidden in private rooms. Not confined to whispered conversations and stolen moments away from court.
Public. Visible.
Irrevocable.
Every instinct Beron ever carved into him is suddenly screaming that this is a mistake. That vulnerability is weakness. That love is leverage. That standing here openly holding someone’s hand is equivalent to laying a knife across his own throat and trusting no one to use it.
Eris keeps his expression perfectly blank through sheer force of will.
Beside him, Fenris’s thumb brushes once against the back of his hand. Tiny. Barely noticeable.
Oh, gods.
Eris can feel the beginnings of panic clawing up his throat immediately afterward.
Because this is public.
Because he just did that in front of multiple High Lords and half the Night Court.
Rhys recovers first, because unfortunately he is Rhysand. His surprise shifts into something more careful, more assessing.
Then, unexpectedly, he says, “Well—”
But before he can finish, Mor stands abruptly. Shock twists sharply across her face.
“You,” she hisses at Eris. “No way. I don’t believe this.”
Her eyes snap toward Fenris. “He— he,” she repeats, stressing the pronoun hard enough that the entire room understands exactly what she means. “No. There is no way.” The hypocrisy.
The atmosphere shifts instantly.
Several nearby conversations falter into silence.
Eris feels his spine straighten automatically, every inch of him locking into cold, polished stillness.
Finally.
Something he knows how to fight.
“What,” Eris says softly, lethally, “exactly is your issue, Mor?”
His tone could cut glass.
Mor splutters, anger overtaking disbelief so quickly it almost looks desperate. “Where do I start? No way you got someone to love you. No way. What did you tell him?”
Eris blinks once.
Not because the words hurt. He’s heard worse from crueler mouths. But because for a split second, he realizes Mor genuinely believes Fenris must have been deceived into this. That no one could possibly know Eris fully and stay. The thought lands somewhere ugly and familiar in his chest.
Fenris cuts in before Eris can respond. His voice turns to ice.
“Everything. Every single thing.”
The words snap through the room hard enough that even Rhys stills. Fenris steps slightly closer to Eris without seeming to realize he’s done it. “So don’t use me as an excuse because you’re pissed at him.”
Mor snarls outright. Somewhere beside her, Azriel visibly winces.
Eris does not spare him a glance.
Mor points sharply at Eris instead. “You think this changes anything? After what you did?”
“And what,” Eris says, calm enough to be dangerous, “precisely did I do?”
Mor laughs once, harsh and disbelieving. “Gods, listen to yourself.”
“Answer the question.”
The room has gone painfully quiet now. Even the other High Lords nearby are pretending not to watch while very obviously watching.
Rhys rubs a hand slowly over his mouth, but his eyes are gleaming, like he has spotted a new play. “Mor—”
“No,” she snaps. “No, I’m serious. We’re all just accepting this? Him standing here pretending he’s suddenly decent because he brought a lover?”
Eris’s expression doesn’t move.
Inside, something old and vicious is beginning to uncurl.
Fenris’s hand tightens around his instinctively, probably feeling the shift before anyone else does. “He never said he was decent,” Fenris says flatly. “You decided that he wasn’t on your own.”
Mor turns on him immediately. “You don’t know him.”
“I know him better than you do.”
Eris snaps back into himself before the argument can spiral further. The panic, the anger, the old bitterness—all of it settles abruptly into something colder. Sharper.
Controlled.
“I don’t think that’s really the issue, Mor,” Eris says quietly.
She whirls toward him.
Eris holds her gaze evenly. “I think you hate yourself, and you’re angry that I don’t.”
The room stills further.
“That I don’t hate Fenris.”
Mor recoils slightly like the words struck somewhere too close.
Because Mor is like him.
Eris had known it almost immediately, centuries ago. The way she looked at females. The anger. The fear wrapped so tightly around desire it became cruelty instead.
She liked females more than Eris ever had.
The thought almost makes him laugh at the absurdity of this entire situation. He snorts softly instead. Across the room, Eris catches Thesan’s eyes.
The Dawn Lord is watching the exchange carefully, lips pursed. He gives Eris a little nod. Good.
Eris turns deliberately toward the room at large instead. Toward the gathered courtiers pretending not to listen. Toward the High Lords and attendants and soldiers and spies all frozen in place around them.
“Does anyone else,” Eris says clearly, “have a problem with Fenris? Or his gender?”
Dead silence.
No one so much as breathes.
Helion looks more intrigued than scandalized. Kallias appears deeply uncomfortable but not hostile. Tarquin mostly seems confused about why this became a screaming match so quickly.
Eris’s brothers have pushed toward the front of the crowd now. Felix looks one insult away from violence. Carmine’s face is carefully blank in the way only Autumn males can manage.
Mor snarls softly under her breath.
Rhys finally turns fully toward her. “Mor,” he says smoothly, “you should go get some air.”
She throws her wineglass directly into his face.
The room gasps collectively.
Rhys freezes as golden wine splashes across his shirt and drips slowly down his jaw.
Absolute silence follows.
Mor rounds on Azriel instead now, fury blazing openly across her face. “How are you okay with this?” she hisses.
He frowns at her. “Eris is right.”
What? Huh. Thanks, Azriel.
Mor freezes.
“What.”
The single word comes out stone cold.
Azriel sighs heavily, like he’s suddenly exhausted by the entire century. “Mor.” His voice softens slightly. “You’re reacting like this because he’s standing there openly with someone and not ashamed of it.”
Her face goes white with fury.
“That is not—”
“It is,” the shadowsinger says gently. “And I think you know that.”
Mor stares at him in open betrayal, before her face twists in rage.
Eris almost looks away. Almost.
Because suddenly this doesn’t feel like a fight anymore. It feels like witnessing something crack open that was never meant to happen in public.
Feyre steps out from the crowd next, the High Lady pushing through the lingering cluster of courtiers with sharp purpose. “What the fuck is happening here?”
Her gaze takes in Rhys first—wine-soaked shirt, jaw tight, expression dangerously calm. Then Mor, shaking with fury.
Her eyes flick to Eris.
To Fenris.
To their joined hands.
Something unreadable flashes across her face. Not quite surprise. Not quite approval. Something more complex—measured, assessing, sharp.
There is a moment of silence so complete it feels like the entire room has stopped breathing.
Eris would bet anything Rhys is already relaying the memory to her through their bond. Rapid. Unfiltered. Explaining the situation in the only way that makes sense to them.
Feyre’s expression shifts once.
Then she spins on her heel, strides straight to Mor, and grabs her by the arm.
“Outside,” she says firmly.
Mor jerks in protest. “Feyre—”
“I said outside.” The words are a low growl.
Feyre drags her out of the hall with controlled force, the doors closing behind them with a heavy, echoing finality.
Eris watches them go.
Something like pity flickers briefly in his chest. Not for Mor’s anger—he understands anger too well for that—but for the way it had spilled out here, raw and unfiltered, in front of everyone.
In front of him.
In front of Fenris.
He turns slowly back toward the room, pivoting on his heel.
The entire hall is still.
Pin-drop quiet.
Every High Lord. Every courtier. Every attending guard. Frozen mid-thought, mid-breath, mid-assessment.
“If anyone else,” he says evenly, “intends to make this about my personal life again, do it now so we can be finished with it.”
A few people flinch at the calmness of it.
Eris tightens his grip on Fenris’s hand once—just once. Grounding himself more than anything else. Thesan breaks the silence first, voice smooth as ever. “I believe we were meant to be discussing peace treaties.”
Helion lifts a brow. “Thank the Mother.”
Kallias exhales like he’s been holding his breath for ten years.
Tarquin slowly nods. “Yes. Please.”
The grip Eris has on Fenris’s hand loosens. He relaxes a fraction, tension uncoiling from his shoulders in reluctant stages.
Only then does he notice it.
Half-moon marks along Fenris’s wrist where his grip had been too tight, too instinctive.
The faint, pale indentations there make something in him tighten again.
Eris’s brow furrows.
Without thinking, he lifts his free hand and channels a thin thread of healing magic—careful, controlled. The marks fade under his touch until the skin is smooth again, unmarked.
His thoughts turn sharp on instinct.
You hurt him.
You will always hurt him.
Fenris watches him do it with a fond, slightly exasperated smile. “You know I’ve had worse.”
“I don’t care.”
That earns him a softer look.
Around them, the room is already moving on. Conversations resume. Good.
Eris lets his gaze drop to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That was… not how I expected it to go.”
Idiot.
What did you expect?
You should have known better.
The thoughts press in immediately, sharp and familiar. Eris swallows them down before they can take root properly. Guilt. Fear. The old reflex to assume he has done something irreparably wrong simply by existing loudly.
A hand tilts his face upward.
Fenris.
Warm fingers at his cheek, steady and unbothered by the attention still lingering in the room like distant thunder.
“Love,” Fenris says softly, “it’s fine.”
Eris pulls back just slightly, enough to remind himself where they are. Public. Court. Eyes everywhere, even if they are pretending otherwise.
“This is still public,” he mutters.
Fenris doesn’t move his hand away. Just shifts it slightly, thumb brushing once against Eris’s cheek like it is the most natural thing in the world.
“I know,” Fenris says. Then, like it should be obvious, “I’m glad.”
Eris pauses.
“Glad?”
Fenris’s mouth curves faintly. “Well. Now everyone knows.”
“Oh.”
Eris finally looks up.
Fenris is watching him with open concern now, thumb lingering near his cheek a moment longer before he lets his hand fall away completely. Still, Eris doesn’t release his other hand. Not yet.
He turns slightly.
Rhysand is watching them.
Still standing. Still soaked in wine. Still looking mildly irritated, and mildly intrigued. His expression gives eris an oily, unsettled feeling. What does he want?
Then he blinks, lifts a hand, and with a flick of his fingers, cleans the wine from his clothes, but not the floor beneath him.
Arogant.
Rhys steps toward them.
“…I’m sorry about that,” His voice sounds smooth, assured. Like someone accustomed to people listening to them. “I’ll have a talk with Mor.”
Eris gives a short nod. “Alright.”
Rhys’s eyes sharpen slightly, studying him in a way that feels ingenuine at best. “And I’m sorry,” he adds after a beat.
A pause.
“We haven’t been fair to you.”
Eris doesn’t respond immediately.
Rhys exhales. “But I would like to be allies. Considering we’re likely to be spending a lot more time together.”
For a second, there is only silence.
Then Eris laughs.
It isn’t polite. It isn’t controlled. It bursts out of him sharp and disbelieving, almost enough to make him double over.
“Now?” he says, voice edged with something almost hysterical. “After I finally have power, you want to be friends?”
Rhys stiffens slightly.
Eris straightens, still holding Fenris’s hand like an anchor.
“You’re such a prick.”
Rhys actually looks taken aback.
Eris continues, the words coming faster now, too long held back to stop. “You could have helped me. Or even tried to understand. But no. Nothing. And now you come crawling, because now I have things to offer you.”
Rhys’s jaw tightens.
Eris leans back a fraction, voice going colder. “No. Go argue with your dysfunctional court and leave mine alone.”
Silence snaps down like a blade.
Then Rhys’s expression changes.
Rage.
“Enough,” Rhys snarls—and something in the air shifts.
Pressure slams outward, an invisible force trying to seize, to pry, to dominate. The kind of power that would make most courts drop to their knees without thinking.
Eris feels it hit his shields like a wave.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t even blink.
Instead, he lets it in. Just a fraction. A hairline invitation.
Rhys pushes harder immediately, instinct and anger driving him forward—straight into the opening.
And that is where Eris closes around him.
Not forcefully. Almost gently. Roots knotting over roots, crimson leaves twining. Paths disappearing. Every opening folding into itself until there is nowhere left to go but forward—and forward is already gone.
And Rhysand is inside it.
Violet fury flickers—then fractures into something sharper. Confusion. Then alarm. Eris turns his head slightly, expression almost bored now.
“You forget,” he drawls softly, “that I too am a High Lord.”
Rhys doesn’t respond. Not verbally.
He can’t.
The mental pressure he exerts rebounds against him, contained entirely within Eris’s constructed mindscape.
Panic. Eris can feel it. He grins, slow and sharp. The panic feels good.
Then Eris releases him.
Rhys stumbles back a step, boots sliding on the slick floor as he falls backwards—
—and lands straight in the discarded puddle of wine.
Silence drops again. Fenris makes a sound that might be laughter choked down too late. Eris just watches him. Rhys straightens slowly, dripping faintly again, expression caught somewhere between fearful disbelief and hatred.
Good.
Eris smirks once, sharp and mean, then turns away before the moment can become anything larger. He can still feel Rhys staring after him like a drawn blade.
Fenris snickers beside him.
Eris smiles despite himself.
Then he all but flees the room.
The noise of the hall fades quickly behind them as he pushes through side corridors until cool night air finally brushes his face. A balcony opens ahead, half-hidden beneath heavy curtains of wisteria that trail from carved stone overhead. Moonlight silvers the vines. The scent is soft and green and clean enough to breathe.
Sheltered from view.
Safe.
Eris steps into the quiet and stops moving entirely.
For a long moment, neither of them speaks. The sounds from inside are distant now—muffled voices, the faint echo continuing without him.
Eris stares out over the Dawn Court gardens, hands braced lightly against the stone railing. His pulse is still too fast.
Magic still restless beneath his skin.
Usually, he would shove all of this down. Lock it away until it calcified into something sharp enough to survive on.
But Fenris had asked him to stop doing that.
So, slowly, awkwardly, Eris tries.
He reaches inward instead of away. Takes the emotions one by one and pulls them into focus rather than burying them beneath instinct.
It still feels unnatural. Like trying to hold someone else's fire in his bare hands without immediately throwing it away.
Fear arrives first.
Urgent. Loud. Crawling beneath his ribs even now. Fear of exposure. Of vulnerability. Of how easily everything could still be taken from him if someone found the right weakness to press. Panic sits tangled tightly with it. The memory of everyone staring. The feeling of old instincts screaming at him to run, hide, deny.
Anger comes next. Easier to touch. Cleaner. At Mor. At Rhys. At centuries of being forced into masks sharp enough to cut himself open on.
Then satisfaction.
That surprises him slightly.
The look on Rhys’s face when he realized he was trapped in Eris’s mind. The shock. The sudden understanding that Eris was not powerless anymore.
Relief follows close behind it.
No one had turned on Fenris.
No one had dared.
Gratitude twists quietly underneath everything else. Directed so entirely at the male standing beside him it almost hurts.
Self-loathing.
Old and deep and instinctive. The familiar certainty that eventually he will ruin this too. That he is cruel in ways he cannot fully unlearn. That love given to him is love wasted.
Eris exhales shakily once through his nose.
Love.
That one is harder.
Hard because it feels too large inside him sometimes. Too gentle for someone like him. Hard because he still expects it to be taken away eventually.
Hard because Fenris had stood beside him in front of an entire room full of powerful people and said everything without hesitation.
Eris grips the balcony railing tighter.
He hears Fenris step up beside him.
Two gentle taps against his forearm. Their signal. A silent can I?
Even now. Even after all this time, Fenris still asks.
Eris nods shakily.
Warmth presses against his back a moment later. Fenris’s arms slide carefully around his waist. Eris lets out a slow breath and leans back into him before he can stop himself. “You’re spiraling again,” Fenris murmurs softly into the top of his hair.
“Yes,” Eris admits.
No denial this time.
Fenris hums quietly like that answer was expected. “Want help?”
Eris stares out over the moonlit gardens below.
“…Maybe.”
“Okay.”
The word is soft. Easy. No frustration in it. No judgment.
Fenris tightens his arms around Eris by a fraction, enough to ground without restraining. Eris focuses on that pressure first. The warmth of him. The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“Tell me what’s loudest,” Fenris murmurs.
Eris almost says everything.
Instead, after a long moment, he admits, “I’m scared.”
Fenris nods slightly against his shoulder like that makes perfect sense. “Of what?”
Eris laughs once under his breath. Bitter. “Pick one.”
“Eris.”
The quiet warning in his voice cuts through some of the spiraling. Fenris never lets him dodge completely when he gets like this.
Eris closes his eyes again. “That I made a mistake.”
Fenris is silent for a beat. He says finally. “You're terrified people saw you care about something.”
Eris’s jaw tightens.
Fenris continues before he can argue. “You’re fine showing anger. Pride. Cruelty, sometimes.” A pause. “But this?”
One of his hands shifts, resting lightly over Eris’s sternum.
“This scares you.”
“Yes,” Eris whispers before he can stop himself.
The admission leaves him strangely hollow afterward. Raw.
Fenris just rests his chin lightly on Eris’s shoulder. “Okay.” Eris swallows hard against the sudden pressure in his throat. Gods, he hates being understood this thoroughly.
“You know what I kept thinking in there?” he says quietly.
“What?”
“That everyone was going to look at you and think less of you because of me.”
Fenris goes very still behind him. Then he turns Eris gently in his arms until they’re facing each other properly. Moonlight catches silver in his pale eyes.
“Eris,” he says carefully, “I need you to listen to me for a second.”
Eris tries not to flinch at the seriousness in his tone. “That’s rarely a good sign.”
Fenris ignores that completely. “I chose you knowing exactly who you are.”
Eris opens his mouth immediately. Fenris cuts him off with a look. “No. You don’t get to decide I was tricked into loving you. You don’t get to turn me into some victim of your terrible personality.”
Despite himself, Eris snorts faintly.
Fenris presses on. “You are difficult. You’re arrogant. You’re occasionally a complete nightmare to deal with.”
“Occasionally?”
“Don’t interrupt me.”
Eris goes quiet again.
Fenris brushes a thumb lightly along his jaw. “But you are also loyal. And careful. And kinder than you think you’re allowed to be.”
Eris looks away immediately.
“Hey.”
Fenris waits until Eris reluctantly looks back.
“You do not ruin me by loving me,” Fenris says softly. “Understand?”
Something painful twists in Eris’s chest at the certainty in his voice. At the absolute sincerity of it.
Eris nods once. Small and shaky. Then he turns in Fenris’s arms just enough to hide his face against his shoulder, because suddenly looking at him feels impossible.
Fenris says nothing about it.
Just holds him while the night air moves softly through the flowers around them. Fenris finally speaks again, voice lower now. “You know Rhys was telling the truth.”
Eris’s expression flattens immediately. “Must we?”
“He wants an alliance.”
“He wants leverage.”
“Both can be true.”
Annoyingly reasonable.
Eris exhales through his nose. “I know. And he can have an alliance. But I do not want him thinking he can slither his way into my good graces once he figured out kindness might actually work.”
Fenris hums in agreement against his temple.
“Besides,” Eris continues, tone turning drier, “Lucien may become heir to Day. Rhys can suck up to him instead.”
Fenris snorts. “He is awful, isn’t he?”
Eris finally laughs softly at that. “You have no idea.”
Before he can respond further, footsteps sound faintly from the corridor behind them. Both of them tense automatically.
Then Thesan’s voice drifts gently through the archway. “Am I interrupting?”
Eris closes his eyes briefly.
“You vanished rather abruptly,” Thesan says mildly.
“I was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to escape everyone.”
“A feeling I know intimately.”
Eris rolls his eyes.
Thesan watches them both with quiet amusement, then shifts his attention back to Eris. “The meeting will continue without you for a few minutes more. Rhysand is… recovering his dignity.”
Eris snorts. “Poor thing.”
Fenris makes a soft sound of agreement.
Thesan continues, tone gentler now. “But I did come out here for a reason.”
Eris looks up slightly. Suspicious again. “If this is about etiquette—”
“It’s not.”
That alone makes Eris pause. Thesan steps a little closer to the railing, folding one arm loosely. “You created a problem in there.” Eris’s shoulders tighten instinctively.
Fenris shifts subtly beside him, but doesn’t interrupt.
Thesan holds up a hand before Eris can snap. “But, frankly, it had to happen. And I enjoyed Rhys falling on his ass just a little.”
Eris snorts despite himself.
“You pissed quite a few people off,” Thesan continues mildly. “But I think you endeared yourself to a fair few, as well.”
Fenris grins. “Yup, that’s Eris. Endearing.”
Eris shoots his lover a glare.
Fenris only looks more pleased with himself. Thesan exhales softly, gaze drifting briefly over the gardens below. “There will be consequences, of course. Some will take what happened as a warning. Others will take it as an invitation.”
Eris straightens slightly. “And you?”
Thesan grins. “I will sit back and watch the drama. Now come on, everyone's starting.”
Eris sighs, but pushes off the railing.
“Alright, then.”
He holds out his hand.
Fenris takes it.
Eris throws his crown at the couch. It lands haphazardly on green velvet.
He sprawls back onto the bed, still in formal regalia. “That was awful.”
Fenris chuckles. “It was not.”
Eris groans into the fabric. “I am going to give the High Title to Carmine. Then I will never have to sit through one of those again. They were so much easier when I was heir.”
“Because everyone was terrified of you before,” Fenris says lightly, leaning against the edge of the bed. “Take it as a compliment.”
Eris lifts his head just enough to glare at him. “That is not a compliment.”
“It kind of is.”
“It is not.”
Fenris sheds his jacket, then at Eris’ nod, pulls his off him too, and Eris pushes himself up from the bed and starts stripping out of the rest of the formal layers, movements slower now that the tension is gone from his shoulders. Fenris watches him for a moment, then turns away politely like he’s giving him space without being asked.
Eris appreciates that more than he says.
When he’s finally in something softer—loose fabric, unbound, no expectations stitched into the seams—he feels like he can think again.
Fenris pats the bed, and Eris comes without hesitation, letting him pull them both under the blankets. Warmth closes in around them immediately, soft and dim and quiet in a way the rest of the day hasn’t been.
Eris exhales, sinking into it despite himself.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Just the steady rhythm of breathing, the distant hush of the palace settling into night beyond the walls.
Then Eris sits upright suddenly as a thought physically hits him.
“My brothers.”
Fenrys doesn’t even flinch. “They’re back.”
Eris blinks. “They’re back?”
“They were talking to Lucien.”
Eris’s eyes shoot open, then flutter shut again like his body briefly considered abandoning him. “Oh,” Then, after a pause, quieter, “How bad.”
Fenris shifts slightly under the blankets, propping himself up on one elbow to look at him. “Not bad. All three of them looked… awkward.”
Oh. That’s good, Eris supposes.
Fenris makes a thoughtful sound. “I’ve never met him. Your littlest brother.”
That earns him a low groan from Eris as he slumps further back into the mattress, one arm dragging Fenris down with him in the process.
Fenris goes willingly, of course. He always does.
They settle under the blankets in a tangle of warmth and exhaustion, the world outside suddenly feeling very far away again.
“You’ll get on with him horribly well,” Eris mutters into the fabric.
Fenris hums. “What’s he like?”
Eris shuts his eyes. “Infuriating.” Then, after a pause, softer, “He is everything good that came out of this court.”
There’s a beat of silence after that—small, weighty.
Eris feels himself being turned gently, Fenris’s hand cupping his cheek with careful ease, guiding him without force.
He doesn’t resist.
“No,” Fenris says quietly. “That was you.”
The words land too soft. Too direct.
Eris stills, opening his eyes.
For a moment, he forgets to breathe properly.
“That’s not—” he starts automatically, then stops. “Oh.”
Fenris doesn’t push. Just hums softly, thumb brushing once along his cheekbone, steady and grounding.
Eris lets his eyes shut again. But after a moment, he shifts closer again, just slightly—closing the gap Fenris hadn’t even left. Fenris notices. He just smiles faintly into the dim light and doesn’t say a word about it.
Eris yawns, then settles further into the blankets, relaxing fully.
For once, there’s nothing he feels the need to fix. Nothing he has to calculate or control.
He trusts Fenris to keep him safe while he sleeps.
The thought comes unbidden, and Eris doesn’t argue with it. Doesn’t question it. Just lets it exist.
Eris falls into oblivion, his fingers curled loosely in Fenris’s shirt, his crown sitting haphazardly on the couch, and a faint, almost imperceptible smile resting on his lips.