#acotar crossover

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

An Invisible Thread | Illyrian Warrior!Bucky x Fae!Reader | Oneshot - 5k

After the war with Hybern your village is left defenceless. Despite only having picked up a sword to play with your brothers, you’re sent into the wilds of your island to track down the monster that has been stealing from the farms. 

But the monster is also on the move, and it won’t just be your limited skills as a hunter that are required to tame it or just your village that's pushing you to find it.

Warnings: the biggest warning here is Illyrian!Bucky, 18+ for language maybe, nothing scary here. Injuries, whump, hurt/comfort, some fluff, ACOTAR themes including fated mates/mating bonds. Rated W for whump and F for fluffy

Created for @buckybarnesevents Alternate Juniverse with all four prompts - fae, hunter, nurse and monster.

A/N: No ACOTAR knowledge required apart from Illyrian’s have big bat like wings and are hot as fuck. 

Dividers by @firefly-graphics and @reveriesources

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

You stood at the edge of the village, one hand on the pommel of your father’s sword and the other tucked into the fur lined pocket of your cape. 

After the war with Hybern the village’s protector’s had been depleted and, though you’d never shied away from practising with the bow and sword alongside your brothers, you had never imagined that you would become your communities only hope of protection. More suited to healing wounds than causing them, you shied away from the responsibility as much as you could. Spending your time replenishing your stocks of herbs and ointments and checking on the older residents of the village. 

Honestly, you hadn’t imagined there’d be any need for you to protect anyone. But then, isolated as you were on the Western Isles, you’d never thought that war could touch you either in your community of lesser fae. You’d never been bothered before, content to live quietly and ask for nothing. Yet here you were, back to the decimated houses and cottages of your villages, poised to leave them to hunt a monster. 

If the rumours were true, though, rumours of a beast running amok in the wild forest along the coast, then you had no choice. 

With a final look back at the squat white washed cottage where you’d left your mother, you set out towards your destiny. 

Across the island, by the shore, a towering figure bent to drink from the ice meltwater trickling into the sea beyond. 

Blood dripped from their open mouth and they howled as the salt water mixed with the fresh. They raised themselves again and slunk back into the shadows of the forest, following the waterline. 

—

As you trudged you recounted the tale the farmers had told at the inn the night before. A huge beast, black as night, had been spotted raiding their barn. The island was small enough that everyone knew each other, every sheep and cow and ploughed furrow was accounted for by name and the farmers shared the large barn that stood guard over the far end of the open fields. No stranger could have arrived without them knowing, no stranger could have tied their boat without the fishermen being alert. 

But this thing was no man, it was a beast, a fury, sent to torment them and the assembled village had turned to you. 

If it truly was a beast, something that could fly and steal cattle and destroy crops as the farmers claimed then you had no clue how you would slay such a thing. Your sword was heavy and sharp, but your skills were still basic no matter how you tried, this was not your calling. Your bow was taught and your arrows true, but practising with your brothers was a jest. 

After the weeks and months without them, perhaps it would be a blessing to sacrifice yourself for the village as they had. To be relieved of the torment of their passing. 

Sighing you pulled a hard biscuit from your pack and continued on into the dense trees that occupied one side of the island. You could remember far enough back to when the forest took over almost the whole island, your brothers and father clearing a space for the now well tilled farmland that insulated the village from the wildness beyond. The forest and the farm lived together side by side, each animal and plant having its own sacred place within the system. Each farmer conscious of keeping the wheel moving each season. 

No one had ever feared the forest as they did now. 

Your first night amid the trees past uneventfully, used to spending most of your time outside the creatures of the night didn’t scare you, neither did they fear you, choosing to approach your fireside. You weren’t entirely convinced of their being a beast within the forest either, no beast liked to cross the salt sea from the mainland, even if they could escape the Prison, there would be little for a monster here. You told yourself over and over, as sleep took you, that any monster would head to the middle, and not to the Isles. 

It seemed more likely that there was something trapped in the trees. Nevertheless you made sure to set traps around the clearing before finally laying down to sleep. 

There was a light in the forest, smoke pluming briefly before dying down into soft trails of grey that mixed with the iron sky, fading into the stars as the moon rose. Tempted by the smell it approached, its gait unsteady in the soft ground, weighed down by its own body, blood still spilling into the dry leaves. 

Closer, closer,  heaving its mighty body along the ridge of rocks that crawled across the middle of the island. It had been this way before, it had taken vegetables and savoured the earthy taste of them, raw and unwashed against its tongue. It had slipped into the barn and stolen a pail of fresh milk, still warm and buttery. 

Perhaps the smoke meant more food. But its body was tired, it groaned and slumped against a tree, wrapping into itself, a darkness thicker and colder than the world around. 

In the morning you kicked dirt over the small fire, putting out the flame. The forest was still yours to protect, even if it did harbour a threat. 

You’d sharpened your sword before sleeping, leaving it unsheathed by your side. Every arrow in your quiver had new fletching, the ash carefully crafted from the few small trees the village grew at its centre, a protection against any further cruelty coming to your shores. 

The forest was alive in the brisk early morning air, the sky pink and lilac through the canopy, rising with the mist like a slumbering dragon, stretching and yawning into a bright spring day. 

As you ventured deeper you found the ground already disturbed. When you were younger you may have doubted yourself, wondering if the tracks were your own. But you could navigate well enough now, the sun high above you leaning into the west of the island, its heat peaking. 

Whatever it was that had stumbled through here had done so some days ago, dragging itself if the scars in the soft soil were true. It was larger than you as well, larger by at least a foot. You trained your eyes up into the trees and sure enough there were broken branches there too. 

At a trot you ran between the trees, following the path of broken twigs and scored earth. There was something else, something in the air by each tree, metallic, like iron. Blood, you could almost taste it it was so strong. But it wasn’t until the seventh tree that you saw it, marked high on the bark, as if this tall beast had propped themself against it, a red smear. And underneath there were a few bones, feathers and leftover vegetables.

If this was a beast, it was a beast that didn’t like carrot tops.

It grew tired again. Sooner than last time. It looked into the sky, its eyesight blurring, as it made its way back to the cave it had begun to call home. Inside its howls were louder, but at least the rain couldn’t find a way in, at least the air was warm and the ground soft. 

It lay down and closed its eyes. 

The sky turned darker, thick clouds billowing overhead, the muggy heat of an oncoming storm weighing you down. It was too far to return to your village, you’d never make it before the rain started and you knew what could happen if the lightning struck the trees, so a camp in the forest was out of the question. 

At this rate you could make the other coast before the sunset and you knew there would be shelter there in the rocky outcrops before the dunes crept into the island. With a sigh you hefted your pack higher and began the uneasy walk through the rougher terrain. 

The rain began to fall just as you crested over the cliff top. A fisherman had advised you of the safest ways across this portion of the island but your feet still slipped on the shale as you made your way down the rocky face. You’d spotted the cave while the sun was still high. With a view down the banks of rock and sand it gave you a good look out, close enough to the woods for shelter but open enough to watch the weather change. On closer inspection there was a significant plateau in front of the cave, perhaps enough to start a small fire to heat the stone inside and cook something hot if you were lucky. 

Slowly you inched closer, sword drawn in case something wild was also sleeping inside. You hadn’t seen the blood trail for some time but you had a lingering sense of something that had you tightening your grip on the handle. It tugged at you, tempting you closer and making your heart beat wildly. 

Once inside the lip of the cave you dropped your pack and pulled out a box of tinder and some twigs you’d collected along the way, stacking up the kindling into a small fire. But without the light from the sun it was hard to even find a spark. With a sigh you abandoned your plans for heat and decided to set out your blanket and try to sleep instead, hopefully that strange feeling would pass while you dreamt and you could wake up refreshed and ready to search anew. 

The raindrops were heavier now, fat and cold and insistent, driving you deeper into the cave in search of a dry space where the wind couldn’t blow the weather inside.

As your eyes adjusted to the dusky darkness you began to pick out details of the cave, the jagged rocks on the other side, the low rock just right for resting your sword and bow on and, at the back, something large. The darkness seemed to move differently there, a different shade of black that sucked the light from the rest of the cave. Whatever it was, it was huge but still. 

Slowly you reached for your dagger, too frightened to lunge for your sword in case it made the darkness move too. But it stayed still. Carefully, you moved your feet over the rocky ground, your toes light and body ready to fight. 

The darkness didn’t move, but it did make a noise, a deep grumble and for a moment you wondered whether it was the darkness inside or the darkness outside that had startled you. 

Then it moved, slow and deliberate, the darkness expanded and flared outwards, turning towards you and despite everything your brother’s had taught you, despite your own mind begging you to stay silent - you screamed. 

It hurt, it hurt everywhere and all of the time. Its body ached, its stomach felt concave from lack of food and its head pounded from dehydration. The storm was close, the wind spoke to it through the rustle of the trees and the feel of the salt air, it spoke to it and told it to sleep, that the storm would pass but it should sleep. It shifted, stretching its aching body -

And then there was a scream. 

You lurched back, scrambling for your sword as you fell, grasping for anything that would protect you from the monster that continued to grow before your eyes. Up and up it stood filling the entire back of the cave, its body unfurling and its wings spreading into the rock above. The tip of one unholy claw scratched at the cave roof and you screamed again, turning to run from it, to take your chances in the rain rather than stay a moment with this beast. But it had other ideas, reaching for you with one huge arm it grabbed you and held you, the other came up to cover your mouth, its hand so large its thumb pressed against your nose. 

Not a monster. A male. With hands and arms, tanned and windburnt from days in the forest. 

“Please, stop screaming.” It growled again and you went silent but you didn’t still, wriggling and writhing in an attempt to free yourself. “Please,” it said again, and it was almost sad, pleading. So you stopped. 

He held you tight against his chest, his heart hammering, his muscles burning with the effort of his movement. Steadily he lowered you to the floor, careful to avoid the rocks that might trip or scratch you, and then let himself slide down the cave wall until he was once more huddled on the floor. 

“Please, don’t scream - my head.” He bent to lay his forehead against his knees, “the storm, lightning in the trees, don’t.”

He was so weak, so worried, so tired, he allowed his eyes to close, focusing on the sound of you moving. 

“Don’t.” He repeated and your footsteps moved again, closer, little rocks skudding under your boots, and then a small palm on the back of his neck. 

“You have a fever.” Your voice was gentle, now that the screaming had stopped, and your touch a relief, so cold, so soothing. “Rest.” 

Now that he wasn’t towering over you, there was something vulnerable and sad about the so-called monster. His voice stuttered as he begged you for quiet and, against your better judgement, you allowed the sound of rain rushing over the lip of the rock and into the sea to fill the space, echoing into the cavern like a heartbeat. 

Lightning flashed, lighting up half of his face in clammy, pale light. You took a step towards him, still wary, still conscious of the stories told to you by your brothers, and you touched his neck where his hair had fallen away in long strands about his face. His skin was clammy too and cold to the touch, but he shivered nevertheless. 

“You have a fever.” You said, matter of fact, “rest.” 

He nodded and all but fell sideways into the blanket roll tucked against one side of the cave. 

“You too.” He grunted, and for the first time you assessed your own damp clothes and the way you’d begun to shiver. Quickly you stripped out of your waxed cape and boots, placing them carefully in a dry spot. Your shirt and vest were dry, protected by the cape, but the long trousers you’d worn were soaked through. 

Peering at the male you made sure his breathing was steady and even before you removed your trousers and slipped between your folded blanket in just your shirt and cotton bloomers.

Sleep did not come easily for the male. He kept to his side of the cave but his fever made him grunt and shout in his sleep, his arms and hands lashing out along with his thrashing body. So you didn’t sleep, you observed him instead. Waiting for dawn to break the storm. 

Even in the moonlight he was still big, tall and broad, his muscles showing even through the dark leather and ripped linen of his clothes. And he was winged. The source of the fear and confusion for your neighbours, as well as yourself. Airborne he must have looked as majestic as he was terrifying. An Illyrian warrior, so far from home, circling the village. No wonder those who had glimpsed him had been afraid. 

Now those enormous wings were tucked around him, glowing a deep red every time the lightning crashed across the sky, tiny veins picked out around the edges as well as a large gash in his left wing. It lay almost limp on the ground while the right was tucked in tight to his side. It looked painful and blood oozed slowly from the delicate membrane but only slowly. The cut to his side looked much worse. 

The sun was almost back now, a wan light filtering into the cave and allowing you to survey the Illyrian more closely, especially the cuts and bruises that littered his body. 

At some point, he had removed part of his leather armour, discarding it to one side where the dark blue siphon blinked with light whenever he groaned. Without the protection of the armour and siphon, his side was entirely revealed through the matching cut in his shirt. It was deep and already looked swollen at the edges - infected, you were sure, probably the cause of the clammy fever. 

Despite yourself you allowed your tired eyes to rove over his body, the gaps in his shirt revealing the details of his toned chest, the swirling black ink running from his left arm, up over his shoulders and then down between his pecs and towards the v of his abdomen where the ink disappeared among a smattering of hair. 

Heat flooded your cheeks. He was an injured male, an Illyrian warrior, a revered race bound to protect your people. You were certainly not supposed to be drooling after him while he slept. 

You swallowed heavily and tried to concentrate on his needs, rather than your own. 

Daring to look again you followed the tattoos back up towards his face, long dark hair still tangled at his shoulders, a stubbled beard covered his chin, his lips tilting into a smile because - oh -  his eyes were open, bright summer sky blue, and tracking your every move. 

“Hello,” he croaked and watched as you shuffled back against the wall. 

He closed his eyes again, as if even having them open was painful. 

“Hello,” you whispered, keeping a keen eye trained on him. 

“I’m Bucky,” he said, his head still pounded. “Can you pass me the canteen from my pack?” Without looking he gestured behind him. 

“Yes.” 

He listened to the sound of you moving and then the cool metal of the canteen touched his fingers. You introduced yourself but as soon as he started to move you hurried back to your side of the cave.

Slowly, so as not to frighten you, he sat up and took a long swig before offering it to you. 

You looked tired, wrecked, but not injured. You were back under your own blanket and he noticed the too-big trousers you’d been wearing were now carefully arranged on a rock to dry. Bucky hummed to himself, that was why you’d scurried back when he’d opened his eyes. 

Your eyes flicked to the trousers too, and then back to him. “They were wet, I didn’t want to catch a chill.”

“Sensible,” he agreed, putting a hand to his side. 

“You’re hurt, and sick, you were feverish.” 

“I was, I probably still am.” He agreed looking you over with the same interest that he’d found in your eyes. 

You were a very pleasant sight after so many nights alone, a wildness to your bonny face and full body. Even hidden under the folds of your shirt he could tell that you would be soft and warm to hold. With a groan he closed his eyes again. To be held and cared for by a female, to smell the spring breeze in your hair, to taste the salt of the sea on your skin. Maybe he was halfway to the afterlife and an angel had been sent to rescue him. 

“Thank the cauldron and the mother.” He sighed happily, swaying sideways and passing out. 

The Illyrian had watched you with eyes that toed the line between hungry and hopeful. His bold gaze made you feel warm again, heat sitting heavy in your stomach, and then he mumbled something and slid to the side. 

Thankfully his arm stopped him from bumping his head, but looking at his now glazed eyes he had definitely fainted. 

Without thinking you sprang into action, rolling him carefully so that if he was sick he wouldn’t choke or swallow his tongue. His skin was cold again, but sweaty, sticking the strands of his hair to his forehead in curls. 

He needed help, quickly, but you had nothing of any great use in your bag. There was the canteen of water and some food in his own pack and a flask with what smelt like whisky in the side pocket. You withdrew the mess tin from your own pack and tried to make a fire again, hoping to boil enough clean water to be able to clean and dress his wounds. But the damp air and howling wind blew wet dirt over your kindling. 

Instead you tugged a strip of linen from the end of your shirt, trying to find the cleanest corner first and ripping higher until the long tails no longer brushed over your thighs but sat as high has your belly button, revealing your midriff to the chill air. Goosebumps raised over your arms, but you didn’t hesitate, tipping some of the whisky onto the cloth and gently dabbing at the gash to his side. There were splinters still protruding from the edges, which you pulled out as quickly as you could. 

Ash, an arrow, perhaps, or a long lance fired into the sky, judging by the way the gash lined up with the tear in Bucky’s wing. Bruises bloomed under his tattoos like flowers, colouring in the gaps of the patterns. He’d fallen, then, after the hit. Probably outside of the village. 

“Why didn’t you ask for help.” You muttered under your breath, placing a square of whisky soaked cloth over the wound and pressing down. 

“Because I was already ashamed.” Came the pained whisper. 

“Why would you be ashamed?” With a tug on his arm you helped him sit, passing a long length of cloth around his back, bandaging the makeshift plaster into place. 

With your arms around him you had no choice but to lean in close, your face below his, his breath fanning over your cheek. He held one end in place, leaning drowsily into you while you tied a tight knot on his right, well away from the injury. His left hand, clearly weakened by his fall, sat lightly on your hip, keeping you steady. 

“I let my battalion down, my friends down,I couldn’t fight.” His eyes closed again but his hands didn’t move, their hold surprisingly delicate until he began to slump to the side again, dragging you with him. “I was injured and, I’m not really sure why, but I flew here. It felt like the right thing to do, like the Mother was guiding me, so I let her.”

With a huff you tried to wiggle away, but his hand tightened. 

“I’m so cold, please stay.” His breath tickled your neck where he’d pressed his face into your collar bone and you couldn’t deny him. The tugging sensation in your chest was back and the thought of staying with him made you want to release it in a long contented purr.

Curling beside him you let his hand settle on your now bare waist, his broad palm on your back a relief from the cold air gusting through the entrance of the cave. 

Bucky’s breathing slowed to an even beat, his body relaxing into his dreams and you fell with him, pulled tighter against his chest, the smell of the whisky washed over you and his wing curled in, cocooning you in his embrace. 

You woke to find yourself surprisingly well rested. The storm, having blown itself out battering the beach and forest, had made way for a bright morning. Bucky’s hand was still at your waist, but you’d moved in your sleep you were now facing away from him, his fingers sneaking under the hem of your shirt and tickling your ribs. From his steady breaths you assumed he was still asleep and allowed yourself a moment to enjoy the closeness of his body, the way his wing curved over you both, filtering the light into a pink glow and blocking the boisterous breeze now coming in off the sea. 

There was something right about the way he held you, comforting and close. Despite knowing you should rise, you simply couldn’t, as if that invisible rope that had led you in now kept you beside him. In his sleep he dragged you closer, his hand splaying higher on your stomach, his thumb pressing the underside of your breast. In response, your nipples pebbled and you promised yourself it was just the cold air, just the breeze and the morning chill and nothing to do with the wonderful pressure of the male’s body behind you. Nothing to do with his rich scent of whisky and peat and possibility. 

He hummed in his sleep again, nuzzling the back of your neck and then, suddenly, he was awake. His hand was gone and your chest felt cold without his touch. The sound of his wing claws catching on the jagged roof had you whipping your head around and staring into his eyes. 

“I’d say I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but that was the best sleep I’ve had in a long while.” A flirtatious smile played at the corner of his lips and you returned it. 

“Pretty warm under the wings,” you agreed, looking at the expanse of tense skin and complex structure that curled over you both, now flared out along the walls of the cave, and then, as quickly as the butterflies had taken flight in your stomach, they fell like lead weights.“Your wing, it’s not healing.” 

You reached out and ran a finger close to the gash. Bucky sucked in air and bit his bottom lip, his top lip curling over his teeth and eyes crinkling in pain. 

“Please - don’t touch me there.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No - yes - it’s - just don’t touch me there.” Bucky grit his teeth and shuffled uncomfortably, placing a large hand over his lap and using the other to guide your hand away gently. 

“I could try and heal it - if you let me touch. Like I did with your side.” 

Bucky looked down at the bandage around his middle as if it was a surprise, perhaps he really didn’t remember. Leaving his wing, you reached out and touched his forehead instead. He felt a little cold, you both did, but not clammy. The fever had broken. 

“Can I check your bandage?” 

He nodded, sitting up and pulling his ragged shirt up with one hand. Slowly you untied the knot and removed the linen, it was clean on the top layers at least and the bottom ones showed the blood slowing. His healing had kicked in, once the ash had been removed, and the previously angry and infected gash was now a pink cut, knitting together slowly. 

“It looks a lot better.” 

You sat back on your heels, unable to look away from the cut in his wing. It too had started healing, but it would be a while before it was closed. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said, sincerely. “I’ve been out here a while and - I should have sought help sooner.” 

“I’m sure it’s not easy, last night you said you didn’t want to let your battalion down.” 

Bucky flushed, his nose and cheeks going rosy and you watched as the colour disappeared down his neck and under his collar. 

“I understand, it’s hard to be brave sometimes, you want people to trust you and know that you’re doing your best.” 

He hummed in agreement again, “and is that why you’re out here?” He raised an eyebrow, lounging back against the cave wall. The movement made his stomach tighten and you watched the muscles flex under his shirt, trying to recall a time when you’d seen any other male like this, when anyone at all had made you feel so hot all over. 

“I was sent to hunt a monster.” 

“A monster?” 

“It’s been stealing vegetables and eggs, a pail of milk as well. Scaring the farmers.” You looked out towards the brightening sky and then back towards him with a grin. “He’s not so scary though.” 

Bucky returned your smile, his eyes softening as he reached out to guide your gaze back to his own, “I’m glad I didn’t scare you too much.” 

“Only a little.” You laughed. 

Despite the gash in Bucky’s side healing over the next few days, he still remained in the cave during the few warm hours the afternoon afforded. His wings lay heavily behind him, the muscles weak and aching from his time spent dragging them around the woods and his injured wing searing with pain when he tried to extend it. 

With some help he made it to the cave entrance and watched as you picked your way around the storm swept beach in the distance. You’d been kind and gentle, despite your initial fear, despite the clumsy way he’d tried to get closer to you. And his heart swelled, hoping he could hold you in his arms again when the sun got low. 

Each night he'd asked you to stay next to him, and each night you'd agreed. But he was no fool, you pitied him and that would only last for so long until you refused. So he treasured every moment like a precious gift. 

It’d been a long time since a female had looked his way, weeks spent dragging himself around the woodland, months spent fighting Hybern on their borders, years spent training in isolation at Windhaven. All to miss this, the feel of the salt wind in his hair and the sun on his healing wings, to miss the feel of a gentle, feminine touch and the way his body responded, singing with happiness at the warmth of your body and scent of your hair. He ached to have you near again, just to know you were safe and cared for. Something in his chest pulled, as if his heart had truly skipped a beat and he closed his eyes against the delicious pain only to open them and see you again, your eyes locked on his, the driftwood you’d collected scattered around your feet, shock on your features. 

In a heartbeat you were climbing back towards him, running over the sand and up the dunes, scaling the rocky cliff face with strong, knowing leaps, and then you were in his arms, knocking him backwards with the strength of your embrace. 

“Bucky?” His name was half question and half exaltation on your lips and that feeling tugged at him again until his arms closed around your back, a hand on the nape of your neck drawing you closer. 

“Kiss me-” it was neither question nor demand, simply a statement of what you both so clearly needed. 

His lips were chapped when they brushed against yours, but warm nevertheless, he tasted of the sweet berries you’d found this morning on the edge of the woods and this close, your nose brushing against his, he smelt divine, perfect, the whisky on the bandages and the deep, musky, scent that was all his own. 

His uninjured wing curled around your back, folding you in a bubble of warmth where there was only you and Bucky and whatever this new thing was between you. You felt that tug again, the same deep feeling that you’d felt so often, and you pulled back enough to rest your forehead against his own. Bucky didn’t let you remove yourself too far, nudging your nose with his and pressing featherlight kisses to your cheek and jaw. 

“Bucky -” you sighed again and this time he answered, as sure and confident as the strong arms that tugged you against his body. 

“Yes, my mate?” 

[thevalkyriesshadow]

✨ just imagine ✨

Az and Gwyn finding themselves in Lunathion

They ended up there because they were experimenting with an interdimensional travel theory they found in the Library (probably something along the lines of holding gwydion and TT crossed and touching the onyx monolith on ramiel or something along those lines)

They tumble out of one of the gates (maybe the heart gate or rose gate) right at the feet of Bryce and Hunt ("Well how the tables have turned" Bryce teases)

Imagine Az and Gwyn figuring out how to work a phone. Az would read the manual while Gwyn pushes random buttons.

Gwyn taking endless pictures of Az and playing with the settings. Az in turn grabbing sneaky photos whenever Gwyn wasn't looking. It becomes a game of who can get the most sneaky photos of the other in a day.

Her favorite subjects are his shadows and hands. His are her freckles and eyes.

Az blushes every time Gwyn whips out her phone and starts snapping pictures, but he's a willing participant nonetheless.

Az and Gwyn spending hours just listening to all types of music. Once they start learning lyrics and replaying their favorites, Gwyn puts on a mini concert, singing and dancing on the bed above Az. (He films every single performance.)

They frequent the clubs just to dance and vibe. The first time they went Gwyn couldn't sit still and pulled a grumbling Az out onto the dance floor. Gwyn is unhinged at the club and let's herself get lost in the music. Az watches on lovingly and growls at any male who tries to approach her and pull her from her trance.

They play video games and are extremely competitive with each other. To the point where Bryce and Hunt wonder if they need to separate them because it gets so violent

Like Gwyn throws pillows, while Az pelts her with whatever snack they have out and both throw empty threats at each other ("I'm going to throw TT in the river""you wouldn't dare""wanna bet?"..."remember that glass pegasus figurine in that shop you wanted for solstice?""azriel dont you dare - its the only gift i want!""then stop blowing me up!!!"*blows him up**az is shocked*"id rather buy my own glass pegasus figurine than let you win"*gwyn wins for the third time in a row*)

Az would be like a mother fretting over their child whenever Gwyn would hop onto her electric scooter, making sure her helmet was secure and that her brakes worked.

They love watching movies and TV shows together. Both of them are usually pretty good at guessing the plots or who did it in a murder mystery.

They excel at trivia game shows.

Gwyn's whole world is changed when she discovers vibrators.

And then Azriel discovers it, by chance ("What is this?" "Oh gods..." "And why does it vibrate?" "Az -" "...wait..."*realization hits him...he sets it gently down on the bedside table**walks away blushing**gwyn dies of embarrassment*)

But then both of their worlds are shook when he watches her use it on herself (consensually - no peeping tom foolery, unless Gwyn asks for that down the line 😉), or she asks him to use it on her 🤤

[viktoriaashleyyx]

Acotar sequel>>Witcher prequel WIP

The Conjunction of the Spheres occurs shortly after the events of ACOWAR and reintroduces the Ash tree to the realm. Humans from Prythia know what this can do and utilize it to rise up and finally take their power back from the Fae who have treated them like second class for centuries. A few fae survive and have to figure out how to integrate into this new society without losing their heads.

Tamlin & Briars descendants:

Elucien Decendant:

Feysand>> Nyx Decendant

Neris decendant:

Don't believe me? Here's his mom

I feel like @foxcort and @matrixsss would agree with me.

(((Also, canonically, the events of the witcher take place 1500 years after the Conjunction so Geralt and Yen aren't anywhere near cousins anymore.)))

[pinklayla123]

Talking to @slowpress in the comments of my recent post made me think about the parallels between the Illyrians and the Malakim, and how in both cases the rebellion of a smaller portion of the warriors created by the Asteri led to their eventual downfall in both worlds.

In acotar Enalius rebels against the Daglan and holds the pass at Ramiel, refusing to let them pass, presumably to other worlds, maybe even their home world. This eventually led to them becoming too comfortable and overconfident, and being outsmarted and vanquished.

In CC Shahar and Hunt stage a rebellion that is tamped down, and as punishment Hunt is enslaved for centuries, which allows him to meet Bryce and then work with her to fully defeat the Asteri from their world. In both cases, it was the Asteri's creation that eventually rebelled against them.

Another thing to note, Hunt started the rebellion with Shahar, but finished it two centuries later. Enalius and Theia may have dealt with the Daglan and essentially removed them from their world, but scars from their presence remain, like the lack of life in what used to be the Dusk Court and now serves as a Prison.

Will Azriel, an Illyrian armed with Enalius's knife Truth-Teller, be the one to fully vanquish the corruption of the Daglan? Could it be Elain, the gentle flower-grower, the lovely, trembling fawn, the one who responds to destruction by declaring the world needs more gardens, whose scent is like a promise of spring, who wielded Truth-Teller with no hesitation to do what needed to be done, be the one who brings Life back to the places marked with the Daglan's corruption? Or will it take a combination of both their powers to right this ancient wrong?

[autumnshighlady]

first chapter of my Rhysand’s sister fic will be up in a few hours! get your notifs ready, acotar and silmarillion fans❤️

[a-library-ghost]

thinking sjm crossover thoughts again during my tog reread

obsidian feels important?? feeling crazed conspiracy board vibes.

[starlightazriel]

gotta bring this back around once in a while

Vanserras Girl

au, millers girl/acotar crossover (lucien)

a/n: just me messing around hehe don't judge me cus im blushing i maybe got a lil carried away

warnings: 18+ filthy smut (washing my sins away), dom lucien lowkey lol, squirting, cherry popping, unprotected sex, student/teacher, big age gap (18&40), time jumps, infidelity (affair), home wrecking, no happy ending,

masterlist

"Mr. Vanserra," he whirled at the voice, class didn't start for an hour. He raised his eyebrows, his eyes narrowing at the young woman standing before him, her books and binders across her chest. His eyes couldn't help but flick down to her pouty lips. And she, she was looking at him, a hint of a smile behind her eyes.

"Class doesn't start for another hour," he clears his throat, his eye narrowing toward her, her lips parted slightly as she took in the sight of the older man, something thrummed deep within her, his eye, one of them was fake, it was a solid golden color and the other eye was the most beautiful and unique russet color she had ever seen. His hair was fiery, a few grey hairs spread throughout but mostly just a fiery red. He was one of the most unique, (dare she say, for the age gap and the wedding band on his finger,) most handsome rugged men she had ever seen. And his hands, those large hands, long fingers that she knew he once used to write epic tales of lust and sex. Her throat bobs as she composes herself.

"I know," she says coolly, noting the way that he seemed to have to force his eyes to her face, he just stared seeming a little stunned. "Ive heard about your lectures," she says, her tone almost bored sounding, she dropped her stuff onto the desk that was front and center, "and I've read your work," she leaves her stuff walking up to the desk until it was the only thing still separating them. He knew full well how absolutely smutty the books he had written were, heat seemed to shoot through him at the thought of this young girl laying in her bed, feet kicked up, cheeks flushed as she read the absolute filth he had produced in his early days of writing. A tinge of shame hit the pit of his stomach as he remembered this young woman was young enough to be his daughter. He didn't like this, he didn't like the way that the air seemed to be hot and thick between them, he didn't like that she seemed to have control over the situation. "I wanted to introduce myself, your star student of the semester, Cairo Sweet," she extends her hand out for a shake, his eyebrow was still quirked, he forced away a laugh at the sheer poetry of even her name. Cairo Sweet.

He extends his hand, noting the way her lips part slightly when their hands touched, his wedding band seemed to burn on his finger. "You've read my work?" he asks as he pulls his hand from hers a hint of doubt in his words, brows slightly risen.

"Red is my favorite, the rawness of it, the passion, the complete disregard for literary rules, I mean, its art," she says as if it was obvious, her eyes bore into him, her gaze intense, it seemed to stir something in him, something he hadn't felt for a long time. Red was the most filthy book he had written, dedicated to his wife Beatrice, about the passions they once had shared together, before they grew old and work got in the way. Lucien clears his throat, seeming to snap out of the daze.

"Flattery will not earn you an A in this class Miss Sweet," he says, matching her cool tone from earlier, she only smirks and shrugs, turning on her heel, he couldn't help but watch after her. "Come on Cairo," Winnie drawls from the door way, he knew her from last year, "lets go before they run outta chicken biscuits," she giggles softly, seeing her stuff by the entrance of the class room. Lucien nods to Winnie as a form of greeting she beams back at him before linking her arm with Cairos, who looks over her shoulder one last time, "See you later, Mr. Vanserra," she uses that same cool tone from earlier as Winnie drags her away, she eventually peels her eyes away.

When they are gone, the red book binding catches his eye, its buried in with her other things and a small smirk spreads across his lips as he advances toward her things. He hesitantly pulls the book out, his fingers gently stroking the binding, sure enough Red was printed over the front of the hard cover in gold lettering L. Vanserra, in smaller lettering at the bottom. He opened the book, noting that it was a library copy, and there was one name written on the borrow card, three times, Cairo Sweet. For my beloved Beatrice was printed on the first page, how in love they once had been, he shakes his head. "Fan girling over yourself again? Pining for those days as a young writer, when you did nothing but wet your willy and sit at a computer?" Luciens eyes lift to see Tamlin there, leaning against a desk, his coach clipboard tucked under an arm, two coffees in hand, one he handed to Lucien who had snapped the book shut now to take his coffee.

"This is a students, she took it out from the library," he shook his head in awe before tucking the book exactly where he had found it.

"Look at you Mr. V, maybe you still got a chance to go big,"

-

"Winnie, he's married," Cairo huffs out softly, taking the swig out of the bottle of wine they had stole from Winnies parent's wine cabinet. "My favorite book, is dedicated to his wife," they were in Winnies room, Cairo was on the floor, leaned up against the bed, her head rest against it and Winnie was laying across the bed, her head hanging down slightly near Cairos, long hair cascading down to the floor.

"We both see the way he looks at you Cairo," she giggles softly and rolls onto her stomach, reaching down for the bottle. "Mrs. Vanserra has to be tired, and old, and boring now, if she wasn't, he wouldn't look at you like he wanted to eat you up," Winnie curled a piece of Cairos hair around her finger, Cairo swatted her away.

"Its insane Winnie, its just a pointless crush, its going nowhere," it was true, it was a pointless crush, he was more than double her age, married, an accomplished writer (at least in her eyes), a teacher... She didn't think he could be any more out of reach for her. It didnt stop her from fantasizing about him though, it didnt stop her from reading his books late at night, rubbing and fingering her soaking wet virgin pussy as she imagined what it would feel like to have his hands on her, his mouth, his cock that he described in detail in the book that was dedicated to his wife. She would dry hump the couch cushion, placing the corner so it rubbed deliciously on her clit, and she would scream out into the empty manor her parents had left her in while they traveled across the country. Last night she had done this, it was becoming one of her favorite afterschool activities, her eyes would squeeze shut, she would twist and pull at her nipples, imagining how Mr. Vanserra would do it. Heat pooled between her legs at the thought, her cheeks burned.

"I don't know about you, Cairo, but when I lose my virginity..." Winnie trailed off, looking at Cairo now, biting her lip softly. "I want a man, not these baby-dick boys we are surrounded by, someone who can actually make me cum, someone like coach Tam," she says and giggles softly, Cairo blushes again, shaking her head. "Again, Ive seen the way Mr. V looks at you, he wants you and all those big brains in there, put in a little effort and I bet you can get him to Lovell hill, seduce him," she smirks and sits up on her bed, Cairo looks up at her and shakes her head.

"You're crazy Winnie," she laughs but her words were sticking. She couldn't stop thinking about Mr. Vanserra what it would feel like for him to take her. She couldn't do that could she? Have sex with a married man? Someone who was a teacher at that... It wasn't like her parents were around to give a fuck. It was also clear that Mr. Vanserra had taken a special interest in her, he would give her books on the side to read, granted they were nothing like the smut filled novels that he had written in his prime. One of them had been a romance, she had over thought that for days, and read it twice.

-

"Mr. Vanserra," she entered the class room at the end of the day, her brows drawing together slightly in confusion. He was rushing, packing all his things quickly. "I finished my midterm assignment," she says softly, seductively, Winnie had taught her that.

Lucien stops, turning to look at her, he swallows hard. The way she was dressed... His eye involuntarily roamed over her, it was Friday, and he wondered if she had plans. If she was dressed like that for a reason. Her black skirt was short, tight, complimented with a white tank top, nipples peaked and on display for anyone to see, her gorgeous black waves framing around her face in every direction. He cleared his throat, willing all of the blood not to rush between his legs and swell up his cock. "Cairo," he says softly, and her lips twitch, she's clutching a paper in her hand, his eye drifts to it and then back up at hers. "Thanks for dropping it by, you could have emailed it," he takes the paper, not even giving it a once over, he was in too much of a rush for that.

"Well, it's a little..." She trailed off, trying to catch his stare again. "Sensitive," she says slowly, he swallowed hard, his gaze flicking back up to hers, he wondered how sensitive she was.

"I-Cairo I've got to go," his throat felt dry, he noticed her face fall. "Sorry, I'm going out of town with my wife this weekend. It's a last minute thing, I'll get back to you as soon as I can," he lifts the paper up in his hand as if to gesture to it, "Have a good weekend Ms. Sweet," he nods, she folded her arms over her chest, looking disappointed. He didn't have time for it, this was the first trip that Beatrice and him were going on in years.

"Yup, you too," she muttered before she exiting the classroom, he noted her cheeks burning bright red, he watched after her for a second before shaking it off.

When Lucien arrived back at home, he expected Beatrice to be packed and ready to catch their flight. Instead he was greeted with a cigarette smoke filled room, Beatrice hammering away on her lap top as usual, not dressed, not packed... Hair pinned up and she was wearing her bathrobe as usual. She was on the phone, on a work call, as usual... He wasn't even able to ask or get a hello out before she was explaining.

"Sorry Lu, she can't do anything without me," she sips from her glass, of amber liquid. Fucking, useless, alcoholic bi- He stopped himself, cutting his own thoughts off.

"Really Bets?" He swallows hard, his hand tightening around the handle of his bag, his eyes narrowing at his wife. She looks up for only a split second.

"Gonna have to wait," she says, her eyes trained on the computer screen. He should have known. He should have expected this. His love for Beatrice had once been enough to write a novel about it. The two of them could barely even get along for a week now. He loved her, of course he did, she was his wife, but there was no passion left. They rarely had sex anymore, she hadn't sucked him off in over a year, they didn't go on dates, or have dinner together... Shit, they rarely spoke to each other.

"What else is new, really? You can forget it," his shoulders slumping as he takes a seat in the chair across from his wife and opening his own laptop up. He was seething, his ears feeling hot, jaw flexing. She stared back at him for a second before looking back to her own work, trying to focus on it.

"Well I can't work like this Lu," Beatrice stared across the long table at him, her eyes narrowing.

"Alright then," he rises to his feet quickly, collecting all of his things and tucking them under his arm. "Work alone then," her mouth fell open in surprise as she watched her husband leave, the door slamming behind him. Lucien settled into his desk in his private little work room shed outside, now... With the entire weekend... He figured he may as well look over Cairos midterm paper.

Lucien's mouth went dry at the header at the top of the paper.

'For Mr. L. Vanserra, Love Cairo Sweet'

His mouth popped open slightly, his heart beating faster as he continued down the page.

'Charlie watched him every day.

Mr. Leo Valentine. English teacher, accomplished author, sexiest man she had ever seen.

She watched the way he held a half broken chalk stick in his long tan fingers. Watched the way the muscles rippled underneath his thin white button ups. Watched the way his lips would curl into half a smirk when he would call on her in class and she would say something so smart it surprised him. Watched the way he looked at her, the way he would drink her in, his eyes swimming with lust and desire. Watched him want her just as much as she wanted him. Watched the way that his cock twitched against the fabric of his pants and he would shift nervously, trying to adjust himself without her noticing when they were alone in his classroom after school.'

Lucien coughed, nearly spitting out his coffee, his cheeks heated, his cock thrummed in his pants, he pictured her. He pictured Cairo. He swallowed hard, nerves settling at the realization that this was about them.

'Charlie needed him. She was sick of sitting back and watching him. Sick of the ache between her legs, the need for him that soaked through her panties every day. Sick of running home after school every day to finger fuck herself into oblivion on the sofa in her living room. Sick of not knowing what it felt like to have a man fuck her virgin cunt. She knew Mr. Valentine was the type of man to suck a woman's soul right out of her pussy, and she wanted him to know she wasn't just some little girl, that she was a woman who needed her soul sucked and her cherry popped.'

Lucien shivered, his fingers shook lightly as he reached down and unzipped his pants, pulling his cock free, it slapped his clothed stomach, his thick long length reaching his belly button. He grunted quietly, wrapping his large hand around his thick throbbing cock.

'When the end of the school day came, she knew everyone would rush out the doors after a long week of torturous bore, it was Friday. So naturally, everyone wanted to go home, teachers included. She knew she had her chance, and she wore a dress that day. A little white dress, no panties, and as she walked to his classroom, she felt the juices of her virgin cunt running down and tickling the insides of her thighs, hot and wet. Charlie needed him.'

A bead of sweat formed on Lucien's brow, he pictured her, pictured Cairo. Her small frame, little perky tits, imagined what the color of her nipples would be, imagined her soaking wet, sitting there across from him in class at her desk that was so conveniently in front of his. His breathing was heavy, fingers shaking as he pumped them around his thick cock, leaking with precum, he wanted to fuck her so bad. He wanted her pussy in front of him immediately, he couldn't remember the last time he lusted for someone like this.

'She entered the classroom with ease, she wasnt nervous anymore, the need to feel him against her outweighed any rational thoughts or reservations she may have about what was about to happen. Mr. Valentine looked up, he lifted his eyes to meet hers, his lips parted, he needed her just as bad. She knew it, she could see it, she could feel it between them. That thick band of tension like a string between them connected to their most intimate parts. He stood straighter, his shoulders broadening as he looked down at her, watching her closely as she sat upon her desk and spread her legs wide open, revealing her dripping wet virgin cunt ready for him to claim-"

Lucien gasped, the paper crinkling slightly in his hand, the other furiously nursing his cock, his thick cum spilling over his hand and shirt.

He sat there for a moment, letting the shame of what he had just done set in for a moment, he couldn't stomach reading another line of her supposed midterm? He almost scoffed aloud. It was pure pornography. He rose to his feet, his shame suddenly turning to anger. He quickly cleaned himself, before folding the papers up and shoving them in his pocket. Determined, more than ever now to put an end to this girls fantasy once and for all. He bent over, still standing and logged into the school database, it didnt take long to find her address. Lovell Hill. He almost scoffed again, his jaw flexed, of all of the bullshit poetic places for her to live.

He planned to confront her parents, tell them that their daughter took school as nothing but a joke and that he would fail her if she couldn't fix her behavior. Obviously, he knew house calls from an English teacher weren't exactly appropriate but he wasnt thinking rationally at all. Besides, he was sure her parents wouldn't want this to get back to the principal anyway.

"Where are you going?" Beatrice asks in slurred speech as Lucien enters the back door in a hurry, heading for the bowl of keys they kept by the door.

"Work related incident," Lucien says, quickly checking his appearance in the mirror after he fished his set of car keys from the bowl.

"Is it? Or is it a star student related incident?" Luciens ears heat at her insinuation, his jaw flexing, but he doesn't turn around.

"Sober up Bets," is his only reply before leaving without giving her anything more than a slam of the front door.

The drive up the winding country roads is anything but relaxing or peaceful. Luciens palms were sweaty, Cairos midterm assignment felt like it was burning a hole through his pocket. His throat was dry, his head spinning with the words he had read and just got himself off to.

He took the path up to the manors front door, his feet felt heavier with each step. He swallowed once more taking the last steps up and using the knocker twice, sound seeming to echo around him.

"Mr. V?" She masks pure elation with surprise, her pouty lips parting as she looked up at him, he swallowed, forcing himself to keep his eye on hers. That was one thing that intrigued him, the way she could stare into his eyes, not perturbed by the golden one he wore. He could see her exposed skin, feel the air get hot and thick between them.

"Cairo," he says shortly in way of greeting. "Where are your parents? Id like to speak with them," he manages, her lips curl in a half smirk and she steps aside.

"Come in," she says so sweetly, her eyes drinking him in, every last bit of him. He felt his cock swell, his ears becoming hot.

"I think its best if you go get your parents and I stay right here," he responds, trying his best to keep his voice even, trying his best to pretend like he hadn't just been touching himself at the thought of her underneath him.

"Well then you'll be disappointed to learn they aren't here, they are off traveling somewhere, Dubai? I think, this month," she plays with her hair, he can't stop himself from following the movements, her breasts peeked out from the silky white slip she wore, his cock throbbed, ached against his pants. And her parents weren't here, alarm bells rung in his head, he knew he had to go.

"I can't accept your mid term, Im going to have to fail you if you don't rewrite it by next Friday," he blurted, noting the way she brushed her hard nipple when she tossed her hair behind her shoulder.

"That's bullshit," she smirks, sensing the hold she had on him, she leans against the door frame, popping her hip to expose more skin.

"Its pornography, its filthy disgusting smut and its not appropriate at all for school and you could be suspended for this and I don't know if I gave you the wrong idea or-"

"You want to fuck me," she interrupts him, staring back at him, so confident, so sure. He swallowed, his whole body feeling tight, his jaw flexed as he stared back at her, stunned into silence, fighting every male instinct in his body. "You want to fuck my virgin pussy, you want to see the way my tits bounce, watch your cock disappear in my little wet untouched pussy, see the way my untainted body reacts to your expertise..." She trails off, her breathing heavy, cheeks pink, eyes dipping down to the massive bulge in his pants. "That is unless everything you wrote in those books was bullshit," she breathes out, as if it was a challenge.

"Cairo," he warns, but hes already inching closer, as if there was really an invisible band pulling them together.

"Please, I've been fucking myself for months," she's begging now, that confident burn still in her eyes, Winnie promised, she promised it would work and now it was. He was here, and he was going to fuck her.

Lucien closes the distance, grabbing her chin in his strong fingers. "Youre a bad girl, aren't you?" all logic has left his mind, the wedding band forgotten, his teaching job, forgotten, he just needed her. He needed to fuck her. She whimpers in response, tilting her head, her body melting under his touch. He swallows hard, the pressure of his cock in his pants becoming unbearable but he needed to taste her. The front door was still wide open, the screen had slammed shut behind him but the last of the evening sun poked through, leaving a glow in the room. His eyes were dark as he stared down at her, months of pent up sexual tension like a thick cloud around them. "You'll do something for me first, since you wanted this so bad," his voice is a near growl as he sinks onto the sofa, discarding his shirt in the process, she gasps softly at the sight of him, her eyes were hazy with disbelief as she watches his long tan cock slap his stomach with a small thud with the weight of it.

"Yes Mr. Vanserra," she whispers, before she pulls the dress over her head, her slightly dark nipples in contrast with her milky white skin made his mouth water. He was dying to bite them, to hear her shriek with pain and pleasure.

"Your always talking, its time for you to learn how to do something else with that mouth," his voice was low and husky, the age lines by his eyes crinkling in the slightest as he smirked down at her. He guided her, held the back of her hair and pushed that pretty little mouth onto his cock, moaning a long sigh of relief at the warm wet feeling. "Good girl," he grunted softly, pushing her down and pulling her back up again, watching her gag on his large size, a few small tears escaping as she moaned around his cock. It felt so damn good, her little mouth barely being able to go over half of him, the sight was magnificent. It was almost too much for him, the thrill after not having done anything like this in so many years, he almost came right there in her mouth.

"Your turn," he roughly pulled her head from him, she moaned again, looking up at him with wide, lust clouded eyes. Lucien pulled her up from the floor, dropping to his knees when she had replaced his seat on the couch. He spread her legs wide and pulled her to the edge of the couch, her pussy matched the color of her nipples, it was glistening, dripping, so wet that it trailed down her cunt and gathered in the pucker of her ass. His mouth watered, he knew he would have to write every second of this down. Forbidden fruit waiting to be completely devoured. "Play with your nipples," he commands, his voice so gravelly it sent shockwaves through her bones. "Twist them, pull on them, don't stop until I say you stop," he breathed before curling his strong fingers around her ankles, spreading her legs so deliciously wide that her pussy throbbed, begging to be touched, to be licked and sucked, she moaned, obediently beginning to tug at her breasts, her hips squirming.

Lucien bent his head down, slowly blowing cool air onto her hot glistening sex, her ankles pinned to the couch, his grip not loosening in the slightest as her body jerked beneath him. "Stay still," he commands softly, shaking his head softly and blowing over her wet pussy again, she whimpers in response her sex throbbing with need.

"Please," she whimpers again, he moves closer, slowly dragging the tip of his tongue in a circle all around her pussy, everywhere except where she needed him most. He chuckled softly at her moans, her body shook with anticipation. He dipped his tongue down into the pucker of her ass next, lapping up the wetness that gathered there. She cried out as he slid his tongue up, flicking it again and again over the sensitive skin between her pussy and her ass. "Oh yes," she's nearly screaming now, the sound makes him moan, motivates him to give her even more pleasure.

He licks a long stripe between each of her folds, deliciously pointing the tip of his tongue, the taste of her had his head spinning, had him wanting to bury his face in her pussy and shake his head like a dog. Not yet, more teasing. She was reeling, her body trembling, she could barely continue playing with her nipples, but she wanted to obey him, so she willed herself to keep going, twisting them and pinching them between her fingers. Her orgasm threatened to release with every single touch of his mouth against her pussy, she was buzzing with pleasure, shaking with it. He opens his mouth, sucking her swollen lips into his mouth, sucking every last drop of her arousal off of them. She screamed, her hips bucking into him and he pulled away with a soft tsk, he didnt want her to cum just yet.

He flattened his tongue, licking over her sensitive swollen clit, she whimpered again, trying to press herself into him to get any more friction she could. "You want to cum?" he growled softly against her pussy, she only whimpered in response, her legs trembling. He placed his mouth on her clit sucking her into his mouth and shaking his head between her legs until she was squirting all over him, her screams of pleasure filling the empty house. "Good girl," he moaned before licking her softly as she came down from her release. He flipped her over then, propping her against the back of the couch and he slapped her ass, hard, leaving a red hand print there. "This is what you wanted?" he asks, his voice gravelly, her body jerks as he slaps her again, a small plea leaving her lips.

Lucien doesn't waste any more time, he grips her hip with one hand and guides his massive cock against her small tight opening. He groans lowly, slowly sliding in, inch by inch as he feels her soaking wet virgin cunt stretch around him. Cairo screams at the feeling of him filling her up, her toes curling as he slams his cock deep inside her again and again. Her head falls back against his shoulder as he moves her up and down again and again, her body shakes, the feeling of his cock rubbing her g-spot over and over again making her cum again. She pants, shakes against him, moaning again, squirming as he fills her pussy up with his cum and continues thrusting as they ride their orgasms out together.

She collapses against the couch, giggling and mumbling something about how he wasnt bullshitting.

Hes over her, his hand on the back of the couch, staring down at her as the realization of what hes done sinks in. He fucked a student. A student. He cheated on Beatrice. On his wife.

He swallows the lump forming in his throat, rushing to put his clothing on. She sits up now, pulling the throw blanket from the couch over her chest. "Lucien?" she asks, his eyes widen in surprise at the use of his first name, his eyes finding hers. He paled, the look on her face, the adoration in her eyes. What the fuck had he done? "Where are you going?" hes frozen, dressed now, staring down at her, standing a few feet from the couch.

"Mr. Vanserra," he corrected, confusion flashed in her face, then hurt, then anger. "Cairo, this can never happen again," he swallowed hard, her midterm paper still burned a hole in his pocket. "This will never happen again," he emphasized. "Im married, Im happily married, I am your teacher, I could lose my job for this- You don't understand.. This- This was a mistake I- I never should have came here-" he was rambling, the ramifications of the situation sinking in with each waking second.

"A mistake?" her voice cracked, her grip on the blanket tightening as she stared up at him. She had just lost her virginity. She had been so sure it was right, it had felt so right. Why wasnt he admitting that? "You know you feel something! You know there is something between us! I felt it! You felt it," her voice was uneven, tears threatened to spill. He swallowed, his jaw flexed. You are the adult. End this. Do not give in.

"Cairo," he said slowly, his throat bobbing again. "This is a fantasy, this is not real life, this is my fault. I'm the adult here and I- I take full responsibility for everything that happened and Im sorry- But this will not happen again, it ends here and-"

She didnt hear anything else after that, she watched blankly, numbly as he left. Didnt say another single word to him, watched him go, with his tail between his legs. Ashamed of what they had done, ashamed of her.

She blamed it on her naivety, her daddy issues, her sick fascination with forbidden love.

A novel, forbidden love, betrayal, heartbreak, the loss of innocence.

And she wouldn't feel bad when he lost his job, when his beloved Beatrice left him.

Mr. Valentine

C. Sweet

Red hard cover binding, gold lettering.

Inside cover, For my beloved, Lucien.

-

a/n: definitely hot in here, very quickly proof read

hehe i hope it was worth the wait @scorpioriesling @cynthiesjmxazrielslover

[fiercehildr]

This awesome commission of Cassian and Aelin randomly meeting through a portal was done for me by the amazing @ritzeldraws for my 7k commission! With hofas getting closer, what if….? 😂

Please no repost, ty.

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: if you have stuck around and waited u are INCREDIBLE thank u so much for ur patience <3 esp cos i'm still testing it with my slowburn lmao + tell me what u think lovelies and as always, enjoy

word count: 4.1k

synopsis: Azriel's shadows find a new way to torment their master. The question of forgiveness follows you. Cassian gets you in the ring, testing out newly learnt skills.

CHAPTER TEN :: SHADOWS

Azriel is a spy by his very nature.

It makes sense; the gift of Shadowsinger is never bestowed so lightly so that it could ever leave any doubt of the user. Shadowsingers are spies, even well before their gifts revealed themselves. Always watching. Always listening.

It was, then, a tad against his disposition to keep his nose out business that wasn't his — as that was precisely what Azriel did best.

But his decision was resolute. Azriel had promised himself he would not be the first to break the distance between you two.

However, for a fae over five-hundred years old, it's quite unsettling to yet again feel the pangs of impatience. Years of practicing restraint and then, in a mere few months, his hard earned patent for patience begins to fray at the ends. You'll be his undoing, he's sure of it.

Like a young and fresh-faced warrior itching for battle, it's almost embarrassing how Azriel can't seem to stay away from you. His feet wander and all paths lead to you.

His shadows are not helping.

Azriel thinks they've managed to get more insistent, which he hadn't really believe was possible. They've proven him oh-so wrong. When he walks the halls of the House of Wind, the dark wisps dart out, as though trying to tug him along.

He had trusted them all of two times before, face flushed and with an ungraceful but thankfully unnoticed exit, he learned just where they were leading him.

They were following the invisible thread between you, taking him to see his mate.

When it became clear he wasn't going to be coerced along, his shadows had only got more devious.

It's a particular brand of torture, Azriel thinks, to be delivered little parcels of knowledge of the person he's not allowing himself to see.

And they're ruthless about it. Whispers about how you're healing and the growing steadiness of your feet, the way you stand a little taller each day, about the tentative trust extended to Cassian.

Gods, that one had made his hand jerk across the paper in surprise, spilling a patch of ink onto the report he was in the middle of.

You were talking to Cassian— no, you were nearly friends with Cassian. The magnanimous hope had ballooned within him before Azriel remembered to stomp it back down.

Mor had teased him for the black stains on his hands during dinner.

He studies them now, nearly washed away completely, before he lifts his head. In the cool air of dusk, Azriel surveils the training ring from the shadows of the door, eyes scanning across the balcony.

It's empty, as expected. The rising moon is his only company.

You've stuck to training in the mornings, of course.

He's relieved and disappointed all at once—then Azriel forces that disappointment out of his system with a frustrated huff.

He is not allowed to be disappointed. Your trust is something he still needs to claw his way back to, to earn, and that required waiting and accepting that.

Azriel would see you... when you wanted to see him.

Despite his resolve, the thread between you still gives a futile tug before he can stop it. Scowling at himself, he rubs at his chest meanly, banishing the feeling. He steps down onto the balcony and heads towards the equipment.

As his scarred hands reach out and pluck one of the training staffs off the rack, his shadows twirls and trill, an almost teasing motion. It takes one pointed whisper, one tug on his heartstrings —they used that one just earlier today— before his hands are glowing warm from the second-hand touch.

His fingers spring apart and the staff hits the tiles with a loud clatter. Even though it's just him out on the balcony, he still casts an awkward glance around him. Gods

If his brothers could see him now, Azriel thinks dryly.

He swats at the shadow that had unhelpfully fed him the information. It dances away from him, swooping down to circle the staff on the ground with its others, a mass of black surrounding it.

Azriel bends down and gingerly picks up the staff, his hazel eyes staring at it for a long moment. Where your hands have been.

After a moment, his fingers curl around it. His marred hands feel like they're glowing again, warm and tingling, even if he knows it's all in his mind. Even so, he swears the golden thread between you hums, just ever so slightly.

He'll allow himself this, just this once, Azriel decides. His grip tightens and he heads to the ring, preparing to train, his hands where yours were just mere hours before.

—

The day after you had met Cassian, as the dawn breaks over sky, you find him on the training balcony before you.

You're a little later than you'd normally be, the sun actually rising before you do. You're moving a little more sluggishly too, but for once it's for a better reason.

Sleep, normally light and fitful for you, had actually been a reprieve last night. You slept deeply, falling into dreamless slumber and resting properly.

When morning crept in, dragging your eyelids up had felt like a mountainous amount of effort. Part of you wonders if it's because of the male across the balcony from you.

Allies, you had agreed upon.

It's a little easier to rest when you've made one less enemy.

Watching him now, stretching his supple and bulging arms, you have to force down the instilled anxiety that festers up, a force of habit that's kept you safe all these years.

You're not in Exordor anymore. You're not keeping any secrets.

Cassian clocks your hesitant stance in the doorway as he turns, a wide grin breaking across his face. His wings perk up, a genuine sign of his excitement. He stops his stretching momentarily to wave.

"Morning!" He calls out, despite the fact the distance between you doesn't require him to do so.

"Ally." He adds pointedly, leaning over to give an over the top wink.

Somewhere buried deep inside you, a laugh almost wants to wriggle free, but it's smothered before you can think too hard. You give him a wry smile instead, the best you can manage, and take a tentative step down onto the balcony. Your wings give a tiny shiver in the passing breeze.

"Good morning," You manage to return, the words sticking in your throat on the way up. It's awkward but nothing in Cassian's friendly demeanor changes to indicate he's noticed. Your feet lead you over towards the weapons rack.

It's as you reach them do you realise your heart is rabbiting wildly, pounding in your chest, stewing you in discomfort. The hair on the back of your neck rises, prickling with unease. Your back is turned to a fierce warrior, one that could very well attack you.

And worse, you'll be training next to him, still not healed, still stumbling on your feet—revealing all the ways to strike you down.

You—you haven't done this, ever. You haven't trained with someone completely as yourself, with no facade to hide beneath. It suddenly becomes incredibly vulnerable.

Your hand trembles as you reach out for the training staff and you try your best to swallow down your nerves.

Cassian has kept his distance, resuming his stretches, but you don't miss how his eyes dance over to you every couple of seconds. For a moment, it alarms you but as you find a place and settle into your stance, you steal another glimpse.

It's more like... a dog wagging its tail, you think faintly.

You press down the urge to smile and begin your exercises.

There's all of ten minutes of silence before it gets broken.

"How do you like Velaris?"

You pause in your motions, huffing to catch your breath as your grip the training staff loosens. You cast a glance over at Cassian who's now picked up one of the broadswords, beginning to throw its weight around easily.

You blink and for a moment, your eyes dart out over the edge of the balcony, to the city teeming with life, so close and yet so far from you. A part of you aches fiercely to see it.

"I... haven't been into the city." You answer honestly. It comes out curt and doesn't exactly answer his question.

Eyeing his sword nervously, your force your aching muscles through another series of exercises. You're a sliver better than the day before but when your ear twinges loudly, you still stumble, a minuscule motion. Your heart lurches up your throat, frustration welling like a tidal wave within you.

"Okay, then how do you like the House of Wind?"

You pause again, looking over to Cassian tentatively, the pain in your ear momentarily forgotten. The rising frustration in you dissipates at the distraction. He waves a casual hand over to the house you've been residing in since you arrived in Velaris and smiles once more.

You swallow thickly. What is his angle here?

"I haven't..." You struggle to put your thoughts into words. It's... different. New. Unsettling. You don't want to say the wrong thing. For all you know, this may well be his home.

Eventually, you find your voice. "I like my room. It's—" Several words ping to the front of your mind. "—big."

You cringe. Some compliment that is. You're too honest even if it is true; you're far too used to the familiar cramped space of your own cabin. Even sharing walls with others is foreign to you and you're incredibly thankful you haven't run into anyone unexpectedly in any corridors yet.

It doesn't occur to you that it might entirely be by design, thanks to Rhys' strict instruction.

Cassian grins. "Yes, I recall Illyria being hardly known for it's roomy cabins."

He swings the sword around with a flick of his wrist, more like an idle motion than anything. Your eyes still flicker down keenly, watching for any threat, just in case.

"So, you haven't explored the house much then?" Cassian continues, feigning a stab forward with the sword, his eyes on his motions but his attention still focused primarily on you.

You follow his lead and swing the training staff again, in an arching whoosh. You shake your head in answer to his question.

"Do you want to?"

"Do you always talk this much during training?"

The words come out before you can think to check them, sucking in a sharp breath as you realise how snappy that sounded. Like you're looking for a fight.

You ready yourself to sink into a defensive stance, before you realise that Cassian has only laughed in response. A curl of his tied back hair comes loose as he shakes his head, the action almost... fond.

"Only when I'm trying to make friends." He grins warmly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Sorry, I'll stop prying."

You swallow and nod slightly, hoping it won't be read as rude. Though you'd had a hard time believing it, Cassian had been true to his word; no fighting unless it was in the ring. You hadn't dared to go near it yet.

Readjusting your stance, you prepared to go through the motions once more. It's still a bit more of the juvenile exercises than you're used to—forced back to the basics as you retrain your body—but also because you're solitary training. You're used to sparring with others.

Stealing a glimpse at Cassian, you ponder if—if you might, eventually that is, train alongside him as you had done with Azriel.

Moving the training staff deftly, you thrust it forward and twist your lithe body to dart forward again, a small patter of your feet on the stone.

It's maneuver used for rushing opponents, throwing them off their balance and driving them backwards. It works for you, mostly, but the way your wings cut through the air, the slightest whistle through the holey scars, makes you a little unsteady.

"You fight like you're bigger than you are."

Straightening up, you breathe heavily and peer around the edges of your wings back at Cassian—who apparently isn't done talking at all.

He nods to you, in reference the maneuver you've just performed. "That is a move usually far better suited for someone of a larger stature."

You clear your throat, wings curling in a bit closer around you. "Yes. Azriel, he- he was trying to rectify that. There's only one way to train Illyrians, as I'm sure you know."

Cassian nods again, lowering the sword to hang at his side. "That I do. However, I feel Azriel may have been taking the wrong approach given... the information he was not privy to at the time."

Your brows knit together, something wrong twisting tightly in your chest.

"Because I'm..."

Female.

"Not a male?"

The words come out sharp without meaning to.

Cassian's picks up on your defensiveness, his expression softening. He gives a little so-so motion with his free hand, his wings rustling behind him. "A bit, but not for reasons you may think."

When you don't speak, he continues, his explanation unfurling.

"Your centre of gravity is different to ours. That actually changes the best way for you to fight. More of your strength comes from these—"

He slaps his hands down onto his thighs with a grin.

"—than from your arms. For that reason, there are moves you will be better at than what you've been taught."

Cassian cocks his head, his dark eyes squinting for a moment, deep in thought. "Azriel likely switched your training to agility based, didn't he?"

You nod gingerly. You had no idea if what he was said was true. If there was a fighting style suited to females. That would require... female warriors which, for all you've ever known, is a highly unlikely thing to exist.

Though, being he is the General of the Night Court's armies, you'd likely assume Cassian knows what he's talking about.

He nods, that same easy smile. "He was right to do so. Most camps focus on brute strength and stamina. Makes for good warriors that can take hits and keep going. You can train that way if you still wish but you might find you excel when your efforts are put elsewhere."

It takes a long moment before you realise exactly what his words mean.

An offer. He's offering to train you, to teach you.

Pleasant surprise blooms inside you, warm, curling up behind your ribs like a purring cat. Cassian's eyes are light and friendly, his body language relaxed as though if you turn him down, it'd be of no consequence to him. Merely an offer.

You turn it over in your mind, back and forth. The gentle wind from the mountains caresses across your cheekbones, a warm touch.

Inside, deep in your chest, there's something telling you to trust. To take the step forward, to accept Cassian's outstretched proposal. That you might regret it if you didn't.

"How?" Your eyes skirt up and down on instinct, still on alert for a threat that isn't coming.

Cassian grins infectiously, not even attempting to hide his glee. He rolls his shoulders back and assesses you once more.

"Have you ever heard of the headscissor takedown?"

—

Flesh hits stone, a large shuddering bang that echoes out the courtyard. In the distance, a couple birds take flight, squawking loudly. Pain ricochets through your knees, a warbling and jarring pain that has you gritting your teeth.

"You're..." Cassian's breath comes out raggedly. "Incredible!"

He beams from where he's pinned beneath you and your pain dashes away in a moment, something gleaning and prideful taking its place.

There's a rivulet of blood under his nose, his hair knocked loose, and you know hitting the ground as hard as he did won't have been nice. He continues on as if he hasn't.

"That was perfect form. You're a Cauldron-born natural!"

You huff a breath that might be an actual laugh this time and quickly retract yourself, standing to your feet. You waver momentarily, hesitance poisoning your thoughts, before you decide. Holding out your hand to help, Cassian is quick to put his hand in your own and use it to lug himself up.

When he gets to his feet, his grip loosens but he doesn't let go altogether.

"Hey," He says, more serious this time. His fingers around your wrist, soft and warm, still make your pulse jump nervously. You force yourself to meet his gaze, still friendlier than ever. "Seriously. You're very skilled and you're a fast learner. You've got the makings to be lethal. The Night Court is lucky to have you on our side."

His hand slips back, grazing your wrist, and you wonder if he can feel the way your heart skips a beat.

No one has ever been... lucky to have you. It's so foreign that hearing someone say it aloud makes you forget to breath for one long second.

"I—" The word pushes out before you think about it. "That's... You-"

Praise is not a part of Illyrian training. You fumble with it, feeling entirely out of your depth, feeling oddly proud of yourself. It feels like your cheeks are warmer than usual.

Cassian chuckles, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. "You're welcome." He says pointedly, making you realise you're supposed to say thank you after someone compliments you.

You flounder for another second, making Cassian laugh again, louder this time. He reaches forward and lightly taps you on the shoulder, a faux punch.

"You'll get used to it." He says. Part of you really, really wants to. "Now, c'mon. Let's go again. Hit me."

—

You think that now Cassian's got what he wanted—the two of you training together, learning the plethora of new moves, stances, blocks he has in his repertoire—he wouldn't have anymore questions.

You're sorely, sorely, wrong.

Two mornings later, the pair of you prepare for some sparring with the swords in the ring. Cassian's purposefully picked one of the heavier ones for himself, broad and long, but he'd put aside a blade for you.

It's smaller, lighter. It reminds you of Heartstriker.

Which reminds you of Azriel.

The mere thought of him has your heart humming, miserable and elated all at once. You're still not sure if you'd like to see him just yet, the confusing twist of betrayal too fresh, but still, some part of you seeks him out, consciously or not.

You want to wander the halls until you find the door to leads to him.

It's because he was your first friend. You reason, as you step up towards the sparring ring. He was the first person you trusted. Was? Is—maybe.

Do you still trust him?

Cassian is already in the ring, waiting as patiently as he can. His rustling wings give him away, even as casual as he looks leaned up against one of the corner posts.

His wings are stretched out, towards the sun's rays that are just beginning to slip over the horizon, trying to steal some of their warmth.

A yawn slips past your lips. The night of restful sleep was an outlier it seemed, the tendrils of a calming, easy sleep stolen away just as quickly.

Fingers curling around the hilt of the short sword, you step gingerly into the ring, eyes casting across to your opponent. You roll your shoulders back, warming up the muscles a bit more, and give your own wings a little shake. A shiver wracks through you in response, the chill of the morning touching on sensitive scars.

"Is there a particular reason Azriel is avoiding you?"

Your head snaps up at the sound of Cassian's voice, cool and calm.

He hasn't shifted, though his wings are tucked back in now. His sword is still relaxed at his side, his worn hand tucked around the hilt of it freely.

The usual chattiness that Cassian has been able to coax out of you these last few days shrivels up. Azriel is avoiding you? You hadn't wanted to see him but this—something curls up inside you, sour and foul. You swallow hard.

"I hadn't realised." You murmur, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into your words.

Cassian blinks and seems to realise his mistake. He waves a hand dismissively, as if it can scratch away his last words. "I misspoke. I believe he is... keeping his distance."

He furrows his brow, face pinched, picking his words carefully. "For your sake." He adds.

You... don't know how you feel about that. On one hand, you're relieved. It's not by pure chance that you haven't seen him yet, it's purposeful—he's keeping out of your way, giving you peace.

On the other hand, something twined in your chest pangs sorrowfully, mourning the distance between you.

While Cassian's presence as an ally (or perhaps, you'll even admit, a friend) is comforting, you'll admit it does not fill the same shape in you as Azriel does. You miss him, quite terribly so.

"What makes you think he's avoiding me?" You ask.

Cassian gives an little shrug, his head tilting to the side just a bit. He smiles in a way that tells you he knows more than he lets on. Or maybe, he simply knows Azriel far better than you do.

"He usually trains in the morning." He explains nonchalantly. "He's taken to training at night since your arrival."

You frown at the new information. You don't want Azriel to be changing things for you, to bend and warp his routines in his home, just for you. You don't want him to avoid you either, even if you're beginning to think you might never be brave enough to face him.

He left you. He was your first friend and the betrayal of that is entirely too new— but you don't know where to draw the line.

You don't know for how long you're allowed to be upset — or how long you can let this go on before you're punishing yourself just as much as you are him.

Flexing your grip on the sword, you stare across at Cassian and when you open your mouth, the words tumble out with warning.

"He..." Your breath hitches.

Something awful hooks into your chest, remembering the way he had folded himself into shadows, away from you. The look on his face.

"He left me. When I needed him more than ever." You admit.

Your voice doesn't waver but Cassian can still see the slight tremble in your shoulders, rolling in. Your eyes have dropped to study the floor of the sparring ring, seemingly lost in the memory.

Cassian's face softens, his heart aching for you. You don't even notice how your own wings have begun to curl in, a soft, comforting blanket around yourself.

It's clear you're struggling to juggle the myriad of emotions that haunt you and he gets it, Mother, does he get it. It had been hard the first time, during those first tentative months of friendship with Rhys, before Azriel was even in the picture. Cassian had one emotion that served him any purpose and that was spite.

Spite kept him alive. Spite told him who to knock down and who to put down.

Friendships and spite are not the greatest combination. When Rhys had done something Cassian had vehemently disagreed with, it had felt like a deception, stinging as badly as the backhand from Lord Devlon, sneering the word bastard.

It took time to undo the messy tangle of emotions, to learn that not all betrayal fell into the same box. That forgiveness for some people was not weakness at all.

So, Cassian asks. "Did he come back?"

You glance up at him, eyes flickering with emotion at the question. After a moment, you swallow and say. "Yes. He did."

Cassian nods. He stretches his wings out a bit and reaches up to push a stray piece of hair behind his ear.

"Alright. How long do you intend to punish him for that mistake?"

You freeze at that question and Cassian can tell he's hit the right spot. You're unsure how long you should—because all you know is that you're hurt. And when you're hurt, you don't know any other way to deal with it.

There's only one pathway ingrained for when someone hurts you. Cassian realises suddenly, Mother help him, that he must try to be good at the talking side of things. He needs to show you there's other ways you can go.

"Because," He continues, not waiting for your answer. "I can assure you that Azriel will punish himself for far longer and far harsher than you ever will. I've known my brother a long time. If there anyone who understands the gravity of his actions and will torture himself over them, it's Azriel."

A hesitant expression shutters across your face, your brows furrowing slightly. Cassian doesn't need Rhys' daemati gift to understand the conflict that's battling within you.

"You think I should forgive him."

You don't pose it as a question. A little bit more of that iciness has bled back into your voice, on guard again.

Cassian can tell that, like him, you don't take well to being told what to do. That's fine; Cassian has no intention of doing that whatsoever.

"I think that is your decision entirely." Cassian says, letting the words breathe so they truly sink in. He watches as your eyes narrow momentarily and then your shoulders relax, sinking down an inch.

"But," He says gingerly. "If you avoid each other, you might never move past this. Might never move forward. It might be worth considering what you really want at the end of the day."

The sun has properly broken across the mountain ridges, no longer just sparse rays. You turn your face, facing towards the warmth. There's still that scrunch between your eyebrows, betraying your deep thought, but Cassian has said enough for now.

He moves his sword and taps the end of it against the stone, a soft steel ping grabbing your attention. You whip your head back to face him and Cassian grins, raising his sword.

"Enough talking. More fighting."

You smile, a little hesitant but entirely genuine, and raise your sword in response. That's one thing you're sure you know how to do right.

tags below!

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@lovingkelj @itsswritten @breadsticks2004 @marina468 @sapphena

[aprill-99]

Rhys: “So let’s see if I’ve got this; you have immense shadow power, incredible combat skills, height, tattoos, secrets, dead parents, a thirst for vengeance, the weight of the world on your shoulders, a rebellion to lead, and a dragon?”

Xaden: “Yeah? I mean, there’s also my girlfriend who I’m completely in love with and 107 people under my protection but-”

Rhys: *frantically flipping through papers* “this is the hyper-intelligent girlfriend with unprecedented lightning powers? The one you speak to with your mind and call a nickname permanently?”

Xaden: “I do only have the one girlfriend. Kinda offended you’d think otherwise.”

Rhys: *signs a paper* “Adopted. The rebellion thing is handled. Me and your aunts and uncles have got this. Your new mom is going to need some time to add you and your mate to the family portrait gallery. Your bedroom is upstairs, knives are in the training ring, family dinner is every Thursday, your allowance is infinity and your curfew is never.”

Xaden: “I am…. Older than your wife?”

Rhys: “Did I fucking stutter?”

[offtorivendell]

Truth-Teller, Gwydion and Illyrian Runes... or are they actually Wyrdmarks?

This post was written for @azrielappreciationweek Day 7 - Free

Disclaimer: as always, this is just a theory that I think is fun and it makes no claim of being canon. It's definitely entering crack theory territory. This post also isn't Azriel specific - it's more about the dagger he has used for centuries and how it may tie into the Maasverse, or Prythian's plot, as a whole than Azriel himself. I know it's Azriel Appreciation Week, but this is his dagger, at least currently, so I feel like it's okay. It also rambles a bit, sorry.

Spoilers: there are big, huge, massive Maasverse spoilers ahead, so please beware.

Other posts about Azriel and/or Truth-Teller you might find relevant:

Why is Azriel so different? On Dusk, Hel and the Valg

What if Azriel - or his Shadows - are Made Beings?

Azriel could be Koschei’s heir; a crack theory

Shadows, siphons and fog; has something happened in Velaris?

Powerful Heirlooms and the Four Treasures of the Tuatha de Danann

Does Truth-Teller portend a future relationship between Azriel and Elain Archeron? Especially the first section, about Fragarach inspiring TT.

The possible significance of Azriel and Elain Archeron, the Embrace of Solas and Cthona, the paired blades Gwydion and Truth-Teller, and thin places; a theory - in particular the section about the two Made blades.

Love it or hate it - though personally, I love it for many reasons - we all know about the "Truth-Teller scene" in ACOWAR. While I do think it will end up being incredibly crucial and symbolic for Azriel and Elain Archeron as a couple (you may disagree of course), I also think there is a good chance that its importance to the overall plot was intentionally highlighted by its inclusion in the ACOTAR colouring book, which is what I hope to discuss here (plot, not romance, though as this is romantasy I do think the couple will be reflected in the plot/vice versa).

Here is the passage again, to refresh your memory:

Viviane stepped in, offering a Winter Court fashion that was far less scandalous: leather pants, but paired with a thigh-length blue surcoat, white fur trimming the collar. In the heat, it’d be miserable, but Elain was thankful enough that she didn’t complain when we again emerged from the covered wagon and found our companions waiting. She refused the knife Cassian handed her, though. Went white as death at the sight of it. Azriel, still limping, merely nudged aside Cassian and extended another option. “This is Truth-Teller,” he told her softly. “I won’t be using it today—so I want you to.” His wings had healed—though long, thin scars now raked down them. Still not strong enough, Madja had warned him, to fly today. The argument with Rhys this morning had been swift and brutal: Azriel insisted he could fly—fight with the legions, as they’d planned. Rhys refused. Cassian refused. Azriel threatened to slip into shadow and fight anyway. Rhys merely said that if he so much as tried, he’d chain Azriel to a tree. And Azriel … It was only when Mor had entered the tent and begged him—begged him with tears in her eyes—that he relented. Agreed to be eyes and ears and nothing else. And now, standing amongst the sighing meadow grasses in his Illyrian armor, all seven Siphons gleaming … Elain’s eyes widened at the obsidian-hilted blade in Azriel’s scarred hand. The runes on the dark scabbard. “It has never failed me once,” the shadowsinger said, the midday sun devoured by the dark blade. “Some people say it is magic and will always strike true.” He gently took her hand and pressed the hilt of the legendary blade into it. “It will serve you well.” “I—I don’t know how to use it—” “I’ll make sure you don’t have to,” I said, grass crunching as I stepped closer. Elain weighed my words … and slowly closed her fingers around the blade. Cassian gawked at Azriel, and I wondered how often Azriel had lent out that blade— Never, Rhys said from where he finished buckling on his own weapons against the side of the wagon. I have never once seen Azriel let another person touch that knife. Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hand still lingering on the hilt of the blade. I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection … that knife. Paint that when we get home. Busybody. - ACOWAR, chapter 69

I have previously theorised that Truth-Teller may have pierced the veil of Prythian's world in order to let Elain shadow walk through the murky realm/void to save Nesta and Cassian at the end of ACOWAR - which of course parallels Azriel's threat to "slip into shadow and fight anyway" - but it also ties into the power that Truth-Teller and Gwydion/the Starsword can activate together: instead of opening a portal to somewhere, as a few of us had previously theorised about Truth-Teller alone, we learnt in HOFAS that the dagger and sword will open a portal to nowhere.

A black hole... or a Void?

@wingedblooms has previously suggested that the woman on the cover of HOFAS, who had runes - or were they really Wyrdmarks? - down her arms, may be Wyrd, and I agree. We would both especially love it if Wyrd was the secret language of the universe - the language spoken by shadow, wind and stone, or even what Singers used to cast spells - because how much would that make sense? It would also tie TOG in with a tidy bow, given the importance of Wyrd, Wyrdmarks, Wyrdkeys and Wyrdgates to Aelin's story.

But it could get wrapped up even tidier. I hope.

The markings on Truth-Teller's sheath

Take a much closer look at the "Illyrian runes" on Truth-Teller's scabbard, the runes that SJM made sure existed in print, in May 2017 (the colouring book was published the same day that ACOWAR came out, on the 2nd of May).

But back to the runes.

Do you see what I see?!

They are so similar to the runes on HOFAS' cover that it cannot be coincidental? I acknowledge that they're not identical, but they pass the vibe check.

A. I've previously discussed the possibility of the first rune on the HOFAS cover being derived from the Embrace of Solas and Cthona, and that it might have been indicating the two Made blades, Gwydion and Truth-Teller, coming together to create a portal to nowhere. @wingedblooms has also brilliantly suggested that it could be depicting the three mountains of the Night Court, or even the three sister peaks. But do you see the similarity with the top rune(s) on Truth-Teller's scabbard? The dot and two ^ type markings come together differently, but imo the components are still there.

B. This portion is the weakest link for sure, not least because there are more runes on the woman's arm than Truth-Teller's sheath - and I'm no artist so my opinion definitely comes with a huge heaping of salt (if anyone wants to weigh in then please do!) - but I can see similarities in the elements of certain runes. If I put my clown hat on then the spiral could be referring to a vortex/portal, and the marking half hidden by the O could be depicting a ship... you know, like those names after the Archeron sisters.

C. The two opposing triangles on Truth-Teller could be referencing the diamond on the woman's forearm and the crescent moon shape half hidden by Azriel's thumb could potentially be linked with the crescent moon shape above the diamond. Could the diamond on each of her forearms be suggesting siphons, like those worn by Azriel and Cassian? And is the crescent moon referring to the Mother, or Wyrd? SJM paralleled siphons and invoking stones were in ACOSF, was she hinting that the Illyrians and the priestesses all serve Wyrd in the end?

If I'm correct - a big "if" - the difference in runes, or Wyrdmarks, could be down to one of a few potential reasons (though the following list is not exhaustive):

It was always intentional so we wouldn't piece it together too easily.

The almost seven year gap between ACOWAR and the colouring book coming out in 2017, and HOFAS in 2024. Things change.

The in-universe time difference between Wyrd's birth/creation and Truth-Teller's forging. Did the wyrdmarks "evolve," so to speak?

The Wyrdmarks are not actually identical; perhaps they only look similar because they have similar or even complementary meanings?

I'm actually completely wrong and need to remove my clown makeup right now. 🤡

It would make sense that Truth-Teller's wyrdmarks were not identical to those we would see on Wyrd (assuming it is actually Her on HOFAS' cover). One of those things is a goddess, a force who created their entire universe, and the other is a dagger that can help open a portal to the Void and ferry the bearer through. Truth-Teller's scabbard might tell a story, it might hold a warning, or even contain a spell or the instructions for activating its magic etc; are they a spell to contain the power of the blade, as Bryce hinted at in HOFAS, or something else?

As if their sheaths had kept their power contained, the naked metal now throbbed against her palm, up her arms, tugging toward each other so violently it took all her strength to keep them apart. - HOFAS, chapter 48

It's just a pity that - unless I missed it - we weren't told about any markings on the Starsword, though that's assuming that its scabbard¹ was the original (or that Truth-Teller's is the original, of course - maybe it was given a new sheath, one with a very specific message, after Silene returned to Prythian). All we know is that both blades were Made by the Cauldron, with their obsidian² (wyrdstone?) hilts and black Iridium blades that can devour light (though Gwydion's blade can sparkle) and appear muted in darkness, I assume because there is no sunlight to charge their magic.

¹ @ladynightcourt3 has previously suggested that Truth-Teller may have been blessed by the God of Truth, who also blessed Damaris - the Sword of Truth, first wielded by Gavin Havilliard and currently claimed by Dorian Havilliard - which also has Wyrdmarks on its scabbard and was used in the Valg king Erawan's death. She's also reminded me that the Asterion blades in TOG also have markings, and are described as being made of a dark metal imbued with starlight... sounds familiar!

² @emmitaaa4 reminded me that wyrdstone can cause headaches in those who carry it - and who is known to rub his temples so much that Elain gifted him headache powder? Azriel.

I have spoken before about the possibility of the obsidian hilts either being possessed by some sort of Void based being, or that the material may help the Made blades attract a prince of Hel by design (here and here). Imagine if the Iridium³ blades come from a meteorite originating in Hel. Could the Made blades be secret wyrdkeys thanks to their hilts?

³ The element iridium's name is derived from "Iris," which means rainbow. Could this be where the meteorite that went into forging Gwydion and Truth-Teller have fallen... in the Rainbow of Velaris? What does this mean for Velaris' history, or the future of the Made blades? Will Feyre, the protector of the Rainbow, become involved?

What might this mean for Prythian?

Let's revisit the Truth-Teller scene, and pay close attention to Elain's clothes: Winter Court attire. Too warm, but Elain didn't complain... is that because she suspected she may have to brave the cold, harsh environment in the space between before the day was done? My next suggestion is unlikely, but could her face have turned crimson because she didn't know how to ask for warmer clothes without explaining that she'd Seen that she'd need them, especially if she knew that she was going to be sent away and she'd have to work from the shadows, as uaual? This could even tie in with my theory that the Archeron sisters will "sail" (for lack of a better term, sorry I know it's silly) the bat brothers by Singing them across the Void, possibly to Hel, as Nesta wanted insulated leathers in ACOSF. @elrieldreamer and I have previously discussed the fact that the serpents (dragons?) on HOFAS' cover look like they could be passing through Wyrdgates, which could also circle into the "sailing through the void" idea I mentioned in my post about The Weaver's Song, because Illyrian armour is known to feature scales. So isn't it handy that Emerie can source fleece-lined leathers!

“I was about to write to you before Bellius interrupted me. I asked about making leathers with fleece inside.” Emerie leaned her forearms on the immaculate counter. “It can be done, but it’s not cheap.” “Then it’s beyond my means, but thank you for finding out anyway.” “I could order it and let you pay it off as you’re able.” - ACOSF, chapter 25

Then there's the blade-like object that appears to be pointing down onto the eight-pointed star above the woman's head; could it be indicating Truth-Teller or Gwydion, or even Damaris - the Sword of Truth - from TOG?

The eight-pointed star obviously holds relevance to Nesta, given the tattoos that she and Cassian shared for much of ACOSF and Bryce's parting remarks in HOFAS, and we know the Starborn used it as their symbol, but why? Many don't realise that it may also have been the symbol on 'The Elain' ship that Papa Archeron commissioned among the three named for each of his daughters. Could it be a seafaring compass rose/rose of the winds, as Wingedblooms has previously discussed? Is it also related to Ishtar, another amazing theory shared by @wingedblooms' and @merymoonbeam? Or could it actually be the Chaos⁴ star, and truly be a symbol of Wyrd as Chaos, the Mother - or dam - to all?

⁴ I hope to post this theory soon.

I cannot move past the fact that, in addition to The Elain flying an eight-pointed star with nothing on either side (referencing the Void?), The Nesta was flying a dragon with two suns, and The Feyre was flying two crescent moons and diamonds. It has to mean something, right?

I still find it really interesting that one of the eyes of the woman on HOFAS' cover - which seems to be all about depicting gate travel and world walking - appears to be bleeding, when Gwyn remarked in ACOSF that reading Merrill's theories about multiple worlds made her eyes bleed.

Gwyn frowned. “Lots of things. Merrill’s brilliant. Horrible, but brilliant. When she first came here, she was obsessed with theories regarding the existence of different realms—different worlds. Living on top of each other without even knowing it. Whether there is merely one existence, our existence, or if it might be possible for worlds to overlap, occupying the same space but separated by time and a whole bunch of other things I can’t even begin to explain to you because I barely understand them myself.” Nesta’s brows rose. “Really?” “Some philosophers believe there are eleven worlds like that. And some believe there are as many as twenty-six, the last one being Time itself, which …” Gwyn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Honestly, I looked at some of her early research and my eyes bled just reading her theorizing and formulas.” Nesta chuckled. “I can imagine. But she’s researching something else now?” “Yes, thank the Cauldron. She’s writing a comprehensive history of the Valkyries.” - ACOSF, chapter 13

Now, Gwyn was obviously being flippant while attempting to demonstrate the extent of Merrill's brilliance, but who do we know who has peered across one world so far, who may be set up as a worldwalker with a strong affinity to any thin places? Elain Archeron, the sister whose ship flew the eight pointed star sail for all to see. A Seer. Will the Seer's eyes bleed when she looks too far, or past wards of "mist and shadow" designed to keep her out?

“Firebird by day,” Rhys mused, “woman by night … So she’s held captive by this sorcerer-lord?” Elain shook her head. “I don’t know. I hear her—her screaming. With rage. Utter rage …” She shuddered. Mor leaned forward. “Do you know why the other queens cursed her—sold her to him?” Elain studied the table. “No. No—that is all mist and shadow.” Rhys blew out a breath. “Can you sense where she is?” “There is … a lake. Deep in—in the continent, I think. Hidden amongst mountains and ancient forests.” Elain’s throat bobbed. “He keeps them all at the lake.” “Other women like her?” “Yes—and no. Their feathers are white as snow. They glide across the water—while she rages through the skies above it.” - ACOWAR, chapter 33

Its over-large teeth clacked faintly. “Thrice now, we have met. Thrice now, you have hunted for me. This time, you sent the trembling fawn to find me. I did not expect to see those doe-eyes peering at me from across the world.” - ACOWAR, chapter 58

Alpha and omega. Ask and answer (and Azriel told Elain that Truth-Teller would "serve" - a synonym to "answer" - her well). Made (or Make) and Unmade (or Unmake). Matter and antimatter. Gwydion can kill the unkillable, while Truth-Teller slew an almost unstoppable king. They Sing⁵ to each other - is it a spell, or are they communicating in Wyrd, the secret language of the universe > Chaos > eight pointed star? - and to those who bear enough Starborn magic to hear it. Azriel learnt that he can charge a Starborn fae like Bryce in HOFAS, there are three Archeron sisters who share significant parallels with Bryce and Theia... and wouldn't you know it, Azriel has two brothers. I could always be wrong, but this all seems fated to me.

⁵ I know I'm not alone in speculating whether Elain heard Truth-Teller Singing to her like kin, as @wingedblooms, @emmitaaa4, @psychologynerd and @ladynightcourt3 all share this theory at least (I've also wondered if she can hear Azriel's siphons singing, but that's another theory). Is this why Elain's eyes widened when Azriel offered Truth-Teller? Did it Sing to her? Is she a Singer, as @silverlinedeyes, @wingedblooms and I suspect? Was this in addition to (or instead of) her Seeing herself using it to kill the king? If true, this could parallel the scene earlier on in HOFAS where Elain's eyes widened at "the shadowsinger's display" just before Azriel winnowed her to Windhaven; was Elain listening to his shadows and/or Truth-Teller such that she could activate the blades (or her own) hypothetical shadow walking magic later on?

Anyway, sorry for rambling on a fair bit there, if you made it this far thank you for reading my nonsense! I am so excited to learn what SJM has been planning, because just like Koschei I think she's been playing the long game and setting all of these pieces up for years, even if it was just in case.

[natureboy96]

Through the magic of *I wanted them to together* ism, a fateful meeting has occurred! The High Lord of Spring has come across an equally happy and chaotic baby hippo! Will she be his friend, will she bite his knee, or both?

This is the first picture I've ever actually done, I used a lot of references and I definitely see areas for improvement but I'm genuinely happy with creating an art piece. I always wanted to work on art stuff but never had the confidence/drive to give it full effort, so thank you Tamlin and Moo Deng for that!

[pinklayla123]

Are the Illyrians a Retired Prototype of the Angels from Crescent City?

Illyrians are notorious throughout Prythian, because they are only found in Illyria and because of their physical appearance, most notably their bat-like wings. While bats are commonly believed to be nocturnal (most active at night), they are actually crepuscular (most active at dawn/dusk).

Why is this important? This creates a link between the Illyrians and the Dusk Court, the Court that has been destroyed for all purposes and now serves as a Prison, but has some strange link to CC. We know this because the Asteri have a literal room called Dusk's truth, that mentions an island (the Prison) in another world (Prythian) where the fae in CC came from. The floor in the inner chamber of the Prison also has an eight-pointed star engraved into it, the symbol of the Starborn fae in CC.

Their geographic spread is also a little strange. The people of the Dawn Court and Drakon's people have the same feathered wings, so their population spread sometime in the past, and many other species are mentioned to be found throughout the world, but Illyrians, for some reason, stick to their mountains.

The Illyrians also have Ramiel, which they believe to be a sacred mountain and is essentially a giant teleportation machine. They also have stories of their greatest warrior protecting the pass, and stopping people from getting to the top, where the a strange black stone is, so we know it served an important at some point in history.

It is possible that Ramiel somehow acted as a portal, or at least a small window, that the Asteri could control and used to send the Illyrians, soldiers they had created for conquest, into Prythian, since they obviously had some issue with the people of Dusk.

If I remember correctly, CC mentions that the Starborn Queen Theia, who is presumably from the Dusk Court, created problems for the Asteri, so it is possible that in return they made Illyrians to fight for them in Prythian, but when Theia somehow removed their access to Prythian, the Illyrians were left behind, with protecting Ramiel programmed into their brains, and the Asteri created new and improved soldiers for Migard, who were more obedient and had better healing.

[wingedblooms]

Blooming dreams

Gardeners, I think, dream bigger dreams than emperors. (Mary Cantwell)

This meta is a continuation of my thoughts over the years, but especially the ones expressed in the following links. Please be aware that there are major hofas spoilers in this post and avoid if needed.

Secret, lovely seer / Forbidden secrets

A rose in the thorns / The flower of life

Seer, wise woman, witch / Three sisters witches / Starborn light

Since my first meta, I have been fixated on Elain’s connection to the Mother, Cauldron, and Fate (let's call her Wyrd) and her potential powers, including sight, shapeshifting, and healing. They are all related when you’re talking about Wyrd, though I am not here to say what I have written is what Sarah has planned. This post is more a love letter to Sarah’s mystical and earthy depiction of Elain and what I would love to see in her story based on all the seeds she’s planted (and if there is an actual magical bean seed involved, I’ll love her all the more for it). Thanks especially to @psychologynerd for previewing this fever dream of a post.

I gazed again at that sad, dark house—the place that had been a prison. Elain had said she missed it, and I wondered what she saw when she looked at the cottage. If she beheld not a prison but a shelter—a shelter from a world that had possessed so little good, but she tried to find it anyway, even if it had seemed foolish and useless to me. She had looked at that cottage with hope; I had looked at it with nothing but hatred. And I knew which one of us had been stronger. (acotar)

From the first book in the series, Feyre recognizes that Elain views things differently. She views things that are sad and dark with hope, and that’s why Sarah has called her the quiet dreamer. It’s a strength that sets her apart. I like to think that’s also what the Cauldron—though warped by the Asteri—saw when she was forced into its womb. 

The Cauldron seemed to realize what she’d done, too, as his head thumped onto the mossy ground. That Elain…Elain had defended this thief. Elain, who it had gifted with such powers, found her so lovely it had wanted to give her something…It would not harm Elain, even in its hunt to reclaim what had been taken. (acowar)

@silverlinedeyes and I wondered if it may have recognized Elain as a kindred spirit, some echo of its Mother form. A creator, life-bringer. Were the waters of the Cauldron more like Silba’s Womb—a darkness of creation, sweet and lovely—when Elain was immersed? Or is it possible that when Elain entered its dark womb she viewed it differently than her sister? Did she see a wounded creator to help rather than an enemy to combat? 

Elain’s hopeful perspective might be why it gifted her with such powers, powers that we know allow her to see differently than others. And since it may have enhanced her unique perception, I wonder if it also enhanced her ability to bring life and beauty into the world. As a gardener, Elain is well acquainted with the task of envisioning her garden and then getting her hands dirty to make that vision a reality. Dream and reality are entwined in gardening, just like her Sight.

“She loves to garden. Always loved growing things. Even when we were destitute, she managed to tend a little garden in the warmer months. And when–when our fortune returned, she took to tending and planting the most beautiful gardens you’ve ever seen. Even in Prythian. It drove the servants mad, because they were supposed to do the work and ladies were only meant to clip a rose here and there, but Elain would put on a hat and gloves and kneel in the dirt, weeding. She acted like a purebred lady in every regard but that.” (acowar)  If Elain was a blooming flower in this army camp, then Nesta…she was a freshly forged sword, waiting to draw blood. [...] Nesta stared them all down. Elain kept her focus on the dry, rocky ground. (acowar)  She had no mental shields, no barriers. The gates to her mind…Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers–or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. (acowar) If Elain’s mental gates were those of a sleeping garden, Nesta’s…They belonged to an ancient fortress, sharp and brutal. The sort I imagined they once impaled people upon. (acowar)  “What now?” Elain mused, at last answering my question from moments ago as her attention drifted to the windows facing the sunny street. That smile grew, bright enough that it lit up even Azriel’s shadows across the room. “I would like to build a garden,” she declared. “After all of this…I think the world needs more gardens.” (acowar) 

As we saw in acosf for Nesta—a new type of warrior who forges magical swords and retrieves the Harp from an ancient fortress (the Prison) connected to the Starborn—these descriptions are clearly meant to foreshadow what occurs in the sisters’ stories. While Nesta is a freshly forged sword, Elain is blooming life in Illyria. And what do we learn in hofas? 

“The Cauldron,” Nesta said hours later, pointing to yet another carving on the wall. It indeed showed a giant cauldron, perched atop what seemed to be a barren mountain peak with three stars above it. Azriel halted, angling his head. “That’s Ramiel.” At Bryce’s questioning look, he explained, “A mountain sacred to the Illyrians.”  Bryce nodded to the carving. “What’s the big deal about a cauldron?” [...]  “All life came and comes from it,” Azriel said with something like reverence. “The Mother poured it into this world, and from it, life blossomed.” (hofas)

We receive confirmation that the Cauldron is associated with the sister peaks, as I suspected, and Ramiel in particular as @merymoonbeam has previously suggested. 

Before Bryce could contemplate this further, Silene went on, But my mother and father knew they needed the most valuable of all the Daglan’s weapons. Bryce tensed. This had to be the thing that had given them the edge— The snows around Ramiel parted, revealing a massive bowl of iron at the foot of the monolith. Even through the vision, its presence leaked into the world, a heavy, ominous thing. “The Cauldron,” Nesta said, dread lacing her voice. […] “The Cauldron was of our world, our heritage. But upon arriving here, the Daglan captured it and used their powers to warp it. To turn it from what it had been into something deadlier. No longer just a tool of creation, but of destruction. And the horrors it produced…those, too, my parents would turn to their advantage.”  [...] “They fought the Daglan and won, she went on. Using the Daglan’s own weapons, they destroyed them. Yet my parents did not think to learn the Daglan’s other secrets—they were too weary, too eager to leave the past behind.” (hofas) 

In Forbidden secrets, I theorized that Elain’s powers might allow her to map the secrets of the land in order to heal it and @offtorivendell discussed magical mounds in her theory on reviving dusk. It seems like the Asteri did indeed leave secrets behind, which might explain why certain places continue to be forbidden and barren. But we are given hope that they do not need to remain that way. In hofas, Bryce wakes and wields the land belonging to her Starborn ancestors on the Prison island:

And precisely as Theia had gifted her own power to Silene … perhaps Silene had in turn left that same power here, to be claimed by a future scion. One by one, rapid as shooting stars, the thoughts raced through Bryce. More on instinct than anything else, she dropped to her knees and slammed her hand atop the eight-pointed star. Bryce reached with her mind, through layers of rock and earth—and there it was. Slumbering beneath her. Not firstlight, not as she knew it on Midgard—but raw Fae power from a time before the Drop. The power ascended toward her through the stone, like a glimmering arrow fired into the dark— [...] Like a small sun emerging from the stone itself, a ball of light burst from the floor. A star, twin to the one in Bryce’s chest. Her starlight at last awoke again, as if reaching with shining fingers for that star hovering inches away. With trembling hands, Bryce guided the star to the one gleaming on her chest. Into her body. White light erupted everywhere. Power, uncut and ancient, scorched through her veins. The hair on her head rose. Debris floated upward. She was everywhere and nowhere. She was the evening star and the last rays of color before the dark. Azriel had nearly reached the tunnel. Another flap of his wings and he’d be swallowed by its dark mouth. But at a mere thought from Bryce, stalactites and stalagmites formed, closing in on him. The room became a wolf, its jaws snapping for the winged warrior— The rock had moved for her, as it had for Silene. “Stop him,” she said in a voice that was more like her father’s than anything she’d ever heard come out of her mouth. Azriel swept for the tunnel archway—and slammed into a wall of stone. The exit had sealed. Slowly, he turned, wings rustling. Blood trickled out of his nose from his face-first collision with the rock now in his path. He spread his wings, bracing for a fight. The mountain shook, the chamber with it. Debris fell from the ceiling. Walls began shifting, rock groaning against rock. As if the place this had once been was fighting to emerge from the stone. [...] From far away, she could sense it: the things lurking within the mountain, her mountain. Twisted, wretched creatures. Some had been here since Silene had trapped them. Had been contemplating their escape and revenge all this time. She’d let them out if she restored the mountain to its former glory. And in that moment, the mountain—the island—spoke to her. Alone. It was so alone—it had been waiting all this time. Cold and adrift in this thrashing gray sea. If she could reach out, if she could open her heart to it…it might sing again. Awaken. There was a beating, vibrant heart locked away, far beneath them. If she freed it, the land would rise from its slumber, and such wonders would spring again from its earth— (hofas)

The mountain–Bryce’s mountain–speaks to her, asking her to open her heart to it so it can finally rise from its slumber. Cue internal screaming, my friends, because this language was intentional and it might finally explain Elain’s conversation in this scene: 

She looked away—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly. He wasn’t sure how to respond, so he said nothing, and drained his tea, even as it burned his mouth. “When I sleep,” she murmured, “I can hear your heart beating through the stone.” She angled her head, as if the city view held some answer. “Can you hear mine?” He wasn’t sure if she truly meant to address him, but he said, “No, lady. I cannot.” (acowar)

Elain’s hearing is a source of concern after she is Made because it is unusually heightened; she hears so many things, usually connected to the nature around her as @silverlinedeyes theorized. Like calls to like, and so she might be able to hear the beating heart of the land around her, even as it slumbers. Perhaps that is why her eyes were drawn to the barren ground in Illyria.

Vesperus, an Asteri trapped in a glass coffin below the Prison, tells us more about the connection between the Cauldron and the land: 

“I am the Evening Star,” Vesperus seethed. Bryce rolled her eyes. “Fine, we’ll call you the Evening Star, too. Happy?” “Is it not fitting?” A wave of long fingers capped in sharp nails. “I drank from the land’s magic, and the land’s magic drank from me.” [...] Vesperus folded her hands in her lap. “A planet that was once green, as this one is.” “And that wasn’t good enough?” “We grew too populous. Wars broke out between the various beings on our world. Some of us saw the changes in the land beginning—rivers run dry, clouds so thick the sun could not pierce them—and left. Our brightest minds found ways to bend the fabric of worlds. To travel between them. Wayfarers, we called them. World-walkers.” [...] “Once we left our home world, our powers began to dim. Too late, we realized that we had been dependent on our land’s inherent magic. The magic in other worlds was not potent enough. Yet we could not find the way back home. Those of us who ventured here found ways to amplify that power, thanks to the gifts of the land. We pooled our power, and imbued those gifts into the Cauldron so that it would work our will. We Made the Trove from it. And then bound the very essence of the Cauldron to the soul of this world.” Solas. “So destroy the Cauldron…” “And you destroy this world. One cannot exist without the other.”

This should come as no surprise because we saw this play out in acowar, but the Cauldron is tied to the soul of their world. The term soul is intentional, and we will return to it in a bit, but I started to wonder in Forbidden secrets about that connection. The influence of Wyrd is especially clear in the sacred peaks, where the Asteri left behind their secrets. Could Elain unravel the Asteri’s magic from the slumbering heart of the earth, and unbind the Cauldron as a result? Or will she need to go to Cretea to retrieve and purify the magic of the Asteri from the Cauldron like a healer would, in body and in spirit? (Hello, Nephelle celebrations, let’s go.) Nothing feels more right than seeing our strong-willed gardener get her hands dirty as she rips out the Asteri from the root, or beating heart, of their world. Sarah may have even hinted at this role for Elain as she describes getting into her mind for her book:

“There was literally ivy everywhere: in the garden beds, wrapped around the trees, crawling up the sides of the house. So I went into this obsessive, I-need-to-rip-out-every-last-strand-of-ivy-before-I-have-this-baby mode. And I remember the entire time I was ripping out the ivy, and trying to get some semblance of order into the garden beds, I just slipped into Elain’s head. Elain is a gardener, and everything I did during those weeks became research for her book. I’m not even joking. Elain’s now going to have dreams about ripping ivy out and the ivy creeping in through the windows to strangle her at night, because let me tell you, that ivy does not want to go.” (Sarah’s interview in acofas) 

English ivy is an aggressive invader and its hosts decline over time before they die. That’s exactly what the Asteri are: aggressive invaders that feed off of their hosts, warping the power of the land for their sole benefit, until it begins to wither away. In hofas, we learn that the Asteri hid their power throughout the land, including at the root of sacred mountains:

Vesperus backed up a half step, hissing at the gleaming weapon. “We hid pockets of our power throughout the lands, in case the vermin should cause … problems. It seems our wisdom did not fail us.”

“There are no such places,” Azriel countered coldly.

“Are there not?” Vesperus grinned broadly, showing all of her too-white teeth. “Have you looked beneath every sacred mountain? At their very roots? The magic draws all sorts of creatures. I can sense them even now, slithering about, gnawing on the magic. My magic. They’re as much vermin as the rest of you.” (hofas)

And we see the moment Bryce discovers that Vesperus has hidden her power in the root of the Prison mountain, which is what sustains her and weakens the land: 

Bryce clutched the Starsword tighter. Its power thudded into her palms like a heartbeat. “But why store your power here? It’s an island—not exactly an easy pit stop.” “There are certain places, girl, that are better suited to hold power than others. Places where the veil between worlds is thin, and magic naturally abounds. Our light thrives in such environments, sustained by the regenerative magic of the land.” She gestured around them. “This island is a thin place—the mists around it declare it so.”  […] “Every world has at least one thin place,” Vesperus drawled. “And there are always certain people more suited to exploit it—to claim its powers, to travel through them to other worlds.” […] “Theia had the gift,” Vesperus said, “but did not understand how to claim the light. I made sure never to reveal how during her training—how she might light up entire worlds, if she wished, if she seized the power to amplify her own. But you, Light-Stealer…She must have passed the gift down to you. And it seems you have learned what she did not.”  Vesperus peered at her bare feet, the rock beneath. “Theia never learned how to access the power I cached beneath my palace. She had no choice but to leave it there, buried in the veins of this mountain. Her loss—and my gain.” Oh gods. There was a fucking firstlight core here, far beneath their feet— (hofas)

These thin places are where ley lines—highways for magic and communication—overlap, allowing travel for those who are suited to it (wayfarers). Starborn and Asteri alike seem to be suited to these places, and have used them to store their power, causing the land around it to wither. 

“Ley lines,” Bryce breathed. Aidas nodded. “These lines are capable of moving magic, but also carrying communications across great distances.” Like those between the Gates of Crescent City, the way she’d spoken to Danika the day she’d made the Drop. “There are ley lines across the whole of the universe. And the planets—like Midgard, like Hel, like the home world of the Fae—atop those lines are joined by time and space and the Void itself. It thins the veils separating us. The Asteri have long chosen worlds that are on the ley lines for that exact purpose. It made it easier to move between them, to colonize those planets. There are certain places on each of these worlds where the most ley lines overlap, and thus the barrier between worlds is at its weakest.” Everything slotted together. “Thin places,” Bryce said with sudden certainty. “Precisely,” Apollion answered for Aidas with an approving nod. “The Northern Rift, the Southern Rift—both lie atop a tremendous knot of ley lines. And while those under Avallen are not as strong, the island is unique as a thin place thanks to the presence of black salt—which ties it to Hel.” “And the mists?” Hunt asked. “What’s the deal with them?” “The mists are a result of the ley lines’ power,” Aidas said. “They’re an indication of a thin place. Hoping to find a ley line strong enough to help her transfer and hide Theia’s power, Helena sent a fleet of Fae with earth magic to scour every misty place they could find on Midgard. When they told her of a place wreathed in mists so thick they could not pierce them, Helena went to investigate. The mists parted for her—as if they had been waiting. She found the small network of caves on Avallen … and the black salt beneath the surface.”

All of the sister peaks thrum with power and are at odds with the land around them. Barren. They might all be thin places, interconnected through ley lines...and hiding a cache of magic in the root (heart) of their souls.

Bryce’s ancestors, separated by the Void, planted clues for those with the gifts and vision to see it.

What had looked like etched seas or rivers of stars now filled in with starlight, became … alive. Moving, cascading, coursing. A secret illustration, only for those with the gifts and vision to see it. (hofas)

A secret carved in stone. What secrets remain under other sacred mountains, such as Ramiel? Is it any coincidence that Enalius, who defended Ramiel, was the owner of Truth-Teller? Or that the Cauldron is depicted there? Who would be equipped with the gifts and vision to uncover those secrets and finally set the soul of the land free, like Bryce? 

“Light blasted up through the blades into her hands, her arms, her heart. Bryce could hear it through her feet, through the stone. The song of the land beneath her. Quiet and old and forgotten, but there. She heard how Avallen had yielded its joy, its bright green lands and skies and flowers, so it might hold the power as it was bid, waiting all this time for someone to unleash it. To free it. […] Helena had bound the soul of this land in magical chains. No more. No more would Bryce allow the Fae to lay claim over anything. “You’re free,” Bryce whispered to Avallen, to the land and the pure, inherent magic beneath it. “Be free.” And it was. (hofas)

Helena bound the soul of Avallen in magical chains. Doesn't that sound like what the Asteri did with the Cauldron and the land? There are so many hints that Elain is set up to address this plot, but the one I find the most compelling is given by the Under-King when he confirms who Wyrd (Urd) is:

The Under-King lounged on a throne beneath a behemoth statue of a figure holding a black metal bowl between her upraised hands. Symbols were carved all over the bowl, continuing down her fingers, her arms, her body. Ithan could only assume it was meant to represent Urd. No other temples ever depicted the goddess, no one even dared—most people claimed that fate was impossible to portray in any one form. But it seemed that the dead, unlike the living, had a vision of her. And those symbols running from the bowl onto her skin…they were like tattoos.” […] “And she,” the Under-King went on, gesturing to that unusual depiction of Urd towering above him, “was not a goddess, but a force that governed worlds. A cauldron of life, brimming with the language of creation. Urd, they call her here—a bastardized version of her true name. Wyrd, we called her in that old world.” (hofas)

Now, doesn't that sound familiar?

Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess—perhaps even the Mother herself. Nesta hadn’t let herself dwell on why she’d felt the need to set the rose there. Why she hadn’t just thrown it in a drawer. (acosf)

The statues are essentially the same and Wyrd has already been described in terms that evoke the Mother, Cauldron, and Fate (Forces That Be). And Nesta just happened to feel the need (fateful tug?) to place Elain’s rose—a symbol of life and joy and beauty—right next to Wyrd, and drew our attention to it again in the final scene of her story. What do you want to bet that Wyrd, the Stone Mother, gave her favorite gardener the gifts and vision she needs to make her dream of building more gardens, of breathing life and beauty into the land, a reality?

Sarah has confirmed that the main female characters in her books are helped by others, usually a love interest and friends. So who might be foreshadowed to help Elain?

I dragged a hand over my face before going to Elain and touching her too-bony shoulder. “Can I set you up in the garden? The herbs you planted are coming in nicely.”  “I can help her,” said Azriel, stepping to the table as Elain silently rose. No shadows at his ear, no darkness ringing his fingers as he extended a hand. (acowar)  - “I’ll help you,” Nesta offered.  But Elain shook her head. “Nuala and Cerridwen will help me.”  Then she was gone–shoulders a little squarer.  - It was three by the time the others went to bed. [...] Azriel and Elain remained in the sitting room, my sister showing him the plans she’d sketched to expand the garden in the back of the town house, using the seeds and tools my family had given her tonight. (acofas)

It’s no coincidence that the characters closest to Elain possess unique powers that complement her own and relate specifically to the elements of Stone Mother. Azriel learned to speak the language of shadow and wind and stone, while the half-wraith twins are nothing but shadow and mist, able to walk through walls, stone as @psychee92 discusses here. Their magic likely thrives in thin parts of the world. It also isn't a coincidence that Nesta noticed and wondered this:  

“You came,” Elain said behind her, and Nesta started, not having heard her sister approach. She scanned Elain from head to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends. (acosf) 

Their beautiful, wraith-like team has the gifts necessary to traverse the slumbering heart of the earth as easily as foreign courts, which is a hard combination to find and is uniquely suited for Elain’s mission to release the Cauldron and land from the magical chains of the Asteri. Especially since we learn that Bryce uses both blades of the Starborn to free Avallen from its magical chains:

On an exhale, she plunged the weapons into the slits in the eight-pointed star. The small one for the knife. The larger one for the sword.

And like a key turning in a lock, they released what lay beneath. (hofas)

They even help Bryce rid the land of the Asteri and their core of power, creating a larger void to devour the one the Asteri set in place. Back in acowar, as many have noticed, Sarah already planted this moment between Azriel and Elain:

I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection…that knife. (acowar)

She and Azriel seem to represent the balance of light and dark in the Starsword and Truth-Teller, as @merymoonbeam theorized. The Starborn blade—the one belonging to Enalius—is a bridge of connection between them. Bryce leaves the Starsword (Gwydion) and Truth-Teller with Nesta, encouraging her to learn about her connection to the Starborn (eight-pointed star). That might mean the Archeron Starborn connection may happen after all. I could see Elain wielding those blades when needed, activating their magic as she seemed to do with Truth-Teller, to release the land from its magical chains. It would also be interesting if Elain and Azriel functioned like the Made blades themselves, releasing the Asteri’s chains with their own blend of raw magic, and watching joyously as life blooms in earnest again.

Once they remove the magical chains of the Asteri—on the land and their sacred Cauldron—perhaps we’ll also discover what exists between Elain and Azriel at last: 

Elain sat silently at one of the wrought-iron tables, a cup of tea before her. Azriel was sprawled on the chaise longue across the gray stones, sunning his wings and reading what looked to be a stack of reports–likely information on the Autumn Court that he planned to present to Rhys once he’d sorted through it all. Already dressed for the Hewn City–the brutal, beautiful armor so at odds with the lovely garden. And my sister sitting within it. 

“Why not make them mates?” I mused. “Why Lucien?” 

“I’d keep that question from Lucien.” 

“I’m serious.” I turned toward him and crossed my arms. “What decides it? Who decides it?” 

Rhys straightened his lapels before plucking an invisible piece of lint from them. “Fate, the Mother, the Cauldron’s swirling eddies…” (acowar)

@silverlinedeyes, @offtorivendell, @elriell and others have written extensively about mating bonds, so I won’t discuss that in depth here. Essentially, Feysand and Nessian appear to have bonds that are true in spirit, and they are described as living threads of pure golden light between their souls. 

Thread after thread of pure golden light flowed into him, and he met it with his own. Where those threads wove together, life glowed like starfire, and she had never seen anything more beautiful, felt anything more beautiful. (acosf) 

This living light reminds me of the dawn, which is associated with healing and new beginnings. When Feysand and Nessian bind their souls together in these scenes, the dawn is invoked each time: 

Feysand

…I was his and he was mine, and we were the beginning and middle and end. We were a song that had been sung from the very first ember of light in the world. (acomaf)

Nessian

Cassian roared as he came, and the sound was the summons of a hunt, a symphony, a single clear horn playing as dawn broke over the world. (acosf)

And when Azriel first sees Elain in his bonus chapter, her hair is unbound and she appears like the dawn, gilded in living light on the longest night of the year. 

Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was.

The Faelights gilded Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. (Azriel’s bonus chapter)

Is it possible that, with Elain’s connection to Wyrd and the land, her own threads of life are similarly chained, or warped? Perhaps when Elain clears away the Asteri’s power, we will finally see the truth blooming between them: threads of golden light twining together in an endless, earthy melody.

[wishfulimaginings]

Hofas Headconon

Midgard figures out a way to sustain their tech with their own powers in place of firstlight. And Bryce sends Nesta and Az an apology present.

Imagine this:

Nesta n Az lounging in the HoW private library and suddenly a portal opens, before they can react it closes back up. And in its place is a tiny package with the note,

" Dearest friends Azriel and Nesta ,

Consider this as an "Im sorry I stole your Dagger" and a " Thank you for helping me save my world from evil Intergalactic parasites" presents.

Xoxo,

Bryce

Ps: if it stops working hit it with your power, "

And when they open it they find two ipods full of music from Midgard !

And and and

Imagine an ugly baby statue present shows up on solstice with a note , " my mom made me send it "

[emilystheories]

The Throne of Glass world no longer exists.

It was destroyed by the Asteri to create Midgard.

[Spoilers for Throne of Glass, ACOTAR, and Crescent City]

Many thousands of years ago, and prior to the Asteri's invasion of Midgard, there existed another civilisation. Part of this civilisation lived in a place called Parthos.

More specifically, when asked what the Crescent City world was before the Asteri's reign, Tharion noted that "ancient humans and their gods dwelled here."

An exact description of the Throne of Glass world.

Interestingly, despite the Crescent City books mentioning other continents (such as Pangera), readers are only given a map of Lunathion.

This is particularly strange, as all other SJM books have provided a full world map.

So, why would this be hidden for Crescent City...?

As such, I theorise that Midgard is actually the Throne of Glass world; hence why a full map has not yet been revealed.

Thus, I believe that following the events of Kingdom of Ash, some years later, the Asteri showed up and destroyed their world. The result of this was the creation of Midgard, and subsequently Lunathion - the world Bryce inhabits today.

The Timeline.

Evidently, this theory suggests that the timeline between the ACOTAR, CC and TOG worlds are not simultaneous, but rather that Throne of Glass occurred in the past - many thousands of years ago.

When considering this possibility, some rebut that this cannot be possible, as Aelin fell through worlds - right past Velaris and Lunathion. However, there is nothing to suggest that Aelin didn't also fall through time.

In fact, there are a multitude of hints throughout the various SJM books to suggest that time travel, or time manipulation, is indeed possible:

When the Asteri lured people into Midgard, it is said they offered a hand through "space and time."

The Harp, when used, can transport people through "space and eons." In fact, the 26th string is time itself - but what happens when a full melody is played?

Merrill straight up suggests that all of the worlds overlap - sharing the same space, but are separated by time. Almost as if it suggests that ACOTAR, CC and TOG are in the same 'world,' but manifestations of differing time periods; the past (TOG), the present (ACOTAR), and the future (CC).

Most importantly, when Bryce lands in Prythian, she starts to wonder if she had travelled in time; or, if this new world occupies a different time period (the exact concept that Merrill just suggested...)

Further, in her most recent interview, SJM was asked whether time travel would play a part in future books. SJM mysteriously replied, "no spoilers."

Thus, if this theory is correct, and Throne of Glass is indeed set in the past, then it is perhaps no coincidence that "Midgard" is the Norse name for "Earth."

And that "Terrasen" means "Old Earth."

Parthos.

As previously mentioned, a portion of the civilisation that used to inhabit Midgard (and as this theory suggests, the TOG characters) resided in an ancient city called Parthos.

As readers, we are first offered a glimpse of Parthos when Apollion takes Bryce to a "dream world" - a landscape in which the Great Library of Parthos used to be.

When in this dream world, Bryce notes that what remains of Parthos is a "DUSTY plain."

Interestingly, in the ACOTAR world, the Bone Carver mentioned that the world he (and his siblings) came from is now nothing more than "DUST drifting across a plain."

As the Bone Carver mentions this, Feyre notes that he draws three interlocking circles into the ground.

This is the exact symbol of Bryce's Archesian necklace - which is also the symbol of Parthos.

If this theory is correct, then the Bone Carver originated from Parthos - from the Throne of Glass world.

Considering the similarities between the Bone Carver and the Sin Eater (the absent God-like being in the TOG world who quite literally carved bones, and was known as the 'God of Truth')... it makes perfect sense.

However, the most telling clue of all, that connects everything together, is this;

Knowing that Parthos is referred to as a "dusty" plain, consider Rowan's words to Aelin:

"I love you. There is no limit to what I can give to you, no time I need. Even when this world is a FORGOTTEN WHISPER OF DUST between the stars, I will love you."

Why would the world Aelin and Rowan inhabit ever turn into a "forgotten whisper of dust"? Just like Parthos?

Because IT IS Parthos.

It is the world the Asteri destroyed to create Midgard.

Asteri Archives.

As even further proof, recall that when Bryce entered the Asteri's archive rooms at the end of CC2, she found notes on how Midgard came to be.

These notes stated that the "indigenous life was not sustainable" for the Asteri.

If this theory is correct, this suggests that the "indigenous" lives were the Throne of Glass humans, and that they did not possess enough magic (or first-light) to feed the Asteri.

We already know this is true, as it was a similar problem that the Valg previously faced.

Additionally, on the exact same page of the notes that detail the Asteri's invasion of Midgard, there is a sketch of both a wolf shifter, and a mer.

The wolf shifters and the mer are the two species confirmed to be the Throne of Glass fae.

So, it begs the question; why were the Throne of Glass fae explicitly mentioned on the Asteri's Midgard (pre-colonisation) notes...?

The Southern Continent.

If Midgard is built on the ruins of the Throne of Glass world, then I believe that Lunathion is situated on the Southern Continent (the setting of the TOG book, Tower of Dawn).

More specifically, as Lunathion is said to be modelled after an "ancient city," I believe it is modelled after the famed Southern Continent City - Antica.

In Tower of Dawn, Antica is described as a city surrounded by a wall, lined with "olive groves" and "wheat farms" bordering the city.

Lunathion is described in the exact same way:

Further, both Lunathion and Antica have "arid" climates:

Lunathion:

Antica:

And, most notably, both are surrounded by deserts; a unique geographical feature that is not prominently featured in other SJM settings.

As such, this suggests that the lost library of Parthos, is the Torre Cesme.

Perhaps the most sacred building in the entirety of the Throne of Glass world, the Torre Cesme is home to a huge library - one that is said to be the oldest.

In the present day, Jesiba Roga guards the remaining books that were once held in the library of Parthos (or, in the Torre Cesme library).

Prior to the end of CC1, Jesiba kept these books locked away in her store, Griffin Antiquities. Interestingly, a set of "glaring owl eyes" had been placed on the store to Jesiba's shop.

Owl's are the symbol of Silba, and the healers of the Torre Cesme.

Further, considering that Yrene's healing abilities are the exact same as Bryce's Starborn powers - could this explain why Jesiba looked like she had "seen a ghost" when she first beheld Bryce's Starborn light?

Such a notion makes even more sense when you consider that Hypaxia's tutor was brought back to life using necromancy, and was originally an inhabitant of Parthos.

Hypaxia states that this tutor specifically trained her in healing magic; just like the healers of the Torre Cesme.

In fact, the scene of Hypaxia removing the Kristallos venom is near identical to Yrene removing the Valg parasite from Chaol:

Lidia Cervos.

Speaking of necromancy, knowing that Hypaxia's family dabbles in such magic calls into question the identify of Lidia, Hypaxia's half-sister.

Is she Aelin Galathynius, brought back to life?

Or, perhaps she is a child of Aelin and Rowan, brought back to life?

Not only do Lidia and Aelin look near identical,

Not only is Lidia represented by flame (Aelin's power),

But her shifted form is that of a deer; that sacred animal of Terrasen. Even her last name "Cervos" is a type of female deer.

Lidia is also seen wearing a "gold ring, crowned with a square, clean-cut ruby." This is the exact description of the ring Aelin have to Rowan when they married.

Further, Ruhn also suggests that Lidia must be an Asteri, or as old as one, given the way she uses language. However, as Lidia is only 47, this makes no sense.

However, it makes perfect sense if Ruhn is actually talking to Aelin, or Aelin's child; someone who, according to this theory, existed many thousands of years ago.

(And, as a side note - given that Lidia looks like the "spitting image" of Luna, and that Luna's sacred animal is the Stag... could it be that Luna is Aelin? And that Lunathion was named after her?)

Connections.

Is it then perhaps no coincidence that one of the houses of Lunathion is the "House of Flame and Shadow." Aelin was known as the "Queen of Flame and Shadow."

In fact, Throne of Glass being the past world of Crescent City explains a plethora of connections:

The "Stag King" of Avallen.

Ruhn being named after the Ruhnn mountains.

Why so many CC places sound like TOG places (Morrah = Morath, Korinth = Orynth).

The witches worshipping the same "three-faced goddess."

Why wyrdmarks can be found everywhere (especially underwater, where some of the ruins of the "ancient civilisation" are said to lie).

It also explains the "World of Throne of Glass" book, which to this day, mysteriously remains unpublished.

According to SJM, the World of Throne of Glass is an "encyclopedia" that documents the full history of the Throne of Glass world. Written by a "grumpy librarian," SJM stated that it will "feel like a book you can pull off the shelves of an ancient library."

It's almost as if the World of Throne of Glass is a Parthos book in itself...

Is that why it remains unreleased?

Future books.

If this theory is correct, some may wonder how SJM could possibly include TOG characters if they are indeed dead.

I believe there are two viable options:

The "rewrite history" route:

In a future multiverse book series, the main characters of CC and ACOTAR would team up, and using the Harp/Horn (or perhaps the full power of the Dread Trove), they would go back in time. In doing so, they would join forces with the TOG characters, and stop the Asteri from ever overthrowing their world.

If successful, it would mean that the Dusk Court was never destroyed. At present, Bryce is hinted to be the ruler of this court... but it doesn't exist (and there isn't a lot of time to rebuild an entire city). However, if time manipulation was used... no rebuilding would be necessary.

It would also explain why the Oracle told Ruhn that the "royal bloodline will end" with him - as Midgard would never be created, the same applies for the Autumn King's reign.

The "escape" route:

Alternatively, perhaps when the Asteri arrived in the TOG world, some of the main characters were able to escape into other worlds - such as Prythian.

This would explain why so many of the characters in the ACOTAR and TOG worlds share many similarities (for example, Tamlin as the ancestor of Aedion and Lysandra...)

This would also explain why so many of the ACOTAR character's last names have been hidden from the reader.

Some characters may have escaped elsewhere too, such as Hel...

(^ This is more of a crack theory, but there's only two characters in the SJM universe who have "freakishly" blue eyes, can shape shift into any form they choose, and have powers that manifest as cold...)

However, no matter the method of saving the world, or storyline adopted, Aelin said it best herself:

"This world will be saved and remade by the dreamers."