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driedposies · 1 month ago

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“My little Nepenthe,” {CHAPTER THREE: I Feel Them Drown My Name}

Chapter summary: A prophecy has been dreamed, and a plan has been made. Trust the fox and kill a King.

Warnings: Explicit language, sexual content in later chapter (18+ only!), violence, bodily injury, torture, character death.

Chapter lyric: "Grace" by Jeff Buckley

Word count: 4.9k

Notes: Taglist at the bottom.

Elain’s prophetic words of spring being the season of change had you in a continual state of worry. Feyre’s and your nephew, Nyx’s, almost death, and then Nesta’s forced participation in the Blood Rite.

Change had not finished running its course; that lingering premonition had Elain more often trapped in a haze of visions. It frightened you how she wilted like a flower without water, only adding to your continual anxiety and transforming your dried skin into blisters.

A week after Nyx's birth, Feyre was finally joining family dinners again, and another after that, she was leaving the home to take walks. There was a small comfort that came from your sister's rapid healing.

The new season was soon cusping to its full height, attesting to how fast time was suddenly passing. Your family visited your father to introduce his first grandchild, and three days later, the Inner Circle celebrated Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony. You wouldn’t see them for two weeks after that.

Anxiety was slowly easing away like water down a stream, and the constant reminder of Eris was no longer a raging fire, but a wisp of smoke.

Upon your sister and brother-in-law’s return, Nesta practically glowed with happiness, and Cassian shared that same brightness. Family dinners resumed with a lack of tension, making sitting down with everyone no longer a dreadful experience. You still fussed over Elain as she continued to speak of her dreams of you and a fox.

Laughs were shared, especially when Nyx stole everyone’s attention with a chortle of his own. Tonight was just the same, until Cassian sat beside Nesta, reaching for her hand with a mellowed expression.

Rhys’ brows formed a line and Feyre’s focus perked upwards.

Cassian only huffed. “Eris,” is all he states, and your gaze instantly flicks towards the Illyrian male upon the mention. “He wants another meeting. With everyone. It’s about his father and Koschei.”

You blinked with surprise. This was the first time they discussed anything political or a courtly issue with you and Elain present.

“Everyone?” Rhys repeats back, starlight gaze raking over the table.

Cassian nods his head once, his displeasure apparent. “He believes his father is taking a deal with Koschei into consideration. Says he’s ready to take him off of the board.”

Your mouth dries, tongue weighing heavy. They were discussing the usurpation of the Autumn Court throne. And by the look on Rhys’ face, it’s clear that those plans aren’t recent news. You finally begin to piece together Eris’s reasoning for his alliances with the Night Court. Eris was already garnering allies for the inevitable power shift.

“Well,” Rhys drawls out, leaning his elbows onto the dinner table, “seems like it’s time to kill a king.”

Arguments were heard about your and Elain’s participation in this meeting with Eris. The Autumn male had made it clear he wanted this meeting with the entirety of the Inner Circle as to not have to worry about relaying information and risk the wrong ears hearing it. This split revealed that Eris was right—you were an outsider to a family circle.

But it was Elain who spoke up, a rare anger in her voice when she reminded everyone that you both were just as much a part of the Inner Circle as they all were. Upon Feyre's voice of agreement, the protests were put to rest.

For the second time, you were standing on the grounds of Hewn City, the place just as dreary as when you last left it. You balled your right hand, remembering the lingering sting after your first confrontation with the male you’re about to be in the same room as.

A heavy hand rests on the small of your back. “You don’t have to worry. He won’t be able to hurt you.”

You give Azriel a tight smile, nodding your head once despite the fact it wasn’t getting hurt you feared. It was that small piece of blackmail Eris still hung over your head, and this meeting was the perfect opportunity for him to dangle it.

Keir greeted your group, relaying that Eris had been seen to a suite already and had been awaiting the Inner Circle’s arrival. There was suspicion drawn in the male’s brow, but one wicked grin from Mor’s red-painted lips had him swallowing any questions.

Eris was sat by the roaring hearth, relaxed in the lounge as he picked at his nails. You school yourself into a mask of seeming unperturbed, even when Eris’s amber gaze settled onto you first, a flash of great satisfaction sinking into his posture.

Azriel angled himself in front of you from Eris’s view before he could open his mouth. You and Elain stood by the Shadowsinger in one corner of the room, while Cassian and Nesta took the other closest to the door. Rhys had Feyre take the other lounge chair opposing Eris, leaning over the backrest like a shadowed guard. Mor and Amren stood the furthest from the Autumn male.

“I’m unable to stay long, and we have much to discuss,” Eris drawled out, the sound raking claws down your spine. “I shall assume the brute has given you the brief?” He then asks, waving a deft hand at Cassian. Nesta scowls much to Eris’s current entertainment.

“He has,” Rhys replies, cold eyes levelled onto Eris promising warning. “Your father’s choice of allies seems to be giving him more enemies.”

Eris’s lazied grin shifts into something more vexed. “So it seems,” he agrees, voice lowering. “This meeting has been a long time coming. Koschei is a threat that doesn’t need Autumn on its side against greater Prythian. It seems a terrible alliance is what it’s going to have to take for action to be made.”

You begin gnawing at the inside of your cheek. It was obvious that the death of Beron was something Eris had already thought extensively on. If you were just going from the tales you’ve heard about the current High Lord of Autumn, you couldn’t blame Eris. He was a tyrannical leader and an even worse father.

“The real question is how you’re going to play this,” Azriel speaks up, folding his arms over his chest, the motion pressing his left bicep into your shoulder.

Eris’s eyes lingered on the contact, his jaw visibly tightening. “The Night Court may be the strongest in Prythian, but it’s all the courts together, allied, that makes the whole continent thrive,” Eris points out, eyes narrowing as he leans forward, the shadow from the flames deepening the contours of his high cheekbones. “My Father has been a thorn for every High Lord for over 500 years. So, no, this isn’t just about how I am going to play this. If it was, none of you would be here.”

A silence hung thick in the air as Eris’s words sunk in. For all of Eris’s poor qualities, he knew how to command a room.

“You need our help,” Rhysand then points out, tilting his head. “The issue lies in how we’re going to be able to help without facing repercussions. I have a family to protect, and I do not need more targets on their backs.”

Eris licks his teeth as he considers his next words. “I have a family to protect too,” he finally says, voice weighted. “I just need to get him on his own to face him in a one-on-one duel. The issue is, is that he’s always around advisors, esteemed guests or a dozen guards. And, then there’s the problem of an excuse to take him on without facing charges of usurpation.”

Rhysand dampens his lips, and it’s clear by the long pause he and Feyre are speaking internally.

“You have a suggestion?” Cassian asks, and similar to a mouse falling into a trap, Eris smiles like a hungry cat.

“There is one thing that my father thoroughly enjoys and something that he wouldn’t question you being in and around Autumn for,” Eris begins, and you couldn’t help but fret his next words. “A wedding.”

“You cannot be still serious about Nesta?” Feyre states, that controlled anger evident in her features.

Cassian makes a low growling sound, baring his teeth like he was prepared to take a chunk out of Eris’s throat. Nesta looks like she is about to speak up next when Eris scoffs.

“No. It wouldn’t work, anyhow. You can smell the mating bond within a 10-mile radius,” Eris sneered as if the scent repulsed him. “I suggest a long period of courting to bypass the laws of betrothal, but you’ll be allowed to come and go without much hindrance.”

Another silence took hold of the room, the next question being who would be the one to stick their necks out. Amren, Mor and Feyre were already out of the question, and by what Eris just pointed out, that also included Nesta.

You then finally register why Eris requested to have the entire Inner Circle present, and it wasn’t to alleviate the risk of these plans reaching the wrong ears. Straightening your back, you finally meet Eris’s lingering gaze and the silent inquiry.

A hand grips yours, and you turn to Elain with a drop of concern. Her warm brown eyes were bright, giving you that same look she did when speaking about her dreams. Your lips part when she squeezes your fingers, cocking her head towards Eris. You follow her line of vision to Eris’s mahogany doublet, the soft fabric stitched with beautifully handcrafted golden embroidery. From a distance, they looked like just intricate swirls. But on closer inspection, on the right of his chest, the lining formed a fox.

You raise your gaze to meet Eris’s, his grin once again a promise for something sordid. Elain releases your hand, and you finally understand what she is telling you.

“I’ll do it,” your voice cuts through the silence, and every pair of eyes falls onto you. “I’ll be the one to… pretend to be courted by Eris.”

By your offering alone, a new argument sparked in the room. But Eris remained unbothered. He had gotten what he came to achieve.

“You don’t have to go through with this.”

Azriel leaned over the fireplace banister, watching you with concern lining his whiskey eyes. He’d been repeating the same sentiment of choice over the last few weeks of arrangements being put in motion. But it only felt like it came from an unfounded belief in your weakness.

You may not know how to wield a sword or have the heart to kill, but that makes you anything but weak.

“I want to do this,” you say, voice more committed than the last time you told him. “You’ve all done so much for me. This… Koschei is a threat to all of us, and if I can alleviate one problem by just acting like a woman falling in love, then I’ll do it.”

Another line appeared between Azriel’s brows as he looked upon you with fervent worry. He then pushes off the banister, and you stand up straight too, watching as he draws close to you. The shadowsinger stood a few breaths away, and you had to tilt your head back to look him in the eye.

“Our generosity was by our own volition. There is no debt to be paid,” Azriel murmurs, voice soft yet firm in his affirmation.

You chew the inside of your cheek before looking down and away. Two scarred hands rest on the crook of your shoulders, calloused thumbs pressing on the underside of your jaw to force you to look back up. You swallow thickly at the contact, a whole leap and bound compared to the small brushes against your hands and back.

Staring with a widening gaze, Azriel looks at you with determination. “You do not owe us your life,” he says, tone a forced whisper. “The Autumn Court is nothing like Valeris. It’s cutthroat and ruthless. It will not be just Beron you have to worry about. It will be every fae who would kill for just an ounce of power,” Azriel warns like it almost pains him to admit it.

Azriel didn’t need to say it—if you had Eris to go by, you could only imagine the political climate to create such an individual.

“I know what I’m putting myself into,” you state, bringing your hands up to wrap around his wrists. You lend a supporting smile. “When I was still human, and before I lived in a village, I was within high society. I was taught how to behave in such settings. And… I’ll have Eris.”

Something twists in Azriel’s expression at the mere mention of Eris. He, along with everyone else, made it clear they didn’t like your only support being Eris. And whilst you sometimes got the urge to openly defend him, say that you felt like you could trust him, you didn’t want to be ridiculed with questions. No one needed to know about the dress box currently collecting dust underneath your bed.

Azriel shakes his head a little as if rejecting your claim. “You know why I don’t trust Eris to keep you safe,” he affirms, running his thumbs gently down the expanse of your neck until he reaches the bone of your shoulders.

You were aware—Mor made sure you wouldn’t forget the weeks following the private meeting with Eris. You still wanted to question them all about what you had found in the library; bring up what they conveniently left out in the story. But from the look in Azriel’s eyes, it would only espouse an argument. You didn’t want to leave on a negative note. So, you tighten your expression and nod once in understanding.

“I know,” you reply softly, squeezing Azriel’s wrists. “But he’ll have much to lose without keeping me safe.”

In one hour, you will be holding Feyre’s hand and be winnowed from Valeris to the Moonstone Palace, before meeting Eris to be taken directly to The Forest House. A welcoming hearing will be had, but as Nesta had crudely put it, it will most likely be Rhys and Beron showing off their power with tape and measure.

Eris had already put a story in place on how you and he met, and how overcome with infatuation he became for the second Made sister. You had crossed paths after the war with Hybern, a lie, and after began exchanging letters and poems, a half-truth that you knew also served as a reminder of your misdeeds—the manipulative bastard.

You were now packing away your few belongings with Elain, who sat and watched you warily as you fit things into a single leather case.

“Remember what I’ve told you,” Elain says as you pass by her, folding the pair of lace gloves Azriel had gifted you on Winter Solstice into your luggage. “Your fox will be there to guide you; listen to him. Trust the crow. Be careful what you tell the raven.”

You let out a soft sigh, pausing your movements. Looking over at Elain, you allow yourself to feel the ounce of worry she is displaying. Elain’s eyes were clear, but her hands trembled with nervous energy.

Whilst you didn’t understand fully what Elain was mumbling about most of the time, you listened and considered. “Okay,” you murmur, standing by her, cupping her cheek and offering a smile. “I want you to be careful too. Look after yourself. And… don’t be afraid to talk to someone. To Feyre or Nesta. I know your dreams aren’t always amiable.”

Elain’s expression visibly softs as she holds her hand over your own, taking in the warmth of your palm through the cotton glove. “We may all be sisters, but our journeys were never meant to be done together.” Your lips curve into a frown as Elain releases your hand, pulling it down from her face. “Spring is the season of change. But they say Autumn is the season of growth.”

After a long pause, Elain ushers you to continue your packing. The quiet was terse and almost weighted, your sister’s words reminding you more that you won’t be surrounded by allies and family anymore. The only one you can rely on is Eris. The thought made your stomach roll in mild bitterness.

With a final sweep of your room, you pause, staring at the underside of your bed. Then, at the bedsheet you had placed over your desk. You sigh, reaching for the dress box from under your bed, opening the lid and piling all the letters into your hands. Before Elain could ask what you were doing, you threw the papers into the fire. You watch as the evidence burns away.

“You should wear this.” Elain’s voice had you whirling around, eyes wide as you caught her holding up the choker, the orange crystals glowing from the firelight. “It will suit the dress you are wearing,” she adds, nodding to the gown hanging by your closet.

You sigh; unable to say anything against her idea lest you’re questioned about your reasoning. Elain was right—the necklace would suit the dress and the court you were about to make your mark in. The carnelian and gold would shine against the night black.

Perhaps it was time to accept that the necklace would be the first of many Autumn pieces you will have to wear. And, more than likely, wear the first of many gifts from the heir of Autumn himself.

You stood within the grand entrance of the Moonstone Palace. Azriel and Nesta stuck to your sides, as Rhysand, Feyre and Cassian situated themselves closest to the double doorway. The rest of the Inner Circle remained in Valeris for purposes of protection and keeping things in line for the few hours the High Lord and Lady weren’t present. You understood that there were better reasons, at least for Mor, for why they all weren’t coming.

Eris was to arrive at any moment now. He was going to be the one to escort you into the throne room and present you to his father. There would be formal requests to be allowed to court you, but that was all for show. Eris knew Beron would see the opportunities in his son marrying a Cauldron Made fae and the illusions of garnering Night Court influence.

The faux story was about to be put into stone and you wouldn’t be able to back out. One fatal mistake, one wrong word or mannerism could crush this political scheme. The price for being found was higher than what you could imagine. You began to feel the weight of responsibility when the air shifted and Rhys bristled.

“He is here,” is all Rhys needs to state, before the doors are opened to reveal the man you are to pretend to fall in love with.

You suck in a sharp breath through your nose the moment you meet a wicked amber gaze. Eris stood tall and walked with purpose, but had an edge that spoke that he wasn’t uncomfortable or shy about the situation he was coming into. He wore his usual maple and burnt orange colour palates, yet was with black embroidery work instead of the familiar gold. It seemed Eris was already interweaving this narrative into romantic symbolism.

“Eris,” Rhys spoke his name in greeting, a low sound of warning as he surveyed the Autumn male.

Eris replied with a simple nod, eyes never straying from you. “We mustn’t loiter. Beron is already… anxious about your arrival,” he says, before finally giving the High Lord of Night and his Lady a glance.

Rhys nods his head once in understanding as Nesta releases your hand. Eris shifts his focus back onto you, and the sly look returns. He strides up to you, that scent of spiced cinnamon and sandalwood curling around you in a warm embrace. Azriel stiffens for a moment as if preparing for something. Eris merely gives the Shadowsinger an indignant huff.

Eris’ eyes rake over your dress in clear assessment. From what Nesta had told you, other than being black, it was made with Autumn Court fashion in mind. Long lantern sleeves, draping chiffon fabric that bunches at your waist to give the appearance of a half-fitted corset and the familiar gold embellishments of vines and thorns. His gaze settles on your neck for a longer pause, before meeting your stare with a question flickering in his expression.

You swallow, squaring your shoulders and tilting your head up, masking your unease with fierce confidence. Eris’s smile deepens when he takes your gloved hand in his. “Ready to put on a show, dearest?” He asks, and you must force away a scowl at the persistent nickname he picked up.

“As I’ll ever be,” you respond, letting your hand be guided to rest on the crook of Eris’ elbow. You ignore the warmth his body exuded and how it settled into your cold bones—you wouldn’t allow yourself to recognise this odd comfort.

“Good,” Eris states, guiding you after Rhys and Feyre. “Now, I must tell you, as I’m sure your little circle have not. Autumn is not as… lax as Night Court. Do not speak unless spoken to, curtsy the moment those of superior rank address you—you do know how to do that?”

You scoff as you hear your sister and the two Illyrian warriors behind you grumble curses. “Do not fret, Eris. I know how to behave in the presence of high society,” you retort, much to Eris’s chagrin. He wouldn’t make your time together outside of this scheme pleasant. Two could play that game.

“This is more than just high society, dearest,” Eris then tuts, resting his other hand over the one you rest on his elbow, halting your walking. He shifts his torso to face you, gazing down at you through his nose with something clouding his usual arrogance. “You will be watched even when you think you are in the privacy of your chambers.”

You felt yourself blanch for a moment before you school and accept calm over your features. “I understand,” you affirm with a nod.

“It is time to go,” Rhys calls over his shoulder, also finished giving Feyre his small words of advice and comfort for what was about to happen.

Eris gives a grin that would make any man sneer in response. As you prepare yourself to be winnowed, he leans down to your ear.

“If this is going to work, you’re going to need to trust me,” he whispers, turning the skin on your neck into gooseflesh. “Squeeze my arm thrice if you need a quick escape.”

You were shrouded in darkness before you could say a word.

Where the city of Vaerlis felt like a darkly hidden chalice of all things precious, the Autumn Court felt like a continuous breath of fresh air. Arm in arm with Eris, you were welcomed to the sites of The Forest House; a sprawling complex carved into trees and rocks. The plantation burnt by autumn shook with regal ease. Garlands of gold and sepia fluttered with the continual cool breeze, and for a moment, you looked over your shoulder to the view behind you. A stone staircase arched and weaved in multiple directions, and overflowing from various sources, were waterfalls.

It was beautiful; enough to seize your breath from your chest for a few moments. You could stare from a window for hours and see something new.

A deep chuckle beside you pulled you from your reverie, and you met the warmly amused fixture of Eris. “Keep your head forwards, lest you trip over your feet on the way up,” he jests.

You huff a sigh, remembering what Azriel and Eris told you about this place—you will have to school an expression of adoration towards the Autumn male no matter the situation. Fine; so you will play the part. But with your forced smile, you’ll still bite back.

“Well, aren't I fortunate to then have a capable man to catch me if I fall,” you sarcastically retort and paired with your undermining grin, you watch as Eris’s features tighten. Amusement shoots through your system when he looks away, signing his defeat. Perhaps this back-and-forth won’t be so terrible after all.

The Forest House within was certainly no mere house. The main keep rises at the heart of this fortress, its pillars crowned with roofs of burnished copper. Windows were framed by dark oak, the glass catching the reflections of the firey foliage outside. Each hallway was decorated with woollen tapestries, depicting scenes of hunts and faerie creatures. Almost every inch of this place was carved with acorn and ivy motifs; warm in its imitation of a welcoming aura. Yet, it was hard to disregard the foreboding mysteries and ghosts it attempted to hide away.

Where the Night Court was open in its wickedness, the Autumn Court concealed it under centuries of fortified locks and keys.

Four stationed guards were at the end of one hallway with two large double doors, and you swallowed your growing anxiety. You didn’t need to ask to know you were now striding towards the Throne Room, where the man Eris is plotting to murder awaits.

Azriel’s offering of escape shadows you as you feel Eris’s arm squeeze yours. You look at the male through your peripherals and you notice his raised brow. Despite coming this far already, standing at the doors as the guards trade murmurs towards the one who will announce your arrival, Eris gave you one last out.

You steel your expression and turn your gaze forward as the doors open.

There were a few Folk who were gathered within to witness this presentation and declaration of courtship. Three men were easy to identify as Eris’s brothers; all sharing the familiar fire-kissed hair, amber stare, and pale skin smattered with freckles and marks. Each is similar in appearance, but wholly different in deposition. There were four other faerie beings, council members you assumed.

Upon the dais stood the Lady of Autumn, her mane of auburn curls loose, glowing with a faint smile of pride. And upon his golden chair, two steps above his wife, lounged the High Lord of the Autumn Court, Beron Vanserra.

He was not what you envisioned—a man who did not look remotely close to any of his children. Beron was beautiful like every other High Fae; brown hair combed with grey, cheeks rough with stubble, and a few ridged lines formed by cruelty. He looked neither pleased nor upset, more like he was in a constant state of irritation.

Perhaps he was, however. He was made to welcome Rhysand and Feyre into his court as honoured guests despite his hatred of the Night and was to home one for the foreseeable future. Yet unlike Morrigan, no magical laws bind you hereafter Eris’s touch.

“Beron,” Rhysand greets with a grin and a small bow. A symbol of begrudging amenability.

A smirk that didn’t touch Beron’s eyes lifts. He does not bow his head in return. “Rhysand. A pleasure to have your presence within our home,” his voice echoes throughout the hall. His gaze then shifts to you, and the hair on your neck stands on end. “And a pleasure it is to see my eldest son take an interest in something other than court politics and hounds.”

You nod your head in agreement with Beron’s words, allowing a demure smile to bloom across your lips. Eris shifts his weight and you peer up at him. He was already looking down at you with warmed eyes.

Rhysand’s voice breaks your reverie. “I’ve already conferred with Eris about how my mate’s sister will be regarded in your court for the length of their courting,” he affirms, unwavering by Beron’s tightening expression. You could almost feel the silent battle between them—how the air around you vibrated as night clawed with fire.

“Has he now?” Beron’s attention settles on Eris, and you feel him stiffen. You squeeze his arm and he forces his posture to relax.

“He has.”

Despite Eris’s agreements beforehand, Beron gestures for Rhysand to lay out his terms and conditions.

“This is mere courting between two individuals—there are no bindings that shall keep her from returning to my court,” Rhys begins. You blink and swallow thickly, tucking away the fact he knew of that law.

Beron nods his head in acceptance. “Until Eris proposes and she accepts,” he speaks as if it were a threat.

Rhysand continues. “I expect she’ll receive the hospitality she deserves by her standing as my sister-in-law. But, to assure there have been no troubles, I’ll have my Spymaster come through at the end of each week.”

Beron visibly bristles, cocking his head as he feigns deep contemplation. “Anything else?” He drawls out, already exasperated and bruised.

“That is all.”

Everyone holds their breaths as Beron mulls over Rhysand’s conditions. Beron then grins; a wicked thing. “Well, I see no issues in your wishes. I would be delighted to host your sister-in-law in favour of Eris’s proclaimed affection for her.”

The final nail in your coffin had been aligned and hammered in. The only way to get out now was to trade your body for the High Lord of Autumn’s.

CHAPTER FOUR

Taglist

@rcarbo1 @kk191327 @huffleruffplant @seassttar

#acotar #eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris x reader #eris x you #a court of thorns and roses #slow burn #fake dating #azriel #autumn court #autumn #autumnal #beron vanserra #vanserra family #vanserra brothers #lady autumn

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danikamariewrites · 27 days ago

Text

The Door

A Vanserra Brothers Story

Notes: it’s @thehouseofvanserra week! A huge thank you to @readychilledwine for putting this together. I can’t wait to see what everyone else comes up with🧡🧡

Warnings: none

Leaving the throne room after their father was angry always made the Vanserra boys’ skin crawl.

Eris was always blamed for not keeping his brothers in line. The twins, Ceres and Oak, for never being in sync. And little Lucien for never having a heart of stone.

Beron has inventive ways to throw those insults at his sons. None of the seven siblings ever understood why their father was so harsh. They never asked each other that question since it seemed the Forest House was always listening.

Today these four couldn’t contain their annoyance. Once the boys were far from the throne room Ceres threw the first verbal punch, criticizing Lucien.

“He hears it every day from father. Enough.” Eris snaps. Lucien hangs his head, hiding the shameful flush on his cheeks.

As they get further from the throne the bickering picks up. Oak delivers a Beron approved insult, a concerning hush falling over the group of boys. Ceres and Lucien look to Eris. Flames roaring in the eldest Vanserra’s eyes.

Eris grabs Oak by the collar of his tunic, slamming him against the tapestry covered wall. As he berated Oak, the twin was busy feeling what his back came into contac with. It wasn’t stone or marble like the rest the halls.

“Are you listening to me?” Eris seethes. Oak nods. “Yeah yeah, I sound like father… is there something behind this?” Eris shoots him a confused look, pulling Oak away from the tapestry. Gripping the ancient, rough fabric in his fists Eris tugs it away from the wall.

Embedded in the stone is a knarled and misshapen wooden door. Lucien steps closer to inspect it. Running his hand over the surface the door lets out a deep groan causing all four boys to jump back. It’s rusting hinges creak as it swings inward beckoning them.

Lucien makes the first step through the door. “What are you doing?” Eris whispers. His head pivoting from end to end of the hall. “Get back here, Lucien.” Ceres stares after him with wide eyes.

The youngest brother rolls his eyes. “Are you scared Ceres?” Lucien steps off to the left heading deeper into the dark room. The twins look to Eris for direction. He sighs, ditching the tapestry to follow Lucien. Once Ceres and Oak cross the threshold the door creaks shut. Another groan sounds so loudly that it feels like its pressing in on their skulls.

It stops before the boys can register the pain. A light at the end of the hall guides them to Lucien.

The cavernous room is thin with a high curved ceiling. They’re surrounded by…games? A large chess board sits by an empty fireplace at the far end. Against one wall is a table that folds out, a map of Prythian covering the surface.

Making their way through the hideout they uncover more table maps. Shelves stocked with ancient texts, journals written in the old language with Beron’s hand writing.

“What is this place?” Ceres asks, awestruck by their discovery. Eris shakes his head, tracing a finger over the map. “A place to plot.” Eris’s voice shakes.

Oak and Lucien carefully unlatch another table from the wall. Letters and a map of Hybern litter the surface. As Lucien reaches for a sealed envelope Eris grabs his wrist. “Don’t. Or he will know.” Lucien backs away with his hands raised in surrender.

Eris scans over the loose letters. His face drains of color. Promises of power and riches between the two leaders written in ink. Favors promised in the years to come.

“What do we do?” Oak asks. Sounding like that timid little boy he was before Beron shaped him and Ceres into weapons. Eris slams the table back against the wall. Moving swiftly he shoves the other table back into its latch and moving the books back into place.

“Nothing.” the three gape at Eris. “The house has given us something. And we will hold onto this until the time is right.”

Eris jerks his head toward the entrance signaling for his brothers to follow. The hall seems longer than it was just a few minutes ago. It winds and twists. Finally the door comes into view.

Eris hesitantly reaches for the worn golden handle. Afraid the of the wood’s groan. Lucien beats him to it, pushing the door with a flat palm. No groans or creaks come from the door this time.

Stepping out the boys find themselves in their mother’s parlor.

“Boys,” Lady Autumn looks up from her book, a tea cup delicately grasped between her thin fingers. “Come, sit with me for a while.”

Lucien takes the armchair closet to his mother. Her warm smile easing the pain and worry Beron left in him. As the others settle in she pours tea for each of her boys.

“I see the door found you.” she plops two sugar cubes into Oak’s outreached cup. “You know about it?” Lady Autumn nods, a small hum leaving her lips. “Of course. It’s been helping me for years. Giving me escape when I’ve needed peace. Taking me from one side of the house to the other. Even a path to… what did it give you?” her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Something like longing haunting her pale features that are so much like Eris’s.

The brothers look at each other, unsure if they should even speak aloud what they found. Eris swallows hard. “We found some sort of study. It clearly belongs…” Eris trails off gesturing with his hand.

Lady Autumn takes a sip of her tea looking pensive. “And what do you four intend to do with this new found study?” none of the boys respond. Only Lucien looks to their mother. The look on his face begging for guidance.

“If you are unsure, maybe some advice is in order.” setting down her tea cup on the table, Lady Autumn leans back in her chair, folding her hands primly in her lap. “If I were you, I would wait until the time is right to use the new study and everything in it. Remember to be smart, my sons. It has also given you something invaluable, a new bond. You know what the study is. Use it against him.”

Realization dawns across the four boys as their mother’s strategy sinks into their minds.

The colck on the mantle chimes noon. “Goodness look at the time. I have court ladies to host soon, shoo shoo my loves.”

The boys fluster at the sudden dismissal. Leaving their half drunk tea on any flat surface as their mother ushers them out.

Approaching their rooms the four boys share a knowing look before disappearing behind their doors. Lady Autumn was right. The house that has caused them so much pain to grow up in has given them a new bond.

Hope connects them now. Hope that one day their father’s rule will come to an end. And the answers lay just beyond a door at their beck and call.

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