thatbloodymuggle

[thatbloodymuggle]

MASTERMIND (viii)

EIGHT - THE GREAT WAR

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 8k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, graphic violence

If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the past few months, it’s that healing is not a linear process. Rather, it’s a winding, uncharted path, full of twisting overgrowths and thorny setbacks. And just when you caught glimpse of bright, shining light filtering through the trees ahead, the tattered bond buried deep in your chest plucked you from your path of progress and dropped you right back where you started: in the thicket of heartbreak.

But this time, it feels different. It’s not physical pain that consumes you, that crawls underneath your skin and burns you from the inside out. Rather, it’s an overwhelming sense of numbness. For this time, there’s a shattering finality to it all.

It’s that numbness that grants you the ability to get dressed this morning. Each movement is mechanical as you reach for clothes that feel foreign against your skin and slip into your role once more. It’s a façade you know all too well: the resilient, erudite female who hides the trembling little girl within. You clutch the silk fabric of your dress in your fists as you stare at your reflection in the mirror. For a moment, you almost believe the image staring back at you. But inside…Well, inside. That’s the question, isn’t it?

 As you walk through the River House, you let the numbness guide you: steady, unrelenting. You’re not naïve—you know this is the eye of the storm. You know that the pelting rain and howling winds are coming. But at least for now, you’ll take shelter within the boarded-up windows of your feeble heart. So, with a steady hand and a fog in your mind, you push open the dining room door to your awaiting court.

The quiet chatter comes to an abrupt halt as a cohort of curious eyes turn towards you. The rapid thumping of your heart is distant in your ears as you move into the room. Rhys opens his mouth to speak but pauses as he drinks in your detached nature. 

“It’s done.”

The words pass through your lips, but don’t quite reach your ears.

A palpable tension fills the room. The burning gazes of your friends prickles your skin, but you shrink further into the haze of your mind. 

“I delivered what you asked. It’s done,” you repeat in that same cool, unrecognizable tone.

The High Lord’s mouth opens and shuts again. You feel like a pariah in this room, but by the grace of the eye of the storm, you are shielded from their unintentional ostracism. Finally, Rhys nods sharply.

“Thank you,” he says simply.

The silence that follows is deafening, filled only by the shuffling of Cassian and Azriel’s chairs. Feyre’s concern radiates like a beacon, but you can’t bring yourself to look in her direction for fear of crumbling. Amren’s silver eyes narrow, but she holds her sharp tongue in check, for once.

Rhys reluctantly tears his gaze away from you and sweeps over the room. “Well, we should get moving, then. Time is of the essence.”

The two Illyrians scramble from their seats, and if the circumstances were different, you would laugh at their thinly veiled discomfort. Amren rolls her eyes and swiftly exits the room. You follow closely behind, effectively avoiding any further probing from your High Lord or Lady. The lush marble walls and expansive windows seem duller than usual as your body moves on autopilot down the hallway. Amren pushes the doors of the grand meeting hall open, and your heart skips a beat. Chin up. Eyes forward. Shoulders down. Just like you’d practiced through your sleepless night. Like clockwork.

The scuffing of boots against marble sounds muffled as you follow Amren and take a seat at her left. Rhys and Feyre take their spots at Amren’s right, with Azriel and Cassian on their opposite side. The Inner Circle of the Night Court forms an unbreakable wall of power and unity at the head of the table—an unspoken display of the strength of your court.

You take one last steadying breath—chin up, eyes forward, shoulders down—before the High Lords filter through the doors one by one, each cloaked in their own unique brand of arrogance and power.

Tarquin is the first to arrive. He greets your court with a sharp nod, his turquoise eyes piercing as always. Helion follows closely behind, a lazy smirk dancing upon his plush lips. With each High Lord that arrives, breathing becomes a little bit easier, and the muscles straining to maintain your posture relax. This is fine. Kallias and Thesan are next to enter, each male followed by their own small entourages. You’re okay. 

That is, until Beron Vanserra’s glowering presence fills the doorway. The all too familiar sinking feeling returns as he strides in with his usual, ugly sneer. His cold eyes sweep the room before landing on you, a malicious grin curling at the corners of his mouth. Beside him, Bastion leers openly, his russet eyes glinting with that same viciousness he had cornered you with at the ball the night before. Two other Vanserra brothers with flaming red hair follow, and the door shuts swiftly behind them. The Night Court straightens in their seats as they all come to the same conclusion. Eris isn’t here. You clench your jaw so tightly you think your teeth may splinter. Why isn’t he here? Was last night truly the end of—

Chin up. Eyes forward. Shoulders down.

The metaphorical storm above you looms closer, but you hold steadfast to your mantra to keep it at bay.

“Such a fine day for politics, don’t you think?” Beron’s voice slithers through the room. He glances at Rhys, then at you, the sneer deepening. “Unfortunately, Eris couldn’t make it. He sends his regards.”

Something cold breezes over you, enveloping every inch of your exposed skin like a gust of wind. Your eyes flicker towards the stained-glass windows, but they are sealed tight. Your heart stutters painfully against your ribs, but you don’t so much as flinch. Instead, you sink into the numbness and meet Beron’s menacing gaze with your own.

“And what of Spring?” Helion asks.

You don’t need to look over to your right to see Feyre stiffen in her seat.

“Probably wallowing in his own self-pity like the beast he is,” Amren snaps in her typical, callous fashion.

Tamlin’s absence is damning—a testament to how far he has truly fallen since the war and Feyre’s…abruptdeparture. For a moment, no one dares to speak. But never one for pleasantries, Beron has no trouble interjecting.

“Why bother with a treaty if one of us is too busy licking his wounds to show up?”

“Tamlin’s absence is unfortunate,” Rhys replies in his ever-diplomatic manner, “But we are more than capable of negotiating terms that will benefit all of Prythian.”

Helion tilts his head, his golden eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Are we to assume Spring is no longer a player in these discussions, then? And if so, what will become of the court?”

“Tamlin received word of this summit, just as you all did. His decision not to attend certainly warrants discussion,” Rhys says, “but what we need right now is unity—and that’s what this treaty is about.”

Helion’s finger-tapping halts, and he leans forward in his seat. “Unity, Rhysand, sounds nice in theory. But let us not forget that Tamlin isn’t the only one who may find this arrangement…unpalatable.”

You involuntarily bristle as Beron’s grating voice cuts in once again. “Curious, isn’t it, how you sidestep the topic, Rhysand—especially when it is your High Lady who brought Spring to ruin.”

“We’ve gathered here to discuss the terms of a peace treaty between our courts, not to taunt one another,” Feyre snaps. Despite the scowl on Beron’s face, her firm tone holds an unwavering authority. “The unrest in human and Fae land alike grows with each passing day. We cannot afford for instability to spread.”

Tarquin nods thoughtfully. “A treaty won’t fix everything, but it’s a step in the right direction. Without it, the mortal realm may turn their sights on us.”

“Stability is key,” Thesan muses in agreement.

“A leash, more like it,” Beron snorts, “Let’s not waste time pretending this is some noble pursuit for the good of all. We all know this treaty is about self-preservation. And I, for one, don’t plan on sacrificing my court’s interests for some grand, childlike ideal.”

A low growl escapes Azriel, but a pointed look from Rhys silences him. “Perhaps you’re confusing peace with submission, Beron,” Feyre quips. “No one here is suggesting we sacrifice our ideals. This is about securing Prythian’s future, and preventing future war should conflict arise again.”

Kallias clears his throat, and you all but shiver as you glance into the icy blue of his piercing eyes. “I agree, but we must ensure that this treaty is more than mere words on paper. It must be enforceable, with clear consequences for any court that violates its terms.”

“Consequences?” Beron’s eyes glint with malice, “And are we prepared to go to war with each other if someone steps out of line?”

The almost gleeful lilt in the Autumn Court High Lord’s tone, combined with Bastion’s nasty smirk, is your last straw. Chin up. Eyes forward—Fuck it, composure be damned.

“That’s the point of the treaty,” you snap. All eyes turn towards you. But despite the scrutiny, you keep your voice steady. “It’s meant to prevent war, not incite it. If we establish boundaries and enforce them through collective action, it only strengthens all of our courts.”

Beron scans you from head to toe with an unsettling intrigue. “And what would you know of war, Scholar? Books and treaties may look neat and tidy on parchment, but the real world is far messier.”

The predatory glint in his eyes is all too familiar. But you’ve faced the fox. And while it may have been a losing battle, you survived. “Books teach us history, Beron. And if history has taught us anything, it’s that unchecked power leads to destruction. This treaty isn’t merely about peace—it’s about survival.”

The room falls silent for a moment. 

“Spoken like a true bookworm,” Cassian murmurs with a small grin.

A ghost of a smile threatens to tug at your lips, but the pride exuding from your friends barely breaches the barrier of indifference you wear like armor. 

Beron chuckles, the sound dark and mocking, and you can feel Bastion’s eyes on you—watching, waiting. The way they look at you feels…wrong. Like they know something you don’t. Like they’ve discovered a secret that should shatter your world. 

“If there are no further objections,” Rhys begins speaking again, steering the conversation towards negotiations. 

But your mind drifts as Beron’s cold gaze lingers on you. You know that Eris’s plans against his father are dangerous. But now…now you realize who deep that danger really goes. And with the way Beron studies you like a book he’s read a hundred times before, you realize that the threat may not just be to Eris. Reluctantly, you tear your eyes away from the eldest High Lord and resign yourself to studying the mahogany wood before you. 

As negotiations continue, you trace each crack, each imperfection, over and over. As if doing so will keep the storm at bay. You sit still as a statue, even as the High Lords take a brief recess. You find yourself so enamored by the wood before you that you barely register Bastion approach in the now empty room.

A shiver crawls up your spine as he dips down. “You’re quite the mystery, aren’t you?” he whispers, close enough that his breath fans over the bare skin of your neck. “I wonder how long it will be before you’re fully unraveled.”

You swallow hard, clenching the fabric of your dress between your fists. For the first time in hours, you tear your eyes away from the table. You meet Bastion’s gaze with a steely calm.

“I’ve never been privy to riddles. If you have a point to make, don’t dance around it.”

He chuckles, and you clench your jaw tightly to combat your unease. 

“In due time, Avicula.”

No.

 The blood drains from your face as your heart simply stops beating. You instinctively reach for the dinner knife on the table before you, but his cold, bony hand wraps around your wrist in a vice-like grip. You jerk back in your chair, but he pulls you flush against him, wood scraping against marbled floor.

“Simmer down, Scholar,” Bastion coos.

“What do you want?” Malice drips from your tone, but you can’t hide the tremor.

He chuckles and leans down even further, close enough that his lips brush against the shell of your ear. “Fame, glory, all the works. But for starters, your full cooperation will do.”

His lips press against your skin in a taunting kiss, and you all but retch at the feeling. “And if I don’t?” you grit out.

“Then Eris will be dead before the next High Lord steps foot in this room.”

Your heart thunders so violently, you can feel it in your bones. 

“You’re bluffing,” you whisper.

“Care to test that theory?” 

His ironclad grip tightens, and you release the knife with a wince. The clanging of the metal permeates the room. You watch with bated breath as he picks up the utensil with a hum, admiring the way the silver reflects the sunlight seeping through the windows. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” he flips the knife around in his hand, so it points towards you. “You’re going to smile, sit still, and pretend this conversation never happened.” He traces the serrated edge along your lips. “After this meeting, you’ll go home and read your little books. Perhaps brush up on your writing—it’s a bit superfluous for my taste.” The metal presses against your mouth, just gentle enough not to break skin. “You’re going to keep that clever mouth of yours shut. If you so much as look at your friends with those pitiful eyes, I’ll cut that sharp tongue right out of your mouth. And if you even think about using the pesky little bond of yours to communicate with your High Lord, I’ll have Eris’s bloodied body delivered to your doorstep—after I have my fun with him, of course. Are we clear?” 

Your vision blurs—whether from unshed tears or paralyzing fear, you’re not sure. Your fingers tremble as you dangle tediously from your poorly constructed composure. Still, you suck in a deep, steadying breath. As you exhale a barren smile stretches across the plain of your face. “Enjoy the game while you can,” you say, “Because when it’s my turn to play, you’ll be begging me to put an end to your miserable existence.”

He releases the knife with a chuckle and shifts it back into place, erasing any evidence of your encounter. “You’ll do well to remember that some cages aren’t meant to be broken. Especially not for little birds who fly too close to the flame.” He shoves your chair back towards the table, jolting your trembling body. “Enjoy your evening, Scholar. I have a feeling it will be your last in this court.”

The chatter of the High Lords re-entering the room is nothing more than a distant buzz in your ears. You squint your eyes shut and dig your nails into the arms of the wooden chair, shutting everything out, until all that remains is the tattered bond in your chest. You reach for it, wrap your shaking hands around the frayed edges, and yank hard. It reverberates in the chasm of your chest. You wait, pleading for something sort of sign, some indication that he’s still there. But all that remains is the debris of your shattered heart. 

You inhale deeply, breathing in the weight of it all. And as you exhale, your eyes flick open. You stare straight into Beron’s knowing gaze with a vitriol which rivals his own. Your lips curl into a hateful grin. Not a flicker of fear, not a glimmer of defeat. Only the white-knuckled grip around the arms of your chair betrays the turmoil within.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The moment the doors of the meeting room close behind you, the storm comes crashing down. The blistering wind chills your bones, the free-falling water fills your lungs—but you can’t afford to drown. Not when your life is undoubtably on the line. Not when his life is on the line. And you need to find him before it’s too late.

Aimlessly searching for him will be useless. If Eris doesn’t want to be found, or if Beron has him locked away, no amount of wandering the streets of Velaris will bring him to you. The Vanserras are a clever breed—but so are you.

You slip into the shadows to avoid detection as you winnow to the flat-topped mountain on the northern side of Velaris. You waste no time making a beeline for the library. For the first time in your life, the familiar smell of almond and parchment brings no comfort, because all you can think, feel, smell, is the rage coursing through your veins. Clotho isn’t in her usual spot near the entrance. You know you should wait, but you make the hasty decision to slip through anyways. Ask for forgiveness, not permission.

You all but run down the winding stairs, descending one, two, three floors. A negative energy swirls around you—it’s clear the priestesses are none too pleased by your intrusion. Still, you beat on. You run your fingers along the spines of the old tomes lining the shelves, brushing away dust and time until your hand stills on a thin, leather-bound book. The cover is blemished, the metallic lettering faded to near obscurity, but it hums beneath your fingertips, pulsing with latent power. You yank it free and rifle through the pages, until you land on a section you remember from stories your mother used to whisper late into the night. 

Location Spells.

As your eyes dart across the page, your throat tightens. You remember these spells from your mother. Much to your dismay, her retellings were right. They all require one thing: a personal token belonging to the person you seek. And you have nothing of Eris’s. No lock of hair, no trinket. But…you have him. Or, at least, the unyielding tether buried deep in your chest, even if stretched thin by time and heartbreak. Your mind spins as you skim the text again.

“A drop of the caster’s blood may work if they share a strong enough connection. For example, prior work has highlighted the success of blood of kin.”

Or, the blood of a mating bond.

 It might not be perfect, but with no other option, it has to work.

You grab a map of Prythian from a nearby shelf of atlases and spread it across a table. Your hands shake uncontrollably as you retrieve a dagger from the folds of your dress and prick the tip of your finger. A single drop of blood wells up, glowing faintly in the dim light of lanterns. You glance down at the open book, and scan over the spell. It’s written in an ancient language—one you’re not well-acquainted with. Your furrow your brows in concentration as you sound out each syllable, your voice a plea more than an incantation. Finally, you whisper, “Find him.”

You press your bleeding finger to the map, smearing scarlet across the parchment. Magic surges through you: a swirl of golden tendrils extending across the land, searching very crack, corner, and crevice. For a moment, hope blossoms. You can feel the bond in your chest stir, faint but real, as if whispering to someone far away.

Just as suddenly as hope came, it fades.

The tendrils of light dull before disappearing entirely, leaving behind nothing more than a smear of red in the shape of a thumbprint. He must be warded too heavily for the spell to penetrate—as if he doesn’t exist at all.

The winds of anguish sweep you into their clutches as an earth-shattering cry claws at your throat. The weight of everything hits you all at once, and you sink to your knees. The air around you seems to thin. You gasp through the sobs wracking your body—but each mouthful burns. You tangle your shaky hands in your hair, pulling harshly at the roots in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. But to no avail.

A low ringing fills your ears, building in intensity to a deafening hum. The walls feel like they’re closing in, pressing against your lungs, suffocating you from the inside out. Your hands slip from your hair and wrap around your throat, desperate to pull in just one clean breath—but the air is clinging like smoke. 

Your mouth moves, but you’re not sure if the words come out. “Get it together. You’re supposed to save him.”

You try to count your breaths—in, out—but each attempt only narrows your vision to pinpricks. The panic swells and the world spins, tilting on its axis. And then…it stops.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Hours later, you’re shaken awake by the very same panic that pulled you under. But this time, it isn’t your own. Your head pounds from your earlier sobbing, your lashes sagging from the weight of your dried tears. Yet, you’re more alert than you’ve ever been before.

The bond thrums in your chest, pain radiating through the connection. You scramble from the dusty floor with a dizzying urgency. There’s no time to think, no time to question. You don’t so much as glance at the map on the table as you run towards the winding staircase. You’re not sure where you’re going. Only that Eris is there. You follow your instinct blindly, throwing open the door to the library. You beat on into the cold, but before you winnow, the small, rationale part of your mind calls out to your High Lord.

Rhys. His name is a scream in your mind. Eris is in trouble. I have to go now.

Rhys’s response is immediate, albeit groggy: What—

No time.

 The world is already twisting and folding around you. When you land, the air is thick with shadows. 

The scent of stone and mold hits you first—the unmistakable marker of the Court of Nightmares. You stagger, breath catching in your throat. No. No, this can’t be right. But the bond pulls with conviction in your chest, dragging you deeper into the dark halls. 

You know this is a terrible idea. Actually, terrible is generous. This might rival Tamlin and Lucien’s selling out of the Archeron sisters to the King of Hybern in the competition of bad ideas. But as witless as it may be, it’s right.

You move without a second thought. Every passing shadow seems to follow you, but you don’t care. The only thing you can focus on is the bond. As the weight of each step grows, you can feel his pain more acutely. He’s close.

Your pulse roars in your eyes as you come to a halt in front of a rusted, iron door. Your hands find the handles, and you pull with the full weight of your body. It opens with a low groan, and you step inside. 

The chamber is dark, lit only by the faint glow of sconces lining the walls. The smell of stone and mold is even more penetrating here. But something else mingles with it. The sour scent of rust is abrasive, curling at your nostrils. 

You squint your eyes into the darkness, and you stumble back in shock.

Eris is there, slumped to his knees in the center of the room. The ropes biting into his wrists almost sparkle underneath the light of the flames. Faebane. Crimson hair clings to his sweat-slicked forehead, his bare chest a littered mess of blood and bruises. Agony twists his features—until his gaze flicks to you.

“No—,” he gasps.

You lunge forward, but you yelp as something holds you back—rather, someone. An ironclad grip wraps around your wrists, holding you against a broad chest. Something sharp presses against your throat—a knife, you surmise, from the glint of silver in your peripheral. 

“You’re arrived just in time for the reunion.”

The voice is venomous, unfamiliar. Yet, it holds a striking intimacy, almost as if—

Your eyes widen in realization.

No.

“I have waited a very long time to meet my daughter,” Keir continues with a sadistic smile, “It’s a shame Marjorie kept you hidden from me all these years. Even more of a pity that she’s not here to stop me now.”

Your blood runs cold as your mother’s name rolls off his tongue. You thrash violently in his hold, but to no avail. You try to steel your features into indifference, but the panicked look in Eris’s eyes makes it an impossible feat. The dull edge of the knife presses hard underneath your chin, forcing your head back. 

Hell freezes over as you peer through the looking glass.

His eyes are yours. The divot of his chin, the bridge of his nose, it’s all yours—or, you suppose, yours are his. But even more potent than your resemblance is the incongruence. For while your dark eyes are marked by curiosity, his are flooded with malice.

Your lip curls back in a snarl, and with all the loving memory of your mother you can harness, you spit. The fat glob of saliva lands right between his eyes.

“Keep her name out of your filthy mouth,” you snarl.

The initial shock on his features warps into something far more sinister as he twists your bound hands behind you. You grit your teeth against the pain, showing nothing more than a wince as you feel the joint in your right shoulder shift. 

“You’ve got my bite, little girl, I’ll give you that. But you’re a bitch just like her.”

You snap your teeth at him, but he twists your arms even further. This time, you can’t contain the cry that bubbles in your throat.

“Did she ever tell you about how we met?” he forces your head forward. Fear still fills Eris’s eyes, but this time it’s met with ire. Keir dips down, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath as he speaks, “Did she ever tell you about how I took her? How I delighted in ruining her? How I—”

Anger blinds you, and for just a moment, all you see is red. 

A barbaric scream rips through you and you crouch down to loosen Keir’s grip—a trick Cassian had once taught you. Before he can regain leverage, you swing your leg behind you with as much force as you can muster, hitting him right between his legs. Keir stumbles back with a groan. But before he can find his footing, you spin around and punch him hard—so hard, you can feel the sickening crunch of bone underneath your knuckles. Still, one hit isn’t enough to erase the lifetime of agony he had imposed upon your mother. So, you hit him again. And again. Until he’s sprawled across the floor. And when he’s down, you sink your foot into his beaten body. Over and over. Until—

“Y/N!”

You gasp for air as Eris’s strained cry pulls you from the brink of oblivion. It’s his voice that grounds you, that sharpens your vision to take in the scene before you. Keir is far past consciousness, his face a bloodied mess and his body a tangle of useless limbs. The steady rise and fall of his chest indicate that he is still, unfortunately, alive—although, with the damage you’ve inflicted, he’ll surely wish he was dead when he wakes. With trembling hands, you wipe the hands stained with your father’s blood over your dress.

“Y/N.”

The strain in Eris’s voice pulls you from Keir’s mangled body. Your eyes are wild as they meet his. You stumble forward, heart beating in time with the heavy thrumming of the bond pulling you towards him. He shakes his head frantically, panic festering on his features.

“You need to get out of here.” You ignore his desperate plea and continue surging forward. “Please, Little Bird,” his voice cracks, “Run.”

Tears spring to your eyes, and the pull of the bond only intensifies. But just as you reach him, just as your bloodied fingers graze the iron chains around his wrists, a gust of wildfire sends you flying backwards.

Pain splinters in the back of your head as you’re thrown against the dungeon wall. Nausea coils inside of you and your vision blurs. Still, you bite back the cry that threatens to escape. 

“Run!” Eris’s shout rings through your ears, muffled by the pounding in your head.

But the responding voice pierces through the veil.

“That’s quite enough from you, son.”

You haul yourself up as quickly as your spinning head will allow. The High Lord of Autumn scans you from head to toe, taking in the blood splatters soaking your dress, the swelling of your knuckles. His lip curls back in disappointment and he clicks his tongue.

“My, what a mess you’ve made, Scholar,” Beron stalks forward, the hem of his dark robes skimming over Keir’s unconscious form. His sneer deepens as he steps into a puddle of blood. He crouches down and swipes his index finger through the blood of your father, admiring how it glistens underneath the sconce light. “Though I suppose family brings out the worst in all of us.”

You avert your gaze to Eris, who stares back in a wide-eyed panic. Go, he mouths. But you’re paralyzed, your feet rooted into the cold, hard ground. You can only muster a small shake of your head. No.

“Let him go, you bastard,” you demand, eyes trained on your mate.  

Beron’s chuckle rumbles through the sodden space. “Such filth from such a pretty little mouth,” he muses. “Though I suppose you never had a father figure to teach you manners. So, allow me.”

Before you can so much as blink, Beron is behind you. You stifle a yelp as he kicks the back of your legs, forcing you onto your knees. “Much better,” he circles you. You fight the urge to spit in his face too when he hooks a finger underneath your chin, forcing your eyes to his. “Now, why don’t you apologize for your brutishness?”

The cold press of his fingers makes your skin crawl, but you lift your head defiantly. “You want an apology?” you say, voice low but steady. “The only thing I’m sorry for is not drawing more blood from your pathetic lackey.”

The words have barely rolled off your tongue when Beron raises his arm, landing a punishing hit. Your head swings to the side, amplifying the ringing in your ears and the throbbing in the back of your head.

“Don’t fucking touch her!” Eris roars, chains clanking wildly behind him.

“Fine,” Beron says.

The High Lord turns towards his son and brandishes a whip of fire. White-hot flames crackle through the air, a blaze of light slashing through the dark, and land squarely across Eris’s bleeding chest. A strangled cry tears from his throat, his body convulsing against the restraints. The sound is horrible—one that will haunt you for eternity, should you survive this night.  The noise that escapes you mirrors his as you lunge forward. But a wall of flames circles around you, its heat pressing against your skin and binding you in place. 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry,” you cry. But your plea falls on deaf ears. You can only watch, helpless, as Eris’s body shudders with each lash, the light in those beautiful, amber eyes dimming with each strike. Worse, you can feel it—the bond between you unraveling thread by thread. 

Through the river of tears clouding your vision, something mingles with the flames in your peripheral: Keir’s twitching body. He groans something unintelligible, his eyes twitching beneath their blood-soaked lids. Suddenly, something in the air shifts—and realization strikes you as the whip in Beron’s hand cracks again.

  This isn’t just punishment; it’s retribution. For Eris’s betrayal, yes, but it’s more than that. This is about the Night Court, the treaty currently being drafted in Velaris. This is an act of violence in the face of blossoming peace. And once Beron has finished, once the fight has drained from Eris’s eyes, he’ll leave you here with Keir. He’ll kill two birds with one cruel stone—ensure your misery serves as a constant leash on his son and the Night Court, and prevent any threat to his throne.   

“Hubris is deathly, Beron. And you’re a fool if you think beating us into submission or death will keep you on your throne,” you shout despite the sobs wracking your body. “We are more use to you alive than dead.” 

“You think your lives mean anything to me?” Beron roars. 

He cracks the whip again, and another flash of fire streaks across Eris’s already ravaged body. Eris sways, his knees crumpling underneath him. His eyes are squeezed tight, his lips parted in a silent cry. Your magic surges through you at the sight, and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep it contained. You have only one shot here. Once chance to make your move—a move that will determine yours and Eris’s fate for your immortal eternity. 

“Take mine instead,” you blurt, heart pounding. “My life for his freedom.”

The words hang in the air, and finally, Beron’s whip falters mid-strike. Panic flares in your chest, but it’s not your own. Beron turns slowly, a glint of interest sparking in his cruel gaze. “Your life,” he repeats, savoring the words, “In exchange for his.”

Chains clatter behind him with a newfound vigor. Eris’s eyes are wide open, a window to his soul: panic, indignation, but above all, betrayal. Worse, you can feel him clinging desperately to his end of the bond, pulling with all of his might. Just as you were in the library. Just as you have been every day since you left Autumn. And it’s in that moment, you realize, that whatever pain you felt clinging desperately to the ghost of him is unsurmountable compared to the bone-shattering agony of his despair seeping through your skin.  

“Yes,” you whisper. “Let him go, and my life is yours.”

“Don’t do this,” Eris pleads, “Please, Little Bird.”

Fresh tears cloud your vision, the utterance of that name worse than a physical blow. The flames surrounding you vanish and Beron steps closer. An eerie grin tugs at his lips. “Very well.”

A ripple shudders through the chamber, and Beron casts a glance to where Keir lies motionless on the cold stone. With a bored wave of his hand a shadowy mist rises, curling around your father’s limp body, sending him away like a discarded pawn. 

Eris’s protests are drowned out by the sting of the bargain mark. It snakes up the length of your arm, twisting like a vine. You bite back a gasp as the magic sinks into your skin, binding you to your word. Beron takes another step forward, forgoing the whip for the raw magic at his fingertips. 

It’s now or never.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t fight,” you snarl.

Your magic explodes outwards, shadowy tendrils unfurling like a tempest. Darkness spreads, curling around Beron with the grace of an ancient asp. He stumbles, the smirk gone from his face. You use his surprise to your advantage, swiftly flinging a dagger in his direction. It sails through the air with the precision of a hundred-year-old warrior. But before the weapon can land its mark, a wall of flames is erected, snuffing out your shadows and sending the dagger hurdling back in your direction. You duck swiftly, narrowly missing the fatal hit. 

“Impressive,” Beron condescends, “Let’s see if your feet are as quick as your wit.” 

Faster than you can blink, the flames surrounding Beron coalesce, swirling into the shape of a fiery claw. It surges forward, hurtling towards you at the speed of lightning. You barely have a moment to raise your defenses. Light exudes from your fingertips as you throw your arms out, forming a shield of blinding radiance. The claw collides with your light, sending shockwaves rippling through the ground beneath you. Beron presses relentlessly against your shield, heat searing through the protective barrier. You grit your teeth and root your feet into the ground to counteract the strain in your muscles and the tremor in your bones. But your strength is no match for Beron’s, as the claw keeps inching closer and closer, pushing relentlessly against your flickering shield. 

“Submit!” Beron roars with an authority fit for a thousand-year-old tyrant.

The ball of light surrounding you is rapidly caving in. It’s bound to give any second now. With a piercing cry, you thrust your magic forward, and then let go entirely. 

You dive to the side, narrowly escaping the talons of Beron’s inferno. As the momentum of his power sends it barreling into the wall behind you, you lunge for your discarded dagger. Your fingers wrap around the hilt, and you slink into the shadows just in time to escape his new weapon of choice: blazing balls of fire.

With your shadows you leap from corner to corner, trying to get close enough to Beron to wield your own weapon while simultaneously avoiding the flames he hurls at you. Eris shouts something, but it’s muffled by the roar of the fire, the pounding in your head. You will yourself to focus only on Beron, building an impenetrable wall in your chest to block out the desperation radiating down the mating bond in your chest.

As you dodge another flame, the world to twists and folds around you. You winnow across the room, right behind Beron. You don’t waste a second thrusting the dagger forward—but before the lethal blade can sink into his flesh, he spins around. The High Lord wraps his hands around your wrists. And as the dagger clatters to the floor, so does your heart plummet.

“Is this what you wanted?” Beron’s voice slithers into your ear. He swivels you around, forcing you to face Eris while he holds you flush to his chest. Crimson rivulets trickle down his arms from where the chains bite into his skin. “To be brought low, broken in front of him?”

You force your chin high with defiance. But Beron’s grip is unyielding and his molten heat is oppressive, creeping through your veins like poison. As you stare into Eris’s eyes—those amber eyes you love so much—you can’t hide the fear in your own. 

“Better broken than a slave to your tyranny,” you hiss.

 Sweat beads on your brow, but not from exhaustion. You suck in a breath, begging the cool air to soothe the burning sensation in your throat. But Beron’s heat sinks deeper, licking at the edges of your very soul. 

He chuckles darkly, “If only your defiance could save you.”

“Let her go!” Eris bellows. 

You desperately try to twist out of Beron’s grip, but with each movement the fever only builds. Sweat trickles down your temples, the salty sting mixing with the agony that wracks your body.

“You know, I had planned on keeping you alive. Sending you off with your pathetic excuse for a father,” Beron says, “But I’ve never been one to turn down a good bargain.”

 A white-hot pain blooms in your chest, spreading like wildfire. You can feel your skin searing from the inside out, clawing its way through your organs, boiling your blood.

“I’ll kill you,” Eris’s voice breaks, raw with the desperation of a man on the brink of losing everything. “I’ll kill you! I’ll rip the life from you, Beron. Even if it takes my last breath, I’ll see you burn for this.”

Beron laughs, drowning out Eris’s broken words. Every nerve in your body screams as he slowly burns you alive, boiling you from the inside out. Your vision blurs as the fever creeps into your head, your legs crumpling beneath you. 

You know there is no way out. You know this is the end. But before you go, you drop the protective barrier around your heart. Tears stream down your face, hot against your skin, as you lay yourself bare before the male who has sent your life into upheaval. The male who has shown you the greatest beauties and worst pains of life. Your salvation, your damnation, your soulmate. You cling tight to the withering bond and show him it all. With one final breath, you force your lips to move and form the words you need him to hear.

“I love you, Eris Vanserra. Darkness and all its shining stars.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Time splinters as Eris watches you fade. As those words escape you cracked lips, something shatters inside of him—the last defense of a soul that, even after years of brutality, refuses to be broken. It’s something that transcends pain, something primal and ancient woven into the very marrow of his bones. 

Darkness and all its shining stars.

It’s those words that echo in his mind as the realization burns: this bond, this love, is Beron’s undoing. 

A tyrant once said that the secret of supremacy lies in knowing when to be a fox, and when to be a lion. Beron Vanserra is both. It’s his cunningness and ferocity that have allowed him to rule so predominately for centuries—longer than any High Lord in Prythian. However, Beron Vanserra has been wearing the fox and lion’s skins for a long time—too long. For Beron Vanserra’s greatest pitfall is not a lack of strength or guile, but an utter void where empathy should lie—a deficiency born of his detachment from true, selfless love. 

It's precisely that absence of compassion that blind him to the unbreakable forces that bond others. And now, as he stands over you and Eris with a hand stained by centuries of bloody conquest, it’s precisely that bond, carved from unadulterated love, that will be his undoing.

A roar befitting of a lion rips from Eris’s chest. Muscles taut with rage and agony and love, he pulls against the chains binding him. Blood flows freely from his wrists; but fueled by the bond—by you—he pulls harder, harder, until iron cracks.

The chains give way, crashing to the floor in a thousand pieces. And Eris unleashes hell on his father.

One thrust of his bloodied arm sends Beron flying backwards, releasing you from his deathly hold. You crumple to the ground, barely conscious. Although the boiling of your insides has halted, you’re still burning. You splay your hands out across the cold ground, willing it to soothe the dangerous fever.

Eris flicks his wrist, sending stone raining down upon Beron. The air is thick with dust and fury as Eris charges forward, each strike landing with sharp precision. This isn’t a mere battle of power—it’s a reckoning.

But Beron, unyielding, retaliates with a blinding wave of flame that consumes the chamber. The fire surges, forcing Eris to halt and shield both you and himself.

“You think you can defeat me, boy?” Beron bellows.

Eris snarls, his own fire igniting. You blink your eyes open, fading in and out of consciousness as your magic fights to hold you steady. You watch as Eris matches Beron with every movement: strike for strike, flame for flame. 

But it’s clear he’s faltering. Each thrust of his arm sends ripples of pain across his battered body, the hours of torture taking their toll. Eris sways, his flame flickering at the sheer force of Beron’s power, honed by centuries of conquest.

Your limbs ache with the remnants of the ash inside you, but you focus on the steady ground beneath you. Fire blazes around you as you slowly push yourself up. You can see the light dimming in Eris’s eyes as his breath comes out in ragged gasps. 

“Eris!” you cry, but the words sound like nothing more than a whisper against the raging inferno. He doesn’t look at you, locked in the hopeless battle. Your heart races as you struggle to rise.

Eris lunges forward, but Beron anticipates him and counters with a blast that sends him crashing back against the wall. A sickening thud shatters through your bones as the bond pulses with pain. 

As Beron’s fire grows larger and brighter, you kick your leg out, sliding the discarded dagger on the floor towards Eris. You shut your eyes tight, summoning the last remnants of your strength. The blistering fever returns as you call on every ounce of your magic. This time, however, you embrace it.

Light and dark exude from your fingertips at the same time. With one hand, you send shadows swirling around Beron, engulfing him in darkness. With the other, you send a beacon of luminescence, lighting Eris's path. You focus on Eris, willing him to rise, to fight back. Determination fills his gaze—and the rest is history. 

With one swift motion, Eris retrieves the blade and thrusts it into his father’s chest. 

The swirling shadows still, and Eris twists the dagger into the chasm of his chest with a sickening crunch. Beron falls to his knees, and your shadows retreat—but your light remains.

As the former High Lord collapses, the echoes of the battle fade into a haunting stillness. Eris stands over his father’s fallen form, chest heaving and flames flickering at his fingertips, mingling with the light surrounding him—a testament to the battle fought and the price paid.

Your eyes meet, and in that moment, the world falls away. The pain, the fear, the uncertainty—it all dissipates, leaving only you and him.

“Little Bird,” Eris breathes. 

Fresh tears line your eyes and your bottom lip trembles. Ignoring the all-consuming heat that’s still threatening to pull you under, you haul yourself up from the ground completely. You stumble forward and your legs give out underneath you. But before you can crumple, Eris is there. 

His embrace feels like coming home.

A sob of relief escapes you as you sink to the ground together. Despite the agony pumping through your veins, the blood and sweat covering you both, your heart sings. You bury your face into his chest. The scent of him—sandalwood and cardamon—fills your lungs, giving life to breath. You can feel the pulse of his heart against your cheek, steady and strong.

“Eris,” you gasp. But the name feels inadequate. There’s so much you want to say—but the words are swallowed by the lump in your throat. His hands find your hair, threading through it and anchoring you to this moment.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. The feeling of his breath against your neck sends another wave of emotions crashing over you. “I’m right here, Little Bird. I’m not going anywhere.”

Around you, the air shifts, and you sense the arrival of the High Lords. But their presence, Rhys’s panicked voice, is a distant echo in the back of your mind. Nothing else matters—not in his arms.

As you sink into the warmth of your lover’s embrace, the toll of the battle settles in. The world blurs at its edges. Eris holds you tightly, murmuring sweet nothings you can’t quite grasp, and darkness begins to close in. You cling to the sound of his voice, feeling it reverberate through you.

“Come on, Little Bird. Stay with me,” his voice breaks as he feels your strength slipping away. But as you look into his eyes—those fierce, beautiful eyes—you know you can’t fight anymore.

With a shuddering breath, you succumb to the pull of unconsciousness, your body surrendering to his embrace. And as darkness takes over, you hang on to the whispered promise of safety in a world that has been anything but. 

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[thatbloodymuggle]

SO SORRY FOR BEING MIA!!! Chapter 8 of Mastermind will be published this Sunday 🫣 #bucklein #theendisnear #ipromiseitsworththewait

[thatbloodymuggle]

pookie come back rent is due

s👀n

[thatbloodymuggle]

hello love!! just popping into your inbox to beg with everything in me you continue mastermind I have never found a fic that speaks to me on such a molecular level, I love your characterisation and your writing and your TALENT !! 🫶 amazing work pookie please keep it up

you're too kind!! chapter 8 is nearly done so it should be out sometime this week🥳

[thatbloodymuggle]

hiii, hope you’re doing well 🫶 literally been thinking about eris and what happens next in your mastermind story…you left us on a cliffhnager 😭 any updates pls? 🙏

sorry friends writer's block has been a little bitch😣 chapter 8 is in the works though and I'm hoping to have it done this weekend!

[thatbloodymuggle]

just recently discovered rtr && wanted to say that i adore it! i know your focus is your other fic rn which is also Sooo good. but idk i read rtr a few days ago and Have Not Stopped Thinkinh About It.

omgg I've actually been thinking about rtr so much lately I really miss writing it!!! I definitely plan on continuing it (lowkey it might cure my severe case of writer's block😭)

[thatbloodymuggle]

do you have recs for eris fics like mastermind? it's the best one i've read so far

yes!!!! here are some of my favs:

🔥smut 🌸fluff 🌧️angst

Sly Fox, Dumb Bunny (series) 🔥🌸🌧️

↳ @serpentandlily: You find yourself ensnared by a sly, cunning fox. A very handsome, irritating one.

All Things Vile 🔥

↳ @itsphoenix0724: A recon mission to the Autumn Court gets more heated than you intended. They say Autumn males fuck like they have fire in their veins-you guess you're about to find out.

Thumb Prints 🔥

↳ @tadpolesonalgae

Handsome as Life and Poison 🔥

↳ @illyrianbitch: Defying your father’s sacred command, you wander to the grove where Spring and Autumn blend, only to encounter a sinfully divine figure with glowing amber eyes.

half algorithm, half deity 🔥🌧️

↳ @ceoofyearning: You try to date other people, but in truth you’ve only ever wanted Eris Vanserra.

[thatbloodymuggle]

hellooo lovelies! just wanted to pop on here with a quick lil mastermind update.

I'm so sorry for the slow updates and for leaving you all on a cliffhanger😣 I've been super swamped with work and honestly just haven't been in the best headspace for writing lately. but with only two chapters to go, I definitely plan on finishing this series! I'm hoping to get some writing done this week, and will post another update once I have a better idea of when it will be done :)

[thatbloodymuggle]

MASTERMIND (vii)

SEVEN - THE MANUSCRIPT

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 9.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, heavy angst, love confessions, cliff hanger

The afternoon sun filters through the curtains of your new apartment, casting a warm glow over the freshly furnished space. Velaris lays sprawled beneath you, and the fifth story height gives you an incredible view of the Illyrian mountains in the distance. The studio is modest compared to the grandeur of the House of Wind. But despite the downsizing of your bed and the slightly cramped organization of furniture, it holds a certain freedom—one you haven’t known before, one that lets you breathe more clearly.

A soft breeze seeps through the French doors you keep ajar as you settle into a chair by the balcony. You sink into the comfort of the plush seat as you begin sifting through the pile of documents that has accumulated over the past few weeks. Your work as Scholar has become a reprieve during this period of change. The intricacies of ancient texts and political correspondences offer a semblance of normalcy that have kept you grounded since your return to the Night Court. But as enjoyable as your work has been, the golden rays shining through the windows make the pile of parchment in front of you seem like more of a chore than usual. You try to immerse yourself in your work, but you keep finding your gaze being drawn to the city outside. 

“Enjoying the view?” a gruff voice sounds from behind you.

You shriek and jump in your seat, sending papers flying through the air. You whip around, and your frantic heartbeat settles as you lay eyes on the intruder.

Cassian grins back at you with a devilish glint in his hazel eyes. You narrow your own into a menacing glare as you gather the jumbled mess of parchment from the ground.

“Is privacy a foreign concept for Illyrians? Or do you just take pleasure in barging in whenever you see fit?” you grumble.

Cassian chuckles as he leans against the doorframe. His gaze wanders over the mess of documents scattered across the floor, but he makes no move to help you. “Rhys sent me to fetch you. He’s called an urgent meeting about treaty developments.”  

You roll your eyes, “My point still stands. You could’ve knocked.”

The general raises an eyebrow, “Where’s the fun in that?” He pushes off the doorframe and offers you a hand. You reluctantly take it, letting him pull you up from the ground. “I’m just trying to save you from drowning in paperwork. Besides, I heard the new developments are big. Figured you’d want to be there.”

You dust off your hands and meet his gaze, a mischievous smile ghosting over your lips. “How big are we talking? Fate-of-the-world big or just enough to make me question my sanity?”

Cassian’s grin widens, “A little bit of both. It’s not every day we get to negotiate peace treaties with horny high lords with a penchant for trouble.”

You sigh, stretching your limbs, “Fine, I’ll come. But only if you promise to not sneak up on me like that again. I nearly had a heart attack.”

“Deal,” Cassian lies through a toothy grin. “But only if you promise not to screech like that again. I swear you nearly ruptured my ear drums.”

You cross your arms over your chest, “I suggest you keep that in mind next time you decide to barge in unannounced.”

“Noted,” Cassian replies, “Shall we?”

You grab a jacket and head toward the door, with Cassian falling into step beside you. “Lead the way, then. And try to keep your snark to a minimum until after the meeting, okay?”

Cassian chuckles again, his tone light and teasing, “No promises. After all, what’s life without a little mischief?”

As you stroll through the lively streets of Velaris, the conversation flows effortlessly. Cassian’s banter provides a welcome distraction from the glaringly unresolved areas of your life. Most notably, a certain half-sister.

Your return to the Night Court has been smoother than you anticipated. Feyre and Elain have been incredibly kind and courteous, Amren has treated you like you never left, and Azriel and Cassian welcomed you with open arms—literally, they tackled you to the floor. You’ve even found yourself spending more time with Nesta, whom you now regularly exchange books with. All is good—all except Mor.

You know your sister well. You know that she can hold a mean, unrelenting grudge. But you’ve never found yourself on the opposing end, receiving the brunt of her anger. She hasn’t so much as looked at you since your return, evading every attempt you make to talk to her. At first, guilt consumed you. The disdainful look in her eye threw you back into the slew of emotions you felt while you were at Autumn—the feeling that you were committing a grave betrayal to your only family. But as the weeks have passed, guilt has transformed into something more bitter. How are you meant to repair your relationship, when she won’t so much as meet your eye? 

“I can practically hear the gears turning in your head. Penny for a thought?” Cassian’s rumbling voice halts your train of thought.

You tilt your head upwards to meet his gaze. He towers over you, but despite his size, his playful eyes resemble that of a puppy. “Nothing,” you smile softly, “Just thinking about being back here. I missed it a lot.”

His mouth stretches into a toothy grin, “So you missed me?”

You smile turns into a glower, “I didn’t say that.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, Bookworm. I know you’re in love with me,” he drawls, “And although I’m a taken man, I’m sure Nes wouldn’t mind inviting a third into the bedroom.”

Your cheeks flare and you slap him harshly. He doesn’t so much as flinch, but his face pales at your next words.

“Don’t think for a minute that I’m above tattling on you, Batboy. I’m sure Nesta won’t be so amused at your perversion.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You cock a brow, “Don’t test me.”

“Touché,” he relents. 

A proud grin curls onto your lips at the trivial victory. But the smirk is immediately wiped from your face as Cassian lunges towards you. The scream has barely left your lips when he wraps you tightly in his arms and soars into the air. 

“I’m going to kill you!” Your cry is barely audible through the wind whipping around you, but you can feel the rumble of Cassian’s laugh. Despite your anger, you cling to him for dear life. This isn’t your first time flying with him, but the stomach lurching feeling of soaring through the air never ceases to surprise you. You shut your eyes tightly, willing the nausea to stay put in your gut.

The second your feet touch the ground, you lunge at the Illyrian warrior. Much to your displeasure, he expertly avoids your right hook. You send another his way, which he easily catches in his own hand.

“Let me have one,” you grunt, “I deserve it.”

His hazel eyes glisten with amusement. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, nerd.”

A growl rips through your throat, but before you can throw yourself at him once more, the High Lady’s commanding voice slices through the air.

“Would you two quit bickering for once?”

The stern look on Feyre’s face leaves no room for debate. Reluctantly, you step away from Cassian.

“Sorry, your highness,” he dips his head in apology, but his irksome smirk remains. 

“I’m not,” you glower at him.

Feyre rolls her eyes but doesn’t comment on your obstinance. Instead, she beckons you forward. “Well come on, then. Everyone else is here.”

You fall into step beside her, leaving Cassian trailing behind. As you enter the River House, you run through a million different ways to enact your revenge on him. From the quirk in Feyre’s lips, you know that she is listening to your sadistic thoughts. A delicious smell wafts through the air, eliciting a growl from your stomach. As freeing as living on your own has been, the one pitfall is cooking for yourself—hence, the drool that’s all but dripping from your chin when the doors of the dining room swing open, revealing a full feast of food.

Any lingering bitterness is swept away at the sight. You eagerly take a seat at the table, barely acknowledging the rest of the Inner Circle. Even as the chatter around you dies down, you still can’t take your eyes off the spread before you. You don’t hesitate to pile an assortment of dishes onto your plate: roasted chicken, potatoes, and vegetables galore. But before you can take your first bite, an expectant cough stops you.

“Do you have any manners?” Cassian quips.

You narrow your eyes into a menacing glare. The rest of the Inner Circle watches, eyes wide with surprise at your uncharacteristic behavior.

“I skipped lunch.”

You shove a forkful of chicken into your mouth, nearly moaning at the taste.

“Who the hell thought you living on your own would be a good idea?” Azriel grumbles from beside you, but the playful glint in his eye betrays him.

“Your High Lord,” you mumble through a mouthful of food.

Nesta crinkles her nose in disgust as crumbs fall from your mouth. Regret is painted across Rhys’s face, to which you only shovel another forkful.

“Pig,” Amren chimes in.

You give her a bright, shining middle finger.

You scan the room and frown at the empty spot beside Azriel. “Where’s sister dearest?” you ask after swallowing.

“Not feeling well,” Rhys averts his gaze as he lies through his teeth. Irritation courses through you but you merely roll your eyes, keeping the snide remark to yourself.

“In other news,” Feyre says, “Treaty negotiations have been moving along.”

Rhys nods, grateful for the change in subject. “We’ve made as much progress as possible from afar. It seems that a summit is necessary to solidify tentative agreements and work out the remaining kinks.” 

Although you are still fully engrossed by the food in front of you, your ears perk up at the news. With two years passed since the War on Hybern, it’s about time the High Lords put their egos aside and meet.

“It’s about time,” Amren grumbles, voicing your inner thoughts.

Everyone nods in agreement. Despite the easiness, you can’t help but notice the way Feyre shifts in her seat and Rhys avoids her gaze. You narrow your eyes slightly at their nervous energy and set your fork down in anticipation of what’s to come. 

“In an act of good faith, we’ve offered to host negotiations here in Velaris.”

There it is. A conglomerate of protests immediately erupts. Thanks to the mortal queens, Velaris is no longer a sanctuary hidden from Prythian. But the prospect of inviting a cohort of power-hungry High Lords into it is…daunting, to say the least.

Rhys raises his hand, ceasing everyone’s chattering with the gesture. His gaze sweeps over the gathered members of his Inner Circle with his usual calm authority. “I know it’s less than ideal. But think of it as an olive branch, of sorts. Hosting here in Velaris is not only a display of our transparency, but it also emphasizes the strategic importance of these negotiations.”

The tension in the air is clear. But no one dares to argue, as his commanding tone leaves little room for debate, and much to everyone’s displeasure, Rhys is right. Although the more…disagreeable High Lords were willing to overlook the Night Court’s deceptions during the war, that tolerance can only last so long now that the dust has settled. 

“Who will be attending?” Azriel’s voice is quiet but sharp.

“And each court will be represented?” Amren’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Every High Lord and their chosen entourages,” Rhys confirms, his voice steady. “Even Beron has agreed, though I suspect his motives are less than pure.”

You tense at the mention of the High Lord of the Autumn Court. His name leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and your raging appetite suddenly subsides. You push your plate away with a grimace. A contemplative silence hangs in the air as everyone digests the information, weighing the risks and benefits. Before anyone can voice another concern, Feyre leans forward.

“And to the mark the beginning of these negotiations, we thought it might be good to host a ball.”

The room falls silent again.

“A ball,” Cassian deadpans.

Feyre’s lips twitch in amusement. “A ball, gala, soirée, whatever you’d like to call it. A formal event to welcome the High Lords and their families into the city. It’s more than just a social gathering; it’s a statement. A public display of unity for all of Prythian to see.”

A lump forms in your throat. Not just the High Lords, but their families. Which can only mean one thing…

“A strategic move,” Amren muses, nodding slowly, “It could help set a positive tone for the negotiations.”

“It’s risky,” Azriel murmurs, his shadows swirling restlessly as he considers the implications. “But it could work.”

Cassian leans back in his chair with a groan. Nesta gives him a pointed look, silencing any impending complaints.

“Think of it as more than just a celebration,” Rhys folds his hands over the table in a subtle display of power, “It’s an opportunity to control the narrative. It’s a chance to remind everyone that Velaris is not just a city, but the beating heart of our Court—it’s a reminder of what we could build together.”

Any residual hesitation seems to vanish with his rather convincing argument. But despite the positive shift in energy, your mind is racing. The thought of seeing Eris again—of being in the same room, breathing the same air—sends a wave of conflicting emotions crashing over you: anxiety, panic, and dread, tied together by a small sliver of hope.

“As for logistics, we’ll need everyone’s help for preparation—”

“I’ll handle the décor,” Amren eagerly cuts in. A glint of excitement shines in her cold eyes at the prospect of decorating the place with jewels and gaudy, shiny things alike.

“And I’ll manage security,” Azriel adds, his wings flaring out slightly behind him. “With so many powerful players in one place, we can’t afford to be careless.”

“Good,” Rhys nods before turning to you. You can feel his searing gaze, but you focus your own on the half-finished food on your plate. “And you—your knowledge of the Autumn Court will be invaluable in these negotiations. I’ll need you close at hand.”

Everyone shifts at the indirect mention of your…escapade in Autumn. But you don’t so much as flinch at his words. Instead, you nod, the weight of responsibility settling over you like a cloak. “Understood.”

As discussions of the impending negotiations continue, you find yourself mentally withdrawing. Still, the calm façade you’ve maintained so well doesn’t crack. But your heart pounds with the suspense of what’s to come.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Over the past week, a nervous energy has been humming around Velaris in anticipation of the big day. It’s been chaotic, to say the least, with High Fae and citizens alike running around in preparation of the High Lords’ summit. Despite the severe lack of sleep and constant ache in your feet, event preparations have been a welcome distraction. But the day has finally come, effectively ending your temporary reprieve. And as you rifle through the gowns in Nesta’s closet, reality starts to really settle in.

“What about this one?” Nesta pulls out an emerald, green gown that leaves little to the imagination. You eye the deep cut and skin-tight material with a frown. 

“If I want to look like a child playing dress up, then sure,” you quip. You throw your head back with a groan and sit on the edge of her bed in defeat. “I don’t have the boobs to pull any of this off.”

Nesta rolls her eyes and places yet another dress back on the rack. “I really don’t know what you were expecting. Why don’t you just suck it up and go ask Mor?”

You stare at her in disbelief.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she snips, “You know I’m right.”

You grunt in disapproval, but don’t protest. Picking an argument with Nesta is a losing battle, after all. 

“Why couldn’t I be blessed with tits as big as yours?” you recline on her bed with a sigh.

Nesta shrugs, still sifting through the closet. “You could always ask Rhys to work his magic. Or Feyre. If she can sprout wings, I’m sure she can magically grow you a cup size or two.”

You launch a pillow in her direction which she swiftly dodges. “I am not asking for a magic boob job.”

You can’t help but giggle at the notion and Nesta follows suit. As ridiculous as the thought is, you long to see the look on Feyre or Rhys’s face if you did ask them.

“Maybe I’ll just wear a trash bag,” you muse aloud, “Or my birthday suit.”

“That’ll be sure to catch Eris’s attention.”

You throw another pillow in her direction.

“What about this one?” Nesta dodges your attack.

You sit up on the bed, ready to shoot down yet another dress. But the rejection halts in your throat as you take in the gown before you. Like the others, this one has a deep v-cut. But the bodice cinches at the waist before flowing down in a river of chiffon. The deep, sapphire hue is decorated with silver embroidery, delicate threads winding like constellations across the fabric. Tiny crystals are scattered throughout the design, catching the light and shimmering like stars in the night sky. The elegance is understated: a perfect blend of boldness and grace that leaves you momentarily speechless.

“That could work,” you state lamely.

A proud grin curls onto Nesta’s lips. “I suppose the twentieth try is the charm.” She tosses the dress towards you, and you swiftly catch it. “Now that that’s sorted, I think it’s time we play dress-up, then.”

You and Nesta fall into a comfortable rhythm, pinning your hair and dusting make-up over your cheeks in between bits of chatter. Despite her hard exterior, you’ve taken a liking to the eldest Archeron since your return to the Night Court. She never beats around the bush—a quality you deeply admire. Talking to her doesn’t necessarily take your mind off your worries, but rather makes them seem far less daunting. 

Just as you zip up your gown, a knock sounds on the door of her bedroom. 

“Come in,” Nesta calls from her seat in front of her vanity. You divert your gaze from your reflection in the full-length mirror to find Cassian in the doorway. His wings are tucked tightly behind him to fit through the opening far too small for the likes of a 6-foot-something Illyrian warrior. He’s swapped his typical attire of leathers out in favor of a sleek, black suit. His unruly hair is tied back neatly, save for a few strands of hair.

Despite his intimidating stature, he stares at Nesta like a lovesick puppy. “Wow,” he stumbles breathlessly, “You look beautiful. Both of you.”

He doesn’t so much as glance in your direction, and you roll your eyes.

“You look less slobbish than usual,” you quip. Nesta snickers, but your insult doesn’t register to Cassian, whose eyes remained trained on his mate. You wrinkle your nose in disgust as you can practically smell his arousal permeating the room.

“And that’s my cue,” you sigh. You take one last glance in the mirror before turning on your heels. You send Nesta a soft smile and pat Cassian’s shoulder on your way out. “Try to keep it in your pants ‘till after the ball, okay?”

You don’t stick around to hear his sounds of protest, swiftly slipping out of the room and down the hallway. Your heart skips a beat as you glance up at the grandfather clock down the hall. 8:06 PM. You take a deep breath before squinting your eyes shut and willing the world to twist and fold around you. Cool air envelopes you as you land outside of the River House. The buzz of Night Court citizens filtering through the front doors fills your ears. You wipe your clammy hands along the chiffon fabric of your gown before joining the crowd. You keep your footsteps steady to counter the frantic beat of your heart. You’re nearly at the steps leading to the ballroom when a hand gently grasps your elbow, pulling you aside.

“Can we talk for a moment?” Rhys whispers in your ear. You turn to find him standing in the shadows. 

“Of course,” you reply, following him to a quiet corner on the side of the house.

He produces a small, green vial from within his tailored jacket. The liquid inside shimmers under the soft glow of the crescent moon. “Angel’s Blade,” he says calmly, as if discussing the weather.

Your eyes widen in surprise, and you tentatively take the vial from his hands. You know what it is. You know that a single drop is enough to ensure a slow, painful death. Yet, you still utter the word aloud for confirmation. “Poison?”

“A little something to help Eris with Beron’s assassination.” Rhys speaks lowly, wary of any potential eavesdroppers. “The plan is simple—Beron needs to sign the treaty at the summit. After that, Eris can do as he pleases with him, and our debts to him are paid.”

You’re rendered speechless as you process the implications. There’s been little to no discussion of Rhys’s alliance with Eris since your return to Velaris—probably for your sake. In fact, you’d assumed it had disintegrated entirely once Eris figured out that Rhys had sent you to Autumn to spy on him. And now, here he is, not only acknowledging it, but asking for your involvement. 

“You want me to give this to Eris?” you ask in disbelief.

Rhys nods, his gaze softening as he senses your unease. “Only if you feel comfortable with it. I’m not asking you to do anything you’re not ready for. But I trust you, and I trust your judgment.”

You swallow hard and stare down at the small vial in your palm. “I’ll do it,” you finally reply. Even though it terrifies you, the decision feels right. “I’ll give it to him.”

“Thank you,” Rhys murmurs, squeezing your shoulder gently before releasing you, “Just…be careful.”

You nod, tucking the vial into a hidden pocket of your gown. 

“You look beautiful tonight, by the way,” he smiles down at you. His lips curl into a teasing smirk, “Looks like you didn’t need a magic boob job to fit into Nesta’s dress, after all.”

A flush crawls up your neck, but the embarrassment on your face quickly morphs into irritation. You slap his shoulder, eyes narrowed in a menacing glare as he cackles like a madman. 

“Is Azriel the only male of the house who isn’t a pervert?” you hiss, hitting him again for good measure. 

Rhys reaches forward to tousle your hair, but you swat him away. “Oh, trust me, my little scholar, Az is the most perverted of us all. Don’t let the gentle giant façade fool you.”

You stifle a giggle, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your amusement. You turn on your heel to stroll back towards the crowd. As you part, he calls after you.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, “That’s a pretty short list, oh Mighty High Lord.”

Rhys’s laughter fades into the background as you push through the crowd and make your way towards the ballroom. Your jaw all but drops as you enter the large room.

The grandeur of the scene before you is staggering—chandeliers drip with crystals, the tapestries depicting the history of Velaris adorn the walls, and the dance floor is flooded with Fae in exquisite attire. The sweet scent of jasmine hangs in the air, mingling with the soft melodies that drift from the orchestra at the far end of the room. You catch glimpses of familiar faces—members of the Inner Circle mingling with high-ranking nobles and foreign dignitaries—but you’re too distracted to greet them, your mind occupied by the weight of the vial in your pocket. You help yourself to a glass of wine to settle your unease, but to no avail.

And then, across the sea of dancers and courtiers, you see him.

For a moment, the world narrows to just him, and everything else fades into the background. The sight of him hits you like a physical blow, your heart lurching in your chest. Eris stands with a group of Autumn Court nobles, looking every bit the poised and calculated heir. When his amber eyes lock onto yours, time stops completely. 

They say that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. You haven’t thought much about death, being immortal. But for a split second, you feel yourself teetering on the brink of that quiet unknown. Those amber eyes are like a movie screen, reeling every memory, every fleeting touch, every unspoken confession. Twisted bedsheets in the watermill cottage, healing light engulfing blood-streaked skin, cool silver slipping around your thumb. Looking at him feels like throwing your freshly mended heart into the pits of fire. The alcohol running through your veins suddenly feels scorching, burning every inch of your skin. And for the first time since you fled Autumn, battered and broken, that feeling deep inside your chest transforms from a dull tug into a debilitating yank. Your body moves with a mind of its own. But just as you take a step forward, amber eyes are gone, replaced with the expanse of a broad chest.

The polite smile you force onto your lips immediately falls as you move your gaze upwards. You stifle a gasp at the sight of crimson hair, so similar to that which has plagued your mind over the past three months. But the man before you isn’t him—his face is too narrow, his nose too crooked. 

 “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” his voice is cold, laced with an unmistakable Vanserra edge. His similarity to Eris is striking—but the russet eyes staring down at you hold something more sinister. You involuntarily shiver, but force on a smile which doesn’t quite reach your eyes. 

“I don’t believe we have,” you dip your head into a courteous nod.

His lips stretch into a vicious grin, “Bastion Vanserra. And you are?” The question, seemingly innocent, feels like a calculated move in a chess game. 

You swallow down the lump in your throat, “Y/N.”

He repeats your name, delighting in the way it rolls off his tongue. Your shoulders stiffen as he grabs your hand in his and raises it to his lips. You fight the urge to pull away as he presses a taunting kiss to your knuckles.

“May I steal you for a dance?” he asks.

No.

“Sure,” you nod, the gesture alone feeling heavy. As he leads you to the center of the ballroom, the music swells around you—an intricate waltz that seems to mock your inner chaos. The dancers around you swirl in a graceful blur, but all you can focus on is the scorching touch of Baston’s hand on the small of your back, the way his gaze occasionally flickers to you with a scrutinizing edge.

“Forgive me if I seem forward,” Bastion says, “but you are truly…exquisite. I’ve heard much about you—Rhysand’s new scholar. What a shame he hasn’t graced us with your presence sooner.”

The words are pleasant, but they feel like they’re coming from a distance, muffled by the pounding of your heart. You force another faux smile, “I’m flattered. I’ve heard much about you as well.”

His eyes narrow slightly with hair-raising scrutiny. Although you know the Vanserra family doesn’t possess Daemati powers, you still double check that the cobblestone barriers of your mind are intact.

“And what have you heard?” he replies smoothly as he twirls you around.

The question hangs in the air between you, a challenge disguised as benevolent curiosity. “Only that you’re a man of considerable influence.”

His lips curl into a feline smirk. But just as quickly as the vicious glint in his eyes appears, it vanishes entirely as a rumbling voice cuts in. 

“‘Considerable’ is one way to put it. ‘Inconsequential’ is another.”

The blood rushes from your face, leaving you ashen and awe-struck. You don’t register the scowl on Bastion’s face or the change in tempo of the music; all you can hear is the thundering beat of your heart. Baston’s hands slip from yours, but all you can feel is that golden thread pulling taut in your chest. The younger Vanserra brother retreats, and a pair of familiar hands slip around your waist. His touch is electrifying, giving life to breath. And when he spins you around, the bustling crowd ceases to exist.

Amber captivates you once more. Eris’s eyes are slightly darker than you remember, and the playful smirk that used to make you swoon is gone. Still, the male before you feels like home. There’s a hundred things you want to say, but the syllables catch in your throat. Instead, you let him guide you across the dance floor, resting one hand on his shoulder and placing the other in his. Déjà vu washes over you as you glide together. There is no wreath atop his head and your red silk has been swapped for a deep sapphire, but just like the first night you met, the pull between you is undeniable, magnetic; this time, accompanied by an invisible, golden string. 

“So, your master has finally freed you from your leash, and the first thing you do is run into the arms of a Vanserra?” Venom drips from his lips. “I would say it’s quite unbecoming, darling, but I suppose you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

You take the insult in stride, letting it roll off your shoulders.

“The fox smells his own hole first,” you quip seamlessly despite the storm of emotions brewing just beneath your surface.

He wears a malevolent grin. “I see your sharp tongue is still intact. Nice to know that wasn’t a part of your little act as well.” You suck in a breath as he dips down, his breath tickling your skin as he whispers, “Tell me, Y/N, does Dear Old Dad know yet?”

You nearly lose your footing as your name—not Athena, not Little Bird—rolls off his tongue. You choose to ignore his goading question. Instead, you trail your hand down from his shoulder. The first few buttons of his silk shirt are undone, and you settle your hand on the bare skin of his chest. His eyes are void of emotion, but you can feel the rapid uptick of his heartbeat underneath your palm. 

You dig your nails slightly into his chest, right where you know he can feel the bond. Your lips brush against his ear as you whisper, “You’re so quick to call me on my shortcomings, Fox—so quick to forget that you kept secrets from me too.” The invisible string between you thrums in agreement. “But I digress,” you sink your nails into his skin, relishing in the way he returns the favor around your waist, “It seems we are but two sides of the same coin, after all.”

Ire flashes in his otherwise empty eyes. He tightens his grip around you once before releasing you entirely, just as the song comes to a close. “I’m growing tired of this game. If you’ll excuse me—”

You wrap a hand around his wrist and tug him back towards you, effectively cutting him off. He tries to yank himself away, but your grip is relentless. You stand on your tip toes, and whisper into his ear, “If you want to take care of your Dear Old Dad,” he tenses, eyes widening at your brashness, “You’ll meet me at the close of the night.”

Eris grits his teeth, but doesn’t react for fear of drawing unwanted attention. “Not here,” he mumbles.

“Fine. In the city, then.” You trail your hand over the center of his chest once more, “You’ll know how to find me.” You brush your lips against his cheek in a chaste kiss. While seemingly polite, the gesture only adds flame to his raging fire. “Till we meet again, Eris Vanserra.”

You don’t dare look back as you slip away. You keep your eyes forward and your steps steady to counteract the frantic beat of your heart. The music feels far away as you weave through the crowd, tactfully avoiding all of your friends.  

The moment you step outside the grand ballroom, the cool night air hits you like a wave, washing away remnants of the tension that cling to your skin. The orchestral music fades into a distant hum, leaving only the sound of your own breathing as you make your way down the steps of the side door. You glance back once, but the shadows are empty. Still, you can feel the intensity of Eris’s gaze lingering on you, even from afar.

Your steps quicken as you stroll through the open night towards the Sidra. The sound of the gentle current helps soothe your frayed nerves. You stop at the edge of the water, letting the cool breeze soothe your inner turmoil. 

“Running away, are we?”

You tense at the familiar voice, your skin prickling with surprise. You turn to find Mor leaning against a nearby tree, her expression unreadable. But the tension between you is palpable.

“Just needed some air,” you counter.

She pushes off the tree and approaches. The silky, burgundy fabric of her dress ripples like water with each deliberate step towards you. “I saw you with him,” she deadpans.

You stiffen and rub your clammy hands against the fabric of your own dress. “And?”

“And I’m wondering what the hell you’re doing,” she snaps, her voice low but biting, “Waltzing back into his arms after everything he’s done—after all that you’ve been through.”

The accusation stings, but you refuse to show weakness. “It’s not that simple.”

“Isn’t it?” she steps closer, “Because it looks pretty damn simple to me.”

Your façade of indifference cracks. “You think I wanted this?” you can’t hide the tremble in your voice, “You think I wanted to feel this…this pull, after everything? Do you have any idea what it’s like to fight against something you don’t even understand?”

Her own mask of apathy slips. Her eyes soften slightly, but her lips remain pursed in a tight line. “You don’t need to fight it alone.”

Something inside you snaps. “What the hell do you know about what I need?” The words come out harsher than you intend, but you can’t stop. “You’ve been ignoring me for weeks, Mor. Avoiding me like the plague. So don’t you darestand there and act like you care now.”

Her face pales at the blistering truth of your words. You divert your eyes to the Sidra, unable to hold her gaze. You mean every single word, but this is not how you’d envisioned this conversation going.

“I’m sorry,” you finally whisper. You take a shaky breath, trying to recollect yourself. “I don’t know how to do this anymore. I’m tired, and I’m confused, and I just…I just want my sister back.”

A heavy silence hangs between the two of you. The cool winds lick your skin, but you can’t move, let alone wrap your arms around your shivering body. Mor reaches out to touch your arm, but you instinctively take a step back, not ready to accept her comfort. You’re thankful you can’t see the dejection on her face.

“I know I’ve been distant,” she admits. A scoff bubbles in your throat, but you hold it down. “And that’s on me. I was angry when you pushed me away. And that’s something I’m still getting over. But I do care, Y/N—I never stopped caring. And I’m…I’m scared for you.”

The vulnerability in her voice makes your heart ache. For a moment, the animosity between you dissipates entirely, leaving a mutual understanding in its wake. Your throat tightens, and you force yourself to swallow with a wince. 

“I’m scared too,” you whisper, the words bitter on your tongue. “But I can’t let fear control me anymore.”

Mor reaches her hand out once again. You tense at the feeling of her delicate touch, but this time you don’t pull away. “Just promise me one thing,” she runs her thumb over the bare skin of your shoulder, “Don’t lose yourself in the process.”

You nod, though you’re not entirely sure how you’ll keep that promise. “I’ll try.”

With that, the soft touch on your shoulder disappears as Mor steps back, giving you the space you need. You wait until her soft footsteps are out of earshot to release the breath you’ve been holding in. Your shoulders slump as you exhale, letting the cool air soothe the raw edges of your emotions. The night is still, and for a moment, you allow yourself to breathe, to process all that’s transpired. 

The anticipation of what’s to come gnaws at you, a mix of dread and hope tangled together. Eris will come; you’re certain of that. But what will happen when he does? The question hangs heavy in the air, unanswered. For now, you focus on the steady rhythm of the river, grounding yourself in the present.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Velaris is a city of breathtaking beauty. It is a vibrant mosaic of colors: the lush gardens spilling over with exotic flowers, the elegant, domed buildings. From the air humming with creativity to the labyrinth of winding streets, it is full of hidden gems. But your favorite part of the city is how the stars seem to listen—how the intensity of their shine seems to reflect your inner musings.

Tonight is no exception. The twinkling lights are bright—brighter than you’ve ever seen before. They are captivating, whispering to you to come closer. You know it’s temporary, as the night is far from over—but you can’t help but indulge yourself for a little while as you lean against the rails of your apartment balcony nursing a generous glass of wine.

You’ve swapped out Nesta’s dress for one of Azriel’s old sweaters. The cozy material engulfs you, falling mid-thigh and warming your body against the chilling breeze of the city. The deep, burgundy wine is sweet, effectively numbing you in preparation for Eris’s impending arrival. 

A lump forms in your throat at the thought of him. Seeing him tonight was not something you’d properly prepared yourself for. Every fiber of your being longed to pull him close, to hold him tight and never let go. But that disdainful look in his eyes…If only life was as simple as following your heart. You are no longer in the business of suppressing your emotions. Yet, you still take a large gulp of your wine to alleviate the tightness in your throat.

Something in the air shifts, and you blink back the silver lining your eyes. Every inch of your exposed skin vibrates with anticipation, sensing his arrival.

“Drowning our sorrows, are we?”

Your heart flutters at the sound of his crisp tone slicing through the air. You clutch the glass tightly in your hands, keeping your gaze trained on the stars above.

“Something like that,” you mumble before taking another slow sip.

You can hear his soft footsteps behind you, wandering around the small space of your studio. But you don’t dare turn around, because turning around means looking into his eyes. And looking into his eyes means losing your carefully constructed composure. So, you continue to marvel at the stars, wishing them to sweep you up into their sparkling abyss. 

Eris’s voice cuts through the fragile peace of the night again, sharp and unyielding. “Drowning your sorrows won’t wash away the guilt.”

“Misery loves company,” you speak softly to conceal the waver of your voice. Your fingers tremble around the stem of your glass. The wine no longer tastes sweet—it’s bitter now, tainted by the truth in his words. His cruelty has always been a defense mechanism, but tonight, it feels more personal, like he’s trying to hurt you as much as you’ve hurt him.

“Do you even feel anything anymore, or have you numbed yourself to the point of oblivion?” Each word is a deliberate strike aimed to wound. 

Your silence speaks louder than words.

“Or have you finally become what they always wanted—a docile little pet with nothing left to say?” He slices through the thin veneer of composure you’ve managed to hold onto. 

The stars above blur as your eyes fill with unshed tears. “Eris,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper, “Can we just…coexist for a moment? No accusations, no blame. Just…be.”

There’s a long, heavy silence that follows your plea. For a moment, you fear he’ll ignore you, continue his barrage of insults. But then, he sighs. The sound is filled with an exhaustion that mirrors your own. He moves closer until you can see him in your peripheral. He mimics your stance, leaning against the railing of the balcony. The heat radiating from his body is two-fold: a comforting warmth that beckons you closer and a searing intensity that threatens to burn you alive.

“You always did prefer the night,” he rasps, his voice softer now, tinged with a note of something you can’t quite place.

You swallow hard, still not turning to face him. “The night doesn’t judge,” you reply, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside, “It just listens.”

 “The stars are far too forgiving,” Eris murmurs, a bitter edge to his words.

You cup your glass with both hands in a futile attempt to hold it steady. “If only people were as forgiving as the stars.”

You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek. And when they open again, you finally turn to face him. There’s a storm behind his amber eyes, a battle between the ruthless mask he wears and the vulnerability he hides. He looks both devastatingly familiar and painfully foreign, like a memory you can't quite grasp. And as you take in the sight of him, the ache in your chest tightens.

“It was all real, you know. Everything I said. Everything I did. Everything I felt.” your bottom lip wobbles as you speak. “It was so real it nearly shattered me.”

His jaw flexes, his knuckles turning white from his tight grip around the railing. The seconds stretch into minutes as you wait for his response. Your eyes desperately search his for some sort of tell, but the walls he has built up are impenetrable. Eris abruptly pushes off the railing.

“I didn’t come here to reminisce,” he snaps. The momentary softness of his voice has disappeared. “Do you have it or not?”

 You blink slowly at him before averting your gaze to the stars one more time. You tip the glass of wine against your lips, swallowing the remaining contents. The burning of the alcohol down your throat mingles with the sting of his rejection. You set the empty glass down and wipe the lone tear from your cheek with the sleeve of your sweater before turning back to him. You don’t meet his eyes as you wrap your arms around your frail body and pad back inside to your apartment. Eris follows silently, keeping his distance—as if the air surrounding you is toxic. 

He watches as you round the oak desk in the corner and slide the first cabinet open. You grab the little green vial inside with a trembling hand. But before you slide the drawer shut, you pause. The completed draft of your manuscript sits inside, bound seamlessly thanks to Clotho’s help. You run your free hand over the leather cover. Its pages seem to whisper to you, beckoning you to grab it. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you listen.

Curiosity flashes through Eris’s eyes as you walk towards him, deadly poison in one hand and an equally lethal paperback in the other. 

“Angel’s Blade,” you hold out the green vial, “One drop should do the trick.”

He cautiously takes it from you, careful not to touch you. But his eyes are trained on the leather-bound book in your other hand.

“What’s that?” he rasps.

Your mouth dries, your nerves running wild. But you muster up the courage to hold it out to him with a steady hand. “Something I’ve been working on,” you croak, “It’s only a first draft, but I’d like you to have it.”

He eyes the book with contempt, “I’m not interested in joining your little book club.”

You reach your arm out further, and he takes a step back. “At least read the forward,” you plead, “You owe me that much.”

Ire returns, this time with a vengeance. “I don’t owe you shit,” he snarls. “Thank you for your hospitality. Let’s never do this again.”

Your heart sinks as he turns on his heel and strides towards the door. In an act of desperation, you flip open the book.

“Confucius once posited that wisdom emerges from experience; a notion echoed throughout the annals of philosophy.”

His footsteps halt.

“For centuries, thinkers have sought to distill the essence of wisdom through the accumulation of experiences and the study of theory. Yet, as we delve deeper into the human condition, it becomes apparent that true introspection does not arise from the mere cataloging of experiences. Instead, it is forged in the crucible of pain, a particular kind of pain that sears the soul and leaves an indelible mark on our being.”

For the first time since he entered your home, your voice is steady, strong.

“It is pain that consumes, that reaches into the depths of our existence, touching the very core of who we are.”

You inhale deeply, preparing yourself for the word that is about to roll off your tongue. The word you’ve been so afraid to utter until now.

“It pain born of love—a love so profound that it defies all reason, a love that transcends the boundaries of rational thought and knowledge, a love that has the power to unravel us completely. When love shatters us, it does so in a way that is both devastating and transformative. It is through this pain that the deepest truths about ourselves are revealed.”

Your vision blurs from the tears now streaming freely down your cheeks. The air is deadly silent, filled only by your soft sniffles and Eris’s staggered breath. You approach him on wobbly legs, positioning yourself in front of the door. An unrecognizable emotion swims in his eyes, but the strain on his face is undeniable. You hold his gaze with your own tear-filled one as you finish reciting the forward, the book forgotten in your limp hand.

“In these pages, I offer not just a recounting of my life but a testament to the truth that has been etched into my soul: that it is love—intense, all-consuming love—that paves the way to introspection. It is a truth forged in the crucible of suffering, illuminated by the dim light that flickers in the wake of love’s destruction. And it is through this lens that I have come to understand myself, not as I once was, but as I am now—a being forever changed, yet made more whole by the very pain that once threatened to break me.

For darkness and all its shining stars,

Avicula.”

Your heart lays bare before him—for him to steal, to cherish, to break. For a moment, you think you see the male you once knew, the one who cherished you with everything he had. But then his jaw tightens, and he diverts his gaze to the manuscript in your hands. Finally, he reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he takes the leather-bound book from your grasp. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

“Avicula…” he murmurs, testing the name on his tongue.

“It means Little Bi—”

“I know what it means,” he cuts you off swiftly. 

You want to say something, to reach out and touch him, but you’re frozen in place. He takes a step closer. You’ve never felt more vulnerable as his eyes search yours. But then, just as quickly as it came, the softness in his gaze is gone, replaced by an impenetrable shield. He pulls back and tucks the book into the inside of his coat. 

“This changes nothing.” 

Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach. But the dejection tearing at your insides quickly transforms into a fiery rage.

“Why won’t you admit it?” you demand, “I know you feel something.” You place your hand on his chest, right where you feel the bond in your own. 

Eris’s eyes snap back to yours, and he wraps his hand around your wrist in a bruising grip. “You don’t know shit,” he snaps, throwing your hand down away from him.

“I know you better than you know yourself,” you retaliate, inching forward, “I know you put on this façade of a cold-blooded, ruthless asshole to detract from the vulnerability that lives within. I know that underneath all that armor, you’re absolutely terrified—afraid of what this means, afraid of what will happen if you’re honest with yourself.”

His jaw clenches so tightly you think it might snap. “You have no idea what’s at stake here.”

“Then tell me!” you yell, hands shaking with desperation. “Stop being so fucking stubborn and tell me!”

He shakes his head vehemently and runs his hands through his hair, pulling tightly at the roots. Your whole body trembles as you watch him pace before you. “What’s it gonna take?” you shout. “Do you want me to fall at your feet? Plead for your forgiveness? Or did I damage your ego beyond repair?” you cry, vision blurry again with tears.

“You can’t fix this!” he explodes. The trees outside cower at the rawness of his rage. “You don’t belong in this madness. And I won’t let you destroy yourself for some lovesick fantasy you have of me.”

Eris turns towards the door, but you throw yourself at him once again, intercepting his path. “You don’t get to make that choice for me,” you stammer through your cries. You reach your quivering hands up, cupping the sides of his face. You pull him down towards you, resting his forehead against yours. “Please, Eris,” your bottom lip wobbles, “I love you.”

Your confession hangs heavy in the air. His eyes flutter shut, and for a split second you can feel him sinking into your hold. But when they open, amber is once again nothing more than a frozen wasteland. 

“I can’t make that choice for you,” the anger in his tone is gone, replaced by an even more deadly finality. “But I can make it for myself.”

Time stops. And that golden string between you splits, hanging precariously by a single thread. 

You stand there, frozen and heartbroken, as he pulls himself away from your touch. Silent sobs wrack your body as his figure disappears through the door. You want to scream, kick, fight, anything. Not nothing comes out. It feels like drowning—like water rushing in, flooding your lungs, and stealing your life away. Watching him walk out that door with the most sacred piece of yourself is a pain like no other, amplified by the shredded bond in your stuttering heart. You can only watch as the world around you spins on its axis before you crumple to the ground, and it goes black entirely.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Throughout his 500 years of existence in an everchanging world, pain has been the only constant for Eris Vanserra. From the relentless beatings by his father to the countless deaths witnessed in not one but two wars, he hasn’t just experienced it; he’s lived it. Yet in those five centuries of misery, none has rivaled the Earth-shattering pain of walking away from the only thing that has brought him pure, unadulterated joy. 

He knows this is the only right decision. He knows that she deserves more than the legacy of violence that taints his bloodline. And he knows that no matter how hard he tries, he can’t rewrite the narrative of his own tragic destiny. But that does nothing to quell the shards of glass digging deeper into his chest with each step away from her. For he is no more than a hollow shell of a male, doomed to an eternity of perpetual darkness

The lively atmosphere of Velaris seems to mock his anguish as he stumbles along the cobblestone streets. Unshed tears blur his vision, and each slow blink to keep them at bay feels like another nail in the coffin. The little, leather-bound book seems to sink further into his pocket with each uneven step, until he can no longer bear the weight of it. He limps into an alley way and sinks to the cold ground in a heap of agony. Shaky hands fumble through his coat in search of the only piece of her he has left. His heart pounds in his ears as he flips the book open.

Avicula.

Eris watches in horror as a single tear splatters onto the page. He runs his trembling thumb over the name, smudging the ink slightly. He does it again, watching as the ink blurs together. And again, and again, until she is no more than a splotch of darkness on the page. Another tear falls, and he slams the book shut—as if doing so will put an end to this chapter of his miserable story. But memories are far too cruel, for blurred ink is replaced with every vestige of her: fleeting touches between rows of books, big, brown eyes sparkling brighter than the light of a thousand stars, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle lingering like a ghost in every corner of his mind. 

He pulls himself from the ground, nearly losing his footing. He tumbles like a drunkard out of the alley, past the lines of shops, and into the grass where the Sidra lies. Eris clutches the book with a white-knuckled grip. He draws his arm back, but before he can launch that last piece of her into the depths of the river, a chilling voice stops him.

“What have we here, brother?”

Bile rises to his throat as he spins around. He catches a fleeting glimpse of Baston’s wicked grin before pain explodes on the back of his head, and the world goes black.

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[thatbloodymuggle]

Mastermind Update

hello my beautiful followers! just wanted to post a quick update about mastermind.

the series is coming to a close (I plan on releasing 2-3 more chapters), and as such writer's block has been a b i t c h ! 😛 in all seriousness, I've grown so emotionally attached to this series that I want it to end on a perfect note which is why updates have been so slow.

in better news, chapter 7 is nearly done, and I plan on uploading at 5 pm CT tomorrow!

I want to extend a huge massive ginormous THANK YOU to everyone who has messaged, commented, and reblogged this series thus far. your support has been so amazing. as a simple girlie who puts more time into fictional men and writing than her own love life, your support is what keeps me going. I truly can't put into words how thankful I am for each and every one of you!!!!! rock on and I hope you stick around for the end of this saga❤️❤️

[thatbloodymuggle]

I'm so excited for the new mastermind update! Plots and twist go wild!!

hehe next chapter is almost done! hoping to have it up either tonight or tomorrow🤞 (writer's block has been crazy😣)

[thatbloodymuggle]

Oh my god I loved Mastermind so much. Everything was so flawlessly written . The emotions of every character was so beautifully highlighted and Nesta and reader's interaction was chief's kiss🤌🏼. I can't wait for the next chapters . ♥️

THANK YOU!!!🥹 next chapter will (hopefully) be out tomorrow!

[thatbloodymuggle]

Hi, currently in the middle of reading mastermind, just got to the point in moon and stars, you know the one. Don’t want to give any spoilers, but please know you’ve added enough tension in my life I have regularly had to put my phone down and pace. It is a very good I’m enjoying it immensely. Ahhh.

omggg I'm so glad you're enjoying☺️

[thatbloodymuggle]

MASTERMIND (vi)

SIX - FROM ASHES

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 7.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, lots of plot building, reader-centric, non-canon usage of real history

A/N: no eris in this chapter, but he'll be back soon🫠

“No luck?” the High Lord of the Night Court drums his fingers along the oak of his armchair.

“She’s stubborn as a mule,” a disgruntled Cassian slumps into his usual spot at the meeting table, “I think I’d have better luck convincing Tamlin to join our court.”

Rhys’s leisure finger-tapping halts, his knuckles turning white as he grips the arms of his chair so tightly it starts to splinter. Beside him, Cassian runs a hand through his unruly hair, shoulders tense. And across from him, Mor’s despondent eyes study the stem of her wine glass as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. The rest of the table is a mixture of similar states of frustration, anger, and worry: Azriel’s jaw ticks, Feyre’s hopeful smile falters, Amren’s eyes roll. Everyone shifts with unease at the thick tension in the air, hallmarked by the glaringly obvious empty seat between Mor and Cassian. Well, everyone except Nesta, whose stone-cold expression doesn’t so much as twitch at the admittedly predictable news.

It’s been three months. Three months since you returned to the House of Wind in a heap of heartbreak. Three months of Azriel’s shadows chasing you down as you hop from court to court like a vagabond. Three months filled with visits from nearly every member of the Inner Circle. But despite their best attempts, their most heart-wrenching pleas, you remain steadfast: you are not the woman you used to be, and until you can find her, the Night Court cannot be your home.

“Where is she now?” Feyre breaks the heavy silence.

“Winter Court,” Azriel grunts, “She moved from Dawn last week.”

“And now that she knows we’ve found her, she’s probably gone already,” Cassian grumbles, face still sour from his rather unpleasant encounter with you.

The waning wood of Rhys’s chair finally snaps, sending pieces of splintered oak flying through the air. Feyre winces beside him, and for the first time Mor’s eyes move from the crystal glass. 

“This is getting ridiculous,” Rhys seethes, “We’ve given her space. She’s had her fun running around like a nomad. It’s time for her to come back home.”

Azriel grunts in agreement, the muscles underneath his sculpted arms flexing as he crosses them across the table. Feyre pulls her bottom lip between her teeth in contemplation.

“We can’t force her back here if she’s not ready,” Feyre counters softly.

“Yes, we can,” Amren snaps, “Ready or not, serving in this court is her duty.”

 “If we force her against her will, she’ll never forgive us,” Cassian grumbles, his wings fluttering slightly in a sign of irritation, “She made that painfully clear today.”

Mor sets her wine glass down on the table, and the soft clink draws everyone’s attention. They all stare, waiting with bated breath for her to speak.

During the first few weeks of your disappearance, Mor was an emotional wreck. She visited you each time she caught wind of your new location. She couldn’t stand to see her sister, her own flesh and blood, destroyed by the same male who hurt her centuries ago. But as the weeks stretched into months, and each visit became more and more reviled, she’d begun losing hope. It was a pain like no other—being unable to connect to the one person she loves unequivocally. The emptiness in your eyes, the disdain in your lips, only grew with each attempt, until she’d given up completely. Until she’d resigned herself to sulking in the corner of the room, staring at inanimate objects with a permanent frown on her face. 

“Leave her be,” Mor’s uncharacteristically cold tone slices through the air, “If she wants to wallow in her own self-pity, then let her.”

Azriel shifts in discomfort. His shadows swirl around the empty chair, as if mourning your absence. His wings twitch behind him, itching to search every inch of Prythian until he relocates you—or throttles Eris Vanserra’s throat.

The aftermath of your abrupt departure was explosive, to say the least. Watching you return bloodied and bare at the hands of him was far too familiar. It was a sight Azriel had witnessed once centuries ago—one he so deeply wishes could be cleansed from his memories forever. Once the panic that accompanied your return had settled, it was a blazing fury that took its place. The second the Autumn Court heir stepped into the Spring Court for his monthly meeting with Cassian, the Spymaster had him pinned against a tree with the Truthteller to his throat. It took every ounce of his will power, along with Cassian’s incessant reminder that Eris would be no use dead, to keep Azriel from slitting his throat on the spot. 

With your unabating avoidance of the topic, the Inner Circle is still ignorant to the details of your affair. Azriel, on the other hand, knew from the second he laid eyes on you, crumpled and broken on the living room floor. The rest of the Night Court entourage was quick to catch on—but it was him, the true limerence, who knew it from the start. And with his centuries spent pining after a female who can never love him back, he is unable to fathom the notion of a male rejecting a bond gifted by the Mother herself.

“She needs us,” Azriel avoids Mor’s penetrating gaze, “We cannot leave family behind.”

Red, hot ire contorts onto Mor’s features, but her retort is cut short by Rhys’s commanding tone.

“So we don’t force her,” Rhys crosses his arms over the table, “We deliver a message. Tell her that if she wants to keep her position in this court’s assembly, she is to report back to the House of Wind within the week—otherwise, we’ll find someone else to fill her position.”

Nesta, who’s been eerily quiet, scoffs humorlessly, “If you think that’s going to work, then you must truly be dense.” Rhys’s nostrils flare and he grinds his teeth. Cassian places a steadying hand on her thigh underneath the table, but the eldest Archeron sister continues, “If you’re going to give her an ultimatum, you might as well chain her up and lock her here. She’s far too intelligent, more than all of you combined, might I add, to fall for something as foolish as reverse psychology.”

Rhys leans forward and a menacing snarl curls onto his lips at his sister-in-law’s insubordination. Feyre shoots a warning glance at her sister, but the damage has already been done. 

“I’m not chaining anyone up,” the High Lord seethes.

“It sure seems that way,” Nesta retaliates, ignoring Cassian’s blunt nails digging into her thigh through her leathers, “It’s your fault she’s too traumatized to come back here. You sent her there. You encouraged her to get close to him. So maybe you should stop projecting, and give her the space she needs to sort her shit out.”

 Pure, unbridled rage blazes in Rhys’s violet eyes. His fists slam against the table, sending red liquid sloshing out of Mor’s glass. Feyre flinches, and the two Illyrian warriors keep their eyes down. But despite the fury pouring from the High Lord, Nesta keeps her chin held high, her eyes narrowed in a punishing glare. 

“The only person at fault is that Autumn Court piece of scum, girl,” Amren snaps, her cold eyes just as deadly as Nesta’s, “We’d be better off getting rid of him, once and for all.”

“He’s no use dead,” Feyre counters, placing a steadying hand on her mate’s shoulder.

“He’s not much use alive either,” Azriel grumbles.

 “I’m done with this conversation,” Mor abruptly stands from the table, her doe eyes void of emotion, “Do what you will. I don’t care.”

“Sit down,” Rhys’s tone is commanding, leaving no room for debate. She purses her lips, but reluctantly follows his instructions. Mor diverts her gaze back to the stem of the wine glass, retreating to her earlier fascination with the unfascinating object. “As much pleasure as I’d take in seeing the light leave the bastard’s eyes, we’re not killing Eris,” Rhys reasons, “And as it stands, I see no better option than leveraging her position as a member of this court’s politics.”

Nesta narrows her eyes, and he matches her glare. 

“It’s worth a try. We’ve all tried reasoning with her, and it’s only pushed her further,” Amren affirms before grumbling under her breath, “Stupid girl.”

Rhys relaxes back into his seat, but the tension in his shoulders remains, “Well, then if we’re all in agreement, I can draft a—”

“Let me talk to her,” Nesta interrupts.

“No,” the syllables roll off Rhys’s tongue before she can even finish her sentence.

The table falls silent when Feyre immediately retaliates, “Yes.”

The High Lord and Lady stare at one another, each unrelenting. The youngest Acheron sister cocks a brow, as if challenging her mate. Her pink lips are pulled tight, shoulders back; leaving no question that she is, in fact, his equal. Rhys bristles as Nesta’s voice sounds through the air once again, but keeps his gaze trained on Feyre.

“Clearly, all of you have failed miserably getting through to her,” Nesta’s cold tone softens slightly as Cassian kicks her foot underneath the table, “I’ve—” she falters, “I’ve been there before—in that seemingly impenetrable darkness. So let me talk to her.”

The anger laced onto Rhys’s features wavers, his lips dipping into a frown. His hard gaze softens, and he releases a long sigh. “If the High Lady wishes it, then so be it,” he relents.

Feyre fights the triumphant smile tugging at her rosy lips. Nesta does not.

With that, the plan slowly unfurls. Azriel will begin his search first thing in the morning, and once he relocates you, Nesta will pay you a visit. Much to her displeasure, Rhys still insists on writing his stupid letter for her to deliver. However, with agitation clear in the air, Nesta decides to let him have this small victory—if only to preserve his fragile ego. Through it all, Mor’s eyes don’t waver from her wine glass. But despite her detachment, a small sliver of hope dares to break through the solemn room. Everyone is wary, for hope has proven time and time again to be futile. And still, they can’t help but latch on to it for dear life.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

A wise philosopher once said, “By three methods we may learn wisdom: First, by reflection, which is noblest; Second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third by experience, which is the bitterest.” But in all Confucius’s wisdom, you wholeheartedly believe his list should be reordered. 

First should be imitation, which you agree is easiest. You’ve acquired wisdom through imitation for as long as you can remember. From immersing yourself between endless shelves of books, to regurgitating the words of Prythian’s most treasured scholars, you are well practiced in imitation. And despite its short-sightedness, it has granted you wisdom, albeit superficial.

Second, in your mind, is experience. In your 70 years of existence, you’ve only recently started to dip your toes into this derivative of wisdom. And it is your precisely your thirst for wisdom that has driven you to seek experience in the first place. It’s that insatiable hunger, like a demon lurking on your shoulder, that initiated the cascade of experiences that has stripped away your sense of self entirely, leaving you an empty canvas, ready to be remolded. But despite the soul-shattering pain that has come along with experience, you don’t agree with Confucius. For reflection is far more bitter.

How does one practice introspection when they’ve lost their sense of self? When all there is to reflect on is an empty void, filled only by imitation and limited experience? It was meant to be an impossible feat, you suppose. If wisdom was so easy to come by, then wars wouldn’t ignite. Hate wouldn’t fester. And love would prevail.

It’s that void that plagues your mind as you stare into the crystal-clear lake below, shimmering with the reflection of a ghost of a woman. Even as you stretch your lips and wiggle your fingers, watching how it mirrors in the water, you don’t recognize the being staring back. The irony of it is glaring—staring at your physical reflection in search of that otherworldly one. But what else can you do when you’ve traversed all travelable land, met every breed of faerie, and still your only semblance of self is that tug deep in your chest that grows duller each day?

The woman in the lake ripples as a bright, orange fish breaks the surface briefly before swimming back down into its depths. With a long sigh, you peel your eyes from the crystal-clear water and divert your gaze to the surrounding trees. They shine a deep, emerald green underneath the beating sun. After several days spent traversing the mountains, creeks, and valleys of the Day Court, you’ve found that this little nook, tucked quietly along the southern border, is your favorite.

The rolling hills and warming, golden rays are something out of a children’s book. The nights are short; a stark contrast to the beautiful darkness of Velaris. And although you do miss the winking stars and smiling moon, something about this place feels…calming.

During the first two months of your excursion, you stayed far away from Night and Day, and you avoided Autumn like the plague. Feeling so disconnected from yourself, you opted for the more foreign parts of Prythian. A week in Summer, followed by a few days in Spring, before venturing into Dawn. Winter was your favorite. Without a real home, and with a handful of supplies, the biting winds were vicious—but they numbed the ache in your chest. That is, until you were sniffed out for…what is it, the sixteenth time now?

Your lips dip into a scowl at the thought. Each time you feel like you’re on the brink of something—of some kind of clarity, some self-discovery—Azriel’s meddling shadows rip you away from solitude. You know that your family means well. But telling them, time and time again, to kindly fuck off is becoming rather tedious. You’re not heartless; it’s quite the opposite, really. Each time you look into their eyes—their pitiful, dejected eyes—it rouses a storm of emotions deep inside your gut. You can’t stand the way they look at you like some helpless, wounded animal that bites at any helping hand. The way they look at you like you’re broken. It’s an unwelcome confirmation of your deepest fear: that you are, in fact, irreparable, crippled by the only person who’s made you feel alive. 

So, you continue to bite at their helping hands, constantly moving in search of that stupid introspection Confucius speaks so highly of. It’s how you’ve found yourself here, in the place that your mother once lived in, the place she once loved. It’s odd; exploring land that is technically your home, but that you’ve never seen before. You can’t help but wonder what your life would look like had you grown up outside the walls of that library. You imagine that you and your mother would have lived in a quaint cottage in this little nook in the south, where the hills stretch so far into the horizon, they seem infinite. You imagine you would have grown up swimming in this lake, climbing the luscious, green trees until your fingers splintered. 

The soft smile on your lips drops instantly as you catch sight of a dark movement in your peripheral. You whip around, just in time to see tendrils of shadows retreat into the trees. A scowl contorts onto your features. The stupid Spymaster should have known that his shadows wouldn’t fare well in the blistering daylight of this court. 

“Fool,” you shout out into the air. Only the birds chirp back—but you know the message was received.

You reluctantly haul yourself from the grass and begin your trek back to your temporary abode. The grass quivers beneath your stomping feet. Is a week of peace and quiet so much to ask? How many hurtful words does it take for them to give up? You don’t slow down as you approach the abandoned cottage. The hinges of the broken door groan in protest as you swing it open. Sun rays peak through the holes in the roof, shining down onto the dirty, wooden floorboards. It smells of rust and mildew, a testament to its centuries of neglect. But with only a handful of coins left in your pocket, it does the job.

Your hands tremble with agitation as you haphazardly throw your few personal belongings, strewn about the small house, into your single bag. You don’t have time to spare. Azriel surely knows he was caught, and he no doubt alerted Rhys immediately. Someone will be here soon with another futile plea to bring you home. You can only hope that you’ll be out of here before they arrive. Just as you snap the buttons of your bag shut, the hinges of the door groan again behind you.

You squint your eyes shut and clench your jaw, willing yourself to maintain some semblance of composure. You can tell by their light footsteps that it’s not one of the males—thank the Mother, because if Cassian returned he would be hobbling back to Velaris missing a limb.

“Isn’t this charming?”

That aloof tone could only belong to one person. Your tight grip on your bag loosens slightly, and your eyes widen with surprise. You turn slowly, brows furrowed as you take in Nesta’s appearance. Her golden-brown hair is braided on top of her head as usual, not a strand out of place. She wanders around the dreadful space, studying each dust-covered corner as if you’re not there. The initial shock fades, and the frown returns to your face.

“I didn’t know you were doing Rhys’s dirty work now,” you retort coolly. 

She pauses her mindless exploration and turns on her heels. Her cold eyes are striking, as always, and she doesn’t hide her scrutinizing gaze as she scans you from head to toe. You’ve looked better, it says. Nesta looks dreadfully bored as she replies, “I’m not—Well, I suppose I am,” she pulls a crumpled piece of parchment from her brassiere, “He requested that I deliver this. But if I were you, I’d burn it.”

Your eye the letter in her hand warily, as if touching it will somehow transport you back to the House of Wind. Nesta rolls her eyes and waves the parchment in her hand, “If you don’t take it, then I’m going to have to answer to his bruised ego.”

Reluctantly, you take the letter from her waiting hand and blindly set it aside, “Is that it?”

“Pretty much,” she quips.

“You’re not going to grovel and plea for me to come home?” you cross your arms over your chest.

“I don’t grovel,” she scoffs.

The tension in your body unfurls slightly, but you remain alert. You know Nesta is honest—but why on Earth would Rhys send her here?

“I’ll see myself out then,” the eldest Archeron sister juts her chin slightly in a farewell nod. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, watching intently as she turns on her heel and strides back towards the broken door.

“Wait,” you blurt before you can stop yourself. She pauses, ears perked expectantly. Maybe it’s her complete nonchalance, or her abrupt bluntness. But the way Nesta looks at you, like a real person and not some kicked puppy, strikes a chord within you. It stirs a realization that it’s not company you want to avoid, but rather the wrong kind of company.

“You can stay, if you’d like,” your voice is hesitant, but doesn’t waver.

Nesta turns slowly. Her icy eyes remain, but a ghost of a smile plays on her rosy lips, “Okay. But not in this dump.”

You roll your eyes at the way she crinkles her nose in response to the mildew seeping through the walls. You’re sure you don’t smell much better, not having had a proper bath in at least a week.

“Fine,” you deadpan, “We can walk.”

Nesta lets you lead the way, out of the abandoned cottage and into the green beauty of Day. The sun shines as brightly as ever as you fall into a comfortable rhythm, striding leisurely side by side. You note the wonderment in Nesta’s piercing eyes, drinking in the sweet breeze that hallmarks the Day Court. 

“I’m surprised it took you so long to venture here,” she remarks, “I’m not sure I’ve seen such…serenity before.”

You shrug as you step over a fallen log, “It’s nice.” Understatement of the century. “I quite liked Winter, though.”

Nesta snorts, “What did you squat in there? An igloo?”

She can surely feel your glare burning holes in the side of her head, but her eyes remain trained on the full-bodied trees above. 

“A tupiq, actually,” you retort. In retrospect, an igloo would have been better. “I liked the cold. It was…numbing.”

An unspoken tension hangs in the otherwise crisp air. You’re not sure why the small sliver of vulnerability rolls off your tongue. It’s not a new revelation—but saying it aloud, for someone else to hear, is different.

“A stark contrast to the blazing inferno that drove you here,” Nesta states flagrantly. 

A dull tug deep in your chest halts you in your tracks. Your eyes narrow to slits, and Nesta finally meets your punishing gaze.

“What’s your play here?” you hiss.

She quirks a brow, “There’s no play. I didn’t realize Eris was a dirty word.”

His name rolls so nonchalantly off her tongue, and you physically stumble back with a wince. You haven’t heard his name in months. It was a boundary not even your half-sister dared to breech during her many unwelcome visits. Hearing that four-letter name brings on a swirl of feelings you’ve tried for so long to suppress. Nesta’s piercing expression softens slightly as she observes the change in your demeanor. She opens her mouth to apologize, but you speak before she has the chance.

“It’s not—he’s…he’s not,” you try, and fail, to keep your voice steady.

She nods slowly and wets her lips before replying, “Well, I’m glad you’re not letting a male dictate your life.”

Your lips curl into a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The irony of it is sobering. Despite your expert avoidance of any thoughts plagued by him, he has dictated your life from the moment you left Velaris. You’ve run like a coward, chased by his ghost, in search of some mirage of clarity that he has made unattainable. 

“I noticed your copy of Confucius’s Analects,” Nesta halts your rapid spiral, “In that shithole you’ve been squatting in. Interesting choice, given your…light packing.”

You can’t help but glance at the lake in the distance. Déjà vu washes over you as you’re reminded of your earlier musings by the crystal-clear water. 

 “I didn’t know you’ve read his works,” you reply simply.

Nesta shrugs and examines her long nails, picking at the cuticles, “I might have indulged myself in your personal copy while you were in Autumn.”

A faint smile plays at your lips, “You’ve outgrown your smut books?”

“Not in the slightest,” she laughs unabashedly, “Just thought I’d supplement them with some light reading.”

Ancient philosophy is hardly light reading. But this is Nesta you’re talking to.

“What did you think?” you ask, eyes still trained on the blue in the horizon.

She sits down on a nearby log, picking at her nails in thought. You seat yourself on a large rock across the path.

“I agree with most of his musings,” she hums, “Although I find them to be rather unremarkable. I find it silly that the world still marvels a regular, old male, as if his theories were anything more than common sense.”

Your eyes widen slightly. Nesta’s pessimism shouldn’t surprise you—yet you’re still taken aback by her blatant disregard for one of history’s most renowned scholars.

“I think you underestimate the acuity of the general population.”

She shrugs, “All I’m saying is keeping my nose stuck in books written by senile males is futile when I have a mind sharper than theirs,” she pauses, “Maybe one written by a female as wise as you would be more worth my time.”

You scoff, “I’m far from wise.”

“I think you’re plenty wise,” Nesta holds your gaze, “If you dare to believe it.”

Goosebumps prickle along your arms, and you’re not sure if it’s from the billowing breeze or Nesta’s candidness. You avoid her gaze, opting instead to stare out at the blue in the horizon. Silver lines your eyes as you mull over her words. Perhaps she is right—reading about introspection does not grant one knowledge. It’s merely another form of imitation. And maybe if you looked within yourself for long enough, you’d see what she sees—that wisdom comes from within. You blink back tears, and your bottom lip quivers.

“I miss you all. More than you know,” you barely speak above a whisper, “But every time I look at them—every time I look at her…it feels like drowning. Like gasping for air, and water rushing in. Because I can’t be the friend, the sister they want me to me.”

The billowing breeze stops, leaving the air around you deadly quiet. The trees seem to lean in, holding their breath as they wait for your next words.

“I can’t look them in the eye when all I can see, touch, taste, feel is…is Eris.”

The onlooking trees shudder as you utter his name for the first time in three months. And for the first time in three months, a hairline crack appears in the walls you’ve so carefully constructed. The floodgate hasn’t broken, but a single tear slips out. It descends the apple of your cheek and into the corner of your trembling lips. The droplet stirs something inside of you, tugs on the string buried deep within your chest in a mournful plea.

“Don’t come back.”

The breeze billows again as Nesta’s steady tone slice through the air. You peel your watery eyes away from the lake, and look at her…really look at her. Her expression is nearly indiscernible beneath the stone-cold mask she wears so well. But the slight dip in the corners of her eyes betray her, exposing the heart-wrenching understanding that lies within.

“What?” you barely recognize your own voice.

“Don’t come back,” she repeats with conviction, “Don’t let them tell you what to do. Don’t let them dictate how you heal.”

You watch, dumbfounded, as she rises from the log and brushes the dirt from her silky dress. For the first time in your life, Nesta gives you a smile. A real, honest smile, so fleeting you think you could’ve imagined it. Before you can utter another word, she’s gone with the billowing wind.

You raise a shaky hand and wipe the pooled tear from your lips with the pad of your thumb. The golden thread tugs steadily in the chasm of your chest, like the beat of a heart that doesn’t belong to you. You rise from the boulder on wobbly legs and begin your walk back to the dingy cottage. You time your steps with the tugging thread. The wistful breeze doesn’t reach your ears as you immerse yourself in your swirling thoughts. You don’t give yourself the reprieve of blocking them out, of suppressing them—not this time. Instead, you let them carry you inside the mold-filled house, guide you to your packed bag, and urge you to dig out a roll of parchment and a pen.

You slump onto the dirty ground. As you roll out the parchment, you feel your head clear for the first time since you left Autumn. The fog of guilt, doubt, despair lifts. And as you set pen to page, you’re able to discern your own handwriting—delicate pen strokes that belong solely, perfectly, to you. Daughter of Marjorie, Friend of the Night Court, Sister of Morrigan, and Mate of the Autumn Court Heir. You’re all of it, all at once. 

Ink smudges from the soft pitter-patter of salty tears. With each droplet that falls, another boarded window is ripped away, shining light that’s been hiding for months. Even as they stream down, wracking your body to its bones, you let that tug deep inside your chest guide your steady hand. 

As the days blur into nights, you write with an intensity born of both clarity and urgency. The tears that once fell now blend with ink, each drop a testament to the rawness of your words. And each soft scratch of the pen draws you just a little bit closer to reclaiming your voice. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You’re not quite sure what brought you here, to the House of Wind. Maybe it’s a moment of madness, brought on by the endless stream of tears you’ve been holding back for months. Maybe it’s the unedited, albeit complete, manuscript in your satchel. Or maybe it’s sheer exhaustion from writing from dusk till dawn, and the whole day in-between, three times over. Perhaps all of the above. But there’s three things you’re sure of: your head feels like it’s about to split in two, your hand aches so badly it may fall off, and you’re so nervous to walk through those doors that you might be sick.

You rock back and forth on your heels as you stare at the entrance atop 10,000 winding steps, frozen in place. You feel like a dog, returning home with its tail between its legs, after biting the hand of its caregiver. And you have absolutely no idea what the hell you’re going to say. Nesta was right. You should’ve stayed far away, continued your aimless journey until you could work up the courage to do this. You stumble backwards, but before you can flee the doors swing open.

Your breath catches in your throat as violet eyes stare back at you. They’re wide, like an open book. You can read it all, every footnote of his emotions: trepidation, remorse, but above all, relief. You’re not sure if he wants to punch you or kiss you. But before you can utter a word, he strides forward and engulfs you in his strong arms. He holds you tight, afraid that if he lets go, you’ll slip through his fingers once again. The unstated desperation twists your gut, washing away every ounce of hesitation. For the first time in months, you don’t deny yourself the comfort of human touch and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He shudders underneath your hold and buries his faces into the crook of your shoulder. It’s in his embrace that you realize you’re not a dog limping back to its owner—rather, you’re a soldier returning from war, battered, but whole. 

“I’m sorry,” Rhys mumbles, his heavy breath tickling your skin.

You frown and move to push him away, but his grip around your frail body only tightens.

“For what?”

“For sending you there,” he doesn’t miss a beat, “For not being there for you—for not being the brother you needed me to be.”

His words chip at a piece of your healing heart. “Please don’t apologize,” your voice wavers, “It’s not your fault. It’s not anybody’s fault. This is just one of those things life, in all her ambiguity, throws at us—and I’m better for it. Even if she’s a raging bitch sometimes.”

He chuckles deeply, the vibration warming your whole body.

“She is,” he grins against you, “I’m just happy you’re home. Even though you reek.”

You release a watery laugh, “I know.” You swallow down the lump in your throat and unravel yourself from his tight embrace. “I haven’t decided yet, though—if I’ll be staying or not.”

The brilliant violet of his eyes dims, and it takes every ounce of willpower to hold your ground. 

“You’re not staying?” his voice is eerily steady.

 “I don’t know,” you avoid his penetrating gaze, “I want to. But I have…stipulations.”

Rhys’s hopeful gaze hardens slightly. “Stipulations?” he deadpans.

Something moves in your peripheral, and you glance up at one of the arched windows just in time to see the curtain snap shut. “Can we go somewhere more private to talk?”

He nods tersely. He remains deadly calm, wary that one wrong slip of his tongue could send you running again. You immediately miss the warmth of his welcome, but he still maintains a certain softness as he holds his arm out to you. You hook your arm through his, wrapping your dirty fingers around his bicep. You close your eyes as the world twists and folds until you’re standing with him in a familiar room.

The extravagance of his office makes you harshly aware of just how filthy you are. Months of travel have coalesced into the grime underneath your uncut fingernails, the tangled knots of hair on your head. Rhys takes a seat behind his desk, and you warily stare at the chair opposite it. A blush dusts across your cheeks at the prospect of dirtying the velvet cushion, but he nods his head in a wordless command, and you take a seat. 

“Before I start, I want to…apologize,” you swallow down the lump in your throat, “It was never my intention to hurt or worry any of you. I just needed some time to sort things out.” They’re far from sorted. “But I could’ve done so without my unkind words.”

Rhys nods, his sharp features softening slightly, “I know. And I should’ve given you space, so it cancels out.”

Some of the tension slips from your shoulders, but your back remains stiff. You wet your chapped lips and take an anchoring breath before continuing, “I don’t know if I’m ready to return. But I don’t think I’ll ever feel ready. And if there’s one thing my…absence has taught me, it’s that I can’t sit around and wait for life to pass me by.”

The bag on your lap weighs heavier as you’re reminded of the manuscript tucked neatly inside. The glimmer of hope returns to Rhys’s brilliantly violet eyes, but he remains composed as he waits for you to continue.

“So, I’d like to return. But under three conditions.”

 “Okay,” Rhys drags the word out, “But I have to warn you that neutering Cassian is off the table.”

You can’t contain the giggle that escapes your lips. Rhys’s broad chest rumbles with laughter, and for a split second, it feels like no time has passed at all.

“As much as I would delight in it, cutting off the Lord of Bloodshed’s balls wasn’t what I had in mind,” you reply once your fit of laughter subsides.

A small smile remains on Rhys’s lips, “Then what is?”

The humor of the moment passes, and you purse your lips. You close your eyes briefly. In and out. Your chest expands, and as you exhale, your eyes shoot open. It’s now or never.

“First, I want an apartment in Velaris. No more being cooped up here—I want freedom to roam about the Court as I please,” you declare.

Rhys takes less than a minute to think it over before replying, “Done. What else?”

Your brows arch slightly with surprise. Your first request is definitely the tamest of the three—but you didn’t anticipate quite how…agreeable he would be. One down, two to go. Now, for the big one.

“No more secrets,” your tone is steady, self-assured, “No more hiding my identity.”

His jaw shifts, and his bright eyes darken. It’s deadly quiet. You find yourself holding your breath as you wait for his brewing reaction.

“What about your father?” he challenges, his voice gruff with apprehension.

“I don’t care,” your reply is immediate, “Kier won’t so much as lay a finger on me so long as I’m a part of your circle. I don’t give a flying fuck if anyone knows who I am, for that matter.” He opens his mouth to respond, but you beat him to it. “I’m aware that I would no longer be able to act as a liaison between citizens of the courts. But I know for a fact that my time and energy is just as well-served elsewhere,” you don’t so much as stutter as you speak, “I want to be renamed Scholar of the Night Court.”

The High Lord leans forward in his seat, crossing his arms over his desk. The position exudes power, but you don’t so much as flinch at his commanding demeanor. “And what would you do as Scholar?”

You lean forward, mimicking his stance, “Draft your communications. Document your correspondences. Conduct research as you see fit,” the list of tasks rolls off your tongue effortlessly, “Although Amren deserves credit for cracking that book during the war, you wouldn’t have been able to do it without me. There’s not a soul in this Court as proficient as me in ancient tongues, history—overall intelligence too, for that matter.”

The hesitation is clear in the cinch between his brows. Losing you as a liaison is a loss for his ranks. But gaining you as a scholar could be even more valuable. More than that, you know that Rhys will do virtually anything to have you back here—to have you home. Just as you predicted, he releases a long sigh and unfurls his arms before leaning back in his chair.

“Okay,” he relents.

Your lips twitch, threatening to spread into a wide grin, but you suppress it. You still have one more demand, and you have a feeling that this one will truly test his resolve. 

“My last stipulation,” you brace yourself for his rebuttal, “Is that I want full involvement in Court politics. Visits to the Court of Nightmares, meetings with other High Lords—whatever the rest of your Inner Circle accompanies you to, I want to be in attendance.”

“No.”

You frown and cross your arms over your chest, “No?”

“No,” Rhys repeats with conviction.

Irritation blossoms, but your face remains impassive, “May I ask why?”

“You have no idea the…intricacies of the politics I must deal with. It’s not safe,” he trails off, his eyes glazing over with a sense of detachment.

You’re not sure if it’s your comparatively young age, or the fact that you were dropped on his doorstep as a refugee soon-to-be-orphan so many years ago; whatever the reason, Rhys has always been protective of you—overly so. You know it’s the goodness of his heart that’s speaking, but you still have to take a deep breath to calm yourself. 

“I’m more than capable of learning them. Besides, don’t you think it’s a little too late to prevent me from getting involved with High Lords and their heirs?” you quip.

A pang of guilt tugs at your heartstrings at the remorse on his face. You know it’s a low blow. But even in the presence of your gnawing guilt, the truth behind your words is louder. 

“I promised your mother I would keep you safe,” he rasps, “And I nearly failed her once. I won’t make that mistake again.”

The mention of her makes your heart skip a beat. Your palms grow slick with sweat, and you instinctively rub them against the leather of your pants. His confession sheds light on his recent obsessive behavior—how he prioritized tracking your movements over other pressing matters. Any lingering resentment you held melts away as you shift your approach, grappling with the weight of his words. 

“I understand,” sincerity laces itself in your tone, “But is ensuring my safety really worth it if it comes at the expense of my happiness?”

Rhys opens his mouth, but words fail him. His brows furrow as he mulls over your question. Finally, he’s able to muster a reply, “I want you to be happy, Y/N. But I saw—we all saw how miserable you were when you came back from Autumn, and I struggle to see how continuing to involve you in court politics could bring anything but.”

A chill crawls up your bare arms as a vivid image of your burned wrists flashes through your mind. You glance down at your hands in your lap, flexing your fingers to remind yourself that the wounds are long gone—even though the heartache remains.

“I don’t regret a single moment I spent there,” you reply, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Yes, it brought me pain, and I still bear those wounds. But it also brought me joy.” A sad smile graces your features. “It gave me the greatest adventure of my life. It gave me him—heartbreak, and all its beautiful ruin.”

  A rivulet descends your cheek into the crevice of your smile. A sense of newfound understanding weaves its way between Rhys and yourself. An understanding that the villain in his story may very well be the hero in yours.

“When did you become so wise?” he hums.

A wistful note lingers in your voice as you meet the High Lord’s gaze. “When I realized that wisdom doesn’t come from avoiding the fire, but from walking straight through it and letting it burn away what no longer serves you.”

Rhys’s eyes soften, “And what did it burn away?”

Your voice is quiet, almost a whisper. “Fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of pain, fear of loss. What remains is the understanding that pain and joy, loss and love—they are one and the same. And I would rather live a life touched by both than one shielded from them.”

Rhys leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable, as if weighing every word you’ve spoken. The silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken emotions. Finally, he speaks, his tone resigned but tinged with a deep respect. “If this is the path you choose, then I won’t stand in your way. But promise me that you’ll be careful. That you’ll come to me if you ever need anything—no matter what it is.”

You nod, the weight of his words settling on your shoulders, “I promise.”

He studies you for a long moment, as if committing this version of you—the one who walked through fire and emerged stronger—to memory. The warmth in his eyes is unmistakable as he stands, rounding the desk to pull you into another tight embrace.

“Welcome home, Scholar of the Night Court.”

As you rest your head against his chest, you close your eyes, allowing yourself a moment to simply breathe. This is home. And no matter what lies ahead, you know that you have the strength—and the wisdom—to face it.

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[thatbloodymuggle]

I just need you to know that Mastermind just completely blew my head off. I am so absorbed in the story every time I’m reading a new chapter. The writing style is 11/10, if anything, you’re the mastermind here.

The whole story with its writing, plot twists and character building is better than half of the books I have ever read. I wish I could put this in my Goodreads reading list. Give it five stars and then buy it in three types of different special editions, annotate it in an aesthetically pleasing way and put it on my shelf with the rest of my favourite books. Amen. 🛐

omg anon you're making me tear up over here🥹 thank you so much for your kind words!!! it's what keeps me writing <3

[thatbloodymuggle]

just wanted to pop on here and say THANK YOU for all of your lovely comments!!! I'm having soooo much fun writing chapter 6 of mastermind and I can't wait for you all to read it 😌

[thatbloodymuggle]

Mastermind is literally so good, you are so talented!!! I've reread it at least 3 times now and the last chapter still gets me 😭😭

last chapter was something for sure😅 so glad you're enjoying!