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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Captured

Lucien reached for Feyre, grazing her jacket, then gasped as his fingers caught the air. Feyre winnowed past him, behind him, then whirled around, sending out a gust of ice-laden wind that knocked down the sentries positioned around her, driving ice spears through them. Lucien cursed as she whirled a mass of shadowy threads at him, heart plummeting as the strands whipped around him, squeezing and binding him, until he fell to his knees, unable to move.

Feyre strode to him, dagger in hand, fury and indignation in her eyes. “F-Feyre?” he stammered. She is powerful, he thought, trying to draw on his own magic to counteract the bindings. Not for the first time, Lucien thought that he had made a serious mistake by coming to Night Court territory. No way for Tamlin to even know he was trapped out here…

She pressed the dagger to his neck, growling, “Not another word. Or you die, like them.” Lucien froze, eyes darting around to the fallen sentries, then back up to Feyre’s blue-gray eyes, shining with malice and triumph. Mistake, mistake, mistake, his mind berated him.

He thought about pleading his case, stalling for time, but then a low, deadly, familiar chuckle from behind Feyre made him shudder in despair. “Well done, Feyre darling,” Rhysand purred, strolling forward, his hands casually in his pockets. “Your training is paying off.” His eyes raked over Lucien, and he grinned, catlike. “Hello, little fox. Caught in a snare?”

Lucien’s answer was strangled by the shadowy binding around his neck yanking him upward, the shadows surrounding his upper body, his arms and wrists, tightening painfully, while the ones around his legs loosened. “Get up, or I’ll drag you. ” Feyre barked. “Let’s take him to the cave,” she added to Rhysand, who merely nodded as if to invite her to lead the way.

Lucien stumbled to his feet, clamping his lips together to avoid spilling out the questions he was desperate to ask Feyre - and the curses he wanted to unleash on Rhysand. He struggled to keep his balance in the snow with his arms pinned tightly against his back, and he shivered when Rhysand let out a soft laugh at his expense. Feyre’s power yanked him forward, and he was moving, taking steps, shadows dragging and clawing at him at any hesitation.

“I don’t envy you, little fox,” Rhys drawled. Lucien couldn’t risk turning around to see - he was sure to slip on the icy ground and land on his face - but he could just tell that Rhysand’s obnoxious face was quirked in amusement.

Go to hell, Lucien wanted to snap back. But he remembered Feyre’s warning, and kept the insult to himself. His impulsive mouth had gotten him into trouble often enough.

Rhysand strolled alongside Feyre as if he were on a leisurely scenic walk, hands in his pockets, while Feyre dragged Lucien across the frozen landscape, barely looking at him except to scowl angrily if he tripped or slid on the snow. He couldn’t help but stare at Feyre as she stalked in front of him. The last time he’d seen her, she was frantically trying to bust out of the Spring manor, skinny, pale, despairing, wailing for Tamlin to let her out. Lucien had tried to reassure her, tell her it would be all right, but it was not all right. They both knew it. He wasn’t altogether surprised to come home and find her gone and the manor all in uproar.

After weeks of being missing, weeks of Rhysand’s domination and abuse, he’d expected a depressed, desperate waif, but Feyre looked… stronger. More powerful. She was muscular, dressed for a fight, fuller in the face and body, and practically glowing with health and radiance. Whatever Rhys had done to her, she looked better. Lucien was determined to live long enough to find out why.

He’d come to rescue her for Tamlin, but here she was. Not a meek spring bride who needed rescuing, but a Night Court warrior who’d taken him down on her own, without Rhysand seeming to lift a finger to tell her what to do or how to do it. Rhys seemed content to watch. And laugh. Lucien wanted to shove that infuriating laugh back down Rhys’s throat.

Still, Lucien couldn’t help but notice the adoring gaze that Rhysand fixed on Feyre, especially when she wasn’t looking. Not leering, as he’d done Under the Mountain. But admiring. Longing.

And as they trudged silently in the snow, as Feyre calmed and began to walk more slowly, Lucien realized that she was gazing at Rhysand, too. Her glances were more sly, more furtive. As if she didn’t want Rhys to notice.

Lucien had been certain that Rhysand was torturing her. Violating her. Dressing her in flimsy, revealing fabric and parading her around his court of nightmares. But there was no sign here of Amarantha’s whore, the cruel High Lord who delighted in dominance and trickery. There was only a whisper of power, a hint of what he could become if provoked or if the mood struck. Feyre’s power was what enveloped Lucien, forcing him forward, gripping his muscles with invisible claws, making his wrists ache whenever he tried to resist.

Feyre led them into a cave at the foot of the mountains where she and Rhys had apparently camped recently. Rhys watched her, violet eyes glowing, while she warded up the cave entrance and re-lit the fire. Rhys had used no magic at all, Lucien realized. Was it because he was testing Feyre, to see what she could do?

Or had he realized that he was being tracked?

Lucien wasn’t sure if it was self-preservation, some deep loyalty to Feyre, or pure foolishness that made him speak up. “I need to tell you something,” he blurted, then winced as Feyre advanced on him with fury in her gaze. She threw a hand out and shadows whipped out, and Lucien only had time to cry, “Hybern… soldiers…” before the shadows spun themselves into a gag, silencing him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Temporary Reprieve

The amusement in Rhys’s demeanor was gone. He stalked forward, radiating anger, and with lethal calm said, “Explain.”

The gag loosened, and Lucien wheezed, “Hybern soldiers. In the forest. Tracking you…” He coughed, throat as dry as sandpaper. “I saw them the last two days, taking positions in the trees. They let me pass.”

Feyre and Rhysand exchanged a long, silent look, as though they were having a secret conversation. Lucien watched them with increasing anxiety, a tightness in his chest that had nothing to do with the bindings squeezing his muscles until they burned.

Finally, Rhys turned to him, tipping his head towards the rocks near the fire. “Sit.”

Lucien obeyed, scrambling unsteadily to lower himself to the ground. To his relief, some of the shadows holding him loosened up, though his wrists remained bound together behind his back. Rhys and Feyre sat also, both staring at him as if they expected him to catch fire. Feyre still clutched her dagger, looking murderously ready to strike, but Rhysand looked thoughtful. Waiting.

This was his chance. If he didn’t convince them he could be of use, Rhys would claw his mind apart, or Feyre would gut him with the dagger. Or both. Lucien glanced between them, weighing what to say, then realized that anything less than honesty was useless when Rhysand would probably rip his mind to shreds anyway.

“Feyre,” he said desperately, his words tumbling out, “Feyre, things are bad. Tamlin’s working with Hybern. He won’t listen, to me or to anyone. He wants you back, doesn’t care who has to die or what gets ruined in the process.” His mechanical eye whirred and fixed on Rhys’s face, which had turned grim at the mention of Hybern, but Feyre snarled, stalking right up to him and shoving the dagger underneath his chin.

“So you’re working with Hybern,” she snarled.

“N-not me,” Lucien stammered, shrinking away. “I tried to tell him - “

“You always try to tell him,” Feyre snapped mockingly. “You always said you’d talk to him, and nothing ever changed! Aren’t you his advisor, his friend? Why don’t you push him, try harder?”

Lucien swallowed hard. “The last time I tried to push him, he… I blacked out. When I woke up, I had three broken bones and my back was raw from his claws ripping into me.” When the dagger slid even closer to his throat, he shuddered, then threw a pleading look at Rhys. “You can see into my mind. Prove to her I’m telling the truth. That I am trying.”

Rhysand’s mouth was a tight line. He and Feyre exchanged another long look, and then the dagger pulled back. Then Lucien felt the scrape of Rhysand’s claws, poking into his mind. He gritted his teeth and willed himself not to fight it, and sighed with relief when he felt Rhys’s grip relent.

“Fuck, Lucien,” Rhys said, low and solemn. “I knew he was an asshole, but… fuck.” He turned to Feyre, who had gone pale. “It is as he says.”

Feyre sheathed the dagger with a huff, then said, “I’m not ever going back there. To that asshole.”

Lucien avoided Rhysand’s gaze, which still rested on him with something uncomfortably like sympathy, but said, looking intently at the fire, “The magic you just used, could they track it?”

Rhys said, “Yes. It’s time to go. We should be safe back at the Illyrian camp. Can you winnow on your own, Feyre? I’ll handle Lucien.”

Lucien trembled at that, expecting to be crushed right here in the cave, but Rhys said, “You decide what to do with him when we’re back at the cottage. I can give him to Azriel, or - “

“No.” Feyre’s voice was firm. “I’ll deal with him later.”

“If you’re sure, Feyre darling,” Rhysand said, too casually, then had the nerve to turn to Lucien and wink at him. Lucien gulped.

Feyre winnowed away, in a glittering cloud of shadows and smoke.

“Well, well,” Rhys purred, half to himself and half to Lucien. “Interesting.” He kept gazing at the cloud, his feelings written plainly on his face. So Lucien ventured, quietly:

“You love her.”

Rhys turned to him, face softer and more open than Lucien had ever seen. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

“She looks good. Better than at the Spring Court. Which means you helped her,” Lucien said, heart breaking a little as he thought about Tamlin, who thought he loved Feyre but made her miserable, and was ready to wreak death and destruction to get her back under his control. “So if I survive this… I’ll help you.”

Rhysand studied him for a moment, then stood up, firmly gripping Lucien’s arm and hauling him up as well. “Good. Then I won’t have to break your mind open after Feyre slits your throat. Less messy this way.” He caught Lucien’s flash of horror and chuckled darkly. “Come on, clever fox.” 

He winnowed them away, Lucien gritting his teeth and willing himself to stay calm. He didn’t relish the idea of visiting an Illyrian camp. You always wondered what Night Court territory is like… time to find out.

Chapter Text

Rhysand grabbed Lucien’s arms from behind so he wouldn’t fall flat on his face, then steered him to a chair in the kitchen of the small cottage at the Illyrian camp. “Now be a good little fox,” he crooned, then gave him a sly smile as Lucien sat down nervously. His hands were still held by shadows behind his back, and he sat perched on the edge of the chair like a prisoner waiting for his execution.

Two Illyrian warriors stood in the corner of the room, and Rhys approached them, a flurry of greetings and questions washing over Lucien as he took in the room, the view out the window beyond. He looked for Feyre, finally spotting her in the doorway, talking intently to a blond woman whose back was to him. Feyre noticed him, then went back to her conversation, pointedly not meeting his eyes.

The minutes ticked by, the tension in Lucien growing as he waited for something to happen. Rhys was talking to his warriors, and he caught snippets of it. Hybern…. ambush… tracking magic. Then one of the men whispered something, and they all laughed heartily before Rhys answered, “Maybe. It’s up to Feyre.”

He hadn’t been humoring her, then.

Feyre had power here. If it weren’t the Night Court, weren’t the Illyrian camp, weren’t his neck on the line, Lucien would be happy for her.

Another whispered question, and there was no laughter this time as Rhys replied, “One of Amarantha’s little games.” Probably asking about my eye. “Lucien was one of her favorites. She loved to hear him scream.”

True enough. And he’d obliged her, every time. His mechanical eye, as if sensing the conversation concerning it, buzzed aimlessly. It took in the kitchen table, the casual buffet of food set out on the countertop. He felt like he was being served up along with lunch, that the Illyrians would descend on him at any moment and drag him off to a real cell. As soon as Feyre tells them to.

Lucien’s heart stopped when a sweet voice at his side said, “Tea?”

He turned in the direction of the voice, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen blinked back at him.

She was human, he noticed. Curvy, pale, with long curly hair swept up in a braid, a shy and charming hint of a smile teasing across her lips. She was dressed simply, no adornments except for an ugly metal ring that seemed out of place, but even a burlap sack couldn't hide her gentle beauty. Lucien swallowed hard. Say something. Try not to sound foolish. “Thank you, that’s very kind. But I - I’m a bit indisposed at the moment,” he said, nodding down at his body, indicating his bound hands.

“Oh,” she mouthed, going still. Then her eyes scanned him, taking in his filthy torn clothes, his red hair tangled around his neck and shoulders, finally reaching his face. Her brow furrowed as she took in his scars and his mechanical eye, which whirred and clicked as Lucien stared at her, heart thumping. “Why are you tied up? What did you do?” she asked, carefully setting the offered tea down on the table.

Lucien’s hands clenched and unclenched as he weighed what to say. This was a wretched first impression, between his humiliating position and the absolute mess he looked after his forced march. She probably thought he had done something horrible to deserve this.

He almost had.

“It’s a bit shameful,” he said carefully, suddenly aware that every eye in the room was watching him. “I thought I was on a rescue mission to save a friend, but it turns out she didn’t need rescuing. Which she told me, and I… didn’t listen.”

When the beautiful woman just regarded him silently, expression shifting to confusion, he went on. “I thought she was mistaken. Misled. So I took it upon myself to grab her. Take her away,” Lucien admitted, cringing at his own stupidity. Tamlin’s possessiveness and controlling personality was rubbing off on me, and I didn’t even realize. “I thought if I could just get her away, get her home, she’d agree with me… But I was wrong.”

“You grabbed her? Against her will?” the woman asked quietly, glancing in between him and the cup of tea. She doesn’t think I deserve it anymore. And she’d be right.

“I tried,” he said, hoping that his voice and body posture communicated his remorse. “I shouldn’t have, but I tried. It was wrong. And stupid. If I had just looked… if I had just listened… I would have seen that she was better off here than the awful place I was going to drag her back to. And that it wasn't my choice to make.”

Murmuring broke out behind him, but quickly stopped when Rhysand cleared his throat. Lucien waited for him to speak, but the room stayed quiet.

“What happened?” the woman asked, voice gentle. Thoughtful.

“She stopped me,” Lucien said, raising his bound hands slightly. “Captured me, with her magic.” He chuckled ruefully. “I’m surprised I’m still alive.”

“Us too,” chimed in one of the warriors lounging in the corner. The other one elbowed him.

“Well, you wanted to help. Even if you went about it the wrong way. Maybe you'll get a second chance,” the woman said, looking over at Feyre, who still stood in the doorway, marking every breath they both took, every word spoken. To his utter shock, as soon as she made eye contact with Feyre, the shadows released, and his wrists came free.

He was afraid to speak - afraid to move. Who was this human? How had she convinced Feyre to unbind him? He almost turned to look at Feyre, but the woman was looking at him with a kind expression, and he found he couldn’t look away. So he just said, “I will redeem myself, if I can.”

The woman smiled and picked up the cup of tea, holding it out to him. “Tea.”

“Tea,” he said gratefully, and took the cup, willing his hands not to shake. He bowed his head, then gently blew on the hot liquid to cool it down. “It smells divine.” He almost couldn’t meet her eyes, but he managed a smile and quietly said, “Thank you.”

She watched him drink a few sips, then drifted back from him, as if suddenly shy. Lucien sat holding the cup like a delicate treasure, not daring to get up, or move beyond bringing the cup to his lips. The moment stretched on, the silence around him growing oppressive and awkward. So he sat as still as a statue, and sipped the tea - the most excellent, relaxing tea he’d ever tasted - and waited.

And waited.

Long minutes passed, and he could feel the stares from around the room. But the woman was gone from the room now. He could almost feel her presence lingering above him, like she was upstairs in the house. It comforted him, but it was profoundly unnerving. No human had any right to be so beautiful, so kind. And why did it feel like he could sense where she was? Lucien sipped the cup dry, then cradled it in his hands, not wanting to put it down. She had touched it.

Footsteps came up behind him, and he tensed. Braced himself. Feyre’s voice came from over his head, almost spoken to the teacup. “That’s the first time she’s talked to anyone since she got here.”

Lucien took a long breath, trying to calm his trembling hands. Ask who she is. But he hesitated. Am I allowed to know? Will I be tied up again if I push too far? So he just said, “I wish I was worthy of an honor like that.”

“She thought you were,” said the blond woman, pushing away from the wall and striding toward him. This new female was a High Fae, dressed up in fighting leathers like the other warriors. She was gorgeous and intimidating, and Lucien blanched a little when he realized who she was.

He sucked in a shaky breath. “Morrigan…”

"Lucien Vanserra," she said flatly. He shrank a bit under her stare, realizing what she saw. I don't look that much like Eris, do I?

He averted his eyes. “I was not born when you had -- dealings with my family. But it was inexcusable, what my father and brothers did to you.” At least you survived… my own love didn’t.

Feyre stifled a gasp. The others in the room rustled a bit, uncomfortable. But Morrigan stood tall, regarding him intently for a moment, then said, “We have that in common.”

Everyone seemed to relax. Her smile turned genuine, and she nodded - to Feyre, he thought - before walking away. Whatever test that was, maybe I passed.

Chapter Text

Lucien didn’t trust himself to answer Morrigan without choking up, so he merely nodded, then stared down at the teacup without really seeing it. He felt Feyre hovering behind him, and he supposed she was still furious with him, with what he’d done. But he didn’t trust himself to produce the right words to explain, not with the maelstrom of emotions fighting to reach the surface. So instead, he asked, “Do you have any paper?”

“Why?”

“I need to write a groveling apology,” he said, feeling his cheeks starting to burn. He could feel her shifting behind him, wished he could see her reaction. She could still kill me.

Rhys finally spoke up. “Compose mine in verse, if you can. Rhyming couplets would be lovely.”

Lucien was sure his skin was flushed as red as his hair, but Feyre laughed, and the icy fear inside him started to unclench. She moved to sit near him, pulling up another chair. “A courtier and emissary Lucien may be, but not a poet.”

“Your eyes are like stars,” Lucien declared, recalling some of the first words he’d ever said to her, “and your hair like burnished gold.”

One of the warriors snickered.

Feyre smirked. “I’ve never forgotten that particular compliment. You really were a prick, Lucien.”

“Were?” Lucien raised an eyebrow. “Have I failed to live up to my usual standards?”

“Not at all. You reached a whole new level today,” Feyre said. Lucien’s spine chilled with fear, but she said, “But what you said just now… it’s a start.”

“So are we stringing him up, or not?” sneered the tall warrior, dodging his comrade’s elbow this time. Lucian turned to him, a bland expression defensively plastered on his face, and met the eyes of a handsome, brutal, towering Fae with huge Illyrian wings and an even huger swagger.

“At least have a cup of tea with me first,” Lucien said, with more levity than he felt. “Being strung up is such an intimate act to share with a stranger.” To his immense relief, the warrior threw his head back and laughed.

Feyre introduced them. “This is Cassian, general of the Night Court’s armies.”

“And you’re Lucien Vanserra, son of the High Lord of Autumn,” Cassian beamed at him. “I’m just the bastard son of a nobody, so it’d be a real honor to snap your neck.”

Lucien was responding before he could consider whether it was wise to do so. “If it’s my father you’d like to wound, believe me, killing me would be a waste of effort. Beron would like nothing better than for you to snap my neck. Painfully. More than once, if you could.” He caught Rhys looking at him in a way that looked almost sympathetic. “I left the Autumn Court with three of my brothers chasing me down to kill me.  And they would have, if a certain unpopular High Lord of Spring hadn’t helped me.”

He turned back to Cassian. “Now if it’s revenge on Tamlin you want, by all means. My neck is yours.” And he bowed low in his chair, making Cassian snort.

“Not your neck,” Rhysand said with a cold smile. “Your mind, perhaps.”

Lucien’s smile vanished, but he forced himself to stare down Rhysand, though he gripped his chair so hard that his knuckles turned white. “You’ve helped yourself to my mind more than once, High Lord. It’s gratifying that you’d find it worth returning to.”

“Shut up, all of you,” Feyre snapped. Lucien looked down at his feet, almost missing the amused twinkle in Rhysand’s eyes. “No one is taking anything. You all saw Elain with him just now. She talked to him, she — smiled! She actually smiled. I don’t know how, but Lucien drew her out. And I want him to do it again. So no one touches him.”

“Except Elain,” chortled Cassian, and Mor aimed a kick at him.

“Elain,” Lucien repeated, recalling the name. He finally worked up the courage to make eye contact with Feyre. Her face was still sharp, eyes wary, but she was looking at him as though he were more like an old friend, less like a failed kidnapper. “Your sister. She’s… here?”

“Both my sisters are,” Feyre told him. “Nesta never shows herself, and Elain… today’s the first time she ventured in here, when she saw you.”

“But they’re human. Why are they in Prythian?” Lucien asked.

“We used my family’s estate to meet with the mortal queens, and there was… trouble. So I’m keeping them with me, to be safe.”

“Mortal queens?” Lucien asked, crinkling his brow.

“If you ever want to leave this room, maybe don’t pry into all our secrets,” Cassian drawled, “or I will have to string you up, after all.”

“Shut up, Cassian,” Feyre said, matter of factly, and to Lucien’s astonishment, he did. She’s totally comfortable bossing around Rhys’s top general.

“It’s so good to see you,” he said to Feyre, heart suddenly full. “You wanted to get out into the world and do something - and here you are. It suits you. Much more than the Spring Court ever did.”

Silence fell again, but then Feyre smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “You do understand.”

Lucien returned the smile.

“Pity Tamlin wouldn’t listen to you,” the second warrior said. Lucien realized that he hadn’t spoken up at all until now.

“Tamlin was too busy ripping his skin to shreds and breaking his bones,” Rhys said quietly.

Lucien couldn’t stand the pity that flooded toward him, so he brushed it off. “I’ve had worse.”

The silence deepened, and then Rhys said, “Yes. You have.”

He looked around the room, at the warriors and helpers who hadn’t been Under the Mountain, dreading having to go through the story, but it was Rhys who spoke up to explain. “Lucien risked his life to help Feyre at Amarantha’s court. More than once. He helped her when he knew he’d be punished, snuck down to her cell to heal her, tried to prevent Amarantha from learning her name. And he helped in ways he didn’t even know about.”

He met Lucien’s startled gaze. “While Amarantha was busy chaining you to the floor and whipping your skin raw, she was distracted. So she didn’t see what I was doing right under her nose.”

Lucien didn’t trust himself to breathe, much less answer. Rhys had been Amarantha’s right hand man, had carried out her orders with gusto, had gone willingly to her bed… It had been Rhys who had almost tortured Lucien into giving up Feyre’s name.

His heart pounded, and his throat ran so dry that all of Elain’s nourishing tea couldn’t have fixed it. Feyre saw his confusion and distress, and took his hand. “Rhys acted cruel to us because he was hiding a secret, one he couldn’t let Amarantha find out.” She looked at Rhys with a warm smile. “He was helping me all along.”

“What?” Lucien burst out, then clapped a hand over his mouth. He looked between Feyre and Rhys, mechanical eye whirring rapidly. “How…?”

“Rhys healed me when you were too injured to come to my cell,” Feyre said. “He sent messages to me to guide me to choose the right answer when I couldn’t read the riddle.”

Lucien shuddered. He remembered that trial all too well.

Feyre went on, “One night he sent music to my cell when I was ready to give up. And of course, he helped me in the end, when I was dying.”

Amid the horrible memories and feelings of revulsion that the conversation was dredging up, Lucien’s mind clicked on a detail he hadn’t known how to interpret before. “You tried to kill Amarantha,” he said to Rhys. “You knew she would probably have your head for it, but you grabbed that dagger and did it anyway.” He shook his head. “I never could figure that part out, but it’s obvious now —“

“Careful, clever fox,” Rhys’s voice suddenly purred in his mind, as an icy grip seized Lucien’s tongue and silenced him. Lucien gaped in silence as Rhys spoke into his thoughts. “She doesn’t know yet. Don’t spill it, or I’ll gut you.”

Lucien struggled against Rhys’s hold, only earning a dark chuckle. “You and I are going to have fun together, dear Lucien.” And he released Lucien’s mind, just as quickly as he’d taken it.

Feyre squeezed Lucien’s hand, jolting him back to the present. “I know it’s a lot. And it’s not what you thought. You haven’t seen the Night Court, its people, like I have. You believe the same lies that Tamlin does.”

It’s not all lies, Lucien protested silently. I saw Rhysand drug you, force you to dance. He almost ripped my mind apart under the mountain. He threatened to kill my mother. He… Lucien stopped himself, fully aware that this was not the time or the place to bring up those inconvenient facts.

She stood up, pulling him up with her. “Let’s get you settled.”

“So he’s staying?” Cassian asked.

“Yes,” said Feyre.

“In one piece?”

The other warrior elbowed him again.

Rhys waved a hand. “Give him my bedroom. I have to go back to - my usual residence - to take care of some business.” The usual residence was a secret, Lucien noted. Why? “Ward the rooms and place a guard by the front door, but if Lucien cooperates, he can move freely around the house while we figure out something more permanent.”

“Am I a prisoner?” Lucien asked. When he felt everyone’s eyes on him, he quickly added, “Just clarifying.”

“It’s up to Feyre,” Rhys shrugged. “She captured you, so she can decide what you are.”

Like when Tamlin took her. Not chained, but not free.

Despite the Autumn fire in his blood, Lucien shivered.

Chapter Text

Lucien didn’t even think about sleeping as he sat in his filthy clothes on top of the bed, staring out the window but not really seeing anything. The gravity of the situation was sinking in, and without a roomful of powerful Fae to react to and navigate around, his thoughts finally settled on his predicament.

Rhysand would mine him for information. For whatever secrets Tamlin was harboring. Then his brutes would use Lucien for target practice, or simply delight in breaking him, and Feyre —

Feyre’s plans were perhaps the most frightening of all.

She wanted him to help her sister. Her delicate, sweet, beautiful, mortal sister.

That would be more painful than all of the tortures Rhysand and Cassian could dream up for him. More permanently damaging than lashes of the whip or claws wrenching secrets from his mind.

Because if he let that angel into his heart… it would shatter into a million pieces when he lost her. And he would lose her. Her mortality would guarantee that.

Lucien jolted up from the bed, uncomfortable in his thoughts and needing to pace. He’d been exhausted from his forced march through the snow, and then more exhausted by being constantly on guard around Rhysand’s court all afternoon.

Dinner had just been him and the near-silent Illyrian warrior who seemed content to swirl shadows around them as they picked at their simple meals. Azriel, his name was, and Rhysand had clearly dispatched him to size things up. As Azriel had asked questions, and Lucien’s answers led to more questions, Lucien realized that he was actually being interrogated. Azriel seemed to know things about the High Lords of Spring and Autumn that no one outside their inner circles should know. Maybe a few things that Lucien didn’t even know.

Lucien was being measured up, examined. Any misstep in front of Rhysand’s eyes and ears would result in being hauled off to a prison cell. As Lucien did not, in fact, want to be hauled off to a prison cell, he answered Azriel’s questions forthrightly, and kept his hands on the table, away from the knives. And tried to ignore the shadows dancing on the walls.

When he got back to his room - Rhys’s room, by the Cauldron - after dinner, he slumped onto the bed. That much honesty in one meal was exhausting.

As the hours ticked by, Lucien got restless, but couldn’t stomach the thought of facing any of his captors again. So he sat on Rhys’s bed, staring out the window, until he overheard talking in the hallway. “He told me everything,” Azriel was saying. “Confirmed a few guesses about Eris and Callan angling for the throne. It was almost too easy.”

Cassian’s chortle answered. “You probably scared the shit out of him.”

“The only one who really scares him is Rhys,” Azriel noted matter-of-factly.

“They have a history,” Feyre said. “How Rhys dealt with him was… not pleasant.”

Lucien shuddered. That was an understatement.

“Rhys is our High Lord. That’s a lot of responsibility. Sometimes you have to break some eggs to make an omelet,” Cassian said, of course defending Rhysand. “If it’s in the interest of Velaris…”

Lucien perked up at the unfamiliar name. What is Velaris? He would have to find out.

“I know, but sometimes I think he was unnecessarily cruel,” Feyre admitted. “Like he took delight in seeing Lucien suffer.”

“I’d take delight in that too. Your friend is a prick, Feyre,” Cassian shrugged.

“So are you.” Mor, this time. Lucien chuckled despite himself.

“Lucien chose Tamlin,” Azriel said. “Rhys’s enemy.”

“Tamlin saved Lucien’s life,” Feyre reminded them. “And I chose Tamlin. I died for Tamlin.”

Lucien sucked in a shaky breath. He’d relived that awful moment in his nightmares many, many times.

“You were a young mortal, snared into Prythian to break the curse,” Mor pointed out. “Not a fully grown High Lord’s son who knew the history, the politics. He’s stayed with Tamlin all this time. He could have gone to another Court.”

“Well, now he has. Sort of,” Feyre said.

“Maybe now that he’s out of that prick’s clutches, he’ll grow on us,” Cassian said. “And if not, we can always use him for training drills - “

“I meant what I said earlier. I need Lucien,” Feyre argued. “Elain talked to him. Willingly! So whatever game you all want to play with him, you’d better remember - “

“Remember what, Feyre darling?” Rhys’s voice purred, directly through the wall. He must have winnowed in and leaned right against the spot where Lucien had been hovering. Lucien jumped back, startled. Cauldron boil and fry me. He did that on purpose.

“Remember, Lucien is mine,” Feyre snapped, voice rising enough that he would have woken up if he’d been asleep. “Whatever mean thing you want to do to him — “

“Easy,” Cassian grumbled. Rhys must have looked angry. Lucien’s hands curled into fists. He’d had enough of High Lords throwing their weight around. As if you could do anything about it. You couldn’t stop Tamlin from hurting her, so you sure as hell can’t stop Rhysand.

But Rhys drawled, “Don’t fret, Feyre darling. I have no interest in breaking your toys.”

Liar, Lucian’s thoughts hissed. To his horror, the High Lord’s chuckle reverberated in his mind.

The conversation in the hallway moved on, and Lucien sighed, casting about the room for something clean to wear to bed. He didn’t let himself even look at Rhys’s drawers or closet, and he had no intention of asking anyone for anything, no matter how uncomfortable he was. But when his eyes drifted back to the bed, he was startled to see a pile of bedclothes folded neatly by the pillow that hadn’t been there before.

Rhys’s claws scraped in his mind again. Don’t get my sheets dirty.

Lucien shuddered again, but squared his shoulders and got changed for bed. He wasn’t sure he could sleep, but his head ached and his eyes blurred, so he lay down. And he slept.

Chapter Text

Lucien yanked his arms uselessly, but his wrists were shackled together behind his back, so painfully tight that his shoulders ached. Cassian and Azriel flanked him, gripping his bare arms in their meaty hands. He was barefoot and his back burned with pain, slick with his own blood.

A shove, and Lucien stumbled forward onto the freezing stone floor. Amarantha’s evil cackling laugh flooded over him, and his skull ached behind his mechanical eye. Tamlin sat next to her, but instead of his usual stony expression, he snarled at Lucien in fury. He held a whip in his talons and snapped it on the floor as Lucien was forced to his knees.

“Traitor,” Tamlin growled.

“No,” Lucien gasped. “No, Tamlin, please. I’m not — “

Tamlin’s growl reverberated through the hall. To his left, his brothers Eris and Callan snickered, clearly enjoying the prospect of him being tortured. Lucien’s face flushed, and he struggled against the shackles, earning only aching wrists and a kick from behind, lighting up his back in pain.

“You let them take her,” Tamlin roared, cracking the whip next to Lucien’s face, narrowly missing his good eye. “Fucking traitor.”

“I tried. She fought me!” Lucien protested.

The whip cracked, sending a lightning strike of pain down his spine. Somewhere in the darkness of the hall, people laughed at his cry of agony.

“She doesn’t want to come back!” Lucien shouted, despite himself. He’s going to kill me anyway, so he might as well know the truth. “She’s happier where she is. Healthier — “

“It doesn’t matter. She is mine!” Tamlin exploded, shattering the throne he’d been sitting on, rocking the stones under Lucien’s knees. Debris flew everywhere, pelting him until he cried out. 

Tamlin pounced. He was on Lucien in full beast form, a mass of talons and teeth that slashed and ripped at Lucien until he was breaking apart, bleeding, ebbing away…

Amarantha’s voice rang out against the blood pounding in his ears. “Poor little fox…” Her voice lowered, sounding more and more like Rhysand as she crooned, “Poor little Lucien, we could have had such fun with your mind. All those secrets, gone to waste.”

Then Rhysand’s claws gripped his mind, twisting, ripping, shredding him from the inside, and Lucien screamed and screamed.

* * * * *

“Lucien!”

Rough hands shook him, and Lucien shrieked, flailing in the bedsheets. He felt the hands gripping his arms, restraining him, and he screamed again. “No, no… please… Tamlin…. Amarantha…”

“Shit,” a low voice growled near his ear. Cassian.

“Lucien,” came Feyre’s voice, and her hands were on his cheeks, forcing him to focus on her. “Lucien, stop.”

“Tamlin,” he gasped, taking big gulps of air between his sobs. “Tamlin - killed me -” He shook his head frantically. “Amarantha took my mind — shredded — ruined — “

“No, You’re here,” Feyre said fiercely, holding his face close to hers while Cassian and Azriel slowly released his arms. “She’s dead, Lucien. Amarantha is dead! You’re not Under the Mountain. You’re here. I’m here. “

“But Tamlin — “ Lucien stammered.

“Look at me!” Feyre commanded, as his eyes began to flit around the room in panic again. His mechanical eye whirred rapidly, clicking and buzzing, unable to focus on anything. The nighttime was a blur of colors, sounds, pain.

Feyre spoke a command into his mind. Show me.

Trembling, Lucien did. He let the nightmare trickle back in - the shackles, the blood, the whip….

Feyre’s presence in his mind held firm until Rhysand began to break his mind apart, until he could almost feel the talons scraping, shredding his mind. She gasped, and they were both released from the nightmare.

They were in the cottage. Not Amarantha’s throne room. Not Under the Mountain.

Feyre’s voice was soft, gentle. “I promise, that will never happen. Tamlin can’t hurt you here.”

Tears flowed out of his good eye as he shivered, despite the warmth in the room. “I know.”

“ And Rhys won’t hurt you, either. You are safe here,” Feyre pressed, gripping his shoulders.

“Am I?” He looked pleadingly at her, then at Cassian, who was hovering near the bed, ready to pin him down again. Then at Azriel, who was quietly blocking the door in case he decided to make a run for it. “Am I?”

No one answered, or moved at all, and Lucien’s heart thudded in his ears.

Then a sweet voice in the doorway jolted him out of his thoughts. “I… heard shouting.”

No, no. Please. She can’t see me like this…

Feyre got up and moved to the doorway. “Elain. It’s all right. You can go back to bed.”

“Is he OK?” Elain asked, making a shiver run up Lucien’s spine.

“He will be,” Feyre assured her. “We’ll help him.”

“I can do that,” Elain said, and Lucien’s heartbeat stuttered as she approached the bed. Azriel and Cassian backed away, giving her room, but remained nearby. Lucien forced himself to sit calmly, making no sudden moves.

Elain was even more beautiful in the moonlight. She hovered near him, hand brushing his face. Wiping away his tears.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Lucien whispered, as if in a trance.

Her hand was feather-light against his cheek, his jaw. “I wasn’t sleeping.” Her hand moved to his forehead, brushing strands of his long red hair away that had been plastered there by sweat. “I have nightmares, too.”

Lucien’s throat felt tight, like an invisible hand was gripping him, choking the words before he could say them. But he managed to whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He almost fell apart when Elain’s hand rested on his scar, tracing the lines. “You… survived this.” She smoothed some hair out of the way, then pressed her fingers to the scar, as if studying it. “It didn’t break you.”

“Maybe it did,” Lucien said, too overwhelmed to move, or he would have taken her hand, touched her shoulder, something - but he sat paralyzed on the bed, and she touched him instead.

“Maybe it did. But here you are,” she said, hand sliding away.“I will make a tea for sleeping,” she said, then turned to go, long hair unbound and dancing across her back as she walked.

“Thank you,” Lucien whispered hoarsely after her, and she looked back over her shoulder at him, a smile ghosting her lips, before she disappeared back through the doorway.

Lucien’s head dropped to his chest, and he breathed, just breathed, until he could look up at Feyre, at Cassian and Azriel. He grimaced. “I’m sorry I woke you all.”

Cassian grunted and got up to leave. He nodded to Feyre. “You got this?”

Feyre nodded, thanking both warriors. Once they were gone, Feyre turned back to Lucien, gripping his hands. “You suffered Under the Mountain. Suffered for me. You’re still suffering, even now.”

“I’ve tried to forget it,” Lucien said. “My mind won’t let me forget.”

Feyre kept going. “I know why Rhys frightens you. All those years he had to be Amarantha’s slave, he did her bidding, spoke her words.“

“He was no slave!” Lucien spat out. “Out of all of us, he had a choice!”

Feyre sighed. “I know it seems like he chose it. Reveled in it. Enjoyed hurting people, hurting you. He did make choices, and he chose to protect — protect —“

“Protect what?” Lucien asked, but the answer clicked into place. Velaris. Whatever that was.

“We can show you,” Feyre said. “But if we do, you’ll be taking a step that you can’t take back. It’s a secret kept for thousands of years, even during Amarantha’s reign.”

Lucien understood. She was giving him a choice. After he had tried to grab her, take her against her will, she was giving him a choice.

“I’m not going back to Tamlin,” he said, trembling slightly as his nightmare of Tamlin’s murderous rage crept back into his mind. “I won’t help him keep you trapped, and I won’t be part of his bargain with Hybern. I’m renouncing the Spring Court and its High Lord.”

Feyre smiled. “Good, because I want you here. With us. With — “ She stopped abruptly as Elain came back in, carrying tea. The soothing scent wafted towards Lucien, and all thoughts of Tamlin, Hybern, and everything else flew out of his mind.

“Salvation,” he murmured as Elain came toward him and pressed the cup into his hands. Their fingers brushed, and he savored the little shivers that flew up his arms, the gentle heat of the cup in his palms. Elain watched him as he took a sip, then another.

“No more nightmares,” she said, before walking back out. It was an order.

And Lucien’s mind obeyed.

He spent the rest of the night in a beautiful sunlit garden, far from stone floors and whipping posts, and instead of rough shackles or talons scraping him raw, he dreamt that he was being held, soothed by Elain’s gentle, slender hands.

Chapter Text

They left the Illyrian camp the next morning, carefully plotting the route to avoid soldiers from Hybern who had infiltrated the forests. Cassian and Azriel flew with Rhys, flanking him in case of attack. Rhys held Feyre to his chest with a tenderness that made Lucien avert his eyes. Mor came to claim Lucien, winnowing more directly towards their destination. Rhys’s second in command, who hadn’t been at the cottage, was put in charge of Feyre’s two mortal sisters.

Lucien said nothing, asked no questions. He simply let himself be taken by the arm and whooshed away to whatever new horror or surprise might await him.

Time to see the mysterious secret that Rhys had sacrificed them all to save.

Mor landed them on a high cliff near a stronghold dug into the side of a sandstone mountain. “We can’t winnow directly in, they’ll have to pick us up and fly us,” she explained. Seeing his confused expression, she added, “One of the many protections built into this place.”

This place… Lucien looked out past the mountain, and his jaw dropped.

They were above a city. A huge, glittering, impossible city, between the mountains and the sea, with a river running through it.

“Velaris,” he breathed, feeling its life, energy, even from up on top of the cliff. He had been to cities in other courts, seen impressive buildings and plenty of wealth. But this was something else. Something amazing.

Mor frowned, and her grip tightened on his arm. “How did you know that name?”

“People were talking back at the cottage,” Lucien explained, trying not to wince at the strength of her grip or the wary anger that had crept into her eyes. “And I was… listening.”

She squinted at him with a tight smile, but relaxed her hold. “Truth.”

“I promised I would respect the secrecy of this place,” Lucien added quickly. “And I will.”

Mor’s smile turned feral. “Good, because I’d rip you apart if you didn’t.”

Lucien had come to think of these threats as how the Night Court expressed affection, so he just bowed and smiled.

As he took in the city, the streets, the laughter, the life, he put together two details that had been nagging at the back of his mind. “Morrigan. The Morrigan. You’re known, across the wall,” he said. “The goddess of war, in some of the human kingdoms.”

Mor actually blushed. “Humans and their stories. It’s all myth now, my actual deeds forgotten.”

“Forgotten… but not by the mortals,” Lucien mused. “By the Fae. That’s what puzzles me. You were never Under the Mountain. Amarantha never knew of you, or she’d have sought you out.”

Mor was quiet. Too quiet.

“You were hidden from Amarantha. You, Cassian, Azriel,” Lucien said. “Like you were… erased.”

Mor said quietly, sadly, “Rhys did that. He erased us, and this city, from everyone’s minds. We guarded the city, his people… and he guarded us.”

Lucien paled a bit, then swore. “Then he is more powerful than I ever imagined.” He looked at her, adding, “You all are.”

Mor’s face betrayed only the hint of a smile.

At that moment, Rhys swooped down, letting his wings catch the sunlight. Lucien’s eyes widened.  He hadn’t processed it before. Rhys had wings.

He remembered the terrible night in Tamlin’s manor, the wounded fae they couldn’t save. How he had wailed. She took my wings… she took my wings…

Rhys played a dangerous game, Lucien realized. Forty nine years, and Amarantha had never even known her favorite plaything had wings?

“Cousin,” Rhys said gallantly, holding out his arms to Mor. “Cassian, grab Lucien, will you?”

Lucien refused to show any hint of nerves or trepidation as Cassian ungallantly, unceremoniously yanked him up, and they were airborne.

Lucien did not look down.

He did not notice how precariously he dangled, how much of a drop it was to the city below, how fast the wind gusted.

He did notice that he was being taken to a high stronghold, with wards against winnowing, and a single entrance that led to thousands of stairs that was sure to be guarded.

Lucien squared this away with the knowledge that Rhys and his court were powerful, even by Prythian standards, and that they had perfected the art of keeping secrets.

Lucien would be a secret to be tucked away, kept in reserve, until it was time to wield him.

He decided, as Cassian deposited him on solid ground, that he didn’t mind being high up. Up here, he could pick his target to be aimed at.

And he would have a glorious view as he fell.

Chapter Text

Feyre’s sisters were already at the House of Wind when Lucien arrived. He could feel Elain nearby, like a tiny tug on his heart, and it comforted him. Would I be like Rhys, would I torture and kill and act like I loved it, if it would keep her safe? He squashed the thought and strode into the house, feeling the wards prickling around him as he entered, and squinted to keep his mechanical eye from roving over the spellwork.

He thought about seeking out Elain, thanking her again for soothing his nightmare, but he couldn’t gather up the nerve, couldn't think of anything intelligent to say. Nesta, the other sister, was hovering in the sitting room, as if guarding Elain from them all.

Nesta raised his hackles. She was fierce like Feyre, but ice cold, haughty, disdainful, and full of hate. She didn’t so much talk as snarl, and she didn’t look at anyone except to sneer dismissively or glare. She was the one who stood near the entrance with her arms crossed, ready to find fault with everything and everyone that came in.

Of course, Cassian worshipped her.

Lucien let Cassian bear Nesta’s angry remarks and clipped tone, and retreated to his new room. He was surprised to find it decorated in Autumn Court fashion and colors. A small wave of homesickness washed over him, but quickly ebbed. Autumn was not home any more.

Neither is Spring.

Once he let himself settle into his new living quarters, dismissing the painful memories, he felt relief. Especially when he was able to bathe, wash his hair, and wash the grime off his favorite boots. He would have to ask Rhys or Feyre about clothes, everyday necessities, and was dreading it. But when he opened the oak paneled drawers, he found that a suitable selection had already been neatly arranged and folded for him. 

He tried not to think too hard about where the clothes had come from or how they seemed to fit his body perfectly. Instead, he got dressed quickly, grateful to look presentable again, and really took in the details of his new surroundings.

Lucien took in the reds and oranges, the dark brown wood, the gold accents, the crisp scent of apples in the air, and thought, They are going to keep me here a long, long time.

He suddenly found a reason to head back out to the common areas of the house - and not glance back to the bedroom again.

He wandered the corridors, glimpsing familiar faces here and there, but found that he was left to his own devices. It made sense - they didn’t need to hover over him now, when he had no possibility of escape. He sat in the library for a while, hoping that he would encounter Elain there, but the only one who wandered in was Nesta, who snatched a book off the shelf and immediately left again.

Dinner was a casual affair, though it pained him that Elain didn’t come out of her room, not even to grab food and leave again. He wanted to pursue the matter, but couldn’t risk asking about her without bringing down Nesta’s ire on his head. Not just now. Ask Feyre after.

Instead he busied himself in sampling every spice and dish offered in the buffet. He could trace some commodities back to the other solar courts - produce from Dawn and Day, meat from Winter. A few preserved delicacies from Autumn. Nothing from Spring, naturally.

But he was surprised to see that the rich buffet had no Summer fruits, which were among the best throughout Prythian and particularly succulent at this time of year. They were even imported into the Spring court, which had plenty of produce in its own right.

He sat next to Feyre, uncomfortably finding that he’d ended up at the head of the table, and asked casually, “Does this court have much contact with the court of Summer?”

Every pair of eyes shot to him, and he shifted uncomfortably, realizing that he had stumbled onto dangerous ground. More secrets.

Stalling for time to figure out what this odd reaction was about, he added, “Tarquin is very new as High Lord, but he is a progressive thinker. His ideas about equality for lesser fae are… admirable.” Then his cheeks burned and he had to stop talking, before he verged into painful personal territory.

The reactions of the group were making him nervous. Feyre looked guiltily at her plate. Mor hastily grabbed the bottle of wine, even though her glass was still more than half full. Cassian tapped his utensil incessantly. Azriel’s shadows seemed too still, too controlled, and Rhys…

Rhys was like a black hole, devouring all the light in the room.

Lucien’s knife and fork clattered to his plate.

Another voice chimed in. “Well, girl. Your new pet does have some impressive tricks.”

Amren. That creature of nightmares and dark fairy tales. Just being at the table with her, all that unfathomable power and mystery, made his stomach twist. But Lucien dared to lift his eyes to her, and found that she was regarding him with a look of appreciation.

Nesta snorted. “What are you all bent out of shape about?”

But Lucien’s mind was working. His eyes - mechanical and not - scanned the faces of the table, taking in the tension, the furtive glances. And then settled on back Amren, and her necklace.

“That’s beautiful,” he said to her, carefully schooling his posture to be deferential. “Especially the jewel at the center. It reminds me of …” Ohh.

Amren smiled wickedly at him. “You recognize it?”

Lucien was too far down this road to safely backtrack now. “I believe I do.” Seeing Nesta’s look of confusion, he added, “It’s a blood ruby, a Summer Court specialty. It’s how they declare that you are a mortal enemy.”

Feyre finally took her eyes off her plate. “Hopefully it’s temporary.”

Rhys gave her a reassuring smile, but Lucien could feel the strain. It was most certainly not temporary, whatever Amren’s spat with the Summer Court was about. And given Feyre’s guilty look, and Rhys’s eagerness to shut down the subject - 

“You got one, too,” Lucien murmured to Feyre. “I’m sorry.”

Feyre gripped the arms of her chair as she gaped at him, and Lucien swore as the wood began smoking.

“Easy,” Cassian said quietly, and Feyre hastily removed her hands.

Rhys was on his feet and looming over Lucien in a heartbeat. “Out with it, little fox, before I rip it from your mind.”

“Out with what?” Lucien gulped. He was breathing too fast. The air was too thin. He took a steadying breath, forcing calm into his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We are talking about blood rubies,” Rhys said, with lethal calm.

“She’s wearing one!” Lucien cried, holding up his hands in surrender.

“Amren is. Not Feyre. But you knew.” Rhysand’s glare could have cut glass, but he seemed to be wrestling his fury back under control. In a moment, his calm, cruel High Lord mask had slammed back down over his features. “I didn’t know Tamlin had infiltrated the Summer Court. He’s more clever than I gave him credit for.”

“He’s exactly as clever as you gave him credit for,” Lucien shot back, his indignation again surpassing his instinct to stay alive.

Cassian snorted.

“If he did have spies at the Summer Court, you could reveal them to Tarquin and regain their friendship,” Lucien admitted. “But he doesn’t.”

“Then how did you know?” Azriel prompted, shadows zigzagging questioningly.

“I didn’t,” Lucien said, trying to stay calm despite his racing heart. He turned to Feyre apologetically. “You all just looked… guilty.”

Rhys cocked his head to the side, considering. “You aren’t stupid enough to betray your sources. You wouldn’t have said anything at all if you were protecting assets at the Summer Court. So I think you figured it out here in this room, during this conversation.” Lucien nodded. “How?”

Lucien sighed. “I didn’t know you had any problem with the Summer Court until I looked at your buffet table. You have no produce from Summer at all, which I just thought was odd at this time of year, and you had selections from every other Court but Spring. I thought I was making conversation until I saw all your reactions… Then I noticed Amren’s necklace, and all of your guilty looks, and … well.”

He braced himself.

Rhys startled him by breaking out into a deep, hearty laugh.

Lucien wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or very, very nervous.

Rhys’s face relaxed into a genuine smile, and Lucien was able to breathe again. “I’ll have to speak to the kitchen about its menu selections.”

“Then indeed, you’ve pissed off Tarquin,” Lucien observed, “which is a pity.”

“It is,” Rhys agreed. “I like him. And his ideas.”

Lucien commented, “Then it must have been over something important.” His mechanical eye whirred. “What would Tarquin have that you would risk his ire over? Something to fight Hybern?”

Feyre let out a stifled gasp, and Cassian choked on his wine before sputtering, “That’s it. I’m locking him in his room.” A quick glance at Azriel and Mor revealed that they were on board with it. Why can’t I learn to keep my mouth shut?

But Rhys gave Lucien a wink. “Oh, but then he can’t entertain us. Dear Lucien, I knew we would have fun together.” He addressed Azriel. “Double the wards around this house. Triple them around his room.”

“Because you,” he said, turning back to Lucien with a feline smile, “are never, ever taking that clever mind of yours to another court. I claim you, Lucien Vanserra, for the Court of Dreams.”

Chapter Text

Lucien knew he'd be awake most of his first night in Velaris, listening to the wind howl. It helped to drown out the competing thoughts screaming in his mind.

He’d known he was in a precarious position right from the start. It felt dangerous, even though nothing terrible had happened - yet. But he felt more trapped now than he had when Feyre’s magic had him tied up.

I claim you, Lucien Vanserra, for the Court of Dreams.

Rhys had sunk his claws in now.

Tamlin had leaned on him for diplomatic missions, advice about rival courts, but didn’t have the desire or aptitude for intrigue. Lucien had been mostly relegated to border patrols and administrative duties until Feyre arrived, and then he’d been tasked with coaching Tamlin in wooing her. A large part of that job involved simply keeping Feyre alive and out of the clutches of the monsters that Amarantha sent to taunt the Spring Court. Too much fighting and blood, not enough intrigue for Lucien’s taste.

Rhys, on the other hand… Rhys was all intrigue.

It had Lucien constantly on edge, even without the presence of so many powerful Fae who seemed to delight in threatening to kill him or lock him up at every opportunity.

Rhys hadn’t been joking about the wards, either. The binding spells glittered and danced around the walls of his room - his mechanical eye, annoyingly, kept fixing on one, then another, until Lucien had to close his eyes to make it stop. Even then, he could feel the magic pricking against his skin, as if it was sinking its teeth into him a little at a time, tethering him, like a spider spinning a web around its wriggling prey.

Idly, Lucien tugged at the end of one of the spells, unraveling it from the others so he could examine it. It came loose and furled into his palm. He wondered if the wards would prevent Elain from getting in to see him, or stop him from leaving if he should try to go to her. Why hadn’t she been at dinner? When did she eat?

Another spell drooped low near where he’d pulled out the first. “How am I supposed to sleep in here with these dangling in my face?” Lucien muttered, plucking it out.

Before he’d thought too much about it, he’d unraveled enough of the spells shining on the walls that he thought he might be able to fall sleep. He was about to settle into bed when an argument from down the hall exploded into shouting.

“Please, Nesta!” Feyre’s voice rose.

Nesta’s grating voice bit back, “Absolutely not. I can’t stay here one more day. I feel trapped here.”

“Cassian can fly you wherever you want — “

“Cassian can keep his hands off me,” Nesta snapped. Barely, Lucien thought.

“You’d feel just as trapped in the estate at home,” Feyre shot back.

“But it would be my home — “

To Lucien’s horror, Elain was there, sobbing. “Don’t fight. Please, don’t fight.”

Lucien’s blood heated, and he stormed to the door - only to find a tangle of spells crisscrossed around the exit, blocking his path. “Fuck you, Rhys,” he muttered angrily, ripping them out by the fistful, scattering magical remnants like gold sparks all over the floor.

“ — have to leave tomorrow, or they’ll back out,” Nesta was saying.

“Good. They’re Fae haters, anyway,” Cassian’s voice was an offended growl. Lucien pictured the gruff Illyrian squaring off with Nesta, continually fighting the urge to kiss her while obeying the one to snarl at her like he wanted a bite. He probably does.

“But Graysen loves me,” Elain said plaintively, and Lucien’s hand froze on the last bit of spellwork binding his door shut. Elain had a love match?

“Not when you have a Fae sister,” Cassian blurted out.

Elain’s wail pierced Lucien to the core, and he tore the final spell away and flung the door open. All eyes turned to stare at him - something that was happening to him too often as of late - but he ignored them all and loudly announced, “I’m going to make tea. Would anyone like some?”

Nesta scowled and folded her arms, but Elain gave him a wobbly, tear stained smile.

Rhysand, who had emerged from his room looking irritated and ready to banish everyone back to the Illyrian camp, caught Lucien’s eye and gave him a predatory smile. “Well, well, Lucien. If we haven’t discovered another of your secret talents,” he said.

Cassian snorted. “Even Azriel can make tea.”

Lucien brushed the glittery shards of discarded spells off his hands and nightshirt sleeves. “He means my flair for dramatic entrances.”

Rhys’s grin was wicked. “Sly fox, breaking through all my wards. I shall have to chain you.”

“I promised Elain some tea first,” Lucien said with forced lightness, then turned his back on the most powerful High Lord that had ever been in Prythian, and strolled into the kitchen.

Chapter Text

“Thank you,” Elain said shakily, accepting the warm cup from Lucien’s hands. This time he was careful not to let his fingers brush hers. She had a lover, a human lover. All that time she’d been silent, worrying her sister - she’d been pining for him.

And she was going to him, tomorrow.

A chasm wider than the deepest sea was opening up in Lucien’s chest, a deep pit where some unnamed hope was crawling in to drown and be buried.

I don’t even know you, Lucien thought, staring at Elain’s face. Memorizing it. Why is this so important to me?

Elain sipped the tea, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I feel stupid,” she confessed, “crying like this.”

Lucien’s resolve cracked, and he gently brushed a tear away from her face, as she had done for him when he’d been struggling with his nightmare. “It’s not stupid to cry,” he said. “Not stupid to feel.”

“I just — Nesta — Feyre — “ Elain waved her hand, struggling to explain. “They both feel so strongly that they’re right. Both so angry. It’s terrifying.”

“What do you think is right?” Lucien asked, carefully sipping his own cup of tea, wondering if Graysen could learn to love the Fae, as Feyre had.

“I don’t know anymore,” Elain admitted. “Graysen is my first love, my… true love,” she said slowly, stretching out the words as if she were trying them on to see whether they still fit. “We had it all planned out, our wedding. Our estate. And then…” She gestured around them. “Those soldiers came to us. Said it was urgent that we go, that it was too dangerous to stay on the human side of the Wall. I couldn’t even talk to Graysen or say goodbye.”

Lucien knew there was something missing in this story, some compelling reason to risk bringing mortals into Prythian - into an Illyrian camp, by the Cauldron - but he didn’t want to press. Not when she was so distraught. So he just said, “I’m so sorry, Elain.”

She nodded, chewing her lip nervously. “Nesta said it was a bad idea, but Feyre said — “

“Elain,” came Feyre’s voice, far too loud and ragged to be casual. She had interrupted before anything too revealing could be blurted out. Lucien’s eye whirred softly as Feyre came into focus - honing in on her tired eyes, muscles clenched around her mouth. Fingers not quite curled into fists. “You’ve got to get some sleep.”

“Not tonight,” Elain murmured.

“You should sleep more,” Feyre pushed. “Eat more. It’s not going to help anything if you waste away. Trust me, I know.”

She did. Lucien shuddered at the memory. Feyre had become a ghost at the Spring Court, a miserable shell.

And he’d almost dragged her back there. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

They needed to give Elain what he hadn’t given Feyre. A choice.

“If he loves you,” Lucien said carefully, eyes drifting from Elain to Feyre and then back again, “he’ll want the choice to be yours. When to join him, and where. And,” he added softly, “he would want you to get some rest.” His hand brushed hers, just for a moment. “No more nightmares.”

Elain nodded her head, pressing her half-empty teacup into his hand. “No more nightmares.” She gave him one last look, smiling wanly, then went down the hall and disappeared up the stairs.

Feyre walked to him then, and he only just had time to set the teacups down before she threw her arms around him in a strong, tearful hug. “I’m so glad I captured you.”

Lucien made a sound between a choke and a laugh, but patted her back, finally feeling like old friends again. “Me too.”

“You won’t be so glad if Rhys sees you with your hands all over her,” Cassian sniped, elbowing past them into the kitchen.

“Shut up, Cassian,” Feyre said, aiming a kick at him. Lucien bit back a stinging retort as Feyre declared, “Rhys wouldn’t care.”

Oh, he very much fucking would, Lucien thought, you’re his m— 

Lucien felt a tug in his mind, a warning. Put your claws away, he thought irritably. Your secret’s safe with me.

Good, then maybe I won’t shackle you tomorrow for shredding all my wards, Rhysand’s voice chuckled in his mind.

Lucien pulled back from the hug and asked, “Will your sisters really leave tomorrow?”

Feyre sighed, “Yes,” at the same time that Cassian indignantly barked, “No!” The two of them looked at each other with simmering anger.

But before Lucien could get out of the way of the battle that seemed about to break out in the kitchen, Rhysand called from the hallway, “Feyre darling, if you all must shout at this hour, at least put up an air shield so I can get my beauty sleep.”

“Prissy bastard,” Cassian grumbled, and Lucien laughed so hard that he lost his balance and knocked his teacup off the kitchen counter. Then Feyre laughed too, and she swept the shards away using small gusts of wind.

Lucien gawked. “By the Cauldron, Feyre. Is there any power you don’t have?”

“The power to make Nesta see reason,” Feyre complained.

So it was settled. Nesta and Elain were going back across the wall, and Lucien… Lucien would have to learn to live with it.

Chapter Text

He didn’t see them leave, nor did he want to. He didn’t trust himself to stand there with the appropriate indifference, because Elain was nothing to him. A friend’s sister. A kind presence during some difficult moments. A beautiful, gentle, insightful —

Stop it.

Lucien had spent centuries learning to carefully maneuver around people, around political situations. But there was no careful maneuvering here. He knew that if he watched as Elain stepped away, if Cassian or Azriel picked her up to fly her back to the human lands… he would snap.

He would snatch her up before anyone could throw so much as a shadow at him. He’d hold onto her and refuse to let go. They’d have to pry her out of his arms.

The urge was primal, powerful. Terrifying.

Lucien had been with females since Jesminda. Enjoyed them. Liked them, maybe even thought he was getting attached to one or two, though it wasn’t the same, could never be the same. Not love, but close enough for some fun and distraction… But this? This was far beyond anything he’d ever felt before. It was uncontrollable, overwhelming, unreasonable. Dangerous.

“You’re sulking,” Cassian said, reaching across Lucien to grab a muffin off the kitchen counter.

“I’m not. Am I?” Lucien said, and his fingers shook imperceptibly as he reached for a muffin himself. Then he turned to Cassian. “Are you?”

“Of course I fucking am, it’s stupid as hell,” Cassian grumbled. His face was sullen, jaw grimly set, a crumbling muffin squashed into his fist. 

“I’d have thought you’d be relieved,” Mor said, breezing into the room. “We might have some peace and quiet around here.” Cassian glared at her, but said nothing.

“It’s killing me, too,” Lucien murmured to him, and Cassian nodded, staring very hard at a crumb that had fallen onto the floor.

“Well, you two are a barrel of fun this morning,” Mor rolled her eyes. “I’m going into the city to check on Amren, if you need anything.”

“The city?” Lucien perked up. “I’ve never been down there, and I need some paper, so…” He looked at her hopefully.

“I’ll ask Rhys or Feyre,” Mor said. Of course I’m not free to leave. But where do they think I would go?

“Ask me what?” Feyre came in, shoulders hunched and eyes red from crying.

“Oh, Feyre.” Lucien went to her and held out his arms, and she leaned against him, sobbing quietly. He closed his eyes and sighed, “We all feel it. I’m sorry.”

Feyre nodded, sniffling, and pulled back to smile feebly at Cassian and Mor. “Rhys and Azriel are dropping them off. Az will make sure our estate is… secure as it can be.”

“Not secure enough,” Cassian snarled.

“It’s all we can do,” Mor assured him, though she sounded worried too.

Cassian grabbed another muffin and devoured it in two bites. “I could go on a quick patrol —“

“Don’t,” Mor said quickly, then added more gently, “You’ll only make it harder on yourself.”

Cassian swallowed hard, fists clenching and unclenching, then sighed. “You’re right.” His siphons flashed red, then dulled again. “We’ll train today, Feyre. After breakfast?” He held out a palm, and Feyre threw a punch into it. Guess that’s a yes?

“So that’s where you learned to fight,” Lucien said, and Feyre cracked a genuine smile.

“The fighting skills were from Cassian. Learning how to harness my magic, that was Rhys,” Feyre said. “I was actually practicing with my powers in that forest when you so rudely interrupted.”

Lucien laughed. “You punished me thoroughly for my impudence, my lady.”

“Not that thoroughly. She let you live,” Mor cooed sweetly.

“For now,” Cassian smirked, reaching for yet another muffin.

Mor smacked his hand away. “You wouldn’t need magic or fighting skills to capture Cassian. Just muffins,” she deadpanned.

Lucien decided not to take the muffin that Cassian had aimed for, but snagged the one next to it. “Well, I’m at your mercy. So I intend to enjoy the muffins while I can.”

“You got yourself a reprieve when you told us about Tamlin and Hybern,” Feyre said. “We’ve got to figure out what they’re up to.”

“Tamlin is a pawn,” Lucien said, fiddling with his shirtsleeve to avoid seeming too eager to defend his old friend. “But a willing one. He’ll do anything, anything at all, to get you back.” He cringed at Feyre’s indignant expression. “I’m sorry.”

If he had had to watch Elain suffer at Amarantha’s whims… if he had watched her die… if he had gotten her back, only for his worst living enemy to whisk her away… what would he do?

“What does Hybern even want with the Spring Court?” Mor asked.

“Access to the Wall. He’ll bring it down and march armies through Spring Court territory,” Cassian guessed. “Now that he has the C—“

“Cassian,” Mor hissed. She looked pointedly at Lucien, then shook her head.

Lucien’s ears burned. The message was clear enough.

“I’ll go,” he said evenly, schooling his features to seem unruffled, “so you can confer in peace.”

“You’re a little too good at hearing through walls,” Mor pointed out.

“Maybe we can trust him,” Feyre said. “He’s cooperated so far.”

“He hasn’t had a choice,” Mor said.

“I still don’t. If Hybern is planning an attack, we’re all in danger,” Lucien countered, then paled as something occurred to him. “If the Wall comes down, the humans on the other side…” A deep shudder ran through him at the thought. I shouldn’t have let this happen. I should have found a way to keep Elain here. Delay their departure, at least.

He gripped Feyre’s hand. “Let me help. Please.” Turned to Mor. “Please.”

Mor gazed at him for a long moment, considering. “It’s Rhys’s call, what secrets we share,” she said finally. “But for what it’s worth, I sense you are sincere. That counts for something.”

“Thank you,” said Lucien, heart in his throat.

Mor said to Feyre, “Lucien wants to see Velaris. If you think it’s ok, I could take him with me when I visit Amren. You could come with us.” She patted Feyre’s shoulder. “Might take your mind off things.”

Feyre nodded. “It’s a good thought. We could all use a distraction.”

Lucien frowned. Distractions would play into the enemy’s hands. But he only said, “Are we taking the stairs?”

Cassian snorted. “Don’t trust my flying, Fox Boy?”

Lucien smiled innocently. “That depends. Will there be a tray of muffins waiting for you when we land?”

Chapter Text

Feyre was unusually quiet as they strode through the city streets, though Lucien appreciated the chance to see Velaris in comfortable silence. He was taken in by the glittering, colorful city, so alive, so whole. He wouldn’t have thought that anything could survive Amarantha’s reign so unscathed, but here it was. An island of starlight in a darkened world.

When they swung by a cafe for a late lunch, Lucien was startled to see Feyre accept a container of dark red liquid and tuck it carefully into her bag. “For Amren,” she explained.

So that’s what Amren eats. Lucien shivered.

“Glad it doesn’t bother you,” Lucien said, remembering Feyre’s aversion to the color red because it reminded her of innocent blood, spilled in service of breaking Tamlin’s curse. And here she is, carting blood around like it’s no big deal. “The color, as well as the substance,” he clarified.

Feyre’s eyes flashed. “It doesn’t bother me. I don’t know why.” She sighed as she looked out at the city landscape. “It’s this place, maybe? Colors don’t bother me here. I feel like I could - almost - paint again.”

“There’s plenty here to inspire art,” Lucien said. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but… Rhys saved something special.” Even if it meant sacrificing the rest of us. But he pushed that thought aside. We all made sacrifices.

Feyre smiled warmly at him. “I checked with Rhys. You can come with us into Amren’s place if you want. See what she’s been working on. It’s… from the Summer Court.”

So they’re going to trust me, after all.

Lucien’s eye whirred as his mind filed another detail into place. “You were talking to Rhys this whole time. Mind to mind.” He looked at her with a mix of wonder and a little fear. “Do you see… what he’s thinking?”

Feyre shrugged. “What he lets me see, mostly.” Mostly, Lucien noticed, but said nothing. “And same with me. I let him into my mental shields when it feels right.”

“Mental shields?”

“You should learn how to strengthen yours,” Feyre said. “Your mind is too easy to slip into… I’m not proud of it, but I’ve seen your mind a few times. By accident.”

Lucien’s mouth was suddenly dry. “By accident?” He cringed to think at what she might have seen. And the fact that she had gotten in without him perceiving it…

"Sorry," she added, cringing a bit. "I promise it wasn't to violate your privacy."

Lucien shuddered. "It's not that, it's just that I never noticed. I notice when Rhys does it…” He shook his head in wonder. “Feyre, sometimes I wonder if you’re even more powerful than he is.”

Feyre looked pensive. “He says we’re equals.”

Lucien’s breath whooshed out at that. Tamlin would never had referred to her as his equal. “Rhysand is… not what I thought.”

Feyre smiled and stood up, checking to be sure she still had Amren’s blood before slinging her back over her shoulder. “He said the same about you.”

* * * *

Lucien had left Amren’s apartment feeling profoundly unsettled. Their feud with the Summer Court was finally explained, though he couldn’t understand why they’d felt the need to steal from Tarquin rather than just negotiate for the book. And their dealings with the mortal queens… No good could come from that.

If the King of Hybern had the Cauldron, if he could wield it, what was he waiting for?

“Hybern can track Rhys’s magic, so he knows about your little vacation to the Summer Court. He knows you’ve got at least half the book,” Lucien mused at dinner. “He’s given you time to get the other half. Which means he’s got a plot in motion. Maybe he wants it for himself.”

“We have to take that chance,” Rhys argued. “It’s the only thing that can nullify the Cauldron’s power.”

“And if the mortal queens betray you? If they reveal Velaris to Hybern?”

Mor flinched. “They could. I sensed deception from them. And we were warned by the Queen who helped us. We should expect trouble.”

Rhys sat back, deep in thought, then said, “Suggestions? What’s our status?”

Azriel said, “We’ve infiltrated the mortal queens’ lands. We haven’t been able to get spies inside their castles yet, but I’ll keep trying.”

“The legions are ready,” Cassian said. “We’ve upped the training schedule.”

Lucien spoke up. “We need to strengthen the city wards around Velaris.”

Silence fell over the table. 

“You think… they would attack here?” Feyre said. She looked appalled. They all did, as if the idea were too horrible to think about. But if we aren’t ready…

“I think,” Lucien said, “that Hybern would be itching to strike Velaris out of jealousy alone. But its strategic value is in its importance to you. The symbolism of it.”

Rhys cleared his throat. “You can see the wards?” Lucien nodded. “And you see a weakness?”

“Maybe,” Lucien said, suddenly nervous. “I would have to get up closer to them, but…”

Amren turned to Lucien, all business. “Come with me. We’ll do it now.”

“Az, Cassian, accompany them,” Rhys said, his calm voice at odds with the rising anxiety at the table. “Make sure they can work undisturbed.”

Lucien couldn’t believe his ears. They trust me to inspect their defenses?

“Come get me if you need me,” Feyre said. Rhys gave her a pained look, but didn’t object.

Cassian promised, low and feral, “I’ll bring the fight right to those fucking bastards — “

“The wards,” Amren said tightly. “Now.”

Lucien got up to go, but Rhys’s gaze pinned him to the spot. Something unspoken passed between them, some silent understanding. “I’ll do everything I can,” Lucien promised, heart in his throat. Rhys nodded silently.

Lucien felt one of Azriel’s shadows curling around his wrist, tugging him forward. We’re running out of time.

Azriel flew him to the city’s outskirts, where he stood tugging gently at the spells encircling Velaris while waiting for Cassian to drop off Amren. He tried to remember everything he’d learned about Hybern, about their uncanny ability to repel regular magic.

As Amren appeared beside him, Lucien kept his gaze on the glimmering transparent wards. He said, “These have never been tested against nullification spells.”

Amren nodded briskly. “Where do you see vulnerabilities?” Lucien discussed the locations nervously, hoping that he was right. If I’m wrong, people will die.

“Indeed,” Amren said. “I see what must be done. Stand back.”

Lucien did. He had a healthy respect for Amren, and tried to stay out of her way as she worked. That much raw power… how much more was lurking there beneath the surface? He hoped he would never have to find out.

Behind him, Cassian hissed, “What. Is. That.”

Lucien glanced at him in alarm, then followed his gaze to the horizon. To the sea. And the sky above it…

“Go,” he said urgently. “Get Rhys. Get everyone.”

Chapter Text

Cassian flew skyward and swiftly out of sight. Lucien watched him, fear dumping down his spine. Amren, unruffled, kept her magic steady.

Azriel wordlessly drew his sword, then a dagger from his belt. He shoved the dagger towards Lucien, who grabbed it and got into a fighting stance. He’d had plenty of experience fighting monsters, defending himself and the Court he served, but a full battle, with an army of soldiers, was another matter.

Stand your ground. Keep attackers away from Amren. The wards must be secured.

The idea that Lucien, with his limited power and experience, was defending Amren was so ridiculous that he almost laughed.

Azriel’s siphons blazed bright blue as he scanned the skies, preparing to fight, and Lucien tried not to think too hard about all that killing power. He’d gotten comfortable enough with Rhys’s court that he could almost forget how lethal they were. Almost.

“The wards are secure,” Amren said, voice thick with magic, then added to the two men, “Take positions far from me. You will not want to be in range when I… unleash.”

“We should get to the bridge - we need to keep them from taking both sides of the river,” Lucien suggested, but Azriel grunted, “Go. Rhys has sent other orders for me. Defend what you can.”

Lucien gulped, and ran.

Battle exploded around him, but he kept his head down and raced for the bridge, just as Cassian landed heavily with Feyre in his arms. She leapt into a fighting stance, snarling at the sight of the Hybern warriors blotting out the sky like a swarm of insects.

“Will the wards hold?” she shouted.

“Fuck if I’m going to wait and find out,” Cassian growled, and launched himself upward again, siphons flashing, blasting out his own enormous red shield that repelled the invaders.

“Shit,” Lucien breathed admiringly, then faced Feyre. “What can I do?”

“Get people to safety. I’ll hold the bridge,” she ordered, extending a hand toward the waters of the Sidra River. To Lucien’s amazement, the water rose up, forming shapes - fierce wolves, ready to bite and tear. He didn’t wait to see what else Feyre could do with her powers, but took off for the residential area behind the rainbow of storefronts on the other side of the bridge.

People were gaping at the sky, pointing, screaming, and Lucien yelled, “Get inside! Bar your doors!” A few nearby civilians listened, but the panic was so great that most people couldn’t possibly have heard him. Thudding and crackling overhead told Lucien that some soldiers were finding ways through the shields, and he let loose a string of curses as people ran aimlessly, confused and scared.

He had to get their attention.

Shield them.

Protect.

A vibrating, searing energy rose up in him, filled him, burst out from him as he roared to the civilians on the street. “Get inside! Bar your doors!”

Gasps and murmurs surrounded him as light flooded into the darkness, and then the citizens obeyed him - actually obeyed him - while Lucien turned towards the sky, towards the death and destruction descending toward him.

And he exploded.

* * * *

“… still not awake…”

“… took them out, all by himself…”

“…no healers for at least a few hours…”

“... Lucien?”

Lucien groaned, trying and failing to sit up. Where was he? Not the Spring Court. Reds, oranges, the scent of crisp apples. But not Autumn…

“Lucien, by the fucking Cauldron, wake up and stop scaring everyone,” Cassian’s irritated voice snarled in his ear.

Lucien opened his eyes.

“Thank the Mother,” Feyre sobbed, looking disheveled and tear-stained. Her fingers were snared in his shirt, knuckles white and talons out, as if she had just been dragging him. Is that what happened?

Rhys burst in, coming up behind Feyre and wrapping his arms around her. She let go of Lucien’s shirt and fell against Rhys’s chest, weeping.

He whispered softly to her, stroking her hair, then raised his eyes to Lucien. “You bastard.”

“What’d I… do now…” Lucien stammered, glancing nervously around the room that he now recognized as his own quarters at the House of Wind.

“You burnt yourself to a crisp,” Rhys snapped. “You nearly died before we could track you down.”

“Burnt?” Lucien felt like his throat was coated in sludge. “How…?”

“You went off like a shooting star,” Cassian said. “Took a horde of those Hybern fuckers with you. People saw your light from all over the city. Otherwise we never would’ve found you in time.”

Lucien went to slide his hair out of his face, then winced at the shooting pain in his arm.

“Don’t fucking move,” Rhys barked.

Lucien stared at him in shock and confusion. Why was he so angry?

“You almost killed yourself, and you upset my mate,” Rhys continued, eyes blazing, “and all of the healers are busy, so you just lie there, Lucien Vanserra, and stop making Feyre cry, or so help me.”

Lucien averted his eyes from Rhys, from that vehemently angry concern. “I’m always a… disappointment,” he rasped, and sank back into the pillow.

Cassian’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “You’ve never done that before, have you?”

Lucien shook his head. “Wasn’t… me.”

“Oh, it was. It definitely fucking was,” Cassian said, starting to grin again. “We all saw it. That was some serious power, my friend. You saved a lot of people.”

Rhys’s calm mask had slipped partially back into place. “Helion Spell-cleaver has powers like that. When you recover, if I don’t kill you for putting yourself at such immense risk, you should contact him.”

Lucien’s eye whirred, focusing anywhere but on Rhys. The intensity of his anger was frightening. Why would it matter if I put myself at risk? He knew that Feyre cared about him, but Rhys, who had been his enemy for so long…

It was almost too much to think about.

Lucien’s mind spun, looking for more familiar ground. It cycled back to what Rhys had said a few moments ago. You upset my mate. He’d said it aloud. To everyone. And no one looked surprised.

Feyre raised her head and stared into Rhys’s eyes. Whatever new thing had happened between them, she was clearly still processing it.

“What of… the city?” Lucien asked.

“Survived,” Rhys said. “There were casualties, but nothing like there would have been if the wards had gone down.” He inclined his head to Lucien. “You had a role in that.”

“A small one,” Lucien said uncomfortably. “It was all Amren, really.” Then he looked over at Cassian. “And someone was showing off, there, shielding the entire city with his flashy red power.”

“Jealous?” Cassian said.

“Terribly,” Lucien grinned, adding, “Good choice of color though.” He winced a bit, then asked, “Feyre, were those… wolves? Of water?”

Feyre wiped her eyes and managed a smile. “I needed something vicious that could take down the soldiers quickly. I turned them into ice, too.”

“Wish I’d seen that,” Lucien said, wonderingly.

“You didn’t say the best part,” Cassian protested. He waited for Lucien to look suitably curious, then added proudly, “Feyre killed the Attor.”

Lucien gaped. He’d have to hear that story. Maybe Feyre would paint it someday.

“Between Feyre’s valiant defense of the Rainbow, Amren’s illusions, Cassian and Az’s fighting, Mor and myself, and your… fireworks… there was no one left to crawl back to Hybern and report defeat,” Rhys said with grim satisfaction.

“Won’t… be enough,” Lucien murmured, starting to feel overwhelmed by sleep again. “They’ll find another target… another angle.”

“And we’ll be ready,” Rhys promised. He gave Lucien a long, appraising look. “Even you, if you rest up and get yourself healed.” He chuckled, and his words drifted into Lucien’s mind as the darkness took him.

“You won’t escape me that easily.”

Chapter Text

“When did you know?” Feyre asked him over breakfast.

“Know what?”

“That Rhys and I are mates. The others have known for years,” Feyre said bitterly, though the happy glow on her face took away most of the force of her tone. “Did you figure it out?”

“I did,” Lucien confessed. Don’t kill me, he added to Rhys, in case he was listening in. “Right away, I saw that he loved you. And you looked like you were falling in love and couldn’t quite admit it. But then in the cottage, we were talking about Under the Mountain, and I thought about how he’d tried to kill Amarantha - that day - despite it totally blowing his cover.”

Feyre swatted at him, and he hissed. He’d mostly healed from the battle with Hybern, but his skin was still sensitive in places. “That was weeks ago! You knew weeks ago? By the Mother, I just want to kill all of you!”

“After the mission,” Lucien said with mock gallantry, “my neck is yours, my lady.”

“After the mission, indeed. I’m nervous,” Feyre admitted. “Bringing the Book to Hybern, so close to the Cauldron, seems like a dangerous plan.”

“Very,” Lucien agreed. “I have my doubts, as you and your mate both know. But if you’re going, I’m going, too.”

“Tamlin could be there,” Feyre said pensively. “I don’t know how I’m going to react, seeing him.”

“Maybe don’t stab him immediately,” Lucien suggested. “We could question him about what Hybern’s planning. And… he and I were friends once, you know.”

“Fair’s fair. I’ll give him a thirty second head start,” Feyre agreed.

Lucien ran a weary hand through his hair. “Even if you didn’t have Rhys as your mate, it never would have worked out with Tamlin. He just needed too much control.”

Feyre shifted uncomfortably. “But he’s not in control with Hybern.”

“Not at all,” Lucien said sadly. Then he looked down at his hands, still sore from the burns healing, and said, “As for me, a little more control would be nice. I don’t like the idea of being bedridden for days every time I use this power.”

Feyre shrugged. “You’ll learn to manage it. You didn’t even know you had that power until now.”

I didn’t. Why didn’t I? “So we both had an educational week. How touching,” Lucien deadpanned.

“Shut up, prick,” Feyre scoffed, and he gave her another gallant bow.

“So… mates,” Lucien smirked, giving Feyre a saucy grin as they strolled out of the kitchen.. “It’s official now, is it?” Feyre nodded, beaming. “Will you have a formal party?”

“I don’t know,” Feyre admitted, glancing around to ensure they were still alone. “It’s still so new, and it’s stupid, but I just want him to myself for a while. Everyone else knew but me… at first I was angry he didn’t tell me.”

“But if he’d blurted it out too soon, it would have scared you off,” Lucien said, then made a face. “I am defending Rhysand. What sorcery is this?”

“You’re right, though. It would have scared me,” Feyre said. “I was horribly guilty at leaving Tamlin, and depressed after Under the Mountain. Definitely not in a state to be anyone’s mate.”

“But now?” Lucien prompted.

“Now, all I want to do is be with him,” Feyre said. 

Lucien was surprised to find himself choked up. “I’m happy for you.”

I’m happy for Rhys, too. He wasn’t sure he could admit that out loud, but it was true.

Feyre cocked her head to the side, made a face, then straightened again.

“Was that him? Talking mind to mind?” Lucien asked.

“Yes, the arrogant prick,” Feyre snapped, and Lucien could almost hear Rhys’s filthy chuckle answering. “Oh. I am going to kill him later.” Seeing Lucien’s confusion, she said, “He sends me thoughts through our bond. And… images.”

Lucien rapidly shook his head. “I’m going to unravel every ward in this house and winnow into the Sidra if we don’t change the subject.”

“And I’m going to go crazy if we don’t do something productive,” Feyre said. “So let’s practice your mental shield. You’ll need it on this mission.”

“I’m no daemati,” Lucien protested. “I can’t fight off a mind invasion like that.”

“Don’t think of it like fighting, think of it like… the city wards, but in your mind,” Feyre suggested. “Put up a barrier so you can decide who and what to let in.”

Lucien nodded, and they found comfortable seats in the study. “Rhys and I practiced this a lot during my first weeks here. It’s hard at first, but you’ll get better at it.” Lucien heard a buzzing in his mind, then Feyre’s voice. Defend yourself. Put a shield up.

I’m trying, he thought irritably, then pictured a wall of flame around his inner thoughts. Then Feyre’s voice chuckled, How very Autumn of you.

“Why? What’s yours?” he snapped.

“Black adamant,” she said proudly.

He rolled his eyes. “I bet Rhys finds it sexy.”

A muffled laugh came from down the hall, and Feyre shot him a look that meant yes, Rhys really fucking did.

Lucien groaned. “I really don’t want to know.”

Feyre practiced with him patiently, but maintaining the wall of fire was too tiring. Lucien kept trying to keep Feyre out, close up gaps in the wall of flames, but only succeeded in developing a headache.

They broke for lunch, but Lucien found he didn’t have much of an appetite. He was worried about Hybern, about the Wall, about Elain. He hadn’t heard anything about her since she and Nesta had left. Was she married? Were they truly safe on the estate? Was she happy now?

“I’m worried, too,” Feyre said, and he jumped. She’d been in his mind again!

He gritted his teeth and imagined not fire, but a glittering network of spells and wards. Just like the city wards, but even more impenetrable, so any attacks would bounce right off.

“Whoa!” Feyre grinned at him. “Good. Really good. I can’t get in. Let’s see if Rhys can do it.”

The idea of actually asking Rhys to break into his mind was so absurd that Lucien said, more forcefully than was probably wise, “Let him fucking try.”

A moment later, Rhys was lounging in the doorway, arms crossed casually, wings flaring. “A challenge! How charming,” he purred. “What do I get if I win?”

“Please don’t answer that out loud,” Lucien said to Feyre, who was grinning lasciviously at her mate and probably promising all manner of things through their bond.

“From you, clever fox. What do I get from you if I win?” Rhys said.

Lucien suppressed the sarcastic response that promised trouble, and went with sincerity. “After Hybern, once this is over, I’ll go to the Summer Court. Get Tarquin to take his rubies back.”

Feyre’s mouth dropped open. “You’d do that? For us?”

But Rhys’s smile was cold, calculating. “Like I’d let you leave and get snapped up by my rivals?”

“Why, you don’t trust me?” Lucien countered. He winced as he felt a talon scraping against his mental shield, and pictured himself throwing up another spell to block it.

“It’s not you I don’t trust,” Rhys said smoothly, though his eyes twinkled, “but your brothers. They’re eager to get their grubby paws on you. I’m sure Eris and Callan would have quite the little spat over who gets first crack. And there’s Tamlin. Do you know, I’ve chased him twice from my territory this week?”

“What?” Lucien cried, his focus shattering, and Rhys tsk-tsked gloatingly in his mind: And you were doing so well. Pity. I thought you were less gullible than that —

Lucien slammed his mental wards down so fast that Rhys swore, and then chuckled, out loud this time.

“Impressive, considering that you’re not a daemati,” Rhys said. “Practice that. You’ll need it. Don’t let it drop when emotions run high - that’s when you may need it most.”

Lucien nodded, then said to both of them, “I meant it, about Tarquin. He’s a good male, and I think he’d listen.”

“And I meant it that I am going to guard you like a fucking hawk if you ever step foot outside my Court,” Rhys said. “You’re mine, Lucien. Don’t forget that.”

Lucien braced himself for Rhys’s talons, putting his mental wards at what he hoped was full power, and Rhys laughed. “Good! You’re getting better at controlling it.” He gave Feyre a lingering kiss that went on too long for Lucien’s comfort, then sauntered off, calling behind him, “Amren would like to keep her ruby, so don’t be too persuasive."

“Prick,” Feyre called after him, and then it was Lucien’s turn to laugh.

Chapter Text

Lucien slammed into wakefulness with a jolt, breathing hard and clenching and unclenching his fists. He jumped out of bed and whirled around his bedroom, scanning for the attackers, then burst into the hallway to grab a weapon. Something. Anything…

But there was a flash of sharp metal, and a shriek, and hands were grabbing him, yanking him, binding him —

“Lucien?”

He whipped around to find a sleepy Feyre gazing at him with concern. Where were those soldiers?

“Something’s wrong,” he gasped. Horror filled him, heart pounding, hands shaking, instincts screaming at him to find, protect. “Soldiers! I saw soldiers!”

Feyre frowned. “Not here. It’s quiet.”

“But somewhere… somewhere important,” Lucien gasped. “I felt it!”

Cassian raced in from the other end of the hallway, wings out, siphons glowing, sword ready. When he saw Lucien and Feyre, he drew up short, looking around with confusion. “You felt it too,” Lucien said. It wasn’t a question.

He felt the terror flowing through him again. Like he couldn’t move, couldn’t scream —

“Get Rhys,” Cassian barked, sounding strangled. “Cauldron boil me! Rhys!” he yelled, pain contorting his face.

Pandemonium broke out in the house, people running, shouting to each other, but Lucien shrank against the wall and clutched his chest. Willed himself to breathe.

Breathe, he said into his own mind. Breathe.

And a small, frightened voice inside him answered back: I can’t.

Just once, he said. Just try once. In, out. Now, your turn.

In, out. He felt his aching chest ease slightly.

Again. In, out. That’s good. That’s very good.

Lucien stared down at his hands, at his body. He had an overwhelming feeling that he was paralyzed. Like he was bound and couldn’t get free.

Try to move.

I can’t.

Panic flared. The ropes burned and scratched. He couldn’t get free. Something was in his mouth, he couldn’t scream —

Be still, then. Just breathe. In, out.

Distantly, Lucien heard Rhys barking orders, heard Feyre and Mor talking rapidly, heard Cassian’s snarls and then more shouting. He knew he was in the House of Wind, in Velaris, but he was also somewhere dark. Hands were yanking him, a dagger poking at him. Why was it so dark?

“I don’t know what it means!” Cassian thundered. “By the Cauldron — “

Cauldron. Cauldron. Had someone mentioned a cauldron?

Be still. Breathe. Listen. Please, listen for me. Let me hear what you hear.

He couldn’t walk. He was stumbling. His wrists were raw from pulling at the ropes, his face wet with tears, voices were echoing through the house —

The King… set sail immediately… prepare the Cauldron.

Breathe. He kept repeating it, finding that the panic was easing. The voice in his mind was quiet now, and he began to worry when things were quiet for too many heartbeats, so he tried again. Where are you?

Can’t see anything, the voice answered.

Are you OK? Are you hurt?

I’m not hurt. But Nesta might be.

Now Lucien really was the one who couldn’t breathe. He clenched his hands into fists, willing himself to stay calm, not panic, and he said into his mind, We’re coming for you.

A mix of fear and warmth rushed over him, and he clutched at his heart, as if it were too full, too heavy, and his body couldn’t hold it in. The voice said, Hurry, and then faded away.

Lucien stared into space for long moments, breathing. In. Out.

Then he leaped forward, bellowing, “Hybern!”

Rhys, Feyre, Mor, all heard him and came running. “Lucien?”

“Hybern,” Lucien panted. “Nesta. Elain. They’re being taken to Hybern.” He looked into all their faces, willing them to believe him, to hurry. “I felt Elain. I heard her. There were soldiers, they mentioned the King, and the Cauldron!”

Rhys stared at him, then in a low, deadly calm voice, requested, “Show me.”

Lucien trembled, but closed his eyes and opened the gates of his mental wards. He pulled up the small, frightened voice in his mind, the few clues he’d been able to coax out of it. Out of her.

Elain.

He’d felt Elain.

Elain was in the dark. Scared. Worried for her sister. Hurting. Lucien felt like he was going to throw up everything he’d ever eaten in his life. She was surrounded by Hybern soldiers. He clenched his fists, trying to swallow his rage back down. I need to be calm in order to help her.

He felt Rhys’s pull on his thoughts, a small ripple of feeling as Rhys reacted to what he was being shown. Then Rhys stepped out of his mind, and Lucien closed the shimmering gate, shielding himself once more. They stood in silence for a moment, Rhys looking past him somewhere with intense concentration. Giving orders to Cassian and Azriel, probably.

Rhys’s voice, when he finally spoke, was low and gentle. “Did you know before she left?”

Lucien shook. Didn’t try to hide it. He’d suspected that there was a reason he felt drawn to Elain, and she to him. Why he could feel her presence, or absence, in the house. But this was too much. Feeling her in his mind... feeling her panic, her pain... Everything was shattering around him, breaking, falling apart…

Rhys’s hand on his shoulder slammed him back into the moment. “We’ll get her back,” Rhys promised, barely leashed fury in his words.

Lucien nodded, then leaned heavily against the wall, sinking down so that he could brace himself against the cool floor. He searched for Elain, for her voice in his mind. But it had gone quiet, and he didn’t know how to call her back.

So he breathed in. Out.

And tried to hold on, for both of them.

Chapter Text

Cassian and Azriel were pummeling each other, going at it with an intensity that Lucien found unsettling. Cassian was a snarling, furious storm, slashing and parrying and roaring any time Azriel’s blade made contact. Azriel was silent, swift, accepting the strikes, answering. He absorbed Cassian’s aggression, his fury, and gave him a way to blow off steam.

Tamlin needs a friend like that.

Lucien felt a pang of guilt, but it was chased away by fresh fury. Fuck Tamlin. It’s his fault this is happening, that she is in danger.

It was profoundly still around them, the cool evening of Velaris beckoning people to stargaze, eat, drink, but the city was muted tonight. Perhaps recovering from the assault from Hybern. Perhaps waiting for the next one.

The waiting was tearing Lucien apart. He hadn’t felt Elain at all since she’d told him to hurry. All he could do was replay the disjointed clues in his mind. Soldiers. A dagger, a shriek. Darkness…

Prepare the Cauldron.

“What does the Cauldron do?” he blurted out. “What will the King do with it?”

He wasn’t sure if anyone heard him over the grunts and clangs of the Illyrians’ swords, but Amren said, “Speak up, boy.”

“The Cauldron,” Lucien choked out. “I heard the King’s soldiers saying to prepare the Cauldron. But for what?”

Amren frowned. “The Wall. They mean to bring it down.”

“Why do they need two mortals? Feyre’s sisters?” Lucien persisted, panic rising. “Is a… sacrifice… necessary to break the Wall?”

“No. The kidnapping is puzzling,” Amren said. “The King must have another plan for them.”

“Then we’ve got to get to them first,” Lucien panted. “I can’t stand the thought of them trapped in that place.”

Amren said nothing, but one look at the furious warriors venting their frustrations in the training ring told him he was far from alone in that sentiment. Cassian especially looked ready to rip all of Hybern apart with his bare hands, and Lucien could guess why.

His mind whirled. We let them go back to the mortal lands. It had been stupid, and they’d all known it. How could two mortal women understand the danger they were in, the significance of what was happening around them?

I wish I could feel her. I want to see what she’s seeing. I don’t want her to feel alone.

Then Lucien was on his knees, the roaring in his ears swallowing up all sound, waves of water crashing down over him, drowning him, and in the distance, a thin, small voice. Hurry. Hurry.

“Elain,” he gasped, and plunged into the darkness.

* * * *

“What have I told you about upsetting my mate?”

Lucien flung his arms out, gasping, trying to push his way out of the water, but his hands were tied, his legs —

“Lucien, get out of your mind, now, or I will force my way in,” Rhys said sternly, as if from far away. Too far away to pull Lucien out… 

“Can’t move — drowning — “ Lucien cried out, trying to thrash against invisible ropes that were scratching him, keeping him from fighting against the darkness. Hands were grabbing him, wrestling him — 

“Stop it, Lucien!” Feyre cried. “Rhys, do something, please!”

Lucien’s mechanical eye whirred, raking over the sky above them. Velaris. He was on the ground, Feyre and Rhys on either side of him, Rhys’s iron grip pinning him to the floor even as his claws were shredding the wards of Lucien’s mind, digging in — digging him out — 

“I’m okay,” Lucien gasped, muscles trembling with strain as he fought to push Rhys back.

“You are not okay, you fucking prick,” Feyre fumed, shoving Rhys out of the way and grabbing Lucien’s shirt with enough force to rip thin, jagged lines with her talons.

“Whatever you did, wherever you went,” Rhys snarled, eyes bright with worry and rage, “you are not to do it again.”

“I didn’t do anything, I wasn’t trying to, I — “ Lucien gasped weakly. Then he blinked, the rational part of his mind clicking details into place, finally understanding. “Water.”

“I’ll get some,” Feyre said, retracting the talons from her fingers and releasing Lucien’s shirt.

“No. Water,” Lucien said, groaning a bit as he sat up. His mind was racing almost too fast for him to put his suspicions into words. “I was in water… The Cauldron. I was in the Cauldron.”

The clanging from the training ring stopped. All conversation halted. Everyone turned and looked at Lucien. His voice wobbled, but he kept going, desperate to make them understand. “I was seeing through Elain’s eyes. She was in the Cauldron. That’s what Hybern’s doing to them.”

Rhys’s face went dark, but he was silent. Amren looked aloof, far away somewhere. Feyre stiffened, hand fumbling to grab on to her mate. Lucien breathed, looking from one to the other, then grabbed and held Feyre’s other hand. She squeezed it, trying to take deep breaths.

It was Cassian whose roar broke the silence. He let loose a volley of curses, followed by a resounding whoosh as he threw his sword at the wall. It embedded there, clanging and vibrating powerfully. Azriel stepped forward and gripped his friend’s arms, speaking to him in a low voice. Cassian snarled something and shoved Azriel away, but Az came at him again, gripping him tighter and continuing to whisper. Lucien didn’t need to hear what was said to understand.

A moment later, the sound of sparring picked back up again, twice as furious. Azriel’s blade whirred quietly, but Cassian hissed and seethed, like he was fighting for his life.

Rhys spoke in a low voice. “Can you see what’s happening now?”

Lucien closed his eyes, reached out. Could he find the Cauldron? Could she lead him there?

But it wasn’t water he saw now, but a dark dusty room, and he was dry, too dry, throat scratchy, and his mouth had something stuffed into it, and his hands —

“Lucien,” Rhys said, warningly. “Don’t get lost in there. Speak.”

“It didn’t happen yet, not yet,” Lucien said, voice trembling. “She’s in a cell. Dry. Unharmed,” he hastily added, seeing Feyre’s tortured expression. “But she was in the Cauldron, in her mind. She felt it happening. How?”

“It’s calling to her,” Amren said. She was standing over them, eyeing him with keen interest. “And she is calling to you.”

Feyre burst into sobs. Rhys gathered her into his arms and held her tightly, rocking her, as she wailed, “I’ll kill Hybern, the queens, everyone! Anyone who touches my sisters will die.”

“What happens in the Cauldron? If someone goes in?” Lucien demanded to know. Will she survive? Will she be OK?

Amren fixed him with a grave stare. “That depends on them.”

“What does that mean?” Lucien pressed, voice rising with his anxiety.

“We can’t afford to find out. We’ve got to go. Now,” Feyre growled. She stood up abruptly, and Rhys joined her, wrapping a wing around her as she struggled to stay calm. “We’ll nullify the Cauldron before they can put my sisters in it. And then slaughter them, every one of them.”

“Azriel,” Rhys called over his shoulder. The sounds of clanging swords abruptly ceased again, and Cassian and Azriel both walked over, sweaty and scuffed up from their sparring. Cassian’s hard, unrelenting eyes fixed on Lucien’s, then seemed to flicker.

“You look like shit,” Cassian grumbled.

“Feel like it too,” Lucien said.

Cassian extended a hand to help him up, and Lucien took it, feeling the strength in Cassian’s grip as well as the slightest tremble of his fingers. “Same,” Cassian said quietly, then strode off into the house, Azriel close on his heels.

“Mor is on her way. Fly her in, meet in the War Room in ten minutes,” Rhys said. “We’re doing this, and we’re going to be ready for anything.” The group nodded and dispersed, but Rhys gripped Lucien’s arm before he could get far.

“Don’t get dragged in. It’s tempting, but you can’t help her that way,” he said, low and urgent in Lucien’s ear. “Shut the bond down for a while if you can’t bear it.” His voice softened. “I had to do that, sometimes.”

“With Feyre,” Lucien said, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, “you saw what she saw Under the Mountain?”

“And afterwards, at the Spring Court. It was torture,” Rhys said in a pained whisper. “I saw. I felt, too. I cherished the bond, being able to sense her, being able to know she was still alive, but it killed me to know how she was suffering and to not be able to rescue her from it.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Lucien said, and Rhys’s hand stiffened on his arm.

“No?” Rhys said softly.

Lucien’s heart cracked open, and he said, “No.” He twisted to look into Rhys’s eyes. “No. It wasn’t your fault.”

Rhys closed his eyes, and his hand shook. He released Lucien’s arm, and when he spoke, he sounded a million miles away. “Maybe one day I’ll believe that.” He took a deep breath, then went on. “Be prepared, Lucien. If she really does get put into the Cauldron… You must be strong.”

Lucien whooshed out a breath. “I’ll do anything. Be anything, if it helps her.”

Rhys was silent next to him, but Lucien could guess what he was thinking. He’d made awful choices, incomprehensible choices, to save his city. To save Feyre.

Lucien was terrified of what choices he might have to make.

Chapter Text

Feyre’s task would be to nullify the Cauldron, reading from the two halves of the Book of Breathing. Lucien’s task was to find the sisters and free them. He wasn’t sure which would be harder. Right now, staring at the castle, they both seemed impossible.

Hybern screamed wrongness to Lucien. Its magic felt warped, cruel, stifling, and the castle glittered with a knotted tangle of wards, spells, traps, and enchantments. Trying to untangle them would take years, while he would have only minutes - and he didn’t have the raw power to just blast through them all.

“The castle will try to trap us,” he warned. “Especially the room with the Cauldron. Trigger one ward, and we trigger them all.” He looked at Feyre. “You have powers from all the High Lords, including Helion Spell-Cleaver. If you need an escape route, that’s the power to draw on.”

Feyre nodded. “Perhaps it’s his power we share,” she said.

Lucien’s mind stumbled over that, but he didn’t have time to think through it. Another time, when he wasn’t fighting for his mate’s life, he could figure it out…

Elain was here. Elain. Could she sense them, sense him? Was she hurt? Frightened? He had to get to her, had to get her free…

A sharp tug near his heart had him stumbling, clutching at his chest. “I feel her,” he gasped, looking at the others with a mixture of wonder and terror. “She’s here. She’s alive,” and he blinked against the tears that he would not shed. Not now.

“We’ve cleared a path to the Cauldron, on the lower levels,” Azriel said to Feyre, but she was already on the move as if pulled by the Cauldron’s magic. Azriel, Cassian, and Mor all ran with her, while Rhys waited to winnow in until afterwards, leaving Lucien alone. He couldn’t be seen with them now - not if he was to put his plan into action.

Lucien would not be sneaking in, but strolling through the front door.

As Lucien ran, he rehearsed what he would say, how he would spin his story depending upon the circumstances that presented themselves. He reinforced his mental wards and frowned at the physical ones, not liking the idea of being trapped inside the castle.

Like Elain.

I’m here, he said into his mind, hoping she was there somehow, listening. We have a plan.

As he ran, he deliberately stumbled and fell before he rounded the corner of the castle so he would look bruised and disheveled, like he had fought to get there. “Tamlin!” he called out, trying to attract as much attention as possible. “Where is the High Lord?”

Guards converged on him, and he held up his hands to show he was unarmed. But his voice was all imperiousness as he proclaimed, “I’m the Emissary to the High Lord of Spring. I’m told he is here. Take me to him.”

They frowned and held their positions, swords drawn, and Lucien did his best to put on the airs of a bored, entitled courtier. “Is this how the King of Hybern treats guests?” he sneered. “Perhaps he does not wish our alliance after all?”

Two of the guards just stared at him, stone-faced, but the other two exchanged glances. Then Lucien felt it - the tickles of mind magic, trying to breach his wards. He gritted his teeth and held firm, pouring as much careless disdain into his consciousness as he could summon. He added in impatience, and the idea his errand to Tamlin was far more important than whatever these lowly guards wanted, and could not possibly wait. Whatever these guards are looking for, give it to them.

“Well?” he prompted.

The guards nodded, and Lucien got his escort into the palace. He ignored the recoil he felt upon entering, the walls crawling with spells, the glares of soldiers in the halls. He schooled his features into what the guards expected to see, and tried not to react outwardly as they reached the grand ballroom where a variety of courtiers and hangers-on had gathered, including — 

“Tamlin!” Lucien broke into a brisk stride, beelining for the High Lord of Spring. Tamlin, dressed up in his best green and gold tunic as if attending a solstice party, looked stunned, almost angry, to see him. Lucien didn’t fail to notice the talons that sprung half-formed from Tamlin’s knuckles or the hint of a snarl, but also the relieved look in Tamlin’s eyes.

Lucien forced himself to greet Tamlin with gratitude and friendship, to ignore the claws, the fear they produced. You can do this. Elain needs you.

“Finally. I went to the Spring Court first, but you were already here,” Lucien declared, grabbing Tamlin’s arm and herding him toward the door. Tamlin hissed, but didn’t throw Lucien off as they left the ballroom and stepped into a smaller drawing room. “By the Mother,” Lucien swore, throwing himself into the performance, “Tamlin. Thank the Cauldron. I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”

Tamlin looked warily at him, crossing his arms. “Lucien. You’ve been gone weeks. I heard nothing! You disappeared without a trace. Where have you been?”

“Captured,” Lucien said quietly. “I must not speak of it here, but…” He tried to muster a rueful smile, recalling both a painful captivity and hard won freedom. “I have learned much. Our enemies kept me too close for their own good.”

“Rhysand…?” Tamlin asked, and Lucien pressed his lips into a tight line as he nodded. Tamlin let loose a growl that had the hairs on the back of Lucien’s neck standing up. “That fucking prick will get what’s coming to him.”

“I hope so,” Lucien said, shuddering for Tamlin’s benefit. Let him think Rhys tortured me - that way he won’t ask too many questions. He shoved his feelings of disloyalty down deep. I’m betraying both of them, in different ways.

Rhys would forgive him, understanding the need for subterfuge. But Tamlin…  Tamlin would not forgive.

Maybe it was mutual.

Making a show of pulling himself together, Lucien said, “Tamlin, I couldn’t rescue her. I tried… I… I’m sorry.”

“Feyre,” Tamlin breathed, her name like a prayer on his lips. “You saw her?”

Lucien sighed sadly. “Feyre is… different now. Affected by her time in the Night Court.” True, if misleading. He tried to sound angry and bitter. It wasn’t hard - he just pictured Elain, her wrists chafed with rope, a dagger, a shriek —

“As I feared,” Tamlin growled. “We must get her out at once. Only when she is safely home can we recover her mind, restore her to herself.”

Lucien, noting the we, eagerly nodded. “How? I couldn’t get through to her when I tried. Rhysand is with her day and night. When I did manage to speak to her alone, I couldn’t convince her to come away with me. I lingered too long in the attempt. That’s how they were able to seize me.” Not wholly a lie.

“The King of Hybern will lure them here, and she will come.” Tamlin clapped a hand on his shoulder, and he tried not to wince. “They all will.”

Lucien tried to look interested instead of horrified, but protested, “What if she doesn’t come? Or refuses to leave Rhysand? What could sway her?”

“Her sisters,” Tamlin said flatly.

Lucien burned with anger, saw red at the baldness of Tamlin’s scheming. He really thought he could steal Feyre’s mortal sisters to dangle before her as bait? He had wanted to believe it was the King of Hybern’s plan, and Tamlin had been roped into it because of desperation without understanding the implications. But this… How could Tamlin believe that kidnapping Feyre’s family would win her back?

“Are you sure?” Lucien asked. Be neutral. Don’t give the game away. “What if she’s angry?”

“She will come,” Tamlin said grimly. “And she may be angry, until she understands. It is not… preferable, but it must be done. I will get her back, Lucien. I will not let Rhysand keep her from me. She is mine.”

This was the man I would have dragged Feyre back to. Lucien was sick.

He harnessed the feeling, let it color his lies as he bought time to figure out where Elain was, how he could get to her. “What I saw in the Night Court… it defies belief,” he whispered. “Rhysand… he is powerful beyond measure.” He shuddered dramatically.

“How did you escape?” Tamlin asked, but a screeching howl cut through the room, through the castle, startling them both into silence. Lucien looked around warily. That can’t be good.

Pandemonium broke out in the corridor, soldiers running, glass shattering. Lucien cast an eye upwards at the wards, desperately hoping that nothing had been triggered. Where is Feyre? Did she nullify the Cauldron? I would have felt it…

Forget that part of the plan. Focus on Elain.

“Tamlin,” he said urgently, “we’ve got to find them. Feyre and her sisters. Take them back to Spring, where it’s safe. If Rhysand is here… he could grab her sisters too. And I don’t know if we can trust the King.”

More footsteps running past, shouting. Tamlin was still, watching it all unfold around him.

“Something’s happening here,” Lucien persisted, gritting his teeth at Tamlin’s passivity, his stubbornness. “Something we don’t want to stick around for — “

Lucien felt the tug in his heart just as the sound of muffled shrieking filled the corridor. He had a sinking feeling that he recognized the voice behind the shrieking. Nesta.

Are we too late?

“High Lord,” a guard barked at Tamlin and Lucien, “this way. It’s starting.”

“Come,” Tamlin said, grabbing Lucien’s arm and striding toward the door, toward the throne room. “The King is expecting us.”

Chapter Text

Nothing could have prepared Lucien for the horror that awaited him in the throne room.

Blood. So much blood.

Soldiers had swarmed through the castle, finding Feyre and the others before they could nullify the Cauldron. Mor looked pale and furious, and busied herself tending to Azriel, who was bleeding profusely from a sickening stab wound to the chest. Lucien knew that Mor was powerful in her own right, but something was holding her back - perhaps the possibility of losing her injured friend if she left his side.

The bigger horror was Cassian. His huge, beautiful Illyrian wings were shredded and leaking blood. Lucien’s own blood pounded in his ears as he looked at them in disbelief. He thought of Cassian defending Velaris, zipping through the sky with those siphons blazing. Would he ever even fly again?

Mercifully, Feyre seemed unharmed, but was shrieking at the king, at the mortal queens, at the guards and the soldiers. But she wasn’t using her magic. Maybe she can’t. He studied the wards lacing the room like a thick network of cobwebs. Shit. The King was ready for us.

Lucien’s heart plummeted when he saw Elain. She was bruised, blood smeared on her cheek and on one sleeve of her flimsy dress. Like he’d seen through the bond, her hands were lashed together with rope, a filthy piece of cloth knotted around her mouth. Lucien’s hands clenched, his teeth shook, he wanted to rip each of these guards limb from limb, punish them for laying one single finger on her —

Tamlin saw his reaction, mistook its meaning, and said, “I take it these are your captors?”

He meant Cassian and Azriel, Lucien realized. He played along. “Yes, there they are. Those fucking Illyrian bastards. The only one missing is Rhysand.”

If Rhys can’t save them, the King really is unstoppable.

As if on cue, Rhys materialized next to Feyre, and a brief explosion of magic and counter-spelled magic rocked the room. Lucien lost his balance, but used the confusion to try to spring forward and grab Elain. She looked right at him, seemed to recognize him, but the room lurched again as the King released a blinding white burst of power, knocking everyone to the ground.

Elain. She was so close, but he couldn’t get through — 

Tamlin was roused from his sullen staring to leap forward towards Feyre, as if he would claim her on the spot. Feyre whirled around, throwing a knife at Tamlin that he narrowly dodged.

From his position sprawled out on the floor, Lucien tugged on his ankle, trying to pull him back. “Tam, wait — “ he stammered.

But Tamlin threw him off and kept going. Feyre unleashed a second knife, and finally Tamlin pulled up short, thinking better of his approach. It was too much to hope for that he would give up the attempt entirely. He really believes he’s entitled to her.

Lucien didn’t know whether to feel relieved that Feyre was able to fight back, or worried for the future of Prythian that Tamlin was such a stubborn fool.

Lucien struggled to his feet, but by then more soldiers had filed into the hall, cutting off his path. The King was lecturing the crowd, bragging about his grand plans, and then commanding the guards to bring Elain forward.

Lucien began to scream. “Stop this!”

Elain’s eyes were wide, scared. He could practically feel her heart pounding. It beat along with his, far too quickly. She was panicking. So am I.

“Stop! You can’t do this to her!” he cried, scrambling to get to her, help her, do something.

A roar of rage and helplessness escaped him as the King seized Lucien with his magic, slamming him to the ground and pinning him tightly, silencing his shouts. No, no, no. His muscles burned with every move he made, like the spells were designed to restrain him more firmly every time he tried to resist. He panted and heaved, earning not one inch of give.

I’m trapped here. Gods, I’m trapped here, and I can’t help Elain.

His mechanical eye buzzed, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the wards and enchantments laid upon the castle, upon him. If he could just concentrate, he could untangle them eventually.  Eventually is too fucking late. She needs me now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Tamlin had been restrained along with him. So much for an alliance with Hybern. Let him see the King’s true colors.

Elain flailed ineffectually, a dagger pointed toward her, rough guards yanking her towards the Cauldron. She met Lucien’s eyes, and he desperately sent thoughts to her: I’m sorry. I’m here.

Her voice in his mind was silent, but he could feel her terror at the prospect of the Cauldron. So he kept talking to her, kept trying to reach her. I know you’re scared. I’m sorry. I’m here.

It meant nothing, all his intentions to keep her safe, to help her. He was right there and powerless to help her.

It wasn’t your fault, he’d told Rhys.

Maybe it wasn’t his fault now. But he would carry the guilt anyway.

The guards lifted Elain, and she kicked at the Cauldron.

Stop it, stop it, stop it. Let her go, he screamed until he was hoarse, but the magic binding him swallowed up all sound.

The Cauldron was full of water, just like in the vision. And just like in the vision, in she went, one foot and then the other. 

Please let her survive, he begged the Mother, the Cauldron, the ancient gods, anyone and anything he could think of to pray to. I’ll do anything, just let her live.

Elain was almost fully in the Cauldron, trying to scream through the cloth binding her mouth. If she dies, I die. Lucien’s muscles burned as he fought the magic that held him tightly. If she dies…

I won’t.

Lucien went still.

I won’t die. Elain’s voice, trembling, but there. Lucien breathed a sigh of relief, willing himself to be calm, to send her help, not panic.

What had Rhys told him? Don’t get dragged in.

Fuck that. If she was going in, so was he. He closed his eyes, telling her, I’m here. Take me with you.

Elain was gasping for breath, and Lucien, too, felt the air in the room cut off as her head was forced under the surface of the water.

Lucien’s eyes closed. But he saw. He saw everything.

Darkness first - depthless darkness.

Power so raw, so overwhelming, surrounded Elain - a black void that somehow contained all the light in the world, all the evil and all the goodness.

Elain was the goodness, the kindness, the power of love and life - and a spark lit within her, so blindingly bright Lucien almost couldn’t take it. But he stayed with her, not breathing, not thinking. There was nowhere else to go, nowhere else he should exist.

Elain was there - still Elain, but more. He felt the bond between them thickening, growing like a vine, grabbing him, claiming him. And the questions all vanished as the bond snapped into place, smacking him with such force that if he hadn’t been restrained by magic, he would have fallen.

My mate.

Energy surged through him, so raw and primal, that it ignited him, propelled him forward. Go to her, get to her, help her, take her out of there — 

He burst out of the restraints in an explosion of light, shredding the spells woven around him, as Elain was tipped out of the Cauldron and rolled, wet and freezing, on to the floor.

Lucien ran. He ignored the king, ignored the soldiers, Tamlin, everyone. All he saw was his mate, and she needed him. He fell to his knees in front of her, practically sobbing with relief as she sucked in a shaky breath of air. He yanked his jacket off and covered her, trying to warm her, protect her, make her feel safe again. Mine, mine, mine, his mind sang, even as he fumbled with trembling fingers, trying to get her to respond.

The room around them was buzzing with voices, shouting, activity, but Lucien only heard Elain’s pained breathing, her small whimpers of terror as she tried to process what had happened.

“I’m here,” he said, feeling strange speaking to her aloud. “I’ve got you.” He gently pulled the cloth out of her mouth and found her hands. The rope binding her was knotted and soaking wet, but he fumbled with it, wishing that his magic weren’t dampened so that he could summon heat to dry her off. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry — “

“You,” she said softly, looking at him through unfocused eyes. “It was you. Your voice. You were with me.”

“Yes,” he gasped out, and he scooped her up into his arms as gently as he could, carrying her away from the Cauldron, which was now spilling over as Nesta emerged from it.

How am I going to get her out of here? He searched for Feyre in the crowd and locked eyes with her, then very carefully opened a small door in his mental wards for her to get through. Her voice was distant, as if the castle’s magic was stifling her ability to connect with him.

I’m going to create a distraction, she told him. Play along.

He wanted to ask what her plan was, wanted to tell her Elain was his mate, but he simply gave her the slightest nod. I trust you.

Nesta barreled toward him, screeching her sister’s name, and he nearly lost his grip on Elain from the sheer ferocity of it. Protect her. Help her. It was all he could do to keep from baring his teeth at Nesta. As much as she raised his hackles, he knew she loved Elain and would do anything to protect her. Don’t scare her. It isn’t her fault.

At that moment, a blinding light filled the room, shattering the castle wards. Now, I’ll winnow now, he thought frantically.

 Then Feyre cried out.

“Tamlin?”

Chapter Text

“Tamlin?”

Lucien froze. No, no, no. She isn’t doing this.

Frantic, his eyes found Rhys, and the utter devastation on Rhys’s face said yes, Feyre was really fucking doing this.

Feyre began exclaiming that she had been trapped, tricked into being with Rhys, and Lucien’s eye whirred rapidly to Tamlin. The lie took hold - Tamlin leaned forward eagerly, watching Feyre with an expression of hope on his face. Feyre spun a story of how Rhys had forced her into the mating bond and controlled her mind, and both the King and Tamlin seemed to buy the story hook, line, and sinker.

What do I do?

Take Elain away, far away, his instincts screamed as he looked at the precious woman - Fae female, he realized with a shock - nestled in his arms. Don’t wait. You have her, you can winnow away, take her away somewhere, guard her, keep her safe —

But Feyre was going back to the Spring Court. I have to go, too.

Of course he had to go back to Spring. He couldn’t very well winnow away, raising Tamlin’s suspicions, and leave Feyre behind to deal with the fallout on her own. Of everyone at the Night Court, only Lucien could go with Feyre now, watch her back.

But Elain…

He needed Elain away from Tamlin, away from Hybern, and that meant he had to let her go. She would have to live in Velaris, far out of his reach, until he could return.

He met Rhys’s eyes again and understood, really felt it deep in his bones, exactly what it had cost him to let Feyre go. To step back and watch her leave Under the Mountain with Tamlin.

At least Elain will be with people I can trust.

Though he was practically shaking, his mechanical eye whirring uncontrollably, his head swimming as the castle’s broken wards splintered and sparked in his vision, Lucien opened his mental shield to Rhys. Talk to me. Rhys’s eyes finally met his, and the connection solidified as Rhys’s claws gently scraped at the opening Lucien had left for him.

Lucien spoke rapidly. I’ll go with Feyre. I’ll make sure she’s OK.

Rhys began to object, but Lucien was firm. It’ll look suspicious if I don’t go. And I owe her. Heart aching, Lucien added, Keep my mate safe for me.

I could say the same to you.

Feyre and I will look after each other. I’ll do everything I can to help her, Lucien promised.

Lucien, I won’t forget this. Any of it. Then, ruefully: Clever fox. I guess you escaped me after all.

Lucien took a deep breath, committing himself to the plan. This was happening. He had to hope that Elain would forgive him, understand what he had to do. He couldn’t abandon Feyre to the Spring Court alone, couldn’t stand by and let Tamlin try to control her. This time, they would be a team. We’ll take down Hybern together. 

Rhys curled his lip, put his hands in his pockets, and the calm, cruel mask of the High Lord slammed down over his eyes. “How did you get free, Feyre darling?” he purred, as if he found all this delightfully amusing.

Feyre wailed, “Tamlin, take me home, I just want to go home. No more of this, no more killing,” as Lucien looked down at Elain. Memorizing her face - her wide eyes that saw too much, her pale skin and soft lips.

Your sister needs me, he told her. I’m sorry I can’t go with you.

Elain looked up at him then, and lifted up her hands - still tied together, which made his heart ache - and brushed his face. “I can see you when I close my eyes,” she murmured. “I hear your heartbeat. Can you hear mine?”

“Sometimes. But more than that, I hear your voice,” Lucien said, willing himself to be calm, to be strong, not scream, not clutch her to him and abandon the world.

“Why?” she asked, hands dropping back down.

Tell her. It’s your only chance.

Lucien answered, “You are my mate.”

“She is no such thing!” Nesta shrieked, snatching Elain from him. Lucien almost threw her off, almost bared his teeth and snarled - get your hands off my mate - but he needed Nesta’s fire and protectiveness. Needed Nesta to guard her sister, look after her. So he let Nesta take her, though his arms ached and throat itched with curses and insults that he hastily swallowed down.

It’s ok, he told Elain through their bond. Your sister will be with you until I can get back.

Where are you going?

To the Spring Court, to help Feyre. His hands shook, desperate to reach for her again. But I will return to you, I swear it.

Elain closed her eyes against the horrors of the throne room, against the reality of what had happened to her. And Lucien watched her, heart shattering, steeling himself. Elain will be safe. Focus on —

Feyre’s scream, and Rhys roaring behind her, caught his attention. The King had fired magic at her. Her left arm was now free of tattooed markings, indicating that her bargain with Rhys was broken.

But her right arm… a second, glamoured tattoo remained. His mechanical eye could see it, but more than that, it practically radiated power that Lucien could feel. The mating bond was not broken. A bond like that could never be broken.

Did Rhys know that? Rhys was screaming himself hoarse, practically wailing Feyre’s name. Gods…

Lucien’s heart hardened toward Tamlin even more. He would break that sacred bond for his own selfish purposes.

Even if Lucien couldn’t see the tattoo on Feyre’s right arm - which he had to remember to ask her about later - he could see the deception in her face, hear it dripping from her voice. She was playing a part. And whatever her plan was now, Lucien vowed to ensure it succeeded. 

His eyes rested on Elain. My mate. I just found you, and already I have to let you go. Any moment now, Rhys would spring his trap - grab Feyre’s sisters and winnow through the broken wards. 

Tamlin held Feyre’s shoulders, as if taking possession of her. Lucien could have laughed from sheer contempt. Lucien refused to feel pity for Tamlin, or remorse for betraying him. Tamlin sold out my mate to Hybern. The fury Lucien felt lit him up like a burning flame, though he had to douse it. Raw anger wouldn’t help him now, but patience. Cunning.

A hard shove sent him stumbling backwards. Mor had winnowed in front of him and was grabbing Feyre’s sisters, grabbing his mate.

No, no, no, his mind screamed, but he let it happen. Let her spirit them away, let Elain slip from his grasp, let himself roar with pain and anguish only after they’d gone. My mate… gone… 

He whirled on Tamlin, venting his anger. “Get them back! Get my mate back!” Tamlin blinked at him, lapsing again into the infuriatingly passive bystander that he’d been Under the Mountain.

The King was shouting too, berating his guards. The posturing and distractions had taken the focus away from the wards Feyre had shattered with her little stunt. Lucien swept his gaze to the floor, still pooled with blood. Rhys was gone, with Cassian and Azriel. Lucien hoped desperately that they would recover. If they die, that’s on Tamlin’s head, too.

Lucien wanted to throw up, cry, scream, curse the Cauldron and the King of Hybern, threaten death to all who’d dared touch his mate. But he had a part to play, the only part he could play right now. I won’t let it end like this. I have to get us out of here, live to fight another day.

So he threw himself on his knees before Feyre, crying, “Thank the Mother! Feyre, forgive me. I couldn’t reach you. I tried…”

Feyre was sobbing, clinging to Tamlin, and replied, “I know you tried. I’m so sorry, Lucien. He was controlling my mind, making me refuse to come with you. I know how you suffered in his prison - but we’re free now.” She held out her hand, and Lucien grabbed it and pressed it to his forehead, the perfect picture of the courtier paying homage to his lady.

Tamlin grunted at him to rise, and he fell into step behind them as they exited the throne room. “Let’s go home.”

End of Part 1