Chapter Text
The Autumn forest was quiet.
Lucien had known these woods intimately in every state, but never like this. The wind used to howl its greeting through the hollow oaks, and the chorus of birdsong would swallow the sounds of his footsteps, aiding him in every clandestine meeting he’d held in the shadow. The leaves had once danced, raining down in commemoration for every Vanserra son that was born.
The forest had once come alive for him, opening its secrets to his curious eyes, if only because he dared to look.
Now, it was quiet. Welcoming him like a stranger, an invader.
Which he supposed he was.
The rest of it was much the same. The surrounding woodlands were still rich with color—there was enough gold in the listening canopies to rival the Day Court’s trove, and enough rot beneath the undergrowth to rival its burial grounds. The charm of the Autumn Court had always been surface level, stripped back like a glamor the second one knew where to look.
Vines curled around the thick oak trunks, blooming with flowers so vibrant in color he may have been tempted to pick one and bring it back to Elain. If he wasn’t also well aware that like many living things in autumn, the pistil was toxic. Lethally so. Lucien had vivid memories of his brothers chasing him down, their laughter just as cutting as their attempts to shove the petals into his mouth to make him sick.
Was the cruelty of Autumn fashioned after them, or was it the reverse? Lucien wondered that often. If he and his brothers had been born in a place where the plants didn’t sting and cut and poison, where the High Lord didn’t mete out punishment like it were interchangeable with affection, would they have turned out as vicious? After everything that had happened, everything they had done, he wondered if the distinction even mattered. What did he owe his half brothers, who had never believed they owed anything to him?
Lucien’s mechanical eye tracked the shimmering wards up ahead that marked the outskirts of the Forest House. He understood well enough now, crossing that threshold would alert all of Autumn that he was here. It was not possible to pass through them undetected, because he was not a son of Beron Vanserra.
With the magic of his true father, he could likely break through the wards. But that would of course rely on him learning how to use his Spell-Cleaver magic, which would further rely on him actually speaking to his biological father. Lucien wasn’t certain he was ready to do that yet.
Besides, Lucien only needed to let one person know he was on Autumn soil.
It had been too risky to send a physical message, too easily tracked.
And so he was here, scaling up the ridges of an ancient oak in a mockery of the playing that he used to indulge all those centuries ago. Lucien had just been a lordling, then, bored and desperate for something to do, running and swinging through the Autumn branches, as unbridled as he was allowed under Beron’s negligent thumb. As the seventh son, the High lord had always been at best apathetic and at worst negligent. It was a blind eye turned all the same, so long as Lucien called no attention to himself, and Lucien remembered that freedom fondly.
Until the day he had strayed too far, and was reminded that his leash had always existed, his master just hadn’t bothered to yank the chain.
Funny, Lucien mused as he ran along the broad oak branches, that he’d been a Spell-Cleaver all along. Capable of breaking any chain that bound him, if only he’d been clever enough to see it, to wield it.
He was clever enough now.
Lucien stalked as close to the wards as he would dare, keeping to the shadows. Disguised in the trees, his red hair and dark skin blended effortlessly into the oak and Autumn backdrop. Still, the silent forest was working against him, threatening to betray his position with every creaking branch. The leaves whispered as they watched him retrieve the small pouch he had carried with him, emptying its contents into his open palm.
Aniseed powder. Lucien closed his fist around it, not trusting that the silent wood wouldn’t swipe it away in the wind before he could do what he needed. He held his fist out, over the branch, and slowly released the powder, leaving a trail of dust in the air that followed him as he retreated, leading far enough away that he was certain no sentries patrolled this far. He paused above an alcove molded from rock and mud and the tangled roots of a large tree. Lucien recalled taking shelter in it as a boy, an effective hiding spot when he didn’t want to be found by his older brothers.
It did not take long for the soft crunch of leaves to sound beneath him. Lucien’s left eye traced the magic of the creature before his right eye caught the sleek, grey body it belonged to. One of Eris’s hounds, following the scent of aniseed dust. It came sniffing right up to the alcove, and as soon as it was inside, Lucien summoned a wall of fire to block the exit point.
Not powerful enough to contain a High Lord or even his most powerful son. But a hound? Easy.
Lucien jumped down, landing lightly on his feet before the alcove. The hound whirled at his approach, its lips curling into a snarl that threatened to descend into a lethal howl that would alert all of Autumn that he was here.
“Shhh,” he cooed to the hound, holding his hand to the make-shift cage of flame. “I’ll let you go, if you bring back Eris. I have a message for him, one that can only be delivered in person.”
The hound stared at him, hackles still raised, but it sniffed curiously at his hand, still coated in the aniseed powder. Its attention flicked back up to Lucien’s face.
“I remember you,” he said to the hound, noting its markings. She was nearly indistinguishable from the other hounds, save for her scent, like the smoke of a pyre on a battlefield. “Vesta.”
One of Eris’s favorites. Lucien remembered watching his brother train them to be Prythian’s deadliest trackers, using the same herb Lucien had lured it with.
Lucien remembered rare moments when Eris was away, where he would risk breaking the friendliest hounds out for a run through the forest. He had liked to race against them and the wind, laughing with the companionship he found nowhere else in the Forest House.
Vesta’s snarl curbed, replaced by a recognition that felt too intelligent for a hound—but they always had been clever bastards, like the male who raised them.
“Go,” Lucien said, dropping the shield. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
The hound bolted without a second thought. She vanished from his eyesight in a matter of seconds.
Lucien settled himself against a tree stump as he waited, but it did not take long for Vesta to return, a narrow eyed Eris in her wake.
“What’s this?” He demanded. “Are you actively trying to get yourself killed?”
Lucien couldn’t help feeling smug when Vesta trotted right past Eris and plopped herself at Lucien’s side, nuzzling her snout into his open palm. He knew it was because Vesta could still smell the aniseed, but it would bother Eris indiscriminately. His brother’s pride had always been fun to nudge at.
“I’m here to extend my congratulations,” Lucien said slyly, imitating his best impression of the male standing with crossed-arms before him. “You’ve been promoted.”
To anyone else, Eris might have looked vaguely bored. “You’re an incredible assassin, if you’ve managed to kill Father in the time it took me to cross the wards.”
Lucien could see the brightness in those amber eyes, though, keen in anticipation for whatever news hung in the air, urgent enough for Lucien to have risked coming to Autumn. They both knew better than to speak out here. The trees, the wind, the chittering wildlife—everything in Autumn was listening, always listening.
With a huff, Lucien reached toward that light in his blood, mistaken for so many years as the light of a flame. This light didn’t burn, didn’t flicker, didn’t destroy. It was radiant, life-giving. When he touched it, it felt like the physical embodiment of seeing Elain smile, and he wondered if he’d never noticed the magic because he’d never known what it was to be in love with life.
Eris whistled as the light burst out of Lucien, manifesting a small shield that glimmered around them.
“Neat trick,” he said, reaching out to brush his knuckles along the magic barrier. “Though I’d be careful throwing that magic around so easily here—father is likely monitoring Day Court magic in the Autumn borders. He’s livid that mother managed to escape.”
Those clever eyes still admired the shield, playing at indifference. There were no signs of it, but Lucien was certain that apathy did not lay any deeper than his expression. He hadn’t wanted to imagine how Eris had been punished for allowing their mother to escape to the Day Court, but knowing Beron, it had been cruel and extensive.
“The High Lords want Beron dead,” Lucien said bluntly. Eris snapped his head back, studying Lucien’s face for deceit. “On the condition that you align with Prythian once you take the throne, they want to help you ascend.”
Eris laughed darkly. “All these years, I worried I’d be forsaken if I slit his throat while he slept. Only for the High Lords to hand that option to me on a silver platter.”
They both knew it wouldn’t be that easy.
“What do you need?” Lucien asked, fully aware that Eris was contemplating the circumstances of Beron’s death at any given moment. He’d likely considered how he might murder his father at breakfast that morning.
“Hyberns forces have been let into our lands,” Eris said distastefully. “The Prince and Princess—nasty daemati, I felt them sniffing around my mind the minute they arrived. You know as well as I do that if I’m to lead Autumn into war against Hybern, we’ll need an excuse for our people to rally against them.”
Lucien loosed a breath. “You want to frame the Hybern royals for Beron’s murder.”
“A bereaved son seeking vengeance for his father’s death will earn me far more respect than regicide,” Eris said with a smirk. “Even better, if Beron looks a fool for having trusted them in the first place.”
“You’ll be a fool’s son,” Lucien reminded him.
“I’ll be a High Lord.” Eris said, eyes flashing. “And I’ve been careful about expressing my support of Hybern. Father’s advisors will know I had doubts from the beginning.”
Ignoring the spark in Eris’s eyes—far too eager at the prospect of murdering his father—Lucien thought carefully. “Faebane,” he said. “Hybern has caches of faebane. Sneak a little bit into father’s food each day, then slit his throat once he’s too weak to fight back. When they find the faebane in his system, they will assume it was the daemati’s doing.”
“I can get you the faebane, brother, but I won’t be there when you slit his throat.” Eris grinned. “I need an alibi, somewhere far away and in the public eye.”
Lucien gritted his teeth, he had been hoping Eris would jump at the chance to kill their father. “I can’t assassinate Beron if I can’t get past the damn wards.”
“Guess you’d better figure that out,” Eris said, flicking his wrist to shatter the shield. A low whistle had Vesta instantly at his side, meeting him stride for stride. “And you better scurry over to Day, before father’s sentinels come sniffing after that magic.”
-
“Was your mission a success already?”
Lucien cringed at the voice behind him, its timbre rich as tea leaves dried in the sun. He turned to face Helion, braced lazily against a marble pillar with his arms crossed as though he’d been expecting Lucien to winnow to his Court at this precise moment.
Despite the many times Lucien had met the High Lord over the years, there was a part of Lucien that felt unnerved staring directly into the face of his true father. It felt too much like staring into a mirror, now that Lucien knew where to look—that same nose he’d long thought was the trait of a distant relatives, the same cut of their jaws, the same too-clever smile, as though he were a second away from slicing through Lucien with his wit. Sometimes he looked at Helion and felt a fool for never seeing it earlier.
“I got a message to Eris,” Lucien said plainly. Helion watched him expectantly, and Lucien found himself holding his breath as he explained, “I couldn’t think of a way to get through the wards without alerting everyone in the Forest House. Beron is tracking Day Court magic within his borders. And he’d have known I was there the second his wards went down.”
Helion nodded thoughtfully, and Lucien slowly exhaled, uncertain what reaction he’d been expecting.
“Hard to assassinate a male you can’t get close to,” Helion agreed. “Pesky things, those wards. I’ve had my fair share of attempts to get past them undetected.”
Of course. No wonder Eris had told him to go to the Day Court. If anyone knew how to get in and out of Autumn undetected, it was the very male who’d had an affair with its Lady.
Lucien pinched his nose, trying desperately not to think about what went on after those successful attempts. “And would you mind sharing your strategies?”
“Over dinner,” Helion answered with a bold grin, kicking off the column to throw his arm around Lucien, gliding both of them away from the libraries Lucien had been hoping the High Lord would lend him.
The warm weight on Lucien’s shoulder felt heavier with each step they walked. Helion was touching him so familiarly, despite being little more than strangers connected by blood. It was not unwelcome but it was… odd. Beron had never touched Lucien affectionately, nor sought his time. A cynical part of Lucien was convinced it was all some elaborate ploy on Helion’s part, but try as he might Lucien couldn’t think of any motivation outside of a father genuinely trying to bond with his long-lost son—as foreign a notion that may be.
“The wards require one simple trick,” Helion explained once they arrived at the Day Court’s elaborate dining room. Lucien assumed the absurdly large table in the center was meant to suit the endless stream of gatherings he’d heard Helion liked to host. Lucien wondered if that habit had been curbed since the Lady of Autumn had taken residence in his court—though Lucien was disappointed to see that she was nowhere in sight.
With a flourishing wave of his arm, two dining sets appeared across from each other at the table, accompanied by plates of steaming food. The smell reminded Lucien that he hadn’t eaten, at least not properly, since he had left the High Lords meeting a day prior. Helion gestured encouragingly to one of the open seats, where a plate of grilled fish atop a bed of vegetables and steamed, fluffy grain waited for him. He slid into the seat he was directed, watching warily as Helion claimed the one across from him, leaving the head of the table notably empty.
Tamlin and Beron had always claimed the head of the table. Somehow, Helion deciding to put himself on stable footing with his son only resulted in Lucien feeling more off balance. Those amber eyes were watching him, flickering expectantly to the silverware Lucien had yet to touch. It had long been ingrained in Lucien to wait for the High Lord to start before he began eating, but he had the sense that his father wouldn’t continue unless Lucien picked up his fork and took a bite.
So, reluctantly, he did.
With exaggerated compliance, Lucien wrapped his fingers around the polished silver and lowered his fork to the plate. He was met with a sharp, ear-splitting noise as the metal tines hit an unexpected force hovering above the food.
Lucien yelped as magic shocked through his arm, sending the fork clattered back to the table in his surprise. Air hissed through his gritted teeth as he shook out his hand, attempting to expel the lingering intensity. It burned, but not like a flame. Like raw, crackling energy bolting through his nerves.
“Break the shield around your meal,” Helion instructed, unphased by the outburst.
“A warning might have been nice,” Lucien snapped, flexing and unflexing his fingers.
The High Lord sat back, brows raised in challenge. “Beron won’t give you a warning.”
With a huff, Lucien reached for the light that flickered inside his veins—buried so deep down into the core of who he was, he would never have been able to reach it before. It seemed it was getting easier each day, even stronger now that Lucien was in its origin court. Gritting his teeth, he pulled at it, letting its essence unfurl as he slowly eased the light towards his fingertips.
Once he had gathered enough of it, ignoring the way Helion raised his brows at the obvious effort, Lucien hurled a small beam towards the shield around his plate. It was like whipping a stone towards glass, the way the magic shattered, exploding into fractals that fizzled out of existence, taking the scent of magic with it.
“Does it always take you that long?” Helion asked.
“I’ve never cleaved anything before,” Lucien said, panting for breath. He could feel sweat beading at his brow, but resisted the urge to wipe it away under Helion’s scrutiny.
The High Lord snorted. “At this rate, you wouldn’t be able to break Beron’s wards if you wanted to.”
Swallowing his temper, Lucien bit back, “Just as well I’ve enlisted the help of the famous Helion Spell-Cleaver.”
When Helion smirked in response, Lucien thought he finally understood why Elain found it so irritating. Helion crooned, “You have the same temper as your mother, did you know that?”
He didn’t. As far as he knew, his mother didn’t have a temper.
Still, he ground out, “No talking about my mother.”
“She talks a lot about you.”
“Just—no talking about anything except killing Beron.”
Helion’s eyes had gone dark, turning that amber into a deep, honeyed color. “I teach you how to cleave the wards, and you and Elain come to live here.”
“You’re bargaining?” Lucien asked incredulously. “I know you want Beron dead just as much as I do.”
“Not as much as I want my son to live in his home court.”
He said those words so casually. My son.
“There are things that are more important to me than vengeance,” Helion added.
Important.
Lucien couldn’t think of a time Beron had ever described him that way. He felt himself softening to the idea, just slightly. Did he really want to eat breakfast across from Rhysand for the rest of his life?
“I don’t make bargains on my mate’s behalf.”
Helion nodded. “Smart male. Then, in exchange for teaching you how to get through Autumn’s wards, you agree to stay here during the training and allow me to give you a tour of the Court.”
“How long will it take?” Lucien asked, flicking his eyes nervously to the food and the long expelled shield. “I need to kill Beron in time for Eris to rally his people and raise an army.”
Those amber eyes flicked over Lucien considerately. “I reckon it will take a week. Maybe two, if you decide to be stubborn.”
Lucien set his jaw. “Fine. But once it's over, I will sleep in whichever court I choose.”
Magic twisted sweetly in the air as Helion nodded his agreement.
The High Lord leaned back in his seat, gesturing lazily to the platter of food. This time Lucien looked, using his mechanical eye to trace the shield that shimmered just above it.
“Think of winnowing,” Helion instructed. “Imagine the way the fabric of the world folds around you so you can step through. You need to do the same with the magic of Beron’s wards.”
“Fold it… around me?” He repeated, dumbfounded.
An amused puff of air fled Helion’s nostrils. “Like you’re winnowing. But instead of traveling through space, you’re traveling through magic.”
Lucien blinked slowly, and Helion frowned. Disappointed that Lucien wasn’t putting it together. Then, Helion grabbed an ornate jug from the center of the table.
Lucien made a sound of protest as Helion began pouring its contents into his drinking glass, watching in displeasure as droplets of oil sunk into the water, then promptly climbed back to the surface.
“Oil and water,” Helion said, like it was a feat of science.
“Incredible,” Lucien breathed, drawing eager amber eyes to his face. “You made my water undrinkable.”
The High Lord scowled. “Oil and water naturally repel each other,” he explained with an edge of frustration. “Did you see the way the the water slipped around the oil when it breached its surface? Your magic needs to counter Beron’s wards the same way. Pick a pressure point, and push until the magic slips around you.”
Helion gestured lazily to the food before him. “Go ahead, try putting a finger through that shield.”
Lucien examined the shield around his dinner once more, trying to visualize using his magic to push, not shatter.
“If it makes it easier, you can pretend it’s Elai—“
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Lucien growled.
Helion immediately put his hands up in surrender. He fell silent as he watched Lucien draw forth the Day Court magic. This time, as Lucien summoned it to his fingertips, he imagined it coating him like a second skin. A sheen of oil, where the shield could act like water.
He approached the shield slowly enough that it’s energy still zapped him, causing him to clench his teeth as he pressed his finger to the surface. It was like trying to push through a stone, the force on his side not sharp enough to puncture the magic. Lucien steadily pushed harder, gathering more of that light to his fingertips until—
They both winced as the shield detonated, dispersing the floral scent of magic through the air like someone had spilled a bottle of perfume.
Lucien sighed. Eyes fixed on the supper that was likely cold by now, he didn’t dare gauge Helion’s expression, certain there would only be disappointment.
“You’re a fast learner,” Helion murmured. Lucien raised his head, shocked to see the High Lord smiling with a softness Lucien had only ever recognised in his mother. “I saw the way you coated yourself with our magic—that’s exactly how you’ll need to do it.”
“But—“
“It’s easier done on a larger scale,” Helion interrupted, eyes bright with pride. It made Lucien want to bolt from the table, his approval almost more crushing than his disappointment. “It took me years to master that level of precision.”
Helion’s brows furrowed, studying the way Lucien had tensed. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he said roughly.
Those clever eyes narrowed. The chair scraped against the polished floor as Helion stood up. Lucien felt like a cornered animal as he watched his father’s large frame glide gracefully around the table, until he was standing directly behind Lucien’s chair.
A warm, broad hand clasped over his shoulder. Helion met Lucien’s eyes levelly. “You did a good job, Lucien.”
There was an awful ripping noise in his chest, one that Helion was entirely oblivious to. It was the sound of an old wound being torn open. Lucien was certain his blood spilled all over that chair, dripping into a puddle on the floor. Was a father’s praise really so easily extended? And how quickly could it be taken away? How many mistakes was he allowed?
He felt raw as he croaked back, “Thanks.”
Helion patted Lucien’s cheek. “Finish your dinner, get some rest. We’ll start at dawn tomorrow.”
Lucien would have asked where, but Helion was already walking out the door.
Two full, perfectly good plates of food, abandoned on the table.
Only once he heard the latch click shut on the door did Lucien allow the few stray tears to leak out of his biological eye. He couldn’t say for certain where they had come from, and after a moment, he brushed them away and choked down the rest of his super.
Lucien was up with the sunrise.
After centuries of helping Tamlin run his court, he was used to the early hours. And considering the Solar Courts’ aversion to windows and the galling radiance of the Day Court’s sun, he would have considered it a feat to sleep any longer.
Perhaps the High Lord had thick curtains in his room to block out the early morning sun and perhaps we’ll start at dawn was merely a turn of phrase in the Day Court, because Helion didn’t stroll, unhurried, into the dining room until well into the mid morning.
Lucien did his best to swallow his irritation, which was a difficult task when confronted by the sight of his father in nothing more than a half-open robe that was tied loosely shut around his hips.
“Important matters to attend this morning?” Lucien asked shortly, brows raised.
Helion offered him a lazy smile. “I was attending to the most important matter of all. Your—”
“Don’t.” He held up his hand, already regretting saying anything at all. “Do not say my mother.”
“She wants to see you,” Helion said, errantly shifting his robe before taking a seat at the table. He frowned considerately at the fruit bowl, before selecting an apple, red as the blood that connected them.
Lucien shrugged. “I have not been hiding.”
Though, in truth, he was uneasy at the thought of seeing his mother. Helion, at least, had known as little about this secret as Lucien had. Helion seemed to have forgiven her without a moment’s hesitation, but his life had also not been made miserable at the hands of Beron and his sons. Helion had been here, living lavishly in his palace, sleeping until mid morning and doing whatever he liked whenever it pleased him.
Lucien had been no one, nothing. The unwanted seventh son. The runt of the Vanserra litter. His mother had watched all those years, observed the way he had been cast aside without ever understanding why. It would have been nice to have been assured that every failed effort to mold himself to his brothers hadn’t been his fault. He hadn’t done anything wrong, he just wasn’t a Vanserra. And they had all been able to detect it, even if no one could explain what, exactly, made him different.
“Not been hiding?” Helion mused, leaning back in his seat with a thoughtful hum. “To have had the untapped magic of a Day Court heir, all this time, and never noticed? I think you have been hiding from more than just your mother. You’ve been hiding from—”
“Myself,” Lucien interrupted with a long suffering eye roll. “You’re not the first to espouse the importance of self-reflection. I consider it a fairly low priority, given the present state of the world. I’ll have time for introspection after the war.”
Helion was frowning. “I think it would accelerate your training, which will be necessary if you’re to master the spell in two weeks. Your magic is connected to your mind and body. When you neglect one, you neglect them all.”
A blur of red darted through Lucien’s periphery. He swiftly shot his hand up, catching the apple before it could strike him in the face. Helion nodded thoughtfully to himself, like it had been a test and Lucien had just confirmed some suspicion. Lucien debated chucking the apple back at Helion, already tired of being tested and prodded, but he was a level-headed male.
He took a large bite of it instead.
“When was the first time you felt the Day Court magic?” Helion asked. “The first time it really stood out to you?”
Lucien swallowed. “When Elain was being threatened.”
“Mates can often draw out unforeseen aspects of ourselves,” Helion noted, almost as though he were speaking from experience.
There was no smell of a mating bond on him, but Lucien would not be surprised if Helion could eclipse such things with his magic. Even now, the High Lord wore a thin, glowing sheet of magic around his broad frame, visible only to Lucien’s mechanical eye. He wondered if Helion ever dropped those shields. It seemed Lucien was not the only one hiding from the world.
“I wasn’t thinking,” Lucien said. “She was in danger and it just burst out of me.”
“Do you feel there are any conclusions you can draw from that?”
Lucien took another bite of the apple, buying time beneath his father’s smothering gaze. He felt like he was in schooling once again, and while this time he wouldn’t be punished for getting the answer wrong, the stakes felt higher.
The apple turned bitter in his mouth the longer it took him to come up with a suitable response. He couldn’t see what Helion was trying to direct him towards, and felt frustrated—with himself—for not knowing. If it were Eris… Eris would have seen through the deceit, would have known he was an heir and mastered the magic in secret when he was still a boy.
Lucien was not Eris. Not capable of answering a simple question, regardless of how eagerly Helion looked at him.
After another moment of excruciating silence, Lucien answered, “Does it mean that Elain is as lovely as the day is long?”
“It means that it wasn’t instinct suppressing your powers,” Helion said, with unending patience. “On the contrary, instinct eventually coaxed it out. So whatever has been blocking you…” Helion raised a single, ring-adorned finger to his temple. “It’s in here.”
Lucien released a long, aggrieved sigh. “So your professional assessment is that I simply need to look inwards?”
“Killing the man who raised you will be an intimate task. You will of course need to continue practicing the technique we discussed last night. But you will make no progress so long as that mental block remains.”
Then, with that uninspiring diagnosis, Helion rose to his feet. “Come.”
Lucien set the apple core on the table before warily following behind, trying to look anywhere other than the back of his father’s uncomfortably short robe.
“Where are we going?”
“To give you a tour of the Day Court,” Helion said with a brilliant smile. “To help you connect with the pieces of yourself that you have never known were missing.