Chapter Text
Eris blinked painfully, the world tilting as he struggled to shove up to sit, his side throbbing with a dull persistent ache, muscles trembling under his own weight. It was dark as hell, the air heavy and foreboding, and for a moment he panicked, not knowing where he was. His own room? The dungeon? Had he passed out during an interrogation?
“Father?”
Eris tugged at his arms, half expecting shackles at his wrists, but there was no bite of metal or clank of chain, nothing pinning him down except his own shaky exhaustion and the intense, foreboding darkness that was teasing at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to pull him under. He struggled to rise a little further, gritting his teeth against the pain in his gut that warned him not to push it too far. Why did his gut ache, anyway?
Then he remembered, all too well.
“I failed, Father,” he rasped, on the chance that Beron was nearby, listening. “The little brat slipped through our fingers, and his lady love, too.”
Yes, he’d failed, just as he’d intended. Just as he always failed when it came to Lucien. Eris had thoroughly failed to protect him, so now he had to settle for failing to capture him. One of them had to be free.
He’s not free, not if the Night Court’s taken him. Eris would have to deal with that problem. He’d get word to Keir, call in a favor — Cauldron knew Keir owed him several.
A painful cough erupted from his throat, his stomach cramping, and he shoved the whole problem out of his mind. He couldn’t do a damn thing until he recovered. And he couldn’t do that if his father punished him over his failure, if he suspected that Eris had thrown the fight on purpose. Avoiding that had to be his top priority.
He slid back down, breaths ragged, and he plastered a sweaty hand to his side — not over the wound directly, but bracing his hand on the surrounding muscles, feeling around for dried blood on the thin shirt he was wearing. But the fabric felt smooth and soft, even around the site of his stab wound. They’d undressed and re-dressed him, then. Cleaned him up, even.
He cursed, for he didn’t trust his father’s healers, didn’t want to give them access to his body, but he’d been too weak and dizzy with blood loss to protest. He didn’t even remember being dragged from the ice, or winnowed back to the Forest House, or any of what had come afterwards. He gingerly felt around for the wound site, slipping his fingers carefully under the tunic, and winced as his fingers grazed over the neat row of stitches. Another scar to add to the collection. The healers had done a proper job, it felt like, at least on the outside.
Keeping me alive. Who knew why they bothered.
Healing him was a worthless endeavor, so easily and maliciously undone. Beron would surely rip the stitches back open, if not drive the dagger in a few more times, just to slam the point home.
“Did you know the Night Court roams our lands freely?” he asked the darkness. Beron would have revealed himself by now, most likely, but Eris kept talking anyway, on the off chance that someone was listening. “Not only did their High Lady camp out in our woods for a week, but we were ambushed by Illyrian brutes at the border.”
He laughed, a little hysterically, for that sight had been something, that angel of death descending on the frozen lake like an oncoming storm, the shockwave of power rumbling through the ice as he’d landed. And that brute of a general, Morrigan’s lover. By rights Eris should have melted the ice under his boots, and if he hadn’t needed an excuse for Lucien to slip out of his grasp, he might have been tempted. As it was, Eris was working himself along the edge of a knife, exerting himself just enough to sell his sincerity to his brothers and any spies that were watching, but always keeping just a little off balance, a little distracted and sloppy, holding back his full power.
But he hadn’t had to fake the distracted state he’d been in. The overwhelming sight of the Shadowsinger’s graceful body, those huge majestic wings, the glowing blue of his siphons, those hazel eyes promising slow glorious murder, all that lethal beauty and fury before him — he’d been so struck by it that he’d barely felt Cassian’s dagger go in.
Get it together, idiot.
Eris frowned, closing his eyes, channeling his meager healing magic towards the spot, sighing with relief when the deep throb of pain flattened out into a gentle tugging, just enough to remind him to go careful and slow. He wouldn’t heal himself too completely, for he still needed to sell the story of Lucien’s escape, and a wound to the gut was the perfect cover.
Why the fuck didn’t they just winnow away? He’d given them every opportunity. If Feyre Cursebreaker was truly a High Lady, as she claimed, surely winnowing was within her grasp. And what was Lucien’s excuse? He’d barely used his magic at all. Unless it had been some kind of trap, or a test of Lucien’s loyalty? What had they been running from, in the first place? Had Tamlin himself been chasing them, pissed off that Lucien had made off with his lover?
I’d taken little Lucien as more loyal than that. Cheating on his Cauldron-granted mate with her own sister, betraying his best friend in the process? It was implausible at best, preposterous really. Far too out of character for his earnest little brother. Eris would let Beron believe that story, for it would make Eris’s life easier, but the reports from the Spring Court spies were clearly mistaken. Perhaps the High Lady had maliciously spread them, to cover up whatever mischief she’d been doing.
“High Lady,” he said scornfully. “I wonder what Rhysand’s courtiers think of that.” He knew many of those courtiers, how they disdained all females, even Morrigan, who’d ruled over them for centuries, who had the power and warrior’s skill and whose family had a compellingly noble bloodline. Would they really take orders from a formerly human nobody, a girl of barely twenty?
Eris’s mind was racing, trying to work it out, analyze any possible advantage he could glean from this information. If Feyre was with the Night Court, styling herself a High Lady and commanding those warriors, that meant Rhysand had claimed her, crowned her, even. He was motivated to protect her, as were his warriors, and willing to risk Tamlin’s ire to do it. It was odd timing, considering war was imminent, and considering Rhysand’s own precarious position in Prythian. He had to know how many people were were against him, that he was reviled throughout the land as a collaborator and murderer. And now he was stealing another High Lord’s betrothed, and nearly slaughtering another High Lord’s sons?
Rhysand either knows something I don’t, or he’s stupider than I ever thought possible.
As for the girl herself, Eris was impressed at her audacity, even if her escape plan had been less than elegant. He’d thought the Cursebreaker simple, as straightforward and blunt an instrument as Tamlin, but apparently the little minx had some ambition and cunning.
Eris pushed up, groaning softly as a wave of pain shot through him. That was fine. He welcomed a little pain, wanted it. Pain was his oldest friend and companion. Pain was honest, in a world full of lies and deceptions, keeping him sharp and on alert. He couldn’t let his guard down, not for a moment. He was not Rhysand, with a bevy of winged warriors at his beck and call, or little shadows that could infiltrate the dark corners of the Forest House and alert him to danger. Even now, Beron might be trying to lull him into a false sense of security, by letting the healers work on him and leaving him alone to recover, and he couldn’t afford to slip up now.
He squinted, struggling to bring the room into view. It had to be morning, or even midday, but the room was still shrouded in darkness, silent and still in a way that set Eris’s teeth on edge. It was unnatural, this darkness, feeling more like a presence than an absence of light.
Every instinct he had prickled with awareness as the tug in his gut drew upwards, spreading into his ribcage, tingling and burning in a way that felt strange and yet quite familiar. Eris’s breath caught, his cheeks flushing hot, as the realization flooded over him.
“Come out,” he said roughly, then swallowed thickly before continuing in a low singsong, “Come out, Shadowsinger.”
No answer, not that he needed one.
“I suppose you aren’t here to finish the job your brute friend started, or you would have slit my throat in my sleep.” Eris patted the wound on his abdomen, which was barely twinging, though he didn’t doubt it would hurt like hell if he moved too abruptly. Let them think he was fully recovered, that he couldn’t be so easily incapacitated. Let them think Eris Vanserra unbreakable. “No, I think it’s something else you’re after.”
My silence, probably. So Rhysand is worried, after all. Good. He could leverage that.
Eris let his eyes flit about the room, seeking the most intense darkness, and let a grin curl up on his lips. “Tell me, Shadowsinger, did your High Lady send you?”
The darkness swirled more thickly, agitating.
Hiding behind those shadows. Eris almost chortled a laugh. That had never worked on him. He’d perceived the spymaster slinking about many times, always stealthy and sneaky about it. He’d never quite admitted to himself how he knew, but the Shadowsinger’s presence beckoned to him. His little shadows were harder to catch, but Eris fancied he could sense them, too, that they were in the darkness, listening. Beron never caught on to the game, but Eris had let a few choice things slip, to let the Night Court think their efforts were paying off, that they knew it all, and they’d apparently never thought to question it.
“You do seem very protective of your High Lady,” Eris drawled, committing to his line of attack. “Is Rhysand possessive, as he was Under the Mountain, when he paraded and painted her in such brazen fashion? Or are all three of you sharing her? Dare I suppose you’ve finally given up on wooing dear Morrigan?“
Shadows lashed out, flooding his vision, and Eris’s breath stuttered out as the Shadowsinger materialized before him.
Gods, he is magnificent.
The male was growling menacingly, his obsidian dagger gleaming in the blue glow of his siphons, his sharply handsome face contorted with growling fury. “Keep her name out of your fucking mouth.”
“Temper, temper,” Eris tsked, striving to stay stoic despite his heart hammering against his ribs like a songbird slamming against the bars of its cage. His eyes marked the dagger, glinting with malice near to his chest, then roved over the vision of chiseled features and scaled armor before him. The Shadowsinger was tense as a bowstring, every muscle coiled with readiness, and Eris didn’t doubt that in fair single combat, the male could wreck him.
But there was nothing fair about what was happening here. The Shadowsinger had no right to be so muscular, to have gorgeous wings that arced over their heads, blocking out the thin rays of light from the windows. It wasn’t fair that he was so fucking beautiful, with cheekbones as sharp as his dagger, fierce hazel eyes you could drown in, a sensuous mouth that would feel divine everywhere. And it especially wasn’t fair that the male loved Morrigan, of all the fucking people, and therefore hated Eris with a passion.
Eris fought to keep his breathing steady as the male loomed angrily over him, knowing he ought to get back in the game, lash out with his magic, do something, but the yank in his gut was pulling him tight, pinning him firmly to the spot.
“I ought to thrash you, for what you did,” the Shadowsinger snarled softly. “To Mor, and to Feyre.”
Eris dismissed that with a roll of his eyes. “Do forgive me for leaving your Morrigan unmolested, and ungoverned by Autumn’s jurisdiction, free to be rescued and spirited away. Next time I shall surely scoop her up and deliver her right to my father, whose hospitality she would so appreciate.”
He didn’t add that he’d paid the price for that act of defiance against Beron’s wishes, that his punishment for that failure had been just as severe as what Morrigan had received from Keir. But no one had come to save Eris. No one ever did.
“And Feyre? You seemed very eager to extend your hospitality to her.”
Eris barked a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Was that a joke, Shadowsinger? I didn’t know you were capable of it.”
The presence over him loomed closer, and the scent of a crisp midnight in the forest filled the air. Gods, the Shadowsinger smelled just like his woods, and that was not playing fair, not at all. He bit down on his lip, just to stay focused, forcing his gaze away from the male’s lips to the dagger extended between them.
Eris scoffed, "Did you expect me to get down on my knees and thank her for trespassing, for blessing our humble lands with her illustrious presence? Or for dragging my foolish little brother through the court that exiled him, when he no longer has Tamlin’s protection?”
Beron would have let her go eventually, once he’d gotten what he wanted from her, but it would have been a slow painful death for Lucien, dragged out over months and years. And yet there he was, risking it all, giving her the very cloak off his back. Eris hoped that whatever she’d promised him was worth the risk.
Then he thought to ask, “What have you done with my brother, anyway?”
The Shadowsinger didn’t hesitate. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? I find that hard to believe,” Eris snapped.
“Believe it, or don’t,” the Shadowsinger shrugged. Though his demeanor had gone flat, expressionless, like a true spymaster, his eyes still held a hint of irritation. Good. Eris wanted him off balance, reacting emotionally. None of this detached, above-it-all bullshit.
“My little brother is quite the romantic,” Eris commented. “I’m surprised Rhysand would tolerate a rival in his midst.”
The Shadowsinger’s expression never wavered. “Your brother is no threat to anyone.”
Eris breathed out. To hear that was a relief. If Lucien was already ingratiating himself, puffing up Rhysand’s ego, placating those goons, downplaying his true powers and cunning, then maybe the situation wasn’t quite so dire. Still, he couldn’t let them think Lucien a total lightweight, ripe for taking advantage of. “He did kill two of our brothers, when they threatened him. And held his own against two others, during our most recent — adventure. I wouldn’t underestimate him.”
The male regarded him suspiciously. “Why did you try to capture him?”
Eris smiled slyly. “Is that what I was doing?”
The blue siphons at the Shadowsinger’s wrists glowed faintly. “Don’t play coy, Vanserra.”
“It’s a serious question,” Eris said. “How skilled of a spymaster are you, anyway?” He leaned back on his elbows, choosing to ignore how the obsidian blade inched forward, maintaining striking distance, and let a low flame flicker at his fingertips. “If I’d truly meant to capture your High Lady, I could have done so with ease. I came upon her when she was sleeping. I could have had her bound up and winnowed back here in minutes, without fuss or fanfare.”
He’d have to sell Beron the same bullshit he’d fed Callan and Erawan, about not using fire inside the caves. It helped that Lucien and Feyre had done just that, and collapsed the ceiling. “I let them go, at great personal risk.”
“That is bullshit —“
“Is it?” Eris seethed. “If you think that was all the fight I’m capable of, you are gravely mistaken. Maybe I should have melted the ice beneath your feet, after all.”
The Shadowsinger paused, considering that. “You have clearly never fought Illyrians, if you think that would have been sufficient to stop us.”
“I wasn’t trying to stop you. That is the point. Honestly, I thought you were smarter,” Eris complained.
The spymaster’s lip twitched. “You wouldn’t know what honesty is if your very life depended on it.”
“And if my life depends on not being honest? On fooling my father that I am his dutiful son, obedient to his whims, while thwarting his every plan and ambition?”
The male blinked. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”
Eris arched an eyebrow. “You’re the spymaster, you tell me.”
The dagger gleamed in his vision, so close now that he almost had to cross his eyes to properly see it. The Shadowsinger was far too close, caging him in, and Eris’s instincts wavered. By rights he should be shoving him back, flinging out his fire, teaching the male a proper lesson about trespassing in a foreign court, threatening a High Lord’s heir. He could even haul the male before his father as a consolation prize for losing Feyre and Lucien.
But the thought of what Beron would do, the tortures he’d gleefully unleash — it turned Eris’s stomach, especially when he got a better look at the male’s hands, deeply grooved with burn scars already. No way in hell would Eris let his fucking father extend that to the rest of the male’s body.
“I don’t have to tell you anything,” the Shadowsinger said softly. Gods, he was close, so close, his low voice vibrating along Eris’s skin like a caress. “I’d rid the world of you without a second thought, if it wasn’t Mor’s vengeance to take.”
Eris refused to give an inch, refused to be intimidated whatsoever. He met the Shadowsinger stare for stare. “How interesting that you talk of vengeance against me, who merely left Morrigan alone, when you lot left Keir in power. Not only to get away with his violence against her, but to reign over your court for decades and centuries.”
The Shadowsinger’s eyes flashed, his face lowering towards Eris, cast in the eerie blue glow of his siphons, shadows wreathing furiously around him. “Keir does not have the power he thinks he does. He only continues to draw breath because we will it.”
“You big, tough warrior. You talk a good game, but we all know better,” Eris said hotly, suddenly feeling like the air had all been sucked from the room, like his clothes were scratchy and tight against his skin. His ribs squeezed and ached, his hands curling up in the bedcovers so he wouldn’t be tempted to blast the Shadowsinger. Or grab him. “You haven’t changed that hellhole of a court in over five centuries. Keir won. Admit it.”
“I admit nothing,” the male hissed.
Eris shrugged, not bothering to argue. “But you didn’t come here to talk about Keir. You came here because I have seen your High Lady in action, and I know exactly what she’s capable of.” He allowed a smug smile to spread across his features. “Perhaps your High Lord wishes me to neglect to inform my lord father, or even lose that memory entirely? A pity for him that that isn’t going to happen.”
The Shadowsinger didn’t bother to deny it. “We wish nothing to interfere with the courts’ alliance. This is not the time for Beron to become aware of Feyre’s powers.”
“That would be most inconvenient for you, for my father does not willingly share power,” Eris commented. “And it just so happens I blatantly disobeyed him. I may find myself on the receiving end of some unpleasantness, but if I could offer him this knowledge as consolation, he might go easier —“
The Shadowsinger lunged forward, the cold surface of the male’s dagger pressing against his throat. “You’ll do no such thing.”
Eris resisted the urge to press into it, to feel its bite, anoint it with his blood. Azriel’s hand fisted in his hair, baring his throat further to the dagger’s edge.
Do it, Eris almost begged him. The weight of the warrior pressing down on the mattress, the heat of his body, so near, overpowering all of Eris’s senses — If Eris had to die, let it be like this, at the hands of this beautiful angel of death. It would be glorious.
“You talk too fucking much,” Azriel growled, teeth snapping close to Eris’s ear.
Eris’s voice was thin, breathless, almost a whine, and the dagger pricked the skin of his throat as he rasped out, “Shut me up, then.”
The dagger fell away from his skin, and Azriel’s hand clamped around his throat instead.
Eris stared up at him, too startled by the sudden violence, and too taken in by the feel of the male’s hand on him to do a damn thing about it. The grip on his throat was immovable, rough, delicious against his skin. Gods, how those hands would feel if they strayed lower…
Then his survival instincts kicked in, and he clawed at the male’s hand, but was only slammed down hard, the ache in his ribs flaring molten, as shadows curled around his limbs, ripping his hands away, pinning them down. “Az — riel,” he gasped out, his eyes wide, even as the edges of his vision began to grow dark.
The grip around his throat loosened, and he sucked in greedy mouthfuls of air, his heart hammering in his chest, his fire rising inside him, begging to be unleashed. He tugged experimentally at the shadows holding him still, exquisitely conscious of how vulnerable he was, how utterly at the Shadowsinger’s mercy. And Cauldron damn him, but he didn’t want to break free.
His eyes locked with Azriel’s, his fire dancing unchecked within them, and their lips collided in a tangled rush of heat and pleasure. Eris strained upwards, and Azriel shoved him downwards, shoving his tongue against Eris’s teeth, yanking his head back further to control the kiss. Noises escaped from Eris’s throat, hot need surging through him. He wanted to grind their bodies together, to rip those armored leathers off, to feel more and more of the male’s delicious rough hands on his skin.
Azriel released him and reared back, eyes wide. His shadows unfurled from Eris and flew towards him, as though giving him cover. Eris panted, not daring to move, lips still parted and tingling intensely. Gods, did that just happen?
“You’ll say nothing to anyone of this. Any of it,” Azriel snarled. He was breathing raggedly, one white-knuckled hand clutching his dagger, then other fisted at his ribcage.
Eris nodded, straining to regain control, though his composure was thoroughly wrecked. He could never pass off that kiss as casual, or pretend he hadn’t been affected. But he would play along, as circumstances and his own pride demanded. “Tell Rhysand I’m willing to cooperate. He can have my silence, for a few very minor concessions.”
Azriel’s shadows swirled more thickly around him, and he opened his mouth, but then closed it again. Did he not want to know what Eris would ask for? Did he know already?
Then darkness flooded the room, and Eris lay back on the bed, his ribs aching fiercely with Azriel’s absence.