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High Lord.

He was the High Lord.

Eris couldn’t find either strength or time to get used to that thought, because he already had enough other problems demanding his attention.

For example, the fact that in this damned court there wasn’t a single normal tailor who would simply follow basic instructions. He wasn’t required to invent anything new. Yet even that turned out to be too much for those working in the Forest House.

Which was why, right now, Eris had just finished yelling at one of the tailors, sending him away under threat that if he didn’t disappear from his sight within thirty seconds, he would turn him into a pile of ash.

Naturally, no one liked the idea of being incinerated by their own High Lord. So the rest tiptoed toward the door, slipping out as quickly as possible. Left in the room were Eris, a mannequin wearing his suit — the one he didn’t like — and a suspicious shadow from which, a second later, his Shadowsinger stepped out.

“Got something?” Eris asked harshly, frowning.

Azriel even visibly flinched at that tone, but then smoothed his expression and shook his head.

“You’re tense,” he said softly, approaching him with careful steps, as if inching closer to a wild animal driven into a corner.

Eris arched a brow. “Observation suits you,” he answered sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest.

Azriel simply pulled him closer by the waist, ignoring his half-hearted attempts to resist. He placed one hand on Eris’s cheek, the other holding him near, almost expecting his flame to burn him. Eris wouldn’t actually do that. But lately, he hadn’t been himself, and anything from him was possible.

Not long ago he’d shouted at one of the sweetest maids — the one he usually tried to protect from disgusting minor lords who swarmed the halls on gathering days and bothered the servants. The girl was very young, had been working only a couple of weeks, and on the day he yelled at her, she went pale, almost like a corpse. Azriel thought she might have a heart attack.

Tears immediately welled in her eyes, whether from hurt or shock. She seemed very loyal. Azriel had walked out of their rooms with her and apologized, saying Eris hadn’t meant anything and she didn’t need to worry. She nodded, but from that moment on, she moved around the High Lord carefully.

Then Eris criticized the food. All food. Literally any food. He didn’t like the bread baked in the manor; the dishes seemed either oversalted or far too bland.

“Of all things, why save on salt?” he grumbled, though during the previous meal he complained they wasted too much of it. Azriel endured the commentary in silence, still hoping none of the cooks would get offended and spit in their plates next time. Though… no one would dare. Eris was far too frightening these days.

He was a fury. Angry and unstoppable.

Right now Azriel held him, but he knew that soon some thread would snap, his patience would tear, and Eris would lash out at him and everyone within three miles.

“Why did you come? Done serving your—”

Azriel gave him a look, and Eris didn’t finish the sentence about the dog master. Yes, he had been in Velaris, visiting Rhysand and Feyre. But that had nothing to do with work, since Azriel had officially left the position of Night Court spy. He left the post the moment Beron took his last breath, so Eris’s jab made no sense. None, except to sting or mock.

“You spit venom as if your rudeness and sarcasm have ever stopped me,” Azriel said with a warm smile. To him, every word from Eris was a sharp blade dipped in poison, yet Azriel wore impenetrable chainmail. Sometimes that was the only way to handle his mate. Especially when his husband was in acute distress.

Eris exhaled heavily, finally seeming to come back to himself. He leaned into Azriel’s touch and closed his eyes.

“They should have,” he said quietly, with a note of sorrow and regret. Guilt. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” Azriel answered just as softly, with tenderness and understanding. Love. “I understand.”

Eris only shook his head, pulling away again. “You don’t. You don’t understand anything. I can’t control myself, and it’s killing me. I always control myself. I am not a monster—”

Azriel lifted his second hand, cupping his other cheek and turning his face even closer. A soothing gesture, but grounding as well.

“You’re fine,” Azriel said gently. “You’re on edge because of the upcoming ceremony.”

“Everything is going wrong,” Eris admitted.

“You’re anxious.”

“Maybe so.”

Eris leaned closer again and closed his eyes, savoring a few moments of quiet and peace. Azriel was glad to be the one who could give him what he so deeply deserved.

After a sigh, Eris eventually stepped back. “I still need to deal with the suit. I need a new tailor before I kill the current one, who couldn’t follow clear and simple instructions.”

Azriel cast a glance at the mannequin wearing a suit sewn from expensive velvet fabric, decorated with beautiful golden patterns and leaf-like etchings along the sides. Everything about it spoke of power and marked the Autumn Court.

The suit looked excellent, and Azriel wasn’t entirely sure what Eris was complaining about, though he didn’t push to get to the bottom of it. His mate wasn’t in the mood, and it showed.

“I have to go. A ton of things to finish before this whole circus starts,” Eris grumbled, turning back into his nastiest version.

At such moments, his eyes had a particular gleam. Azriel wondered if he was a masochist, because he actually liked when Eris’s eyes glowed like that. There was something literally hot about it. Though for now, he decided not to voice those thoughts.

Eris was already out of the room, and Azriel sent one of the shadows with him — the one that liked to coil around Eris’s wrist and report every little thing about his life. Not that Azriel asked. But it started long ago, initiated by the shadow itself, which sang endlessly about Eris taking baths, brushing his hair, and all sorts of unnecessary details that nonetheless lingered in Azriel’s mind for a long time.

Now his little helpers occasionally whispered in his ears that their fireling kept snapping at servants and workers. Azriel sighed heavily each time, winnowed to Eris, and let him yell at him instead, to protect the sanity of everyone else in the house.

Maybe it helped Eris, but the effect never lasted long.

By late afternoon, Azriel ran into Eris’s brothers, who were grumbling as they left the estate.

“Hunting,” one waved off when asked where they were going.

“Better bail before our asses get scorched,” another added. And they all left.

Azriel only shook his head, then addressed the shadows. “How is he?”

Tired, one sang.

Hungry, added the second.

Anggrrry, all the shadows hissed at once.

Azriel chuckled quietly and went in search of his frantic prince.

By that time, Eris was already chasing Lucien out, who rolled his eyes and closed the door to his rooms before stepping into the hallway and running into Azriel.

“Perfect, you’re here,” Lucien said, shoving some box into Azriel’s hands.

“Already leaving?” Azriel asked while inspecting the unknown item.

“I’d rather spend time with my irresponsible father right now,” Lucien answered, and considering how strained his relationship with Helion still was, that statement spoke volumes about the state Eris was in. “These are herbs for tea, they help with nerves. Elain decided it would be a gift in honor of the upcoming coronation. My lady is very perceptive, I’ll tell you that.”

Azriel snorted. “I don’t think Eris reacted well to that.”

Lucien smirked. “He became even angrier. Threatened to feed me to his hounds, claiming it would calm his nerves more.”

“He wouldn’t—”

“I know,” Lucien sighed, glancing back at the massive wooden door. “I have no idea how he’s even holding himself together. Knowing all the political nuances, I would’ve already lost my mind.”

“I hope it won’t come to that,” Azriel admitted honestly, feeling the same fear.

He knew how much mess there would be to deal with as soon as Eris officially became High Lord. He already was one, even without the ceremony, and spent days and nights over endless reports, meetings, negotiations with emissaries and envoys. Azriel tried to lighten his load as much as he could, but since he wasn’t a native of Autumn, some subtleties came hard to him.

For example, he had unintentionally offended a group of noble ladies waiting for their audience with the High Lord, by pouring their tea incorrectly. You might think filling a cup to the brim would show the host’s generosity, but apparently, in Autumn, it meant disrespect. It signaled: drink this and get out.

Did it make sense? Certainly not in Azriel’s mind. But afterward, Eris clearly asked him not to interfere for now and to stick to simpler tasks.

“Keep an eye on him, please,” Lucien asked. “I’d rather he didn’t go mad in the first few days of ruling. Others at least last about a decade before their sanity starts whistling away.”

Azriel snorted. “Already on it,” he waved off. “And we both know it’s not the new duties that are crushing him.”

Silence fell between them.

“In any case, the tea helps,” Lucien cleared his throat. “Tried it myself. Jurian too, but he doesn’t know that. Thanks to it, he and Vassa at least gave me one peaceful evening.”

Azriel smirked and then said goodbye. He asked a passing maid to bring them tea. The girl, apparently aware of all the horror stories about the High Lord lately, hesitated, but Azriel told her she only needed to bring the tray and put it down, no pouring required. So she ran off to fulfill the command as quickly as possible.

Azriel entered their rooms without knocking, noticing Eris pacing in circles as if intending to burn a hole through the carpet. Azriel remembered the box in his hands and hid it behind his back just as Eris finally looked at him.

“You’re here, at last,” Eris lifted his head. “You check on me like a prisoner every hour. You’re three minutes late this time, I might add.”

Well, perhaps his mate really was losing it. All Azriel’s shadows sprang loose and swarmed Eris before he could stop them, but Eris ignored the disobedient creatures, which was rare for him, and kept pacing.

“What’s going through your head right now?” Azriel asked calmly.

He placed the box on a nearby table and asked one of the shadows to hide it. Then he approached and stopped Eris’s pacing.

“Talk to me,” he asked softly, meeting his eyes.

“I burned one of the coronation suit options,” he admitted on a sigh.

Fair enough. That was practically expected, considering how often Eris snapped at tailors. Though that didn’t make it normal.

“And why?” Azriel asked slowly.

He genuinely felt like he was talking to a wild animal — one wrong move and you’re dead. Or Eris would bolt, bury himself somewhere alone, and slowly (or quickly) go insane by himself.

“It was a disgusting suit!” Eris declared, frowning immediately. “Awful color, awful cut, awful stitching. I’m not sure how that moron even became a tailor with such atrocious skills. My grandmother — may she rest in peace — would’ve done better even with her hand tremor since birth and blindness!”

Azriel simply took him by the waist, turned him, and gently nudged him toward a chair.

“What do you think you’re—”

“We’re drinking tea,” Azriel declared, leaving no room for argument.

Right on time, the maid entered, bringing a tray with a teapot and two cups. She placed it on a small table between two chairs and hurriedly left.

The Shadowsinger didn’t miss how Eris’s expression darkened when he watched her flee. The speed at which she escaped.

It wasn’t anger on his face. No, it was something entirely different — something inexplicably dark and heavy, dragging him into thoughts Azriel absolutely didn’t want him drifting toward.

He’d already been sinking into those thoughts far more than usual in the days before the coronation.

“Eris?” Azriel called softly.

His husband only blinked and shook his head. He reached for the teapot, but Azriel intercepted his hand.

“I’ll pour,” he said.

Eris snorted and rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes for a few seconds. That was enough time for Azriel’s swift shadows to throw Lucien’s herbs into the cup. Pouring hot water over them, he handed the cup to Eris. Unaware, Eris took a sip and exhaled loudly.

“How many people in this manor do you think already hate me?” he asked. His voice carried sarcasm and pain. That tone made Azriel’s chest ache.

“No one hates you,” he assured immediately. “Even if you’ve been acting like a complete asshole these past days. Everyone understands you’re just under stress.”

“And what if I’m always going to be under stress, Az?” Eris asked, looking him straight in the eyes. His face clearly showed the insecurity and fear he always tried to hide. “What if I always have a mountain of responsibilities that keeps me constantly stressed? Then what?”

“Then you’ll just yell at me—”

“You can’t act like my punching bag. And you need to stop doing it now.”

Azriel took his hand, but Eris pulled away.

“Don’t say anything,” he snapped. “I don’t want you to constantly take my verbal blows.”

“It’s not hard for me,” Azriel replied calmly.

That was true. It wasn’t anything unusual for him. Snapping at each other had been their thing for centuries. The only difference now was that after every fight, he could kiss this bastard and drag him into bed. And know that Eris loved him.

“It can’t go on forever,” Eris shook his head, lowering his gaze and pinching the bridge of his nose. “One day you’ll get tired of my crap and leave. And I wouldn’t even blame you.”

Well.

“If you think getting rid of me is that easy, fireheart, you’re very mistaken,” Azriel scoffed.

The idea of leaving Eris was absurd to him.

Leave. Eris.

He wouldn’t make it one single step toward the door. Yes, they argued. Sometimes they argued a lot. But it was never something irreversible. They always came back to each other because they were compatible. Because they were mates. Because they were married.

Azriel couldn’t imagine a world where he left Eris forever. Even if that idiot eventually started throwing vases at him in fits of rage.

“You can’t tolerate my outbursts forever,” Eris swallowed. His Adam’s apple twitched, and his voice wavered at the very end.

“Bet,” Azriel smiled, encouraging.

But he understood where the doubt came from. And yes, he understood that if it continued for months, even if he didn’t want to, he would eventually get tired. Of constant mood swings and explosions.

It wouldn’t mean he stopped loving Eris. But he would probably need a break. And Azriel understood that this was Eris’s main fear, that he would push away the one person who always stayed on his side.

“It’s all because of the coronation,” Azriel cleared his throat. “Everything will settle down soon. You’ll take the throne, you’ll establish inter-court relations like you’ve always done brilliantly, and your rule will be great. Not immediately, there will be difficulties, you know that, but it will only get better.”

Eris closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

“Of course,” he agreed quietly, but mostly just to end the conversation.

Azriel knew he would need much more convincing to hammer that thought into his stubborn head. And he would do it.

“So how can I help you today?”

“Handle the advisors,” Eris said wearily. The herbs he drank surely made him drowsy. “They all want an audience. Decide yourself who deserves it and who can handle things without me.”

“All right,” Azriel nodded and rose from the chair, kissing the top of Eris’s head before heading for the door.

“And Az, darling,” Eris’s voice sounded behind him. “If you ever slip something into my drink again without telling me, don’t expect forgiveness so quickly.”

***

The next day, things became slightly better.

At least they managed to have breakfast peacefully and without any snide comments about taste or food quality. That was a good sign. And a sign that the tea had a strong effect, because Azriel — this time warning him beforehand — added a bit to their morning tea right after waking up.

However, Eris still snapped at the tailors. Triple intensity, mind you.

Azriel stood in the corner of the room while Eris criticized yet another tailor. There were three of them now, each standing beside his own mannequin. All faces were red with humiliation, yet slightly angrier with every passing second.

The suits on the mannequins were good. Quality fabric and embroidery. Each radiated greatness and power, as a High Lord’s attire should. It still remained a mystery what exactly Eris disliked.

After a while, Azriel couldn’t take it anymore and intervened.

“Gentlemen, would you leave us with His Highness for a moment?” he said loudly.

All three tailors looked grateful and fled. It would be fortunate if they even decided to come back.

“What the hell?” Eris grumbled, frowning. “I was in the middle of listing corrections I wanted.”

“You were in the middle of verbal humiliation,” Azriel rolled his eyes.

“Same thing,” he muttered, and didn’t resist when strong arms pulled him close. Eris only buried his nose in Azriel’s neck and inhaled.

“They’re excellent suits,” Azriel said quietly yet confidently. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like the color. None of them listen when I say I don’t want gold or red.”

Azriel was thrown off. He looked at Eris, pulling back slightly, frowning.

“That’s the two primary colors of your Court,” he reminded him, though it sounded like a question.

“And I don’t want to see them,” Eris huffed.

“Eris.”

“What?”

They met eyes, and beneath all the stubbornness and defiance burning in those amber irises, Azriel always saw something else.

“What’s bothering you?” he asked. “Truly.”

Eris clenched his jaw, but Azriel tightened his hold on his waist and didn’t let him pull away, not until he gave him the real answer.

“I…” he began, but stopped.

He opened his mouth and closed it again several times before Azriel squeezed him reassuringly.

“I look too much like him.”

The words barely slipped out. As if admitting them made it more real. More permanent.
Azriel didn’t speak right away. He didn’t loosen his grip or soften how his hands framed Eris’s waist. Quite the opposite, he held tighter.

“You don’t,” Azriel said simply.

Eris scoffed, bitter. “I see him every time I look in the mirror. I see him in the way people flinch when I raise my voice, or when I enter the damn room. I hear him in my own anger.” He shook his head. “And I can’t stand it.”

Azriel reached up again, brushing his fingers over Eris’s jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze.
“You are not him,” he said, low and steady. “You are angry. You’re exhausted. You’re under pressure that would crush anyone. But you are not Beron.”

“Then why does everyone look at me like I might burn them alive?” Eris whispered, voice cracking. “Even when I don’t mean to. Even when I try.”

Eris closed his eyes, his breath uneven now.

“I’m tired, Az,” he admitted, brokenly. “I’m so fucking tired of holding it all together when everything around me is cracking apart.”

“It will pass, I promise,” Azriel said, his thumb brushing over Eris’s cheekbone. “Because I can say with certainty that underneath the fire, there is a male who wants to do better. Who fights to be better. That is not something your father ever did. Not once.”

“You can’t know that,” Eris snorted. “You can’t know what exactly made him that way.”

That was new. Azriel narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “What are you saying?”

“It’s barely been any time, and you already see what’s happening,” Eris gestured vaguely to himself. “What if the weight of the crown drives people mad? What if a month, a year, or a decade passes and everything changes?”

“Then we always have plan B, which is to run away together into the depths of the forest where no one will find us,” Azriel smiled softly.

He wasn’t sure what exactly could help his mate climb out of the pit of thoughts he was forcing himself into, deeper and deeper. Words of support or reason hadn’t made much difference.

So when Eris unexpectedly let out a short laugh, Azriel knew he’d chosen correctly.

“And when did we make that plan?” Eris asked, dramatically pretending to be surprised.

“When we discussed all the possible ‘what if’ outcomes last time,” Azriel shrugged. “Plan C is to steal a ship from the merchants, and then there are two branches. Either we become pirates and terrorize the oceans, or we sail to another continent and run off into some wilderness again.”

Eris smiled, shaking his head. “You’d look great in a pirate hat. Your shadows would make excellent parrots.”

The shadows hissed indignantly, swirling around his wrists and neck to express their outrage at being compared — the pinnacle of intellect — to some hollow-headed bird! Eris only laughed and gently waved them away.

“Restless creatures,” he muttered warmly, and in that moment it was truly his Eris again.
Still exhausted and stressed, but his.

“Speaking of clothes that suit us,” Azriel cleared his throat, “I still think red and gold are a masterpiece of a choice.”

Eris lifted a tired gaze and rolled his shoulders slightly.

“Only if you wear it too,” he said quietly.

“I’ll go make the tailors happy,” Azriel kissed his cheek and left the room to find the unfortunate males, whose last few days had clearly not been the best.

***

On the day of the coronation, Azriel spent the entire morning running around the Forest House, directing the servants so they wouldn’t disturb Eris if possible. He felt like a squirrel on a wheel, and on top of that, the horrible tie with gold embroidery was choking him, and the suit was difficult to move in. But what won’t one do for an official event and the love of one’s life?

After sending everyone to their tasks, he entered their shared rooms. Eris was already dressed, his personal attendants dismissed and gone. The future High Lord stood before the mirror, studying his reflection intently.

“The other High Lords are gradually arriving,” Azriel announced, though Eris certainly knew. There was no way anyone could step onto his territory without him being aware. “Very soon the true dramatic performance at the banquet table will begin.”

“Is it ever otherwise?” Eris smirked, finally tearing his eyes away from the mirror. He turned to Azriel. “You look…”

Azriel felt those amber eyes travel along his body, or more accurately, the outfit on it. He had never worn such colors, let alone a formal suit. Gods, he felt as if he were standing naked in the middle of the room. But even so, he was willing to make such a comparatively small sacrifice.

“Ridiculous,” he finished for him.

“Not at all,” his husband shook his head, taking a few steps forward. “You look different. Almost like a respectable member of society, be careful not to fool anyone today.”

“Bastard,” Azriel flicked his forehead.

Eris laughed and caught his hand, kissing his wrist. A romantic bastard.

“And you look magnificent,” Azriel swallowed, taking him in as though seeing him for the first time. “Regal.”

On him was a suit of deep red velvet with fine gold embroidery, fitted perfectly to his body, with a high collar and ornate clasps that shimmered like molten metal. A cape of layered crimson fell behind him like trailing flame, its edges glowing faintly as though real embers lived in the fabric.

“Well, I should look regal today,” Eris said with exaggerated arrogance, lifting his chin. “It would be surprising if I didn’t.”

Azriel could only roll his eyes and shake his head, fully aware that beneath all the sarcasm and jokes, Eris was more nervous than ever before. So he took his hands and kissed him.

“And yet, it’s a shame that these clothes will end up on the floor just like any others,” he smirked.

Eris narrowed his eyes and huffed. “We’ll see about that.”

They would’ve stayed like that much longer if not for the knock on the door—a polite reminder of the important day still ahead. So Azriel squeezed Eris’s hand tighter as they left their rooms.

And when they stood in the throne hall, waiting for the coronator, one of the sacred, older than the very soil beneath their feet, to finish his speech, Eris smiled nervously, casting a brief glance at Azriel.

“And remember, if anything goes wrong, be ready to run into the forest with me,” he whispered before walking toward the throne.

All Azriel could do was watch him go, the crimson cape trailing behind like flame’s halo. And he knew well that Eris Vanserra was not someone who ran. He faced fire head-on, and this time would be no exception.