Eris Vanserra had just killed his father.

The moment the blade slipped home—clean, final, absolute—something in him snapped free. The weight of centuries, of chains forged not from iron but from cruelty, humiliation, and silent endurance, shattered. For the first time in his long, bitter life, he breathed without the stench of Beron Vanserra clinging to him.

His mother’s haunted eyes no longer mocked him in memory. His brothers’ cruelty would never again be stoked by the hand that raised them. The male he had sworn to remain—the one buried beneath fire and venom and masks—stirred awake in his chest.

And for once, Eris allowed himself to smile.

The crown of the Autumn Court, heavy with history and ash, rested easily upon his brow. Power surged in his blood, ancient and primal, answering to him alone now. He was no one’s pawn. No one’s puppet. He was the High Lord.

The chamber still reeked of scorched flesh, the fire he had unleashed painting the walls in violent gold. He stood amid the ruin, chest heaving, grin sharp as a blade.

And then—soft footsteps.

Your footsteps.

He turned, half-wild, the crown tilting slightly as his burning eyes found you in the doorway. For the briefest heartbeat, he thought you might flinch—might see only the monster he had been forced to become. But you didn’t.

You walked toward him through the smoke and ruin as though none of it mattered, as though he weren’t standing over his father’s corpse with blood on his hands.

“Eris,” you whispered, your voice steady, grounding.

Something in him broke again—but not with pain this time. With relief. With the terrible, wonderful realization that he had not done all of this for nothing. That there was still something - someone worth being free for.