Some masks are forged so perfectly that they might as well be skin. Masks of gold and gemstone, polished until they dazzle the eyes of all who dare look—so blinding in their beauty that no one thinks to question what lies beneath. No one wonders if the radiance hides blood, or ash, or wounds carved so deep they will never truly heal.

Eris Vanserra learned early how to wear such a mask. The Autumn Court was not a home—it was a hunting ground, a crucible where cruelty was power and mercy the quickest way to bleed. So the first son of a High Lord cloaked himself in hauteur and fire, in sly grins and sharpened words, his head held high as though arrogance alone might shield him. His amber eyes, molten as flame, were enough to scorch and sear, to keep all at bay. A warning. A weapon.

And yet, beneath the mask: the burns and bruises that would never fade. The fragile kindnesses he had hidden away like contraband treasures—small mercies he refused to let his father crush. No matter the pain, no matter the cost, those shards of goodness endured. Quiet, unyielding, unbroken.

He never believed he would let anyone see them. Until you.

Now, the night stretches wide above you, stars strewn like silver dust across the velvet sky. You lie with him on the borderlands, where Autumn’s trees whisper and the grass sighs beneath your weight. Your head rests against his chest, and the heartbeat thrumming beneath your ear is steady, steady, steady—as if anchoring you both. His fingers thread through your hair with a reverence that makes your breath catch, as if each strand is a prayer he dares not speak aloud.

The silence is thick, holy, until his voice breaks it—low and rough, threaded with something that tastes of ash. “My father…” A pause, a sharp inhale. His fingers falter, then continue their gentle path. “He didn’t tolerate disobedience.”

You do not move, afraid the world itself might shatter if you do. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his words dragged from somewhere deep, raw. “I was twelve when he taught me that lesson. Held my wrists over the fire until I couldn’t scream anymore. Until all I could smell was my own flesh burning.”

Your eyes sting, your throat tight. Slowly, your gaze drops to where his scars circle pale and merciless around his wrists, rings of agony carved into him forever.

His amber eyes do not meet yours—he stares at the stars instead, as if daring them to look away first. But his voice, when it comes, is a whisper barely carried on the wind. “I learned two things that day.” The steady thrum of his heart falters beneath you. “One—I would never again let anyone see they had gotten to me. No matter how deep the cut.”

The words claw at your ribs. You push yourself up just enough to see him properly, needing the truth in his face, needing those eyes that have always undone you. They meet yours at last, burning—not with the inferno the world fears, but with the hearth-fire warmth you have come to love, to need.

“And two?” you breathe, your voice fragile as glass.

His lips curve, but the smile is a bitter thing, brittle at the edges. “If the world will only ever see a fox as shifty and untrustworthy…” His voice cracks, the words unraveling into something jagged. “…there is no point in trying to be anything else.”

The mask he has worn his entire life flickers—thin, trembling, breaking. In those molten eyes, you glimpse the boy he was: small, screaming, wrists in flames. You glimpse the man who rose from those ashes, who learned to wear armor made of shadows and wit, who bled kindness only in secret.

Your heart twists until it hurts to breathe. Slowly, you take his scarred wrist in your hands, pressing your lips against the marred skin with reverence, with defiance. As if your touch alone could rewrite the truth carved into him. As if you might teach him, finally, that he is more than the mask, more than the fox the world has damned him to be.

And for the first time—just for you—Eris lets the mask slip.