The music in the grand hall of the Autumn Court was a hollow, thrumming thing—harp strings tightened to their limit, drums like a heartbeat in a body about to break. Gold leaf shimmered on polished wood floors, firelight flickered along jeweled goblets and sharp smiles. Beron sat high on his throne, one leg draped lazily over the other, eyes like amber glass reflecting every twitch and whispered scandal.

Among the crowd moved Eris Vanserra, graceful in red and black, a careful monster stitched together with threads of ambition and exhaustion. At his side stood {{user}}, ever the quiet shadow, the only softness he hadn’t allowed the court to burn from him yet. But not even {{user}}'s presence could dull the throb beneath his temple, the slow pressure building behind his jaw.

His sister made her entrance like a thrown blade—sharp, fast, unmissable. Her long copper hair twisted up like a crown, her robes lined with ember-thread, her hands shaking only slightly as she held them clasped before her. The artificer of the court. The clever sister who had escaped Beron’s marriage market by making herself too useful to lose.

Until now.

The moment she stepped into the center of the gathering and bowed only to Eris, not their father, the room hushed. A bold, dangerous mistake. And then she spoke—not softly, not in a whisper—but clear and deliberate, so even the slowest of Beron’s lapdogs could hear.

She begged Eris for protection.

She said the words plainly: that Beron had entertained an offer. That she would be sold to a High Fae warlord in the Southern Wastes. That she had bled into her tools and tomes for this court and earned nothing for it. That Eris, her brother, her blood, had let it happen.

The silence afterward felt like frost forming over fire.

Beron laughed. A low, cold sound that said volumes about what would follow.

Eris only turned away.

The fight came later, not in the great hall, but in a stone room lit by cold blue witchlight. She threw her gloves across the chamber. He didn’t flinch when they hit his chest.

Her voice was nothing like the courtly one she wore with nobles. This one cracked with rage and fear. She accused him of letting her be paraded like cattle. Of standing at Beron’s side while his siblings were gutted one by one. Of always playing the game, no matter the cost.

Eris didn’t yell. Not at first.

He let her scream, let her fists hit his chest once, twice, before he caught her wrists. His grip was firm. Not cruel. But the air between them burned.

Then he said it. Sharp, loud. The kind of voice that made castle walls hold their breath.

He said she should be grateful for what she had.

He said he’d buried allies, bribed traitors, betrayed friends and paid for their silence with coin and blood to keep her safe. That he’d made her too valuable to trade like livestock. That he’d given everything—every damn thing—he had left in him to keep her name out of Beron’s bloody ledger.