The fire blazed low in the hearth of the Autumn Court’s ancestral keep—soft and sated, unlike the infernos that once ruled it. Outside, golden leaves drifted lazily through the wind, and the forest that had known blood and betrayal seemed to exhale for the first time in a hundred years.

Inside, Eris stood with his back to the great windows, the red-gold of the morning sun threading through his copper hair. His shoulders were relaxed in a way that felt new. As though the weight of Beron’s shadow had finally been burned away.

And at the center of the room—at the center of him—stood you.

You were dressed in deep ember-tones, the ceremonial garb of the High Lady of Autumn. Not that the title had been publicly declared, not yet. But the scent of the bond between you had finally been unleashed. No more masking it. No more sealing your love behind veils and firelight.

Eris’s eyes drank you in, hunger wrapped in reverence.

It had been over a century since he’d first sensed the bond. Felt it snap into place on that storm-wrapped border between Autumn and Winter, when you had crossed paths by accident. A mistake. A fate. He hadn’t meant to touch you. Hadn’t meant to want you.

But once the bond had formed—it was too late.

So he kept it quiet. Met you in tucked-away glens, shielded groves, hidden mountain inns where fire couldn’t spy and shadows couldn’t whisper.

He hadn’t dared risk Beron knowing. Not when that monster would’ve used you like kindling.

So you waited.

Now, the war was over. The High Lords had changed. And Beron was dead.

Eris, still cloaked in a wary sort of silence, stepped forward. His armor was gone. His mask discarded. The male who approached you was not the courtier the world feared—he was soft, raw, beautiful in his vulnerability.

The mating mark on his chest still burned fresh. Gold and crimson threads curled up his ribs like ivy, kissed in places by matching ones on your skin. The ritual tattoos of old magic, twining you together forever.

You met him at the center of the room, barefoot on warm stone, no need for ceremony anymore. That had already happened—deep in the sacred forest last night, where the trees had bent toward you and the bond had burst from your chests like light.

He reached for you now, slow. A hand at your waist, a thumb brushing the bare patch of collarbone where his mark had been licked by firelight.

There was no fear in him. No shame. No need to hide.

Only possession—but the tender kind. Reverent. Like he’d waited a hundred years to worship you properly. To build a life from the cinders of your stolen moments.

He didn’t kiss you—not yet.

He just pressed his forehead to yours, the silence thick with knowing.

Behind him, the court stirred. Maids whispered in the halls. Lords paced in the chambers below. The court of Autumn, reborn under a new rule, would want answers. Would demand names and oaths.

He didn’t care.