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velidewrites · 12 hours
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Rhys [using Daemati gifts]: Feyre darling, let me in.
Feyre [lets him in while still peacefully observing her friend Lucien]: Those strong hands...broad chest and strong shoulders...those powerful thighs...fire in his blood and fucks like it...
Rhys:
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velidewrites · 16 hours
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*Vassa and Jurian skipping stones on a lake* Vassa: It's such a beautiful evening Jurian, whispering: Take that you fucking lake
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velidewrites · 19 hours
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“When you get tired of the animal, come find me. I’ll show you how a future High Lord plays.”
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velidewrites · 21 hours
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velidewrites · 2 days
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Nesta has fire in her blood, and she fucks like it, too
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velidewrites · 2 days
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Queen of the ACOTAR fandom, gator prom and bang gate,
Elucien one shot???? Nessian being insane??? Devil wears Prada Feysand??? A long fic planned??? And there’s more???
ma’am; you keep us well fed, read and bread. May you find a winning lottery ticket on the ground.
have a wonderful day!
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Thank you!!
(and @damedechance for making this for me)
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velidewrites · 2 days
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Lucien: So? How's Jurian? Vassa: Bad news. Lucien: No... Vassa, stepping aside to reveal Jurian: He's alive.
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velidewrites · 2 days
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velidewrites · 2 days
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How to Lose a High Lord... eventually?
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preparing for a big-ish project for eris week and decided to practice on arina and eris from the @separatist-apologist extended multiverse
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velidewrites · 2 days
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Jurian after burning down all the Cheesecake Factories in a 400 mile radius:
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Jurian: Hey, you want to get lunch? Lucien: Oh, I already ate with Elain, but what do you want? Jurian: Jurian: Loyalty
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velidewrites · 3 days
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The Other Side of the Apocalypse Masterlist
A @separatist-apologist and @the-lonelybarricade collaboration 💕
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Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village. Together, will the two of them survive the trials of the seven Prythian Courts?
Read on AO3 or click on one of the links below to find the chapters on tumblr!
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Chapter 1: I Just Want To Be Invited
Chapter 2: A Painting You Could Never Frame
Chapter 3: A Hammer To the Statue of David
Chapter 4: Summer Falling Through Our Fingers
Chapter 5: Nowhere Left To Go But Heaven
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velidewrites · 3 days
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Who decided that Feyre has bangs all of a sudden? I love this trend and the creator is so smart and sexy and deserves such high praise and love
LB is working on her chapter of The Other Side of the Apocalypse and texted to ask if it was okay if she gave Feyre bangs.
WRITE A WHOLE SCENE OF HER CUTTING THEM ACTUALLY
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velidewrites · 3 days
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me to velide: id rather die than start another long fic
velide: but if we did it together we could-
me, google doc open, legs spread: i love long fics
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velidewrites · 4 days
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Don’t Look Back
Five hundred years ago, the humans fought hard for their freedom in the Great War and won. Now, their former masters seek retribution in a rebellion that grows stronger year by year. When Elain Archeron finds out marrying Greysen Nolan might be the only solution to keep her family safe from the ancient, cruel Fae, she doesn't hesitate to fulfil her duty. What Elain doesn't know, though, is that the man with the fiery hair and russet eyes is not her fiancé, but his killer—and when she finally finds out, well…it will be far too late to turn back.
Chapter 5/15 || Read on AO3 || Go to Chapter 1
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Chapter 5: The Hold
Much to Elain’s dismay, Lucien decided to put a blindfold on her before she managed to examine the strange place.
The Vanserra Hold, Lucien had called it. All Elain had caught a glimpse of, though, was the circular clearing, and the fire burning around it. As far as she was concerned, the only things this forest held were the Vanserras’ egos and a rather pungent collection of mud.
She could feel the magic around her, though. The metallic tinge of it was familiar enough for her to make out through this blend of autumn and sunlight—she had scented it on more than one occasion in her father’s private repository. It was almost like autumn had somehow found a way to trap this piece of land as the rest of the world moved through the rest of the seasons unaffected.
Despite herself, Elain enjoyed the way it warmed her skin. Her body seemed to move of its own accord as she tilted her chin upwards, as though to soak up whatever light the gaps between the trees offered.
Doing so had been a mistake—something sharp caught in her hair, grazing against the back of her neck lightly, and Elain jumped at the sensation.
“Stop moving,” Lucien instructed, tying the piece of cloth around her head at last. The blindfold may have covered her sight—her entire face, really—but Elain could practically hear his eyes roll at her reaction to his claws. “I thought you weren’t afraid of monsters, Princess,” he teased.
“Stop calling me that,” she barked. Frankly, she was starting to get quite sick of his little jabs—sick of everyone calling her the title she had not earned. In their mouths, it had always sounded like at worst mockery. At best, it had been respect for her father, not Elain. Never Elain.
She felt Lucien shrug. “I’ll call you whatever I like,” he said, taking a step back as if to admire his work. “You’ve had no trouble calling me a beast earlier.”
“I never said beast,” Elain corrected.
A sigh. “Beast, monster,” Lucien said. “Creature. It’s all the same to me, just as I know it’s all the same to you.”
Behind the blindfold, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t presume to know what I mean,” she hissed. “You are a monster. You killed my mother.” 
“Eris did.”
“I don’t imagine you tried stopping him,” Elain said, crossing her arms over her chest in accusation. “He doesn’t even feel a shred of remorse about it.”
Lucien snorted. “No, he does not,” he said. “And neither do I. Think of me whatever you like, Princess, but I’m not even half the monster your mother was.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the Fae slander her mother in the past few hours. The two of them had never been as close as Elain had wished—Mother had always seemed to prefer Nesta, which, as disappointing as it once had been, was not surprising in the least. Nesta was, and always had been, a force to be reckoned with—an heir that would strengthen the Merchant’s position in the new world no matter the odds. Elain…Mother had never once looked at Elain the way she would look at Nesta. With pride, with determination. Still, Elain supposed, it was better than Mother never looking at her at all.
As much as she’d always underestimated Elain, and ignored her youngest daughter completely, Elain had never believed her mother to be a bad person. She was ambitious, yes—stricter than most parents would have been, even the titled ones—but a monster…
She wished she wasn’t blindfolded, if only to give Lucien the nastiest look possible as she told him, “I don’t believe you.”
An equally nasty retort must have been armed at the ready on Lucien’s tongue, because Vassa interjected, reminding them both of her presence, “Give them a chance, Elain.” A hand on her shoulder—Vassa’s, thankfully, if the gentleness of the touch was any indication. “I promise you, all will be explained soon.”
“Ah, yes. The truth.” Elain rolled her eyes, and, as politely as she could muster for old time’s sake, shook Vassa’s hand off. “I want to believe you, Vassa, but how can you be sure they didn’t use their magic to lure you over to their side?” she asked, then added, “In New Prythian, they tell us if the Fae who could hold a person’s mind like it was nothing. Who could make it their own with less than a snap of their fingers. How can you be sure they haven’t done the same to you?”
To her utmost surprise, Vassa giggled. “Eris doesn’t have this ability,” she said. “And neither does Lucien—though I imagine he feels very bitter about it.”
A low scoff sounded beside them. “Can you not see me standing here?”
“Either way,” Vassa continued as if Lucien hadn’t spoken at all, “I didn’t simply trust their word, if that’s what you’re afraid of. There is…” she hesitated. “An object.”
Perhaps it was the Merchant’s daughter in her—but Elain’s brows rose. “An object?” she asked, her interest piqued as her mind began running through her father’s collection of truth-enhancing artifacts.
Lucien hissed. “Not here, Vassa.”
Vassa sighed deeply. “Sorry, Elain,” she told her. “You’ll have to be patient with us, I’m afraid.”
Elain huffed. “It’s hard to be patient with a blindfold around my face,” she complained, blowing the loosened cloth away from her mouth. “I can hardly breathe.”
A light step towards her crunched one of the autumn-coloured leaves as long, slender fingers reached for her, gently adjusting the blindfold and pulling it high enough to expose her mouth to the sunlight once again. It was a nice change from Lucien’s talons and Vassa re-tied the piece of fabric—a little tighter this time, yet not tight enough to pull on so much as a strand of hair.
“Thank you,” Elain told her, shoulders relaxing in Vassa’s warm presence.
But it wasn’t Vassa’s voice who spoke back, so close to Elain’s face she could almost feel its owner’s breath on her neck as he pulled back. “You’re welcome,” Lucien said quietly, leaving nothing but a light tingle on her skin.
The memory of his body’s closeness to her own made Elain suck in a breath, and, for the first time, she truly allowed herself to think about the events before she discovered Lucien’s deception. The way he’d swayed her in a dance, a strong hand braced gently on her waist. The way his laugh rasped against her ear as he told her her eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen—as she had confessed the exact same to him before pressing her mouth to his own.
The reminder of it—the lie, made her empty chest tighten. But before she could take her thanks back, before she could blow up at him for tying her up and taking her from her home all over again, the sound of someone’s steps reached her ears.
Eris stopped by her side, tall and commanding. “If you three are done wasting our time, I suggest we get moving.”
“Let me help you,” Vassa offered, taking Elain by the arm. “This really wasn’t necessary, Eris,” she added pointedly, her gaze palpable on the cloth covering half of Elain’s face.
“I can’t have her running back to the Merchant and spilling all our secrets,” Eris said calmly. “The entrance to the Hold is sealed and has never been opened by anyone who doesn’t bear the Vanserra name.”
And with that, he simply turned and left again.
“So demanding, these males,” Vassa hummed, and, with a light tug as her only invitation, Elain started walking.
The heat of the fire burning atop the pillars signalled that they reached the very centre of the bizarre circle—the entrance to their family hold, Elain suspected from Eris’s words. As much as she hated to admit it, Eris had been smart to demand a blindfold be put on her. Elain would’ve started noting every corner of this place into her mind had she only been able to see them.
Still, she would make do with whatever clues she’d been offered. The ground changed beneath her feet, the heavy echo of stone signalling what had to be a door. The Vanserra Hold laid underground, then—it was not some invisible fortress hidden between the trees she’d initially suspected had been glamoured using whatever remnants of High Lord magic Eris still possessed. If he indeed was the direct descendant of Old Prythian’s Fae regime, Elain needed to be careful. The Fae’s magic had become nothing but a shadow of its past might, but—as Elain had learned—darkness could be haunting if one walked into it blind.
Silently, she cursed the damn blindfold again.
Around her, the flames intensified, and Elain could feel it blaze high up into the sky at whatever command Eris had given it. To have such power over an element, especially one as uncontrollable as fire, filled Elain with unease. Just what, exactly, could the Vanserras do with the fire in their blood?
The stone rattled loudly beneath her feet, and she felt Vassa pull on her arm once more as if to get her to step back. Elain obeyed. She may not have appreciated being taken here, but that hardly meant she’d let herself be swallowed by the depths of the earth itself.
Apparently, she was instead supposed to walk into them of her own volition. The entrance had stopped moving after a few seconds, its final groan sounding in what had to be a hallway stretching underneath. After Vassa murmured something that suspiciously sounded like “stairs,” Elain realised this might take a while.
To have survived this long—five hundred years after the War, to be exact—the Vanserras must have taken all the precautions their magic had allowed for to protect themselves. The Hold must have been carved deep into this enchanted piece of land. Elain couldn’t help but feel some excitement at the thought of being one of the few humans allowed to step foot in it.
Kidnapped or not, she was in Old Prythian. She had visited Braemar only once as a child, and, even so, she had spent the entire trip either in her father’s golden carriage—so unlike the half-rotten wooden wagon Lucien and Eris had her travel in—or the Huntsman’s fortified castle. She wasn’t even allowed outside—not that the Huntsman had any gardens or sights to offer beyond the hunting rounds surrounding his residence. Elain wondered how Vassa must have felt leaving that place for good—seeing the world beyond her father’s iron gates.
Elain had always found ways to occupy herself. The Archeron Manor boasted acres upon acres of rolling green hills, of greenhouses and little fruit orchards Elain tended to on summer days. It was her way of being useful, in whatever way she could. She was not a tactician the way Nesta or her mother had been, or a free spirit like Feyre, sneaking off the family grounds whatever chance she could. Perhaps it was why Elain hadn’t ended up married to one of the most powerful men in the world, like Nesta. Perhaps it was also why she hadn’t ended up killed like Feyre.
The thought made something heavy lodge itself into her throat as she began descending down the stairs. Her quiet life spent conforming to the rules may have avoided her being married to a family as cruel as the Harvester’s, or being taken by the Fae and presumed dead. But, about to discover the trove of one of the most ancient magical families Prythian had ever seen, Elain couldn’t help but wonder if she ever truly lived at all.
Nesta had hardly written her at all these days, kept under the Harvester’s close watch, but Elain had no doubt her older sister’s scheming did not end with her marriage. And Feyre—her wild, wonderful Feyre—while she hadn’t lived very long, Elain knew that, if given another chance, Feyre would not have let herself be trapped in their family’s manor for the sake of something as fleeting as safety.
Perhaps, eventually, she would have run away the way Vassa had, which brought Elain back to the question she’d been meaning to ask ever since that awful carriage ride to the Hold.
“How on earth did you manage to kill twelve men on your own?” she turned to Vassa, grimacing at yet another wet drop of watery mud gracing the top of her head. From the amount of cracks in the ceiling, Elain deduced the Vanserra Hold was a lot older than five hundred years—perhaps twice that, or even more.
“You don’t get to be the Huntsman’s daughter without learning how to fight,” Vassa said, a sly smile creeping into her tone. “I became a warrior on the day I learned how to stand.” Then, “I could teach you, if you’d like,” she offered.
“Oh, I’m no warrior,” Elain said. Someone like Feyre or Nesta may have taken her up on the offer, but Elain…
“Just because you’re not a warrior doesn’t mean you can’t learn how to fight—to defend yourself,” Vassa said. “Lucien isn’t a warrior, but I can assure you he knows how to land a strike or two.”
Somewhere behind them, Lucien scoffed. “Excuse me—“
“Oh, shut it,” Vassa interrupted, much to Elain’s content.
The corridor rumbled with a snarl in answer.
Elain jerked her chin pointedly at Lucien. “He sure seems like a warrior to me,” she told Vassa, who laughed at the comment.
“Lucien commands one of our legions, but his primary role is diplomatic in nature.” Elain felt her shrug. “He’s an emissary—sometimes even a courtier, when the situation demands it.”
Elain arched an eyebrow. “Courtier?” She scoffed. “I’ll make sure to advise all the other human courts to keep him off the guest list.”
Courtier. The Fae certainly had some way of showing it. As far as political envoys went, Elain was pretty sure she’d never heard of kidnapping their host being one of their responsibilities.
Lucien seemed entirely unbothered by her not-so-subtle dig. “I have no desire to attend your human parties—if you can even call them that—ever again,” he said.
Rude. “Looks like he could use some additional training,” she said to Vassa. The woman laughed again, apparently all too happy to play witness to their exchange.
Lucien hummed lowly, the sound reverberating into her bones. “You seemed to find my presence perfectly enjoyable, Princess,” he teased, the stupid nickname quickly prompting the return of the anger she’d been stifling.
Lucien Vanserra was such a liar.
“Is he always this insufferable?” Elain asked gruffly.
Vassa’s chuckle danced off the stone walls. “Oh, yes,” she told her. “Worse, even.”
Elain didn’t get the chance to play along—the entire party came to a halt.
She heard the crackling of flames again, followed by a quiet whisper of something she couldn’t quite discern from Eris’s lips—and then, a loud grunt of heavy, wooden doors, protesting against the clearly rusted, iron hinges.
Vassa led her into the room, an almost indiscernible gust of wind greeting them as they entered. Elain felt the wooden panels beneath her feet—then a balustrade, smooth and polished as though recently renewed. She rested her hands on the wood, then reached out only to find an empty space.
A pair of hands reached the knot tied at the back of her head, working smoothly to undo it. Elain nearly sighed with relief as the material fell from her face, and her gaze immediately darted to follow its direction.
It did not rest discarded on the floor—no, her blindfold kept on floating downwards, down what had to be at least ten stories built deep into the core of the earth, each of them a trove for the Vanserras’—for Prythian’s—most ancient history.
Books, tomes so old she could make out their yellowed pages from the balustrade overlooking the cylindrical space—filled every shelf along with scrolls Elain’s trained eyes couldn’t even begin to try to date. Chests, scattered and squeezed into every empty corner, It did not rest discarded on the floor—no, her blindfold kept on floating downwards, down what had to be at least ten stories built deep into the core of the earth, each of them a trove for the Vanserras’—for Prythian’s—most ancient history.
Books, tomes so old she could make out their yellowed pages from the balustrade overlooking the cylindrical space—filled every shelf along with scrolls Elain’s trained eyes couldn’t even begin to try to date. Chests, scattered and squeezed into every empty space, containing what Elain had to imagine were artifacts the family had gathered over the course of their entire lineage. Sofas, ottomans and small, cushioned puffs waiting at every level, as if to provide reprieve for every Vanserra wishing to take a moment to study the knowledge and wisdom of his ancestors. The entire place had been crafter of warm, auburn wood, with small globes of fire trapped within stained glass floating around calmly, illuminating the space.
It was a library. It was a treasury. It was a home.
Eris led them to the left of the small balcony, then through a foyer where the staircase to the first downstairs level stretched out, and a door waited patiently to let new visitors in. Eris ignored the staircase, much to Elain’s disappointment, and wrapped a freckled hand around the golden handle—then twisted.
They walked into an unassuming, circular study, with red sofas and a large, heavy desk placed at the back of the room. The entire wall was clad in paintings—some of them portraits of the Vanserras of old, most brown or red-headed, all with a piercing, fiery stare—and others displaying scenes of a hunt, with the family mounting proud stallions and flaunting red banners, hoardes of greyhounds running at their side.
The Vanserras, Elain realised right there and then, had once been royalty.
“Stay here,” Eris instructed, as if thoroughly unimpressed by the scenes laid out before him. “Vassa, I need you with me,” he then said, and, without so much as turning over his shoulder, went out the door.
The only thing Vassa offered Elain before following in the High Lord’s footsteps was a rather exaggerated roll of her eyes. “All those centuries, and they never learned to say please.”
***
Because luck seemed to have made its personal nemesis out of Lucien, he was left in the room with Elain Archeron. Alone.
He did not support Eris’s decision to bring her into the Hold. It had always been a trove of their family’s legacy, and, more importantly, their secrets tha Elain was not privy to. With the exception of a few close allies, no living beings apart from Lucien and his brother knew about this place, and Lucien preferred to keep it that way. There were so few places he could call home these days.
The truth, as Vassa had so eloquently put it, could have been revealed to Elain somewhere else. As far as Lucien was concerned, the Merchant’s daughter, of all people, had no business stepping foot into the Vanserra Hold.
But, for some reason far beyond Lucien’s imagination, Eris wanted her here, even when her family had proven time and time again they were not to be trusted.
He would speak to his brother about this later. For now, apparently, he was Elain Archeron’s assigned guard dog.
Lucien dared a glance at the human Princess, and regretted it almost immediately. As much as he didn’t enjoy her presence in his home, she might very well have been the most beautiful thing that had ever made its way into the Vanserra thought.
He could almost feel his ancestors’ sharp looks of disapproval from the portraits above him, as if they had heard the traitorous thought. They haven’t spent much time alone, and yet, whenever the two of them had found themselves with no company to interrupt them, Lucien had a hard time remembering what Elain truly was. It felt strange—that something so beautiful could have come from a lineage of such monsters.
There was simply something about the way she took in her surroundings, wide-eyed with the awe written all over her face—as though she could feel the magic buzzing in this place. It lit up her features like the fire shining above them, like the sunlight warming the entrance to the Hold, turning her brown eyes into pure, liquid honey.
There was some wariness etched into her face, too, though. She must have recognised exactly how much power this place housed, and how unmatched she stood in comparison had she tried to run away again. Clever little thing—he could practically see the wheels of her mind turning, cataloguing every image, every object into the pages of her memory to report to her father later.
Over Lucien’s dead body would he ever let that happen. 
“I have to ask,” Elain’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “What was so horrible about our human parties?”
Lucien blinked—how she’d always managed to catch him off guard, he did not know, and frankly, he didn’t want to. Perhaps it truly was some magic the Archerons passed down to one another generation after generation. Perhaps it was in their blood to be the thorn in the Vanserras’ side.
Their conversation from a few minutes ago flitted back into his memory. What wasn’t wrong with the humans’ dreadful balls and ceremonies, really?
He told her exactly that. “They lack…life. You walk into the room and the very air drowns you.” He shook his head, recalling the engagement festivities arranged by her father. “It’s impressive at first, I’ll give you that—the walls and chandeliers dripping in gold, and the finest cuisine the world has to offer.” He grimaced. “But then, the music starts playing—and it may be performed by some of the most sought after quartets in Prythian, but…”
Elain’s perfect brows rose an inch. “But?”
“The dancing—all of it, really—it feels like a chore. A formality required to earn some standing in society. Your parties,” Lucien added, the word he’d been chasing finally finding its way onto his lips, “feel like a contract. The dullness, the lacklustre monotony of it—
Elain huffed. “Alright, I get the picture,” she interrupted, but Lucien hadn’t missed the curiosity in her gaze as she side eyed the scenes of the hunt stretched out beside them. “What are your parties like, then?” she asked.
It may have been the longest the two of them had spoken since the ball, Lucien realised. So little time had passed since then that it almost felt as though they were continuing their conversation from the night before. “I’m only a little over four hundred years old,” he told her, ignoring the shock parting her mouth at his words. “I never got to witness my predecessors’ celebrations before the War, or any of their holidays for that matter. A shame, really.” He felt his mouth twitch. “One of those holidays, I think I would have been a most devoted participant of.”
“I have a feeling I know where this is going—something terribly Fae and uncouth.”
“Quite,” Lucien agreed, unable to keep the grin off his face. Something told him he was going to enjoy scandalising this female—this woman—his mind immediately corrected, but he ignored the voice anyway. “In most parts of the world, they called it Calanmai, or Fire Night. It originated in the Spring Court, actually—the lands your family has claimed as New Prythian.”
Elain frowned. “We do not have any such holidays in our records.”
Lucien scoffed. “Of course not. I don’t imagine you humans would have found it appropriate by any means. Calanmai was a celebration of the coming of spring—and in the Court itself, it was a most sacred ritual performed by the High Lord to imbue magic into the land. Think of bonfires, thousands of them, lighting up every hill, smoke lilting into the stars. Drums, loud and echoing into the night. And wine—so much of it that you’d end up falling asleep under the sky, waking up to the spring breeze in your hair. The sun warming your face.”
Lucien cleared his throat. “Or, at least, that is how it was described to me.”
He could have sworn something pink heated in Elain’s cheeks. “I could see it, you know. You being a courtier—when you’re not such a condescending asshole, that is.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “I have never met a Princess so crass before,” he purred, deeply revelling in the resentment she bore for the nickname. How could she not be a Princess, though? Everything about her stance radiated command as she crossed her arms in disdain, her full lips pursing and those doe-like eyes flashing with challenge.
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
Lucien’s mouth twitched. “And I told you I’ll call you whatever I like,” he said. “Comes with the Asshole title, I’m afraid.”
Delighted, he watched as Elain whirled back to the Vanserra family portraits, murmuring something that suspiciously like prick and ridiculous, even her ears flushing that warm, lovely pink. Lucien smiled to himself.
“So, what was the ritual?” Elain’s voice reached him, still gruff as she focused on the rather unpleasant profile of Lucien’s great-great grandfather.
“Ritual?” Lucien questioned, his attention refusing to step back as far as two minutes ago for reasons unbeknownst to him.
Finally, Elain turned to him again. “Calanmai,” she reminded him.
Right. Lucien coughed again. “As I mentioned, infusing magic back into the land was the primary aim of the celebrations—it was the High Lord’s obligation to perform what was called the Great Rite.”
Elain’s brows knitted. “And how, exactly, was he supposed to do that?”
The grin made its way back Lucien’s face as he explained, “Every year, the High Lord of the Spring Court allowed the power of the Rite into his veins. Transformed into a beast, a creature of the very essence of spring, he would allow it to seize his body, his mind, his senses entirely.” He met Elain’s gaze directly as he added. “Each year, the magic would choose a Maiden—usually one of the members of Calanmai celebrations—a companion for the High Lord to…complete the Rite.”
Elain’s eyes widened. “They—they would—”
“Fuck, yes,” Lucien completed for her with a wave of his hand, eliciting a small gasp from Elain’s lips. He chuckled. “And, with the act, they would ah, release the magic into the land. To allow crops to grow healthier, of course.”
The silence hung between them long enough that Lucien couldn’t help but tease her some more. “Something wrong, little fawn?” he asked, realising that he was indeed thoroughly enjoying this—and that perhaps it was a good thing Eris or Vassa weren’t here to scold him for scandalising their guest a step too far. In his defence, Elain had asked him first.
“Your parties sound outrageous,” Elain finally said, that heat in her cheeks rising.
Lucien winked. “That’s exactly what parties should be, Princess.”
Elain smiled at that—a true smile, the kind she’d offered Vassa when she first saw her at the camp. The same kind she’d offered him when she hadn’t yet thought him an utter monster. “Is that why you brought me here? To show me how to throw better parties?”
Lucien choked. “Show you?”
The picture of it invaded his mind without warning—an image of him and Elain partying the way Lucien’s ancestors demanded it. A cave, lit up by faelight and thrumming with magic, their bodies naked and intertwined on the mossy earth, its fragrance mixing with their sweat. Elain laid out bare beneath him, her breasts heaving up and down in panting, shallow breaths as he entered her, so perfect and ready for his taking, his—
Lucien sucked in a breath, nearly choking again on the force of it, the force of the picture pushed back into the darkest, most secret corners of his mind. Eris and Vassa should have been here after all, if only to remind him of what happened the last time Lucien Vanserra had decided to trust a human like Elain Archeron.
Because she was a human. And the humans—the humans took his mother. His father, however horrible he had been. His brothers. They had nearly taken Eris, too, and Lucien’s heart right with it.
Lucien would not let it happen again. He would not let another Jesminda into his life.
“Of course,” he said tightly, “My people’s traditions would not have faded from common memory had it not been for you humans.” He shrugged. “As for why we brought you here—take it up with Eris. If it were for me, I would have never brought you into the Hold.”
He could see it—the way Elain’s smile faded. The confusion filling her shining stare, blending into hurt, so sharp it could no doubt pierce his own chest if she only stepped in closely enough.
Lucien could see it all, and the worst part of it was that he hated himself for it.
“We brought you into the Hold,” Eris voice sounded from a place Lucien was not yet ready to return to yet as his brother walked back into the study, Vassa falling into step beside him, “Because it was the safest place to show you this.”
In a few long strides, Eris reached the desk, and placed the heavy object right at its middle, the wood croaking slightly under its weight. A thick red fabric—an old Vanserra banner, from the looks of it—covered the globe entirely. Eris motioned for Elain to step in closer—and she did, as if drawn by the mystery of it alone. Lucien, though—Lucien remained frozen in place.
“This,” Eris began, placing his hand atop the smooth surface, “is the Veritas Orb.” In one, swift motion, he slid the banner off, revealing one of their family’s most prized and priceless possessions. The Orb shone a quiet, crystalline light, as though somehow made of all the colours and none of them at all, humming gently at the closeness of its owner’s hand—as if begging. Touch me. Talk to me. Ask me.
But Eris turned from its whisper—and looked at the Merchant’s daughter who stood in utter shock, mesmerised by the treasure laid out right before her.
“So, Elain Archeron.” Eris smiled. “Are you ready to learn the truth?”
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velidewrites · 5 days
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Don’t Look Back
Five hundred years ago, the humans fought hard for their freedom in the Great War and won. Now, their former masters seek retribution in a rebellion that grows stronger year by year. When Elain Archeron finds out marrying Greysen Nolan might be the only solution to keep her family safe from the ancient, cruel Fae, she doesn't hesitate to fulfil her duty. What Elain doesn't know, though, is that the man with the fiery hair and russet eyes is not her fiancé, but his killer—and when she finally finds out, well…it will be far too late to turn back.
Chapter 5/15 || Read on AO3 || Go to Chapter 1
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Chapter 5: The Hold
Much to Elain’s dismay, Lucien decided to put a blindfold on her before she managed to examine the strange place.
The Vanserra Hold, Lucien had called it. All Elain had caught a glimpse of, though, was the circular clearing, and the fire burning around it. As far as she was concerned, the only things this forest held were the Vanserras’ egos and a rather pungent collection of mud.
She could feel the magic around her, though. The metallic tinge of it was familiar enough for her to make out through this blend of autumn and sunlight—she had scented it on more than one occasion in her father’s private repository. It was almost like autumn had somehow found a way to trap this piece of land as the rest of the world moved through the rest of the seasons unaffected.
Despite herself, Elain enjoyed the way it warmed her skin. Her body seemed to move of its own accord as she tilted her chin upwards, as though to soak up whatever light the gaps between the trees offered.
Doing so had been a mistake—something sharp caught in her hair, grazing against the back of her neck lightly, and Elain jumped at the sensation.
“Stop moving,” Lucien instructed, tying the piece of cloth around her head at last. The blindfold may have covered her sight—her entire face, really—but Elain could practically hear his eyes roll at her reaction to his claws. “I thought you weren’t afraid of monsters, Princess,” he teased.
“Stop calling me that,” she barked. Frankly, she was starting to get quite sick of his little jabs—sick of everyone calling her the title she had not earned. In their mouths, it had always sounded like at worst mockery. At best, it had been respect for her father, not Elain. Never Elain.
She felt Lucien shrug. “I’ll call you whatever I like,” he said, taking a step back as if to admire his work. “You’ve had no trouble calling me a beast earlier.”
“I never said beast,” Elain corrected.
A sigh. “Beast, monster,” Lucien said. “Creature. It’s all the same to me, just as I know it’s all the same to you.”
Behind the blindfold, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t presume to know what I mean,” she hissed. “You are a monster. You killed my mother.” 
“Eris did.”
“I don’t imagine you tried stopping him,” Elain said, crossing her arms over her chest in accusation. “He doesn’t even feel a shred of remorse about it.”
Lucien snorted. “No, he does not,” he said. “And neither do I. Think of me whatever you like, Princess, but I’m not even half the monster your mother was.”
It wasn’t the first time she’d heard the Fae slander her mother in the past few hours. The two of them had never been as close as Elain had wished—Mother had always seemed to prefer Nesta, which, as disappointing as it once had been, was not surprising in the least. Nesta was, and always had been, a force to be reckoned with—an heir that would strengthen the Merchant’s position in the new world no matter the odds. Elain…Mother had never once looked at Elain the way she would look at Nesta. With pride, with determination. Still, Elain supposed, it was better than Mother never looking at her at all.
As much as she’d always underestimated Elain, and ignored her youngest daughter completely, Elain had never believed her mother to be a bad person. She was ambitious, yes—stricter than most parents would have been, even the titled ones—but a monster…
She wished she wasn’t blindfolded, if only to give Lucien the nastiest look possible as she told him, “I don’t believe you.”
An equally nasty retort must have been armed at the ready on Lucien’s tongue, because Vassa interjected, reminding them both of her presence, “Give them a chance, Elain.” A hand on her shoulder—Vassa’s, thankfully, if the gentleness of the touch was any indication. “I promise you, all will be explained soon.”
“Ah, yes. The truth.” Elain rolled her eyes, and, as politely as she could muster for old time’s sake, shook Vassa’s hand off. “I want to believe you, Vassa, but how can you be sure they didn’t use their magic to lure you over to their side?” she asked, then added, “In New Prythian, they tell us if the Fae who could hold a person’s mind like it was nothing. Who could make it their own with less than a snap of their fingers. How can you be sure they haven’t done the same to you?”
To her utmost surprise, Vassa giggled. “Eris doesn’t have this ability,” she said. “And neither does Lucien—though I imagine he feels very bitter about it.”
A low scoff sounded beside them. “Can you not see me standing here?”
“Either way,” Vassa continued as if Lucien hadn’t spoken at all, “I didn’t simply trust their word, if that’s what you’re afraid of. There is…” she hesitated. “An object.”
Perhaps it was the Merchant’s daughter in her—but Elain’s brows rose. “An object?” she asked, her interest piqued as her mind began running through her father’s collection of truth-enhancing artifacts.
Lucien hissed. “Not here, Vassa.”
Vassa sighed deeply. “Sorry, Elain,” she told her. “You’ll have to be patient with us, I’m afraid.”
Elain huffed. “It’s hard to be patient with a blindfold around my face,” she complained, blowing the loosened cloth away from her mouth. “I can hardly breathe.”
A light step towards her crunched one of the autumn-coloured leaves as long, slender fingers reached for her, gently adjusting the blindfold and pulling it high enough to expose her mouth to the sunlight once again. It was a nice change from Lucien’s talons and Vassa re-tied the piece of fabric—a little tighter this time, yet not tight enough to pull on so much as a strand of hair.
“Thank you,” Elain told her, shoulders relaxing in Vassa’s warm presence.
But it wasn’t Vassa’s voice who spoke back, so close to Elain’s face she could almost feel its owner’s breath on her neck as he pulled back. “You’re welcome,” Lucien said quietly, leaving nothing but a light tingle on her skin.
The memory of his body’s closeness to her own made Elain suck in a breath, and, for the first time, she truly allowed herself to think about the events before she discovered Lucien’s deception. The way he’d swayed her in a dance, a strong hand braced gently on her waist. The way his laugh rasped against her ear as he told her her eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen—as she had confessed the exact same to him before pressing her mouth to his own.
The reminder of it—the lie, made her empty chest tighten. But before she could take her thanks back, before she could blow up at him for tying her up and taking her from her home all over again, the sound of someone’s steps reached her ears.
Eris stopped by her side, tall and commanding. “If you three are done wasting our time, I suggest we get moving.”
“Let me help you,” Vassa offered, taking Elain by the arm. “This really wasn’t necessary, Eris,” she added pointedly, her gaze palpable on the cloth covering half of Elain’s face.
“I can’t have her running back to the Merchant and spilling all our secrets,” Eris said calmly. “The entrance to the Hold is sealed and has never been opened by anyone who doesn’t bear the Vanserra name.”
And with that, he simply turned and left again.
“So demanding, these males,” Vassa hummed, and, with a light tug as her only invitation, Elain started walking.
The heat of the fire burning atop the pillars signalled that they reached the very centre of the bizarre circle—the entrance to their family hold, Elain suspected from Eris’s words. As much as she hated to admit it, Eris had been smart to demand a blindfold be put on her. Elain would’ve started noting every corner of this place into her mind had she only been able to see them.
Still, she would make do with whatever clues she’d been offered. The ground changed beneath her feet, the heavy echo of stone signalling what had to be a door. The Vanserra Hold laid underground, then—it was not some invisible fortress hidden between the trees she’d initially suspected had been glamoured using whatever remnants of High Lord magic Eris still possessed. If he indeed was the direct descendant of Old Prythian’s Fae regime, Elain needed to be careful. The Fae’s magic had become nothing but a shadow of its past might, but—as Elain had learned—darkness could be haunting if one walked into it blind.
Silently, she cursed the damn blindfold again.
Around her, the flames intensified, and Elain could feel it blaze high up into the sky at whatever command Eris had given it. To have such power over an element, especially one as uncontrollable as fire, filled Elain with unease. Just what, exactly, could the Vanserras do with the fire in their blood?
The stone rattled loudly beneath her feet, and she felt Vassa pull on her arm once more as if to get her to step back. Elain obeyed. She may not have appreciated being taken here, but that hardly meant she’d let herself be swallowed by the depths of the earth itself.
Apparently, she was instead supposed to walk into them of her own volition. The entrance had stopped moving after a few seconds, its final groan sounding in what had to be a hallway stretching underneath. After Vassa murmured something that suspiciously sounded like “stairs,” Elain realised this might take a while.
To have survived this long—five hundred years after the War, to be exact—the Vanserras must have taken all the precautions their magic had allowed for to protect themselves. The Hold must have been carved deep into this enchanted piece of land. Elain couldn’t help but feel some excitement at the thought of being one of the few humans allowed to step foot in it.
Kidnapped or not, she was in Old Prythian. She had visited Braemar only once as a child, and, even so, she had spent the entire trip either in her father’s golden carriage—so unlike the half-rotten wooden wagon Lucien and Eris had her travel in—or the Huntsman’s fortified castle. She wasn’t even allowed outside—not that the Huntsman had any gardens or sights to offer beyond the hunting rounds surrounding his residence. Elain wondered how Vassa must have felt leaving that place for good—seeing the world beyond her father’s iron gates.
Elain had always found ways to occupy herself. The Archeron Manor boasted acres upon acres of rolling green hills, of greenhouses and little fruit orchards Elain tended to on summer days. It was her way of being useful, in whatever way she could. She was not a tactician the way Nesta or her mother had been, or a free spirit like Feyre, sneaking off the family grounds whatever chance she could. Perhaps it was why Elain hadn’t ended up married to one of the most powerful men in the world, like Nesta. Perhaps it was also why she hadn’t ended up killed like Feyre.
The thought made something heavy lodge itself into her throat as she began descending down the stairs. Her quiet life spent conforming to the rules may have avoided her being married to a family as cruel as the Harvester’s, or being taken by the Fae and presumed dead. But, about to discover the trove of one of the most ancient magical families Prythian had ever seen, Elain couldn’t help but wonder if she ever truly lived at all.
Nesta had hardly written her at all these days, kept under the Harvester’s close watch, but Elain had no doubt her older sister’s scheming did not end with her marriage. And Feyre—her wild, wonderful Feyre—while she hadn’t lived very long, Elain knew that, if given another chance, Feyre would not have let herself be trapped in their family’s manor for the sake of something as fleeting as safety.
Perhaps, eventually, she would have run away the way Vassa had, which brought Elain back to the question she’d been meaning to ask ever since that awful carriage ride to the Hold.
“How on earth did you manage to kill twelve men on your own?” she turned to Vassa, grimacing at yet another wet drop of watery mud gracing the top of her head. From the amount of cracks in the ceiling, Elain deduced the Vanserra Hold was a lot older than five hundred years—perhaps twice that, or even more.
“You don’t get to be the Huntsman’s daughter without learning how to fight,” Vassa said, a sly smile creeping into her tone. “I became a warrior on the day I learned how to stand.” Then, “I could teach you, if you’d like,” she offered.
“Oh, I’m no warrior,” Elain said. Someone like Feyre or Nesta may have taken her up on the offer, but Elain…
“Just because you’re not a warrior doesn’t mean you can’t learn how to fight—to defend yourself,” Vassa said. “Lucien isn’t a warrior, but I can assure you he knows how to land a strike or two.”
Somewhere behind them, Lucien scoffed. “Excuse me—“
“Oh, shut it,” Vassa interrupted, much to Elain’s content.
The corridor rumbled with a snarl in answer.
Elain jerked her chin pointedly at Lucien. “He sure seems like a warrior to me,” she told Vassa, who laughed at the comment.
“Lucien commands one of our legions, but his primary role is diplomatic in nature.” Elain felt her shrug. “He’s an emissary—sometimes even a courtier, when the situation demands it.”
Elain arched an eyebrow. “Courtier?” She scoffed. “I’ll make sure to advise all the other human courts to keep him off the guest list.”
Courtier. The Fae certainly had some way of showing it. As far as political envoys went, Elain was pretty sure she’d never heard of kidnapping their host being one of their responsibilities.
Lucien seemed entirely unbothered by her not-so-subtle dig. “I have no desire to attend your human parties—if you can even call them that—ever again,” he said.
Rude. “Looks like he could use some additional training,” she said to Vassa. The woman laughed again, apparently all too happy to play witness to their exchange.
Lucien hummed lowly, the sound reverberating into her bones. “You seemed to find my presence perfectly enjoyable, Princess,” he teased, the stupid nickname quickly prompting the return of the anger she’d been stifling.
Lucien Vanserra was such a liar.
“Is he always this insufferable?” Elain asked gruffly.
Vassa’s chuckle danced off the stone walls. “Oh, yes,” she told her. “Worse, even.”
Elain didn’t get the chance to play along—the entire party came to a halt.
She heard the crackling of flames again, followed by a quiet whisper of something she couldn’t quite discern from Eris’s lips—and then, a loud grunt of heavy, wooden doors, protesting against the clearly rusted, iron hinges.
Vassa led her into the room, an almost indiscernible gust of wind greeting them as they entered. Elain felt the wooden panels beneath her feet—then a balustrade, smooth and polished as though recently renewed. She rested her hands on the wood, then reached out only to find an empty space.
A pair of hands reached the knot tied at the back of her head, working smoothly to undo it. Elain nearly sighed with relief as the material fell from her face, and her gaze immediately darted to follow its direction.
It did not rest discarded on the floor—no, her blindfold kept on floating downwards, down what had to be at least ten stories built deep into the core of the earth, each of them a trove for the Vanserras’—for Prythian’s—most ancient history.
Books, tomes so old she could make out their yellowed pages from the balustrade overlooking the cylindrical space—filled every shelf along with scrolls Elain’s trained eyes couldn’t even begin to try to date. Chests, scattered and squeezed into every empty corner, It did not rest discarded on the floor—no, her blindfold kept on floating downwards, down what had to be at least ten stories built deep into the core of the earth, each of them a trove for the Vanserras’—for Prythian’s—most ancient history.
Books, tomes so old she could make out their yellowed pages from the balustrade overlooking the cylindrical space—filled every shelf along with scrolls Elain’s trained eyes couldn’t even begin to try to date. Chests, scattered and squeezed into every empty space, containing what Elain had to imagine were artifacts the family had gathered over the course of their entire lineage. Sofas, ottomans and small, cushioned puffs waiting at every level, as if to provide reprieve for every Vanserra wishing to take a moment to study the knowledge and wisdom of his ancestors. The entire place had been crafter of warm, auburn wood, with small globes of fire trapped within stained glass floating around calmly, illuminating the space.
It was a library. It was a treasury. It was a home.
Eris led them to the left of the small balcony, then through a foyer where the staircase to the first downstairs level stretched out, and a door waited patiently to let new visitors in. Eris ignored the staircase, much to Elain’s disappointment, and wrapped a freckled hand around the golden handle—then twisted.
They walked into an unassuming, circular study, with red sofas and a large, heavy desk placed at the back of the room. The entire wall was clad in paintings—some of them portraits of the Vanserras of old, most brown or red-headed, all with a piercing, fiery stare—and others displaying scenes of a hunt, with the family mounting proud stallions and flaunting red banners, hoardes of greyhounds running at their side.
The Vanserras, Elain realised right there and then, had once been royalty.
“Stay here,” Eris instructed, as if thoroughly unimpressed by the scenes laid out before him. “Vassa, I need you with me,” he then said, and, without so much as turning over his shoulder, went out the door.
The only thing Vassa offered Elain before following in the High Lord’s footsteps was a rather exaggerated roll of her eyes. “All those centuries, and they never learned to say please.”
***
Because luck seemed to have made its personal nemesis out of Lucien, he was left in the room with Elain Archeron. Alone.
He did not support Eris’s decision to bring her into the Hold. It had always been a trove of their family’s legacy, and, more importantly, their secrets tha Elain was not privy to. With the exception of a few close allies, no living beings apart from Lucien and his brother knew about this place, and Lucien preferred to keep it that way. There were so few places he could call home these days.
The truth, as Vassa had so eloquently put it, could have been revealed to Elain somewhere else. As far as Lucien was concerned, the Merchant’s daughter, of all people, had no business stepping foot into the Vanserra Hold.
But, for some reason far beyond Lucien’s imagination, Eris wanted her here, even when her family had proven time and time again they were not to be trusted.
He would speak to his brother about this later. For now, apparently, he was Elain Archeron’s assigned guard dog.
Lucien dared a glance at the human Princess, and regretted it almost immediately. As much as he didn’t enjoy her presence in his home, she might very well have been the most beautiful thing that had ever made its way into the Vanserra thought.
He could almost feel his ancestors’ sharp looks of disapproval from the portraits above him, as if they had heard the traitorous thought. They haven’t spent much time alone, and yet, whenever the two of them had found themselves with no company to interrupt them, Lucien had a hard time remembering what Elain truly was. It felt strange—that something so beautiful could have come from a lineage of such monsters.
There was simply something about the way she took in her surroundings, wide-eyed with the awe written all over her face—as though she could feel the magic buzzing in this place. It lit up her features like the fire shining above them, like the sunlight warming the entrance to the Hold, turning her brown eyes into pure, liquid honey.
There was some wariness etched into her face, too, though. She must have recognised exactly how much power this place housed, and how unmatched she stood in comparison had she tried to run away again. Clever little thing—he could practically see the wheels of her mind turning, cataloguing every image, every object into the pages of her memory to report to her father later.
Over Lucien’s dead body would he ever let that happen. 
“I have to ask,” Elain’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “What was so horrible about our human parties?”
Lucien blinked—how she’d always managed to catch him off guard, he did not know, and frankly, he didn’t want to. Perhaps it truly was some magic the Archerons passed down to one another generation after generation. Perhaps it was in their blood to be the thorn in the Vanserras’ side.
Their conversation from a few minutes ago flitted back into his memory. What wasn’t wrong with the humans’ dreadful balls and ceremonies, really?
He told her exactly that. “They lack…life. You walk into the room and the very air drowns you.” He shook his head, recalling the engagement festivities arranged by her father. “It’s impressive at first, I’ll give you that—the walls and chandeliers dripping in gold, and the finest cuisine the world has to offer.” He grimaced. “But then, the music starts playing—and it may be performed by some of the most sought after quartets in Prythian, but…”
Elain’s perfect brows rose an inch. “But?”
“The dancing—all of it, really—it feels like a chore. A formality required to earn some standing in society. Your parties,” Lucien added, the word he’d been chasing finally finding its way onto his lips, “feel like a contract. The dullness, the lacklustre monotony of it—
Elain huffed. “Alright, I get the picture,” she interrupted, but Lucien hadn’t missed the curiosity in her gaze as she side eyed the scenes of the hunt stretched out beside them. “What are your parties like, then?” she asked.
It may have been the longest the two of them had spoken since the ball, Lucien realised. So little time had passed since then that it almost felt as though they were continuing their conversation from the night before. “I’m only a little over four hundred years old,” he told her, ignoring the shock parting her mouth at his words. “I never got to witness my predecessors’ celebrations before the War, or any of their holidays for that matter. A shame, really.” He felt his mouth twitch. “One of those holidays, I think I would have been a most devoted participant of.”
“I have a feeling I know where this is going—something terribly Fae and uncouth.”
“Quite,” Lucien agreed, unable to keep the grin off his face. Something told him he was going to enjoy scandalising this female—this woman—his mind immediately corrected, but he ignored the voice anyway. “In most parts of the world, they called it Calanmai, or Fire Night. It originated in the Spring Court, actually—the lands your family has claimed as New Prythian.”
Elain frowned. “We do not have any such holidays in our records.”
Lucien scoffed. “Of course not. I don’t imagine you humans would have found it appropriate by any means. Calanmai was a celebration of the coming of spring—and in the Court itself, it was a most sacred ritual performed by the High Lord to imbue magic into the land. Think of bonfires, thousands of them, lighting up every hill, smoke lilting into the stars. Drums, loud and echoing into the night. And wine—so much of it that you’d end up falling asleep under the sky, waking up to the spring breeze in your hair. The sun warming your face.”
Lucien cleared his throat. “Or, at least, that is how it was described to me.”
He could have sworn something pink heated in Elain’s cheeks. “I could see it, you know. You being a courtier—when you’re not such a condescending asshole, that is.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “I have never met a Princess so crass before,” he purred, deeply revelling in the resentment she bore for the nickname. How could she not be a Princess, though? Everything about her stance radiated command as she crossed her arms in disdain, her full lips pursing and those doe-like eyes flashing with challenge.
“I told you to stop calling me that.”
Lucien’s mouth twitched. “And I told you I’ll call you whatever I like,” he said. “Comes with the Asshole title, I’m afraid.”
Delighted, he watched as Elain whirled back to the Vanserra family portraits, murmuring something that suspiciously like prick and ridiculous, even her ears flushing that warm, lovely pink. Lucien smiled to himself.
“So, what was the ritual?” Elain’s voice reached him, still gruff as she focused on the rather unpleasant profile of Lucien’s great-great grandfather.
“Ritual?” Lucien questioned, his attention refusing to step back as far as two minutes ago for reasons unbeknownst to him.
Finally, Elain turned to him again. “Calanmai,” she reminded him.
Right. Lucien coughed again. “As I mentioned, infusing magic back into the land was the primary aim of the celebrations—it was the High Lord’s obligation to perform what was called the Great Rite.”
Elain’s brows knitted. “And how, exactly, was he supposed to do that?”
The grin made its way back Lucien’s face as he explained, “Every year, the High Lord of the Spring Court allowed the power of the Rite into his veins. Transformed into a beast, a creature of the very essence of spring, he would allow it to seize his body, his mind, his senses entirely.” He met Elain’s gaze directly as he added. “Each year, the magic would choose a Maiden—usually one of the members of Calanmai celebrations—a companion for the High Lord to…complete the Rite.”
Elain’s eyes widened. “They—they would—”
“Fuck, yes,” Lucien completed for her with a wave of his hand, eliciting a small gasp from Elain’s lips. He chuckled. “And, with the act, they would ah, release the magic into the land. To allow crops to grow healthier, of course.”
The silence hung between them long enough that Lucien couldn’t help but tease her some more. “Something wrong, little fawn?” he asked, realising that he was indeed thoroughly enjoying this—and that perhaps it was a good thing Eris or Vassa weren’t here to scold him for scandalising their guest a step too far. In his defence, Elain had asked him first.
“Your parties sound outrageous,” Elain finally said, that heat in her cheeks rising.
Lucien winked. “That’s exactly what parties should be, Princess.”
Elain smiled at that—a true smile, the kind she’d offered Vassa when she first saw her at the camp. The same kind she’d offered him when she hadn’t yet thought him an utter monster. “Is that why you brought me here? To show me how to throw better parties?”
Lucien choked. “Show you?”
The picture of it invaded his mind without warning—an image of him and Elain partying the way Lucien’s ancestors demanded it. A cave, lit up by faelight and thrumming with magic, their bodies naked and intertwined on the mossy earth, its fragrance mixing with their sweat. Elain laid out bare beneath him, her breasts heaving up and down in panting, shallow breaths as he entered her, so perfect and ready for his taking, his—
Lucien sucked in a breath, nearly choking again on the force of it, the force of the picture pushed back into the darkest, most secret corners of his mind. Eris and Vassa should have been here after all, if only to remind him of what happened the last time Lucien Vanserra had decided to trust a human like Elain Archeron.
Because she was a human. And the humans—the humans took his mother. His father, however horrible he had been. His brothers. They had nearly taken Eris, too, and Lucien’s heart right with it.
Lucien would not let it happen again. He would not let another Jesminda into his life.
“Of course,” he said tightly, “My people’s traditions would not have faded from common memory had it not been for you humans.” He shrugged. “As for why we brought you here—take it up with Eris. If it were for me, I would have never brought you into the Hold.”
He could see it—the way Elain’s smile faded. The confusion filling her shining stare, blending into hurt, so sharp it could no doubt pierce his own chest if she only stepped in closely enough.
Lucien could see it all, and the worst part of it was that he hated himself for it.
“We brought you into the Hold,” Eris voice sounded from a place Lucien was not yet ready to return to yet as his brother walked back into the study, Vassa falling into step beside him, “Because it was the safest place to show you this.”
In a few long strides, Eris reached the desk, and placed the heavy object right at its middle, the wood croaking slightly under its weight. A thick red fabric—an old Vanserra banner, from the looks of it—covered the globe entirely. Eris motioned for Elain to step in closer—and she did, as if drawn by the mystery of it alone. Lucien, though—Lucien remained frozen in place.
“This,” Eris began, placing his hand atop the smooth surface, “is the Veritas Orb.” In one, swift motion, he slid the banner off, revealing one of their family’s most prized and priceless possessions. The Orb shone a quiet, crystalline light, as though somehow made of all the colours and none of them at all, humming gently at the closeness of its owner’s hand—as if begging. Touch me. Talk to me. Ask me.
But Eris turned from its whisper—and looked at the Merchant’s daughter who stood in utter shock, mesmerised by the treasure laid out right before her.
“So, Elain Archeron.” Eris smiled. “Are you ready to learn the truth?”
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velidewrites · 5 days
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Jurian: I love you Vassa: I love you more Jurian: No, I love you more Vassa: No, I love you more Lucien: And I’d love it if you didn’t do this in the group chat
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velidewrites · 5 days
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ykw fuck it you can have slutty lucien too
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