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It had been a century since Lucien the Usurper launched his coup against High Lord Beron, ending centuries of tyranny.
When the magic of the land bypassed Lucien to crown his older brother, Eris, as the new High Lord, revolts began to stir. Many claimed Eris would be no different from Beron, that the change was only in name. The return of the Seventh Son from exile was supposed to breathe in new life, but doubt crept within their citizens.
Determined to take the seat of power himself, True Lord Lucien challenged his brother to a Blood Duel. Eris won, but in the final moment, chose to show mercy. Instead of killing Lucien the Betrayer, he banished him—to never set foot on Prythian unless he deems it so.
Yet, as the sons of Orla were taught, truth and lies always intertwined.
The coup had taken place, but it was only half-executed. Eris and Rhys were still in the midst of planning how Rhys would fulfill his end of the bargain when Lucien winnowed in, intending to resign. Both older brothers seized the unexpected opportunity. The Blood Duel? Staged. It was no different from the countless duels their father had forced them into as boys.
As for the exile? It was nothing more than a small patch of land—situated between the Autumn, Summer, and Spring Courts—gifted to Lucien by Eris as a token of reward.
Lucien would be remembered in history as the first fae to kill a High Lord and not claim a title. But in truth, he never sought the Lordship for himself. Never wanted it to begin with. Yet none of that mattered to him when he looked back on that day.
No, for Lucien, that day was burned into his memory for an entirely different reason: the day his mate rejected him.
It had been a month since he’d seen her in the streets of Velaris. What he witnessed had gnawed at him, day after day, until the need for answers became unbearable. When he finally confronted her, demanded the truth, she could not speak. Her face turned pale, almost green, as she stood there in silence.
“Lady,” he had said, his voice edged with exhaustion and hurt. “Just… reject it. If you care for me at all, just say it.”
Perhaps he had hoped she would argue, would deny what he had seen, or offer some explanation that might soften the blow. But instead, she closed her eyes. Silent tears traced down her cheeks, and her shoulders shook with the weight of her decision.
“Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if seeking his permission. “Okay.”
Lucien had been angry before, but this was something different—something darker, older, and deadlier taking root within him. Heat rose in him at the thought of Elain rejecting their bond, the connection that had haunted him, that he had hoped would someday mean something. In the back of his mind, a warning flared—he worried, even now, about what he might become if he let this anger consume him.
“A bargain,” he forced himself to say, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You do not see me. You do not seek me. You do not ask about me. I will extend the same to you.”
“Lucien,” she murmured, her tone turning soft, almost conciliatory. “I am still a seer.”
He scoffed. “You haven’t had a vision since Hybern.”
“I cannot accept that bargain,” Elain said, her gaze meeting his, defiant even through her tears. “If you appear in my vision and I can’t see you…”
He stared at her, jaw clenched. “Fine. Unless you receive a vision that specifically involves me, you will have no reason to reach out.”
She chewed her lip, considering, then nodded. “I accept.”
A faint mark appeared on the backs of their hands, sealing the bargain—a mocking reminder that even rejected bonds could leave scars.
With nothing left to say, Lucien turned and left, intent on finding Rhysand to hand in his resignation. His thoughts spiraled between anger and heartbreak, but when he entered the room, he was surprised to find Eris there, pressing Rhys about what he intended to do about the bargain.
The tension in the room spiked as Lucien entered, his bloodlust evident in the fury radiating off him. Both males turned to him, their expressions sharpening.
“I want to resign as emissary for the Night Court,” Lucien said, his voice steady but laced with rage.
Rhys’s shadows flickered, a claw scraping gently at the edge of Lucien’s mind. Lucien didn’t resist, allowing his High Lord to peer into his thoughts, letting him see exactly what he and Elain had done. Rhys’s eyes widened, then narrowed, darkening with understanding.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Rhys purred, a deadly edge to his tone. “Eris has a pesky Beron problem.”
Eris’s expression remained impassive, but there was a glint of something dangerous in his gaze.
Lucien’s jaw tightened. “Give me an opening—and make sure she rejects it.”
“I’ll see to it that she rejects it tonight,” Rhysand promised, his tone laced with deadly intent toward the one who had driven Elain to reject their bond. Lucien met his High Lord’s gaze, understanding the fury there, even as his own heart shattered.
They had mere hours to coordinate. And when the night descended, they would be ready.
The tears they thought he shed that night had been for his father. But they weren’t. They were for Elain.
When the rejection came, it struck like a final, devastating blow. And in the hollow ache left behind, Lucien unleashed everything he’d held back, pouring his heartbreak and fury into a blazing assault upon his father and the Autumn Court. His power tore through the land, searing everything in its path.
That night, as word spread of the Seventh Son’s retribution—of the fire and blood he unleashed upon his father’s court—Lucien’s name became etched into history. No longer remembered as a loyal emissary, but as an unstoppable force of vengeance, a reckoning that could not be tamed.
—
The days were quiet and peaceful, just as Lucien had once hoped. He lived simply now, even in the absence of Jesminda by his side. He closed his eyes, clinging to her name as if it were a lifeline, though her face had slowly eroded from his memory since the bond with Elain had snapped. No, that bond—fragile as it was—remained a flickering flame, one that refused to die. Sometimes, he could feel Elain’s euphoria, especially in the beginning, when she’d chosen a relationship over their bond. And afterward, the wrenching heartache when that relationship ended.
He didn’t know the details, and perhaps it was better that way. He could pretend not to care, but there were moments—when her sadness pressed into him, or her loneliness crept in—that he was tempted to check on her. Instead, he buried himself in his role as laird over the tiny patch of land Eris had given him.
Gone were the days of political maneuvering, double-crossing, and scheming. He might have once thrived in that world, but now, he found he did not miss it. In truth, everything he had ever wanted was here.
Lucien had taken a hands-on approach to his land—helping with farming, overseeing repairs, settling disputes among his tenants. They were glamoured to forget who he was the moment they stepped beyond the borders. He still trained with weapons, but it felt different now—calmer, without the weight of constant conflict.
Eris and Rhys had upheld their end of the bargain for helping to end Beron’s reign, leaving Lucien in his quiet exile.
Not even a year after Beron’s death, his mother, Orla, had shocked everyone by celebrating her mating ceremony with Helion. Lucien had been surprised, to say the least, considering Helion’s deep-seated hatred for Beron—and, by extension, for Lucien himself. The Mother indeed had a sense of humor.
But Lucien didn’t attend the ceremony.
Nor did he attend the birth of his two half-brothers, Kieran and Roshan. Still, he was happy for his mother, relieved that she no longer mourned the two sons he had caused her to lose.
Those who knew the truth of the uprising—Feyre, Cassian, Rhys—visited him occasionally, but the visits became shorter and less frequent as time passed. Lucien had stopped accepting their invitations to visit the Night Court, and he wasn’t sure what else there was to say between them anymore.
As for Vassa and Jurian, they were long gone, their children’s children now ruling in their place.
The one puzzle Lucien couldn’t solve was why his heir markers remained so prevalent. He had hoped they would vanish after he forfeited his claim to any court, but instead, they seemed to grow stronger over time. In the end, he found a glamour to hide them almost permanently, to the point where he almost forgot they existed.
He was content. Or at least, as content as someone with a rejected bond could be.
Until he saw the smokehounds.
The sleek, lean dog-like creatures lingered near his house one evening as Lucien returned from the fields. There was no mistaking who owns them—Eris. Lucien gritted his teeth but played the host regardless, inviting his brother to dine with his tenants, who gawked that the benevolent High Lord was joining them. The evening stretched on, filled with the bard’s music and the low hum of conversation, until the candles burned low and the shadows thickened. Finally, Eris turned to him with a smile, his eyes gleaming with something Lucien couldn’t quite read.
“The Day Court is hosting the Equinox Ball,” Eris announced, his tone casual, almost too casual. “Mother would like you to attend.”
Lucien raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Not sure I can still be considered ‘exiled’ if I show up at a ball. I’m supposed to be on the continent, remember?”
Eris waved a dismissive hand. “Helion can grant you access as his guest—or, if it’s easier, I could always revoke your exile.”
Lucien narrowed his eyes, watching his brother closely. A century had passed since he had last set foot in any court, but even after all that time, he could still sense when Eris was hiding something.
Eris caught the look and sighed. “You left the courts. There isn’t anything I can tell you that matters anymore.”
“Then why is it so important that I’m there?” Lucien asked, his voice sharp. “I see Mother often enough, and quite frankly, the sight of her with Helion is... disturbing.”
He shuddered for emphasis, but Eris merely smirked.
“It’s nice, seeing Mother finally in love,” Eris replied, his voice softening, eyes distant, as if lost in some wistful memory.
Lucien held his tongue. Of course Eris would remember their mother’s brighter days—when she was full of light and laughter. Lucien, though, had only seen her at her lowest: withdrawn, broken. His only memories were the late nights when she would creep into his room, hugging him tightly, her tears soaking his forehead after days of ignoring him.
“I suppose,” Lucien finally muttered, though the words tasted bitter in his mouth.
A silence stretched between them. Finally, Eris rose from his seat and reached into his coat. He pulled out a small envelope, sealed with the Day Court’s bright insignia, and extended it to Lucien.
Lucien hesitated before reaching for the invitation, his fingers brushing against the crisp paper. But the moment he touched it, a subtle shift rippled through him—a familiar, long-forgotten sensation. His eyes darted to the back of his hand, and his heart skipped a beat.
The mark. The faint mark that had once bound him to Elain, a constant reminder of their rejected bond and the bargain they had made—gone.
The realization hit him like a wave. The bargain had ended.
Elain could now speak to him.
For the first time in decades, Lucien felt something stir deep inside him, something restless and unresolved. He glanced up at Eris, who wore the same unreadable smile, as if he had known this would happen all along.
“I’ll think about it,” Lucien said quietly, his voice steady, though his mind was anything but.
—
Even though Lucien arrived fashionably late as he could, he could still feel the weight of their stares and the hushed whispers that trailed behind him. The Usurper. The High Lord Killer. The labels clung to him, but none of it compared to the sharp jolt in his chest when his gaze swept across the grand ballroom. Beneath the twinkling fae lanterns and a ceiling draped in purple wisteria, amidst the glittering partygoers in their silks and brocades, he spotted her instantly.
Elain, standing with her sisters.
She always looked radiant in amethyst. Tonight, the rhinestone-heavy bodice of her gown sparkled under the warm glow of the lanterns. The sweetheart neckline framed her delicate collarbones, and the dress cinched tightly at her waist before cascading into an elegant A-line. Her hair was pinned up, dotted with pearls that glistened like stars.
He hadn’t seen her in a century, he realized. The last time they spoke, she had cried then.
But now—she was smiling, a breathtaking sight that twisted in his chest. Lucien forced himself to turn away, not wanting the familiar ache of longing to show on his face. He hadn’t come here to be reminded of what he could never have. He only meant to make an appearance, speak to his mother, have two drinks and leave. Already, the walls of the ballroom felt too close, the urge to disappear back to his quiet life called to him.
He stalked towards his mother and Helion, weaving his way through the crowd. The two of them were too preoccupied with their smoldering looks to notice him at first. Lucien cleared his throat. Helion still regarded him with that cool, aloof expression.
Don’t worry, daddy, Lucien thought bitterly, I’m not here to kill you.
But his mother, Orla, lit up when she saw him, immediately pulling him into a doting embrace, her lips pressing against his cheeks.
“Darling,” she cooed, her tone warm and affectionate. “You made it! Are you planning to stay here for the night?”
“No, Mother,” Lucien replied. “I wish I could stay, but I’ve got repairs to handle back in my land. The last storm knocked out half the fence, and if I don’t fix it soon, the livestock will be running wild.”
Orla pouted. “But we so rarely get to see you.”
Helion’s voice cut in, sharp and commanding, exactly like Rhys when someone displeased Feyre. “Your mother would like you to stay.”
Lucien met Helion’s gaze evenly, resisting the urge to snap back. A retort burned on his tongue, but he swallowed it, forcing his face into a sarcastic smile. “We’ll see.”
Helion mimicked his smile, but colder. “See to it.”
Lucien, not one to let the jab pass, raised an eyebrow and asked, “Has Kieran or Roshan shown any heir markers yet?”
The question landed as intended. Helion gave a curt response. “No.”
Lucien’s smirk widened. The insult was subtle but sharp—a reminder that, despite Helion’s status, the magic of their court had not deemed his children worthy to lead. But it was Orla who delivered the next blow.
“Elain wouldn’t mind if you stayed,” Orla remarked offhandedly, as though she were discussing the weather. “She’s been such a wonderful courtier for the Day Court.”
Lucien’s smile dropped, his face stiffening into a frown. “Why.”
“She needed some time away from the Night Court after… well, after everything,” Orla explained, her gaze flitting around the room. “Poor thing. Rhysand and Feyre thought a change of scenery might do her good, so I offered to take her in.”
Lucien’s lips pressed into a tight line. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Elain being so close to his family in the decades he had been apart. He tried to remind himself that his mother had gained something of a daughter after losing another son. Still, the idea of Elain sharing this space with them—of her integrating so seamlessly into the Day Court—prickled at him.
“Let’s see how the night goes,” Lucien replied reluctantly, the urge to find something to relieve him of this conversation.
He turned away, eager to put distance between himself and the interaction. But as he moved through the crowd, he could feel the bond tugging. He glanced over his shoulder, and his heart stopped when his eyes met Elain again.
Her gaze locked onto his, wide and unblinking, as if she’d been watching him. The lively chatter around them muted, the music fading into the background. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Something unreadable flickered in her countenance—surprise, guilt, or perhaps something more.
Lucien’s chest tightened. He couldn’t tell if she’d been waiting for him to notice, or if she, too, was startled by their shared glance. But the weight of it settled deep, cutting through the air between them like a taut string waiting to snap.
He broke the spell and strode toward the bar, ordering the specialty without much thought, the thrum of tension still lingering in his veins. His eyes roamed the room as he waited, scanning what had changed since he’d left. The Night Court kept to their tight-knit circle, as usual, but now with two new females among them. He could feel their gazes shift to him.
They’ll find me eventually , he mused, if I decide to stay long.
Something else caught his attention this time. Each member of the circle seemed tethered by a golden thread—mating bonds, he realized. This time, his attention was drawn to something else. The detail made him furrow his brows, leaving him to ponder how and when it happened.
Lucien’s jaw clenched, and his gaze slid to Elain. She was across the room, a vision as she floated through the courtiers, laughing with Nuan of all people, as if she’d known her her entire life. She sparked the damned longing within him, but before he could get sucked into that vortex—
A shift in the air.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. His mechanical eye whirred, the lens automatically adjusting, recalibrating as it scanned the room for danger. Everything appeared normal. No one else seemed to notice. Yet Lucien knew better —he felt it, deep in his gut from instincts honed from hunting.
He glanced up.
His eye zeroed in on the ceiling. Something off. His eye broke through the marble surface, seeing beyond it—into something more sinister.
And then the ceiling gave way.
A thunderous crack, huge pieces of stone plummeting toward the floor, but by the time they began to fall, Lucien had already moved. His body reacted before his mind could, and in the course of a moment, he was across the room. His arms wrapped tightly around Elain, pulling her tightly against his chest. His eyes screwed shut in protection against the dust and debris.
“Lucien,” Elain said, her soft voice close that it tickled his ear.
He opened his eyes—and blinked in disbelief. Golden light surrounded them, a shimmering sphere holding the falling debris at bay. A shield of daylight, radiant and warm, encased them in safety. His glamour dissolved, his skin now glowing with a pearlescent bronze sheen, and molten red hair cascaded over his shoulders. Inside him, a core of heat burned brighter, brighter than it had ever felt before, protecting the one thing that was ever his.
“Are you alright?” he asked, still holding her close.
Elain nodded, but her wide eyes remained fixed on him, her breath catching as she took in the soft glow of the golden light that surrounded them.
“An attack!” someone shouted, but Lucien’s focus stayed locked on the glowing shield. Through the sphere, he saw them—thousands of bird-like shadows, clawing at the edges, desperate to break through.
He didn’t want to let Elain go. His instincts screamed that it wasn’t safe. But the way she held him back—the way her eyes searched his face as if seeing him for the first time—made him hesitate. She wasn’t afraid of him. Her gaze was filled with wonder.
The shield expanded, stretching outward with Lucien’s will until it touched the crumbling ceiling. And then, with a soft pop, the bubble dissolved, transforming into tiny golden flames that licked through the air, disintegrating the debris and creatures in an instant as golden dust fell.
Elain whispered. “So it is you.”
“What?” Lucien asked, still disoriented.
“You are the Day Court heir.”
Lucien’s stomach churned as reality crashed down around him. His heart pounded in his chest, louder than the stunned silence that had settled over the ballroom. He tore his gaze from Elain and looked around.
The entire room had frozen. Every fae in attendance—guests, courtiers, High Lords and their partners alike—stared at him.
At him.
No. His mind raced, grasping at something, anything, to make sense of this. This couldn’t be happening.
Eris was the heir. Lucien was of Autumn Court. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be the Day Court heir. Because if he was, that would mean…
His breath hitched. That would mean Beron wasn’t his father.
Before Lucien could fully process the thought, Helion stepped forward, his eyes wide with shock and begrudging recognition.
“The Day Court heir has been found,” Helion’s voice boomed with command. His gaze flicked between Orla and Lucien. “Lucien Vanserra is the Day Court heir.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd, but Lucien barely heard it. His heart stuttered. His world tilted. Oh, fuck.
Helion had just legitimized him.
The weight of what that meant pressed down on him, suffocating. Panic clawed at his chest, each new realization crashing into him. The responsibilities. The title. The Court. The political alliances he’d left behind. His place beside Helion—no, at the head of the Day Court.
And Elain.
The closeness to her that would come with this new role. The proximity he could no longer ignore, no matter how hard he had tried.
His mind spiraled, and in that moment of pure panic, he did the dumbest thing possible.
He released Elain and spun around, only to find himself trapped—shimmering wards pulsed around him, thrumming with Helion’s magic, a cage of blazing power.
A rush of heat exploded from him, brilliant and blinding, tearing through the wards and spells encasing the room. It was Helion’s power, but fiercer, sharper, channeled with raw, unrestrained force through Lucien. And then, before anyone could react, he winnowed, disappearing in a blaze of light and heat.
But when he landed—back on the edge of his quiet farm—something was wrong.
He felt her before he saw her, the warmth of her body pressed against his back. Her arms clung tightly around his waist, her breath shallow between his shoulder blades.
She hadn’t let go.
Lucien’s heart stuttered as truth set in. He had let her go. He’d tried to leave her behind. But she—she hadn’t released him. She had chosen to hold on, even as his world fell apart around them.
He stood frozen for a moment, his mind racing to process what had just happened. The rows of crops lay stretched out beneath the moonlit sky, his patch of land quiet and serene—a meager fraction to the truth he had just uncovered about his birthright.
“Lady…” he whispered hoarsely, half-questioning, half-apologizing.
Slowly, she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “You are very hard to find,” she whispered, her grip still firm. “Had to find a way to get you to come.”
His throat constricted as he stared at her, the weight of her words-and all those words implied-settling between them like a loaded question.
He had winnowed to escape.
Yet she had held on.
—
“So you knew?” Lucien’s voice emerged sharper than he intended.
He wasn’t used to his patience being tested like this—especially not by her. Yet here she was, wandering around his property, deliberately ignoring his pointed offers to take her back. It annoyed him. He followed her as she headed toward the house, her gaze wandering over everything, taking in small details of the life he’d built in exile.
She wheeled abruptly on him, her wrist flicking so the back of her hand flashed in his direction. “I was wondering when you’d finally ask around about this.”
Lucien pressed his tongue against his cheek. He refused to rise to the bait.
“You really didn’t notice,” Elain sighed, crossing her arms over her chest.
Lucien didn’t say a word, but his silence spoke volumes. Of course, he had noticed—the mark gone—when the invitation had arrived… a day or two ago.…
“So much has passed in a hundred years,” Elain whispered, her arms wrapping tightly around herself.
It was then that he felt it: their bond flickered. No longer as dull, not as hushed as it had been for so long. His heart was hammering in his chest, and she turned pink as her eyes darted away from him.
It was too much—too much to process all at once, with everything else hanging over his head. The responsibilities of an heir weighed upon him like a boulder, and the events of the night were catching up, threatening to crush him.
“I’m going to bed,” Lucien said shortly, the tone a full stop. “If you wish to stay, there’s a spare bedroom upstairs on the left. If not, you’ll find sheets on my desk to send a message. Good night.”
He turned on his heel, ready to leave her standing there, but her voice stopped him cold.
“We ruled the Day Court.”
Lucien froze. Slowly, he turned back to face her. “We?”
Elain shut her eyes a moment, as though steeling herself. When she opened them again, her voice was firm, but low. “You and me. That was the vision.”
Lucien’s snort was harsh, filled with skepticism. “What, as separate rulers or—”
“No.” Her voice cut him off, sharper now, her patience visibly thinning. “Not separate. And that doesn’t explain…” She hesitated, her cheeks flushing as she looked away, clearly struggling to find the right words.
“Explain what, lady?” he demanded, his tone clipped, irritation simmering beneath the surface.
She pressed her lips together, her eyes flicking away, looking both frustrated and mortified. Lucien raised an eyebrow, watching her struggle, his own annoyance flaring. He’d had enough of vague half-answers and the way she seemed to dance around the truth.
She took a breath, forcing herself to continue. “It doesn’t explain… the amount of sex we had in that vision. Or the children… who looked like you and me.”
Lucien stilled, his eyes blinking as the meaning of her words registered. He stared, and then a laugh escaped him—deep and disbelieving. He snorted, his head shaking, as laughter bubbled up from his chest.
But Elain wasn’t laughing. She didn’t look at him, her face red as her lips pursed into a thin line. And that was when it hit him—she wasn’t joking.
“You rejected it, remember?” His tone was bitter and confused. “You rejected the bond, my lady .”
There was a flash of anger in Elain’s eyes, no longer the timid female he remembered. She scowled at him as she shot back, “As Orla did with Helion when you were born.”
Lucien blinked, momentarily stunned by the comparison. Elain stood taller, her shoulders squared, no longer shrinking under his gaze. The fierceness in Elain’s eyes caught him off guard—a spark of shock mixed with something raw, something he couldn’t quite grasp.
It reminded him, just for a moment, of Jesminda—alive and bright in her defiance, a fading memory that still lingered painfully close to the surface.
His mother. Mated to Helion. Long before Lucien killed Beron.
Elain. Looking like Jesminda. Long after she was gone.
He took a steadying breath, forcing himself to set those revelations aside—things to confront later, with the people who held the answers. But what did any of that mean for him and Elain?
“So, what?” Lucien demanded, his irritation simmering beneath the surface. “You had a vision, and that’s why you’re here now? That’s what changed your mind about giving this—” he gestured between them, “—a shot?”
“No,” Elain said softly, the sharpness yielding to something much softer as she looked down, exhaling heavily. “No. The vision happened after.”
“After what?” he pressed hotly.
She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, as if trying to shield herself from his words, her gaze dropping to the ground. It was her posture—the way she seemed to shrink into herself—that cut through his frustration, softening his resolve. And then the weight of her silence settled between them like a chasm.
Unable to hold back, he did the unthinkable: he took a step closer, closing the distance until there was barely any space left between them.
“After what?” he coaxed gently, his voice low, trying to draw her out.
Elain’s eyes flickered up, meeting his. Her face was raw, unguarded, and she swallowed hard before she spoke. “After I fell in love with the Day Court.” Her voice was barely a whisper, trembling with a vulnerability he hadn’t expected. “Until I realized… how much I saw you in it.”
Lucien stared, the words clawing through the walls he’d built around his heart. For a very long moment, he said nothing. There was nothing to say. The truth hovered between them, weak and throbbing.
And for the first time in a hundred years, he couldn’t look away from the bond between them—the hum of it, a pulse stronger than it had ever been.