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He had been spending some time in Winter, a noted guest of the high lord and a friend to his son, Kallias. The two of them were entirely different in so many ways—where Kallias was reserved, Helion was gregarious and quick to engage strangers. Where Helion preferred to use his wit to eviscerate his opponents, Kallias was quietly thoughtful. And yet somehow, the two heirs got along famously.

Which is why Kallias took it upon himself to enter Helion’s chambers one day and throw open the curtains, allowing the mid-afternoon sun to amplify the dark recesses of the room. Helion winced slightly, but adjusted to the harsh light quickly, his affinity for sunlight proving to be a boon in at least one regard. He pushed the leg of his lover off of him and sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes before glaring at his friend. Beside him, his lover stirred and raised herself up, white hair falling around her slim body.

“Out,” Kallias said simply, raising an eyebrow at the girl. She blushed and quickly reached for her dress, using it to cover herself as she rose from the bed, sketched a quick curtsy, and darted into the bathing chamber.

Helion opened his mouth to speak, but his friend raised a hand to cut him off.

“You too,” Kallias said, his eyes moving past Helion to the ice blue pair of eyes peering at him from under the comforter. Oh yes, he had forgotten about the bard.

The eyes blinked owlishly, then another white head of hair appeared as a slender man slunk out of the bed and followed his companion into the bath. Before he turned the knob, he looked back at Helion and raised an eyebrow in sultry invitation. Helion waved him off, annoyed at the gesture. He ignored the look of hurt on the bard’s reddening face as he scurried into the adjoining room.

“I don’t know how you do that,” Kallias mused, elegantly depositing himself into a chair near the bed.

“Do what?” Helion asked, stretching his arms over his head and luxuriating in a loud yawn.

“Just…turn it off the way that you do. With your lovers, I mean,” Kallias said, tilting his head at his friend. “You flirt so tirelessly and work so hard to get them into bed, and then you just…” Kallias trailed off, snapping his fingers to make his point about Helion’s changeability with his paramours.

“It’s just fucking,” Helion said baldly, peering at his friend. “Why are you here so early? If you wanted in, you could have said so last night,” he purred, subtly tapping the bed next to him in invitation.

Kallias let out a bark of laughter. “It will never happen and you know it, my friend. I am sadly at the sole mercy of females, tempting though you may be. Besides, I have no interest in being a balm for your broken heart,” he said, voice softening at the end.

Helion snarled, all traces of good humor vanishing.

Kallias raised his hands in a gesture that meant to signify that he had no ill intentions with his comment. Helion said nothing, preferring to give his friend the cold shoulder for a moment.

“Eris Vanserra is here,” Kallias said, after allowing Helion to have his petty moment of irritation. Helion blinked at him before letting out a groan and flopping back on the bed dramatically.

“You are intent on ruining my day,” he said waspishly, glaring at Kallias beneath his lashes.

“He’s here to introduce his new brother to the court,” Kallias said, that gentle tone returning. Helion felt nausea roil through him with lightning quick speed at the thought of encountering the eldest Vanserra spawn or the newest iteration of that evil fuck that called himself High Lord.

“I can’t,” Helion said bleakly, not bothering to mask the pain in his voice. “Kallias, I can’t bear it. Eris looks like…I just can’t.”

“It’s all right, my friend. I’ll explain that you’ve taken ill and aren’t up to attending the dinner we’re hosting. Eris will take it as an insult, but I don’t particularly care what he thinks. They’ll be gone at first light tomorrow.”

Helion shuddered in relief. “Thank you, my friend.”

Long after Kallias had left the room in pursuit of readying himself for the evening, Helion found himself pacing his elegantly-appointed chambers like a caged lion. Something painful and ugly churned beneath his skin, compelling him to move and avoid the needles of longing and anger that pricked at him from the inside.

His mate, the mate who had rejected him and cast him aside, had sent her offspring on a publicity tour of the seasonal courts and Helion wanted to vanish into nothing. He had come here with the express intent of getting away from everything that reminded him of her, of avoiding anything that had ever given him even a shred of hope that they would find their way back together.

He didn’t want to be angry with her, or resentful that she seemed to have moved on with her life while he was a wreck who couldn’t even bear to be in the same room with her children. He didn’t want to be pacing restlessly in a gilded cage because he couldn’t stand thinking about her. And he didn’t want to be jealous that the babe that Eris was probably trotting out right now to vaguely disinterested courtiers wasn’t his.

Her babe wasn’t his.

Helion leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, letting the heat of the roaring fire within wash over his skin. He liked the heat of the flames, invited their intensity as a balm for his restless heart.

His mind wandered aimlessly, to times long past. He thought of the first time he had met her, the guileless wonder in those wide russet eyes calling him to her and ensnaring him as easily as a fly in a web. He thought of their tearful parting when she’d been sold to Beron like a broodmare, her anguished protests when he offered to slit her betrothed’s throat in his sleep. He thought of carrying her away from that ravine where he’d found her, broken hearted with grief and clinging to life.

He thought of the last time they were together, when he had moved inside of her and swore that he had never loved before her and would never love after her.

A hundred shared dreams and broken promises haunted Helion throughout the night and when he came back to the present, the first rays of dawn were peeking through the heavy curtains of his chambers.

Idly, he floated towards the window, drawing the curtains back to allow the restorative energy of the sun to set him to rights. Movement caught his eye, and he peered down, catching sight of the red hair of Eris Vanserra as he hurried towards the carriage that was waiting to carry him and the bundle he clutched to him to their next destination. He couldn’t very well winnow with a newborn, Helion thought distantly, his eyes caught on that vivid hair that he loved and hated so much.

As though sensing eyes on him, the boy whirled around and looked up, straight at Helion. He glared at him, anger and resentment shining clear in those amber eyes, even from a distance. Helion inclined his head mockingly, eyes briefly drifting to the child cocooned in his brother’s arms. A wisp of red hair was visible through the blanket, but nothing else peeked out. Helion felt his heart squeeze. Another one that looked like her, then.

Eris Vanserra glared at him for a moment longer, then whirled around and vanished inside the carriage.

For a long time after they had disappeared into the early morning gloam, Helion stood at the window and waited for something that he couldn’t quite put a name to.

Such were the fancies of a broken heart that didn’t know how to heal.

The Second Time

Helion did not want to be here. In fact, if he had to choose between being where he was and being in an enclosure with rabid badgers, he would choose the badgers.

Although perhaps, he thought wryly, it would be hard to spot the difference with an untrained eye.

“This is an outrage, Tamlin. You father would have never DARED to speak to me like this,” Beron Vanserra seethed, all hot air and offended sensibilities over absolutely nothing. Helion shoved down his sharp retort, forcibly turning his attention to the new High Lord of Spring.

“Continue, Tamlin,” he encouraged, more to help get this awful meeting of the minds over with than because he truly wished to hear what the whelp had to say. He ignored Beron’s snarl at his presumption to give orders at a High Lord’s meeting, given that he was not yet High Lord. Helion bit back an acidic reply. He wouldn’t give the fucker the satisfaction.

He was here in the Forest House at the behest of his father, High Lord Phoebus. His father hated Beron and refused to interact with him unless absolutely forced and why put himself through that when he could simply send his only son in his place? Helion suppressed a sigh and tried to turn his attention back to the meeting at hand.

Tamlin gave him a curt nod of thanks, and then continued with his rehearsed speech about finding common ground despite the upheaval of the last few months. Helion barely contained his grimace. That was one way to put it, he supposed. The murder of the Lady of Night and her daughter and the subsequent retaliatory slayings of Tamlin’s father and brothers and, ultimately, the High Lord of Night, had come perilously close to destabilizing Prythian, still recovering from the wounds that Hybern had inflicted upon it. A civil war would have been a complete disaster for the entire continent and as sad as Helion was at the needless bloodshed, he was glad it had not come to that.

His eyes traveled to the corner of the room, where his old friend sat silently, shrouded in darkness. His heart hurt for Rhysand, his friend and sometimes lover. Very few people saw the male beneath the carefully cultivated image that he projected, but Helion did. He always had.

Rhysand had come to him in the early hours of the morning, several weeks after that terrible night when he and Tamlin had both ascended to power. Rhysand had been an emotional mess, and Helion had done his best to comfort his friend. He’d reassured him and talked him down. He’d allowed the younger male to trail kisses along his neck and pull him down to rest between his thighs. Helion had given in and fucked him within an inch of his life when he begged to feel something, anything that wasn’t unrelenting sorrow.

It was what he did best, Helion reflected bitterly. He didn’t resent his friend, didn’t resent giving him what he had needed in that moment. But sometimes he was tired of feeling like the majority of his worth was perceived as being in his cock and not in, well, any other part of him. He knew that his friend didn’t feel that way, and yet…sometimes Helion wondered if that WAS all that he was good for. He certainly wasn’t cut out to be a husband or a father, based on how things had gone down with his mate.

As if he had conjured it, a faint scent of fire and chestnut reached Helion’s nose, snapping him out of his morose thoughts and making his body stiffen with interest. Damn her, he thought savagely. His fists clenched at his sides, and he fought every instinct that was screaming at him to find her, touch her, smell her, taste her.

She didn’t want him and he would be DAMNED if he ever begged her for anything again.

His mind flashed involuntarily to the last time that he had seen her, when he had begged her not to leave him, when he had cried and promised to do whatever she wanted, to kill anyone who stood in their way, if she would just stay with him. She had stood there, tears streaming down her face, one hand clutched over her midsection, and when he was done, when he had bared his soul to her in every way he could, she had simply turned and walked away.

He didn’t know if he could ever forgive her. But gods, did he want to.

“This is getting tedious,” came the bored voice of Rhysand, breaking Helion out of his reverie. “Hurry up and get to the point, Tamlin, so that we can retire at some point this century. I am weary of hearing you talk,” the High Lord said, tendrils of darkness swirling about and punctuating his barbs.

Tamlin growled, an ugly sound that Helion didn’t like.

“Enough,” Helion said, suddenly tired to his bones. “High Lord Beron, may I suggest that we end here? I find myself agreeing with Rhysand on feeling weary. Perhaps a night of rest would do us all good.”

Beron looked as if he would argue, but Rhysand chose that moment to lean forward, something sparking in that otherworldly gaze that caused even Beron Vanserra to shut his mouth. Helion quietly relished the fear that passed over the little rat fucker’s face. He made a mental note to buy Rhysand a drink the next time they were alone and he could have sworn his friend’s lips twitched in reply.

Helion stood from his chair, stretching out his cramped muscles. He was about to give him another sarcastic prod when the door to the meeting chambers opened and Helion’s heart stopped as the Lady of the Autumn Court entered, flanked by her ladies in waiting.

She was so beautiful that his teeth ached as he beheld her. She was thinner than he was used to, something that made him frown. But she still had the same beautiful complexion, color high on those perfect cheekbones. Her eyes were downcast, but he still appreciated the full sooty lashes as they rested against her porcelain skin. Her hair was half up in a severe Autumn-style knot, but the loose parts fell in gentle red waves around her shoulders. He remembered the feel of that silky hair wrapped around his fist as he praised her while he took her from behind.

“My lords,” his love said sweetly, the sound of her voice causing a shiver to run down his spine. “The Autumn Court is much obliged to welcome you. We have prepared rooms for you, and encourage all of you to settle in and rest. Supper will be held in your honor at seven o’clock this evening in the Great Hall. If you need anything, the staff is here to serve. I am also at your behest,” she finished, her eyes fluttering up quickly before she cast them down again.

“Yes, yes,” Beron said impatiently, waving a hand dismissively at his wife. Anger coursed through Helion’s veins at his rudeness and he longed to cut Beron’s tongue out and feed it to him for the slight. But when his eyes found hers, he recognized the plea in them. Please please don’t cause trouble, she seemed to say.

His gaze shuttered and he looked away.

“Mama?” came a small voice from the doorway. The lady whirled around at the same time that Beron let out a snarl.

“Get that little beast out of here,” he snapped, taking a menacing step forward. Helion didn’t know what came over him, but the next thing that he knew, he was stepping directly in Beron’s path, hand outstretched to stop him from getting to his wife and child. Beron’s eyes simmered with a strange sort of rage and Helion snarled in response. Dimly, he heard Livia frantically shushing the toddler, who had begun to cry at Beron’s harsh words. A shuffle of sound erupted behind him, and he heard the toddler’s cries dim as his mother whisked him away, her ladies following.

Beron was still focused on him, flames erupting from his fists as he clenched them by his sides. Helion was puzzled by his overreaction, but his body was also singing to meet the challenge and finally give Beron what he so richly deserved.

“Now now,” Rhysand said in a sing-song voice, smoothly stepping between Helion and Beron, who was still seething. “Let’s not do this before supper. I’m tired and I can’t handle bloodshed before the first course has even been served,” he crooned.

Beron’s attention snapped to the High Lord and he looked as if he would say something, but again, something about the High Lord of Night unsettled him enough to cause him to keep his mouth shut. With one last furious look at Helion, Beron swept past the assembled High Lords and left in a huff, slamming the door behind him.

Nervous laughter permeated the air in his wake. Nostros, the High Lord of Summer, made a joke to lighten the mood and the other High Lords laughed uneasily. One by one, they exited the meeting chamber until it was just Helion and Rhysand left.

“That was unwise,” Rhysand said smoothly, tilting his head to the side. Helion glared at him for a moment before he let out a sigh. Wearily, he let his body fall back into his chair.

“I know,” he said, running a hand over his face. “But Rhysand, I cannot bear the way he treats her. If I had my way, I would—”

“But you don’t have your way,” Rhysand reminded him sternly. “And if you want her to remain safe, you will leave it alone.”

Helion snarled at his friend, his eyes flashing golden. Rhysand said nothing, only lifted one ebony brow in response. Helion felt all of the air go out of him. His friend was right and he knew it. Livia had made her choice, had decided to make her marriage work. Helion had no place involving himself in her business. But something about the way that Beron had reacted towards her and the child…

Helion hadn’t even seen the boy’s face. He wondered if the poor thing had cried himself to sleep in his mother’s arms. Something tightened in his chest and he longed to do violence to someone, anyone. He looked hopefully at Rhys.

“No, no, no. Absolutely not. This outfit is bespoke,” Rhysand said, brushing away invisible dirt from the shoulder of his black coat.

Helion rolled his eyes and stood up again. He laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder for a brief moment.

“Thank you for being the voice of reason. For once,” he teased, before slapping him on the back. Rhysand let out an aggrieved sigh and stepped away, straightening the clothes that Helion had mussed.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you,” Rhysand said, totally deadpan.

Livia didn’t make an appearance at dinner that night. Helion didn’t see her or her child again before he left the Forest House the next afternoon. But when he allowed himself to think of her, which he did less and less frequently as the years rolled by, he would remember that moment and wonder what had come over him.

The Third Time

If Amarantha didn’t shut the fuck up, Helion was going to take one for the team and just fling himself at her and hope for the best. He didn’t want all of this power anyways, he might as well use it for a good cause before he was taken out of the world.

His bones ached with said power, the sharp sting of it filling up every part of him and threatening to overwhelm him at any moment. He’d been the High Lord of Day for approximately three days, fourteen hours, and twenty-nine minutes and he was already over it.

Somewhere, he heard his second, Mithras, fussing at one of his courtiers to be quiet.

What did it matter? They were all going to die anyways. Amarantha couldn’t be overcome, couldn’t be stopped. His father, the cleverest person in all of Prythian, had thought that he had outmaneuvered her. Now, his head sat on a pike next to her throne, his face contorted grotesquely in death. Helion avoided looking at it as much as possible, but the power singing in his veins was enough of a reminder of what had happened and of the price that had been paid for rebellion.

Amarantha was still droning on and on, and Helion longed for silence. He peered at Rhysand, who was standing stiffly next to Amarantha, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. Helion couldn’t make heads nor tails of what had possessed Rhysand in the time that they had been under the mountain. His friend had simply become a lap dog for the evil bitch and Helion wanted to believe that there was more to it, wanted to think that Rhysand had a plan, but it had been fifty years and nothing had materialized.

One of Amarantha’s goons leaned in to whisper something in her ear, interrupting her diatribe. She grinned maniacally and Helion grimaced. Whatever brought Amarantha joy was sure to rain misery down upon the rest of them.

She stood up from her throne, her blood red nails flashing as she brought her hands together and clapped.

“It seems we have a guest for court,” she proclaimed loudly. “Rhysand, do be a dear and make sure that we don’t leave our guest waiting. I’m sure he has important information to share,” she crooned at Rhysand, her nails dragging lightly across his chest as she pressed herself close to him. Rhysand looked carefully bored, that beautiful face giving nothing away. He simply nodded once, then disappeared.

He reappeared a few moments later, a male trailing after him.

A sharp gasp made Helion’s head turn towards Autumn, where Livia had clasped a hand over her mouth. Beron’s arm was around her shoulder and he was squeezing her in warning. Helion frowned, and looked back towards Rhysand. He stepped out of the way and back up to the dais to take his place next to Amarantha, who had gracefully returned to her throne.

Helion couldn’t see the male’s face as his back was to him, but the abundance of crimson red hair and Livia’s reaction confirmed the boy’s identity. This was her lost son, the one they called Lucien. He was Tamlin’s emissary, Helion recalled. He wondered why Lucien was here and not the erstwhile High Lord that Amarantha so desperately lusted after.

“Come, Emissary. Tell me—what news of Tamlin and his court?” She asked sweetly, crossing one leg over the other. Her blood-red hair trailed down her arms, the color unnatural and ugly on her.

It was silent for a moment before Lucien spoke. “High Lord Tamlin sends his regrets that he is not able to be here in person. He is hopeful that in his stead, I might humbly offer some path forward towards peace between you.”

It was a pretty turn of phrase, Helion thought, impressed by the boy’s composure.

Amarantha did not agree. Her smile fell.

“And what of my offer to him?”

“Lord Tamlin is amenable to establishing some sort of trade between the Spring Court, or offering a minor---”

“That is not what I mean, and you know it,” Amarantha hissed, rising to her feet. The courtiers that had been watching the exchange all fell deathly quiet, the tension commanding their silence.

Lucien said nothing. His head remained bowed, a fact that only seemed to agitate Amarantha further.

“Lady,” Amarantha called sweetly to the crowd. Helion felt the blood in his veins turn to ice when he realized that she was talking to Livia. “Perhaps you can explain to your son what it means to answer a question directly when he is asked.”

Livia said nothing, but even from a distance, Helion could sense her distress. Beron was whispering furiously to her now, his arm still wrapped around her like a band. Helion’s power flickered and surged inside of him, and he used every trick he knew to get it under control. He would not damn Livia or her child by losing control in front of Amarantha while she was in a mood.

“I understand what it means,” Lucien snapped. Helion silently cursed. So much for composure.

Amarantha’s attention returned to Lucien. It dawned on Helion that perhaps that was his intention in snapping at her—to get her focus off of his mother and on to him.

Well-done, Helion thought. But the boy needed to bring it back down.

“Then tell me, Emissary. What does High Lord Tamlin say to my offer of…partnership?”

There was something deadly in Amarantha’s tone and Helion did not like it one bit.

Lucien hesitated for a moment. And then—“High Lord Tamlin is appreciative of the efforts you’ve put forth to strengthen ties between Spring and…your court. But he must decline your offer of partnership.”

Helion didn’t know how the boy kept his voice steady. He watched Amarantha’s emotions play across that hideously beautiful face. Frustration, longing, rage.

“Is that so?” She finally asked, her voice breaking on the final word. “Tell me, Emissary, did he come to that conclusion on his own? Or did you help in poisoning him against me?”

Lucien stiffened, a sign of temper that Helion winced at. Do not make things worse, he thought.

“I only offered advice when asked. High Lord Tamlin makes his own decisions.”

Amarantha hissed, and grabbed Lucien’s arm, spinning him so that his profile was visible to the crowd. She slunk in front of him again, fists still clenched at her side.

“And what say you, Emissary? In your infinite wisdom,” she crooned, letting her nails trail along Lucien’s chest, “what would you have done?”

Lucien winced, but said nothing.

“Answer me!” she screamed, and Helion jumped at the intensity of the sound. Her nails were hooked into the emissary’s shirt, threatening to destroy the fabric as she tugged on it involuntarily in her anger.

Something noticeably changed in Lucien’s expression, even in profile, and Helion felt dread flood his entire body.

Do not, do not, DO NOT.

“I would tell you,” Lucien said sneeringly, leaning in to Amarantha’s face, which was only inches from his, “to go back to the shithole you crawled out from.” And with that, he spat at her feet.

Helion closed his eyes, sick to his stomach. Some part of his magic involuntarily reached out towards Livia in a vain attempt to offer her some comfort before she had to watch her child be murdered in front of her.

In later years, Helion would have been hard pressed to accurately recall exactly what happened next, so chaotic were the next few minutes that stretched out into an eternity.

Quick as an adder, Amarantha raked her nails across the boy’s face. Lucien recoiled, seeking to get away from her. Blood began pouring from the marks on his face, but Helion was distracted from the gruesome sight by the loud whimpers that were coming from Lucien’s mother. Rhysand stepped forward and grabbed at Lucien and for a moment, Helion thought that he was going to remove the emissary and get him out of Amarantha’s firing range. But Rhysand’s only purpose was to restrain Lucien and hold him still for Amarantha to continue her work on him.

Livia’s distress only grew more pronounced. Beron had seized her completely, his arms wrapped tight around her to prevent her from doing something stupid, like trying to save her son from his certain fate. Her whimpers had become sobs, despite her husband and children frantically trying to quiet her.

Helion wanted to murder everyone, just to make her pain stop.

Amarantha had other plans. She smiled at Lucien, who to his credit was attempting to hold his head high and meet his death with as much stoicism as he could muster with blood pouring down his face. Helion met Rhysand’s gaze briefly—he knew his disappointment in his friend was evident, and he could have sworn he saw Rhys wince a little in response.

“Kill me,” the boy said quietly, no fear or hesitation in his voice, “and let’s be done with this.”

Amarantha smiled.

Before Helion could blink or process what was happening, the bitch had dug her nails back into Lucien’s face. The emissary flailed against Rhysand’s iron grip. Livia was screaming now, the sound piercing Helion in a way that made him want to simply cease to exist.

Amarantha didn’t content herself with scoring his face. She began to dig her nails into his eye. Nausea roiled through Helion as he realized what she was doing.

Lucien, unable to help himself at this point, began to yell in pain, the sound echoing in the now quiet hall. Helion, unable to bear seeing Amarantha yank Lucien’s eye from his socket, looked again at Livia. She was sobbing, but no longer screaming. Beron was still holding her back, but she wasn’t fighting him anymore, not really. She turned her gaze from her son and found Helion’s eyes upon her. Tears streamed endlessly down that beautiful face as she held his gaze as her son’s screams died out as Amarantha finished with him.

I’m sorry, my darling. I’m so sorry.

Helion didn’t know if she could hear him through the bond. But something shifted in that gaze, so full of pain and anguish. If he could know that he had brought her even a little comfort in that horrible moment, Helion would have been content. But Livia’s gaze shuttered as she succumbed to her sorrow and she turned her face away from Helion and buried it in Beron’s shoulder.

Helion’s attention turned back to Amarantha, who now held up Lucien’s eye in the air, her gore-covered fingers not seeming to bother her in the least.

“Let this be a lesson to those of you who think that you know better than your queen,” she said, facing each of them as she sauntered around the room with her prize. In the background, Lucien moaned, his hand pressed uselessly to his ruined face, blood continuing to pour out of him.

Take his pain away and get him out of here, Helion begged silently. Rhysand shifted slightly on his feet.

“I’ll deposit this…thing back on his master’s doorstep,” the High Lord of Night said, moving to haul Lucien to his feet.

“Do that,” Amarantha cooed to him, “and be back in time for dinner.”

With that, she dropped Lucien’s eye on the floor and crushed it beneath her heel as Rhysand disappeared with Lucien in his arms.

Amarantha turned to the Autumn delegation. “Let that be a warning to all of you. And High Lord Beron…please try harder to control your wife. Her screams gave me a headache.” Beron, his face pale and leeched of any of his usual arrogance, nodded stiffly, even as he released his hold on Livia.

The Lady of Autumn was quiet now, her gaze firmly on the floor. Helion’s heart was aching, every instinct compelling him to go to her and share her pain. But for her sake, and for his, he said and did nothing as the Autumn Court filed out of the room.

The Fourth Time

“High Lord Helion,” came the voice of Mithras, the second in command of the Day Court and Helion’s most trusted advisor. Helion looked up from his book, slightly annoyed at the interruption. The time after dinner and when Helion retired for the evening was the only real time that he had to himself, and he guarded it jealously. Even bedtime was usually more exciting than not, he thought ruefully as he shut his book and turned his attention to his friend and advisor.

Helion waved his hand to encourage Mithras to deliver his message.

“Lord Tamlin’s emissary is here. He says that he must meet with you, and that it’s urgent.”

Helion frowned. “Did you press him for more information?” he asked, rising to his feet and indulging in a stretch of his cramped muscles.

Mithras nodded. “He says that the Spring Court isn’t under attack, but that the High Lord is dealing with…a grave matter that needs our attention.”

Helion lifted an eyebrow. He hadn’t been impressed with Tamlin or his responses to Prythian’s recovery efforts since they had been freed from under the mountain, but his audacity was oddly commendable.

“Tell the boy I’m indisposed,” Helion said, turning to walk away from Mithras. “But give him access to the first level libraries and encourage him to be more forthcoming about his business here before he makes demands.”

Mithras chuckled, but nodded in assent.

With that, Helion wandered out to his personal gardens, determined to get some peace and quiet before calling it a night.

His thoughts were far away, as always, somewhere in the hidden heart of the forest. He wondered if his love was as restless as he was, if her thoughts had turned north, to the lonely keeper of Prythian’s knowledge.

He missed her, he realized, his heart aching. He missed her voice, her laugh, the way that she would never rise to the bait he teased her with, the way that she rested her head above his heart, her little sighs against his skin a reminder of what love, real love, felt like.

Helion was broken from his reverie by the sound of a scuffle nearby. Concerned, he strode towards the corridor that adjoined his personal chambers, then came up short when he looked across the courtyard and made out the fiery red hair of Lucien Vanserra glowing in the faelights.

Helion sighed. He was getting too old for this shit.

“Mithras, relax,” he called. The advisor released his hold on the youngest Vanserra immediately, but didn’t step away from the boy. Helion had to hide his smirk when he took in Mithras’ disheveled appearance, even at this distance. The emissary had given as good as he had gotten, it seemed.

“Vanserra,” he said, making his voice stern. “This is not becoming behavior.”

Lucien was too far away for Helion to see his face clearly, but he thought he noticed the emissary wince. Good.

“I apologize, High Lord,” Lucien said, then belatedly dipped his head in deference. He made to take a step forward, but Mithras shot an arm out, preventing Vanserra from getting any closer to his High Lord.

Helion rolled his eyes.

“Well, out with it. What has caused you to behave so rudely in a foreign court that has shown you hospitality?” Helion hoped his tone adequately conveyed his irritation, but he was afraid he only sounded tired and disinterested.

“Forgive me, High Lord,” Lucien said, once again dipping his head. “There is a matter of some urgency that I need your assistance with.”

Mithras let out an irritated noise and made to haul the emissary away without waiting for Helion’s response, but the High Lord held up a hand and once again forestalled his advisor. Mithras would later berate Helion and ask why he was so tolerant of the boy’s foolishness, but Helion would not have an answer for him, at least not one that he was willing to share.

The Vanserra boy was part Beron, which made him loathsome and intolerable to Helion. But he also came from HER and she was everything good and beautiful in this world, so surely the child she loved so much had some good to him, too.

Helion wanted to scoff at his own sentimentality. He had had PLENTY of dealings with Eris Vanserra and the fruit could not have fallen further from the tree with that one. And yet…

“Speak, then. I will decide if your request is viable.”

Lucien appeared to sag in relief, and Helion waited while he got his bearings, his hands clasped behind his back. He suspected he knew what this was about, but he would allow Lucien to make his request before shooing him off.

“High Lord Tamlin seeks a way to help his m—his betrothed. She is bound to the High Lord of Night, through no fault of her own, and the bargain is forcing her to abscond with him and be made a fool of in his court.” Lucien was agitated during his speech, his hands waving about aimlessly as he talked. Strangely, the golden roses that adorned the courtyard and were this court’s pride and joy as they were native only to Day, seemed to sway along with the movements of the boy’s hands, as if answering to some power within him that beckoned to them. Helion resisted the urge to rub his hands over his eyes. He was seeing things now. He must have been more tired than he realized.

He sighed inwardly. His suspicions had been correct, and the emissary was here to beg to break a bargain that could not be broken.

“You know what I’m going to tell you,” Helion began, holding up a hand to ward off Lucien’s protest. “Let me explain why I cannot help you before you work yourself up into an outrage.”

Too late, Helion thought, amused to see the boy trying and failing to hide his frustration behind a bored courtier’s mask.

Helion felt compelled to move closer, to see the boy’s face in the faelight. Perhaps proximity would drive home the point if Helion’s words alone would not. But before he could make a move, Lucien turned to him and spoke.

“High Lord, with all due respect…I know bargain bonds can be broken. At least, some can. I’ve seen it. I’ve—well, I’ve been there when such spells have been…broken. Minor ones, as I said, but it can be done. Surely, with all of your knowledge and spell cleaving ability…” Lucien trailed off, his nerves seeming to get the better of him.

Helion’s eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. If Lucien had observed spell cleaving in any capacity, it was of interest to Helion. Spell cleaving was a rare ability, and he had seized on building a reputation on being one of the very few in the world who could even do it, let alone do it masterfully. In fact, he was perhaps the ONLY master left in Prythian and cleaving a bargain bond, no matter how flimsy, would require a master or someone with tremendous innate ability.

Before he could inquire further, Lucien took another step forward. The roses seemed to move with him, once again making Helion question his own state of mind.

“High Lord Helion, please. Feyre is my friend. You were under the mountain, you saw what she did for me…for all of us. I don’t know what Rhysand is doing to her, what he intends…” Lucien’s jaw clenched. “I was never able—I couldn’t help my mother. But I can still help Feyre. But I can’t do it without your help.”

Helion was grateful for the years of practice he had in hiding his emotions behind the mask that he showed the world because as much as he hated to admit it, Lucien had struck a nerve.

Of all the sins that Helion had committed in his life, his inaction to simply take Livia away from that monster was the most unforgiveable. He had tried to tell himself that he didn’t have the power to change her mind, that he couldn’t do that to his people, that his father would have never allowed it. All of those things were true, and yet they felt woefully like excuses. A familiar pain settled into his bones and he moved in a slow amble around the courtyard to relive the oppressive thoughts.

“I understand you, Lucien. More than you know,” Helion said after the silence had stretched too thin to be comfortable. “But I cannot help you with this. Please, do not interrupt. Let me explain.”

Helion maneuvered himself to a bench and lowered his body to the cool marble. He sighed, not knowing where to begin.

“Bargain bonds are hard to break, as you said. And any bargain spell from a high lord is no flimsy spell that can be broken with a little effort and a lot of fortitude. Rhysand is powerful. And I do not know what sort of bond exists between them.”

A lie. Helion suspected that Feyre and Rhysand were mates, based on his friend’s behavior and the tells that no one else but an old and trusted friend could have seen in him. And Helion could not and would not interfere with that.

“High Lord, it’s a ruse. You know how Rhysand is. He’s manipulative and cunning and he doesn’t care for anyone but himself. Do you know how many nights I’ve lain awake wondering what he’s doing to her? I can’t just sit on my ass and do NOTHING. Please. I am begging you,” Lucien said. Mithras still held the boy back, but his eyes darted to Helion uncertainly.

Helion sighed, and got to his feet. Time to be more direct, then.

“Even if I could help you, which I do not think I can…I would not. I am a High Lord and assisting you in interfering with Rhysand’s business would be taken as an act of war. Look there,” Helion said, pointing towards the open view of the Myrmidons. “Just beyond those mountains is the Night Court border. I would be putting my court in jeopardy to attempt to break a bond that I must emphasize again, probably cannot be broken. And with all due respect, Lucien, my people come well before Feyre or Tamlin or any other person in Prythian.”

His heart squeezed at the last. It was a hateful, painful truth. Helion had long fantasized that he would rush in and rescue Livia once he became High Lord, but the reality was…even if he could, he wouldn’t put his people through war just to have the female he loved by his side. Not that she would let him, he thought bitterly.

“It seems I’ve wasted my time,” Lucien said, disappointment radiating off of him.

“You are, of course, welcome to use the libraries.” A polite, carefully constructed answer that Lucien could certainly see through.

Lucien nodded once. “I thank you for your time, High Lord. I will stay at a nearby inn for a few days while I search the libraries. You can find me there should you change your mind.”

Helion wouldn’t and Lucien knew that, but he admired his courage in saying it all the same.

Lucien made to turn away, then stopped. “May your roads be clear and your path be guided.”

Helion let out a surprised huff of laughter. A traditional Day Court farewell, and said in the original Ashkani, no hint of an accent. This emissary WAS impressive.

“The same to you, emissary. By the way, where did you learn Ashkani?” Helion asked in his native tongue, curious about where a child of Autumn would have learned to speak the language of Day.

“My mother insisted,” Lucien said softly, tilting his head at the question. “She said that I needed to learn at least one other language if I wanted to be a diplomat, and she always said that Ashkani suited me. And I must admit, it is a beautiful language. I am glad that she made me learn,” Lucien said, still in Ashkani.

Helion’s heart ached painfully in his chest. Livia had ensured that her youngest child learned his language. It probably meant nothing, there had likely been no thought of him when she had insisted, and yet—something inside of him shifted, as if there was something he was supposed to be seeing here, some message that Livia was sending in her choice of language.

“I bid you goodnight,” Lucien said with a bow, and then he turned to leave.

“Lucien!” Helion called out, halting the emissary and Mithras both. “I wish you luck. Truly I do.”

A nod, barely perceptible. Then the emissary was gone.

The roses seemed to wilt in his wake.

The Fifth Time

Helion,

The fact that I have to write this is annoying, but I am doing it anyways.

Feyre and I would love to have you attend Starfall this year. We would not love it if you made a big spectacle of it. No chariots!

Feyre says the flying horse is more than fine. She also wants to know if he prefers carrots or sugar cubes.

NO CHARIOTS.

Yours,

-R

Helion straightened his black chiton, making sure that the golden viper broach that held his ensemble together was still pinned precisely.

Meallan had been a bit frisky and had flown faster than Helion had wanted, but he had made it here in one piece and as promised, High Lady Feyre had appeared with treats at the ready. His very pregnant friend exclaimed in wonder at Meallan, and then waddled over to give her offerings to the stallion.

Helion smiled at Feyre, but was careful not to get too close to her. He felt rather than saw Rhysand’s eyes on him and knew that his old friend would be incredibly fretful over his pregnant mate wandering too far from him.

“Well met, High Lady,” Helion said in his most courteous voice, bowing low at the waist. Feyre giggled and insisted that he didn’t need to be so formal.

“I don’t know, I think he rather needs the reminder that he isn’t the Mother’s gift to Prythian,” a droll voice came from behind him. Helion turned to the new arrival and rolled his eyes.

“Kallias,” he said, clasping forearms with his friend. “Lady, you look stunning.” This was directed to Vivienne, who was also pregnant. She beamed at the praise and nodded in deference. She and Feyre exclaimed over each other’s appearance and then immediately began talking about their upcoming arrivals, wandering off and leaving Helion and Kallias to talk.

They spent some time catching up, Helion asking Kallias about his impending fatherhood and Kallias inquiring about the rumors he’d heard that Helion would soon be looking for a bride. Helion grimaced and gave Kallias a pained look, confirming that yes, he was being pressured to settle down and have an heir.

“People have wondered for a long time when you would marry,” Kallias observed, taking a sip of his wine. He turned and lifted a hand in greeting to Rhysand, who was making his way over to them.

“I know. I’ve resisted for a long time. You know why,” Helion said, taking a more generous swig of his own drink. Rhysand chose that moment to join them, clapping a hand on each of their backs.

“High Lords, let me welcome you to Starfall,” Rhysand said dramatically, then bent at the waist with a little flourish of his hand. Kallias snorted and Helion just stared at his friend. He wanted to make a joke, but he was truly concerned for Rhysand. He knew about the baby, knew about the danger, and he could see the strain beneath Rhys’ irreverent façade.

Helion couldn’t imagine what he was going through. If it had been his mate, if something as joyous as the arrival of his child also heralded her doom…Helion would have lost his mind.

He didn’t ask his friend about his progress. He knew that his scholars hadn’t made any headway, and was certain that Rhys was still looking for a way out of his impossible dilemma. Helion had heard of some radical medical procedures that might help, but he would pass that information along later. For now, he could tell that his friend simply wanted to enjoy this night with his family and friends.

Helion felt honored to be counted among them.

He clapped his hand on Rhysand’s back and drew him into the conversation, enduring both of his friends’ jabs at his vanishing bachelorhood.

Some time later, Helion settled into his seat on the private balcony that Rhys had reserved for him and Kallias and Vivianne. He had an excellent view of the Night Court, and it was stunning. It would never compare to Day, of course, but Helion would keep that observation to himself.

Kallias and Vivianne talked amongst themselves, allowing Helion to observe the others on the surrounding balconies. There was the general and the fearsome “Lady” Nesta, whom Helion would have given his right arm to bed. She was beautiful and frightening and a force of nature, and he would have enjoyed conquering her. Or, rather, letting her conquer HIM.

His gaze moved to the next balcony over, where the shadowsinger was awkwardly making conversation with Varian, Tarquin’s cousin. Speaking of chasing a little strange, Helion didn’t understand how Varian had ended up enthralled to Amren of all fae. Even Helion was terrified of her, and he wasn’t afraid of much in this world.

A flash of red caught Helion’s eye, and his head snapped around to hunt for the source. His heart strained in his chest, but then settled when he realized he was looking at the back of Lucien Vanserra’s head.

The boy was sitting by himself quietly on the balcony below Helion’s. There was no one else with him, which seemed to suit the emissary just fine. Lucien had always struck Helion as the sort who was personable and friendly, but who was also well-acquainted with loneliness. Helion understood the paradox well.

He leaned over the edge of the balcony a bit, unable to help himself.

“Well-met, emissary,” he said in Ashkani. The boy turned in surprise and looked up. Helion couldn’t see him very well in the darkness, but the glint of his metal eye caught his attention.

“High Lord Helion, it is an honor,” Lucien replied, also in Ashkani.

Curious, Helion gestured to his face. “Does it pain you? The eye?”

Lucien hesitated for a moment before saying “No, not anymore. It took some time to adjust to it, especially the, uh, extra abilities, but I don’t notice it these days.

“Abilities?” Helion asked, his curiosity persisting.

“I can see spells and glamours,” Lucien said, still a bit hesitant. The boy didn’t trust anyone, Helion realized. The thought made him sad for some reason.

“Truly?” Helion asked, fascinated. “Can you see the glamours I have?”

Lucien let out a bark of laughter. “You mean the spell that enhances your appearance? Yes, I can see it. A little heavy handed for my taste, but at least the spell is well-crafted.”

Helion laughed at the boy’s audacity.

“You remind me of your mother,” Helion said, before he could stop himself. Instantly, Lucien’s guard seemed to go back up and he looked around, as if searching for some threat.

“How do you know my mother?” He asked, suspicion heavy in his voice. Helion cursed himself for his stupidity.

“Forgive me, Lucien. I did not mean to make you uncomfortable. I knew your mother briefly, many years ago. Your…wit reminded me of some of our encounters,” Helion said softly, not wanting to make Lucien any more discomfited by lingering too long on how, precisely, Helion knew the Lady of Autumn.

“It’s all right,” Lucien said after a moment, having evidently concluded that Helion meant no harm and posed no threat to his mother. “Forgive me for my reaction. I miss my mother very much, and I worry for her more than she would want me to,” he continued, the gleam of his teeth flashing even in the darkness.

Helion returned the smile. “I understand the feeling.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, and Helion was once again impressed by the young male’s ability to maintain a connection with others, even when no words were exchanged.

“I don’t remember her the way others describe her,” Lucien said suddenly, surprising Helion.

“What do you mean?” He asked, leaning over a bit more. He still couldn’t see the boy properly, except for that vivid red hair and the occasional gleam of his eye.

“I always hear about how happy she used to be. How much she laughed. She loved books and music and dancing. I never saw that side of her, not really. It disappeared by the time I came along,” Lucien said, his words wistful but not self-pitying.

Helion’s heart broke at the statement. A flash of grief rushed through him before he could stop it. Yes, Livia had loved all of those things. They had loved them together. In his darkest moments, he still pulled on the memory of her laugh, rich and joyful, to pull him out of his melancholy.

“Your mother was…a force of nature. A wonderful, happy soul who lit up the room around her more than I ever could,” Helion said softly, his mind wandering to times long past.

Lucien let out a snort. “No small feat when compared to a child of Day,” he mused. Helion laughed.

“Indeed.”

They moved to safer topics, discussing the origins of Starfall and then meandering into discussing different scholarly interpretations of the event. They talked for what seemed like hours, but was likely only a few minutes, stopping only when Kallias, who had been abandoned by his mate in favor of Morrigan, jokingly commented that he had no idea what they were saying but that he hoped it was complimentary towards him.

Helion started a bit. He and Lucien had held the entire conversation in Ashkani, the longest that Helion had spoken his mother tongue in months. He was humbled and grateful for the opportunity. There were others in his court who spoke the old language, but not as many as there once were. The common tongue was the language of trade and diplomacy, and so Helion didn’t get the pleasure of conversing in his first language as often as he would like.

And then the first stars fell, and Helion was drawn into the magic of the night. He felt lighter and happier than he had in decades, and he was grateful to his friends, old and new, for drawing out the real him in recent years, and not just the good times mask that he donned for the world to see.

And he was grateful to Livia’s son for the conversation.

When the last star had fallen and he and Kallias had laughed themselves hoarse at Rhysand getting smacked in the face with star matter, Helion peered over the edge of the balcony to say something to Lucien, but the boy was gone.

The First Time

Once, Helion had eaten a biscuit from Xian that had been laced with something intended to help him relax. He had eaten too much, and he had spent an entire day and night feeling like he was floating above his body, watching himself experience good food and music and sex through the lens of the truly high. When he had finally come back to himself, he wondered if he had imagined the entire thing, so disconnected did he feel from the experience.

He was reminded of that now, as he struggled to orient himself and shake off the numbness that had come over him at Livia’s words. He looked to his mate, who was seated next to him, her hands hovering as though she wanted to touch him, but was uncertain if her touch would be welcome.

Of course it was welcome, Helion thought dazedly, but he couldn’t make himself say the words. His mind wasn’t able to settle on anything, except for the words that continued to reverberate through his consciousness.

Lucien is your son.

Our son.

Nausea roiled through Helion and he leaned forward and put his head between his knees, trying to alleviate the urge to lose his lunch all over himself and/or Livia, who still hovered nervously.

She had come to him the night before, delivering the news of Beron’s death and the promise of something else, something hopeful that could be built between them.

He had intended to stay cordial, to offer his empty condolences meant to disguise his glee, and to let her set the pace of their interactions, even though his heart was threatening to explode from his chest.

In the end, neither he nor Livia were able to maintain their calm facades, and somehow her lips had ended up on his, and the next thing he knew, he had her pinned to the wall as he thrust himself inside of her while she cried out her joy and pleasure, her nails scoring his back.

Come morning, Helion had not found her in bed when he awoke. Panicked, he readied himself for yet another disappointment when he saw her perched in the window, the early morning sun gilding that remarkable hair and making it look like living flame. She had turned to him, tears in her eyes, and told him that she needed to tell him her secrets before they could go any further.

So here he was, head between his knees, while Livia fretted over him and he tried to come to terms with the fact that he had a grown son.

When she had first told him, he had blinked at her.

“Please tell me it’s not Eris,” Helion had said while disassociating from the entire conversation.

Livia had laughed, an anxious, reflexive reaction that had somehow made it easier for both of them to continue.

When she told him that it was Lucien, something like relief and joy and terror infused him all at once.

Lucien, the brave emissary who spoke Ashkani and talked back to tyrants and who had endured SO much pain and hurt in his comparatively short life.

Helion felt tears leak from his eyes and he was powerless to stop them.

“You made him learn Ashkani,” he gasped out, unable to quell his emotions. “You made him learn because you knew. You wanted him to have some part of me, even in a small way. My darling, I cant—I don’t know how—”

Livia tried to soothe him, but this was the sort of thing that couldn’t be soothed. He simply had to experience and endure and come to terms with the knowledge that his heart had been wandering around outside his body for all these centuries and he had had NO idea.

They spent days together, Helion having Mithras adjourn his court while he and Livia worked things out.

There was joy and euphoria, but there was also anger and pain and resentment. They made love, but they also argued and said hurtful things and Helion wondered for the first time in the centuries that they had known each other if this would be what broke them apart for good. And then they talked about it. And then they talked some more. They talked so much that both Helion and Livia were tired of hearing themselves talk.

Helion wanted to send her away, and Livia wanted to go. But they didn’t. They screamed at each other, Helion blaming her for denying him his son and Livia blaming him for getting her pregnant in the first place. It was ugly and rooted in half-truths and the cleansing anger of centuries worth of separation and pain.

In the end, they came back together and promised that they would try and navigate their new reality as best as they could, and that they would do it together.

Livia confessed to Helion that she had told Lucien a few weeks before. He had been angry, she had said bleakly, and that anger had been directed at both of them, but mostly at Helion.

Helion had closed his eyes, too tired to do anything but accept that it was entirely possible that his only son would hate him for the rest of their lives.

But people have a way of being surprising.

When Livia received the note that Lucien wanted to meet with both of them, Helion tried to temper his expectations.

When Mithras informed him and Livia that Lucien was there and waiting for them in the formal receiving room, Helion didn’t let himself hope.

And when he saw his son’s face up close for the first time, Helion tried not to be completely overwhelmed by the love that he felt, a love that he didn’t understand or know what to do with.

Lucien was perfect in every way, even with the hideous scar that marred his face. He was a mix of Livia and Helion, and Helion hated that he couldn’t stop his tears as he really saw his son for the first time. He had his mother’s high cheekbones and beautiful red hair. The gentle slope of his forehead came from her, as did the elegant cut of his jaw and the russet color of his eye. But the strong nose, the full lips, the wide shape of his eyes and the tawny brown of his skin…those were Helion’s.

“You’re both crybabies,” was the first thing that Lucien said to his parents, his scowl doing little to hide his own emotional response. So he was one of those, Helion realized happily. A snarky grump who hid everything he felt behind his sharp wit and one-liners.

Everything about his son fascinated him, but Helion didn’t want to overwhelm him with his own emotions, so he tried to reign it in as much as he could.

Fortunately for Helion, Livia had no such qualms and she launched herself at her son with a cry and the total expectation that he would embrace her back. She was, as always, completely right, and Livia taking the lead allowed Lucien to finally let go of his iron self-control.

He cried in his mother’s arms for what felt like hours, something that started out feeling rooted in loss and ended up feeling cathartic and hopeful.

And when Helion was pulled into their little group hug, he didn’t protest.

The Bonus Time

“Will you stop fidgeting?” Lucien asked, making a face at Helion. They were standing in the inner sanctum of the chief temple of the city, waiting on Lucien’s mother to make an appearance.

“Will you stop scolding me?” Helion shot back, his eyebrows raised. Lucien looked at him, considering.

“No.” He said finally, turning away and leaning down to adjust the straps on his sandals.

Helion rolled his eyes at the typical response from his son, who lived to roast him and point out his imperfections. But he was just so fucking HAPPY to have a son, especially one as accomplished and good as Lucien, that he found that he didn’t really mind.

Helion pondered saying something sentimental to Lucien, which he would absolutely not appreciate, but the words left him when he realized what Lucien was wearing beneath his sandals.

“Are those socks?” Helion shouted, startling the priestess who was in the room with them, causing her to drop the bundle she was carrying. Lucien gave her an apologetic look, then glared at Helion.

“It’s cold in here,” he reasoned, as though it were an acceptable explanation as to why he was wearing socks with his sandals.

“Take them off,” Helion demanded, pointing a long finger at Lucien’s feet.

“No,” Lucien said, scoffing at his father’s theatrics. “They’re practical and they keep my toes from freezing.”

“They’re hideous!” Helion practically wailed. “It ruins your entire outfit. And you are MY SON. Your bad choices reflect on ME.”

“Oh for the love of—there, are you happy?” Lucien asked, completely exasperated, as he took off his sandals and began removing the offending socks.

“Yes,” Helion said, beaming at having gotten his way.

“You are so fucking dramatic that I can’t stand it,” Lucien grumbled, but there was no heat in his words.

“I know,” Helion agreed happily, then sucked in a breath when he noticed the female who had just walked in. Lucien’s gaze followed his father’s, and his face softened when he saw his mother in her coronation dress.

This was the first of several ceremonies and events that would occur over the next two days. Helion and Livia had been married the night before, and Livia and Lucien were going to have a large coronation tomorrow morning. For now, this was the private ceremony that was just for the three of them.

“Are you two getting along?” Livia asked sweetly, looping one arm through her son’s and one arm through her mate’s.

“Yes,” Helion said, smirking over Livia’s head at Lucien. He rolled his eyes in response.

“You know, I was thinking,” Lucien mused as they walked towards the altar. “Maybe Eris could accompany the two of you to the ball this evening.”

Helion let out a forced chuckle. “That won’t be necessary. The High Lord certainly has other events that he would like to attend while he is here.”

Lucien made a show of looking confused. “Oh I’m sure he would be willing to take some time out to spend with the two of you alone.”

Helion gauged whether or not Livia could see him before looking at his son and silently dragging a finger across his throat in the universal signal for him to knock it the fuck off.

But Livia was wiser than both of them, and she halted in her tracks to peer at Lucien. “Stop threatening your father with Eris,” she scolded, then turned to Helion. “And you—stop baiting Lucien.”

They didn’t bother to protest, simply apologized to Livia and proceeded towards the waiting priestess together, as the family they were always meant to be.

For the record, Lucien disappeared mysteriously before the ball and Helion did, in fact, have to attend with Eris.

He never criticized his son’s fashion choices again.