Chapter Text
The Willowoods were preparing for Calanmai.
The manor bloomed with golden silks and slow-burning incense, as if the walls themselves were preparing to be devoured. Music floated from the lower halls—strings and reed pipes matched the dull thump of drums echoing from the forest through stone. The eldest daughter could feel it through the soles of her feet, like the earth itself was trying to seduce her.
And yet Siobhan was not allowed to go.
She sat at her vanity, hands methodically tugging the pins from her hairnet. Her braid, wound tightly against her skull, was starting to unravel with each breath she exhaled. A storm curling free one strand at a time. She watched herself in the mirror as she loosed the braid. Her cheeks were flushed with anger from arguing with Lord Willowood, her jaw tense. A female born to move, to rise, to dance. And yet—
For all thirty-eight years of her life, Siobhan had known one thing with unwavering clarity:
She did not belong to herself.
Before she had a name, she had a price.
The firstborn of Lord Willowood of Spring—sworn by his hand, before her first cry, as the settlement of a blood-debt owed to the Vanserra line.
Not to a specific male. Not to a lover or husband. Just… them.
The Autumn family. Old blood. Cruel blood. A house of iron and fire that would one day claim her as its due.
The irony was that she had only ever been free because they weren’t. While the High Lords and their families had been imprisoned Under the Mountain, Siobhan had lived untouched—untaken.
But the curse was ending now, the final days were close. And with every passing night, she felt her breath shorten, her future narrowing. No human savior had arrived to fulfill the ancient bargain, no mortal girl to take the weight of the spell. Which meant... Siobhan’s reprieve was ending. Her life was about to become very small.
Her father had once said, without a hint of hesitation, “A male heir is worth more than a daughter’s peace. We are blessed you were born first to spare your brother.”
And her mother—fragile as porcelain, elegant as a sculpture with hollow eyes—had once wept when she said, “You’ll be safe, my darling. Autumn is orderly. You’ll learn to adapt.”
Adapt. As if her life was a tight pair of shoes to break in.
Her mother never looked her in the eye when she said it. Not when she drank her morning spirit, not when she reapplied rose powder over, not when she wore her finest green-gold silks and stepped out with her husband and son for the Rite.
Of course Oisín could go. At barely twenty, her younger brother was not just allowed to attend—he was expected to. Willowood's heir, spring’s son, graceful and wind-bent and full of laughter. Just like her.
Only for him, it was charming.
For her, it was shameful.
Siobhan had always been just as fluid, just as free. But while Oisín’s swirls of magic and wind were praised, Siobhan’s were hidden, she was expected to learn restraint, to become palatable for her future captors.
“As it’s approaching, you must get used to the life of a servant” Was her father's last words before banishing her to her room and locking all doors and windows with a gust of magic.
Once the noise downstair ceased and it was clear the family had left, she abandoned her braids half undone and stepped toward the open balcony doors with her own, much more skilled weaving of wind, and let the wind comb through her hair. For a moment, she closed her eyes and imagined it lifting her off the floor entirely—just carrying her away. Taking her somewhere wild and lawless, where no one ever dared put her in a gown or sell her name like a dowry slip.
The wind howled louder—not magic, this time. Just eight extremely loud, incredibly committed degenerates screaming from the forest floor, their voices carrying like war cries as they approached her windows.
“Siooo!”
“SIOBHAN WILLOWOOD get your ass ready!”
Mari, as always, arrived first. Her gown was already scandalously sheer, the green silk whispering around her thighs as she twirled into the garden.
“Sio,” Mari stage-whispered, “be a darling and jump.”
Siobhan was already halfway out the window, her fingers curled on the outer edge of the wooden frame, her hairnet askew and the last pins still clinging stubbornly to her braid. The warm breath of Spring curled under her bare feet, eager to greet her. She didn’t jump—but she did let the wind nudge her down like a lover’s hand. A soft current twined beneath her soles, lifting the hem of her nightgown and softening her fall so she touched down not like a prisoner escaping—but like a bird finally perching where it belonged.
It was a small, lazy bit of magic. But it thrilled her.
“Show-off,” Cillian huffed, tossing an apple core into the grass. “Also, stupid Oisín didn’t share the plan.”
“I told you, they locked her in,” Oisín replied with a roll of his eyes and exasperated fondness. “She’s locked since sunset.”
“Willowood girls are getting bolder,” muttered Niamh as she approached, slipping the last pins from Siobhan’s braid with careful fingers. Her pale-blue dress—usually worn with a cloak as a novice priestess should present—was soft tonight, thin and fluid, tied only with a sash at the waist, no shoes, no jewels, no cloak. The sigils at her collarbone glowed faintly, the only remnant of her training.
“No,” Siobhan replied, brushing off her slip, “Willowood girls are getting desperate.”
A ripple of silence passed over the group. Just one beat. Then—
“Well, desperation suits you,” Mari said brightly, flinging an arm over Siobhan’s shoulder.
Mari, the only redhead among them, was living proof that Autumn got some things right. Her long copper curls tumbled down her back like flame, untamed and proud. Her gown tonight was transparent in most places and clung like a second skin in others. The Autumn blood was unmistakable in her—though she never confirmed which lord had visited her mother’s bed before disappearing into history. Her grin could charm the trees into dancing, and her breasts were already halfway out of her dress. Perfect, radiant, unapologetic.
The others stood in the moonlight like something out of an old Spring painting—half-feral, wholly beautiful.
Niamh, solemn and lovely, her bright blue eyes reflecting the stars.
Cillian, shirt half-unbuttoned, white linen clinging to his chest and hanging open, smug and proud.
Then followed Dallan and Branwen, their beautiful greenish skin were glowing, and both were already high on wine, touching each other and spinning slowly to the sound of distant drums. Sorcha, lithe and mischievous, her feet stained with earth, her dress made from scraps of silk dyed teal and her horns were wrapped in vine. And Finn—a child of sylph and high fae, who didn’t speak often but carried a reed flute and eyes like deep moss. The youngest of them all, though not by much.
There was something unique about their group. A peculiar, once-in-an-age collection of wild things. They were the very rare children of Spring—born in the fifty years after Amarantha’s curse lifted. Cillian, our oldest, was only six and had not been invited to the Cursed Ball—the one that stole faces and made masks part of Spring’s skin.
Lucky, they all used to say. None of them had a mask fused to their cheek. And though limited like their parents, their restrain over magic was also lessened.
But tonight…
Cillian reached into his satchel and pulled out something wrapped in velvet.
A mask.
Feathered. Deep blue like stormlight, with hints of emerald and silver depending on the angle of the moon. A hummingbird, sleek and bright and fierce. He handed it to her gently. “It's glamoured, So no one recognizes you.”
“They’ll all think you’re older,” Mari added, with a wink. “And more experienced.”
Siobhan held it up to the light, let the feathers shimmer in the wind, it was beautiful. It matched the gown Mari had brought her—green and blue and sheer in all the wrong places. The bodice barely tied in the back, the hem was cut like water. She would be unrecognizable.
So tonight was hers. The wind twined through her hair like a blessing, tugging at the sheer hem of her skirt, brushing warm fingers over the bare line of her back.
Siobhan tilted her face to the stars and closed her eyes. Let me have this.
Just this night, just this one breath of freedom.
“I want a male,” she murmured. “Strong. Vigorous. Someone who can keep up.”
The wind curled around her legs.
The drums called her name.
And in the distance, the party had already begun.
Ariston Vanserra stood at the edge of Spring Court land, inhaling air that actually smelled of something—grass, pine, smoke, a trace of pollen caught on the wind. Real air. Not the stifled, too-sweet perfumed drafts under the Mountain. This was the kind of air that kissed his skin with chill, that held weather, not ceiling stones and dried blood and wine gone to vinegar.
He closed his eyes.
Gods, he'd missed wind.
Under the Mountain, everything was stale, not just the air. His title—General of the Autumn Court, Second-in-Arm—meant nothing. There was no army to lead. No strategy to plot. No enemy to outthink. Just Beron’s orders whispered like smoke and the click of chamber doors and the creeping mildew scent of fifty years rotting underground.
He was restless.
That was the polite word. Others might’ve said volatile . Morose . In need of release .
He hadn't had the stomach for the pleasure halls like some of his brothers. Couldn’t bring himself to touch someone while knowing they couldn’t say no. Nor was he comfortable in the family chambers, when Beron’s voice might be heard down the corridor. Not when his mother sobbed only a wall away. Not when secrets and privacy were harder to keep than it already was in the Forest House. Ariston had been used to make the barracks his home, to spend the days patrolling and training and being freer despite the constraint of his duty.
So when Eris had pulled strings—used whatever influence he’d hoarded to secure one night of sanctioned leave—Ariston had nearly bolted for the exit.
And now, here he was.
Standing at the tree line, watching Eris disappear toward the Great Rite’s grout, where the drums were already roaring beneath the earth. That great stone cavern they used year after year, their field of ritual and rut. Ariston had no intention of stepping foot into it.
He wanted to walk . To breathe . He wanted dew on his boots, and wind in his hair, and firelight that came from bonfires and not jewel-toned braziers lit for show.
Ariston envied the Spring folk, even with their cursed masks, even with their broken court. At least they’d once had a High Lord wise enough to say no to Amarantha. Even if he’d failed, and then wasted his people’s freedom in the fifty years since.
As he moved through the woods, Ariston’s jaw relaxed. There were clusters everywhere—dancing in little half-circles near fires, or tangled in the grass, the music drifting like perfume through the trees, pipes whispered over the underbrush, the drums echoed from deeper inside the forest. Shadows moved with purpose, with heat, with want.
People watched him as he passed. Some stared openly, a few approached. They could see what he was just by how he carried himself. Being a Vanserra meant no one truly trusted you, and yet it also meant most couldn’t look away.
He accepted the mug someone offered, carved from pale whitewood, filled to the brim with fae wine. Sweet and thick, it clung to his tongue like honey warmed by fire, he drank deep, uncaring. The buzz hit fast.
This night was borrowed, Ariston intended to spend every ounce of it.
The forest breathed around him—leaves shivering with anticipation, wind threading through branches as if it too were hungry for touch. Calanmai pulsed here, awakened in sparks and kisses and bonfires where bodies burned beside the flame.
Another laugh rang through the dark. High and clear, a hypnotic thread winding through the trees. The drums sank deeper into his chest. He crested a rise in the land, and that’s when he saw her.
Dancing just beyond the clearing. Her body caught in the amber flicker of the fire, a silhouette moving like smoke and silk. Her arms rose. Her hips rolled. The sheer fabric of her gown shimmered green or blue depending on the light—no underdress, no modesty, just mist and motion and bare thighs shifting beneath the gauze.
Ariston stopped breathing.
She was silver-blonde and sun-touched, wild and luminous. Her skin glowed like polished pearl, her curves lit with shadows from the fire. A feathered mask shaped like a hummingbird hid half her face, gleaming sea-glass green and sky blue—vibrant, reckless, free.
Through the slits of that mask, green eyes met his across the firelight—watchful, amused. Alive.
Her arms lifted overhead again. A swirl of hair, a twist of hips. She laughed, bold and unguarded, the sound striking something so starved inside him that it hurt. Like she didn’t know what it meant to spend a single day buried underground.
His eyes darkened with want.
Her.
I want her.
The drumbeat settled into her spine, low and heady, like a second pulse.
Siobhan twirled, the sheer skirts of Mari’s stolen gown swirling around her legs like mist. Someone had vanished into the trees with someone else. Maybe two someones. Maybe more. She hardly noticed anymore. The wine in her blood and the grass beneath her bare feet were enough to untether her from reality. Calanmai had always been wild, but tonight—tonight it felt feral.
Niahm lingered at her side, arms folded and jaw tight, clearly moping over Oísin’s disappearance. He hadn’t even looked her way when the drums began. Siobhan almost reached for her, to say something comforting—but then she saw him.
A tall male. Broad-shouldered and dark-haired, lingering at the edge of the clearing. She felt the heat first—no, the weight. The way his eyes found her in the throng and didn’t look away. Hunger , that was what it was. Even from a distance, she could feel it trailing down her body like a hot touch.
Her mouth went dry.
He wasn’t dancing, he wasn’t speaking. Just watching.
So she gave him something to watch.
Siobhan lifted her arms slowly, the gauzy fabric shifting over her breasts. She let her hips roll in time with the beat, slow and sinuous, letting the forest light catch on the subtle sheen of her dress—barely there, her skin shadowed only by the drape of silk. She spun again, arching her back, letting the ends of her unbound curls brush her waist. One look, and she knew what kind of male he was. Someone strong , someone vigorous .
Good. She didn’t want gentle tonight.
"Careful with the mask," Niahm warned beside her, reaching for the hummingbird’s edge.
Siobhan blinked, startled enough to turn her back to the clearing. She adjusted the strap slowly and tugged the mask higher. She was ready to turn again when she felt a movement on her back.
The male was right behind her. Her body thrummed like a string pulled taut. His hand came to her hip—large, callused, warm. Just the lightest touch despite the size of the had, like he was waiting for her to move away.
She didn’t, no. She moved into him. And felt it instantly, the hard length of him pressing against her backside.
Oh, gods . A shiver slid through her spine as her breath caught in her throat. Not gentle, not tentative. Hard and ready, like he’d been watching long enough to get that way. Her lips parted in a satisfied but silent moan.
She tilted her hips back, just slightly, felt the sharp intake of his breath behind her.
The male didn’t say a word. His other hand slid to her waist, fingers splaying wide as if memorizing the shape of her. He stayed behind her, not grinding, not thrusting—but there . Undeniably hungry. When he leaned in, she felt the whisper of his breath across the shell of her ear. Then—A kiss.
Just beneath her ear. Barely a brush of his lips, taunting her.
It set her nerves ablaze.
She turned—slowly, deliberately, feeling the brush of his cock still against her.
And then she saw, lighter than she expected from the shadows.
The red hair.
Autumn.
The word echoed in her skull like a warning bell.
Lush. Curved. Beautifully made. She moved like temptation incarnate. Every twist of her hips was deliberate. Every slow roll of her waist said come closer . The dress—barely a dress—clung to her thighs, slid off her shoulder with every turn like it wanted him to look . And he did, he stared like a starving man.
And then she danced for him.
There was no question. He watched her body shift, watched her eyes flick to his. Watched her hips roll deeper, slower. An invitation in every sway.
By the time he crossed the fireline, he wasn’t thinking anymore.
Just moving.
Then—her scent. No sweet perfume. Fresh earth after the rain, the scent of the wind, the very thing Ariston missed the most. He felt it sink into his lungs, felt it lodge there.
When he reached her, she was mid-turn, the fabric of her dress hugging the curve of her ass as she moved. He placed a hand gently at her waist.
She pressed back into him, perfectly. Her body molded against his like she’d known him in a hundred lives. He let out a breath—low, rough—when he felt her grind against the very hard proof of what she was doing to him.
And—because he couldn’t help it—he bent and brushed his lips to her skin. One kiss, a soft claiming.
The stunning female turned, slow and controlled, but made it in a way that her hips never left his. Kept that taunting pressure right where he was already hard for her. Made sure he felt the full, deliberate drag of her body against his cock as she pivoted.
He prepared to kiss her again— properly, this time.
And then she looked at his hair, and her voice cut like glass.
“No. I don’t do Autumn.” Her voice was soft, airy like laughter, but the words hit him like a slap.
“You don’t…do Autumn?”
She was still pressed against him, hips flush with his, that damned sheer dress teasing his senses into knots. But her tone had gone dry. Dismissive. “No,” she said with finality. “Bye.”
Ariston blinked.
“I can change your mind,” he said finally, the words escaping before he could think them through.
She looked him full in the face then, lips parted slightly, her breath a little too fast, her eyes impossibly green behind the jeweled hummingbird mask. “No, you can’t.”
And then she flicked her fingers. Just… casually, like it was nothing to her. But the breeze that answered wasn’t casual. It wasn’t the rustle of leaves stirred by revelry or a lucky shift in weather. It was wind called by a will—hers. Intentional, smooth, controlled.
It pushed him back a single step.
Wind magic. Now? With power still crawling its way to Amarantha’s claws?
He stared at her. Hard.
This female, this feral vision in silk and starlight, wasn’t just beautiful. She was powerful. He took her in again—really took her in.
Her face was soft, with round cheeks touched pink from dancing, her full mouth slightly open, wet with wine and want. Her eyes—those eyes—were so green they could have been carved from the heart of Spring itself, glinting with something that made his chest tighten: kindness , maybe. Or curiosity. Or pure freedom.
She looked like… His mouth moved before his mind caught up. “Are you a Greenbriar?”
“What?” she snapped, yanking her dress higher over one shoulder. Her neckline had slipped too low—revealing the soft weight of her breast, the bare curve of her collarbone. He ached just looking.
“A Greenbriar,” he repeated. “You look like one.”
Her eyes narrowed behind the mask. “How old are you?” she asked, voice clipped but grinning with amusement.
Confused, Ariston only blinked.
“There’s only one Greenbriar left in Spring,” she continued coolly, “and it’s the High Lord. Everyone knows that.”
There was something in her voice—not quite anger. Not quite fear. Guardedness.
“Then who’s your family?” he pressed. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you.” She stepped back, dress clinging wet to her thighs, mask still glittering like stained glass. Ariston was starving.
With the distance, his chest tightened. Ariston took a step forward. “Look—You’re the most stunning—”
“Sorry, fire boy,” she said sweetly, already backing into the crowd, skirts whispering against her legs. “Try someone else.”
And then she was gone. And he stood there, hands empty, cock hard, brain reeling.
The fire cracked behind him, the music raged on.
And all he had was the aftershock of her magic in his skin, and the memory of her hips rolling against his, and the feel of her mouth curling in amusement just before she disappeared.