Chapter Text
It was the day. The day of her sister’s mating ceremony.
Growing up, Elain had always quietly assumed she would be the first to walk down the aisle. Her mother had instilled that belief in her like a sacred vow, constantly reminding Elain that she was the most beautiful of the three Archeron sisters. She had been taught that her beauty was a tool, a soft and delicate currency meant to secure a wealthy husband who could take her from being a burden to her family. It was her designated job.
Yet, standing amid the breathtaking opulence of the Night Court’s celebration, Elain felt no jealousy. Well.. maybe a little bit. She was genuinely happy for Nesta. She loved that Cassian had stubbornly, fiercely pulled Nesta out of the dark pit of her own despair. She loved that Nesta actually wanted to be better, to be whole, for him.
But as Elain looked around at the cascading floral arrangements, the shimmering decorations, and the ethereal glow of her sister’s gown, a quiet ache blossomed in her chest. She was happy for her. She was. But a small, selfish part of her wished Nesta had chosen a different flower arrangement. Those flowers had always been Elain's favorites. She had even given Nesta a list of options, never once mentioning that those particular blooms had been the ones she dreamed of seeing at her own ceremony.
Because that was what Elain did. She smiled. She agreed. She let other people have what they wanted. She never said, I wanted that too. She never complained about the music choice or the white linen draped across the tables, scattered with tiny yellow flowers that felt as though they had been made specifically for her.
She was just... a little jealous.
Elain had no one to marry. Or rather… That wasn't true. She had Lucien. Her mate. The words felt strange every time she thought them.
But Lucien Vanserra felt more like a distant, polite stranger than a mate. He barely spoke to her anymore, likely viewing her as nothing more than a fragile, boring human girl trapped in a newly forged Fae body—young, naive, and untouchable.
She didn't like him either. That wasn't true. In fact, she found him painfully handsome. With his autumn-copper hair, striking features, and the captivating contrast between his real russet eye and the whirring, intricate gold of his mechanical one, he was breathtaking. But personality-wise? He treated her like a fragile glass doll. He was a perfect gentleman, but there was a lack of humor, a lack of raw lust, a complete lack of wanting between them.
He was only here today because Cassian had personally requested his presence. Nesta had snarled at the suggestion initially, but when she saw Elain’s lips press into a tight line, the eldest Archeron sister had simply grunted a dismissive, "Whatever." Elain still wasn't sure if Nesta had relented out of pity, or simply because she wanted Elain to have a designated dance partner. It didn't matter. Elain didn't share Nesta’s passion for dancing anyway. She had resolved to ignore her estranged mate just as thoroughly as he would undoubtedly ignore her.
Besides, she could always dance with Azriel. Though, even that dynamic had grown fraught. Just weeks before, when she and Gwyn had walked into the sitting room to discuss Nesta’s bachelorette arrangements, Azriel’s shadow-touched face had flushed a deep, sudden crimson. It left Elain with a hollow, sinking feeling that the Spymaster either dated the stunning priestess or harbored unspoken feelings for her.
Smoothing down the skirts of her lilac gown—a flowy, decent piece that complemented her soft brown hair and golden-brown eyes. She had pinned her hair into a soft, messy bun. Elain was running to grab the small, sapphire-encrusted blue bracelet—Nesta’s mandatory "something blue"—and rushed down the corridor.
Her haste made her clumsy. As she navigated the bustling halls of the estate, her messy bun got messier, tendrils of hair falling around her face. She bumped into a few Fae, muttering hurried sorries, when she suddenly froze.
Standing far back in the shadows of the courtyard, completely alone, was Lucien.
He held a glass of amber wine, looking devastatingly handsome. He had eschewed traditional, stuffy court attire for a crisp, snow-white button-down shirt and tailored khaki pants. The thin fabric of his shirt did nothing to hide the broad, incredible contours of his chest and shoulders. Elain caught her breath, staring. His long, fiery hair was caught up in a messy bun of his own. Wow, she thought, a bittersweet pang hitting her chest. Did we somehow share a thought to match today?
Lucien must have arrived just moments before the ceremony began, as she hadn't seen him all morning. It made sense, considering the explosive argument she had accidentally overseen earlier behind closed doors.
She remembered the tight, furious pitch of Lucien's voice as he argued with Rhysand, Morrigan, Cassian, and Nesta. He had warned them, aggressively, that his intelligence network had detected a threat. The Hewn City was planning a coup; Keir, Morrigan’s tyrannical father, was actively moving to seize power. In Lucien’s expert opinion, an ambush at the High Lord's inner circle wedding would be the perfect, devastating strike. He hadn’t asked them to cancel the wedding—he had begged them to postpone it.
But his warnings had landed like lead. Rhysand had demanded hard, irrefutable evidence that Lucien simply couldn't provide yet. Nesta had sneered, declaring she wouldn't delay her happiest day just because a "traitor"—that was the venomous word she used for him—had a bad feeling. Lucien had stood entirely alone against the might of the Night Court. When Rhysand turned to Morrigan, asking her if she could validate the claim, Mor had admitted there were whispers of her father's ambition, but absolutely nothing connecting it to the ceremony.
With a dismissive wave, they had asked Lucien to leave.
Elain remembered the way the door had flown open. Pissed, angry, and radiating lethal heat, Lucien had practically stormed out. Elain had jumped backward, startled, caught red-handed eavesdropping.
Lucien had locked his russet and golden eyes onto hers for one agonizing second, before aggressively turning his face away. "Won't be staying," he had muttered tightly under his breath, brushing past her.
She had wanted to reach for him. For some inexplicable reason, her hand had twitched. He was so visibly upset that his mind, his strategic value, and his loyalty were being entirely dismissed. Even if he wasn't her bonded mate, she would have wanted to validate him, to hear him out. But because he was her mate, the sheer weight of the bond had paralyzed her. She had frozen mid-step, watching his broad back disappear down the hall.
Yet, here he was. He had come to the ceremony after all. He had come late, grabbed a drink, and now Elain was staring at him like a woman starved.
Suddenly, a young, striking female courtier approached him. Elain’s fingers tightened so violently around Nesta’s blue bracelet that the metal threatened to snap. Lucien turned, his rigid posture softening slightly as he engaged the female in polite, easy conversation.
A dark, possessive heat flared in Elain's veins. She knew it was just the primitive pull of the mating bond demanding she walk over and claim what was hers, but Mother help her, she was furious. The sheer sight of Lucien smiling at another female made her blood boil.
"Nesta is looking for you," a cool, low voice murmured.
Azriel’s sudden presence snapped her out of the protective haze. The Spymaster was eyeing her calculatedly, his dark eyes tracking the white-knuckled grip she had on the jewelry.
"Right," Elain breathed, the spell breaking. Reminded of her duty, she tore her gaze away from Lucien and the female, hurrying toward the bridal suite as fast as her heels could carry her, desperate to put distance between herself and the flaming fool.
When she slipped into the room and handed the sapphire bracelet to Nesta, the sight of her sister took her breath away. Nesta looked magnificent—radiant, sharp, and fiercely beautiful. A stray tear slipped down Elain’s cheek. She threw her arms around her older sister, holding her tight.
As Emerie and Gwyn took their places, beginning their slow walk down the aisle to scatter winter roses, Elain pulled back and whispered, "You look beautiful, sis." She meant it with every fiber of her being.
"Thank you, Elain," Nesta replied, her usual sharp edge melting into something profoundly soft.
Because their father was gone, and because traditional patriarchal walks were entirely unnecessary for a Fae mating ceremony anyway, Elain offered Nesta her arm. It was an honor she fiercely cherished. She loved the feeling of walking her sister toward a man she genuinely trusted, a man she knew would burn the world before letting Nesta hurt again.
With bright, triumphant smiles, the two Archeron sisters stepped onto the white linen runner.
But as they paraded down the aisle, Elain’s smile faltered. There, sitting in the third row right against the aisle, was Lucien. And the god-damned female was sitting right next to him.
Elain let out a sharp, quiet huff through her nose. She drew in a deep breath, forcing her spine to straighten and plastering her bright, perfectly composed smile back onto her face. As they drew parallel to his row, Lucien didn't even raise his head. He kept his eyes locked firmly forward, completely ignoring her passage.
She wasn't typically a petty person. Truly, she wasn't. But as she swept past his chair, Elain purposely angled her step and sharply knocked her foot against his boot.
The sudden impact worked. Lucien’s head snapped up, his golden mechanical eye whirring furiously as it locked onto her.
Elain paused for a fraction of a second, batting her eyelashes in a display of innocent surprise. "Oh, sorry," she purred softly.
"It's quite alright," Lucien responded, his voice smooth, rigid, and entirely polite.
Asshole, she thought.
Reaching the end of the aisle, Elain gracefully transferred Nesta’s arm to Cassian’s waiting, trembling hand. She took her seat in the very front row, smoothing her lilac skirts. To her right, Emerie and Gwyn stood proud as maids of honor, while Azriel and Rhysand stood as Cassian’s witnesses.
Before the priestess could begin the binding incantations, Elain couldn't resist. She subtly craned her neck, looking back over her shoulder toward the third row.
This time, Lucien wasn't looking away. His gaze was fixed entirely on her, burning and intense. Satisfied, Elain snapped her head back around to face the altar, her heart hammering against her ribs as the ceremony began.
The binding vows had barely left the priestess’s lips when the world shattered.
A deafening roar tore through the courtyard, vibrating so violently through the stone floor that Elain was thrown from her seat. Instantly, the air turned to thick, choking ash. Acrid, black smoke surged over the congregation, blinding and heavy. Elain hit the ground, coughing violently, her lungs screaming for oxygen that wasn’t there.
Blinding flashes of volatile, hostile magic illuminated the smog in jarring strobes. Shouting erupted—screams of panic, orders to take cover, the horrific screech of tearing metal.
Boom.
Another explosion detonated just feet away, obliterating the wine table next to her. Wood splinters and stone shrapnel rained down like lethal hail. Elain scrambled backward on her hands and knees, terrified, her vision blurred by tears and ash. She couldn't see. She couldn't breathe. Where was safe? Where could she hide?
Through a sudden tear in the smoke, she caught a glimpse of Azriel. His dark wings were unfurled, shielding Gwyn and Emerie as he dragged them toward the relative safety of the estate doors. She saw blood in Gwen arm, probably from the exploding table. A pang of raw fear struck her. It's alright, she told herself frantically. They'll come for me next. They have to.
Farther ahead, the shadows of the Night Court were already moving. Rhysand, Cassian, and Feyre had transformed into lethal blurs of dark magic and siphon-light, launching themselves into the smog toward the unseen attackers.
But Elain was entirely alone in the center of the crossfire.
Desperate, she crawled toward the remains of the shattered table. Her mind raced with a frantic, illogical thought: They wouldn't strike the same place twice. They wouldn't.
Around her, the ambient noise rose to a agonizing pitch. The metallic clang of clashing swords, the crackle of rogue magic, and the guttural screams of the dying echoed through the courtyard. Elain reached the ruined table, her fingers slipping on the bloody linen as she tried to heave the heavy wood over to form a barricade.
A shadow fell over her.
She looked up, her breath catching in her throat. Four massive Fae warriors stepped through the smoke. They wore the heavy, brutal armor of the Hewn City, their faces twisted in bloodthirsty grins. They were not here to rescue anyone.
Before she could scream, the lead warrior stepped forward. The cold, unyielding tip of his broadsword pressed firmly under Elain’s chin, forcing her head up. The silent command was clear: Stand.
Her knees shook violently as she pushed herself to her feet, staring into the cold eyes of her executioner.
Schack.
A violent flash of autumn fire sliced through the darkness. The warrior’s sword—and the hand holding it—flew into the air, severed cleanly by a blade of pure, shimmering steel.
Lucien stepped directly over the groaning attacker, inserting his broad shoulders between Elain and the remaining three soldiers. He was a vision of absolute fury. The crisp white shirt he wore was already stained with soot and blood, and his fiery hair had broken completely free of its bun, whipping around his face like actual flames.
Fire, blinding light, and the dark armor of the Hewn City clashed in a brutal, claustrophobic dance. Lucien moved with a lethal, terrifying grace that Elain had never seen from him before. He was strong. Far stronger than anyone gave him credit for. He parried a heavy downward strike, predatory speed as it tracked the second attacker's blind spot, before plunging his blade home.
Elain stood frozen, rooted to the spot by sheer terror. She didn't dare run. She couldn't run—not without him.
"Take cover! Run!" Lucien roared over his shoulder, his voice raw, parrying another brutal strike that sent sparks flying into the dark air.
She couldn't leave him to face them alone. Not that she was any help, but she would try if needed.
With a guttural snarl, Lucien unleashed a wave of raw, oppressive heat. The sheer force of his autumn magic blew the remaining males backward, sending them crashing into the stone pillars. Before they could recover, Lucien spun around and grabbed Elain’s arm.
The contrast was staggering. Amid the blood, ash, and violence, his grip on her bare skin felt incredibly soft—tender, protective, and perfectly warm. The mating bond flared between them. Elain stared up, completely captured by the fierce, desperate intensity in his russet and golden eyes.
"Cauldron's sake, Elain, I said run!" he growled.
Without waiting for her response, he yanked her forward, dragging her into a sprint.
"Sorry," Elain stammered, the word choking in her throat as she shook off the shock, her heels slipping as she stumbled to keep pace with his long, urgent strides.
The courtyard was a minefield. Another explosion ripped through the left colonnade, showering them in plaster. Lucien aggressively shoved her to the right, using his own body to shield her from the falling debris. They sprinted toward the perimeter, the air whistling with the sound of incoming magical projectiles.
Then, Lucien suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. His mechanical eye whirred violently, locking onto the sky above them. He cursed, a dark, filthy oath, and lunged directly at her.
"Get down—!"
His voice was completely swallowed by a blinding, catastrophic white light as the sky detonated directly on top of them.