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“I need to hear you say it, Helion.”
Faint and cracked, but lovely as always, somehow despite her troubling request the hushed sounds of her voice calmed something restless inside of him.
He traced a thumb along her cheek, the searing warmth of her porcelain skin a reminder of the ferocity that lay beneath her beauty.
How could he do what she asked? Leave her to that dreadful male she called a husband?
“Promise me, Helion,” she said. “Promise you won’t come after me.”
He could feel his resolve weakening as she pleaded. He’d always been powerless against her, ever since that first night when, entranced, he’d danced with her beneath the Autumn canopy.
He’d known they could never be more than this: stolen moments, illicit trysts, hidden desires.
This was what she wanted. The life she had chosen—her husband, her sons. Her family.
With a heavy heart, Helion said, “It’s a bargain.”
Helion woke with a start.
Sunlight streamed into the room, dancing off the filigreed ceiling and crystal furnishings. Glittering and prismatic, it scattered like the strips of the confetti that fluttered through the air during the annual solstice festival, the angle at which it settled on him indicating it was nearly midday.
Beckoned forth by the glowing seed of magic in his chest, the warm light reached for him. Helion stretched his limbs toward it in response.
He was alone amidst the piles of silken sheets and feather-stuffed pillows that spilled across the vast expanse of his bronze-framed bed—atypical, given his proclivities. But lately not even the company of a lover was enough to fill the empty ache within his chest or distract him from the memories that insisted on haunting his dreams.
As if it could sense that he was retreating into himself, the golden pool of his power twitched within him. He inhaled sharply.
The feeling struck him from time to time. It had started after his return to the Day Court, once the full weight of the High Lord mantle had settled into him. For months, it had been faint. But recently—for nearly two weeks, he’d say—it had steadily grown sharper. More persistent.
Cauldron only knew why. He had his theories—most of which revolved around the unprecedented absence of a High Lord within the court’s borders for half a century—but they were just that: theories.
Helion had been High Lord for a handful of decades now, but the power that ran through him was still foreign in many ways. Bastard-born and a distant cousin to the previous High Lord, despite his accolades and raw talent for spell-cleaving, he’d never been considered a likely candidate for heir. Untrained in the role and only recently freed from the curse of Hybern’s witch, Helion had to rely on his books for insight into the inner workings of his new magic.
Unsurprisingly, High Lords past had been rather secretive. Coupled with the looting of Day’s libraries, reliable written accounts were few and far between.
He felt it again. A tremor plucking the strings of his power, like a kernel of his magic was trying to find its way back to him.
But this time, the feeling was accompanied by something else.
Helion jerked forward, throwing off his sheets and slamming his feet on the cool marble floor at the distinct and all-too-familiar scorching sensation.
Someone was tampering with his wards.
He dressed quickly, following the threads of his magic while he did so. Like a web spun of the finest gold, his spells were densely cast throughout his court. Even so, it didn’t take long for him to track down the source of the intrusion: a trespasser in the private collection of rare books he housed in his personal library.
Given the nature of the volumes in his archive, visitors were welcome only with his explicit permission. He was no hoarder of knowledge, but these were fragile, one-of-a-kind, and potentially dangerous in the wrong hands.
Within the library chamber, the rare book collection was blocked off with heavy wards by default; the magic was woven so tightly that few, if any, in his court possessed the raw power to cleave them. Helion preferred to oversee visits from inquiring scholars himself.
It was concerning, therefore, that someone had breached them.
He winnowed at once to the entrance: an arched doorway adorned with scalloping arabesques. As he pushed open the heavy ironwood doors, the attending librarian—a sun faerie named Mihir—straightened abruptly.
“Who’s here?” Helion demanded.
“N-no visitors today, my lord,” he stammered.
Helion watched, unimpressed, as the pointed tips of the male’s ears reddened against his shimmering skin.
A shame. He’d always liked Mihir; it would be difficult to replace him. Though a bit of a flirt, the scholar was intelligent and studious—the sort with a propensity to bury himself in a book to the point that he lost all track of time. What he possessed in academic aptitude, however, he lacked in cunning.
Whoever had earned the male to their cause had correctly identified him as an easy mark, but failed to account for his inability to lie convincingly.
“Whoever you’re covering for,” he said, “has entered the restricted section of this library—for which I personally oversaw the fortifications against unregistered visitors.”
Mihir blanched.
Helion didn’t have time for this. Casting a quick immobilization spell—he wasn’t fool enough not to restrain a librarian who had lied to his face—Helion ventured forth through the stacks until he reached the alcove that led to the rare books collection.
The wards had been painstakingly unwoven. Someone had been careful not to trigger them, likely hoping they could bypass and then restore the magic before slipping away unnoticed. It was an impressive technique, but the culprit had not entirely succeeded in the execution.
Some of the spell-threads had been singed, and as any adept spell-caster would know, such a mistake would immediately alert the faerie who had conjured them. Blunt and rudimentary though it was, whoever had done this had a high natural affinity for spellwork.
His anger was nearly surpassed by his curiosity. Who among his court possessed such innate talent? Intrigued, Helion stepped inside, eager to face this intruder.
Expecting to find an overeager pupil or a still-disapproving elder member of his council, Helion’s eyebrows rose when he spotted the trespasser. Back to the entrance, hunched over a shelf as he leafed through a codex that was many millennia old, was a foreigner.
The male was dressed modestly, if impeccably, in stiff brown trousers, shiny boots, and a high-collared forest green tunic with billowing sleeves—the unmistakable style of the stodgier seasonal courts. The telltale magic of a glamour hung around him. These prim types were prone to wearing glamours like a second skin, but Helion didn’t rule out the possibility that he had more to hide than bags beneath his eyes.
Noticing his presence, the male turned to face him gracefully. As if he had not just been caught and incriminated. Though Helion didn’t know him, he recognized him instantly. The fire-red hair and single russet eye were unmistakable.
They were so like his mother’s.
“I thought I made it clear to your father that Vanserras were not to step foot in my court,” Helion grumbled. He uttered the family name with distaste, and at the word the male stiffened, chin pointing up defiantly.
“Lucien,” he said smoothly, bending forward in a dramatic bow. “Emissary to Spring. I’m here representing High Lord Tamlin’s interests.” After a moment, he punctuated, “I sent a letter.”
Beron’s youngest, then. The one who’d been chased out of Autumn. Yes, he remembered now the tale of the ghastly scar that slashed across his eye. Helion had only seen the male briefly Under the Mountain, but his face had been hidden beneath that ridiculous fox mask.
Helion had received no such letter. Though he was in dire need of a proper emissary of his own, he was scrupulous in managing his affairs.
Helion was no daemati. He had no spying shadows nor truth-discerning abilities. But his intuition was keen enough to rival the talents of his neighbors in Night. In Lucien Vanserra, Helion recognized all the signs of a male who was accustomed to lying and getting away with it. That was something he could use to his advantage.
Helion had always found simple conversation—not threats or displays of power—to be the most effective form of interrogation. He’d keep this male talking, and see what he might reveal if his mind was set at ease.
Adopting a congenial tone, Helion said, “There is an official process one must follow to be granted access to this library—this section in particular.”
“My lord, I meant no disrespect,” he said, gently returning the book to the shelf. “As I mentioned, I come from Spring. I had no knowledge of the protocol.”
Absolute horseshit. Helion grinned and waved his hand airily. “Did you think the wards were simply decoration?”
Lucien’s brow furrowed as he gave a crooked smile. “My deepest apologies. I must inform you, though, this room was unwarded when I arrived.” He brought a hand to his chest, feigning remorse. “It was most certainly not my intention to intrude. Though I must say,” he said conspiratorially, “your collection is most impressive.”
Lies and flattery rolled so seamlessly off of this male’s tongue. A Vanserra, through and through.
He’d have better luck questioning Mihir, Helion realized. This male was all false charm; there was no question as to how he’d convinced the librarian to help him past the wards.
Although…perhaps he’d misjudged Mihir. He hadn’t realized his scholar was capable of such advanced spell-cleaving. Another line of investigation for later.
There were key pieces still missing from the puzzle before him, creating a picture with gaping holes. Spring was not on poor terms with Day; it would have been a small effort for an emissary to arrange an appointment through the proper channels. Why had the youngest Vanserra attempted to circumvent them?
“A harmless misunderstanding then,” Helion said. “I must have missed your letter—for that, you have my apologies as well.” He noted how Lucien’s shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. “What sort of information are you looking for? Perhaps I can help you.”
He’d laid his trap, and now the fox was caught in it.
“That is most kind, my lord,” Lucien said, with no sign nor scent of panic. “I’m researching bargains. I was told you’ve studied them extensively.”
Indeed, he had. And it had been a fool’s errand.
Promise me.
Helion hadn’t known. She had hidden from him even then the true extent of her husband’s cruelty. But now… gods, he’d give anything to take his bargain back and whisk her away from the hell that was Autumn.
“Bargains, you say?” Helion said. “Tell me, then. What are you hoping to find?”
Lucien held back the impulse to sigh with relief.
He’d known, rationally, that there was always a risk that Helion might discover him. A High Lord was bound to notice that his wards had been tampered with eventually, but Lucien had convinced himself he’d be far away from the library by then. Because this—a face-to-face encounter with Helion—was exactly what he’d hoped to avoid.
It had been dangerous for him to come here, but he needed to find something, anything, that he could take back to Tamlin as evidence that not all was lost for Feyre.
When Helion had first confronted him, Lucien had had no idea what the male might do to him. The new High Lord of the Day Court was reputedly proud and unforgiving. But Helion hardly seemed upset.
More importantly, he seemed to have no idea who Lucien was to him.
Lucien couldn’t say the same in return. Any lingering doubts he’d had about his parentage had been officially laid to rest the moment he’d stepped into the Day Court several days ago. His magic buzzed beneath his skin, the High Lord heir markers he’d carefully glamoured threatening to burst forth and be known by their progenitor.
It wasn’t easy work maintaining a full-time glamour; he’d already slipped a few times since emerging from Under the Mountain to find his long-hidden Day magic thrumming with new fervor. Lucien needed to get out of here soon. Were Helion to discover he had a bastard contending to inherit his power, there was no telling how he might react. If the male was anything like Beron… Lucien shook away the thought.
He could work the present situation to his advantage: play to Helion’s ego to ascertain the information he needed on bargains. For Feyre’s sake, he wouldn’t let this trip go to waste.
Lucien took in the male before him. With golden-brown skin and an imperious stature, the High Lord of Day radiated authority and scorching power, but—perhaps to a fault—Lucien had never been intimidated by such things. Helion may well have made his offer of assistance with ulterior motives, but why shouldn’t Lucien make use of the opportunity?
Who better to ask about bargains than the renowned spell-cleaver?
“I’d like to learn how to break one,” Lucien said.
Helion hummed. “Is this concerning Tamlin’s runaway bride?”
Lucien nodded tersely. It was now common knowledge that Feyre had been abducted by Rhysand under the terms of their bargain, but Lucien resented Helion’s cavalier tone.
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Helion said, a faraway look in his eyes. “But a bargain cannot be broken.”
“My reading suggests that it’s possible,” Lucien pushed. Surely there was some loophole, some way to cleave them. There had been little information in the main libraries of Day, but Helion’s collection was rumored to be unmatched.
“Perhaps, though there are few records of it, and even those are highly unreliable,” Helion said. “More importantly, there are no accounts of success without consequences for all parties involved, seeing as—”
“The magic requires balance,” Lucien finished impatiently. “But have those limitations been tested?”
Helion raised an eyebrow. “You’re certainly eager to meddle with things beyond our understanding,” he said.
“Aren’t you?” Lucien blurted. His mother and some of his brothers shared his inquisitive disposition, but none had ever matched his reckless need to understand the world around him. Helion, on the other hand, had been chosen by the magic of a court that thrived on knowledge.
“Of course I’ve experimented with bargains,” he said primly. “Which is why I recommend you concentrate your efforts not on the magic of the bargain, but the wording of its terms. There are no loopholes to magic. Language, on the other hand, is malleable.”
That wasn’t good enough—not for the terms Feyre had agreed to.
“Perhaps if you could share any texts you have about the origins of bargains,” Lucien said, “I might be able to determine for myself how inflexible the underlying spells are.”
“You’re a headstrong lad, aren’t you?” Helion chuckled, shaking his head condescendingly. “I won’t fault you for that. Funny, you sound just like—”
Helion paused. The smile melted from his face, and golden eyes swept over him with newfound interest. Gone was the relaxed persona. Helion’s features strained and the air grew hot, charged with his power.
Lucien held his breath.
“Even if it were possible to break a bargain—and I feel I must reiterate that it is not—you’d need to enlist a powerful spell-cleaver to help you do it,” Helion said. His sonorous voice was unaffected as ever, but Lucien had felt the shift between them. “Did you account for that in your plans?”
Shit.
“Are you offering?” Lucien sent a quick prayer to the Mother that he sounded easygoing.
“I hardly think you need my help,” he said.
Helion held his gaze, and Lucien’s mouth went dry as parchment as the other male searched him. Had he figured it out?
“Surely,” Helion said, “a charming male such as yourself must have managed to make a few friends while visiting?”
“Indeed, I have,” Lucien said, fiddling with the jeweled hilt of his hunting knife. “Though I must say that if you are, in fact, offering to aid us, High Lord Tamlin would be most grateful.”
Loathe as he was to play the card, reminding potential adversaries that the tempestuous High Lord of Spring backed him was often an unfortunate necessity.
“Ah, yes, High Lord Tamlin,” Helion said. “I’ve no doubt he’s taken this rather harshly. It’s quite good of you to undertake this for him. He knows you’re here, then?”
No.
“It would be rather improper for an emissary to act on their lord’s behalf without orders, wouldn’t it?” Lucien said playfully, mustering every ounce of the lighthearted affectation he adopted when endearing himself to a new courtier.
Pushing his fear down, Lucien clutched the glamour closer around himself. Was it enough to mask the scent of his fear? His power strained against it, and a lattice of luminous hairline fissures spread across the glamour’s interior as the white-hot magic within him fought to manifest. As if Helion’s mere presence was enough to unravel his magic.
“You serve him well.” Helion brought a hand to his chin, his broad fingers stroking slowly along the dark skin of his jaw. “Remind me,” he said. “When did you arrive in my court?”
It had been just shy of a fortnight. But Lucien had his suspicions about the line of questioning.
“I arrived in your capital four days ago, my lord.” The truth. He’d started with the libraries in less populous cities, hoping to avoid this exact sort of interaction, but regrettably those scholars had been of little use.
“I see.” Helion's amber gaze remained unwavering.
Incisive and golden, it was so like Eris’s that beneath it, Lucien was a youngling again, caught in a lie he could never be sure he’d gotten away with.
“I’ve found it to be a most agreeable city. You keep quite an…enlightened court,” Lucien said suggestively.
While he preferred not to give it too much thought, Lucien was well aware of Helion’s salacious reputation. He’d chosen his words carefully, hedging the possibility that he’d failed to assuage the male’s suspicions by reminding him of Day’s reputation as a court founded on due process and rationality.
The solar courts—well, two of them—prided themselves on their comparative progressiveness over their backward Southron neighbors.
Helion tilted his head. “You’ve enjoyed yourself here, then?”
What was he meant to say to that?
“Your city remains a singular marvel,” he said. “And your libraries, wondrous. Though I am eager to complete my work and return to the comforts of home—Spring, that is.”
The corner of Helion’s mouth wavered, briefly turning up before settling into a tight grimace. He drew his shoulders back.
“Well, you needn’t trouble yourself further,” Helion said stiffly. “I will have my best scholars look into it.” His voice softened as he added, “You have my word.”
The light caught in Lucien’s mechanical eye. The subtle glint of a film, sheer and iridescent, forming around Helion. He was shrouding himself in a glamour of his own, Lucien realized—one that was nearly imperceptible to him.
“That’s very generous of you.”
"I do this as a show of good will between our courts, and to honor the Cursebreaker’s sacrifice. But let me make myself clear,” Helion paused, his eyebrows gathering in a furrowed crease. “You are to return to Spring at once. It would be unwise of you to spend further time in my court.”
Whether anger or fear underlied his words, Lucien was unsure. But there was something unsteady in Helion’s voice. Something uncertain.
He knows.
Lucien’s heart thumped within his chest in an uneasy, rapid rhythm.
“Of course, my lord,” Lucien said, bowing slightly. “I shall do as you suggest.”
Helion knew. He must. He’d figured him out and—for now, at least—had decided to let him live. Why bother with a glamour if he planned to kill him?
He wanted Lucien far away from Day—that much was clear. But beyond that, Lucien was at a loss. Beron’s motives had always been plain on his face, his curled lip and pulsing temple near-permanent features. But Helion Spell-Cleaver, lord of the sun, commander of light and warmth, was cold and impassive as the snow-tipped peaks of Winter.
Had Helion judged him a minor inconvenience? Lucien was completely untrained in his Day magic. Better, perhaps, to know one’s heir and know they pose no threat.
Or maybe… No, Lucien would be a fool to consider the alternative.
“Consider yourself lucky that I have chosen not to press the issue of your violation of court protocol,” Helion said. “My scholars will be in touch with any findings.”
Lucien nodded, head still bowed in deference, eyes trained on Helion’s sandaled feet atop the carpeted floor.
“Beron Vanserra is no friend to my court. As I understand it, you are on poor terms with him as well,” Helion paused. “I trust you will not let any sensitive information fall into his hands.”
It would be wise, Lucien knew, to keep his mouth shut. But he’d never been good at that.
“Why rely on trust?” he said. “A bargain is simple. In exchange for your lenience and generosity, I will not use any information from your library to aid my father.”
It was a risk, but Lucien needed to know where he stood. He stuck out a hand.
Helion stared at it.
Had he been too rash? Too foolhardy when he had no explicit confirmation that Helion truly knew?
No, no. Lucien was certain he’d seen the flicker of recognition in Helion’s eye. And now, Helion’s hesitation all but confirmed it.
“I’d like to amend your terms,” Helion said. “In exchange for my lenience, you will not use any information from my library to aid Beron Vanserra. And,” Helion paused, “you will inform me in advance of any future visits to my rare book collection.”
Perhaps to others, it would seem a small consolation. But Lucien’s chest grew light at the words. Helion knew—he knew—but had not rejected him outright.
He could have killed him, could have offered him nothing. There were a thousand different ways he might have spun a bargain to his advantage. Yet he had not.
What that meant, exactly, Lucien had no idea. But the possibility hung in the air like the promise of a sunrise. Not now, not tomorrow, but maybe one day…something.
Helion, face still carefully blank, looked at him expectantly. Lucien flashed him a grin.
“It’s a bargain.”