~ Rhys POV ~

Rhysand stepped out of a dark purple haze and into the sun soaked Southern corridor of the Mountain Palace. Eris was waiting for him by a large bay window, though he was lacking the cavalier nonchalance that Rhys had come to expect from Beron's son. As he spotted the Lord of Night, Eris crossed his arms and walked over, his face bathed in shadow and light as he strode past glass and stone.

The last century had not been kind to Eris, Rhys decided. He had always been rather sharp of feature but now his eyes were rimmed with red and his jaw looked far too thin. At least in the throne room he had played the part of the greedy lord with some sense of arrogance – in private it seemed Eris had shed that skin in favour of a mask that reeked of desperation.

It was unnerving.

"Always a pleasure to see you, Eris," Rhys bowed mockingly low, hoping for a reaction. Eris merely scowled as he came to a halt before him. "I would say you're looking well," he smirked. "Only I don't feel like lying."

"I'm not in the mood for games, Rhysand." Eris glanced over his shoulder. "Where is she?"

"Rhysand? It seems I am in trouble." Rhys chuckled, but Eris was quiet as the grave.

"Really, Eris. You're no fun today." He made a show of sighing. "She's recovering in Velaris. Safe, and well."

"And what proof do I have of that? Your word?" Eris snorted, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the panicked edge to his tone.

The moment of silence that followed was broken only by the whining of a distant door. It was one of those moments where Rhys wished rather desperately that he lacked a moral compass. If he did, he could very easily have slipped into Eris' mind, broken whatever meagre defenses he had in place, and found the answer to that very nervous glimmer in his eye. Ironically, it was Feyre's voice who rang in his head as he resisted the urge.

Instead, Rhys dropped his lazy smile. "Surely you don't think I would harm the girl?" he replied, more gently. "She's a friend of my son, and my friends' sons. If you have no faith in my character, then have faith in my love as a father." He lifted an eyebrow and looked pointedly at Eris' stiff figure, the lines on his face. "As I have clearly underestimated yours."

The comment coaxed a wry smile from the male. "We have always been very good at underestimating each other, Rhysand."

"I suppose we have."

The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. That hard, shuttered look returned as the High Lord spoke again. "Niceties aside, I demand that you return Fiona at once."

"We didn't steal her," Rhys bristled. "She winnowed to Velaris of her own volition. She will therefore return of her own volition." He was watching Eris carefully, trying to ascertain whether this was news to him or not. If the male was surprised, he gave nothing away.

"I'm warning you," Eris took a step closer, and threw a finger in his face. Though he had never struck a particularly imposing figure, Rhys sometimes forgot that Eris was, in a lot of ways like himself. He dressed well not for vanity, but to hide a body lean with muscle, and despite his currently rigid posture, he was a toweringly tall male. He looked down his nose at Rhys as his nostrils flared. "I have borne many taunts from your family since arriving in this gods damned court. But I will not bear the insult of you taking one of my kin so lightly. Do not think that I will not return with an army, should you refuse me now." said Eris gravely.

Rhys was so surprised he actually laughed. "Dear Eris, forgive me," he grinned. "Only you have so many nieces and nephews, I'm shocked to hear you so vexed at the loss of one."

A hint of his old cunning returned in the vulpine grin that stretched Eris' tired face. "Then you will forgive me, Rhysand," he replied. "But it seems that you continue to underestimate me."

The two fae stood smiling at each other, a dangerous glimmer in their eyes. For a moment, Rhys thought he smelled smoke, though he saw no spark or flame to confirm it. The thought turned a cog in his mind however, and he stepped back to consider something.

"Perhaps," Rhys slid his hands into his pockets. "But that would require rather a dramatic change of character from you. And it's only been a hundred years." A slow smile crept across his lips. "No, perhaps the truth is that Fiona isn't a niece at all."

Eris turned his face away as he let out a bellowing laugh. "You really do have a terribly low opinion of me." he said when he was done. He gave another smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The Autumn Court will not bear this humiliation. You have until tomorrow to return her, or else you'll find out just how much my character has changed in the last hundred years."

Rhysand wasn't convinced, but he didn't think much could be won in calling Eris' bluff - not when he was this desperate, when he seemed to have grown a spine for once. So he dipped his head and said, "I'll talk to Fiona. Like I said, she'll come of her own accord or not at all."

Eris raised his chin in defiance. "She will come."

"In the meantime," Rhys ignored him. "Rest easy in the knowledge that she is safe and cared for." he told him. Eris' act was steadfast, but he had a suspicion that the High Lord did care very much how his niece was being treated. Rhys turned away and began to stride down the corridor. "Fiona has no enemies in Velaris," he called over his shoulder. "Only family."

Shimmering purple haze was already beginning to engulf Rhys when Eris yelled after him, "It's your family that I'm worried about."

*

Perhaps it was the wine, but sleep came easily to Fiona that night. By the time the sun crept in through the skylight in the attic, she was already up, stretching, and pacing around the room – as though Rhysand would winnow straight from court with the news. But it was early, and two High Lords of Prythian would not have held a meeting at the crack of dawn, she reasoned.

The house was silent but for the creaking of the floorboards beneath her feet. Pale morning light illuminated oil canvases and moth-bitten tapestries, and Fiona took her time treading the corridors, absorbing every detail. How dark and close the Forest House seemed in comparison; though its windows were grander, its ceilings arched higher, it never felt as elegant or bright as the cramped old townhouse.

She lifted her hand to a shaft of sunlight streaming in through the glass, and remembered Eris' threat on the night she left, wondering if she might ever feel its warmth and radiance again. Her chamber in the Autumn Court felt years away from Velaris, sitting dusty and dim in her memories. But it was still preferable to the rooms beneath the earth that most of her cousins shared.

Fiona had always been lucky to have one of the few chambers that broke the surface. It was one of the reasons she had never complained about all the old furniture that had been shoved in and forgotten about, as she feared that if she reminded the staff where she resided they might remember too – that a bastard awoke to sunlight while some of the High Lord's own sons dwelled underground.

She shivered at the thought of all that earth packed in around her, the darkness closing in like so many pairs of eyes and hands. And how close she would be to the others – she hadn't thought of that.

Panic welled in her chest and she fought to shove it down. Rhysand had not yet returned, he likely hadn't even left. There was still time – there was a chance. And then there was Xander, who had promised they would find a way to free her.

As though she'd summoned him, Fiona turned a corner and found Xander sitting alone at the breakfast table, a plate of eggs and toast laid out before him. It was such simple food for a Night Court heir that she almost laughed, and wondered if he'd made it himself.

A glance at the grandfather clock told her it was too early for the wraith girls, Nuala and Cerridwen to be working. The ticking also reminded her of Nyx, and made her glance at the seat he had taken only hours before as he told her to leave.

Xander cleared his throat.

Fiona realised she was staring, standing silently - and now blushing. 

"What are you doing up so early?"

A small smile appeared as he watched her pull a chair, avoiding his gaze. He lifted his toast, laden with scrambled eggs, pepper and chives, by way of explanation. Upon closer inspection it looked delicious, and the smell wafting over the polished oak made her stomach involuntarily grumble.

Fiona's blush deepened to a beetroot, but she forgot to be embarrassed when Xander laughed. She'd heard it a few times now, but mostly in the midst of conversation, or after several glasses of wine, where it could be swept up and passed over. In the pregnant silence of the morning, broken only by the ticking of the clock, Xander's laugh was a warm sound that trickled through the air like a bubbling brook. It sounded younger than him, as though it had escaped from a place he kept under lock and key.

Without a word, Xander cut off a piece and passed it to her. She accepted it with a dip of her head, her eyes following his as he returned to a stack of papers by his side.

"What's that?" she asked.

He didn't look up as he turned the parchment, revealing lines of dark, hurried scrawl. "Correspondence from the war lords," he told her. "It's part of my job to keep an eye on them. Most respect my father well enough, but I'm worried they grow restless." He admitted. He hadn't spoken so openly about court politics in front of her before, so she stayed quiet, hoping he had forgotten that she might be returning to Eris' side sometime soon. 

"Cassian doesn't believe me, but I'm sure something is stirring." Xander shook his head and moved the stack away. A hundred questions bubbled at Fiona's lips, but she forgot them as butter and egg melted across her tongue. She let out a quiet hum of appreciation, but of course he caught it – he didn't miss a thing.

Xander smiled.

"This is really good."

"Thank you."

So he had made it. Her lips parted to ask again, but salt and herbs were swilling around her mouth, and Xander got there first. "How was your talk with Nyx last night?"

The question was uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he'd wanted to ask something else but had settled on a neutral enquiry. The clock ticked on in the corner. Instinctively Fiona listened for movement, though she knew Nyx never stayed in the townhouse.

"It was..."

Careful, said her reason. They may not get along but they're still brothers. Those violet eyes bore into hers as she plucked her words like a careful tune, hoping it would sound just right – not to offend and not to blame.

She was about to speak again before she realised that she was acting just as Nyx had, thinking like a fox, the way Isolda or Keegan might speak to a powerful prospect. The thought repulsed her so much that she gave up the effort entirely, settling instead for bluntness over tact.

"Does Nyx have- I'm not sure how to put this," Fiona sighed. She looked up to find Xander's gaze steady, encouraging. Not at all like those glittering cogs, spinning in cold, calculated synchronicity. She sat a little straighter.

"I got the sense last night that Nyx was trying to persuade me. Not just verbally." She clarified.

Xander's jaw feathered. "What was he trying to persuade you of?"

"He was worried about conflict, and the damage it might do to both our courts. Which I understand, of course." She paused a moment. "He asked me to go back. Right then."

"And why didn't you?"

Fiona frowned. "Why would I?"

Xander sat back in his chair, considering her. She was tempted to remind him exactly why she didn't go back, to remind him of the ripped corset and broken ribs, but he spoke again.

"My brother always gets his way," he began, sounding a little strained. "I'm sure you've heard about my parents'...abilities."

She nodded.

"Well, Nyx inherited quite a rare form of their gift – the official term is sycophae. Technically he can't read minds or manipulate them, but if he keeps a person's attention and doesn't break eye contact, he can persuade them to do whatever he wants. The gift is so rare that we still don't know much about it, we're not sure how long it's affects can last...but I would never have thought he would use it on you." Xander explained.

He looked pained, though Fiona couldn't tell whether it was guilt or if he felt as sick as she did. Remembering Nyx's dazzling smile, knowing that she had been right – that something was seeking entry into her mind...a wave of nausea roiled in her gut.

"When I ask why you didn't go, I don't mean to say that you should have." Xander added suddenly, as though he'd just caught up. "I meant to ask why it didn't work. How you were able to say no."

Fiona shook her head, trying to clear it of the memory, as though any minute those gentle waves might lap again at her mind, whispering softly in their lilting, rhythmic voices. "I don't know," she told him. "I just saw something in his eyes that didn't match his voice, what he was saying."

Xander's fingers came to his lips, and he sat quietly for a while, as though she had given him something to think on, to chew over. For once, Fiona was not impressed by his ever-careful plotting, his mind that was every minute whirring with thought. It reminded her too much of his brother.

She was just about to get up and find Bella, perhaps distract herself with some training, when a bright whorl appeared in the archway and their faces were bathed in shimmering purple light. Fiona's heart stilled. But to her surprise – or dread, she wasn't sure – it was Rhysand, not Nyx, who stepped through.

His handsome face was drawn taut, his lips pursed as he took in the two fae before him at the table. Xander stood immediately, his chair scraping against the floorboards. His father glanced between them before landing on Fiona, violet eyes rimmed with guilt.

"I'm afraid it's not good news."