Elain Acotar - Tumblr Posts

Elain: You've had a lot of sex, right?

Nesta: What, today?

Nesta: *shrug*

Nesta: Some, not a lot.

Elain in ACOWAR: I just want to sit and stare at nothing, and silently scream for the rest of time.

'You’re not better than me' was my yearbook quote.

- Nesta Archeron, probably

Elain, holding truthteller: I've got a weapon, and I'm... admittedly very afraid to use it!

I haven’t gotten to this chapter yet (I’m on Part 4), but I am in LOVE with this. The premise, the dialogue, the pacing?! It’s phenomenal!!!!

To get back what the Cauldron has taken from her, Elain Archeron makes a deal with Prythian’s most dangerous enemy.

Now, a servant of a cruel Death God, Elain must make sure her efforts are not discovered—especially not by someone tied to her darkening heart by a golden thread.

Someone like her mate.

Notes: My humble offering for @elucienweekofficial. This fic is a post-ACOSF story — and very close to my heart as it’s based on the very first one-shot I’ve ever written.

Tags: Post-ACOSF, Canon Compliant, NSFW

Read on AO3 || Chapter 1 || Masterlist

Chapter 5 - Leave My Body Glowing

Helion did not show up for breakfast the next morning. Elain ate in solitude, since Lucien had gone—well, only the Gods knew where. He’d been up before sunrise, the sudden absence of his heartbeat ripping her from sleep.

Strangely, no nightmares had plagued her last night. She’d woken up to the soft whoosh of the sea the palace overlooked, and the soft neighing of a pegasus somewhere above her bedchamber. She watched it roam happily in the sky as the sun had fully come into view, something like content settling in her chest as she snacked on the colourful pastries the maids had delivered earlier.

She’d asked for their help in dressing—there was no way Elain would ask Lucien for advice—and, to Elain’s utter delight, they absolutely delivered. She stood in front of her wall-length mirror now, her reflection almost unrecognisable as a new woman stared back.

Female, Elain reminded herself, though no bitterness seemed to accompany the thought this time. Her mind seemed too occupied with the change to resort to its usual storm of regret and anger, instead soaking up the light beaming from her reflection.

Elain looked like she’d been born to live in the Day Court.

Her corseted gown had been replaced by a flowy dress of rich sapphire—a thread similar to that worn by the High Lord yesterday, the colour resembling the surface of Day’s quiet sea as it soaked up the afternoon sky. The fabrics fell just below her knees loosely, flowing like a gentle breeze as she moved and revealing her legs—the golden sandals adorning her feet. Their heels clicked lightly on the marble floor with every step, making her feel giddy—like a sudden surge of joy rushing through her despite such simple of an accessory. She’d even asked one of the maids to line her eyes with kohl, a thin, slightly curled line at her lashes, pigmented with a colour similar to that of the gown, bringing out the brown of her eyes and making them look like pools of honey. She looked so different to the female from yesterday—and yet, it was still Elain looking back at her in the mirror. She still had her full lips, though they were curled up in an open smile now instead of their usual tight expression, her whole body relaxed and seemingly flowing along with the morning breeze.

It carried her all the way to the library as Elain walked to the High Lord’s famed collection, praying Lucien had not yet managed to find his way there, giving her at least a few minutes to do some research of her own.

A Day Court scholar she’d bumped into on the way—an elderly male carrying what seemed like a mountain of scrolls and texts, their combined weight surely exceeding his own—directed her toward the tall door at the end of a corridor decorated with sandstone walls and ivory statues. This part of the palace seemed older, somehow, more ancient than the marbled floors and pillars of her own wing, as though the foundations of the library held as much important history as the knowledge they stored.

Elain was not entirely sure what to expect from the space, but not even in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the sight unravelled before her.

Helion’s grand library spanned across what seemed to be the full height of the palace, climbing at least seven floors upward until she could no longer see anything but the sunlight pouring in through the ceiling—or rather the lack of it, as Elain realised, with no glass dome shielding the circular space. Instead, the sun shone freely into the halls, Helion’s own magic no doubt shielding the parchments and tomes from the weather and any other outside disruptions. Somehow, Elain doubted it ever rained here, the land seemingly covered in perpetual light and guarded by bright, fluffy clouds.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the musky scent of heavy tomes and dried-up ink. There were so many books in here that she doubted even a lifetime of immortality would be enough to make her way through them all. Elain began making her way inside, through the endless walls of bookshelves and desks, with piles upon piles of documents stacked in every corner of the space, the overwhelming prospect of knowledge and information like a magnet pulling in her sight. Her eyes flickered from one shelf to another, growing wider and wider at the sheer amount, her heart quickening as she realised just how much there was to be learned about the world.

She hadn’t ever left the human lands beneath the Wall—and then, in this new life, she’d hidden deep in the Night Court, dreaming about the home she’d abandoned. She had no idea…

Her steps carried her to the second floor as thought with a mind of their own, and Elain did not realise she found herself in a secluded section of tomes shining a spectrum of vibrant greens and yellows, the texts practically calling out her name. She moved in closer, hands reaching for a heavy tome with an elegant, leathery cover of a grassy shade of green. A small gasp escaped her lips as she opened it, a hand-painted picture of tulips gleaming softly from the page.

The text beneath read, The Tulip Fields of Cordana—a small human kingdom bordering the faerie lands deep into the Continent. Elain’s heart quickened as her father’s words came back to life in her mind.

My dear Elain, I promise to take you there one day. The fields are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen—other than my lovely daughters, of course, he’d added quickly, making Elain giggle.

Her mother died shortly after that, and then…well.

Her father was right, though. Elain didn’t need to stand in the fields to marvel at their beauty. The bright colours of yellow and pink and amethyst were vibrant even on the yellowed page, and Elain began reading through the fields’ history, nearly devouring the story of the young human queen who’d first planted them centuries ago.

She was just flipping the page when a smooth, quiet voice sounded behind her. “Tulips?”

Elain jolted—and winced as a sharp sting cut through her finger, the paper slicing her skin when she whined back.

“Shit!” she swore as droplets of blood began beading at the small wound, staining the old page with a fresh red.

Lucien chuckled. “I had no idea you were capable of such foul language,” he mocked.

She glared at him. “Helion is going to kill me—I hope you know I’m going to tell him whose fault this was.”

But Lucien did not seem to mind, his gaze elsewhere as he stepped back an inch, sweeping it over her form. Her own heartbeat picked up as she heard his breath catch in his throat, mouth parting slightly in surprise as he took her in—the long, exposed legs, the bare skin of her shoulders, the golden-brown hair framing her face in loose, cascading waves. The sapphire-lined eyes as she returned his gaze, waiting for him to say something—anything before her cheeks truly and openly heated under his stare.

“You…” he started, the word no more than a gasp on his lips.

“Yes?” she asked, her own question breathless.

Lucien’s throat bobbed as he opened his mouth—but then, his gaze slid down to her hand.

“You’re hurt,” he managed to say.

“What?” Elain followed his gaze. “Oh. Oh—it’s nothing.” She looked back to him again. “Where were you this morning?”

Lucien ignored the question. “Why don’t you heal it?” he asked tightly, his body growing rigid with the question. He was holding himself back, she realised, something—that beast—purring in her chest as her Fae instincts responded to his own. He’d scented her blood, the same way she’d scented his during the War—and Elain knew that, unreasonable as it was, everything inside him screamed to protect.

Elain swallowed hard. “It’s fine—it’s just a cut.”

“Still.”

“I don’t—I mean, I simply don’t see the point—”

Lucien’s eyes flickered back to hers at that, something like surprise shining in his stare. “You don’t know how, do you?”

Anger simmered in her at last—finally, an emotion she was familiar with. She’d take it any day over this—over this hot breathlessness in her chest, one that would not stop burning until it got what it wanted. Touch him, smell him, taste him.

No, anger was good. “You have no right to speculate—”

Lucien laughed—actually laughed, a deep, throaty sound as though her frustration amused him. “Are you telling me they never taught you? It’s really quite simple, Elain.”

“I never asked,” Elain seethed now, “It’s not natural—”

She stopped herself before the sentence fully spilled from her tongue, as if some ancient magic was mercifully holding her back. 

Too late. Frowning, Lucien asked, “Not natural?” He stepped in closer, backing her into the sandstone wall. “Elain, magic is the most natural thing in the world. It’s part of you—“

“Stop,” Elain breathed.

“Why?”

“It’s not—it isn’t part of me,” she said, the words no more than a whisper—as that ancient magic could hear. “It can’t be. I didn’t—I didn’t ask for it.”

I didn’t ask for you.

Lucien said, his voice strangely quiet, “I know. But sometimes…sometimes we have to make do with what we’re given.”

There was something in his tone that made her pause—that made her want to ask him more. Had someone hurt him the way she’d been hurt? Had he lost, too, had it drowned him, pulled him into the same desperate darkness?

Elain couldn’t—could not do what he said. Could not simply accept it and move on—not when she was so close, so close to…to going back.

Lucien’s eyes softened. “Then allow me,” he said, and placed her hand in his palm.

He’d never touched her before.

Her hand was small against his, his broad warmth enveloping her, wrapping itself around the cut until she could no longer feel it stinging. Her veins pulsed as the golden thread began thrumming around her rib, pulling her closer toward him, begging her to move until their bodies became one.

Elain forced herself still, every nerve inside her fighting to keep from trembling.

Lucien strained against her, too, but his gaze remained focused on the bleeding finger, a soft glow starting to gleam from his hand. She watched, transfixed as the wound soaked up the light, waiting for the wound to close—except that, a few seconds after, nothing seemed to have changed.

Elain’s brow arched. “Quite simple, huh?” she teased, unable to help herself.

But Lucien’s attention remained fixed on the wound—the blood still thick at its hem. “It’s…not me.”

Elain froze. “What do you mean?”

A bead of sweat formed at his hairline. “I’m trying to heal it, but—it’s like your magic…there’s something in it that’s holding me back.”

Elain kept her face cool. “That’s not possible.”

“It’s like…” he continued, entirely focused on the feeling, “like a thorn in a rose. Like the stem will not smooth out until you remove it, but—” He frowned.

My magic is part of you now, little Seer, that silky voice slid into her mind with the memory. It will live in your veins, a symbol of our bargain, until you fulfil your end.

“—but it’s almost like healing is against its nature,” Lucien finished.

“That can’t be true,” Elain countered, her mind racing for an excuse. “I’ve been healed before—after…after Hybern—”

Lucien stilled for a moment. Then, “Hold on—just let me…” the words faded as he frowned again, his eyes closing as his palm emitted a new light—a golden light, like the the thread that connected their souls.

There was a tug—the tug—somewhere in her chest, and Koschei’s magic…it recoiled.

Elain tried not to gasp as the wound closed slowly, not even a thin scar creasing her skin—even the blood vanishing under the healing light.

A second later, and he was done.

“There,” he said quietly. “I know you asked me not to,” he added, knowing perfectly well she knew what he was referring to, “but I…I had to try.”

Elain swallowed. “Thank you.”

Lucien smiled, not entirely teasing as he said, “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that to me.”

Elain huffed, making him chuckle.

“So, tulips?” he asked.

Elain blinked, the spell gone entirely as she stepped back, her cover still intact. “It doesn’t matter.” The tulips were part of her old life—unlike him. She’d see them when she was turned, and Lucien…And she wouldn’t see Lucien again.

She wasn’t sure why her heart clenched at the thought.

Lucien’s face fell an inch. “I see.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I found something.”

Elain thanked the Gods for the change in subject. “Oh?”

Lucien nodded. “Come.”

She followed him a floor up, to what had to have been the darkest corner of the library—as though even the sunlight wanted to shy away from the secrets it held. The sandstone was older here, a deeper shade of beige, scraped by the passing years. There were no scholars roaming this wing—strange, Elain thought, when the tomes seemed to almost sing of the knowledge they possessed. Their subtle hum slid beneath her skin, stirring her blood, as though compelling her to reach out for them as she and Lucien stopped in front the bookshelf standing farthest from the light.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered.

Lucien’s auburn brows knitted as he looked at her. “Hear…what?”

Oh.

“I must’ve imagined it,” Elain lied. “So what did you find?”

“Elain.” One word—not exactly a warning, but…a plea. As if it took everything inside him not to beg her to push him away.

She gave in—just this one time. “The books, they…” she hesitated, wondering how to best phrase the feeling without sounding like an utter lunatic. “I think they may be enchanted. It feels like they’re calling out to me.”

Lucien looked at her incredulously. “They know your name?”

She listened in—but the song seemed more of a melody than a language—and if it was a language indeed, it was not one Elain was in any way familiar with. “No,” she finally decided. “But…I think they can feel my magic, and it resonates with whatever the books had been spelled with.”

Lucien loosed a shaky breath. “That would make sense.”

Elain frowned. “How?”

He reached up for one of the brownish tomes, resting on a shelf far above Elain’s head—far out of reach. Elain’s eyes trailed the movement—focusing, to her exasperation, less on the book itself but on Lucien’s hand, the same one that had just been holding hers, his sun-warmed skin soft as it welcomed her touch.

She ran a hand through her curls nervously, Lucien’s own eyes darting towards them as he wordlessly handed her the book. “What is it?” she asked him.

Lucien did not look at her as he explained, “You’ve grown out your hair.”

That, Elain did not expect. “Oh. Yes, I—I suppose I did.”

There was a moment of silence, as if Lucien was weighing the risk of his words before he finally said, “It suits you.”

She could have sworn the thread glimmered in answer.

Elain swallowed the light, “So what’s in that book?”

Lucien hid it well—the disappointment. She tried not to let it affect her as he said, “Open it. Page two hundred forty-six.”

She did as instructed, carefully flipping through the nearly disintegrated pages—the books must have been centuries, if not millennia old, no doubt preserved by the library’s magic—until she found the one she was looking for.

“Is that…” she begun, unable to find the words. She’d never been there personally, but Feyre and Nesta’s stories had been painted vividly enough that she recognised the blurry image immediately.

“The Prison,” Lucien nodded. “And this,” he pointed to an old, wrinkled creature, its teeth sharp and exposed, “is the Bone Carver.”

Elain countered, “I thought he looked different.”

“He could appear as whatever he wished. This must be how the author saw him. From what this text says,” he added, pointing to the strange language Elain did not recognise, “the image haunted him until the end of his days.”

Elain asked, “How does this relate to the Trove?”

“Take a look at what he’s holding.”

She glanced at the page. “Well, obviously—a bone. But—” she looked in closer. “Oh.”

Lucien nodded. “This one is different. The bone is curved—like in the image I told you about.”

“The one Nesta’s friend found?”

“Yeah. That one was U-shaped, too. And, look—this one isn’t matted, or scraped, even. There are no old bloodstains, either. It’s too clean, too pristine to not be magical.”

“And it gleams, too,” Elain murmured.

Lucien looked at her weirdly. “It does?”

Elain shifted on her feet. “You don’t see it?”

He hummed. “No. This only confirms my theory—this bone is calling out to you, a Seer, even through the page. Like a pet to its master.”

Elain shivered. “I-I still don’t think we need the Bone,” she stuttered, repeating the same words she’d told him when he’d announced their sudden trip to Day. “We’ve been making progress—with Vassa, that is—I can do it, I can find out how—how to kill him, without it.”

“Elain,” Lucien pressed softly. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” she argued. She needed to be back at the house—needed to find the box Lucien must’ve hidden before her time was up.

“Aren’t you tired of being in the dark?” he asked her, making her limbs grow still. “Of not knowing? This Trove could hold all the answers—could help you navigate and understand your visions. Gwyneth even said…she said it could alleviate the pain, too.”

Elain whispered, “You know about the pain?”

He hesitated.

“Lucien,” she urged.

“I feel it,” he said quietly. “I feel it when you sleep. Every night—your visions, all of endless pain. Of fire—and of death.” He released a long, long breath. “Elain—”

“We need to return to the Night Court,” Elain cut in, her voice unrecognisable even to herself. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—speak to him about the bond. Not when…not when it threatened to consume her.

Not when the idea started to no longer fill her soul with dread.

Lucien looked at her until she began to worry he might not speak to her at all.

“We need to visit the Prison,” she pressed.

Lucien sighed, resignation rolling off of him in waves. “We’re going to need an escort.”

Elain nodded, a new plan already sprouting to life in her head. “Alright.”

His eyes dimming, Lucien turned away, his voice quiet as he said, “I will contact Feyre immediately.”

———

“No,” Nesta said immediately.

Lucien chuckled.

“I’m going,” Elain pressed, shooting him a glare.

“Elain,” her sister repeated. “It isn’t safe—”

“Lucien will be there with me,” she said, and thought the words had been meant to appease Nesta, Elain found that they brought her comfort, too.

Surprise flickered from across the room, quickly followed by something else—a deep, intoxicating heat, like the midday sun warming her skin. Elain didn’t have to turn to know its source—to feel Lucien’s gaze on her, his mouth no doubt twisted in a purely male, smug smile.

Lucien was not the only one her words seemed to have affected—Feyre watched, too, from where she and Rhysand sat on the couch, little Nyx babbling happily as she bounced him on her knees. Her younger sister angled her head curiously, Rhys’s lips twitching beside her—Elain had no doubt the two of them were already passing their comments mind-to-mind. She sighed, exasperated—there was nothing between her and Lucien—other than the very unfortunate fact that he seemed to be the key to her finally getting what she truly desired.

Which was not a mate. Especially not an infuriating, cocky, completely improper—

“Elain knows what she’s doing,” came his response. He shot her a wry smile. “And if she doesn’t, she’ll be safe with me.” Lucien looked at Nesta. “You have my word.”

Nesta’s jaw tightened as she turned to Elain. “And there is no changing your mind on this?”

Elain loosed a sigh of relief. “No.”

“Nesta,” Feyre interjected. “I will be there, too.” The Prison’s enchantments had always required the presence of Night’s High Lord—or Lady—to even enter the structure at all.

The eldest Archeron gritted her teeth. “I just—I don’t understand why you need to go there at all. The Bone Carver is dead—what good will going to his cell do?”

“Elain might find some answers there,” Rhysand supplied smoothly, “or clues, even. Revisiting his old…” he hesitate, “home—could potentially trigger a vision.”

“Potentially is not good enough for me,” Nesta barked.

“It is for me,” Elain said firmly. “We’re going.”

Her tone left no room for argument, and Nesta pinched the bridge of her nose—a habit she seemed to have picked up from Cassian, a fact that made Elain stir. She glanced at Lucien quickly, her gaze sweeping over his stance to see if it mirrored her own—but Lucien simply stood there, leaning against Feyre’s couch, his powerful arms crossed over his chest. He’d rolled up his sleeves, Elain noted, golden-brown muscles on display under the afternoon light.

Get it together, she scowled at the beast. It only smirked at her in return.

Feyre sighed, handing her son over to Rhys. Nyx cooed as his father’s arms wrapped around him, wings rising over his head as though preparing for flight.

Rhys chuckled, “Soon, buddy. I promise.”

Elain’s smile faded. Soon, Nyx’s aunt would be human again—when would she see him again? When would she see Feyre and Nesta? When would she see…?

“Are you alright?” Lucien’s voice sounded beside her. She didn’t even notice when he’d stepped in to her side.

Elain simply nodded, turning to Feyre. “We should go now. There’s no…there’s no time to waste.”

After all, she only had a few days.

Bring me the box, little Seer, and you will be human again.

Feyre rose, reaching out a hand. “When we cross the gates, we’re going to have some…company,” she said mysteriously. “Try not to listen to them. They’ll say anything to get you to try and free them.”

Elain nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat.

Feyre’s blue-grey eyes softened. “Ready?”

“Wait,” Nesta stopped them. She took a step towards her, pulling something from the sheath strapped to her side.

Something long, and sharp. Gleaming.

“This is the dagger I Made,” Nesta explained, then looked at Lucien with a mocking smile. “Your brother had been quite displeased about it slipping from his grasp. I want you to take it,” she said to Elain, a quiet worry filling her gaze. “Just in case.”

Elain swallowed. She didn’t take well to knives.

“Please,” Nesta only said.

The word had never come easily to her sister—and perhaps that was why Elain silently accepted, Nesta’s shoulders loosening with relief.

Feyre nodded, slipping a tattooed hand into Elain’s. “You know where to winnow?” she asked Lucien, who nodded.

A thick, slithering cloud began forming around them—reality folding in on itself, leaving nothing but darkness in its wake. The living room blurred out, and the last thing she saw were Nyx’s eyes, the crushing blue twinkling curiously at his family.

“See you on the other side, Cursebreaker,” Lucien grinned.

Elain closed her eyes and did not open them until a hard wall of wind slammed into her.

The Prison waited beneath the cliff, its very foundations thrumming with the power it contained. Elain let her gaze adjust to the building storm above, the dark waves crashing furiously into the rock. Beside her, Feyre seemed tense, as though lost in the memory of her last time there—or perhaps anxious for what laid ahead.

Lucien looked at them both, his long, auburn hair swept back and floating with the angry wind. “Shall we?”

Elain shivered. “We shall.”

They walked the pebbled path, Elain nearly slipping on the wet rocks as the sea spilled over. Lucien graciously offered his arm, no sly remark falling from his tongue—only his steady presence as they reached the iron entrance. The gates cried heavily as Feyre waved a hand, the ancient metal bending under the will of its High Lady, and finally, darkness enveloped them at last.

The very first thing Elain realised was how silent it was, not even a whisper of an echo as they descended down to the pit of the mountain’s belly. The shadows seemed to swallow every move, every breath, every bead of sweat from Elain’s forehead as she moved, her breathing falling flat.

Elain was not sure how long they walked. She clung to Lucien’s arm as he led them down behind Feyre, his soul the only source of light in the darkness. She could not see the light, perhaps—warm and golden, even in the coldest, most wretched of places.

“The Bone Carver rested beneath the roots of the mountain,” Feyre said quietly, answering the silent question she hadn’t dared to ask out loud. 

Elain nodded, though she doubted her sister could somehow see the movement.

“Do you need some water?” Lucien’s soft voice brushed past her ear. “Thank you,” Elain whispered, the first words she’d spoken since they entered. She could almost feel his smile as he drank. Yet another thank you in one day, his soul teased playfully. I should consider myself a very lucky male.

Elain rolled her eyes, though the tension washed down her body all the same.

“We’re here,” Feyre announced after a few minutes, though all Elain could make out was a smooth wall of stone.

But then her sister pressed her palm to it, and the stone trembled beneath it, tattoos swirling atop her skin. Both Lucien and Elain watched with their mouths agape as the stone shifted and morphed into bone, the ivory gates revealing another space of darkness behind.

Elain did not have the time to study the old markings carved into the gates, a familiar voice penetrating her, smooth and deep.

“Hello, little traitor,” Lucien said.

Elain whirled back.

“What did you say?” she asked breathlessly.

Lucien frowned, the soft glow from Feyre’s palm illuminating his confusion. “I didn’t say anything.”

A low chuckle. “I’ve never known Seers to be so blind.”

Elain shook violently, Lucien’s confusion shifting into concern. “Elain, what’s wrong?” he asked, placing two, strong hands atop her shoulders, her body instinctively leaning into his chest.

“Good,” Lucien’s voice giggled. “Good, little traitor. Lean into your mate before you burn his bones to ash.”

Her breathing came short, her hands trembling as she placed them atop Lucien’s chest. “I don’t understand.”

Feyre angled her head. “Is someone speaking to you?”

“I—I thought it was Lucien,” Elain panted. “He sounds like Lucien.”

“What did he say?” Lucien asked carefully.

“Tell him, Elain Archeron. Tell your mate you’re only here to betray him.” Another giggle—an ugly sound, one she’d never heard fall from Lucien’s mouth, one that seemed to claw at her very bones.

“Who are you?” she breathed.

Lucien squeezed her shoulders. “Elain—”

“Why does your heart race at your mate’s touch, pretty Seer? Does it not still long for another?”

“It does,” Elain said immediately, Koschei’s magic purring in her veins at the words. “It does—”

“What does, Elain?” Feyre asked, urgency rushing into her tone. “Who are you talking to?”

“Very well, then. I suppose you could call me…a memory,” not-Lucien said, the sound coming from somewhere behind her now.

“Elain—”

“From the past?” Elain asked, turning away from Lucien’s warm chest.

The voice clicked its tongue in disappointment. “How truly helpless you are, little Seer. You should know by now that the lines between past, present and future are as blurred as they get.”

Elain breathed, “What does that mean?”

His next chuckle came from behind her back. “It means you should finally open your eyes.”

Elain whirled again, meeting a pair of gold and russet, shining with concern.

“Tell me how to help you,” Lucien begged, desperation creeping into his voice—his real voice, grounding her to reality.

Elain loosed a breath. “I…I think it was the Bone Carver.”

Feyre stepped in closer to them both. “The Bone Carver is dead, Elain,” she reminded her, the cell sounding with a quiet laugh at the words.

Elain shook her head. “No—a part of him—a part of him is still…” she trailed off, finally calm enough to look around the cave.

“Now you See,” the voice purred.

She could make out the gleam beneath the earth even without the ball of sunlight shining in Feyre’s hand. It rippled as she approached, glistening an almost blinding white.

“Come closer, little Seer,” it crooned. “Come closer to me.”

“Elain,” Feyre’s warning came distantly from somewhere behind her.

Elain stopped an inch from the gleam. “It’s here,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it.”

A warm presence enveloped her once more. “What is?”

But Elain didn’t respond, transfixed on the quiet hum coming from deep beneath, her mind once more being pulled into a daze.

“Touch me, pretty traitor. Take what you deserve.”

Elain crouched, reaching for the ground—

A strong hand wrapped around her wrist. “Elain.”

Elain blinked. “Lucien?”

He nodded, lacing their fingers together, her skin tingling at the touch. “What is it that you’re seeing?” he asked softly.

Clarity sucked her in once more. “Lucien,” she repeated. “We need to dig.”

“What do you see?” Feyre asked, parroting Lucien’s question.

“The Bone,” Elain answered. “It gleams beneath the earth.”

Feyre’s eyes widened. “That’s impossible.” She looked to the ground where Elain pointed, squinting as though trying to make out the supposed shine. “The Bone…but why wouldn’t he…?”

“We need to dig,” Elain said again. Lucien wasted no time.

His magic tore through the earth, the rock cracking beneath its weight, Elain directing its direction quietly. The Fourth Trove—all this time…It couldn’t have been.

And yet, with Lucien’s final surge of power into the rock, a curved, white bone was revealed, resting between the cracks of the earth. Unstained by as much as a droplet of blood.

“That bastard,” Feyre whispered. The voice chuckled again, the sound echoing off the stone.

Elain reached for it again.

“Wait,” Lucien said. “You shouldn’t—not yet. Not until we know it’s safe.”

Elain hesitated. “I think it has to be me.”

“We don’t risk it,” Feyre agreed. “We’ll take the Trove to the House—it’ll be safer without all those prisoners around us.”

That was enough for Elain to agree. If there was any chance the Bone’s powers could release the creatures that lurked in the Prison’s darkness, she was more than content to wait.

Feyre waved a hand, her magic making the Bone float upwards and into the High Lady’s palm.

“Bad call.”

The cave shook.

Elain started, “What is happening—”

“My purpose is complete. Good luck, little traitor.” A final, bone-shuddering laugh. “If you manage to get out of here alive, that is.”

The stone above their heads began to crack.

“Elain!” Lucien roared, and before she could blink, a pair of strong arms wrapped around her as they lunged forward. A second later, a rock the size of her head fell exactly to where she’d kneeled a moment ago.

Elain gaped at him. “Lucien—”

“No time,” Feyre panted beside them. “Let’s get out of there.”

Elain took Lucien’s hand as they ran out, the cave roaring behind them. Blood rushed in her ears, too hot and loud to hear Feyre’s shouted commands as she led them past the ivory gates, the same bones that had survived millennia now crumbling into dust, one by one. Elain looked back just in time to see the cave collapse.

The only thing Elain could see in the darkness was the faint gleam of the Bone in Feyre’s hand, the excited purring of the Prison’s captives leading them back upwards. There was no time to take breaks now, and even time seemed to pass by quicker as they ran, three heartbeats melting into one sound of pure, unrestrained terror.

The greyish light of the sky finally came into view, the Prison gates towering high above them as Feyre grasped at one of the iron bars.

“Feyre,” Lucien breathed. “What—”

Feyre shoved the Bone into Lucien’s hand. “I need to get Rhysand,” she panted. “Take her—take her to the manor. Take her to safety.” She looked him straight in the eyes, determination momentarily replacing her panic as the High Lady commanded, “Now.”

Lucien did not need to be told twice. His arms wrapped around her waist once more, and with that, the crumbling Prison vanished.

———

“We need to go back,” Elain told Lucien a second later.

Lucien ran a shaky hand through his hair. “We have a mission to complete, Elain.”

“Not yet,” Elain pressed, Koschei’s ticking clock no longer of importance. “Not until we make sure they’re okay.”

“Feyre gave me the Bone for a reason, Elain,” Lucien said, his expression pained. “We will go back as soon as we can.” He squeezed her hand, still placed safely in his own. “They have each other. They’ll be okay.”

Elain loosed a breath and closed her eyes. They would be okay—her sister and Rhysand both held a power she’d never been able to fully grasp, as though the very darkness coiled within their shared souls. If anyone could contain the magic ruining the Prison…it would be the High Lord and Lady of the Night. Together.

Elain opened her eyes. “Alright.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Jurian asked, a shivering Vassa following closely behind him. It only took one look for the General to understand, his brown eyes wide as he saw Lucien’s face. “Get inside.”

Elain had to physically keep from running as they navigated the corridor, its dim light welcoming her back—so different from the sunlit halls of Day. This morning seemed like forever ago.

They finally reached the living room, Jurian gently leading Vassa to the couch. The sun had only just set, Elain realised—Vassa must’ve turned back minutes ago, if not less. “Are you alright?” she asked the queen carefully.

Jurian glowered at her. “A side effect from the elixir.” He looked at Lucien. “She’s cold.”

Vassa waved a hand. “It’s nothing worth mentioning,” she said. Jurian looked inclined to protest, and she added with a sigh, “Not yet, at least.”

That seemed to appease him enough. The Mad General turned to the two Fae in front of him again, his gaze immediately darting to the Trove in Lucien’s hand. “Is that…”

Lucien nodded. “We got it.”

Vassa seemed a little breathless. “Have you used it?”

“We’re about to,” Elain said. “There…there is no time to waste.”

Vassa nodded. “Do you need me?” she asked, reaching out her palm without a second of hesitation. Jurian growled lowly.

“I think…It’s safer if I do it myself.” Jurian grunted his agreement.

Lucien looked into her eyes before handing her the Trove. “Elain,” he began. “I…I’m here if you need me.”

Elain swallowed. “I know.” And with that, she wrapped her fingers around the Bone.

Tell me how to get what I desire, she asked it silently.

What appeared before her made her chest clenched so tight all the air was knocked out from her lungs.

She was still at the manor—still veiled in that old, dusty dimness, still waiting on the mole-eaten couch, except…

“Are you alright, Elain?” Graysen asked her, blue eyes shining with concern.

Elain only stared.

“I’ve asked for some tea to be made for you,” he continued, the words strangely resembling one of the last conversations they’d ever had. “Chamomile, right?”

“Jasmine,” Elain choked out.

“Oh. Right.”

She was back—Elain was back home, with her fiancé less than a few feet away from her. Making her tea. 

So why did her chest still feel so tight?

Elain's gaze fell.

An iron ring glinted atop her finger.

A pale-skinned palm covered it as it took her hand into its own. “I’ve missed you,” Graysen said. “You’ve been away far too long.”

She wasn’t sure she was breathing anymore. “You did?”

“Of course,” Graysen said, as if the answer was obvious. “All I ever thought about was having my beautiful Elain back in my arms.”

Something flitted in the window behind him, Elain’s eyes darting toward the movement.

Her heart stopped entirely as a large, tawny owl winked back at her.

Elain’s gasp made her choke on air, like a drowning person being pulled out from underwater. She coughed into her hand, the Bone discarded on the cushion beside her, a soothing hand on her back.

“Breathe, Elain,” Lucien commanded softly. “Breathe.”

The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, but Elain couldn’t help but look past the window—and her shoulders fell as she realised that the only thing staring back at her was the starless night. “I think,” she breathed out, “I’m going to need some practice.”

“What did you see?” Jurian asked, wasting no time on letting her adjust.

What, indeed?

She’d asked the Trove to show her how to get what she desired—and the Trove, an object of a power so ancient had shown her her human life. Was that the future awaiting her? Had it meant…

Elain’s eyes burned.

Had it meant she had a chance?”

“Well?” Jurian urged.

But Elain looked at Lucien, his gaze still shining with concern—as though the Bone, the vision, mattered as little as the dust the Bone Carver’s legacy had turned into.

He was a good male, Elain realised—in some way, she had always known. He was cocky and infuriating, yes, but it was his presence that pulled her back when she needed it most. And if Graysen really was the future awaiting her, then Lucien…Lucien deserved happiness, too. Not a mate who’d been…who’d been thrown at him. Not a mate who was no more than a lie. A mistake.

The thought should have brought her peace. But all Elain felt was the suffocating dark as she told them all, “I know how to kill him. I know…I know how to kill Koschei.”

Vassa stifled a sob.

Jurian narrowed his gaze on her. “How?”

“Jurian,” Lucien cut in, his voice calm yet stern. “There’s no need to be so hostile anymore—Elain risked her life to find the Trove.” He looked at her with more certainty than anyone else ever had in her life as he added, “We can trust her.”

No, Elain thought, her heart rotting into mould her chest. You can’t.

She could no longer look into his eyes. She had gone too far now to even dare.

I’m sorry, Lucien.

“There is a box,” Elain told Jurian, her voice unable to keep from shaking. She could only hope they dismissed it for nervousness—not the cold, piercing guilt eating up the last of her aching heart. “Koschei’s soul is stored within it. The only way to kill him is to destroy it.”

Come on, the rot in her blood urged. Say you have it. Tell me where.

Elain was too weak to stop it.

Lucien, Jurian and Vassa exchanged one look before the decision was made.

“I stole it,” Vassa said thickly. “When your father struck a deal with Koschei—I took it from him and hid it, hoping that, one day, I could barter it back for what he took from me.”

Her humanity.

Elain would never atone for this.

Lucien waved a hand, a flicker of light appearing at his fingertips. A gasp tore from her as the onyx box came into view as though it had been crafted from thin air, floating downward until it rested atop the splintered, wooden table.

Well done, my sweet, the box seemed to purr.

Jurian simply said, “Tell us how.”

Bile rose in Elain’s throat with the lie, too quick to stop as she uttered, “You must place it atop Koschei’s lake. The magic beneath the water works against the laws of nature, crying out with the women he’d enslaved into swans. It will seek to punish him—it will weaken the box, allowing you to strike.”

The Band of Exiles looked at each other wordlessly.

“We must go to the Continent,” Elain managed before her throat gave out entirely.

Lucien only nodded, her command the only instruction he needed. “I will contact the Night Court immediately.”

———

“Rest, girl.”

Feyre shook her head, the movement alone making the world spin around her.

“Rest,” Amren pressed. “You and Rhysand have done enough.”

A warm hand rested at her back. “I will take her to bed.”

The female nodded, silver eyes sharp. “Cassian is on site. Nesta will join him shortly—for now, the wards are contained.”

Beside her, Rhysand loosed a shaky breath. “Good. Thank you, Amren.”

“Yes, well. You know how much you owe me.”

He managed a laugh, the sound strained even more than his depleted power. “Make sure to bill it to my office.”

Amren huffed. “You need to rest, too, you know.” And with that, she was gone.

Rhys sighed deeply. “Let’s go, Feyre,” he said, slipping his hand into hers. “There’s not much more we can do now.”

She began to protest, but Rhys’s warm lips on her temple were enough to stop her in her tracks. “I’m so tired,” Feyre admitted.

“Let’s go to bed. We can stay there forever, if you’d like.”

Feyre nodded, taking a swaying step forward.

Forever did not last long enough—did not even truly manage to begin as the study shook, the snapping sound of Rhysand’s wards being cleaved in two their only warning as a blinding light erupted at its centre.

Helion Spell-Cleaver’s booming presence was enough to sharpen every last one of her nerves as the High Lord of Day appeared in their study, sunlight scorching around him without mercy. “Tell me, Cursebreaker,” Helion began, his voice just barely restraining his anger, “When were you going to tell me about my son?”

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I have this Elucien scene in my head where they are already together and exploring all their sexual tension and then Elain drops the words "Oral" and Lucien feels he is losing it.

But then, he discover Graysen had never tasted her and had actually made her think that she would probably taste awful and now she has that fear so he calms himself and goes "Let's just try it and if you don't like it then I'll stop" But Elaine is nervous and she goes "I'm afraid you won't like how I taste" and Lucien is just like, WHat? I would love how you taste! Let's try it.

And then there they are, Lucien kneeling with his face between her legs while staring at her and thinking she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen and meanwhile Elain is just so freaking nervous. But then Lucien takes a long lick and stops and while it felt amazing Elaine is just so nervous because he is not moving, not talking, not saying anything so she goes "Lucien? Is it bad-" But she can't even finish because Lucien lets out the most unholy growl ever and proceeds to devour her because her flavor is the most amazing thing he had ever tasted

Just saying, it would be a nice scene t0o have on the book