Summary: An equinox ball started it all. But shall another one end it?
Vassa's time is running out with every sunrise she dreams of seeing with human eyes. With only weeks before she has to return to the lake and the death-lord she now belongs to, Feyre's failing attempts sparking the fire already burning inside, the mortal queen demands help from the one person who may hold the answer, but has dismissed her from the start.
When Beron invites the members of the newly forged alliance to celebrate the autumn equinox, Vassa sees her chance.
And with a queen who'd do anything to break her curse onto him, Helion is mortified when the mating bond between him and the Lady of Autumn at last snaps into place. And is exposed into the world.
As secrets of the ruling line of Day come out, its High Lord learns the truth of his mate's last pregnancy, and the length she'd go to in order to protect her favorite son. Including hiding him from his true father. Especially as their daughter has been stolen at birth.
Leaflets in The Sun
Prologue
Upon a deathless pond, as the autumn sun glittered its last flutters of light, still water soared in waves northwest, the roar at cause echoing through the withered meadow encircling the lake, caged swans fighting to get free, shades of gray, white and red entwined in a bloody painting.
Enchanted water swirled and shivered again as the painter of this dead and undead headland pushed his brush onwards and into the beast chained to the tallest tree, gold feathers shredded bloody on to ground and water, that blade of bone and teeth, of death itself, striking over and over, not to kill, but to carve and torment, to scar and weaken.
The beast's head at last fell onto its chest, voice hoarse and drained as it began convulsing, claws not yet severed retreating into blooded skin, feathers and wings vanishing as the chains contorted to restrain a different form.
The painter grinned his black rimmed smile at the Fae male in front of him, at the brown skin soaked in sweat and blood, at the nailless fingers pinned at odd angles to the ash tree and at the word now carved into the male's chest, just above his heart. Then he sunk one taloned hand inside the male's throat, smile widening at the gagging sound emerging. His prey's head began rising, a weak attempt at freeing itself from the grip holding it. But not even a High Lord could escape The Deathless's grip.
Amber eyes met dark orbs of endless nightmares, and the painter angled his claws inside the High Lord's throat, readying himself for the death blow that would end a line. Her line.
And at last the painter would be free.
In a Court far away, northwest of the pond, where the Sun ruled and thrived in beauty and knowledge, all the lights went out, and darkness began its prevail.
Above that darkness, where the night of dreams reigned in utter harmony, a dying fox roared out as sunlight bestowed upon it, the lovely flower weeping for it crying out in awe.
And in a palace build by hands of the same ending line, the Schythian dusk bloody as the High Lord's chest, a beautiful female stirred in her infinite sleep, her red hair sprawled on silken pillows like her mate's blood.
As dusk vanished and the cruelest night settled upon the lake, the caged swans began singing a song of mourning and sorrow, of warning and pleading.
The firebird appeared in the sky, proud and glowing and burning through that prison of a meadow that had ripped away the freedom of many. The painter slowly turned to face it, claws retreating from the High Lord's throat, hand now dragging dark curls up for the Sun's last stand.
Through the firebird's blue eyes of spring, the golden egg tightly treasured in her claws, the painting was the last breath of a male she'd wronged, the grim smile of her tormentor soon to be ended as well. Just a few more flutters of wings. Just one more ray of sunshine.
But through those amber eyes...
Helion Spell-Cleaver trashed against the chains and the ash trees, as his own blood drowned out his life and his warning. To a mortal woman who'd caused his mate's dismay. To a Fae stripped of her heritage by a death-lord. To the child he'd been meant to kill. To the daughter who'd die not knowing.
The sun stopped gifting light. And it was not a firebird that collided with the lake, but a human girl, red hair a shade lighter than her mother's being the last to sink in, her white dress the promise of a wedding that would never happen.
And in the Court of sailors and treasures, the Sea King bolted from his throne, as a clueless son held on to a bond threaded in flowers, to a female at last accepting what was theirs.
Pigeons began flying due north.