Eris Vanserra — ACOTAR

Hours ago...

It started like so many of our nights did — tense, with unspoken things clawing under our skin.

I had come to Velaris again, for her. For a breath of air that didn’t taste like responsibility or smoke. I needed her — not just her body, not just her warmth — I needed to remember that something in my life still felt like mine.

But it wasn’t the right time.

She had just come back from a diplomatic mission, exhausted, irritated. And I — as usual — refused to say what was truly on my mind. So I said other things. Sharper things. She accused me of shutting her out. I told her she didn’t understand what it meant to be bound to a court that eats its sons alive.

She said I never let her in — only showed up when it suited me, when I needed comfort I didn’t know how to ask for. I told her maybe she liked being the martyr. That maybe she needed me broken so she could feel whole.

And that’s when it shifted. The room changed. The air went still.

Her voice was low when she said it. "Leave."

I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t slam the door. I just walked out.

Back through the streets of Velaris, each step colder than the last. I winnowed straight to the Autumn Court — not home. Never home. Just the place I came from.

And I didn’t go to my chambers. I didn’t send a message. I went to the bar.

The one hidden in the lower halls, where no one asks questions. Where the fire is always too hot and the silence always too loud.

I drank. Too much, too fast, trying to drown the echo of her voice, the look in her eyes when I said the worst things I could think of just to push her away.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The way she looked at me like I had already chosen everything else over her. The way she didn’t yell. She just... let me go.

And that silence? That hurt more than anything else.

Now... The tavern in the lower halls of the Autumn Court was almost silent now. The kind of silence that settled after the music had died, after the last drunk had stumbled out, after the fire in the hearth had turned from flame to flickering ember.

But Eris Vanserra hadn’t moved.

He sat alone at the farthest table, one arm resting against the dark wood, the other hanging limply at his side. His chair was angled awkwardly, legs sprawled like he didn’t care how undignified he looked — and for once, he didn’t.

The table was a mess. Empty wine bottles, some tipped over. Two glasses, both his. One cracked from where his grip had been too tight earlier. There was ash across the wood — from the cigar he never finished — and a half-burned letter he had written to her but never sent.

His hair was disheveled, falling into his face, and his eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in exhaustion and something heavier.

The air was thick — too warm, suffocating, like the tavern itself was trying to press down on him. He could still taste the smoke in the back of his throat. Still feel the weight of her silence wrapped around his ribs like chains.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, head hanging low as his voice came out in a bitter slur:

"She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was just... some other man who hurt her."

He laughed. It was a hollow sound — humorless and rough.

"Maybe I am."

The fight played in his mind on repeat. The way her voice had shaken. The way his had risen. The things he said — cruel, sharp-edged words meant to push her away. And gods, he had succeeded.

"You don’t understand what it’s like to be me," he muttered under his breath, repeating what he’d told her.

But the truth was... She did understand. She always had. That was the part that gutted him.

He pushed the chair back roughly, the legs scraping against stone. Stood — a bit too fast. The room tilted. He blinked against it, grabbing the edge of the table to steady himself.

His sword, his dagger — they were still in his room. He hadn’t brought them. Didn’t want them.

He didn’t want to feel like a warrior tonight. He wanted to feel like a man. One who had ruined the only thing that ever made him feel human.

He stepped outside.

The night air hit him hard — cold and biting, far too sharp for the flush in his skin. His breath curled in the air, and frost crunched underfoot. Somewhere above, the moon sat full and indifferent, staring down at him like a witness.

He didn’t winnow. Didn’t summon magic.

He walked. Because some things shouldn't be easy. Because after what he said, after what he did, maybe he didn’t deserve to blink and find himself at her door.

He wanted to feel every step. He needed it.

The path out of the Autumn Court was long and winding — all sharp trees and shadowed memories. The woods whispered. His boots slipped more than once on damp leaves. But he didn’t stop.

The border between Autumn and the wilds of Prythian was colder. He pulled his shirt tighter around himself, but it was pointless. The wind cut through fabric like guilt through bone. His fingers stung. His feet ached. There were blisters forming in his boots, and his legs screamed at him to stop.

Still, he walked.

The hours blurred. Time melted into steps, into the rhythm of pain and regret. He passed rivers. Old stones. Frozen puddles that cracked beneath his weight.

And finally — finally — the lights of Velaris shimmered on the horizon like stars caught in the earth.

By the time he reached her street, his body was trembling. His throat was raw. Sweat clung to his back despite the cold. He didn’t look like a High Lord. He looked like a ghost.

Her house stood still in the quiet of the city’s sleeping hour. No lights. No sound.

He stood there for a moment, swaying, heart hammering in his chest like it wanted to escape.

His hand lifted. Fingers curled into a loose fist.

One breath. Then another. Then he knocked.

Three slow, uneven raps against the door. And then he whispered to no one:

"Please... just open the door."

His voice cracked.

"I don’t have the strength to walk away again."

And with that, Eris Vanserra — drunk, blistered, broken — waited.

For forgiveness. For a second chance. For her.