A Court of Games and Fate

The Spring Court End

LUCIEN

          Lucien Vanserra thought his troubles would dissipate with the freedom of the fae realm and the final removal of his ornate fox mask. The male certainly thought that once Amarantha was dead and gone, he could return to living his own life as the emissary to his best friend in a place just barely far enough from the Court he had once called home. Prythian would finally be at peace and so would he.

          The Cauldron and the Mother clearly had other plans.

          The adjustment to his new face, once unmarred, now unmasked and gruesomely disfigured in comparison was the least of the new trouble plaguing him. Under the Mountain and the wretchedness of Amarantha had done a number on him and his friends, but Lucien felt like an outsider in Tamlin's home with their supposedly shared trauma. Sure, the dead queen had treated him as less than the dirt under her shiny heel, but that treatment was no different than most of her court. It certainly was nothing in comparison to her horrible obsession with Tamlin, nor her literally killing Feyre. No, all Lucien was a victim of was being used as a form of torment to others and a cruel hand dealt by fate.

          The first few weeks of their freedom left Lucien grappling with the stages of grief. In the beginning, he felt numb and unattached to his body, his soul trying to unite with a piece that was not anywhere near him. Then the true weight of everything that occurred those final days Under the Mountain hit and the male wanted nothing more than to claw his skin off. Lucien was angry. After everything he had been through, every heartbreak he had suffered at the hands of his family, every loss that felt as if his heart had been drained from his form, all of it led to this? To his fate being entwined with some illegitimate female who was the daughter to the queen who enslaved them all and the heir to the Court which was the biggest enemy to the only place he considers a true home?

          The anger and devastation all hit at once. If it weren't for his need to be close to his friends during their time of healing, then Lucien knew he would have taken off anywhere that was further from the source of his issues. He had nothing to be so upset over, not in comparison to Tamlin and Feyre. If they can put on a happy facade, then he damn well could too. He would be the light for their little trio, for their sakes. Lucien was happy to pretend his problems didn't exist, even if he knew his instinctual being would not let him forget. The damn Mother and her tricks would not get the better of him, he decided.

          The sun had not even risen, yet Lucien was up and ready, already beginning his morning drills in the dew-filled lawns of the manor. The cool morning air did little to help the panting and sweating male as he swung his blade and followed the familiar motions that built his form. Auburn eyebrows scrunched together in focused frustration.

          He had dreamt of her again.

          It wasn't uncommon, much to his dismay. As much as Lucien wanted to try and forget the fated attachment to the younger female who wanted little to do with him and who he currently wanted to want nothing to do with, his subconscious betrayed him nearly nightly. His dreams were filled with the fake princess drunkenly twirling down the corridors of the Mountain, her cooled grasp as her nimble hand held his arm the night she caught him outside the prison, and- on the particularly cruel nights- her being manhandled by his brothers as his best friend flicked the whip over and over. That dream always did a number on him. The worst was when the princess's screaming form would morph into that of his former lover, Jesminda.