The Echo Beneath The Skin
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You woke with the sense that the night hadnât quite let go of you.
For a moment you werenât sure why. The ceiling above you was the same pale stone, faintly lit by the last glow of the faelights. The air carried the familiar chill of early morning, edged with the clean scent of the river drifting up from far below. Your blanket lay in a soft heap around your waist, warm where your body had been, cool where youâd kicked it away.
Then you flexed your fingers. The warmth was still there. Not the fever-bright thrum from the sitting room, not the too-hot rush from the night before. This was quieter. A smoulder rather than a flare, sitting low beneath your skin like embers covered in ash. Awake. Waiting.
You exhaled slowly, watching the faint cloud of your breath dissolve in the dimness.
The House stirred around you as if in answer. The faelights brightened a shade, casting a gentle amber over your room. The floor warmed beneath where your feet would fall before you even moved them, like it was bracing to catch you.
âGood morning,â you murmured, and your voice rasped in a way that made it sound like an apology.
You swung your legs over the side of the bed, sinking into the warmed stone, and sat there a moment longer than you needed to. Your head ached faintly behind your eyes, the dull sort of ache that came from sleep heavy with dreams you couldnât quite remember. Your magic feltâŠattentive. Not agitated. Not calm. Simply listening.
You made yourself stand anyway.
The House had left out a soft sweater for you at the foot of the bedâdark blue, sleeves a little too long, the kind Mor favored. Leggings lay folded neatly beside it. Someone, or something, had finally taken the hint that you couldnât live in healerâs robes every day for the rest of eternity.
You smiled despite the heaviness in your chest and tugged the clothes on, letting the knit fall loose over your hips. You braided your hair over one shoulder by the small alcove bench, fingers brushing the leather spine of your journal without opening it.
You werenât sure you wanted to see what youâd written to them last night, in the bleeding edge of exhaustion and stupid, aching honesty.
The corridor outside your room was quiet. The House brightened the faelights in a soft trail as you walked, coaxing you toward the dining level with the smell of tea and something sweet. Your steps echoed faintly down the stairwell, accompanied by the muffled hum of voices.
You paused just outside the archway and took a breath, smoothing your hands down the sweater as if that would press whatever was too visible back under your skin.
Then you stepped in. The world met you with warmth and noise.
Cassian was already at the table, somehow managing to occupy twice as much space as his actual body required. He was arguing with Nesta over the correct way to slice bread, which seemed to involve more jesting violence than the task justified. Nesta sat with her spine straight and her hair braided back, completely unmoved by his theatrics, though the faintest hint of amusement touched her mouth when he wasnât looking.
Mor was perched on the edge of a chair, one leg tucked under her, gesturing dramatically with half a pastry as she told Feyre some story about Ritaâs and an unfortunate set of stairs. Feyre listened with her chin propped in her hand, eyes bright, a slow smile spreading as Mor hit the climax.
Rhys lounged beside her, entirely too pleased with himself for someone who looked like heâd only just stopped drafting decrees. Elain slipped in from the terrace with a small vase in her hands, filled with something delicate and pale blooming despite the chill.
And at the far end of the table, half in the shadow of the tall window, sat Azriel.
His plate was mostly untouched. A mug of something dark steamed gently near his hand. He sat very straight, as if rigor alone could keep him awake, shadows lazily curling and uncurling along the back of his chair.
He looked up when you entered.
It was quick. A flicker. The kind of glance most people wouldnât notice. But his eyes caught yours for a heartbeat, just long enough for you to see the subtle shift in his expression, the slightest easing around his mouth.
Then he looked away, as if nothing had happened.
âMorning,â Mor called, catching sight of you. âThere she is. Our resident miracle worker.â Her gaze swept over you, from the loose braid to the sweater to the lack of healerâs robe. She grinned. âThe House has excellent taste.â
You tugged at the hem, cheeks warming. âGood morning.â
You took your usual place halfway down the table, where you could see the balcony and the glittering line of the Sidra beyond. A mug of tea appeared by your elbow a moment later, steam curling in the cool air. You murmured your thanks to the House, earning a pleased flick of faelight in response.
Mor leaned over to kiss your cheek in greeting as she snagged another pastry. Her hand brushed yours for the briefest moment. Her eyes dipped to your fingers.
âSleep okay?â she asked, light as ever, but the question slipped between words like a blade between ribs.
âFine,â you said automatically.
Mor looked at you a fraction too long for that to be entirely believed. Then she smiled, bright as sunshine, and let the conversation sweep her up again.
You wrapped your hands around the mug and tried not to notice how your palms made the ceramic feel warmer than it should.
Breakfast spun itself out in familiar linesâCassian stealing food off Nestaâs plate and getting stabbed with a fork for his trouble, Rhys making some smug comment about court politics that earned him twin eyerolls from both Mor and Feyre, Elain quietly arranging her flowers in the middle of the table. The warmth of it sank into your bones, slow and hesitant, like your body didnât quite trust that you were allowed to relax here.
Solstice came up the way weather did: inevitable and lightly argued.
âJust one,â Feyre was saying, tapping her finger on the table. âWe agreed. One tree. Not three. The House doesnât need one in every room.â
âThe House disagrees,â Mor countered. âThe House respects the sanctity of festive excess.â
A plate beside you shifted slightly, as if nudged by invisible hands. You tried not to laugh.
Cassian shrugged innocently. âIâm just saying, the more trees, the more surfaces for hanging things. Swords, decorations, Illyrian commandersââ
âYouâre not hanging from the ceiling again,â Nesta cut in, voice flat. âLast year you broke two beams and a candelabra.â
Cassian put a hand to his chest. âThat candelabra attacked me.â
Rhysâs lips curved. âThe candelabra was stationary.â
âEmotionally, it was aggressive,â Cassian insisted.
Elainâs soft laugh slipped out, warm and bell-like. âIt did fall very dramatically.â
Solstice, you thought. You remembered frost on the windows of the apothecary back home. The way your mother would wrap a shawl around all three of you and squeeze onto the worn little bench outside to watch the first snow fall. No gifts, not really. Just a loaf of slightly sweeter bread if thereâd been enough coin that week. Your father taking your cold hands in his and breathing on them until you could feel all ten fingers again.
You remembered their faces in the glow of your old worldâs small hearth and something inside your chest gave a quiet, painful twist.
âWill you help me with the river lanterns?â Feyreâs voice cut gently through the noise, turned toward you. âWeâre doing more this year. For⊠everyone Velaris has lost.â
You smiled before the ache could show. Soft. Practiced. The kind you were very good at offering when you didnât trust your voice.
âThat sounds beautiful,â you said, and it almost didnât crack.
Feyre smiled back, accepting it for what it was. Rhysâs gaze flicked between the two of you, but he didnât push.
âFirst Solstice with us,â Mor said, bumping your shoulder lightly. âWeâre going to make it ridiculous.â
You made a sound that was close enough to a laugh if you didnât count the hollow echo of it.
Your fingers tightened around your mug until your knuckles pressed white against the ceramic.
Azrielâs eyes were on you.
You felt it, even without looking. A prickle along the side of your face, the awareness of being watched and weighed and seen. The silence around him sharpened. His shadows stilled.
âI should check supplies in the healing wing,â you said lightly as you rose, smoothing your sweater. âIf Solstice is coming, people will find new ways to injure themselves.â
Cassian grinned. âThatâs a threat.â
âItâs a prediction,â you replied, managing something wry. âYou leave stairs and wine in the same house, and patterns emerge.â
They laughed. The sound followed you to the doorway, warm and easy and genuine.
You slipped out before anyone could notice that your smile dropped the moment you turned away.
If anyone watched you goâif Azrielâs gaze tracked you until you vanished around the curve of the hallâyou didnât see it.
The healing wing felt oddly empty that morning.
The beds were made, sheets tucked with Madjaâs uncanny precision. The tall windows let in pale light that made everything look sharper, brighter edges on the cabinets, colder gleam on the metal instruments. The familiar smell of herbs and tonic greeted you as you hung your satchel on its hook and rolled up your sleeves.
The warmth in your hands hadnât faded.
You washed them thoroughly anyway, scrubbing until the skin reddened. The water ran clear. No light leaked out, no gold, no shimmer. Just the ordinary drip of liquid into the basin.
âLate,â Madja said mildly from her desk.
You glanced at the clock on the wall. âItâs barely past eight.â
Her spectacles slid down her nose as she peered at you over the rims. âLate,â she repeated, then flicked a hand toward a chart. âSprained wrist. Tripped over his own ego on the training ring.â
The patientâyoung, wide-eyed, and built of pure Illyrian panicâsat rigid on the nearest cot, cradling his arm. You smiled, gentle, and reached out.
Your magic surged to meet you.
Not explosively. Just first. Before youâd consciously decided how much to use. It flowed up, eager as a hound lurching on its leash. You wrestled it down to something more appropriate for tendon and muscle, guiding the warmth into strained ligaments and stressed bone. The boy hissed softly as the heat sank in, then blinked in surprise at the easy relief.
He twisted his wrist cautiously. âYes. Thank you.â
You nodded, stepping back. The buzz in your hands lingered, stronger than it should have been for such a simple thing.
Madja watched you over the top of her file. She didnât say a word.
Patients trickled in and out as the morning wore on. Minor training injuries. A cook whoâd cut his thumb in a rush. A painter with cramped fingers. You patched and soothed and worked, moving from bed to bed with the familiarity of routine.
Your magic came quickly every time. Too quickly. You kept your hands steady. Kept your breathing even. Kept your face calm enough that no one had reason to ask questions.
At one point, as you turned to retrieve a jar from a high shelf, the glass rattled violently in place and slid an inch toward the edge. You snatched it before it tipped over, heart lurching. The air still shimmered faintly where your hand had been. Like heat on stone. Like wards humming.
You set the jar down carefully. Behind you, in the doorway, Mor leaned one shoulder against the frame, watching you. Her gaze flicked to the jar, then to your hand, then back to your face.
âYouâre in demand today,â she said lightly. âI had to bribe the House with the promise of future cake to get it to tell me where you were.â
The words were easy. The eyes werenât.
âIâm just working,â you replied, smoothing your palms down your robe. âItâs what I do.â
âMm,â Mor said. She pushed away from the door, striding into the room with her usual effortless grace. âWell, I need you to do something else, for at least an hour.â
âAh,â she cut in. âBefore you say âIâm needed here,â Madja already said youâre no good to her if you fall asleep standing up. Her words, not mine.â
As if on cue, Madja grunted from her desk. âGo. Before you start trying to heal paper cuts out of boredom.â
You opened your mouth, then shut it again. You were tiredâsore around the edges in a way that rest hadnât quite fixed. The idea of leaving the wing made your chest flutter uneasily, like you were abandoning something important. Like if you werenât here, someone might need you and youâd miss it.
Mor must have read that thought on your face. Her hand found your forearm, fingers warm and steady.
âYou know they survived a few centuries without you,â she said gently. âYouâre allowed to walk in the sun.â
You let out a breath that wasnât quite a sigh. âJust an hour.â
âThatâs all I ask,â she said, and tugged you toward the door.
The city was softer than yesterday.
Clouds had drawn thin veils over the sharp blue sky, turning the light diffuse, like it was filtered through milk. Velaris still thrummed, but gently, a hum rather than a buzz, with shopkeepers rolling out awnings and children darting between stalls, their laughter echoing down the cobbled streets.
Youâd pulled your sweater back on before leaving, wrapping your cloak over it. Mor had fussed with the collar until it sat just right, then declared you presentable enough to be seen with her.
âNot that you werenât before,â sheâd said as you both stepped through the winnow onto a quiet street by the Sidra. âBut if I donât at least make you put on something that doesnât smell like ointment, the city will start spreading rumors that Iâve lost my edge.â
âPerish the thought,â you murmured.
Mor looped her arm through yours as you walked, steering you toward the market square. Your boots scuffed softly against the stone. The river gleamed to your left, its surface catching the light in small, patient flashes.
âSolstice decorations are starting,â Mor observed, nodding toward a cluster of fae hanging lengths of evergreen over a doorway. âSoon this whole place will look like a tree exploded.â
You smiled faintly. âThat soundsâŠfestive.â
Mor glanced sidelong at you. âThat sounded like someone describing a funeral as âa nice gathering.ââ
You tried to muster something warmer, but the knot in your chest only tightened. The smell of pine, the hints of spice and sugar from nearby stalls. It all reached back into your memory and wrapped cold fingers around the throat of it.
Your voice came out softer than you meant. âIâm justâŠnot used to it, is all.â
Mor didnât press. She changed the subject with the ease of long practice. She dragged you through a jewelry stall, insisting you try on earrings she had absolutely no intention of letting you pay for. She bought pastries the size of your hand and buttered them for you while you protested that youâd already eaten. She told you an outrageous story about Eris that made your skin crawl and laugh at the same time.
But she never stopped watching you. Not obviously. Not in a way that smothered. Just, checking. Measuring the set of your shoulders, the way your smile dipped when Solstice came up in passing, the too-careful way you spoke when people mentioned family gatherings and traditions.
At one point, she slowed your pace near the river, where the path opened wide and the water ran close enough to touch if you leaned over the low wall.
âYou know,â she said, biting into her pastry and squinting thoughtfully at the far bank, âyouâre allowed to not be excited.â
You looked at her, startled. âAboutâŠ?â
âSolstice,â Mor said. âThe noise. The expectations. The whole âeveryone be happy at the same timeâ madness.â Her mouth quirked. âItâs overrated.â
âIâm not unhappy,â you said quickly. Reflexively.
Morâs gaze softened. âI didnât say you were.â
The river slid silently by, catching the washed-out sky on its surface.
You exhaled, breath frosting faintly in the air. âI just donâtâŠhave the same memories as everyone else, I suppose.â
âMm,â Mor hummed, not filling the quiet. Not demanding more.
You offered it anyway, because it felt rude not to, because the words pressed so hard against your teeth sometimes that keeping them in felt worse than letting a few slip past.
âWe didnât have much,â you said. âBack home. For Solstice.â The word tasted strange. Mortal, somehow, even though it was the same one they used here. âSometimes we had enough for sweet bread. Sometimes we didnât. Weâd sit outside and watch the snow until our fingers went numb. My parents would pretend they werenât cold.â You huffed a small breath. âWe didnât need decorations. JustâŠbeing together was enough.â
Mor was still beside you. Thoughtful.
You shook your head, forcing a smile. âItâs silly. Iâm lucky to be here. To have this. I justâI donât want to ruin it for anyone else byâŠnot being excited enough.â
Morâs arm tightened around yours. âYou couldnât ruin it if you tried.â
You glanced at her. âYou donât know that.â
âOh, I do,â she said. âTrust me. If anyone here can ruin Solstice, itâs Rhys. Or Cassian. Or Az if he glares too hard at the decorations.â She tipped her head against yours briefly. âYou being quiet isnât ruinous. Itâs just honest. They can survive a little honesty.â
You swallowed. The ache in your chest didnât vanish, but it shiftedâless like a blade, more like the sore spot left behind after one was removed.
She didnât ask you for more. You didnât offer more. The moment settled between you like a small, fragile thing.
âCome on,â Mor said after a while, voice bright again. âIf I get you back to the House without buying at least one ridiculous thing, Cassian will say Iâm losing my touch.â
She tugged you toward a stall glittering with tiny glass baubles, each one catching the dim light and breaking it into small, stubborn stars.
You didnât realize youâd paused in front of a set shaped like little suns until Mor followed your gaze.
She didnât comment. She just bought one and tucked it into your cloak pocket without saying anything at all.
By the time you returned to the House, the day had tipped fully toward afternoon. The sky outside the high windows had gone pale, the light stretched thin across the mountains. The House greeted you with a rush of warm air and the comforting crackle of a fire somewhere down the hall.
You parted ways with Mor at the landing, promising youâd try not to fall asleep sitting upright in a chair again.
She kissed your temple and said, âIf you do, Iâll just bring you a blanket.â
The words stayed with you as you walked the long corridor toward your room. You didnât make it that far. They found you first.
You heard them in the small sitting room halfway downâvoices low, chairs scraping, the rustle of paper. It was meant to be a quiet space, all low couches and shelves of forgotten books, a place for lingering rather than talking.
You stepped in to find Feyre and Elain at the table beneath the main window, Nyx bundled in a bassinet nearby, sorting through small, hand-carved wooden lantern frames. Rhys leaned against the mantel, hands in his pockets, watching his mate with a look that made you feel like an intruder even when he wasnât saying a word.
Feyre looked up when you entered. Her smile warmed. âPerfect timing,â she said. âWe were just talking about lantern designs.â
âFor the river,â Elain added, fingers gentle as she arranged the little frames. âWe thoughtâŠmore names this year. More lights.â
âOnly if you want to,â Feyre added quickly. âYou donât have to help. I just thoughtââ She hesitated, searching your face. âI thought you might like to be involved.â
You walked closer, drawn despite yourself. The little frames were delicate thingsâsimple, elegant, awaiting parchment and paint and the names of the dead.
You picked one up, running your thumb along the smooth edge. For a moment, your mind filled the empty panels with script you hadnât written. Names you hadnât spoken aloud in far too long.
You set it down carefully.
âIâd like that,â you said, and the words were honest, even if they scraped on the way out.
Elainâs smile was soft and sympathetic in a way that made you feel flayed. She didnât know. She couldnât. And still, somehow, she looked at you like she understood what it was to lose the shape of your life all at once.
Rhysâs attention brushed yours, like a hand hovering just above your shoulder. You felt the question there, held backâAre you alright?âand the deliberate choice not to speak it aloud.
You gave them the same soft smile youâd been practicing all morning.
âI might need help,â you said. âIâve never made a lantern before.â
Feyreâs eyes brightened. âYouâre talking to the right person,â she said, nudging Elain.
Elain flushed faintly, ducking her head. âIâŠmay have started without asking permission.â
On the table near her elbow, a few completed lanterns satâsimple and beautiful, each painted with small, careful details. Stars. Leaves. Little clusters of lavender.
You touched one with the tip of your finger and felt the world tip strangely in your chest. For a second, you were eight again, watching your motherâs hands thread dried flowers into twine to hang across the apothecary window, pretending it was decoration and not desperate hope that people would see it and come in.
Your nails bit into your palm.
âWell,â you managed. âIâm in good hands, then.â
Feyre squeezed your forearm lightly as she brushed past, heading toward the door. âDinner in an hour,â she said. âDonât let Elain work you too hard.â
âI wonât,â Elain promised. Then, once Feyre and Rhys had gone: âYou donât have to stay if itâs too much.â
You looked at her, surprised. âToo much?â
She looked down at the half-assembled lantern in front of her. âIt hurts,â she said quietly, tracing the edge with her fingertip. âThinking about why theyâre needed. Sometimes I have toâŠstop. Before I fall apart in the middle of a room full of people who are excited about celebration.â
You swallowed. Something in you loosened at that, just a little. Enough to let you sit down, to pick up a brush, to let your hands move in small, careful strokes while your chest ached and your magic hummed and the world turned gently toward night.
You didnât mean to find him alone.
Youâd meant to go straight back to your room after dinner, to let the warmth of the meal and the steady hum of conversation sand down the sharp edges of the day. But the House nudged your feet a different direction when you werenât paying attention, and your mind was still wrapped around lanterns and snow and the way Mor had tucked that tiny glass sun into your cloak pocket.
You thought you were headed for the balcony. You stepped instead into the quieter corridor near the training atrium, where one of the smaller sitting rooms opened onto a view of the mountains.
Azriel stood there, halfway between the window and the doorway, like heâd started to leave and then forgotten how.
His leathers were unbuckled, wings half spread as if heâd just come in from the cold and not decided whether to take them off. His hair looked slightly mussed, like heâd run a hand through it one too many times. Shadows clung closer than usual, gathered around his boots and the line of his shoulders.
He hadnât heard you. Or if he had, he hadnât reacted to it.
You could have turned around. You could have backed out the way you came, let the House redirect you to safety. You did not.
âLong day?â you asked instead, voice softer than youâd intended.
Azrielâs head turned. For a heartbeat his eyes were sharp, distant, the way they were on patrol. Then they focused fully, and you felt again that subtle shift, that barely visible easing at the edges.
âYou could say that,â he said.
You stepped further into the room, letting the door whisper shut behind you. The air here felt cooler, touched by the mountain drafts that never quite surrendered to the Houseâs warmth.
He watched you, gaze flicking briefly to your hands before returning to your face. âYou left quickly last night.â
You curled your fingers into your palms.
âI didnât want to be in the way,â you said, choosing each word with care. âMadja hates when I loiter after a jobâs done.â
It was a deflection. You both knew it. The moment Elain had stepped into that room, youâd felt like a piece in the wrong place on someone elseâs board.
Azrielâs jaw flexed, barely. âYouâre never in the way.â
You almost believed him. Almost.
âThe House told me you were out with Mor today,â he said after a beat.
âDoes it tell you everything?â you asked, trying to make light of it.
âOnly when I ask,â he replied. There was no heat in it. Just honesty. His shadows shifted restlessly, like they wanted to contradict him. âDid youâŠenjoy it?â
There was something cautious in the question, like he was afraid of stepping wrong in a space he couldnât see clearly.
âYes,â you said. That, at least, was true. âShe made me eat an obscene amount of pastries, though.â
One corner of his mouth tugged up. It wasnât quite a smile, but it was close. âSounds like Mor.â
Silence stretched for a moment, not entirely uncomfortable, not entirely easy. You crossed your arms loosely, more to have somewhere to put your hands than out of any real defensive intent.
âSolstice preparations have begun,â he said finally, as if he needed to name the thing lurking at the edges of both your minds.
He watched you. His eyes were sharp, but there was something cautious under the scrutiny, like he was trying to read a language he didnât speak.
âYou went quiet,â he said, almost an accusation and almost a question.
You swallowed. âItâsâŠa lot,â you said. âThe noise. The excitement. Iâll adjust.â
It was easier than saying: I donât know how to be happy about a celebration that reminds me of everything I lost.
His gaze flicked to the window, to the snowy peaks beyond, then back. âYour hands were shaking,â he said quietly. âAt dinner.â
âIâm fine,â you said. The lie tasted like iron.
He studied you for a long moment. Then he nodded, the movement minute.
âOkay,â he said softly.
You didnât know if he believed you. You didnât know if you wanted him to. One of his shadows crept forward then, slow and curious, slinking along the floor until it brushed the toe of your boot. You looked down, startled.
It retreated the instant your gaze touched it, slipping back behind his ankles like it had been caught doing something it shouldnât.
Azrielâs expression flinched almost imperceptibly. He hadnât meant for that to happen. The embarrassment in his eyes was sharp and brief, and threaded with something like regret.
You forced a small smile, made your voice light. âTheyâre braver than you are,â you said. âI donât think youâve come that close voluntarily.â
His eyes shot up to yours, something raw flashing across his face.
âI donât want to hurt you,â he said, and there was something about the way he said itârough, like it had been dragged from somewhere deepâthat made you feel suddenly, terrifyingly naked.
âYou wonât,â you said quietly.
He looked at you a moment longer. Then, as if afraid heâd say too much if he stayed, he inclined his head.
âGet some rest,â he said. âMadja will hunt me down if I keep you on your feet past midnight.â
âYouâre more afraid of Madja than you are of ancient monsters,â you replied.
âMadja is scarier,â he said without hesitation.
You almost laughed. Almost. You stepped aside to let him pass. His shoulder brushed the air an inch from yours, shadows trailing like cool smoke as he moved into the hall.
You didnât see the way he looked back once, just before the doorway swallowed him.
You tried to write that night.
You lit a single faelight by the alcove bench and pulled your sweater tighter around you, though the House kept the air warm. The glass sun Mor had bought you sat on the sill, catching the faint glow and throwing it back in soft little reflections across the stone.
Your journal felt heavier than it had yesterday.
You opened to a fresh page and stared at the blank expanse until your eyes blurred.
Ink pooled at the tip of the pen when you finally touched it to paper.
I wish you could see Velaris, you wrote. You would have loved the lights.
That was as far as you got.
The memories rose too fastâthe apothecary, the cold, your fatherâs laugh, your motherâs hands, the way their faces had crumpled when the war came crawling over the horizon. The letters you never got to send. The goodbye you never got to say.
You closed the book before the ink dried.
âNot tonight,â you whispered. To them. To yourself. To the House.
The faelight dimmed in sympathy.
You slid under the covers and lay on your side, watching the faint shadow of the glass sun on the wall until your eyes finally closed. Your magic hummed beneath your skin, no longer pushing, no longer flaringâjust a steady, low current you couldnât quite turn off.
Sleep dragged you under in fits and starts, more like drowning in shallow water than slipping into deep rest. Somewhere between one breath and the next, the House pulsed.
It was subtle. A shift in the wards that almost no one would have noticed. A quiet tightening, a recognitionâlike two notes almost, almost finding harmony.
You turned in your sleep, fingers curling against the sheet, and did not wake.
Azriel snapped upright in bed, heart pounding.
For a disorienting moment he didnât know why. The room was dark but familiarâthe sharp outline of the wardrobe, the glint of metal where his blades hung in ordered rows, the faint glow of faelight under the door. His shadows crowded close around him, agitated, edges bristling like they were startled.
âWhat,â he said quietly into the dark, âwas that?â
They didnât answer in words. They never did. They only pressed against him, restless, pulling his focus downward, as if something beneath them, beneath the stone, beneath the House itself, had shifted.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, bare feet silent on the floor. The wards pressed against his sensesâa low, humming awareness. Heâd slept under them for years. He knew their song.
Tonight, there was a new note in it.
His eyes dropped, without conscious thought, to the floor. To the direction of your room.
His jaw clenched. âNo,â he muttered to himself. âYouâre imagining things.â
He scrubbed a hand over his face and crossed to the window, shoving it open enough to let the cold night air bite his lungs. The city stretched below, quiet and glittering. The sky was clear. No danger. No threat. No excuse for the way his chest felt too tight.
His shadows curled against the glass, whispering in a language even he couldnât fully translate. He stood there a long time, until the chill sank deep enough to numb his fingers. Until his heart slowed, if not fully calmed. Until the wards settled back into their usual, steady thrum.
Only then did he close the window and return to bed. He lay awake long after, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the House breathe.
Somewhere below, you slept fitfully, and he didnât know why knowing that unsettled him more than any nightmare ever had.
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