Iris Grimwood

Chapter 1: A Forgotten Courtyard

Chapter 2: The Bloom That Should Not Be

Chapter 3: The Picture in the Flower

Chapter 4: Night Work

Chapter 5: The Space Between

Chapter 6: What Might Be Lost

Chapter 7: The Waiting Garden

Chapter 8: A Garden of Choice

“You came,” she said softly.

“I wasn’t going to,” he admitted.

Read the Beginning | Previous Chapter

The garden was dim when Elain returned, quieter than it had ever been before. The flowers still stood, their shimmery petals open to the night, their scent lingering in the air, and the soil was cool beneath her feet, undisturbed, waiting. No new blooms had emerged. The garden itself had paused.

Elain stepped slowly between the rows, her fingers brushing the air above the flowers, never quite touching. She had not touched them since that night. She would not. She stopped near the center of the courtyard, where the first moon lily had bloomed. It had withered now, fading. Its pale petals had softened, curling inward, as though retreating from something.

Elain looked down at it for a long moment. Then, very gently she knelt, just to be there. Her hands rested in her lap, still, composed. Even now she refused to disturb what had been left unfinished. The silence pressed in around her, full of everything that had not been said. She closed her eyes to feel the shape of what was missing.

And then—

footsteps.

Soft. Familiar. She did not turn, but breathed in.

Azriel stopped at the edge of the courtyard. For a long moment, he paused. He took in the garden as it was now, the dimness of it, the way the flowers seemed to hold themselves in stillness rather than bloom, the faint, quiet sense of something waiting. He felt it immediately. The absence. His shadows did not drift ahead of him this time, they stayed close, as if even they understood.

Elain did not look back at him.

“You came,” she said softly.

Azriel exhaled slowly.

“I wasn’t going to,” he admitted.

Elain inclined her head slightly.

“I know.”

That killed him. She had known. And still, she had come here. Still, she had waited, for the answer he had yet to give. Azriel stepped forward, and each step felt heavier than the last, because what they closed could not be undone. He stopped a few paces behind her, close enough to see her golden brown locks, to see the faint curve of her shoulders, the way her hands rested quietly in her lap, the way she had not moved at all since he had entered.

“You should have touched them,” he said.

His voice was low. Elain’s gaze remained on the withering bloom before her.

“No,” she said.

“They weren’t mine.”

Azriel swallowed. He understood what she had chosen not to take. Because it had belonged to him, and to his decision. The silence stretched long.

Then—

“Elain.”

Her name was quieter than he had ever spoken it. She turned then to face him, her gaze steady, her presence unchanged. She did not ask anything of him, not with her words, not with her brown eyes that looked like pools of liquid, golden honey. She did not ask anything. That was what broke something open in him.

“I left,” he said.

“Yes.”

“I knew what I was doing.”

“I know.”

“I thought…” he began, then stopped. His jaw tightened. He tried again.

“I thought if I stepped away, it would make it easier.”

“For who?” she asked gently.

Azriel let out a breath that felt heavier than anything he had carried into battle.

“For me,” he said.

Elain nodded, just slightly.

“That makes sense.”

No anger, no bitterness, just understanding. That made it even worse. Because she accepted it. Accepted him. Even in that.

Azriel stepped closer, and this time, he did not stop at the distance he had held before. He closed it, fully. He stood before her now, close enough that the air between them no longer belonged to either of them. Elain rose slowly to her feet.

“You said,” Azriel continued, his voice quieter now, “that it would be my choice.”

“It is.”

“And if I leave…”

She held his gaze.

“Then you leave.”

Azriel searched her face. For something, anything that might give him reason to step back again. There was nothing. No plea or fear, only that same, unwavering steadiness. That same quiet offering of choice. And suddenly he understood that he had been wrong. Not about the danger or about the risk. But about what it would break. If he walked away now—it would not break her. It would not destroy what they had built. It would simply—end it, cleanly. Because she would let it. She would not hold something that had not chosen to stay.

Azriel lifted his hand. He paused, just as he always had, giving her space, time. Elain did not move away. His fingers brushed hers, light and careful. Her hand turned to meet his, and this time there was only quiet certainty in him. He stepped closer, and his other hand rose, hovering near her face—not touching, not yet—as though even now he respected the boundary that had never truly been spoken.

“Elain,” he said.

Even her name was softer now.

“I choose you.”

The words fluttered between them like butterflies. Elain’s breath caught, just slightly, and for the first time something in her shifted. Something opening, answering. Azriel did not hesitate again.

He leaned in, slowly, deliberately, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t. The moment his lips brushed hers, something in him snapped, quiet, controlled, but absolute. The kiss began soft, almost sacred, but then deepened with a hunger he could no longer leash.

Elain met him fully. Her free hand rose to his chest, fingers curling into the front of his tunic as she parted her lips for him. Azriel’s hand slid up to cradle the back of her neck, thumb stroking along the delicate line of her jaw while he tasted her… slow, thorough, savoring the faint sweetness of honey and jasmine on her tongue. A low sound escaped him, half-groan, half-sigh, and his shadows surged forward, curling around her waist, her wrists, brushing the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck like cool silk and dark promises.

She shivered, pressing closer, her body molding to his. Azriel’s other hand left hers only to wrap around her waist, pulling her against him until there was nothing between them but heat and heartbeat and the faint tremble of restraint finally giving way. He kissed her harder, deeper, tilting her head to claim her more completely. Elain answered with a soft, breathy moan that went straight through him, her fingers threading into his hair, tugging just enough to make his shadows coil tighter.

When they finally broke apart, it was only far enough for breath, lips still brushing with every inhale. Azriel’s voice was rough, barely above a whisper against her mouth.

“Elain…”

Her eyes were half-lidded, golden-brown and molten. She brushed her thumb across his lower lip, then kissed him again—slower this time, lingering and sweet—nipping gently, savoring every breath they shared.

Around them, the garden stirred. The withered moon lily trembled and unfurled, glowing once more, while the rest of the flowers followed in a silent, fragrant wave of color and life. But neither of them looked. They were lost in the heat of the kiss, the shadows, and the steady, certain press of bodies that had waited far too long.

This time, Azriel did not step back. And Elain did not let him go.

The End.

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Azriel’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I’m protecting you.”

Read the Beginning | Previous Chapter

Azriel did not return the next night, and the garden felt it. Elain knew before she even stepped inside. There was no visible change at first. The flowers still stood open, their luminous petals catching what little light reached the courtyard, their stems steady, their roots deep in the soil she had turned with such care. But the air… The air had stilled, almost quiet. Paused. Something had been interrupted.

Elain moved slowly between the rows, her hands clasped before her, resisting the instinct to reach, to touch, to know… She did not need her flowers to tell her what had changed. Absence had its own weight.

He did not come the night after that, either.

Or the next.

By the fourth evening, the garden no longer felt like something growing. It was just waiting… Elain stood in its center, the faint wind catching the hem of her shimmering dress, stirring the petals around her. The scent of the blooms lingered heavier, mixed with her jasmine and honey scent now, almost too rich, as though they had been left too long in still air.

Waiting. She closed her eyes, to steady herself. Restraint. She opened them again, and turned away.

The balcony overlooked the river, and Velaris spread wide beneath it, lantern light reflected in the water like broken gold.

Azriel stood at the edge.

He had chosen this place carefully. Open sky… Distance… Air… No walls. No garden. No closeness. His shadows were drawn tight around him, none of them drifting or curious. Contained, as though they had been ordered into stillness—or had chosen it themselves. He did not turn when he heard her footsteps.

“You’re avoiding me,” Elain said. Her voice was soft, but there wasn’t any uncertainty in it.

Azriel’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I’m protecting you.”

The words came so easily. Too easily.

“No,” she said quietly.

“You’re protecting yourself.”

It was clean and precise, and Azriel exhaled slowly through his nose, his wings shifting just slightly behind him.

“You’ve seen what happens,” he said.

“I’ve seen possibilities.”

“And some of them end badly.”

“Yes.”

“Then why would I stay?” he asked.

This time, when she stepped closer, it was deliberate and measured. And again, she did not step entirely close, but she never did. She left him space, always. Even now.

“Because you want to,” she said.

Azriel turned then. The city behind him fell away, everything narrowing to her standing there in the blush silk dress, with her cheeks flushed from the wind—but steady, composed, refusing to reach for him, refusing to pull him closer. Offering nothing but the truth.

“How do you know that?” he said.

“You felt it,” she said, softer now, not lowering her lashes. “Just as I did.”

The memory flickered between them. The garden… Their breath. The moment that had almost—

Azriel looked away first.

“You’re asking me to ignore what I’ve seen,” he said.

“No.”

She stepped closer again. One more step. She was barefoot.

“I’m asking you not to decide based on fear.”

Azriel’s gaze snapped back to hers like quicksilver.

“I don’t make decisions out of fear.”

It came out sharper than anything else he had said, but Elain did not flinch.

“Don’t you?”

Quiet. Careful. Devastating. Silence followed. Long enough that the sounds of the city seemed to grow distant. Azriel held Elain’s gaze.

“You are not bound to me,” she said softly. This was unspoken before.

“And I am not bound to you.”

No fate. No thread. No chain. The absence of all that settled between them, heavier than any bond could have been.

“If you stay…” she said, quieter still, “…you choose me.”

Azriel waited, to feel the words sink into him. He felt the weight of it, and that she meant it. She would not hold him, would not ask him to stay. Would not reach for him if he chose to walk away. And somehow that made leaving harder than anything else.

He stepped forward, closing the distance she had left open, each step measured. He stopped just in front of her. Close. Closer than before. Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Elain’s gaze did not drop. She watched with large, brown eyes, letting him decide what to do. Azriel lifted his hand and paused, giving her time and choice. Elain did not move away.

His fingers brushed hers, light, and careful, scarred and warm. Her hand turned, meeting his. The same motion as days earlier, the same quiet alignment, but this time, there was no uncertainty in it, only recognition. His breath slowed. He could move closer now, they both knew it. Nothing stood between them but that final choice.

He leaned in—just slightly, and the world narrowed again, to that same edge, that same fragile, suspended moment. Elain’s breath caught, soft, steady, waiting. And that was when it flooded Azriel: if he crossed that line now—it would be real. And if he failed… if he walked away after… He would break something in her that she had never asked him to hold.

He stopped. He wanted it so much. He exhaled slowly, and stepped back, and this time, it hurt, deep, like something tightening in his chest, refusing to release. Elain’s fingers slipped from his. Just… allowing the space he chose. She lowered her gaze slightly. Was it defeat, or withdrawal? No… Acceptance of his choice, of his restraint. Of him. Azriel paused there for a moment longer, then turned and launched himself from the balcony into the night skies. And this time, when he left he did not look back.

The garden did not bloom that night. It waited, just as she did. Not reaching. Not taking. Only waiting to see what he would choose… 

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“It means nothing is decided,” she said.

“And everything is.”

Read the Beginning | Previous Chapter

The little garden did not bloom the same way after that night. It still grew, quietly and persistently, but something beneath it had shifted. Maybe it was that the air no longer held only memory, but something else now. Something thinner. Sharper.

Possibility.

Elain felt it the moment she stepped into the courtyard, the patience and stillness of all that. The flowers had multiplied, their petals deeper in color now: midnight violet, silver-threaded black, and pale blossoms edged in something luminous. They opened more slowly than before, as if resisting their own unfolding, as if what they held was somehow heavier.

She did not kneel beside them immediately. Instead, she stood still, hands loosely folded before her, listening to the rustle of the leaves, to the hum of the last bees of the day, letting the fragrant air fill her lungs. Listening, not with her ears, but with that quiet, new, inward sense she had never quite been able to name. The garden breathed, slowly, steadily. It was the heavy scent of moon lilies. And beneath the garden’s breath, something slumbered and waited.

Azriel was already there. She hadn’t even noticed him at first. He stood near the far wall, half-veiled in shadow, his wings tucked close, his posture still in a way that did not suggest calm. His shadows were not wandering tonight. They clung to him, drawn tight, as though they were also holding themselves back.

He was watching her. Not the flowers. Her.

“You came,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Elain turned her head slightly. “So did you.”

A pause settled between them, not empty—between them, never empty—but stretched with awareness. The memory of the night before lingered there, unfinished and unspoken.

Elain stepped forward at last, moving deeper into the garden. The soil was soft beneath her shoes, the scent of it richer now, threaded with something dark beneath the sweetness of the blooms. She stopped beside one of them. It had already opened. She didn’t touch it. 

Azriel noticed.

“You’re not reaching for them,” he said.

“No.”

“Why?” he breathed. 

The question was quiet, but there was something taut beneath it, as though he needed the answer more than he was willing to admit. Elain looked down at the flower, her gaze tracing the delicate curve of its petals.

“Because they’re not only mine,” she said.

Simple words... They landed. Azriel went entirely still. His shadows shifted slightly, inward, tightening closer around him, as though the space within him had narrowed.

“You could,” he said. “You’ve already seen—”

“Yes,” she interrupted gently. She lifted her gaze to him then, and there was something more in it now... So much warmth. Consideration. Care.

“I could,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I should.”

Silence followed and it stretched longer this time. Azriel held her gaze, his expression controlled, as always... but not untouched.

“You saw something,” he said.

Elain sighed silently, and turned her attention back to the garden instead, walking slowly between the rows of flowers. Her fingers brushed the air just above them, never quite touching. As if she could feel them without needing to take anything from them.

“They’ve changed,” she said quietly.

Azriel followed her with his eyes, though he did not move. “How?”

“They’re not showing what was,” she said. “Not anymore.”

A pause.

“They’re showing what could be.”

It hit him, heavy, inescapable. His shadows went still.

“And what does that mean?” he asked.

Elain stopped, and this time, she did look back at him fully.

“It means nothing is decided,” she said.

Another pause.

“And everything is.”

Azriel exhaled slowly. That answer did not comfort... He pushed himself off the wall, stepping forward, with the same measured control he had used the night before, and he stopped a few steps from her. Not as close as before, but not far enough to pretend distance.

“And what did you see?” he asked after a few breaths.

Elain held his gaze for a long moment.

“Versions where you leave.”

Something flickered across his face, gone almost instantly.

“And?”

“And versions where you stay.”

The words were soft, but Azriel’s jaw tightened slightly. He understood entirely what she was saying. Not as a vision of course, but as a truth.

He could leave.

He could stay.

Neither was inevitable.

“And which one do you believe?” he asked.

Elain did not hesitate this time, and she stepped closer, slowly. Just outside of sharing breath, leaving space for him to step back. He didn’t.

“The one you decide,” she said.

The words settled between them like something placed very carefully. An offering. Choice. The absence of pressure, the absence of expectation. She would not pull him closer. Would not hold him there. Would not take what he had not given.

And somehow that made it harder. Because now, if he stepped forward, it would be entirely his doing. If he stayed, it would be because he chose to. Not because he had been drawn or bound. But because he wanted to.

The memory of her hand in his rose unbidden—

warm, soft—

how close he had come—

His breath slowed. Carefully... Controlled. He could step forward now and close the distance. Take what had already been waiting. She wouldn’t stop him. That was the problem. 

Azriel took a step back, small, deliberate, enough to restore space, and to keep the edge intact. Elain did not move, did not follow. She simply watched him with large brown eyes, understanding. Not hurt or surprised... That, too, was a kind of mercy.

The garden shifted around them, like time itself was turning. A soft rustle of petals, of leaves, of something unseen moving beneath the soil, waiting. Elain lowered her gaze slightly, giving him the space he had chosen, respecting it, as she always did. Azriel stood there for another moment, caught between the pull of what could be and the weight of what it would mean. Then he turned. Not abruptly or harshly, just... choosing distance. For now.

Elain remained where she was, a doe in wilderness, the quiet of the garden settling around her once more. She did not reach for the flowers, did not try to see what would come. Some things were not meant to be taken, only waited for.

And somewhere beyond the courtyard walls, the city of Velaris breathed on, unaware of the fragile, deliberate choice that had just been made within it, changing everything.

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Centuries ago, a faerie, soft-haired and luminous, became so enamored with perfume that she traded her immortality for a single rose to bloom in perfection, night after night, for the span of her mortal life.

Tonight, she knelt again among the ancient, crumbling walls and the spiderwebs. Ivy thick around her, moss yielding beneath her knees. The flowers had withered, as they always did...

She leaned close and gave them the last spark of her magic.

The petals flared blood-red beneath the moon, caught in threads of starlight—then fell to dust.

The scent remained. Perfect. Sweet. Unchanged.

She closed her eyes, smiling, as her wings unraveled into mist and drifted into the dark.

The handwriting was mine.

—

A short gothic horror story, The Eastern Gate

Read on AO3

Elain’s Song

Step by step, the soft earth knows, where I walk, a garden grows. A petal pale, a petal bright, guide me gently to the light…

Slowly, slowly—do not run, roots grow deep away from sun. Touch the soil, just tend the green, life awakens like a dream.

Day will rise in blush-rose sky, pink blooms find me when I cry. And when night falls, still and deep, stars who listen guard my sleep.

At night, the garden changes.

And Elain and Azriel… do not touch.

Until they do.

Read the Beginning | Previous Chapter

The garden grew differently at night, and Elain had begun to understand that. During the day it was soil and possibility. Quiet, patient, almost ordinary. But when darkness settled over Velaris, something awakened. The air thickened, the silence changed. The garden was so much quieter at night! There were no birds, there was no wind, only the hush of leaves and something deeper beneath it...

Elain stood barefoot on the cool stone, her hands loosely clasped in front of her. Three flowers now bloomed in the soil. White. Silver. And a third now, darker, its petals edged in shadow.

She hadn’t touched that one yet. She was waiting. But for what? 

She could feel it approaching. A shift in the air. A presence she had begun to recognize not with sight, but with something softer, something more instinctive. She felt him before she saw him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, though she didn’t move away.

Behind her, the shadows stirred. Then he stepped into the courtyard. Azriel did not speak immediately. But he rarely did, he only watched. His wings folded behind him, his shadows slower tonight, heavier somehow, as if they carried something with them.

“I know.”

He stepped closer anyway. Not to touch, but the distance between them narrowed, enough that Elain became aware of him in a different way. The warmth of his body. The faint scent of cedar, night air and steel, and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing. The space between them thinned, until it was nothing but breath.

Neither of them moved, neither away, nor forward, just stayed suspended there in that fragile, narrowing distance. Elain’s heart beat a little faster and she didn’t look at him. If she did, she might break whatever this moment was, and might force it into something too real. Too sharp... Instead, she let herself feel the stillness, the pull. The quiet understanding that something had shifted between them without either of them naming it.

Her fingers moved before she could stop them, and they brushed his wrist, tentative, as if testing whether he would vanish. 

He didn’t.

Azriel went very still. For a moment, he did nothing. Then slowly and deliberately his hand turned, until their palms met.

That was all. And it was too much. Elain inhaled softly. His hand was warm, scarred, real. There was nothing careful about the contact anymore, even though neither of them tightened their grip. It was simply there, undeniable.

Azriel’s shadows quieted around them. They were still, as if even they were listening. Elain finally looked up, and his gaze was already on her, dark and steady, and unguarded in a way she had never seen before. Somehow almost vulnerable.

“Does the garden always feel like this?” he asked quietly.

Elain shook her head.

“No.” Her voice was softer now. “It only feels like this when you’re here.”

The words settled between them. Neither of them pulled away. Behind them, one of the flowers trembled. Then another. Elain felt it immediately—that shift again, that pull. Her gaze flicked toward the third bloom, the darkest one.

“It’s happening again,” she whispered. Azriel followed her gaze, their hands still touching. Neither of them acknowledged it and neither of them moved to break it.

“Then don’t touch it,” he said.

Elain hesitated. But she could feel the garden calling to her now, insistently, like something waiting to be understood.

“I think I have to.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened.

“Elain—”

She turned her hand slightly, just enough that her fingers slipped from his palm. The loss of contact was immediate, noticeable. Elain stepped toward the third flower and she knelt slowly beside it. This one was different, darker. Its petals seemed to drink in the moonlight rather than reflect it. Elain hovered her hand above it.

For a moment she hesitated, then she touched it. The world unraveled. Not into pain or into war. Warmth. Soft light. A quiet room. Azriel stood near a window, watching Velaris below. His wings were relaxed, his shadows still.

He wasn’t alone, someone was standing behind him. A presence he didn’t turn toward or reach for, but didn’t move away from either. That feeling filled the space more than the image itself. Longing. Sharp or desperate? No, it wasn’t either. It was just... enduring. Silent. Unspoken.

The vision shifted, just slightly, and for one impossible moment, Elain saw the face: 

The presence behind him—was her.

Not as she was now. But as something, someone... possible. A future not yet chosen.

The vision broke and Elain gasped and pulled back. The courtyard rushed in around her again. Her breath became uneven. Azriel was already beside her.

“What did you see?”

His voice was low and careful. Elain looked up at him, her heart was still racing.

“You,” she said.

His expression tightened.

“That’s not new.”

She shook her head.

“No.”

Her voice softened.

“Not the past.”

She paused. Then she quietly continued:

“The future.”

Something shifted in Azriel’s gaze, sharp and dangerous.

“What kind of future?”

Elain held his eyes. There was no fear in her now, only certainty.

“One where you aren’t alone.”

Silence fell over the courtyard. The garden stilled. Even the shadows seemed to pause. Azriel did not move or speak... But something in him stirred. Like something long buried had felt the surface shift.

Behind them, the three flowers glowed softly in the night. One white, one silver, one shadowed. And the garden, patient and watchful, waited to see what would grow next.

Read the Beginning | Previous Chapter

The garden did not bloom again that day. Elain checked twice. Once in the afternoon, once again as the sun lowered behind the mountain. The small courtyard remained quiet, the single moon lily swaying gently among the patches of dark soil where the rest of the seeds slept.

But Elain could feel something changing. Gardens always had a rhythm. A quiet conversation between soil, water, air, and light. Even before a plant emerged, a gardener could sense when the earth had begun listening. And the earth here was listening very carefully.

Especially when Azriel stepped into the courtyard that evening. Elain was kneeling beside the fig tree when his shadow fell across the stones.

“You’re here early tonight,” she said without turning.

Azriel gave a soft huff that might have been amusement.

“You noticed.”

“I notice most things in gardens.” She brushed soil from her hands and stood.

The air shifted with the scent of cedar and cool cliffs as he crossed the courtyard. His shadows slipped along the walls again, slower tonight, as if they were curious rather than restless. They drifted toward the moon lily and the flower trembled. Elain and Azriel both saw it, but neither of them spoke. Instead, Elain moved to the watering basin near the wall and dipped a small cup into it. The sound of water echoed softly in the enclosed space. Azriel just watched her.

“You’re not afraid of it,” he said after a moment.

Elain looked over her shoulder.

“Should I be?”

“My shadows aren’t... gentle things.”

She studied the dark tendrils curling across the ground.

“They seem gentle right now.”

Azriel’s mouth curved slightly, though it wasn’t quite a smile.

“That’s because they like you.”

Elain cocked her head.

“Shadows can like people?”

“They can trust them.”

The statement hung quietly in the air. Elain walked back to the planted beds and poured water slowly over the soil. The scent of damp earth rose around them. For a while the courtyard settled into comfortable silence. Then something moved. Another shoot pushed through the soil.

Both of them froze. The new stem emerged only a few inches from the first moon lily. It rose quickly, stretching upward as though the night itself were pulling it toward the stars.

Azriel crouched beside it again.

“That’s the second one,” he murmured.

Elain knelt opposite him and her skirt brushed the stone between them. She could feel the warmth of his presence even without touching him.

The bud formed. This one darker. Not white. Silver. It opened slowly. The petals were thin and luminous, almost translucent in the moonlight, with faint veins of shadow threading through them.

Elain reached toward it, but Azriel’s hand caught her wrist, gentle but immediate.

“Wait.”

His fingers were warm, rough. The scars along his hands brushed softly against her skin. For a moment neither of them moved. Elain looked up, and Azriel seemed to realize he was still holding her. He released her wrist quickly, clearing his throat.

“You said the first one showed you a memory.”

Elain nodded.

“Yes.”

“If every flower does that…”

He glanced at the new bloom.

“…we should be careful.”

Elain considered this, and then she smiled faintly.

“You’re afraid the garden will tell on you.”

Azriel’s eyes darkened with quiet humor.

“I already know the garden will tell on me.”

Elain reached toward the flower again, and this time he didn’t stop her. Her fingers brushed the silver petals and the courtyard vanished. Cold air rushed past her wings. Wings! Wind! Height… She was no longer in Velaris. She stood on a dark mountain ridge under a sky full of storm clouds. Snow whipped across the stone, stinging her skin.

A younger Azriel stood there. Not a boy this time: a warrior. Blood streaked his armor. His wings were torn along one edge, but he remained standing, sword still clenched in his hand. Below the ridge, soldiers lay scattered across the snow. Enemies? Azriel breathed hard.

But there was something else in the memory. It wasn’t triumph or pride. Just exhaustion.. And a deep, quiet loneliness. The vision dissolved.

Elain gasped softly and pulled her hand back. The courtyard returned around her. Azriel was watching her closely.

“Well?” he asked.

Elain looked down at the flower.

“You were fighting.”

His expression did not change.

“That could describe many days of my life.”

She studied him.

“You were alone.”

That made him pause.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Elain looked at the two flowers now blooming in the dark soil.

“One memory for each flower.”

Azriel followed her gaze.

“That appears to be the pattern.”

A breeze moved through the courtyard. His shadows drifted across the ground again, curling slowly around the new blossoms, but drawing back before reaching Elain. The petals shimmered and Elain felt a small thrill run through her again.

“How many memories do you think the garden will grow?”

Azriel leaned back slightly on his heels. His wings rustled faintly behind him.

“Hopefully fewer than I have,” he said.

Elain laughed softly, and the sound surprised both of them. The tension between them eased slightly after that sound... For a while they simply sat beside the flowers, watching the small garden breathe in the moonlight.

Eventually Azriel spoke again.

“Why did you choose this courtyard?”

Elain glanced around the space, the moss-covered walls, the crooked fig tree. The small patch of growing flowers.

“It felt lonely,” she said.

Azriel looked at her.

“And you wanted to fix that.”

Elain nodded.

“Yes.”

Azriel studied the garden again. Then he said quietly:

“I think you did.”

Above them the stars burned softly over Velaris. Beneath them, two flowers now glowed faintly in the dark soil. 

Read the Beginning | Previous Chapter

Morning came softly to Velaris. Light spilled over the rooftops and into the quiet courtyard behind the River House, catching along the stone walls and the crooked branches of the fig tree. Elain stepped through the archway carrying a small watering can. She paused immediately. The garden had changed.

She crossed the courtyard slowly, her brow furrowing as she knelt beside the patch of soil she had planted the day before. A single white flower stood there, fully open. Elain blinked.

“That’s not possible,” she murmured.

Moon lilies were patient things. Even in the warm southern territories they took weeks to bloom. Yet here it was, perfect. Petals pale as moonlight, the center glowing faintly gold. A delicate fragrance drifted upward, cool and clean, like night air after rain.

Elain reached toward it. Her fingers brushed the petals.

And the world shifted.

Not like her visions came, sharp and overwhelming. This was quieter. Like stepping into a calm lake, into someone else’s memory.

Stone walls. Cold. Darkness pressing close. A boy sat on the floor of a narrow cell. His wings were small, not yet strong enough for flight. Bruises colored his skin. His hands were clenched in his lap, the knuckles scraped and swollen.

He didn’t cry. Simply sat there. Watching the door, waiting. As if hoping someone might come.

The vision vanished.

Elain inhaled sharply and pulled her hand away from the flower. The courtyard rushed back into focus around her. Dappled sunlight. Ancient stone. The faint murmur of the city beyond the walls.

Her heart was beating faster now.

“That…” she whispered. She looked down at the moon lily again. It swayed gently in the morning air, innocent and fragile, as if it hadn’t just shown her something deeply private and painful. Elain pressed her fingers lightly to her temple. The boy in the memory had felt familiar. Someone she had seen before, or someone she knew?

Her gaze drifted toward the archway. Toward the doorway where the day before Azriel appeared silently, like a shadow stepping out of the walls. 

“Oh,” she breathed. The flower hadn’t shown her a random memory—it had shown her his. Elain looked back at the small white bloom. The petals trembled in the breeze.

“How did you do that?” she whispered to it, cradling the air around it, shielding it from the breeze. The flower did not answer. But something about it felt... alive in a different way now, like it was carrying a piece of someone.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and Elain turned. Azriel stood in the archway. He must have arrived silently, as he always did. Sunlight caught faintly along the dark edges of his wings. His shadows curled close to him this morning, unusually still. His gaze dropped immediately to the flower and he went completely motionless.

“You saw the flower,” he said quietly.

Elain nodded.

“Yes.” 

Azriel stepped closer, his expression unreadable.

“It shouldn’t exist yet.”

“I know.”

His shadows drifted toward the bloom again. They hovered near the petals like cautious birds. The flower trembled slightly at their presence. Azriel’s eyes narrowed.

“They’re drawn to it,” he murmured.

Elain watched the shadows carefully.

“They were here last night, weren’t they?”

Azriel’s gaze flicked to her.

“How do you know that?”

She hesitated. Elain rarely spoke about her visions unless she had to. They felt fragile, like dreams that might shatter if explained too quickly. But the garden had already begun revealing secrets. Perhaps honesty was safer than silence.

“I touched the flower,” she said softly.

Azriel went still.

“And?”

Elain met his gaze.

“I saw something.”

A long pause settled between them.

Azriel’s voice was quiet when he spoke again.

“What did you see?”

Elain considered her answer carefully. She could lie. But the garden had shown her something deeply personal—a wound carried for centuries. It felt wrong to pretend she hadn’t seen it.

“A memory,” she said.

Azriel’s shadows recoiled slightly. His jaw tightened.

“What kind of memory?”

Elain lowered her gaze briefly to the flower.

“A sad one.”

Quiet filled the courtyard. Subtle but unmistakable tension. Azriel had spent most of his life keeping his past locked away behind layers of silence. Now a single flower had begun unraveling that secrecy.

Finally he asked, very quietly:

“What did the memory show you?”

Elain looked up at him. Her voice was gentle.

“A boy in a dark room.”

The shadows around Azriel went utterly still. For a moment he looked as if the air had been knocked from his lungs.

Elain continued softly.

“You were waiting for someone to open the door.”

Azriel didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The courtyard held its breath. Elain realized suddenly how intimate the moment was. She had seen something no one else had witnessed. A fragment of the most hidden part of him.

She expected anger, or distance, but instead Azriel exhaled slowly. His gaze dropped to the flower again.

“And you saw that... through this?”

Elain nodded.

“Yes.”

Another quiet moment passed. Then Azriel said something unexpected.

“That explains the bloom.”

Elain blinked.

“What do you mean?”

Azriel crouched beside the flower. His shadows slipped down his shoulders and gathered around the plant again.

“This garden of yours,” he said, studying the petals carefully, “isn’t responding to moonlight.”

Elain leaned closer.

“Then what is it responding to?”

Azriel glanced up at her. For the first time since she had known him, there was something close to uncertainty in his eyes.

“My shadows,” he said.

The words settled softly between them. Elain looked at the flower and at the shadows drifting around it. Then back at Azriel. The realization spread slowly through her mind.

“The garden…” she whispered.

“Yes.”

Azriel straightened slightly.

“It’s reacting to me.”

Elain felt a quiet thrill move through her chest. Not fear... The garden had only just begun growing, and already it was doing something no one had ever seen before. She looked back at the small white bloom.

“What do you think will happen,” she asked softly, “when the rest of the flowers grow?”

Azriel followed her gaze. His shadows curled thoughtfully around the petals.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Read the Beginning / Chapter 1.

Night settled gently over Velaris like a held breath released.

The courtyard lay in shadow, touched only faintly by distant lantern light. Beneath the soil the seeds waited.

Azriel returned long after midnight, at the hour when Velaris was at its most peaceful. The city slept under the cover of starlight, in a distant river-song, unaware of the Spymaster gliding silently across the rooftops. He told himself it was routine. It brought him here anyway.

His wings folded behind him as he touched ground, and his boots found balance on the aged stone. The air was cooler now, edged with the scent of the sap of fig leaves. The soil Elain had turned still smelled faintly of earth and crushed grass. Even in darkness the space felt different now. Less forgotten. Less empty. His shadows slipped free, spreading across the ground... Toward the soil. They gathered over the buried seeds—tight, deliberate.

Azriel stepped further into the courtyard. Something brushed against his awareness. A faint shift in the air. His shadows noticed it first. They drew toward the patch of soil Elain had planted that afternoon.

Azriel frowned slightly. “What is it?”

The shadows curled closer to the earth. Then something moved. A small disturbance in the soil. The earth shifted. Not settling—moving. A thin green shoot pushed through the dirt. Azriel stilled. The shoot rose slowly, as if stretching after a long sleep.

Azriel blinked. This was impossible. Moon lilies did not grow like this. Not overnight. His shadows pressed closer. The fragile stem unfurled. A slender bud formed at its tip, pale and tightly closed. Azriel crouched beside it, careful not to disturb the delicate plant.

“Impossible,” he murmured. The bud trembled. Then opened. White petals unfolded, too quickly, like soft wings, luminous in the faint moonlight. The flower was flawless, untouched. The scent followed a heartbeat later. Cool. Sweet. Wrong. A moon lily, white and eerie like something that did not belong here, fully bloomed in the dead of night.

Azriel stared at it. His shadows brushed gently against the petals. The flower shivered. And for one brief moment, Azriel felt something tear through him. Memory—sharp, sudden. Stone walls… A small dark cell… A boy. Small, quiet, waiting. 

Cold. 

Alone. 

Knees drawn in, listening for footsteps that never came. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came. Azriel’s jaw tightened. His shadows withdrew slightly, restless again.

“Enough,” he said quietly. But the shadows didn’t move away from the flower. They did not obey. They lingered, as if the bloom belonged to them. Azriel straightened slowly. He looked down at the small white flower glowing faintly against the dark soil. Then he glanced toward the archway where Elain had stood earlier that evening, dirt on her hands and quiet determination in her eyes.

Azriel exhaled slowly.

“This is a problem.”

Above him, the stars burned cold and bright over Velaris.

The courtyard had been empty for many years. Too small to be called a garden – in fact, maybe too forgotten to be called anything at all... Three stone walls enclosed it behind the River House, their ancient surfaces warmed by centuries of sunlight. Green pillows of moss clung to the cracks, softening the edges of age. A crooked, fragrant fig tree leaned from one corner as if it had once tried to escape and failed.

Elain Archeron stood in the center of the courtyard with dirt beneath her nails.

She turned a small packet of seeds in her palm, feeling their faint, papery weight. Behind her, Velaris murmured with evening life. Lanterns flickering to life, a distant hush of voices, the river catching gold in its waves and breaking it into trembling light.

The city was alive.

This courtyard was not.

Yet. The thought felt too loud for the garden.

She knelt in the faint light of the silver dusk, pressing her fingers into the earth. It was cool, dark, untouched in a way that felt almost sacred to her. Good soil. Waiting soil. Patient.

Elain planted a seed, the first one. Moon lily. A bone-white flower that only opened in darkness.

She covered it gently, smoothing the soil as though tucking someone fragile into sleep. Then she planted another. And another. A soothing, meditative routine, seed after seed. Covering them all.

After a while footsteps sounded behind her, soft and nearly silent. She didn’t even need to turn.

“I wondered where you had gone,” Azriel said.

His voice a curtain of shadows, drawn tight with restraint. Elain brushed her earth-stained hands together and glanced over her shoulder, her golden brown hair following.

He stood in the archway, wings folded neatly behind him, shadows drifting from him like slow-moving smoke. Shadows… They curled along the stone, slipped over the walls, gathered in the corners as though tasting the space. His eyes narrowed, but he stepped closer to Elain’s work.

“I found this place,” she said.

His gaze moved across the courtyard, taking in the turned earth, the scattered seed packets, the fig tree’s bent silhouette. Then it returned to her.

“You plan to change it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Elain’s mouth curved slightly, but her eyes flickered in longing and sadness. She nodded once. “Yes.”

He stepped inside, and the air shifted. His shadows followed, spilling into the courtyard, brushing along the soil – until they suddenly stilled. Several wisps of shadows gathered above the place where she had planted the first seeds. Hovering. As if listening.

Elain tilted her head. “That’s strange.”

Azriel’s shoulders tightened, almost imperceptibly. “What is?”

She pointed. “They seem like… They’re… interested.”

“They wander,” he said, but the answer came too quickly.

Elain studied the errant shadows for another moment, then returned to her work. The quiet between them settled again. It was not empty, but full. Peaceful, gentle, without demand.

“So,” he said after a while, looking down at the turned soil in front of him, “why night flowers?”

Elain pressed another seed into the soil. “I like how they wait.”

“For what?”

She brushed her hands together again, streaks of earth catching on her skin. “For the dark.” Her voice faltered, almost imperceptible... But his shadows stirred at that, as though something in them recognized the truth of it. Azriel noticed.

He watched them drift closer. But not toward danger, not toward secrets. Toward her, and her turned earth. And something inside him tightened. That was not what they did. Not for anyone. They had never done this before. But they did not hesitate.

He should have pulled them back.