I read fics when I should be coding

Of course, that typically just means a long, afternoon nap, but that’s beside the point. 

You should be reveling in the start of what is meant to be a serene Saturday, but there’s something holding you back.

It’s a buzzy, humming feeling in your chest. Not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but it's been there all morning. As you set up the canopy and the folding table, stacked your peaches and tomatoes so the ripest end up on top, and even as you tied the crocheted bandana around your two braids — a necessary accessory to keep flyaway from escaping in the early morning breeze.

Anticipation. And as you swipe your hands over the apron looped around your waist, you glance down the aisle of booths, and spot the very person you’re anticipating. 

He strides toward you with purpose, ignoring the surrounding booths.

A black scrub top and mocha brown cargo pants, accompanied by work boots that have seen better days. He looks worn down, like he always does when you see him first thing every Saturday morning. But the lines on his face crinkle when he spots you, recognition lighting the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Good morning, buttercup,” he says when he sidles up, eyeing the pints of strawberries. It's a simple booth: just a folding table filled to the brim with pints of berries, peaches, tomatoes, and a few jars of honey from a local beekeeper. “And how are you today?” 

Buttercup. You glance down at the fruit-centric logo on your apron — Buttercup Farms, a locally owned small batch produce farm, owned and operated by your friend just ten miles past city limits. A nickname born out of weeks of shy, sideways glances and small talk, exchanged both ways until it became too late to ask for your name. 

But you know his— well, his last name, at least. Spotted it on his hospital badge the fifth consecutive Saturday he came to see you.

DOCTOR, it said, in bolded white letters on a green background. Then, just barely readable from where his shirt covered it, a surname that you know but you’ve never been brave enough to test on your lips. Abbot. 

You've found your thoughts drifting on more than one occasion, daring yourself to say his name aloud. Wondering how he might react if you said it to him. Wondering how it might taste on your tongue. Dr. Abbot.

“Good morning!” You chirp, taking your post at the end of the table. There’s some familiarity here — you, standing in the same place each week, and him, making a show of selecting the best produce while making conversation. 

You tried to convince yourself he was just being polite, taking pity on the market girl running a booth all by herself every Saturday morning. But after two months of recalled details, week after week, you can’t help but think maybe he might like talking to you just as much as you like talking to him. 

“I’m good today,” you pause, daring yourself to insert a cheeky Dr. Abbot into the conversation, but instead suffer an awkwardly elongated silence. You clear your throat. “How are you?” 

"Oh, you know. Same shit, different day,” he raises his eyes from the strawberries to shoot you a winsome wink. “No blackberries today?” 

You glance at the folding table with a start. Oh, no, no no. He's right. There are no blackberries. 

“Shit!” You exclaim, hand flying to your forehead in a resounding smack. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Woah,” Abbot chortles, extending his hand, but not quite touching you. As if he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “What’s the matter, buttercup?” 

“I left the blackberries in the truck,” you drag both hands over your face. “I left the blackberries in the truck!” 

“It’s okay,” his voice comes out firm and assured, as though he’s already hatching a plan. “Where’s the truck?” 

“It’s—“ your hand flies in the general direction of the parking lot, all the way across the park. It’s probably half a mile, if you had to guess, it doesn't matter. You’re not allowed to drive in the grass. "Oh, my god."

Panic sets in as you rattle off context to the poor man trapped in a predicament he has nothing to do with. “One of the volunteers helps me unload the canopy and the table and all the produce each week, a-and it usually takes two trips, and I must have forgotten the blackberries!" Your voice comes out a puppy whine, reduced to uselessness when you're otherwise perfectly capable of handling things on your own. "Shit, and they’re so ripe, too.” 

But it’s the fact that this isn’t your business that will suffer because you forgot the blackberries that sends you down a spiral. It’s your friend’s. Her profits for the week won’t be nearly as high as expected, all because of your thoughtlessness.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse so much before,” Abbot attempts a joke, to which you crumple even more. An exasperated whine is your only response.

“Hey,” his voice evens out again, and before you can register what’s happening, his beefy, calloused hand cups your bare shoulder. You glance up, meeting eyes the color of a carnival kaleidoscope. You can't decide what the dominating shade is: blue or green or gold. “It’s okay. Will you take a deep breath with me?” 

With his free hand, he mimes a long breath in, then a sustained, steadying breath out. You follow his lead.

“There you go,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice shooting electric shocks up and down your veins. “That’s a good girl.” 

Your jaw goes slack. It takes everything in you not to shudder.

“How many pints of blackberries are in the truck, angel?” He asks, providing a quick rub to your shoulder before reverting back to his own space. Your skin feels especially cold now that his hand is gone.

“Twenty,” you gulp, guilt clouding over any lust for the older man before you. 

Abbot reaches into his back pocket, tugging out a weathered, camo print wallet. “And how much are they going for this week?” 

“Five dollars.” 

He flips open the wallet, then tugs out two crisp fifties, and a twenty. He extends his hand to you, the bills poised between two fingers.  

“What are you doing?” Your brow furrows, eyes dipping to the money, then back to him. The sun peeks out from the bottom of the canopy, striking him over the bridge of his nose. He's all polka dotted with freckles.

“I’m buying your blackberries,” Abbot husks. You swear the sentence sounds a million times more provocative than it should. Your knees give a little wobble. “You can give ‘em to a food bank or something.” 

“What?” You blink. 

“My arm’s gettin' tired,” he shakes the money at you, though not impatiently. “Take it, buttercup. Please.” 

“What’s the extra twenty for?” You swallow, plucking the cash from him. You move with reluctance, your bones heavy with guilt.

“Whatever a pint of these strawberries is worth, and the rest you can use for a coffee or something,” he shrugs. 

“That’s fifteen extra dollars,” you mutter, dumbfounded.

“Aren't you smart? Even when you’re stunned,” he smirks. It takes you longer than you’d care to admit to realize that he’s teasing. “Coffee and a pastry then. On me, okay?” 

You nod, then shove the cash into the pocket of your apron. On him.

God, your thoughts are veering to a place that would rip the family friendly status away from this farmer's market.

Abbot lifts a pint of strawberries without looking at them, then cradles it close to his chest. “I’ll see you next week, alright, angel?” 

A hum vibrates through you. “Okay…” you pause, nibbling your bottom lip. The breeze picks up, ruffling his delicious, greying curls. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” 

The look of bewilderment on his face is enough to make you wish you forgot the blackberries every week. 

He throws his head back in a sharp, heart-shattering laugh. He says goodbye a second time, then stalks off, only stopping to throw you one last grin over his shoulder.

Your refute of your fae form hung in the air, bed sheets crumpling between your fingers, expression distraught. There was no reason for them to believe you, though they weren’t outright throwing you into the dungeons you knew lurked below. That had to be a good sign. Your lungs felt as if they were going to burst. 

“I swear,” you repeated, only because no one had said anything. There was only blinking and dead air. “I don’t even have any magic or special skills that would help me in an uprising. I didn’t have this body a few hours ago. You have to believe me.” 

Something flickered on Rhysand’s face as your pleading faded. Another silent conversation then took place. He looked to Azriel—who seemed to flinch—and Azriel gave him one stiff nod. The High Lord ticked his jaw and rubbed his hand along his chin. 

“It would be easier for us to believe your story,” Rhysand slowly replied, though his voice was void of the earlier suspicion. He sounded tired. “If you did not sit in this room, emanating power.” 

You paused, brows furrowing. You looked within yourself for whatever he was talking about, but everything felt different about you, so it was impossible to pinpoint. You didn’t feel powerful, and you certainly didn’t feel emanating, but you were also interpreting a strange language and seeing colors you never had before, so your judgment was unreliable.

You grimaced. “I… am?” 

“It’s quite overwhelming,” Mor gently offered, hands clasped together in front of her waist. She brought her fingers up and pinched them. “Maybe even a little bit suffocating. So you’ll have to forgive the third degree. There are many threats we have to look out for. Especially in recent months.” 

“Suffocating,” you whispered under your breath. “I didn’t mean—” 

“It’s all right,” Azriel interrupted as your fear began to grow once more. 

You craned your neck up to look at him, still so close and imposing over the bed. He had a strange smile on his face that looked as if it was meant to be comforting, but it came across as pained and lingering. You blinked at him. 

“We could clear most of this up now if you were to let me in,” Rhysand posed, snapping your gaze away from the Spymaster. He tapped his temple and nodded towards you. “It wouldn’t hurt if you allowed me to look.” 

“Look?” 

“In your mind. I’m Daemati. I can confirm everything you say if you allow me in.” 

Right. You’d read about that. You remembered. You’d wanted him to look not too long ago, but that had been before—before the pain and fear and blubbering confession. Before you realized you were even more different than you’d thought. 

“How do I do that?” you posed, eagerly straightening on the bed. “Can I just say you can come in, or—” 

“No,” Rhysand shook his head. “It’s more contingent on that wall around your mind. The barrier. It’s—very strong. If you get yourself to lower it, or even just find a point for me to see in, that would be helpful.”

You blinked, searching your mind for the offending force. You shifted to sit on your heels, vaguely aware that you’d distanced yourself from the headboard as the conversation had gone on. If anyone were going to believe you, you needed to do this. You needed to remove the barrier and let Rhysand— 

You paused, an airy breath escaping you. 

Was this real? 

It had to be. 

You bit hard into your bottom lip and focused, but instead of a barrier, you passed by a thread. The same thread that had led you here, and the same one that elicited such a panic within you when you pulled at it before. You formed your thoughts around it, letting a few brush along its edges. A choking sound caught in the room. You searched harder for the barrier. 

Your mind was like a physical space, unusual in its layout. You could see the wall Rhysand was referring to, but it didn’t necessarily look like a wall. It was made up of fractured lines and letters that mixed into words you couldn’t read. Alarmingly, the words were so familiar you almost had the ability to make them out, but the moment you tried, they would warp and become illegible. 

Frustrated tears welled in your eyes—frustrated and confused and scared. Each time you got closer to the wall, it would inch away, and you ran and ran until an ache permeated along your temples. You wouldn’t allow yourself to fall into the abyss that panicked over this strange form of your mind. But you had never been able to see inside this way, so—no, this was real. You were going to approach everything as if it were real, because if you didn’t, you would be crazy and in denial. You could only pick one. Could only accept one at a time. 

There was a small dent in the wall. You could pick out where the letters wavered there, a small warped outline hovering just above the floor of the space. You were out of breath by the time you had an answer for Rhysand, the act of searching your mind more taxing than you had anticipated. 

“I think there is something—a way for you—” 

“I see it,” Rhysand quickly responded. He dove in before you were ready, a blinding panic filling you. It didn’t hurt, but something felt wrong. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there, and you supposed he wasn’t, but it was more intrinsic than that. The discrepancy felt ancient.

You sucked in a breath and fell forward slightly, reaching to steady yourself and grasping at the first thing within reach. Fingers wrapped around your wrist and held you steady, and you clenched your eyes shut as the invasion continued. 

Memories were tumbling around behind the wall—of New York, the busy streets when you went to the city, a few moments on a train as you scrolled on your phone. You felt each memory being observed by the High Lord, but those weren’t all of your memories. You couldn’t show him everything, even though you willed it. A blurry image of your reflection materialized in your mind—the you from before. You fixed your hair in a floor-length mirror in a fitting room, ears rounded, features plain in the way any human’s were. And then Rhysand was forced from your mind with that same ancient force, a harsh shove sending him stumbling back in the physical space. 

You let out a shuddering exhale. The High Lord paled. 

~~

You were left alone without much fanfare, though the several baffled looks thrown your way made you feel like a sideshow. Rhysand had been quick to share what he had seen, and the fingers gently holding you in place had let go—slowly, reluctantly but not. Mor had been the last to leave the room, a fleeting smile and a promise to grab you for lunch offered at the threshold of the door—your door, you supposed. 

You weren’t quite sure what was in store for you here. Oddities were not uncommon from what you could remember from the books, but this level of oddity was probably uncharted. There was also the frustrating fact that you couldn’t just show Rhysand all of your memories at once, but that frustration was also paired with the harrowing realization that you didn’t know everything that was kept behind that wall in your mind. As you had examined it, you had realized. 

You rocked up from the bed for hopefully the last time that day, drifting to the window and then to the door. You’d seen enough of the billowing clouds and unfamiliar foliage, and you wanted to prove more to yourself. 

This was real. This was real, and you were left to interpret it, and now that you were not an alleged member of an unknown uprising, you felt more comfortable branching out. 

The door to your room clicked open, silk flowing past your calves and the floor seeping a chill into the soles of your feet. Nothing creaked or groaned as you walked past the hulking door, though you could hear other things that you shouldn’t have been able to. A wind whistling in a tree far off, the low murmur of speaking several rooms away, the rhythm of heartbeats all out of cohesion—it was all very overwhelming and rivaled the jarring nature of your sight. 

Still, you trekked down the hall. 

The House of Wind was similar to how your brain had conjured it up. Sprawling hallways made way for doors with intricate carvings, and you let your fingers trail along the stars and clouds in the wood. You felt the cold marble beneath your bare feet. You focused on just your heartbeat and tried to remember what your apartment looked like back home. Tried to recreate the dull hum of the refrigerator in your ears and pretend you were feeling the worn carpet that came with old apartments. 

That all felt distant, somehow, but you knew it was there. You had been there, and now you were here. 

You turned down another hallway and the window there was so large, so… revealing, you almost gasped. The city you couldn’t see before was in perfect view from this vantage point, and your fae eyes—you were fae, you had accepted—could make out each billowing chimney and the route of the winding pathways. You approached without meaning to, setting fingers on the window panes and nearly pressing your nose against them as well. 

Velaris. 

This was Velaris. 

You felt yourself spiralling again, but the panic was interrupted. Someone cleared their throat, the sound purposefully gentle, but everything was startling, so you jumped, yelping and covering your mouth. When you spun on your heel, it was Azriel, and he looked pained again. You wondered if that had to do with his harrowing backstory, but you could remember that he was joyful in the books. At times. 

“I apologize,” Azriel said with a slight bow of his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“Everything scares me,” you tried to brush off with a choppy, placating laugh, but Azriel’s expression only became more closed. 

“I apologize for that as well.” 

Your eyes flicked behind him, taking in the massive wings that seemed glued to his back. They didn’t move as you remembered they had before, the muscle looking stiff. 

“It’s not your fault.” You blinked back to meet his eyes and held them for only a second before searching for a nondescript landing place. “I’m usually very good at adjusting to things. I—I think I’m having difficulty coming to terms with this, though, so it may take me some time.” 

“You said this wasn’t real,” Azriel stated. You watched his hands flex at his sides. “Do you… still feel that way?” 

You nodded jerkily. “Yes.” An audible exhale. “And no.” 

You looked off to the side, observing the way the light from the window reflected in broken streams along the wall. You couldn’t tell what season it was here, but the clear skies may have told the story of Spring. There weren’t very many colors in the trees when you had looked down. Perhaps it was Summer. None of that mattered. 

“Is there anything I can do—” Azriel started, and when you looked up, he was leaning slightly, eyes ready to meet yours “—to show you that this is real? To help?” 

“I don’t—” He didn’t know that you knew things about him. He didn’t know that this was a book, a story, and that this would perhaps never feel real. Something told you to keep that to yourself. Your mind hadn’t let Rhysand see that part. “I think I need time to adjust, maybe.” 

Azriel’s brow twitched, but he didn’t give anything else away. He nodded once, eyes fluttering to the ground before pressing his mouth into the whisper of a smile. “Lunch, then?” 

Walking beside him involved shadows. They whisked past you and trailed along their master, though he paid them no mind. You, on the other hand, eyed each of their movements, unsure what they were reporting back to him in their brief whispers. You shouldn’t know that they told him things. You shouldn’t know that he commanded them. 

“They will not hurt you,” Azriel reassured. He held out his hand and let one pool into the divot of his palm. “They are like extensions of me, but their own beings. They collect information.” 

“Should you be telling me that?”

“Perhaps not,” Azriel hummed absent-mindedly. “But you can’t spread secrets to my enemies if I am one of the only three people you know.”

An unexpected laugh bubbled past your lips, the first real bout of humor to find you. You covered your mouth again, this time from pleasant shock, and continued to walk beside the Shadowsinger. He stared at you openly as you did so, only turning back to the hallway when you cleared your throat and pressed your lips together to hide the lingering smile. 

“I suppose you’re right,” you agreed. “I’ll have to meet more people.” 

“You will regret wanting for that.”

“And what is that supposed to—” 

You heard him before you saw him, a low voice asking several questions in the room over. He sounded serious and firm, but his words were trailing and seeking rather than demanding. It wasn’t Rhysand, and the responding female voice was not Mor. You blinked to orient yourself to the onslaught of sounds as those two also spoke up in the conversation. Four—four people in the room and four heartbeats and four paced breaths and—

“Are you all right?” Azriel asked, and you looked to see his eyes searching yours. 

“Oh, um, yes.” You glanced at the door where you were sure to enter. “I’m getting used to… hearing things. It's a lot.” 

“If you need more time—” 

“No!” you rushed out, settling yourself when Azriel’s brow furrowed. “No, I just need a moment. I want to have lunch. I want to see more and see that this is real. My brain couldn’t possibly conjure up something so large. I need to see that it’s big.”

Azriel seemed to contemplate. He glanced at the door and then back at you, tracing the outline of your face as the muscle in his jaw feathered. You had no idea what was running through his mind, so you guessed. 

“I promise I’m not a danger to anyone. It really is just the sound. Sometimes the colors and the light. Senses, I guess. But that’s part of all of this—the proving. I don’t have any plans to hurt anyone in there. If that was what—” 

“It wasn’t,” Azriel shot down. He moved his hand to the door. “If it… if anything starts to hurt, we can stop. We can introduce you to things more slowly.” 

You felt the confusion show on your face. “Hurt?” 

 “If it’s too much.” 

“I don’t think I understand.” 

Azriel shifted his weight between his feet. “I only mean that you can leave whenever you might need to. I didn’t understand when you first woke up, but I do know. I understand that this is more than you are used to, but it doesn’t have to be pain that makes things real.” 

Oh. 

Oh. 

Your face heated. “Azriel. Is this about the head thing?” 

He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t—” 

“I promise I will not slam my head into any walls or hard surfaces again. That was—”

“Rather terrifying.”

“Right,” you blunted. “I can imagine it wasn’t pleasant watching a strange girl freak out and then try to put her head through a wall. But I’m more settled now. I promise, this will help more than anything.” 

He searched your face for a moment longer, his mouth parted as if to say more, but he didn’t. 

You gave a sheepish smile. “Sorry for being dramatic.” 

The door wrenched open before he could speak to the troubled expression morphing his face. A grinning, much larger Illyrian took up the doorway, his wings on full display and contrasting the small shape Azriel had been trying to shove himself into. This man’s hair was longer, his features more rugged and bright. When you startled, a habit it seemed, a sturdy chest connected with your back. 

 “Cassian,” the man greeted, raising his brows in an inviting motion. “Heard you’re not where you're supposed to be. Happens a lot around here.” 

Your gaze flicked down to his outstretched hand, and the size of it dwarfed yours as you hesitantly reached out to accept the shake. He rattled you with one firm, steady flip of his wrist, and the presence at your back seemed to become more imposing. 

“Cassian,” Azriel grumbled out.

Cassian only clicked his tongue. “Yeah, got it.” He gave you a conspiratorial look. “He warned me not to be overwhelming. But you can handle it. And I’m not overwhelming.” 

The casual air of his words had you blinking, your hand still connected with his. Everyone else in this world had been so formal with you. You knew the contrast to your world had a lot to do with the speech patterns and lack of modernization, but Cassian almost seemed modern. Like you could pluck him out of Prythian and smack him in the middle of Boston and he would adapt within hours. Maybe even pop onto public transit and yell at a curb-side vendor before asking any questions. 

“Right. You have mastered the art of subtly, surely,” Mor spoke from around the door. She peeked her head over. “Now let them actually enter the room, Cassian.” 

Another wolfish grin directed at you, and Cassian seemed about ready to tug you into the quaint dining room by your hand, but a low sound at your back halted his almost-tug. Cassian’s grin turned teasing as he stared above your shoulder, and he raised his hands up in surrender, a low whistle humming in the air. 

“Oh, enough,” Mor murmured at him, smacking his chest. “Let them in.” 

Things were certainly different from when you had first woken up. The suspicion was gone from each look thrown your way, replaced instead with curiosity and knowing gazes that you couldn’t place. The light mood you found in Cassian was contagious as you took in the room. Rhysand sat at a long table beside a woman you knew to be Feyre, the pair sharing a private smile and an even quieter laugh. He hadn’t wanted you to be around Feyre—you could remember him saying that. 

You knew fae were territorial and protective of mates, and that plot point had been one of your favorites when you read the books, so for him to allow you near her so quickly— 

“Oh, hello,” a light feminine voice chimed out. The tone was similar to yours. Familiar but entirely not. “I’m Feyre.” 

You offered a nod. Your name. “Nice to meet you.” 

She gave you a sympathetic look as you winced against shimmering light reflecting off the pebbled glass of several shining utensils. The entire dining room was alight. “Would you like to sit down? I’m told you have had quite the journey. I’d like to hear about it, if you would be open to sharing.” 

“I don’t have very much to offer,” you replied, following her outstretched hand to the open chair at the table. “In terms of the journey, I mean.” 

Mor took up the seat across from you, her gaze pointedly down, allowing you to speak. Feyre sat at your left side and Rhysand at the head of the table. There were people missing, even as Cassian found his own place and Azriel lingered near the opposite end. You wondered where the others were, and then cursed yourself for knowing too much. 

On the table, the food was like the language—foreign, but eerily familiar. Everything looked like something you had eaten before, but it also didn’t. The colors were slightly off, the proportions skewed. You felt your brow twitch as you tried to make out the type of meat that rested on a bed of greenery, and then took a breath through your lips as your nose began to burn at the extra attention to scent. 

“You just woke up here?” Feyre casually asked. She had begun to eat, and so had the rest of the table. Azriel had sat down at some point, though, not directly beside you. Something about that felt unnatural. 

“Um, yes. There was a pain in my stomach—like a pulling. I passed out from it, and then I woke up in this house.” 

Feyre briefly flicked her gaze across the table before asking, “Do you still feel the pain?” 

“No. No, that’s gone.”

She hummed. Rhysand spoke. “Tell us of New York.” 

He said the name with such lavish carefulness you almost snorted. “New York is the state I live in. I guess—within the continent I live on, New York is very small, but many people live there. I moved there for school.” 

“Is that where scholars typically go?” Mor inquired. 

“There are schools all over the country. I was—or am—getting my degree in library science. I’m going to be a librarian.” 

The switch to speaking in the past tense was unnerving, and you corrected yourself quickly. You shifted in your seat and picked up your fork, poking at the resemblance of a tomato. 

“Library science,” Mor enunciated. “You have to become educated in the study of the library?” 

“Yes. It’s very extensive. Libraries are crucial to conveying knowledge where I’m from. Things are more digital now, which many people think makes libraries archaic, but we actually offer quite a bit in that realm.” 

“Digital.” Cassian repeated the word under his breath.

“You are very passionate,” Feyre observed, a smile in her voice. 

With a furious heat taking over your face, you replied, “I guess so.” 

“Perhaps it wasn’t a coincidence that you landed in our library, then,” Rhysand hummed, his eyes shining violet over the rim of his glass. 

Maybe this would be a good time to tell them; you were talking about books, about libraries, and this would be the time. You weren’t sure how they would react, but it had been almost a full day in this world and no one had really tried to kill you. No, they were being… kind? Less doubtful? You weren’t sure, once again, what any of it meant. 

Instead of talking, you shoved a piece of spiced meat in your mouth and chewed.

The flavor of it was unlike anything you had tasted before. Your taste buds reacted neutrally, as if you had whatever this was hundreds of times, but your thoughts were driving the meal, and you couldn’t connect your past to the present. 

The meat became ash in your mouth. Your fork dropped unceremoniously on the table, and you pressed your fingers to the polished wood to stop yourself from spitting it out. Casual conversation had begun to flow amongst the group, but it quieted at the sound. Your face heated again. The metal clattering against wood still stung at your sensitive ears. 

“That bad?” Cassian jested. 

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly and swallowed with considerable effort. 

“She doesn’t like boar,” Rhysand drawled back. “Noted.” 

Noted. Noted?

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you coughed. You reached for the intricately gemmed goblet at your seat and sipped at what you hoped was water. It was not. More choking ensued. Droplets of blood-red wine spilled over the lip as you placed the cup down unsteadily. “Is that alcoholic?” you wheezed. 

From the other side of the table, Azriel’s chair scraped against the floor. He was moving things away and pulling out your own chair in a few swift movements. You followed him up only because your brain was in too many directions at once, the unfamiliar spices from the meat mingling with wine in the middle of the day, and then there were the concerned questions peppering the air from those around you, and this room was so bright. Why was every window in this damn house open? 

“Something plain,” you heard Feyre instruct as you were guided out of the room in a fit of dramatics. “And water. Do you want me to—” 

“No,” was all that came from the Shadowsinger beside you. The hallways became darker. Shadows were lining the walls. When you were alone, Azriel said, “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have assumed everything was okay for you.” 

“It was a normal lunch,” you argued, fingers curling around nothing as you followed his slow steps. He had to be slowing them down for you. “At least I can attest to the reality of this place even more now. I’ve never eaten anything like that in my life.” 

Though even as you said the words, you held a drop of doubt firm within you.

“Feyre had trouble adjusting to the food,” Azriel said. Mostly to himself. “We should have prepared for that.” 

“Feyre?” 

“She was human. From the human lands here. She became fae, as you did.”

But you already knew that. You nodded and bit into your tongue. “You know, you didn’t have to drag me out. I know everyone wants to ask me more questions.” 

“They can ask you another time. You have had a very long—” his eyes flickered to the back of your head and trailed down to your twitching fingers “—stressful day.” 

“Another time,” you repeated. If you woke up tomorrow and were still here, maybe. “Does that mean you plan to keep me around?” 

“Where else would you go?” 

“You could send me away. I don’t… belong here.” 

“You are here now. You landed here. You will stay here.” 

“Why?” 

Azriel hesitated. 

You asked again, “Why would you all trust me so quickly?” 

“Rhys saw inside your mind—saw that there is truth to where you say you came from,” Azriel finally offered. “And with the state of the continent, there are many unknown variables.” 

The taste of the meat was still in the back of your throat and you swallowed hard. “Do you trust me?” 

You caught the underlying meaning in Azriel’s words. Maybe they trusted you, trusted that part of you that you were able to share, but you were also an unknown variable. You needed to be where they could monitor you, and you didn’t blame them. If this were truly all real, all their world, you could pose a threat. But they were being nice, accommodating, and you couldn’t parse out what all of the glances and hospitality meant.

“I want to,” Azriel said. 

Azriel counted the seconds in his mind, waiting for this dream to end. 

Any moment now, he'd open his eyes to the ornate carvings etched into his bedroom ceiling, the stone washed in the pale blue glow of the creeping pre-dawn hours. 

After countless nightmares, this exact view became a lifeline to him over the years. The carvings were absolution. Proof that whatever horrors had unfolded moments before belonged to a world with no power over him.

The wounds inflicted upon him would vanish with waking, and the atrocities he'd committed would dissolve into the same oblivion as the dream itself, leaving neither scars nor consequence. The ceiling was his salvation. 

The ceiling never came. 

Instead, Rhys eclipsed his fading view of her retreating form and the slight yet unmistakable shake of her shoulders from sobs he would never unhear. It was clear there was no easy way out, no waking up from this nightmare of his own making. 

“Azriel.”

The stern voice belonged to an eerily formal Rhys as he entered the hallway, followed by Feyre and Cassian. The last thing Azriel felt he needed was reprimanding and it irritated him that so many others had involved themselves in his matters of the heart. 

Could he truly have the audacity to be so upset, though, if he was the reason they were involved in the first place? Attempting to break fast at their shared table with hickeys from a woman he barely knew (who also happened to be the elder sister of his High Lady) on full display was hardly discreet behavior. 

“I don’t need this from you,” He found himself churning out the words, if nothing else but to shield his wounded pride. With nauseating clarity, her hatred that he thought would be easier to stomach than her love, “for her own good”, was one of his gravest, if not the gravest, miscalculations of his immortality. 

“I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands right now.” Rhys retorted.

Feyre and Cassian slowly slid into the hall after Rhys’ failed attempt to handle the matter privately from where the others were still trying to finish their meals. 

Cassian’s arms crossed over his thick chest. In his eyes, Azriel found regret, but as soon as Cassian had revealed it, disappointment eclipsed any lingering sympathy toward his brother.

“This has nothing to do with you. With any of you,” Azriel sneered. He was lashing out at himself, but he would strike anyone in his path. 

“You just humiliated our friend in front of everyone, you think we’ll just look the other way? Not to mention, Elain is a mated woman. To a Vanserra. You understand those aren't just personal consequences anymore, Azriel? They're political."

“Political?” Azriel’s nostrils flared. “I never stuck my nose in your business when you were actively courting Feyre away from Tamlin despite the barely passable relationship with Spring at the time. I respected you that much.”

“You keep my mate’s name out of your damn mouth.” Rhys snarled with all the restraint of a beast pacing behind the bars of its cage, keenly aware that the iron between it and its prey was more a suggestion than a true restraint.

“You couldn’t even wait until she was out from Under the Mountain, when she was still in chains. You don’t get to act better than me.” 

Azriel knew exactly which cut to lay. The sick, misplaced satisfaction that flashed across his face lasted only a heartbeat before Rhys was a blur lunging for his brother’s throat.

Cassian caught Rhys around the middle, boots squealing against the marble floors as he wrestled his High Lord backward. With what little wit he began to regain, Rhys allowed Cassian to drive him away from Azriel, if only to keep Feyre from being swept into a brawl between three Illyrians. 

Azriel would not have been nearly so fortunate had they been alone.

Rhys shoved Cassian off of him, eyes trained on Azriel with foreign regard. "Your self-destruction never stops with you, does it?”  

“Enough,” Feyre sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose before smoothing her finger tips across her eyebrows. “You both are lashing out and childishness isn’t going to help her, which is who this is really about.”

Azriel’s demeanor softened in the slightest as he angled towards Feyre. “You know I would never do anything to hurt her.” But even as the words left his mouth, he pegged them for the lies they were. Because everything he had done to hurt her, he had done knowingly. It didn’t matter if he did it for what he believed was her own good. Intention was as useless an excuse as any. 

Feyre winced as the blatant lies landed. “I warned you to not fuck up this one thing. One thing, Azriel. All you’ve done the entire time you’ve known her is agonize over how you don’t deserve her. I hate to think you were right.”

Azriel felt like his world was ending. The realization that he may never be able to fix this, that things may never go back to the way they were, that he couldn’t just turn back time as easily as he had managed to waste it, filled him with despair. 

Rhys impatiently squinted at the dial on his wrist. “I would ask you to stay back, but the Shadowsinger is needed at this meeting in Day. So let me make this perfectly clear,” He stepped closer to his brother, the depersonalizing tone not lost on Azriel. Despite being slightly shorter, what Rhys lacked in physical height he made up for in High Lord menace. Rhys’ voice dropped to something dangerously quiet. "You will not speak to her. You will not go near her. You will not look at her. You will not so much as breathe the same air until we return and settle this."

The fight left Azriel’s body as he accepted Rhys' terms with none of the spite he held just a minute ago. The defiance that had burned so brightly moments before guttered into exhausted resignation. He gave a single nod.

"I mean it." Rhys said, each word sharpened to a blade. His jaw flexed, fury still simmering just beneath the surface. Feyre's hand slipped around his forearm, her gentle touch grounding him before his temper could crest again. Rhys exhaled through his nose, and allowed her to guide him down the hall, leaving Azriel and Cassian alone.

“Cass-”

Cassian shook his head, which surprised him as he did it. But the person before him wasn’t his brother. His brother who had spent so long waiting for love, yearning for it in secret and wishing for it on every star during Starfall, would never do this once he found it. 

“I can't bring myself to understand how you spend decades mourning a future you think you'll never have, only to throw it away the moment it's placed in your hands. I’ve defended you our entire lives because you’re my brother, even when you’ve been wrong. Especially when you’ve been wrong. But I can’t– I can’t stand by you in this.”

Azriel’s words were stupidly stuck in his throat once again. He’d broken her heart but he’d also betrayed his friends’ trust in the process. He watched them rally for her, protect her, and somewhere deep down inside, he felt a strange mix of guilt and relief that perhaps he had done the right thing after all. She had them; why would she ever need him?

“How can I fix this?” The sorry words tumbled out of his mouth pathetically.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure you get to.”

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She was vaguely aware of her surroundings. Voices, trying their hardest to remain lighthearted. Afternoon sunlight saturating surfaces in a deep honey hue. Bodies– three to be exact– restless yet well meaning in the way they fidgeted from different areas of her room. She didn’t pick up on it, but their eyes flitted amongst one another in helplessness and concern. She knew she was here, but she wasn’t here.

“Oh you’re definitely taking this.” Mor was nestled in her best friend’s wardrobe, rummaging through the various dresses draped on velvet hangers. She held up a strip of glittering organza as if she’d struck gold. The sheer, summer-hued fabric was just so that it was opaque where it was bunched and left little to the imagination where it laid flat. Two strips of the fabric ran down either shoulder and met just below the navel, gathering there before flowing down to the floor like a waterfall between the legs. 

“It’s a Day Court party, not an orgy,” Amren quipped from where she was perched on the chaise near the window. “Though many would argue there’s no difference.”

It was all white noise to her. Mor was trying to help her find a dress to wear to Helion’s party after the court summit, though the idea of adorning herself in her jewels and a practiced smile felt too much to ask for. 

Certainly, the heartbreak would heal. The pain would wane. The disappointment would linger but otherwise recede, like froth on a beach from a wave long gone. It was the humiliation of letting the wrong person in so deeply that would haunt her from the shadowed crooks of her immortality. There wasn’t a corner of her life he hadn’t touched in some way. 

It was unfortunate enough that over the years she blossomed beneath whatever it was he gave her. She called it love once, but in hindsight attention was likely a better word. Perhaps it was punishment reserved for the foolish to only realize the extent of reality after they could no longer change it. 

She knew what her friends were doing, but there was nothing more she wanted than to be alone. After breakfast they came to check on her, first Mor, then Feyre. Even Amren, who rarely concerned herself with matters of the heart, found herself stopping by unasked. 

It was then she told them everything. Her conversation with Mor, when she stopped Azriel in his pursuit to clarify his intentions, which led to the cruel conversation that followed. A truly unfortunate string of events that was somehow even more humiliating when she recounted the saga to an audience. 

“I’m not wearing that,” she turned beneath her sheets, facing the other side of the room. Vaguely aware of just how pathetic rotting in bed was at the moment, she could barely bring herself to care. It was easier to hide the tears beneath her blankets when she felt them coming on again instead of answering for them when looks of sorrow crossed over her friends’ faces. 

“You didn’t even look.” Mor deadpanned.

“I did look, and I’m not wearing that. I’m not having my tits out in the same room as Beron and his whore son.”

“Eris would have no complaints, by any means.” Amren offered her unneeded two cents. 

“That’s the fucking problem.”

“Your tits won’t be out.”

“They’ll be out enough.”

“Come on! You’ve only worn this once, and I nearly ate you up.” Mor stood up to walk the dress over to her bag. 

“The only other time…” her voice faltered. At first she was trying to remember where she’d worn it, then remembered too suddenly, too rudely, why she’d worn it. Mor all but forced it into her hands when they went shopping for Tarquin’s Summer Solstice party last year. 

“Azriel will drive himself mad over it,” Mor reasoned as she pushed her to the till.

And it had, just as she’d hoped. Azriel’s eyes followed her around the entire day and night. She felt his eyes, even sitting beside him at dinner. He barely touched his food. Nudging her knee with his when he laughed, draping an arm over the back of her chair when the alcohol began to loosen him up, inhaling her scent every time she shifted like it was a drug. Later that night, he slipped into her room in the Summer Palace and Feyre and Rhys who were next door played the game of pretending not to know at breakfast the next morning.

The girls must have read her mind because the room fell silent again. 

She swaddled the blankets tighter around her body, feeling the ghost of his touch against her will. His hands beneath her shirt, the weight of his body against hers, his knee pressing her legs apart the way he knew would push her into the completely pliant state that had preceded all of her most feverish memories. Where she’d once felt herself warm at these thoughts, they now settled like rocks in the pit of her stomach, forever and undeniably linked to the look on his face and the tone of his voice when Azriel told her he’d never have her as anything more than a body to warm his bed. 

“I’m not too keen on vying for his attention anymore, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She referred to Azriel with frigid indifference in her voice, but no one was stupid enough to believe she truly did not care anymore. 

“Oh this is not for Azriel,” Mor smirked. “This is for Helion.”

Mor and Feyre broke into light laughter, but she couldn’t bring herself to join them. Turning back around to face her friends, she felt her jaw loosen in awe but kept her mouth shut. 

“Are you serious?”

She supposed she should’ve seen this coming, and if she wasn’t so preoccupied these past 12 hours, she would have. It was inevitable for her friends to tease her when it came to the High Lord of the Day Court, his persistent courtship (and what she demanded was but a one-sided flirtation) as much a secret among them as the genre of books Nesta kept her nose in. 

It was something that always mildly entertained her, but never anything she put any real stock into, for her heart always sat in Azriel’s hands, and Azriel seemed to attach himself to her at the hip around Helion. A fact she once adored now rendered her ill. Again, love was never the word. Infatuation. Delusion. Possession, even. 

“You know what they say… the only way to get over one male is to get under another one.” Amren supplemented again. 

“That’s literally not how that saying goes,” she grabbed the pillow beside her and smothered her face to block out the light and sound that had suddenly become too much. “And I’m not interested in being under anyone right now, actually.”

“Not even the absurdly tall, unfairly handsome High Lord of Day who has been shamelessly captivated by you since the moment you crossed paths?”

On any other day it would’ve made her laugh and shove Mor in the shoulder. Mor had always been a proponent of “team Helion” as she’d called it. 

A harmless bit of entertainment between friends somewhere along the way became a bandwagon that the rest of the Inner Circle jumped on. Helion, of course, was always more than happy to oblige, admiring her openly and without apology, simply because he loved to.

She never thought much of it. 

Flirting was as natural to Helion as breathing, offered as freely as his laughter and with no more expectation than a smile in return. There was something wonderfully uncomplicated about it. She knew where she stood with him because he never asked her to decipher hidden intentions or search for words left unsaid. If he thought she looked beautiful, he told her. If he wanted a dance, he asked. If he wanted to make her blush with some outrageous compliment, he did so with all the confidence of a mate which he was not.

So she played along, feigning exasperation at his relentless charm, batting away compliments she secretly loved to receive, indulging his theatrics because, at the end of the day, that was the nature of her friendship with Helion. He flirted, she humored him, they laughed; it was fun. Helion was fun. He was charming, beautiful, and entirely too much, but she never expected anything more from it.

Perhaps she would have, had her heart not already been elsewhere.

Mor, however, delighted in challenging otherwise, and by extension, challenging Azriel’s restraint. 

Her favorite scheme consisted of “drunkenly” pushing her best friend into the high lord at a party and watching him catch her by the waist to steady her. They’d exchange smiles, a cheeky comment perhaps, before Helion’s hands would slide lower to her waist and get her to dance with him. 

"Careful," Mor would tease afterward. "Someone might think you actually like him."

She would laugh because the idea was ridiculous, but Mor always said it as if she knew something no one else did. 

"Hmm," Mor would muse. "It's awfully easy with Helion, wouldn’t you say?."

"It's easy with Az," she would correct without hesitation.

"I don’t know. You never have to guess with Helion. You’re always wondering with Az." 

She’d dismiss the challenge. “Love isn’t supposed to be easy.” 

She believed that then; that loving someone meant accepting the silences, learning the language of half-finished thoughts and lingering glances, believing that the things left unsaid somehow carried more meaning than the things spoken aloud. How painfully naïve that seemed now; why wouldn’t loving someone be easy if it were right?

Azriel never found any of it as amusing as Mor and the rest of their friends did.

He noticed every lingering touch after a winnow, every dance Helion coaxed her into, every smile he managed to draw from her with effortless ease. He noticed the way he leaned close when speaking to her, the casual intimacy with which he occupied her space and she never seemed to object.

To her, it was harmless.

To Azriel, it was proof. Proof that there would always be someone better equipped to love her than he was. Someone quicker with a smile, lighter with their words, unafraid to let themselves be known. Helion never seemed to hesitate before speaking, never weighed every sentence until the moment had long since passed. He simply existed beside her with an ease Azriel had spent years trying and failing to imitate. 

Everything that Azriel did in front of her was life or death, the difference between earning her love or losing it forever. Helion seemed to carry none of the same burden and it worked for him. Jealousy had never been a close and personal friend to Azriel until he met her. 

She could reassure him a thousand times that Helion was only Helion. Yet in hindsight, she never stopped to wonder why she felt compelled to defend their friendship to a male who was neither her mate nor, apparently, her lover. 

Love, she thought now, was perhaps not a question of difficulty or ease, but of wisdom and foolishness.

Mor reverently laid the dress on the bed, careful not to rumple the delicate fabric. Her voice softened. “You know you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, and this is all in good fun. It’s all we can do for you right now.”

She sighed, suddenly guilty for the inconvenience of her own emotions. “I know, I’m sorry. It seems as though I’m only capable of offering my gratitude in cruelty."

“Don’t be. Just be ready to leave tonight, that’s all. We’ll take care of the rest.”

In silent acknowledgement, Mor, Amren, and Feyre readied to take their leave. Her heart broke, knowing they would not take her uncharacteristic defiance personally, but it also swelled in gratitude that they afforded her the chance to be alone without her explicitly asking for it. She slowly sat up, watching her friends file out of her room. 

She hated this, feeling pathetic. She hated being the one that needed tending to and taking care of. She was the one that took care of others. 

Most of all, she despised that one male had the power to make her feel so distraught, so small. She wished she could snap herself up and carry herself as tall as she usually stood, to continue as if nothing had happened, to be able to lie to herself that he was nothing. For everything to go back to normal. 

“Thank you,” her voice was smaller than she intended for it to come out, but it was all she could manage. Tears rimmed her bloodshot eyes again.

“You can thank me by bringing that dress.” Mor snarked, but her eyes were tender. 

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She’d never admit it to Rhys, but the Day Court always held a special place in her heart. Of course, there was comfort in an endless expanse of velvety night sky generously punctuated with stars. Comfort in the dominating, snowcapped mountains that guarded the life enclosed within their valleys, with their resilient purple-gray faces that have gazed upon their wards for centuries. 

Yet, there was equal comfort for her in the long days and buttery skies of Day. At any given window she was gifted a view of the rolling green hills hemmed with all manner of flora, fauna, and flowing streams. They stretched until they winked out of sight where the grass met the sky, and beyond still.  

Those views became something of a lifeline to her against Azriel’s constantly flicking gaze, measuring every shift in her expression and demeanor, waiting for the perfect time to get her alone with minimal outburst.

The feeling of being watched which once made her gut twist with anticipation now made it turn over uneasily. 

Since their arrival, Azriel had been relentless. Not in the way he once was, though. No quiet shadows curling around her hips or ankles, no careful distance disguised as patience. He sought her out openly now. His gaze followed her across rooms, catching on her every movement, every attempt to disappear into conversation with someone else. More than once, she felt him begin to approach, only for Rhys to appear at her side with effortless timing, placing himself between them under the guise of some casual remark.

Cassian was even less subtle. A hand on Azriel’s shoulder, a loud interruption, a poorly disguised question that redirected the conversation elsewhere, anything to keep Azriel from reaching her without turning the situation into a spectacle in front of Helion. The effort was almost comical, if not for the desperation behind it.

Mor and Feyre were quicker still. The moment Helion’s initial greetings were exchanged and the group began making their way toward the chambers to freshen up, they slipped an arm through hers and pulled her away, filling the silence with chatter and refusing to give Azriel so much as an opening.

She was grateful, but she also knew there was only so much her friends could do to keep a determined male at bay. 

Elain, meanwhile, followed Azriel like a duckling.

She almost felt pity for her, unable to keep herself from putting herself in Elain’s shoes. The man she found some incidental infatuation with finally takes her to bed, in what must have felt like an alignment of the stars and the beginning of her new life, then refuses to so much as look at her the next morning. But Elain clung to Azriel despite his coldness toward her, and that’s where her sympathy ended. 

“Where have you been?” Helion’s voice was her tether to reality, bringing her back to the porcelain columns and hand tufted rugs of his palace’s dining room. “You usually afford me a longer bout of feigned interest in my stories before you completely disregard me. In my own home, at that.” 

The smile that came to her lips was easy. If nothing else, she could count on Helion to make things feel normal. To make her feel normal. 

She’d zoned out as Helion regaled the dinner table with his latest crowd-pleaser, a story in which he and his injured pegasus Meallan had found themselves stranded in the deep valleys at the outskirts of his court. Creative liberties were taken in his recounting to be sure, given this was most likely the fifth or sixth time he was telling it. However, she didn’t think her lack of awareness was so obvious.

“I’m quite over it already. You lost me when somehow your toga tore right off as Meallan fell out of the sky.”

“Well, I added that detail just for you, I recall you have quite the active imagination.”

“Then how lucky am I that I was able to entertain myself just before my brain could conjure any images against my will.”

“You wound me.”

“I take pleasure in it.”

“No doubt, you make no effort to hide that,” Helion’s smile was easy and light, but his eyes squinted as if assessing the lack of edge in her tone. “But it would take a little more effort to hide that something has been bothering you.”

“Helion–” she sighed. 

“I could tell the minute you arrived.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mm.” His eyes flickered over her, far too attentive. “I supposed you’re exhausted.”

“Yes, how perceptive you are.”

“And yet you’ve barely touched your meal.”

She glanced down at the untouched plate in front of her.

“Mother above Helion, your obsession with me reaches new heights.” She scoffed, trying to turn around where the conversation was headed.

“I couldn’t help myself even if I tried,” The words were teasing, but now it was his turn to lack the usual quipping tone that accompanied his banter. 

Helion waited for her to reply, to give him even an inch to go off of. 

“You are many things,” he said quietly. “Sharp-tongued. Quick. Maddening.” The corner of his mouth lifted when hers did. “But quiet? I’ve never known you to be quiet.”

Her smile faltered. When he looked at her deeper, as if urging her eyes to speak with his, she looked away, reaching for her wine instead.

“You’re reading too much into it.” 

“Perhaps,” Helion leaned back, giving her space rather than pressing closer. “I’m not going to ask if you want to talk about it, but–”

“Good.”

As it was, more people than she was comfortable with were already aware of the innards of her love life against her will. She’d be grateful if no one else was privy to the specifics of her humiliation if she could help it. 

Helion took the hint and put the rest of the conversation to bed, even if there was more he wanted to say. Before he could change the subject, Elain’s laughter bounced off of the porcelain columns, bright and airy, as delicate as she was. 

The sound was out of place enough against the quiet chatter that it drew attention immediately. Conversations softened, heads turned. And despite herself, she looked across the table. Elain’s hand was barely wrapped around Azriel’s bicep, as if she needed him to steady her.

Azriel’s reaction was immediate. His frame tightened, eyes snapping toward her, and for one awful moment, their gazes caught.

She looked away first.

Azriel removed Elain’s hand from his arm. Not harshly. Not enough for Elain to notice. She only smiled and leaned closer into his side, oblivious. She found herself feeling equally cold towards Elain, the very feeling riddling some tender part of her heart with guilt.  

No, she thought to herself. You’re acting like a child. If he did this with Elain, he could’ve done it with any woman. It changes nothing. But Azriel was still looking at her, praying to catch her eyes again if even for a second.

Feeling the pathetic, warm tears prick her waterline once again, she made a show of exasperatedly attempting to evict a pesky eyelash from her waterline. “It’s been a long day.” 

“Filthy liar.” Helion nudged her knee with his beneath the table. 

She let herself lean into it for a moment; his warmth, his kindness, his familiarity. 

She loved her family. Rhys, Feyre. Cassian. Amren, Mor, and she’d even found herself one of the few people Nesta could tolerate. But in the past few hours, that bubble had begun to feel impossibly small, everyone a bit too close for comfort, through no fault of their own. Every look, every question, every attempt to help carried the weight of their concern, and she was so tired of being worried over. So tired of being known, of having the most private parts of herself laid bare for everyone to see, even if it was out of love. Even if every person around her only wanted to protect her. 

There was no room left for her to unravel quietly, without a dozen people standing by to witness it.

Jumping at the opportunity to leave Velaris felt like a betrayal, but perhaps she needed the distance more than she realized. Helion was a breath of fresh air, a reminder that she could exist outside of her heartbreak. That she could be loved without needing to reach into every wound to somehow feel worthy of it. 

“Regardless of what’s bothering you, I’m glad you’re here. These halls have missed you.”

“I miss being here as well. Given your good sense, my role as Rhys’ emissary doesn’t allow me nearly as much time at your court as I would like. I’m mostly in Autumn nowadays, Mother help me.”

“Mother help you indeed,” Helion chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Or, Mother help Beron, knowing you.” 

She snorted a genuine laugh for the first time in a day. “Eh, at the end of the day he’s senile at best, clinging on to his last few shreds of testosterone if only to prove to himself his withering faculties still serve him well.”

“Hmm. You’re a cruel woman.”

“I thought I was known for my sharp tongue?”

“I never said I didn’t like it.” Helion defended himself with a self-satisfied smirk. 

She rolled her eyes, feeling a tug at her lips again. “Besides, Lucien tries to make the trip down whenever I have to go. It helps, having a friend around.”

“I’m glad he can be there for you, then. You have a good head on your shoulders, that’s for sure. It’s why I’ve been trying to openly poach you to Day. We could use your smarts here. And I’d selfishly appreciate having a friend around too.”

For the first time, she did not immediately defy his offer to move here. It was only a pause that lasted all but 2 seconds, but Helion caught it. 

“You always have a home here, you know that.”

A shrill snap pierced the air. 

A few silent seconds followed, swallowing the room and every conversation with it.

The look toward Azriel was instinctual, as much as she hated to admit it. 

There was blood.

Despite her better judgement, panic still twisted low in her stomach as she regarded Azriel’s bloodied hand dripping one crimson drop after another onto the hand-woven placemat. 

Feyre and Elain gasped at the same time Rhys expelled a tired breath. Cassian murmured something unintelligible. The others were dead silent. 

Azriel had shattered the wine glass in his hand, sending the liquid and glass across his plate. He barely seemed aware of the damage he’d done, his attention instead on Helion. On Her. On Helion’s attention to her. 

Had he been eavesdropping on their conversation? The realization took root as Azriel's attention remained fixed on Helion. 

Nausea churned in her gut, threaded now with a fear that he wasn't going to let her go. She couldn’t make sense of what was going on in his head for him to cut her loose then refuse to leave her be, neither did she care to understand anymore. Yesterday, she wanted to talk. Today, it was too late. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Rhys muttered, perhaps not as quietly has he intended.

Helion said nothing, only glanced between Azriel and her. His brow drew into a deep furrow when he realized he couldn’t hear her heart beat. She had stopped breathing.

“I’m so sorry–” Rhys began, but Helion lifted a hand. 

“Accidents happen,” Helion said simply. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly that only Azriel caught it and brought him out of his strange trance. He absorbed the mess he’d made and quickly set upon cleaning up what he could. 

“I’m sorry,” Azriel repeated, looking up at her again between carelessly handling the shards of glass, still so far away from his current situation he couldn’t even register the further harm he was causing himself. 

All he could focus on was trying to meet her eyes again, and instead felt sick to his stomach when her head was turned the other way. She didn’t even seem to realize that her fingers had curled into the table cloth beside her plate, desperately trying to keep herself together in front of everyone. 

The leash Azriel kept on himself, usually tight and unyielding, had slackened without his consent. He wasn’t proud of sharpening his hearing to their conversation. He was aware he had no right. And yet, watching Helion touch her however briefly, watching her smile and soften in his presence drove him past a line he wasn’t aware of and his body acted before his mind could even register it. 

You continue to embarrass her, disrespect her. You are insufferable. He told himself as he uselessly dabbed at the wine stains on his trousers. 

Helion’s large fingers gently prodded between hers and the table cloth to release her hold. As soon as he felt her loosen, he pulled his hand back. 

“I think it’s best if we rain check dessert. It’s quite late, and I imagine everyone would benefit from some rest before the remaining courts arrive tomorrow. Please, enjoy the sitting room or the balcony if you wish,” Helion’s smile was gracious, the born host he was. But it was clear the night was over. “Azriel, please let my healer Flora take a look at that hand before you retire for the night.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Rhys wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin before chucking it on the table harder than he meant to. 

“Let me take a look,” Elain frantically took Azriel’s hand in hers. She was the only one who would care to even touch him now, so he pathetically let her. 

She barely inspected the wound, instead holding his hand just to hold it and fussing over the amount of blood. He guiltily drank in the physical contact, the light fingertips over his wrist and forearm until, from across the table, she stood up quickly and left the dining hall. As if the shame had finally overridden his desperation, he yanked his hand from the cradle of Elain’s arms and rose to follow. 

Rhys stopped him, grabbing his bicep with such easy force that it looked harmless to anyone else. “You will not create more of a scene than you already have. You will take care of this yourself, am I clear?”

Azriel shrugged out of Rhys’ hold. Everyone else filed out of the dining room, desperate to release themselves from the uncomfortable energy the night ended on.  

“Are you alright?” Feyre asked quietly, more out of obligation than care. 

“Guess it doesn’t matter, does it?” Azriel whispered, unable to meet her eye. 

Feyre said nothing, offered no help or words of comfort. She shook her head and left as well, leaving Azriel to stew in his wounds, emotional and physical. 

Eventually, everyone retreated to their respective chambers, exhausted from the travel and lethargic from the feast Helion insisted upon for his company. 

Helion found her leaning against the threshold to the balcony off the sitting room, eyes closed against the nighttime breeze, the closest thing to relief she’s had in over a day. 

“Do you need anything?” Helion asked from behind.

She shook her head without opening her eyes or turning around. She was so sick of feeling this way, so foreign to her own self. 

“Do you need a distraction?”

Her eyes fluttered open at that, finally turning around and raising her eyebrows to feign playfulness. “You’ll have to be more specific, your many definitions of a ‘distraction’ concern me.”

He chuckled fondly at her suspicion, neither could he fault her for it. “I did acquire a few manuscripts from Thesian's libraries. Not as impressive as mine, obviously, but they’re worth a few hours of your time, I think.”

She snorted.

“I haven’t gotten a chance to look through them yet. Truthfully, I think I was waiting for you. Just the two of us, like old times,” He watched a twinkle form in her eyes. “Of course, they are in my bedchambers currently.”

She rolled her eyes so hard she felt them pulse. “You are relentless.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“It sounds exactly how you intended it to.”

“Well... yes. But it’s true, they are. Then again, multiple things can be true at once…” Helion’s flirting was so effortless, and at times so ridiculous, but he knew it always managed to make her laugh, and that’s really all he was after. 

“I think I just need to be alone tonight.” Her voice was barely higher than the ticking of the clock in the dining room behind them. 

Helion’s smile was kind and gorgeous. He shifted closer to her, if only to push open the second balcony door to widen her view. 

“Whatever you need. I know you enjoy the nights here, so I will leave her highness to her balcony,” Helion dramatically gestured towards the view, knowing she loved to spend a lot of her own time there. It was one of her favorite places, after all. “And consider the little something on the table there a gift from an old friend.”

A warm breeze carrying the faintest scent of verbena and portulaca. The railing cooled her palms as she wrapped her hands around the iron, savoring the shock of the sensation. 

Up here, it was only her. Her and the hills. Many times over the years she wished she could disappear into them, build herself a modest cottage, and never return. Nothing entirely advanced and definitely far from perfect. It would most likely remain unremarkable– a hole in the roof, a gap in the window, mismatched stonework– far from what she was used to in Velaris to be sure. But it would be hers, a product of her own two hands, and that would make it more of a home than anywhere else she’d been before. In place of the fae-light chandeliers, marble staircases, and plum-sized jewels in coffers just below her feet, she would hang herbs to dry above the kitchen sink, line crystals on the windowsills, tend to her misbehaving garden, leave out dishes of milk for the animals that wandered in and out as they pleased, and fill every empty nook of space with her favorite books.

She ached for it. At one point, she ached for it with Azriel. Just the two of them, away from court politics, Illyria, their shame, everything left behind exactly as they’d intended. She wanted a life and home with him so deeply that it played like a film reel in her mind. She'd write her stories and read them to him, rattle off the names of their most frequent animal visitors while Azriel struggled to keep up with them. Azriel would be the one to fix the hole in their roof and the gap in their window, to brew her tea and bring her to sit beside the fire until they were hungry for dinner or wine or for each other. 

Thinking about it now, she laughed bitterly with shame that she so easily let him infiltrate her dreams. A fantasy she’d created solely for herself and cultivated over the years was so easily amenable to the presence of a male she only thought she knew. She was the one who let him in, and scrubbing him from her life would begin with scrubbing him from her cottage in the hills.

Behind her, a shallow ceramic dish rested on the small bone-inlaid table between two cushioned chairs. The contents of the dish made her huff a tiny relenting laugh. She could never mistake the familiar mounds of dried leaves for anything other than mirthroot, her and Helion’s vice of choice whenever they were together. They’d always indulge towards the end of a visit, sitting at this very balcony for hours, as if they had no responsibility other than smoking every last roll they drew. These skies had heard all manner of conversion between the two. But she was thankful to partake alone, just for tonight. 

Sinking into the cushions of the over-stuffed chair, she lit the end of a small roll of mirthroot wrapped within its paper, begging the warmth of the smoke she breathed in to quell her broken heart. She liked pretending the warmth settled somewhere deeper than her lungs. Somewhere closer to the place that actually hurt.

Try as she might to erase Azriel’s image from the back of her eyelids, she could not manage to do it. With another two puffs, the familiar relaxation set into her bones. Instead of bringing the relief she expected, she felt her shoulders sag deeper into the cushions before the tears began again. They came swiftly, silently, relentlessly. She didn’t try to stop them. 

She was mourning. Mourning the version of life she had just last night before the drinking started. Mourning the version of Azriel she’d fallen in love with. Mourning the version of herself she now was because of how close she let Azriel come. 

Despite the feeling of her entire life jolting to a stop, the Day Court buzzed on below her. The world never stops spinning. How extravagant of her to nurse a broken heart on this beautiful balcony overlooking a beautiful mural of nature and life, with this beautiful fucking joint between her fingers. It could truly be worse. She couldn’t spend much longer feeling so sorry like this when truly the only loss that had happened was Azriel’s.

She was so taken by her own plight, of her fantasy cottage she was so desperately trying to reclaim, at the beauty of her surroundings, she barely registered the figure at the entrance to the balcony behind her.  

“Are you okay?” Azriel realized how stupid the question was as soon as it left his mouth. 

She quickly swiveled her neck at his voice and regarded him standing awkwardly at the threshold, as if uncertain whether stepping onto the balcony would be crossing a line.

The dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders bowed as though something invisible had settled across them— Azriel looked nothing like the Shadowsinger who could bring armies to heel with a glance. He looked exactly as miserable as she hoped he felt.

She didn’t expect to laugh in his face. Albeit mirthless, the response caught him off guard too. 

“The first time you speak to me since you tell me I was nothing more than a good fuck to you all these years, and you ask me if I’m okay?”

His face crumpled.

"I know." He swallowed. "I know, I'm sorry. It was stupid. I didn't—I didn't know what to say. I just needed to say something, I suppose."

She turned back toward the balcony, the mirthroot between her lips. This time her hand trembled slightly as she dragged the thick smoke into her lungs. Quickly wiping the tears already staining her cheeks, she scolded herself for not wiping them earlier. 

His voice was hoarse as he attempted to fill the silence, to make his appearance worth her while. "I have no right to come speak to you. No right to ask for forgiveness–”

“Yet here you are.”

“But if we could just talk…"

She didn’t respond. Instead she closed her eyes, trying to preserve the serenity that she’d come out here for in the first place before Azriel had done what he seemed incapable of resisting lately– tainting it with his presence. 

Azriel waited for her to respond, mistaking her silence for permission. “I’m not asking for much–”

“I think you’re asking for a lot.”

“Please.” His single plea was as shattered as it could get. 

“You want me to make you feel better, that’s why you’re here. This has nothing to do with me.”

Azriel’s desperation rose. This was the most she’d talked to him in the past 24 hours and her attention, regardless of the frigidity of it, was a high even more intoxicating than the mirthroot could be. “No– no that’s not true. Please.”

She clenched her teeth at his persistence and crushed the remaining mirthroot in the dish with a force she mentally directed at Azriel’s head. Finally, she rose from her chair, spinning on her heels to face him once again.

“Do you know how pathetic you sound?”

“I know. I don’t care.” he shrugged with defeat. 

"What did you think was going to happen?" Her hands flew outward. "Hmm? That you’d finally get me alone, say your piece, and I’d forgive you instantly? All it would take for me to forget you insulting me, humiliating me, wasting my fucking time was a sorry? Then what? I'd hike my dress back up and we'd pretend none of it happened?”

“No." He shook his head so quickly it bordered on frantic.“No, I don’t want– I don’t expect– it wasn’t my intention–”

“But it was, wasn’t it? It was just about the sex all these years to you? We bore our souls to each other, shared everything. I knew things about you no one else did and I told you things I thought I’d take to my grave. The sex came because of that. It was real to me, and I thought it was real for you too.” She didn’t realize when the tears had started again, or when her voice began to rise, but she couldn’t stop herself now that Azriel had opened the floodgates. 

"I just..." He scrubbed both hands over his face, feeling a situation that had already spiralled out of his control slip further. "I needed you to know I didn't mean it."

“Then why say it? Am I supposed to believe you simply because you said so?”

“I panicked. I panicked, and the first thing I thought to do was push you away. I wish it were different–”

“You told me I meant nothing to you!”

Azriel stepped closer but she immediately took a step back. Her body rejected him entirely, and although the aversion was foreign at first, it also gave her the slightest comfort that she would be okay one day without him. 

"I was trying to protect you."

She stared at him for a long moment, as though she genuinely couldn't decide whether he was actually that stupid. 

"Protect me?" she repeated quietly. "That's what you're calling this?"

"I—”

"Humiliating me and using me was protecting me?"

"I didn't mean for it to become into… everything that it has." 

"But it did," Her voice sharpened. "Whether you meant it or not, that's what happened. You stood there and made me feel small in front of you that night, in front of everyone I love that morning, and somehow you've convinced yourself that it was an act of mercy?"

"I thought if you hated me," His jaw flexed. "I thought it would make it easier for you to let me go. I never deserved you. I would’ve given you much less than you deserve."

"I refuse to let you think yourself so sacrificing," Her voice trembled with barely restrained anger. "You decided what I deserved. You decided what I could handle. You decided I should hate you. Did it ever occur to you to consider what I wanted?"

She searched his face as if hoping she'd find some trace of the man she'd loved. She couldn’t find him, even if she tried, for she did not know the man in front of her at all. 

Yes, she still loved him, but in the way a muscle retains a memory. It wasn’t the same. The brain does not always forget a memory just because it is traumatic. An arm does not forget the pain just because the bandage is off. The heart does not immediately stop loving just because it was broken. 

He opened his mouth to speak, with it came another step closer to her based on pure instinct. 

She backed up, closer to the railing now.

“Stay the fuck away from me.”

“I couldn’t sleep–”

“Go find Elain, I’m sure she’ll put you right to bed again.” Her eyes darted to his neck, where the stain had mostly faded, but it was still there– a bloom of purple against blanched skin. She’d never seen him so pale, save for when he’d almost died in her arms years ago on a mission in the Bog of Oorid.

Azriel sighed, frustrated. “I told you that was a mistake.”

“Elain of all people, Azriel? You can’t tell me that was a mistake when I was the one who sat with you while you cried over her being mated to Lucien? Who listened to you mourn another woman because you thought she was taken from you. I was the one to sit with you and console you, all while aching for you.”

"I was caught up in the idea of her," His words tumbled over each other. "Because Rhys had Feyre. Cassian had Nesta. I convinced myself... I don't know... that it was supposed to happen that way. That she was supposed to be mine. It wasn't love. It was convenience. Desperation." He laughed bitterly at himself. "At that point... I would've taken anything."

She went still. 

"Anything?"

Azriel’s stomach dropped.

"I didn't mean–"

"You did. Anything but me." Her voice was unstable, the mirthroot in her system not doing her any favors.

"It wasn't because you weren't enough."

"Oh please," Tears blurred her view of his disheveled face once again. "From where I'm standing, I spent years loving someone who would've rather settled for anyone else than take the chance on me."

“You never saw it, and I never understood how. You were always too good for me.”

"Stop saying that."

"It's true."

"No," She shook her head harder this time. "If I'm too good for you, then you never have to try. You never have to become better. You just get to decide I'm unattainable and call it selflessness.”

As she spoke, the realizations of him repulsed her. His cowardice, his self-pitying nature. She wondered how much of his own anxieties he’d projected onto her unconsciously. 

"That's not fair."

"You want to talk about fair?" The laugh she gave him was humorless and accusatory. "I see it, now. Your self-loathing has always been about you. Not me."

"It doesn't have to make sense to you," Azriel said weakly. "It's just what you do for people you love. You let them go."

"You fight to become worthy of the people you love. You don't throw yourself a pity party and call it sacrifice. You don't let your wounds keep festering because they're familiar. You heal for them, if not for yourself. That’s love, and if it really does mean something different to you, then perhaps you never loved me at all.”

The weight of her words landed squarely in his chest, in some deep part of his inner self he didn’t know could still be hurt as an adult male. The pain was only as great as it was because of the truth behind her words, the knowledge he’d failed her.  

Azriel panicked anew. Something in this already fucked conversation became worse. Became wicked, rotten, wrong. All wrong. It was worse, infinitely worse to lose her, than risk hurting her. Somehow, he’d managed both now. This was not what he wanted, what he meant to do. All he wanted now was to get her back, but the possibility of that seemed farther and farther gone. 

His resolve was bursting at the seams. 

“I do love you.” he whispered. 

She only shook her head, exhausted, and finished with the conversation. Finished with him. 

“You have to understand. You could have any male you wanted. You have had every male across Prythian throw themselves at your feet and you never even realized. For whatever reason, you chose me,” he tried to reason, her waning attention somehow spurring all of the fight he refused to give this entire time. Only when it was too late did he feel the need to try in the way she’d needed him to all along. “When you told me you wanted to be with me… when you wanted this to be real… I'd spent years convincing myself we were only friends because it was safer that way. As long as you didn't ask for more, I could pretend I wasn't failing you. I told myself if all you wanted from me was the sex, the least I could do was give you that, it was all I could be good for.”

“You knew I loved you all these years?”

A long silence followed, filled in only by the whistling breeze and voices far below the balcony’s edge. Nothing Azriel could say seemed to be the right thing. “I did.”

“So this game you played where you pretended that the love I poured into you all those years was just charity, was that to make it easier for you to cut me loose when I inevitably wanted more?”

He bristled. When she said it aloud, stripped of every excuse he'd spent years wrapping around it, it sounded exactly as evil as it was. In Azriel’s insecurity he had also been extremely selfish. He’d wasted these years he could’ve otherwise basked in her companionship.

She gestured helplessly toward him. “And it wasn’t enough.”

The panic did not subside. It grew with intensity, faster than he could manage to digest, and his heart felt like it would give out at any moment. Azriel would have never been able to predict that she would become so hurt, so distrustful of him, that every explanation would land wrong and every truth would sound uglier than the lie. 

Azriel stepped forward again, stupidly mute and unable to resist her pull he’d been at the mercy of since they’d met. 

There was nowhere for her to step back now. Her back pressed into the rail and she was reminded against her will of another railing, another night, another version of him in this exact dance, but to a very different tune. 

Suddenly he was too close. Too close in memory, too close in front of her now, it was all too much. For all of her efforts to keep him at arm’s length today, he was suddenly consuming all of her air, her mind, and now her good sense. 

Azriel intruded upon her violently, claiming every single reprieve she could possibly take. It was too much. He was too much and she was not enough. It made even more sense now than it did before. The bite of the cold rail against her back as she tried to move away again should have spurred her to leave, but instead it cemented her in place, immobile in her despair. 

"Get..." She shoved his chest, but he barely moved.

“I can’t go.” His voice cracked, finally.

She shoved harder. "Get away from me."

She shoved again. 

“Azriel, I mean it.”

One last futile shove before her voice broke entirely.

"GET AWAY!”

The anguish in his bones from her desperate screams loosened his own limbs, rocked him off balance, and he began to stumble back as though she’d struck him. 

“Get away from her. Now.” A second voice rose above the night, low and deadly. Above the muffling in her ears, the irregular beat of Azriel’s splintered heart. Azriel stepped back in shock, and a large gust of air abandoned her aching lungs. Her shoulders sagged and she gripped onto the railing to keep upright. 

Helion was already crossing the balcony before his command had reached their ears, pulling Azriel away from her by the shoulder. It wasn’t a rough tug, nor was it all that civil either. His hosting duties had taken quite a new level tonight and his patience with the male was wearing thin.

Behind him, a stone faced Rhys, flanked by Feyre and Cassian. She couldn’t find it in herself to be embarrassed tonight. The exhaustion was too great and all she wanted– all she ever wanted tonight– was to be alone. 

“I didn’t mean to,” no one would be able to tell that the voice that uttered those words belonged to the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. 

“I told you to stay away from her,” Rhys’ words were precise and measured. “I thought I made myself exceedingly clear to you this morning, but apparently you cannot be trusted with the simplest of instructions.”

Feyre and Cassian regarded Azriel with something foreign in their eyes.

Only Helion saw her. He wanted to close the distance, to put himself between Azriel and her completely, but she’d had enough of male nonsense for a lifetime. His eyes swept over her trembling hands, still clutching the iron railing. “What do you need?” 

His voice was strong, not careful or cautious like she expected. She tried to harness some of that strength into herself, just enough to get her away from here. 

“Just keep him the fuck AWAY from me.” She didn’t mean for that to come out as a sob too, but she wouldn't have been able to stop it anyway. Anger was hot in her bones, her tears, her throat. 

She stormed off the balcony, past a disheveled Azriel, a fuming Rhys, a stricken Feyre, and an unsettled Helion. 

She didn’t notice Mor waiting before the threshold of the balcony until she nearly collided with her.

Mor fell into step behind her friend without a word after giving Rhys a small nod, careful to remain a few paces behind until they got to her chambers. 

Mor caught the door she tried to slam with ease, shutting it softly behind her and they were both in the room. 

“Leave me alone,” she choked out. “I just need to be alone, no one is leaving me alone!”

“Then I’m not here.” Mor offered softly. 

She had no fight left in her. She couldn’t scrounge up the energy to tell Mor to leave or allow her stay. Detached from her immediate surroundings, she didn’t really take in the room at all. It was much less than the soft bed with extra fur blankets Helion knew she enjoyed, the stacks of books above the bureau near the window, or the marble tub of warm water sitting on a private balcony jutting off the edge of the room. The room was simply a collection of edges, able to walk this way and that, but nothing more. 

She stripped out of her clothes and put on the pajamas that may as well have materialized from thin air as she still didn’t register Mor pulling her things out of her bags for her. 

The pair of them climbed into bed. The plush mattress and the weight of the many blankets Mor pulled over them broke her out of her spell. Mor’s warmth radiated from beside her and the anger broke like hot glass, melting into an ache so seizing she could barely catch her breath.

She clutched the arm Mor wrapped around her shaking body, sobbing into her elbow. Mor squeezed her best friend as hard as she could, but said nothing in the hours that passed. Enough had already been said. 

He didn’t meet your eyes as he held a hand out to help you up, and you felt a little guilty for making him uncomfortable, knowing all too well it’s not always fun to feel such nervous embarrassment. You accepted his hand after a moment, his skin warm and rough against your own. You were about to apologize once he pulled you up, but Azriel dropped your hand, glancing at you briefly before moving away, and you lost the nerve to even acknowledge your foolish lapse in judgment.

You bit your lip, looking down at your boots as you wished the mountain would just fissure open and swallow you whole. “Y/N,” Azriel’s soft voice snapped you from your simmering mortification. His cheeks were still red when you met his eyes, but there was a faint, bashful smile on his face that made your stomach flip. “Thank you.”

You had to fight the grin that immediately wanted to bloom on your face, and simply nodded your acknowledgement as Azriel turned away, unwrapping his hands, your training apparently done for today. Your previous embarrassment morphed into pride, as you replayed the interaction over and over in your head. Nesta glanced at you curiously as you sat next to her to stretch, but you ignored her gaze as you glanced back at Azriel, who was now speaking with Cassian as if nothing had happened. His gaze suddenly met yours, his cheeks still tinged pink, and you smiled softly, shaking your head as you looked away again. You had made Azriel blush, and you had every intention of doing it again.

~ ~ ~

“Have you eaten yet?”

Azriel stood in the entryway to the sitting room you had wandered off to with Nyx, a plate of food in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. You smiled softly, shaking your head before looking back at Nyx, who was starting to get fussy. His eyes were tired and heavy, and you knew it was only a matter of time before he either passed out in your lap or started wailing as he fought off sleep. “I told Feyre I would watch him while she ate,” you said softly, fingers tickling at Nyx’s stomach, making him giggle.

Azriel moved closer, sitting the food and wine on the table next to you. “Let me take him,” he offered softly. “Go ahead and eat.” The food smelled amazing, and you were starving, but you hated to just pass Nyx off to him. 

Azriel sat next to you on the couch, the cushions jostling beneath you. He held his hands out to Nyx, a soft smile on lips. “Do you want to come sit with me?” he cooed, and your heart nearly exploded as Nyx happily launched himself from your lap and into Azriel’s arms.

Azriel laughed softly, catching Nyx easily, and bouncing him in his lap. He glanced at you, nodding toward the plate. “It’s going to get cold.”

You bit your lip, fighting back the stupid smile that wanted to engulf your face, and instead took a sip of the wine before picking up the plate. You ate quietly while Azriel sat beside you with Nyx, his happy giggles slowly dying down as exhaustion crept up on him. At some point, Azriel had coaxed Nyx to lay on his chest, and the little babe had quickly fallen asleep. When you looked over after setting your empty plate down, Nyx’s cheek was squished against the shoulder of Azriel’s sweater, his wings drooping around him to rest on Azriel’s chest.

It was possibly the most wholesome thing you had ever seen, and a million rogue butterflies were swarming your stomach as you watched them. Azriel was too engrossed with Nyx to notice your attention, his fingers rubbing gentle circles on his back. Azriel’s face was softer than you had ever seen, his usual stoicism long gone while he held his nephew.

“You’re really good with him,” you said softly, your awe seeping into your voice.

He startled a bit, his hand pressing into Nyx’s back as his eyes jumped to yours. A pink hue slowly crept across his cheeks, and your heart fluttered at the sight. He didn’t really respond, though. He just gave you a tiny tight-lipped smile before looking back down at Nyx.

“I mean it, Az,” you whispered, shuffling a little closer. “That boy adores you. Clearly.”

The color on his cheeks only darkened, but his shadows pulsed excitedly before one ventured out to snake around your wrist. Azriel’s eyes went wide when he saw it, and the shadow promptly left you. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“I don’t mind them,” you answered honestly. His shadows were now circling over Nyx, and you couldn’t understand why he would think they would ever scare you when they could be so gentle—when they were a part of him.

The two of you sat in silence for a bit, watching Nyx snooze peacefully on top of Azriel, the air in the room warm and calm. Eventually, you reached for your empty plate and glass, and stood up from the couch. Azriel tracked your movements, and when you turned to face him, he was already looking at you.

His cheeks were still a faint pink, the color making your mind wander back to training last week. His eyes were soft as he beheld you, and you had to fight your own blush from creeping up your cheeks. You lingered longer than you should have, standing there awkwardly with your hands full, but you didn’t want to leave Azriel. He was so stunning, so calm, and you knew it would be a long time before you saw him so unreserved again.

Your friends’ laughter from the living room faintly reached your ears, and you reluctantly took a step back from Azriel. “I should probably go socialize a little bit,” you said with a sigh and a teasing smile. “If you don’t mind?” you then asked, gesturing toward Nyx.

“Not at all,” he said softly.

You nodded, looking down at your hands. You held up the empty plate, then said, “Thank you for bringing me dinner.”

He simply smiled, and it was a small one at that, but it still made your stomach flip. You returned it, and then moved to the hallway, reluctantly leaving the beautiful shadowsinger with a babe sleeping on his shoulder.

~ ~ ~

You loved Velaris.

Truly, you thanked the Mother every day for leading you here, for Rhysand taking you in as a refuge when Cesere was attacked. You weren’t even a priestess, you were simply an Autumn Court female that had taken sanctuary at the temple, but that didn’t matter to Rhysand. You were just as much of a victim, and Clotho had let you reside with the other priestesses in the library once you arrived in Velaris.

You never felt entirely content, though, living in a mountain with only books to occupy your time. You also didn’t have the courage to leave said mountain—not until you befriended Gwyn, who befriended Nesta, and then pulled you along with her to training. Your life changed for the better that first day of training. You felt whole. For the first time in your life, you felt settled. 

The shadowsinger across the street from you had more to do with that feeling than anyone. You couldn’t explain why you were so enamored by him, so drawn in by his presence. You didn’t even like to acknowledge it, really. It only left you flustered and anxious about possibly losing the person who had quickly become a pillar in your life. You were positive that if that pillar came crashing down because you weren’t careful, you wouldn’t survive it. You clutched the piece of cloth you kept stuffed in your pockets, the familiar fabric soothing your anxious thoughts.

Your fears didn’t stop you from wanting him, though. It didn’t stop you from admiring him from afar, or even occasionally letting those admirations slip through your lips. He deserved to hear them, anyway.

He was just so kind. You had never witnessed a kindness quite like his, never been privy to such gentle care and respect. You had to ignore the warmth that bloomed in your chest every time his kindness was directed toward you, because he was kind to everyone. 

For fuck’s sake, you were currently watching him help a meek and embarrassed female fix her booth that had toppled over in the market square. His shadows collected stray jewels and baubles that had scattered on the ground, pushing them into a neat pile next to the female. You could tell Azriel was making every effort to appear smaller, less intimidating somehow, despite the leathers and siphons adorning his body. His wings were tucked in tight, and his shoulders were relaxed, his posture slightly slouched as he handed her things.

You saw his lips move softly as he said something that made the female smile slightly, her shoulders relaxing. Your heart clenched at the sight, an irrational jealousy igniting in your core as you watched her cheeks turn red, and Azriel smiled at her. You averted your gaze back to the jewelry in your hand, the owner of the booth you stood at clearly growing impatient with your dallying. 

You smiled sheepishly at the older male, setting the necklace back down on the velvet tablecloth. You glanced back at the booth across the street, a confusing mix of relief and disappointment twisting inside you when you saw the female sitting alone, and Azriel long gone.

 “Were you really not going to say hello?”

You spun toward the familiar voice, your heart racing as you met Azriel’s eyes, who was now standing only inches away from you. You swallowed hard, unsure how to answer. Were you going to say hello? Likely not, but you were too embarrassed that you had been watching him for the last five minutes without any true reason.

He didn’t wait for you to answer before he handed you a paper box. You frowned at the familiar blue container that came from the very bakery you were planning on visiting today. 

Azriel reached forward and opened it after watching you stare at it for far too long. “Had I known you were coming to the market today,” he said as he revealed the chocolate croissant, “I would have suggested we come together.”

Your lips parted as you looked at the fresh and luscious pastry, your mouth instantly watering. You picked it up and took a bite, the chocolate like heaven on your tongue. You hummed in appreciation as you ate the treat, muttering your thanks between bites.

Azriel laughed as he guided you into the busy street, his hand between your shoulder blades as the two of you meandered through the bustling market. When you reached a less populated area, his hand fell away, and he asked, “What are you doing out today?”

You held up the now empty box, swallowing the last bite of your pastry. “I was going to get one of these,” you answered. “So thank you for that. I guess now my mission is moot.”

Azriel laughed, his shoulder briefly brushing yours. “We can always go get another.”

You grinned. “You’re full of good ideas today.” You thought back to earlier, then said, “I saw you help that female.”

“Yeah,” was his simple response, and you could tell he was a bit bashful about it.

“That was kind of you, Az.”

He shrugged, not really accepting your compliment. “She needed help.” A passing faerie bumped into you, sending you stumbling into Azriel. They murmured a rushed apology when you glared at them, and Azriel steadied you by your waist. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you huffed, straightening your shirt. You tossed the empty box in a garbage bin as you kept walking. “What was she selling?” you asked, desperately trying to forget about the juvenile jealousy you felt when you watched him smile at her.

“Handmade jewelry. She said she just opened a storefront a few weeks ago, and was hoping a booth would garner some attention. I told her I would have to bring you by,” he said, completely nonchalant.

Your brain stuttered. “Me?”

He glanced at you, his brow furrowed. “Yeah?” he said slowly. “Why not? I thought you liked handmade things.”

You shook your head. “No—I mean, I do—” You paused, and Azriel’s expectant and confused expression made you falter. “That would be nice,” you said instead. “Thank you.” 

“Of course,” he said lightly, his confusion still clear. 

You felt even more ridiculous for your earlier jealousy, and you didn’t feel like having him prod you anymore, so you diverted the conversation to an entirely different topic, albeit not very smoothly. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your tattoos.”

Azriel raised his brows. “My tattoos?”

You nodded, eyes roving over the swirls of ink that you did genuinely find fascinating. You lifted a hand to run your finger over one of the lines, his skin warm from the afternoon sun. You swallowed hard as you pulled your hand away, realizing you needed to actually ask him a question about them. “What do they mean?” you asked. 

He looked a bit reluctant to tell you, but before you could assure him he didn’t have to share, he said roughly, “They’re Illyrian.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he huffed out. “The only reason I don’t hate them is because I got them with Rhys and Cass. They’re supposed to stand for luck and glory. I only got them because we had just survived the Blood Rite, and they insisted we mark ourselves with their symbols just to spite them.” A small smile had creeped onto his face. “Which was convincing.”

You smiled hesitantly. “Well, I’ve always liked them.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, then traced the ink again. “They’re beautiful. Intricate. And it doesn’t matter if they have Illyrian origins, they’re yours. You got them with your brothers to celebrate your survival. That’s what they mean to you.”

His cheeks were dusted a faint pink, and pride surged in your chest. Your fingers trace the ink all the way down to the scars wrapped around his forearms, and you glance at him before following them down to his wrist, and then his palm. You thread your fingers through his, squeezing tightly. “Every mark on our skin tells a story. Our story. That’s never something to be ashamed of.” You brushed your thumb over the back of his hand, and his cheeks were now red, his eyes wide with awe. “It’s beauty in its rawest form.”

You tugged on his hand, knowing he wouldn’t have a response to that, urging him to keep walking with you. “And by the way,” you hummed, making Azrial turn toward you again, “I happen to quite like the story yours tells.”

His blush crept up to his ears, and you smiled to yourself triumphantly, loving every second that you got to see Azriel flustered. Every second that you saw him faced with compliments that he should always hear, that you wished he would learn to accept. You were worried he might drop your hand when he just stared at you for a moment, the silence charged and heavy around you. Instead, he squeezed your hand, and kept walking side-by-side with you, eventually murmuring the softest, “Thank you.”

~ ~ ~

“Can I ask you something?” you hummed, leaning forward on the counter, your head propped up in your hand.

Azriel smiled softly, amusement dancing in his eyes. He was across the counter from you, his back leaning against the granite that was faintly illuminated by the moonlight spilling into the kitchen. “What’s that?” he asked.

You hesitated, but your earlier conversation with Nesta was playing on a loop in your head, and your curiosity was eating at you. Your whole body was warm just thinking about it again. The wine running through your veins probably didn’t help, though it certainly gave you the courage to finally ask, “Is it true you can orgasm from someone touching your wings?”

Azriel choked on the tea he was sipping on, setting the mug down a bit harshly on the counter, the liquid sloshing over the rim. He coughed for a minute, his shadows fluttering around him in concern, but eventually he met your eyes. His own were wide as he asked you with a rasp, “Who told you that?”

You shrugged sheepishly, admitting, “Nesta might have mentioned it.”

He muttered something that sounded like “Mother help me” as he looked up at the ceiling, running a hand over the back of his neck. 

The movement made his leathers stretch over the muscles of his arm, and the heat that bloomed in your gut pushed you to ask, “Have you ever…?”

Azriel’s cheeks were pink as he looked back at you, the moonlight making the color across his skin even more pronounced. He gaped at you for a moment, but he eventually admitted, “Yes.”

You didn’t know how to respond to that. A small part of you withered up at the admission, something acidic swirling inside you. You selfishly wanted him to say no, that he had never shared that part of himself with another. Which was insane, given he was over five centuries old. Of course, he had explored that with a lover.

He stepped closer to the island you sat at, his face softening. “Not often, though,” he added quietly, shocking you by elaborating. “I haven’t in a very long time. I was young, and curious, and—” He paused, shaking his head. His cheeks were still an adorable red, but his voice had regained its steadiness as he said, “It’s very vulnerable, to let another person touch your wings.”

You smiled softly, the wine finally making you a bit sleepy. Azriel had brought you home from Rita’s awhile ago. First you had insisted on tea before bed, and now you were pestering the poor male about his sex life of all things. You blamed Nesta for planting the seeds of curiosity in your mind, and Mor for plying you with far too much wine. At least you got to see him blush again, even if that wasn’t your outright goal tonight.

“I should probably go to bed,” you murmured quietly, pushing your mug away from you. You had barely drank your tea, and Azriel definitely noticed, but he was polite enough not to say anything. You met his eyes, his hazel irises unnervingly alluring as they simmered with something new, something you had never seen in Azriel’s gaze. You swallowed hard, and stood up from your stool. “Goodnight, Az.”

His throat bobbed, his jaw clenching briefly as he looked you over, then bid you a quiet goodnight. You didn’t linger, and you most definitely did not think about his lips, his eyes, or his wings as you laid in bed, waiting for sleep to claim you.

~ ~ ~

“Well you two are a sight for sore eyes,” Nesta drawled from beside you, her gaze sweeping up and down the two Illyrian warriors that had just appeared in the living room. 

They were caked in mud, covered from head to toe. Even their wings were covered in it, their normally elegant and translucent membranes now an opaque brown. Cassian undid the tie holding his hair back, shaking out the strands and sending a mixture of wet and crumbling mud flying all over. You ducked your head as Nesta scolded him, but he simply grinned at the two of you.

His eyes glinted as they locked on his scowling mate. “Won’t you come help clean up?” he asked innocently.

She scoffed, but stood up nonetheless, leaving her book on the table. “Only because if I don’t we’ll be finding remnants of your filth for days.” Cassian’s grin widened as he reached for his mate, but she quickly side-stepped him. “Don’t even think about it,” she growled, walking down the hall. Cassian quickly followed after her, disappearing from sight.

You swallowed hard, then looked back at Azriel. He smiled sheepishly at you, turning his palms outward. “I probably reek right now,” he said with a bit of a huff.

You smiled softly, shaking your head. “Not really—” Your words got caught in your throat when you did catch a scent of something far more alarming than dirt. “Are you bleeding?” you asked worriedly, sitting up straight.

Azriel winced. “I might be. Whatever the hell was in the bog scraped my back when we—”

“Your back?” you cut him off in alarm. You stood up, moving toward him. “Are your wings—”

“They’re fine,” he assured, his eyes watching you with a softness you had never seen before. You swallowed hard, feeling a bit embarrassed for your reaction. You stopped a few feet away from him, not sure what to do now.

His lips tipped up slightly before he nodded toward the hall. “I should probably clean myself up.”

“Do you need help?” you rushed out before he could move far.

Azriel froze, his eyes going wide. Mortification crawled up your spine, realizing that was an absurd offer. Azriel had been doing this for five centuries. He surely knew how to clean his back and wings himself. Cassian had asked Nesta for help, sure, but she was his mate—

“Yes,” he said softly, and your mind stalled for a minute. He had mud smeared all over his cheeks, but you were fairly certain you could see a flush creeping up his neck and to his face as he cleared his throat, then said again, “Yes. Please. I—It would be helpful to have someone else clean my back. If I’m still bleeding, it’s probably because the wounds are caked with mud—but I could call Madja if—”

“No,” you cut off his rambling. You had never seen Azriel stumble so much over his words before. It was endearing, but you also didn’t want him to second-guess asking you for help. Your offer was genuine, and you wanted him to know that. “I want to help.”

His throat bobbed as he studied you for a moment. His shadows were peeking out from behind him, as if they were being held back from exploring. “Thank you,” he said softly. Not for the first time, you wished it wasn’t so difficult for him to accept help, but you were honored that he was taking yours.

You followed behind him quietly as he led you to his room, pushing open the door for you before shutting it gently behind him. You tried not to ogle too much at his room, but you would be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit giddy that Azriel was letting you see more of his life.

He was so private and reserved. You weren’t oblivious. You knew that him letting you into his room meant something, but you also weren’t delusional, and you weren’t going to let this warp your mind into thinking this was more than it was. This was Azriel, trusting you as his friend, to help him with something personal, vulnerable, and you would be damned if you screwed that up.

“What do you need me to do?” you asked softly, slowly dragging your gaze from Azriel’s oversized bed to meet his eyes.

He stared at you for a moment, and you shifted a bit under his gaze. “Az?” you asked again softly.

He blinked, then shook his head a bit. “Sorry, I—” He paused, closing his mouth, then said instead, “Let me clean up a bit first, okay?”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. Azriel’s eyes stayed glued to yours as he gestured toward the bed. “You can sit down,” he said softly. He finally peeled his eyes from yours, and you had to blink a bit to regain your bearings. 

You stayed put until he disappeared into the bathing room, noting that he left the door open. Your chest felt a little tight as you sank slowly onto the edge of his bed, which was somehow infinitely more comfortable than yours. You dragged your fingers over the black duvet, the fabric soft to the touch. You had to repress the urge to wrap yourself in the downy cover, to fully immerse yourself in Azriel’s scent. You pulled your hand back to your lap, feeling a bit insane. 

Despite his dark bedding, his room was….comfortable. It wasn’t bright by any means, but it was cozy. He had soft faelights scattered throughout the room that cast the room in a calming glow, and he had plush blankets thrown over the back of the chair sat in the corner. The case of books next to the chair called to you, and you nearly gave in to snooping through his collection when his voice startled you from your thoughts.

 You walked tentatively to the threshold of the bathing room, but you didn’t look inside. “Do you want me to come in?” you asked nervously. You closed your eyes, clenching a hand around those nerves and pushing them down. You were going to help Azriel without making a fool of yourself. It was fine. You were fine. You wanted to help him.

You could hear the amusement in his voice as he answered, “If you still want to help.”

You swallowed hard, steeling your nerves as you stepped inside, but they quickly melted to goo when you saw him still in the bath. Your breath caught in your throat as you took in his wet and bare skin, the Illyrian tattoos you were always so fascinated by winding around his arms. The bath was filled with bubbles and steam that concealed anything…intimate, but you still felt like you were on the precipice of doing or saying something very stupid as you neared him.

He smiled slightly at you, the mud cleared from his face to reveal his pink tinted cheeks. You would like to think that your presence caused the flush of his skin, but it was likely the heat of the bath. You folded your hands in front of you, awkwardly standing a few feet away from him. “What do you want me to do?”

He pointed to a bottle and cloth on the stool beside you, water falling from the arm he raised. “Just make sure it's clean, please. Then rinse it with that tonic from Madja. It should heal fine on its own.”

You nodded, mind steadying now that you had a clear task. You picked up the cloth and sat the bottle on the ground, dragging the stool so you could sit behind Azriel. “Just the one scrape then,” you asked absentmindedly as you inspected the rest of his back. There were a few scratches and bruises littered across his skin, but there was only one wound still bleeding.

“Yeah,” he said softly, then huffed a low laugh that didn’t sound all that amused. “It’s embarrassing, really.”

You frowned, dipping the cloth in the somehow clean water—likely thanks to the House. You rang it out before pressing the cloth against his skin. “It’s not embarrassing,” you said softly. Your ministrations were gentle over his wound, wiping away at invisible dirt, because really he had cleaned it well on his own. He didn’t say anything back, and when you switched the cloth for the tonic, you asked, “Why would a wound be embarrassing?”

“It’s not just that,” he said, voice low. “I—I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. I don’t need your help.”

You stilled, the cap to the bottle clutched tight in one hand while the other was about to pour it over his wound. You tried not to let the words sting, tried to put yourself in Azriel’s place. You lowered the bottle to your lap, then asked softly, “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” he answered, though it sounded strangled. “I don’t.”

You sat with that for a minute, then moved so you could face him, kneeling at the side of the tub. Azriel’s eyes were conflicted as he met yours, and you noticed that his shadows had been sequestered away somewhere. “It’s okay to want someone to help you,” you started gently. 

He looked so vulnerable in front of you, naked and wounded in a tub of water, giving you free access to his back, trusting you enough to let you so close to his wings. It made your heart clench. “Even if you can do something yourself, that doesn’t mean you always have to.”

He stared at you silently, and you started to feel a bit silly, doubting that those were his true worries. He nodded, though, a small acknowledgement of your words that you knew meant a lot from him right now. You smiled softly, and his eyes brightened a bit, even if he didn’t return the gesture. “Can I finish what I started?” you asked, standing up from your position to reclaim your seat on the stool.

Azriel hummed his agreement, and you didn’t waste any more time before you poured the inky liquid over his wound, trusting Madja’s creations even if it looked disgusting. Azriel tensed as the liquid seeped in, and you mumbled an apology as you recapped the bottle. Eventually, he relaxed, and you watched the liquid run down his back and into the water. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Anytime,” you hummed, setting the bottle on the counter next to you, hoping your nonchalance would keep him from freaking out again.

Your eyes snagged on some brown smudges still scattered across one of his wings, and you bit your lip before saying, “There’s still some mud on the back of your wings.”

Before he could even respond, you asked, “Do you want me to clean them?”

That was apparently the wrong question to ask because Azriel visibly tensed, and you noticed his shadows start to creep out from the corners. Your mind flashed back to your drunken conversation with him last week, and your face immediately went hot. “Or not,” you rushed out, fumbling to rectify your mistake. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking about—nevermind. I mean, not nevermind, because I will gladly clean them if you want me to—but if—”

“Y/N,” Azriel’s quiet voice cut you off, and your lips immediately clamped shut. He turned his body so he could meet your eyes, and you realized he had relaxed again. You wished you could say the same about yourself. “I would appreciate that,” he said quietly.

Your lips parted as you processed his words, and you realized this was him asking for the help he wanted, not necessarily needed, just like you told him to do moments ago. You swallowed hard before nodding, then picked up the wet cloth you had dropped. “Will it hurt?” you asked, feeling stupid and out of your depth. And nervous. You were incredibly nervous again.

“No,” he said, flaring his wings out a bit more for you to reach. “Just be gentle.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you, and you clutched the cloth tight in your hand, struggling to lift it toward his delicate membrane. Azriel must have sensed your hesitance, because he turned his head slightly, a small frown on his face. “Y/N,” he said quietly, “You don’t have to.”

You bit your lip, while your heart was trying to fly straight out of your chest. “It’s not that,” you whispered. “It’s just—I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. After our conversation last week—”

Azriel blanched and then swore under his breath. He shifted more so he could better face you, some water sloshing over the edge of the tub. “That’s not—touching my wings—” He shook his head. “It’s not always sexual. I wasn’t trying to take advantage—I swear to the Mother—”

It was your turn to blanch, and you cut him off hastily, “I never thought that.” Azriel’s mouth snapped shut as he stared at you with wide and frazzled eyes, and you were sure your expression mirrored his. “That never even crossed my mind, Azriel,” you said more softly. “It’s just…it’s intimate, right? You’re trusting me, and I don’t want to fuck up.”

Azriel’s shoulders relaxed, his face softening. “It is intimate,” he agreed quietly. “And you don’t have to wash my wings for me. I can do it.” You started to protest but he cut you off with a pointed look. “But if you want to, there’s nothing to fuck up—unless you stab me in the back,” he hummed and you rolled your eyes.

He smiled softly, and you couldn’t help but return it. Your nerves had abated, now just a slight undercurrent thrumming in your veins in anticipation of touching Azriel again. It was silly, to be excited to touch him. He was trusting you to help him, as his friend, and you needed to focus.

You motioned for him to turn around, and said, “Okay, Shadowsinger.” He raised his brows and you grinned, but he did turn his back to you, flaring his wings out again.

You dunked the cloth in the water again, and asked softly, “Ready?”

He nodded, and you didn’t waste any more time hesitating or second-guessing if this was okay. He told you it was, and there was no sense in prolonging this. You brought the cloth to the delicate membrane, gently dragging it over the smudge of mud he missed. Azriel’s muscles rippled across his back at the contact, and you paused. “It’s okay,” he assured, though his voice was rough.

You didn’t question him. You kept cleaning his wings, moving slowly from one spot to the next, meticulously cleaning the thin but powerful membrane. Your fingertips sometimes brushed against the soft skin, but you didn’t dare outright touch him, no matter how much you wanted to.

“I’ve always thought your wings were beautiful,” you murmured, moving to the last smudge of dirt near the base of his wing. Azriel’s breath caught in his throat, but you kept speaking, “I mean, Illyrian wings in general are, but when I met you—” You dragged the cloth slowly over him, the dirt long gone, but you weren’t ready to pull away. “I was just in awe. Of a lot of things, really, but your wings are just stunning. They were practically glowing in the sun when we first met. And they shimmer in the moonlight—”

“Y/N,” Azriel rasped, and you pulled your hand away to move in front of him. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his face was flushed crimson, and for a brief moment you relished in putting that blush there. There was no doubt it was because of you, because of your words, and you were glad. Azriel deserved to hear these things, to hear such reverent compliments.

“I think you should leave.”

Just like that, your heart fell, and you scrambled to catch it, but it was no use. It slammed into the pits deep in your soul, and any warmth that was slowly seeping through you immediately iced over. You didn’t hesitate to drop the cloth in the water and stand up, to back away from Azriel and remove yourself from this mortifying situation.

“I’m sorry,” you rasped, and Azriel’s head did snap up to face you then. His lips parted as he looked at you, but you shook your head, taking another step back. “I’m sorry,” you said again. “That was—it was inappropriate.” Who were you to think it was your place to tell him such things? To so blatantly awe over him while he allowed you to help him with something so vulnerable? You felt sick.

You had enjoyed pushing him and prodding him over the last few weeks, delighting in the blush that seemed to arise more and more often in your presence. Now you questioned if it was because you made him uncomfortable, and not because he was flattered or flustered. You didn’t stay a second longer. You bolted out of the bathing room, out his bedroom, ignoring the tendrils of shadows licking at your heels as you moved aimlessly through the halls, until you shut yourself away in your room, begging the ground to swallow you whole.

~ ~ ~

It had been a week since you saw Azriel. Since you royally embarrassed yourself in front of him. It made your skin itch every time you thought about it, wishing you could claw the memory right out of you.

Today was his birthday. You stared at the little pile of gifts you had collected for him sitting on your desk, wishing you hadn’t fucked everything up and could just give them to him. You were fairly certain that you were the last person Azriel would want to see tonight, but you also knew you couldn’t skip out on his birthday dinner without facing an interrogation from the rest of your friends. Cassian would be here any minute to take you to the River House, so you shoved aside your humiliation and aching heart to slip on your shoes, and sighed before opening your bedroom door.

You nearly screamed when you saw a figure leaning against the wall across from your room, your heart rate only calming when you realized it was Azriel. Then it started racing for an entirely different reason.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice sounding gravelly.

He pushed off the wall to move closer to you, and your grip tightened on the door. “Picking you up,” he replied, his voice calm and cool, like nothing had changed.

Your mouth went dry as he stopped only a foot in front of you, his shadows sneaking out to curl around your ankles. He didn’t pull them back. “Why?”

He frowned a bit. “It’s my birthday.”

“I know,” you said hurriedly, not wanting him to think you forgot his damned birthday. “I know that. I meant—Cassian said he—”

“I told him I would pick you up,” Azriel said simply.

You blinked at him. “Why?”

Azriel finally showed some hesitation, his throat bobbing before he answered, “We need to talk.”

Now? He wanted to talk now, before you had to sit through a dinner with his entire family for his birthday. They were your friends, of course, but they were his family, and you were still so unsettled after last week. You were still so mortified by giving into your emotions, letting your impulses take over you when you were with him last time. You had tried telling yourself that it really wasn’t that big of a deal. Sure, you might have gushed over his beauty, but it’s not like you kissed him. 

Your heart was not convinced by that logic, though.

Azriel placed a gentle on your waist, and your eyes dragged from his touch up to his eyes. There was something hesitant in his gaze, an uncertainty you had never really seen in him. He nodded behind you. “Can I come in for a minute?”

It took you a second to process his request, but eventually you nodded, stepping back to allow him in.

He smiled softly, but you couldn’t return it. You were too anxious, watching the male you had grown embarrassingly infatuated with move around your room with curious eyes. His gaze snagged on the pile of wrapped gifts on your desk, and your face immediately heated when he looked at you.

He seemed to debate saying something, then decided against it, much to your relief. 

“What did you want to talk about?” you asked softly.

He took you in quietly, his observant gaze making you even more self-conscious. You rubbed at your arm, shifting on your feet, and his face softened. He took a step closer, and you held your breath, ignoring the surge of emotion that rose in your chest.

“No one has ever made me feel the way you do,” he said quietly. His words rattled through your core, stealing your breath and knocking all sense from your mind. “And last week, what you did for me? I’ve never felt so comfortable with someone, never trusted someone so implicitly, and it terrified me.” He took in a ragged breath, running a hand through his hair. “I was scared, and I pushed you away, and I’m sorry. To just ask you to leave after you helped was–” He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable,” you whispered, failing to really comprehend what he was telling you.

Azriel immediately moved closer to you, stopping only inches away. “You have never made me uncomfortable, Y/N,” he said, picking up your hand. “Since the day I met you, I’ve been drawn to you. I would catch myself wondering about you, asking about you, before you ever even came to training. Then when I actually got to know you, when you became my friend, it took everything in me not to cling to you.”

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, his skin rough against yours. His touch was so gentle, so comforting, and you wanted to drown in it. You wanted to fall into him, to beg him to hold you and let you melt against him. “I thought you needed a friend, more than anything, and I wanted to give that to you, but these last few weeks have felt different. I could have been reading things wrong, but—”

“You haven’t,” you cut him off, meeting his surprised eyes shyly.

“I haven’t?”

“No,” you said sheepishly. “I—I’ve always been drawn to you too,” you admitted quietly. “But last month, at training, when I told you your eyes were pretty?”

Azriel nodded, a small smirk pulling at his lips. “I remember.”

“Of course you do,” you muttered, feeling embarrassed now. “Well, you blushed when I told you that, and I loved it. You always made me feel flustered. I felt like I was always the one blushing and floundering for words around you, and it just felt good to know that I had the same effect on you.”

Azriel’s smile widened a bit, but he let you keep rambling, “So I kind of started pushing you a bit more. I wanted to make you blush, but I also thought you deserved to have someone tell you nice things. It became more about that, really. I just, I’ve always thought those things, I just started to let myself say them. Last week I was a bit more overbearing, I guess—”

“You weren’t,” Azriel said softly. His eyes were bright as they looked at you, and you wanted to swim in his irises. His beautiful irises that had fully captivated you, and were the reason you were even in this current situation. His cheeks were tinted pink, and it made your stomach flip.

“You’re blushing now,” you whispered, a bit breathless.

He somehow moved even closer, making your breath hitch. He picked up your other hand, squeezing them both tight. “I know,” he murmured, his eyes glued to yours. You had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You seem to have that effect on me.” One of his hands moved up to cradle your jaw, and electricity shot up your spine. “Is it too late to ask for a gift for my birthday?” he asked, voice low and warm and intoxicating.

You swallowed hard, staring up at him with wide eyes. Your lips parted as your gaze flicked down to his, then back to his eyes. “Depends what it is,” you breathed out.

He moved his face even closer, his lips so close to yours, his breath warm against your skin. “A kiss?”

Vulnerability laced his voice, and it made your heart clench. You easily closed the little remaining distance between the two of you, his lips against yours utterly electrifying. You never wanted it to end. He kissed you like you were a gift, like you were precious, and he wanted to savor every second with you. His lips were just as soft as you thought they would be, and you wanted more.

You tugged at his sweater, loving the feel of the soft fabric in your hands in lieu of his usual leathers. His hand squeezed your hip, tugging you closer. His tongue brushed against your mouth, and when you gasped, opening your lips for him, he pulled away. You whined slightly, the sound escaping your lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. His voice was breathless as he said, “We’re going to be late.”

You pressed your lips to his again, and he indulged you for a moment, before pulling away again with a soft chuckle. “We can continue later,” he murmured, his lips barely brushing yours. Your forehead fell to his chest, his sweater still clutched in your hands.

“Is this real?” you asked, voice muffled by his chest.

Azriel’s arms wrapped around you, pressing you even closer to him. “It’s real,”  he hummed quietly, squeezing you as you nuzzled into him. His shadows brushed your cheek, and you smiled softly, certain you were glowing from the inside out.

~ ~ ~

You knew Azriel deserved to spend his birthday with his family, surrounded by love and laughter, but you selfishly wished the two of you could have hid away for the night. You didn’t think it was entirely fair that you spent the entire day thinking you had ruined your friendship, only for him to show up and kiss you, and then drag you to family dinner. It was fine. Truly, it was. It was his birthday, and he deserved to celebrate.

You were just feeling very discombobulated and flustered as you watched him from afar, your sole company the cookies piled on a platter on the kitchen island. You chewed on one absentmindedly as Azriel smiled at Nyx, laughing as the little boy wiggled and giggled in his grasp. He passed the boy to Feyre, and Cassian swooped in to place another drink in his hand.

He was happy, and it was beautiful to see. He seemed more relaxed than you had ever seen him, and it made your heart glow to see him grin and laugh with his brothers. You could deal with this moment of limbo for a bit if it meant he got to have this.

“Az seems chipper,” Nesta hummed as she walked into the kitchen.

You sat your cookie down, spinning on your stool to follow her around the island. “He does,” you said lightly, glancing back at him. When you looked back at Nesta she had a smirk on her face. “What?” you asked.

“I have never seen him so…free. Happy,” she told you.

“It’s his birthday.”

She rolled her eyes. “It is,” she agreed. “But you can’t tell me that Azriel cares that much about his birthday. He’s had over five centuries of them.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You turned to look over your shoulder again, watching Azriel laugh as Cassian tells some story, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “That,” Nesta said, “is pure joy.”

“Yeah,” you agreed softly. “It is.”

“Why exactly are you hiding in here with the cookies?” she asks.

Nerves quickly turned in your stomach. “I just—” You what? How the hell could you possibly explain what you were feeling right now? “I don’t want to suffocate him.”

Nesta looked you up and down, her lips turning into a small frown. “Everyone knows there is something between you two.” Your eyes widened, your lips parting, but she didn’t let you speak before she said, “And I promise you, that male wants you in there with him more than anyone else. You wouldn’t be intruding or overstepping, or whatever lies you’ve been telling yourself all night.”

You swallowed hard, once again turning to watch him. He was just…captivating. Everything about him just left you awestruck, his presence alone making you feel warm and giddy. “I think I love him, Nesta,” you admitted softly, your words barely more than a breathy whisper.

She came around to place a hand on your shoulder. “I know,” she said, her voice equally quiet. “I’m fairly certain that love is requited.”

Before tonight you would have denied it. You would have scoffed and told her to fuck right off with planting cruel and fruitless hope in your heart. Azriel had kissed you, though. He came to you, and opened up a little sliver of himself just for you. It could have just been lust, you supposed, but you didn’t think it was. There was too much between the two of you for it to just be…superficial. Even thinking about it made your stomach sour.

“Go on,” Nesta urged. “Go celebrate with him.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, hesitation and nerves still anchoring you to your seat. You nearly sprung right out of it when something brushed against your neck, though, and relief flooded you when you saw a tendril of shadow. Nesta laughed as she walked away to sit back down with her mate. The shadow fled back to Azriel, circling his ear slowly. Azriel turned to face you, his eyes locking with yours from across the house.

You smiled softly, your nerves immediately melting away when he matched your smile. His gaze lingered for a moment, before he slowly dragged his attention back to his conversation with Cassian. Nesta’s words swam around in your head, and with one last deep breath, you pushed yourself from your stool to join the rest of your friends in the living room.

Your approach was slow, and you debated where to go, but you knew you wanted to be near Azriel. You actually wanted to steal him away for yourself, even if just for a moment. You rounded his side, and leaned down to press a kiss to his cheek, his skin soft beneath your lips. His head immediately snapped to you when you pulled away, and you grinned when you watched his face go red.

You sat on the arm of his chair, your frame so small compared to his that you could rest your head on his shoulder if you wanted. You leaned in close again, and his hand rested on your thigh as if to balance you on the chair. “Happy birthday, Az,” you whispered in his ear. “Can you come with me for just a second?”

His hand squeezed your thigh as he looked at you with wide eyes, his nod almost immediate.

“You look a little flushed, Az,” Rhys drawled from the chair across the room.

Cassian’s laugh was near booming as he exclaimed, “Look at him blushing!”

Azriel’s gaze instantly hardened, but there was no hiding the red coating his cheeks and ears. He pulled you up with him as he stood, his hand resting on the small of your back, the weight settling and electrifying all at once. 

“You should see him at training, Rhys,” Cassian went on. “Y/N is my hero. I’ve never seen Az come undone with just a look until she came along.”

You actually had no idea what he was talking about. Sure, you had started making him blush with your little compliments and touches, but…had there been more than that? “Fuck off, Cassian,” Azriel growled as he steered you away from your friends’ prying eyes and ears. He led you outside to the gardens, the moonlight casting a faint glow on everything.

The light made his eyes shimmer, and you smiled softly at the sight. “I’m sorry about them,” Azriel muttered, but you could tell there was some reluctant amusement behind his words.

You grinned softly, placing a light hand on his chest. “It’s fine,” you said. “I’m sorry for pulling you away from them.”

Azriel’s eyes softened, and he brought a hand up to brush your cheek. “I’ve been plotting my escape with you for the last hour.”

You laughed, leaning into his touch. “You can’t be serious.”

“Very.” He grinned, then slowly leaned down to press his lips to yours, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body melted into him, his hold the only thing keeping you upright as he kissed you desperately. Lovingly.

You reluctantly broke away, laughing when he tried to follow after you. “I did actually have something to give you,” you told him.

He leaned back in for another peck, and then another, the two of you smiling against each other. “You are more than enough,” he hummed happily.

Your body flushed at his words, your heart doing somersaults in your chest. It all felt so surreal, but after Nesta’s little talk, after you admitted you loved him, you had decided you needed to show him this. 

You pushed away slightly to reach into your pocket, then paused. “Your real gifts are at the House, but—”

“So that pile of presents was for me,” he said, his grin teasing.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes,” you admitted with a huff, then continued more softly, “But I wanted to show you this.”

Azriel immediately turned more serious at your tone, watching as you pulled the tiny square of fabric from your pocket. You unfolded it for him to reveal the jagged edges, the true size no bigger than your palm. The fabric was as dark as the night sky, the shade blending seamlessly with the shadow that passed over your open palm.

His eyes were wide as they moved from your hand to your face. “What—”

“It’s from your cloak,” you rasped, unexpected emotion clawing at your throat as you looked at it. “From the night you saved us at Cesere.” You bit your lip, hesitating a moment before telling him, “I watched it get caught on a broken column, and I grabbed the strip left behind before Mor winnowed us to Velaris. I don’t know what compelled me to do so, but I’ve carried it with me since.” 

You squeezed the fabric in your palm, your eyes drifting back to Azriel’s, his eyes now shining in the moonlight. “It became my reminder that there is good in this world. That there is always hope, even amid terror and destruction.”

Azriel kissed you, both of his hands coming up to grip your face. It was so brief, but so passionate—so reverent—it left you dazed. His forehead rested against yours, his hands still cradling your face, as he rasped, “I love you.”

Your lip wobbled as his words washed over you. “I love you, too,” you replied, voice watery.

The warm night air stretched on around you, the only light the moon’s shine in a clearing in the trees. Bark dug into your back, making indentations that you were too comfortable to pay any mind to now. A small fire crackled in front of you, one the four of you had used to cook dinner for the evening. The dying embers produced little light, but the glow they gave off made you warm.

The small clearing was just large enough to allow some light in and for a few bodies to sit in a circle, but alone it felt large and expansive. Your gaze wandered to the entrance to the cave your party had scouted out earlier, your position far enough away to give them privacy but close enough to be heard should you alert them.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you settled deeper into the tree, failing to resist exhaustion from overtaking. The day had been mostly one long trek, the party traveling through the mountains, putting miles between you and Velaris. Your shoulders ached where your backpack straps dug in, the weight of your tent too much for the bag.

Tonight was your first time out in the field. Lurking somewhere in the mountains, Rhys had sent the four of you in search of a few rare plants. Using historical records and maps, the plants had last been seen deep in the mountain range that borders Night and Day.

Legend has it that the space between the two courts saw full light - full sunlight during the day, full moonlight in the evening, bestowing interesting medicinal remedies to these plants.

Your eyes were drooping, your training not quite preparing you for the day’s hike. Your breathing began to even out, your body growing comfortable against the tree.

Something sharp poked your side, not breaking through your leathers, but its presence was enough to have your eyes going wide.

“Sleeping on the job?” A voice startled you awake, the knife at your side gone. You instinctively swung an arm out, hoping to catch whoever it was off guard. Instead, a familiar wind grabbed your wrist, holding your arm out to keep from striking their master.

You narrowed your eyes into the darkness, searching for Azriel but coming up empty. Still hidden in the darkness, you targeted your scowl at the dark tendrils holding a tight grip on your arm. They wiggled excitedly up your elbow before dropping you, as if chuckling at the disturbance. They slithered back to their master, hiding in the folds of his wings as he sat against the tree next to you.

You expect him to scold you, your head ducking in preparation for being caught sleeping on watch. Mortification climbed up your throat, squeezing your throat shut, unable to even think of a defense.

“What are you doing out here?” Your eyes widen at the more quizzical tone, his words soft in the night air, as if carried by his shadows.

“I’m taking watch.”

Azriel tilted his head, his eyes darting toward the entrance to the cave the four of you had scoped out earlier.

“Why are you so far from the entrance?” You flushed, not expecting to be questioned, but you should have known this would happen. Azriel isn’t one to let information slip away, even the most mundane of statements have a few follow up questions from him.

“This spot looked comfortable.” The lie fell from your tongue, your boots toeing at the dirt you were sitting on. A shadow peaked out from behind their master, swirling around in the dust you were kicking up, almost as if it were dancing.

“I thought Cassian had first watch.”

Too analytical for his own good, you thought. Why you even bothered lying in the first place, you weren’t sure.

“Okay, spymaster, you caught me. Cassian asked if we could switch watches.”

“Did he say why?”

“Yes.”

He stared at you, waiting, letting the silence envelope you. The Illyrian had a way with pulling information, his silence an open doored confessional.

“It’s Illyrian mating season and he needed time with Nesta,” you mumbled, cheeks heating knowing what they were doing in the cave. Living in the House of Wind let you be privy to a large number of their sexcapades, but you stayed on the opposite end of the house from them and were only subjected to their intensity on rare occasions.

“Illyrian mating season?” Azriel asked, his brows arched in confusion, rising to his feet.

“Yes,” you sighed, annoyed he was making you draw this out for his own amusement. “He said that during the change of the seasons into summer, Illyrians have a mating season to ensure offspring for the next spring and that it gets rather, erm, uncomfortable for a male to go too long without.”

The shadowsinger’s head was bent, his neck craning down just watching you on the forest floor. His gaze was assessing, something lurking just beyond his eyes.

“Did he say what I’d be doing during the season?”

“I didn’t ask, but maybe it only affects mated males?” It came out more as a question. You truthfully hadn’t even considered what a mating season meant for the male before you.

Intelligent, devastatingly beautiful. Azriel would be more hard pressed to find someone who didn’t want to sleep with him than someone who would.

Your stomach churned at the thought of all the fae who would line up for him.

“And if it’s Illyrian mating season, why have us be out here?” His question pulled you out of your jealous stupor, your head shaking slightly willing the thoughts away.

Your cheeks flamed with embarrassment, realization dawning on you with his teasing tone. Cassian had looked so sheepish when he spoke to you about it - you should have seen right through it.

Cassian wasn’t shy about anything.

“That bastard lied to me!”

Azriel’s mouth stretched into a rare smile, beaming down at you in the moonlight. His beauty was quick to dissipate your anger, something closer to gratefulness that you got to witness this moment of time.

He settled next to you, a soft snickering as he stretched his legs out onto the ground. His shadows swam through the ground, streaky dark tendrils moving the grass with their curiosity.

“It’s not my fault Illyrians are secretive and seclude themselves to the north!” You hadn’t thought anything of Cassian’s lie at the time, which was the part that wounded your pride more than anything. Illyrians are a race of mystique and intrigue in the Dawn Court, the several millennia of their absence caused glaring holes in the records of fae diversity. Even when they did live in your native court, they never interacted outside of their own communities.

“You’re better off not knowing.” Azriel huffed, disdain for his kind spilling through every syllable.

“Well, if I had known anything about them, maybe I’d be asleep in the cave now.” You pointed at the cave’s interest, scowling your annoyance at Cassian once more.

“You could go disturb them.”

“No way. I don’t want Cassian’s ass searing itself into my mind.”

Azriel chuckled, his gaze moving to something in the treeline.

The silence stretched on, making room for the lie you had fallen for to come to light. You scoffed before putting your face in your hands, unbelieving that you fell for such a stupid and obvious lie.

Azriel laughed into the fire, his eyes searching for a well-worn memory faded with time.

“We used to share a room. Most of the time, we didn’t care, but occasionally… Cassian loved shy females, ones that would blush madly when he winked at them and duck their heads if he caught their eye.”

You didn’t try to fight the grin from spreading across your face, the image of these two seemingly opposite males occupying the same room. You hadn’t seen the inside of Cassian’s room, but judging by the trail of clothes he leaves through the house after training, you had a decent idea of how messy he was.

Cassian occupied spaces, filling up every inch with his existence, meanwhile Azriel kept traces of his presence down to a minimum.

“One night I had come back to what was our place in a camp. By that point, Rhys’s father, the High Lord, usually had me spread across Prythian, and even the continent, to where I hardly saw my brothers. I came inside and I could smell Cassian down the hall. I was so tired, as long as he let me get to my bed, I didn’t care.

“He stopped me in the hallway, a crazed look on his face, telling me our room was infested with star mites and to protect myself I should sleep on the couch.”

“Star mites? Are those - do I have to worry about them? And what was his reason for staying in the room?”

“No. They’re not real.” Azrie rolled his eyes but a hint of fondness remained. You felt a little pride at now being the one to ask dissecting questions. “And he said it was too late for him and that he’d have to bathe or treat himself.”

“So what did you do?”

“I thought they were real. Or I was too tired to care about his theatrics. Either way, I slept on the couch, not seeing the lie until the morning.”

“Did you do anything in retaliation?”

He grinned something boyish, his features losing some of their years for a moment.

“Rhys’s father sent me to the continent for a six month excursion. The morning I left, Cassian was still asleep in his bed. I may or may not have procured some very real mites and dropped them all over his bed before heading out.”

A laugh burst from your throat, Azriel’s shadows quickly darting around to dampen the noise, to keep it from going too far. Maybe even to collect it and keep it for their master.

You could see it so clearly - Cassian’s terrible bedhead, his loud snores interrupted by Azriel, one of the most feared fae alive, dropped arthropods on top of his brother before scurrying off into the night.

“I may have enchanted my bed before leaving as well, asking a local fae to cast a very thorough protection spell over my belongings.”

So methodical, even for the most ridiculous of tasks. It made your heart race a little, his thoughtfulness one of your favorite traits of his.

Even when it was used for annoying his brothers. Especially then.

“And now he’s somebody’s mate.” Azriel stiffened at your words, quickly releasing the tension in his muscles hoping you didn’t notice.

It was unsuccessful.

“And they're trying for a baby.”

“Are they really?”

Azriel nodded a little solemnly, his arms hugging his knees towards his chest. It made him look small, a boy too worried about such things.

“I wish them luck - Nyx would love a cousin.”

Somewhere a cricket began chirping remind you of the little toddler’s coos. He was a few years old now, nearly tall enough for his head to touch your hip.

Every time you thought of him, you thought of one night where he had been teething, staying up all night for a week straight. Rhys and Feyre were going out of their minds, the High Lady falling asleep during dinner enough for you to suggest, or demand as they saw it, the two fae to retire and for you to watch the babe.

You must have given him everything you could think of to soothe his pain. A finger, a toy, some bread. Eventually Azriel came in, fresh from a mission, and pulled a carrot from the cellar. You only watched as he took the carrot outside and left it on a balcony in the snow before joining you and Nyx for about thirty minutes.

After that half hour, he got up, retrieved the carrot, and offered it to Nyx, who took to it like a starved animal. He chewed and chewed the carrot, making obscene slobbering noises and soft coos.

It was adorable and maddening.

“Do you want a family?” He whispered the question, almost like he was surprised by it slipping from his lips. It hung in the air, the word family sounding foreign, like he was talking about an abstract idea.

It brought you back to the present, to the crisp air, the warm night a comfort.

This night was made for secrets buried deep.

You blew out a breath, surprised at his candidness

“I don’t know. Seems like a lot of responsibility. I can barely take care of myself some days, much less kids.”

He nodded, somewhere not entirely next to you, but in some future that hasn’t coalesced.

“But I think I want someone. Someone who knows how I like my coffee, someone who notices when I don’t come home on time.”

He snapped his eyes to you, listening to your every word with focus and intention. Being beneath his gaze made you feel reassured.

“That sounds nice.”

“What about you?” A few of his shadows rose from the ground, listening and waiting to hear what their master had to say. They created an almost curtain like figure behind him, swaying to block out anything that wasn’t him.

“I’ve always wanted a mate. Someone that the Mother decided would stay with me forever."

“What if your mate wants to stay by you?”

“Hmm?” He hummed, not quite understanding.

“You said that a mate would stay with you because the Mother decided it, but what if they just want to be with you?”

You're not sure you had ever seen him so surprised. His usual mask of stoicism crumbling by your question, a deep crease in his brows wrinkling his forehead.

“What if they wouldn’t want to stay?” He whispered the truth that filled his mind lately. “Would you?”

Something stirred in your chest at his question, feeling almost itchy. A shadow moved closer to you, brushing lightly against your thigh.

You’re not sure if it was the late hour or returning a confession of your own that caused you to speak.

It was a night of honesty, after all.

“Yes - I would.”

It was enough of an answer for Azriel. His shadows swirled a bit at your words before settling calmly on the ground around him, the lone shadow on your thigh curling up into your lap.

Somewhere in the night air, the two of you fell into what some would consider mindless chatter, but you lived for every second of it. Azriel brought small parts of himself into the dying light of the campfire, just enough light for you to see.

Neither of you felt the passing of time until the sky began turning brighter, more light filtering through the trees until eventually the sun was peaking over the horizon. The sight of it made weariness settle into your bones, eyelids suddenly weighing ten times heavier.

Despite the exhausting trudge of the day, despite knowing it would be another day’s hike before you could sleep, not a trace of resentment lurked in your heart. Not even resentment for Cassian who forgot to come change out the watch so you could get some sleep.

The two of you would spend the day teasing Cassian about a ‘mating season’, laughter bouncing off the trees, often scaring off woodland creatures. The next few days went by in a blur of searching thousands of plants with no success. The trek home was uneventful, at least that’s how they’d describe it to Rhysand.

‘Uneventful’ did not cover how your heart sped up every time you looked at Azriel or how the momentary brush of his side against yours made your skin burn for hours. How he stayed close to you almost every moment since your late night talk.

When you finally reached your bed, legs still damp from the bath but too tired to care, the memories of the night began playing over again. Every laugh and smile you pulled from Azriel analyzed as your eyes became heavy.

You didn’t mind the loss of sleep too much. Not when you dragged yourself out of bed hours later, muscles aching with each step down the stairs. Every movement begged you to turn around, crawl back into bed for the day.

You had just made it to the landing, ready to search the cupboards for any pastries Elain may have left behind, when the scent of coffee stopped you.

In the middle of the kitchen island sat a nightberry scone, sitting right next to a paper cup of coffee, your name scrawled in neat, familiar handwriting along the sleeve.

Your nose twitched with the familiar scent of cedar and night-chilled air, the cup still warm in your hand. Taking a sip, you couldn’t help but look for any shadows in the corners of the room, trying to give them the response they needed.

One tendril broke free from behind the door, pausing before you. You held out the cup in a salute, the perfectly made coffee just how you liked it.

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You were running expeditiously behind. This was a disaster of inconceivable proportions. 

Your hair refused to cooperate, the tangled strands threatening to snap the comb you dragged through them. You hadn’t even done your makeup yet. And your dress—Mother above, where was your dress? Your scattered mind wandered to the blue silk garment, a gorgeous piece Azriel had presented to you on your birthday a few months ago.

In merely an hour, Azriel would be picking you up for dinner with his family. His royal family. He always told you not to think of it that way, a sentiment you always returned with an exasperated look.

Your mating bond had snapped upon your first meeting, when he wandered into your apothecary for a dose of headache powder. He’d stared at you with wide, shocked eyes—and you had matched his look with one of wonder and fear. The revered Shadowsinger of the Night Court. He had been nothing but legend to you.

At your insistence, the two of you had gotten to know each other in privacy. Over the months, he’d become your best friend, your confidant, your lover.  

And tonight, you would dine with his family. The General. Lady Death. The High Lord and Lady. 

It might have been tolerable—if you could just find your dress. And tame your crazy hair.

“Running behind, are we?”

You jolted in your vanity seat at the sound of his silken voice. 

As you turned, he was leaning against your bedroom door, cool, sleek confidence wafting off him. He winced in apology.

“Sorry, love. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re early, Az,” you said, turning again to look in the vanity mirror. “And don’t look at me. I’m not ready.”

“I love looking at you.” He stepped toward you, his voice soft. “I wanted to spend some time with you before we left.”

He reached you in two long strides, the heat of him pressing gently against your back. You groaned, leaning your head back against his chest.

“I’m spiraling.”

“I had a feeling,” he murmured, voice low, shadows curling softly at your feet like affectionate cats. “That’s why I came early.”

You glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He looked devastatingly calm in his tailored black shirt, his hair still damp from a shower, a shadow twining itself lazily around his shoulder like it had missed you, too.

You scowled, turning to face him. “My hair hates me. I lost the dress you got me. And I haven’t done my makeup. Or boxed up the cake I made.”

He gave a half-smile. “Your hair looks beautiful wild. The shadows will find the dress.”

As if on cue, the shadows darted out from behind him.

“And I can pack the cake,” he added. “Now take a breath. And hand me that comb.”

He took the comb from your hand, motioning for you to turn. You faced the mirror again, exhaling shakily as his fingers began gently tugging through the strands.

And he was careful. Gods, careful. More delicate than a male of his size had any right to be. His scarred fingers worked as though each tangle was a threat he could conquer. Patient. Attentive. Warm.

“My shadows think you look beautiful as you are,” he said absently as he twisted a piece into place.

“I look like I stuck my head in a fireplace.”

“They like the chaos.”

“I’m nervous,” you whispered, finally admitting it. “They’re your family. And what if I—what if I embarrass you? What if they don’t like me?”

Azriel’s face changed at that. Not anger, not exasperation—just… pain. Gentle, quiet pain, as though it wounded him that you could ever doubt your place.

He turned you toward him then, large hands bracketing your arms, his grip careful.

“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said. “My family will love you as I love you. No less.”

You swallowed hard.

His voice softened. “And still, you are not there to impress them. You are there because you are the person I love. That’s it. That’s everything.”

When he bent forward to rest his forehead against yours, you let yourself lean in.

“I still want to look nice,” you mumbled, because you were stubborn like that. “I can’t have your family thinking that the Mother cursed you with an unkempt mate.”

Azriel chuckled as he turned you around again to continue with your hair. The deep sound reverberated through you, warming you from the inside out.

“Nonsense.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed.

“There,” he said, putting the finishing touches on a simple braid. “Your mate is a lucky male.”

You looked up at him, love and exasperation tangled in your chest.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m truthful,” he replied, brushing a kiss to your temple.

A shadow brushed his ear lightly, and he turned to the wardrobe, quickly pulling out the sleek blue dress. He laid it softly on the bed before returning to you.

He pressed a final kiss to your hair.

“Finish getting ready, angel. I’ll pack up the cake.”

Somehow, things didn’t feel quite so catastrophic anymore.

~~

Hey guys!

You sit in front of Rhysand, legs elegantly crossed in front of you, notebook open as Azriel paces the office, rambling details and updates his spies from Spring provided.

You used to think it would hurt to hear someone talk so negatively about where you grew up. You used to love everything about Spring, about your ability to heal and revive, you felt like you fit perfectly. You were shown quickly that wasn't the case, no use for your powers in a place where so many others had the same.

The Night Court provides you with purpose, even if 90% of your job is cataloguing information and acting more of an assistant than a true member of the Inner Circle. But you took the opportunity, especially as you didn't have any other options.

"We're talking about a potential biological weapon here, Rhys. With Tamlin out-of-action, rebels can operate unchecked." Azriel finally takes the seat next to you, leaning forward on his elbows across the desk.

"I'm well aware of what this means. It would be ideal if we could collect a sample." Rhys folds his hands over his mouth.

"I can't get a precise location, they're too deep in the woods. I'm not sending anyone out with such unfamiliar terrain."

You feel the thought bubble up in your chest before you brain catches up. "I could go."

"No," Azriel stares at you.

"Rhys, I grew up in those woods. I know exactly what species of plant you're after. I can find them if you give me the chance."

You've always been filled with a need to prove yourself. Everyone around you seems to be slightly smarter, slightly more talented, slightly stronger. You can never catch up. Whether you're proving your capability to your boss or yourself, you're never sure.

"Respectfully," Azriel speaks carefully. You hate when people start a sentence like that. It's belittling. "You haven't been there without the protection of an active High Lord. There are many species of faeries you never would have encountered while Tamlin patrolled his lands."

"Please, we studied all of this in school. I may not have physically encountered them but I sure as hell know how to handle them." You set your notebook down. "Rhys, I can do this. I can be in and out in less than a day, I'll keep myself out of trouble."

"Your knowledge is certainly valuable for this," Rhys drawls.

"You're not seriously considering this?" Azriel stands again. "She's not even been trained yet!"

"I fit right in with the locals, the rebels won't even be able to detect where my alliance lies." And it's true, Azriel knows it. You are a Spring-born faerie, much easier to blend in than a Shadowsinger with Illyrian wings clammoring about.

"She's our best option, Az. You'll winnow her to the border tomorrow morning and bring her back once the plant has been collected."

"I won't let you down." You hide your triumphant smile.

"Az isn't wrong either," Rhys gives you a pointed glare. "Keep to yourself, talk to no one unless you absolutely must. I'll keep my mind open for communication, first sign of trouble and you let me know."

"Absolutely," you nod.

Azriel says nothing as he storms out of the room. You collect your notepad and follow him out.

🦇🪻🦇

The next morning, Azriel is silent as you stand next to him on the balcony.

"Good morning," you greet cheerfully, not expecting him to respond.

He doesn't. He grabs your arm tightly and winnows.

Spring smells the same way you remember. It hasn't been very long since you left, but sometimes the scent will sneak into your more nostalgic dreams. You waste no time in crossing the border, leaving Azriel to brood by himself.

The woods shine charmingly around you, morning sunlight creeping through the leaves. Birds sing from the treetops, waking their furry friends on the forest floor.

You savor it for just a moment, closing your eyes. Suddenly, you're nine again, not a care in the world other than spending every single second soaking up the sun. Even in Velaris, spring is your favorite season.

After several hours of hiking alongside a glittering stream, you finally come upon a clearing. A field of beautiful purple flowers bloom. They look almost as if they're glowing and a strange haze settles around them.

You're in awe for a moment, seeing these rarities in person. They can be brewed into a tasteless, odorless, colorless tea and have varying effects on the consumer from hallucinations to death depending on the species and dosage.

There were stories you were told growing up of stupid teenagers hunting for these plants to achieve some kind of trip. Many were led to a quick death, others driven to insanity.

You pull a piece of fabric from your pocket and tie it securely over your nose and mouth. Even inhalation of the pollen can cause phantom sensations.

You carefully kneel on the edge of the clearing and begin to collect the plants, digging out the roots so they can be salvaged back in the Night Court.

With the flowers carefully tucked away, you make the journey back. You become somewhat aware of strange noises around you. Not completely out of the ordinary for the woods, certainly not this far out. The stream drowns out the soft footsteps following you.

Suddenly, you're pushed to the ground, a rock slicing into your cheek. You turn to see your attacker and find someone completely covered in random fabrics, only their eyes are visible.

You kick a leg up to throw them off balance, trying to stand, but they dodge and step on your other ankle. A sickening crack sounds through the air and your vision blurs.

The assailant reaches for your jacket, where the flowers are stowed, and you roll out of the way.

They pull out a knife and point it at your throat. "Sorry, can't let you take those."

"I'm just filling my stash at home," you lie easily. The pain from your ankle is starting to take up most of your headspace.

"I know you work for another court. I followed you this morning."

You mentally kick yourself for not noticing.

"Let's be realistic. You're clearly from the Spring Court, right?"

You nod.

"You must be lesser fae if you didn't hear me all day. What are they paying you to do their bidding?" The assailant pulls the fabric down from their mouth, breathing hard.

You take the opportunity to scramble out from under the knife, standing and taking a defensive stance. They can easily outrun you like this.

"Wouldn't you like to be able to live like high fae? Have the same positions they do instead of just carrying out their bidding?"

"I am treated as an equal. It's the Spring Court that's behind in that department." You try to buy yourself time as you slip your hand into the pocket with the flowers, grabbing one tight, crushing the petals in the process.

The assailant steps closer, knife at the ready. "We're not true equals anywhere."

You throw the crushed petals into the attacker's face. With their mask pulled down, they immediately breathe in the pollen.

They step back, stunned. They look around wildly, the effects of the flower already kicking in.

You try your best to hop-run further along the stream, keeping within the treeline. The sun is already beginning to set.

You pause, looking at the crushed remnants of the plant on your palm. You glance around to make sure the coast is actually clear before stepping out of the treeline and submerging your hand in the water.

You try to summon your magic, but whether from accidentally breathing in the petals when you threw them or tiredness, your magic refuses to listen.

Once your hand is clean, you continue on your back, the pain in your ankle growing with every passing in minute. But your best chance of getting help is reaching Azriel.

You figure you had to have been at least halfway back by the time you were attacked. You wouldn't make it back by dusk, but hopefully not too long after.

You slowly drag your hurt foot along, placing your weight on the other leg as much as you can. You keep telling yourself just a bit farther, just a few more steps as your vision begins to darken in the corners.

Finally, you can't carry on anymore, tears streaming down your face, stinging the cut you forgot about. Your ankle pulses as you fight off wave after wave of nausea.

You collapse against the base of a large tree. You know you're far too vulnerable sitting here like a waiting duck, but unless you plan to crawl in the dark, the tree at least offers some cover.

The sun fully settles into the horizon, leaving you in only the dim moonlight. Without the sun's warmth, your breath begins to frost in front of you as you shiver. The cold somewhat numbs the pain in your ankle though, for which you are grateful.

You fight to keep your eyes open. With the pain not as intense, exhaustion hits you like a brick. Coupled with your determination and adrenaline disappearing, sleep calls to you.

Something tickles along your arm. You jerk away, pulling yourself backward along the ground when you don't see anything. Awareness finally starts to kick back in and you hear heavy footsteps nearing you.

You try to pull yourself behind a bush, keeping your breathing as quiet as possible.

The footsteps grow louder and you peek through the leaves. You see the moonlit outline of Illyrian wings and almost cry with relief.

You brace yourself against a tree trunk as you pull yourself to stand. Azriel's shadows reach out to you, encircling your ankle immediately.

"Gods damnit, what happened?" Azriel rushes to support you as you stumble.

"Unexpected company." You give him a tight smile.

He says nothing as he slides his arm under your shoulders and winnows.

🦇🪻🦇

Rhys sits, looking rather disheveled, at his desk. Feyre walks around the room, trying to bounce Nyx to sleep.

"You were due back hours ago." Rhys sighs.

You push away from Azriel, careful to make it look like you're completely fine. You pull out the flowers and lay them on the table.

You choose to ignore Rhys's comment. "This should be enough to start a small crop, if you want."

"What happened to your face?"

"Tripped and fell." You focus on your balance and try to ignore the way your ankle screams.

"Azriel, what happened?"

Azriel, half hiding in his shadows, shrugs.

"I'm fine. I brought the samples. I just need to sleep it off," your voice starts to rise, startling Nyx. You clear your throat and take a breath. "I'm going to clean up."

You don't wait to be dismissed like you usually do. You turn on your good foot and walk normally, albeit agonizingly, out of the office.

Of course, Azriel follows you. You feel his presence.

"You need to see a healer," he mutters.

"I am a healer. I'm fine."

"Your ankle is broken."

"No shit. I can handle it." You use the wall as support as you try and distance yourself from him.

He doesn't leave you alone. "You used the flowers, didn't you."

Not a question. So you nod. "A rebel tried to interfere, I did what I had to do."

"You can't go to sleep with it like that. It'll heal wrong."

"I know that, Azriel. If you're going to insist on walking with me, then help me."

A guilty look crosses his face for a moment. You hold up an arm, expecting him to support you, when he picks you up instead.

"Azriel!"

"You told me to help. I'm helping."

You could slap him.

He takes a turn to the left. "Where are you taking me?"

He doesn't respond, doesn't say anything until he opens the door to his own room. He sets you down on his bed.

"Azriel, what are you doing? I'm covered in dirt, why-"

He cuts you off by kneeling in front of your ankle, now swollen and bruised.

You blink. "Hey-"

You scream as he suddenly reaches out and sets the bone without warning.

"Cauldron, Azriel, what the hell!"

"I'm helping."

"I only meant help me to my room!" You're sweating from the pain now. You hear the bath magically start running in the next room.

Without another word, Azriel picks you up and carries you to the bathroom.

"I can move on my own."

He begins removing the outer layer of your clothes, shutting you up. You don't kick back into action until your pants are on the floor and Azriel is carefully maneuvering them around to not touch your ankle.

"I got it." You lightly smack his hand away. He wants to play this game? You can play, too. You start unclipping your bra and Azriel hastily turns around.

You're not sure why you're so compliant with him. It's probably the flower. Probably.

You sink yourself into the tub, feeling the dirt and sweat begin to pleasantly melt away. When you stop moving, fully submerged, Azriel looks at you again.

His eyes are glued to the cut on your face. He grabs a washcloth and wets it, gently wiping away the dried blood. The closeness takes your breath away.

"it's okay not to do everything yourself, you know," he gently guides your head down to the water and begins washing it.

"what's that supposed to mean?" But all the fight from your tone is gone. "Why do you care what happens to me? You don't want me to be a part of this team, anyway."

"I don't want you to be a part of it because I don't want you to get hurt. Exactly like you did." He massages shampoo through your hair and you feel your body relaxing. "And for the record, I care a lot."

I'm beginning to see that. You don't say anything for a few moments, letting this new reality sink in.

"I guess I'm always trying to prove that I deserve to be here," you start softly. "I want to show people what I'm capable of."

"I know you're capable of doing whatever you want. Doesn't mean you need to go running into needless danger to prove it." He begins running the washcloth over your body, not lingering on any spot too long. Just focused on the task at hand.

"Thank you," you say, finally meeting his eyes. "For coming to get me and . . . everything."

"Of course, Angel." A small smile creeps across his face. Your heart does something funny at the word, but you're not ready to unpack that yet.

You weren't sure if it was because of the countless romance novels you devoured by moonlight, or because your mind tended to idealize every little detail that your daily life lacked, but from the moment Azriel set foot in your court, you were pretty sure that feeling in your stomach was love.

He was so beautiful, the kind of beauty that was almost painful to admire, like the marble statues that decorated the hallways of your house. His sharp features and almost dark aura drew you in like a ship drawn to a lighthouse, and the small, endearing shadows that always hovered around him were as hypnotic as they were charming.

He never spoke much, not to anyone, and certainly not to you. Most days, you got a half-smile from him, and you were pretty sure he found you annoying every time you started talking and didn't stop. But it didn't matter, because you could carry the conversation for both of you, as long as it allowed you to be closer to him, even if it was for only a second.

"Am I boring you?" You asked him one day, after you'd been passionately talking for almost an hour about the incredibly tedious classes you'd had the previous week. The shadowsinger hadn't uttered a word during your ridiculously long speech, though his gaze remained fixed on you. Always on you. He quickly shook his head. "No. No. I'm just listening." And then, as if sensing the doubt in your eyes, he added quietly, "Your stories always entertain me. Please, continue" The compliment had affected you far more than it should have. Something you tried to hide with even more words and your endless chatter.

And who were you to refuse him? On other rare occasions, he was the one who shared stories with you. Small fragments of his life, like his awful family or the origin of the wounds on his hands, which only made you love him more, something you had deemed impossible. He spoke timidly, as if simply speaking about himself were taking up too much space. And whenever he did, you remained silent, listening to him as attentively as he seemed to listen to you.

Being with him felt like free-falling, and it always left a sweet taste in your mouth.

The seasons kept passing, the trees kept growing, and you counted the days until Rhysand would return with him by his side. It was somewhat embarrassing, the way his presence had such a strong hold over you, the obvious way you looked at him as if the answers to all your troubles lay in his arms.

You were convinced he knew it, that everyone did, because without realizing it, you found yourself mesmerized, staring at him even when all he did was stand there motionless.

Cassian, funny, shameless Cassian, said one day, without an ounce of hesitation:

"Tamlin, can you tell your sister to stop drooling over my brother?"

He and Rhys laughed, and your brother rolled his eyes at their antics.

Flowers bloomed across your body as if trying to hide you from the humiliating moment. But even then, your gaze didn't leave him. The shadowsinger didn't react, but you thought you saw a soft blush on his ears.

For the Mother, he was perfect.

Whenever you trained, and he was present, you made sure to push yourself harder, trying to impress him even though your form was, at best, mediocre. And when you fell harder than usual and struggled to get up, he was always there, extending his scarred hand.

"Let me." His words were clipped, lacking any outward affection.

He always seemed surprised when you touched his bare hands as if it were nothing.

And so you continued like that for a century, watching and hoping for a moment that you didn't know if it would ever come.

But then the world you knew tilted, and everything changed. From one day to the next, and without knowing why, because no one in that house ever told you anything, they stopped coming so suddenly it almost felt like a dream. A cruel and devastating dream. The death of your mother, the only one who, along with Tamlin, gave you space in the family and didn't treat you as if it were a duty. The arrival of Rhysand's father, the blood, the wound in your side that threatened to take your life, and that robbed you of the normality you had known until then. Your father's funeral, which stirred as many conflicting feelings within you as the man had stirred in life. When you were finally able to get up again after months in bed because of the wound, you had tears in your eyes and a feeling of emptiness that almost made you fall apart completely.

Tamlin never spoke to you clearly about what had happened. He didn't explain the true sequence of events and became even more secretive than before. So you drew your own conclusions and decided the Night Court must be responsible. Your brother never corrected you. And you understood, then, the phrase you had always read and heard throughout your life: that there's only a thin line between love and hate. Because where there had once been an entire garden, every time you thought of those hazel eyes and that impossibly black hair, there was only a barren field filled with ashes. Had he laughed at you and your humiliating crush? Every time you spoke about your life, your difficult relationship with the court, your monotonous classes just to be another ornament of the court, was he thinking about how to betray you? Had he enjoyed watching your family fall from grace? You didn't know, and you wouldn't know for many more years. Until the curse arrived and the mask adhered to your face.

2.

If you thought living with your father meant living in shackles, you had no idea how much worse it would get once the curse descended upon the court.

Where before you barely left the court, only on those occasions when the entire family had to attend some diplomatic dinner, now you never left your home. It was almost as though your whole world—your reality— had been reduced to those stone walls, covered in vines and the constant scent of lilies. The beauty of nature had never felt so suffocating as it did then. Not even books or Lucien's stories could console you anymore. That incessant flame you'd had since childhood, the one that had made you fight for your right to move wherever you wanted, dimmed a little more each time you argued with your brother. "I want you safe." He would say with some kind of finality after every argument. Safe. What an insulting, insignificant word. No matter how much you shouted at him, you could never convince him. Because Rhysand was no longer there to soften him, because, even though Lucien agreed with you, he never spoke in your favor, as if getting angry with your brother was far more terrifying than the reality you were all living now.

And because Tamlin had learned that the world was dangerous, and losing each other was a risk neither of you was willing to take. So you kept quiet. You stopped fighting with your brother. You forced yourself to keep the peace with him, even though you knew he wasn't telling you the whole truth about the curse, and even though it meant giving up a fundamental part of yourself that would always yearn for freedom. You were convinced that you would spend the rest of your days in this cursed court. Until Feyre Archeron arrived, and that flame of hope not only ignited, but swept away all conformity within you.

At first, Tamlin prohibited you from seeing her, arguing that she was dangerous and that "don't worry, Lucien and I have it handled." You found it funny, in a way: how bad Tamlin was at lying, and how, apparently, a mere human posed such a threat to him, even though they had always been considered weaker beings compared to your kind.

And Cauldron, the Mother would surely damn you if she ever heard your thoughts. Because what a horrible person you must be if the death of a fae, the brute your brother considered a friend and one of your most loyal guards, didn't bring you any sorrow, but, instead, an excuse to entertain your days with a new mystery.

The first time you saw her, you were behind a column, hidden from prying eyes and most of all, from your brother's. She had been beside Lucien, shackled and with her head bowed down as if her fate had already been written. She was a fragile thing, you noticed, so thin and deprived of basic food that you feared that the winds would blow her away. But in her blue eyes shone some determination that you had rarely seen in the last decades.

You didn't speak to her until a week later.

After confirming that both Lucien and Tamlin were asleep, you went out at night with the stubbornness of a woman on a mission. The light beneath her room shone in the darkness of the hallway. In your hands was a bowl full of dinner stew, leftovers you'd found in the kitchen and knew she hadn't eaten after overhearing your brother mention it.

When you knocked on the door, the little noise that could be heard behind it ceased instantly, and you knew almost immediately she was pretending to be asleep. But it didn't deter you in the least, and you knocked again, louder, until soft footsteps approached.

Your hands were slightly shaking with the forgotten excitement and giddiness that came with breaking rules.

The door opened only a crack, and the human— Feyre— you corrected yourself in your mind, studied you with suspicion written all over her face.

Admittedly, you hadn't planned so far ahead and, for a moment, you didn't know what to say.

However, you quickly gathered yourself and squared your shoulders.

"Hi!" Your voice came out more high-pitched than you wanted. Squeaky, even.

Feyre only arched her eyebrows.

You passed your weight from one foot to another, gripping the plate tightly, and cleared your throat.

You told her your name, and she blinked as if it didn't mean anything to her.

"Tamlin's sister. The…the princess of the court. " The last phrase came out more like a question.

A moment passed, and after a second, Feyre opened the door more. You could now see she was wearing a thin sleeping gown, and you felt a tinge of embarrassment at the clear intrusion that you were committing.

"He hasn't spoken about you. At all."

You let out a strained laugh, hiding the hurt that her words wrung.

"Yeah, I feared as much."

Silence fell again, somehow more awkward than the last. You looked at the plate, a thin veil of smoke coming from it, and then at her.

"I know it's late, and you must be exhausted after this horrible week. But I wanted to present myself since my dear brother refuses to do so. And," you extended your hands, putting the plate in front of her almost aggressively. "I thought you must be hungry, considering you haven't eaten at all. It tastes better than it looks, I promise."

It seemed as though you had forgotten every lesson of diplomacy and social skills that you had. But you couldn't find it in yourself to care because you were so desperate to connect with someone new.

"So…may I enter?"

She didn't answer. Again. You were sure she was going to close the door in your face. But then, almost reluctantly, she opened the door completely and stepped aside to let you pass with a barely perceptible nod.

You glanced down the hallway, making sure no one was around, and stepped inside before she could think twice.

You placed your plate on one of the cabinets and looked around as she closed the door again.

"You are lucky. This is one of the most beautiful rooms in the entire castle."

She chuckled, but the sound lacked any warmth.

"I don't know if 'lucky' is the word I'd use right now, princess."

Your whole back tensed.

"No. Yeah. Of course. I just meant..." You chuckled slightly. "I don't really know what I meant. Sorry."

Feyre pressed herself against the door and stared at it as if she regretted letting you in. You did the only thing you could think of to break the tension that had settled between you: keep chatting.

"So!...you are human."

You couldn't tell if it was your tone or the way you said it, but Feyre crossed her arms.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Cauldron, this was going terribly wrong. You really had forgotten how to interact with another living person, hadn't you?

"It's just that I've never seen one of your kind before, and I'm just...I don't know, excited." You scratched the back of your neck. "You come from the human lands, right? All this must seem very strange to you. New, even."

That seemed to relax her, though only a little.

She just nodded.

"And what are they like? The human lands, I mean. Are they as boring as they're murmured around here?"

That seemed to elicit a reaction from her, because Feyre uncrossed her arms and studied you with a kind of challenge in her eyes.

"And what do they say about it?"

And so you talked. You told her that here, in Prythia, the human lands were considered a boring place, devoid of any magic. That it was nothing but poverty and death. And she corrected you, as if insulted, and told you about her village. Her small house and the incredible forests that surrounded it. About the strange culture of her people, and how, even though life might be short and less magical than yours, they still found ways to celebrate it as if it were the greatest gift they had ever received.

You listened to her almost hypnotically, your eyes wide with wonder.

Then she told you about her sisters, her deceased mother, her absent father, and the complicated relationship she had with all of them. About the cold, the hunger, how she had killed a wolf that turned out to be a fae. And you realized, almost with shame, that there were far more horrible fates than being locked in your gilded cage.

Apparently, loneliness had been a familiar feeling throughout her life, just as it had been for you, and you found a warm calm in finding someone who understood you. An understanding that you had only been able to achieve before with a single person who was already in the past.

You told her about the Court, how much you loved Tamlin, and how lately he felt more like a stranger than a brother. How you longed to shed this mask that never left you, and how you wanted to see the whole world that unfolded behind these walls. How, more often than not, you felt the title of princess was too big for what you did, and how you often thought you were an imposter.

You talked so much and for so long that, without even noticing, the sun had risen through the windowpane and your throats were dry. Feyre had even eaten the stew you had brought her without you having to say a word.

And that's how you became friends with that strange human who would soon become the infamous curse-breaker of Prythia.

3.

Feyre slipped into your routine almost imperceptibly, as if she had always been a part of your lives.

You didn't know if it was because of your conversation that night, or because you suspected your brother was more smitten with her than he cared to admit, but shortly after the first week, Feyre started having dinner with you, began trusting your fractured family more, and suddenly laughter and smiles had become a part of your days.

"If you think he has long hair now, Feyre, it's because you didn't see him when he was younger. He was obsessed with it. I'm sure he owned more hair products than my mother and me combined. And once, he didn't speak to me for an entire day—an entire day, Feyre!—because I broke one of his ridiculous tonics." You exclaimed, gesturing widely, one night after dinner.

The empty plates, still stained and covered in crumbs, were scattered across the table. Lucien, Feyre, Tamlin, and you found yourselves on your third glass (or was it the fourth?) of wine, but even though it was getting late, none of you seemed inclined to leave the table anytime soon.

Feyre snickered behind her hand, and Tamlin glared at you from his seat. But it lacked any real bite, not with the small grin pulling at his mouth.

"You're embarrassing me in front of our guest, sister."

You arched your eyebrows, relaxing into your chair. You felt full, but not only from the indecent amounts of food you had consumed, but because of a quiet sense of warmth in your chest.

"Oh? Am I lying? I just think Feyre should know what she's getting into before it's too late."

Feyre looked down. A soft blush crept across her cheeks.

"She's not wrong, Tam," added Lucien, who was watching the scene unfold with a gleam in his eyes. "I always thought you'd be capable of selling us out for your hair."

Tamlin groaned, putting his face in his hands. "Not you too."

"I mean..." mused Feyre. "He does have great hair."

Both she and Tamlin shared a quiet smile from their respective seats. And the sight was so intimate that you felt you were intruding on a moment that didn't belong to you. Lucien gave you a funny look, as if he were thinking the same thing.

"You want to play this game? Fine," said Tamlin with mock offense.

You whipped your head toward him, so fast that you felt a slight pain in your neck. "Don't you dare..."

But your brother ignored the threat and pointed a finger at you.

"This girl right here? With her powers and her flowers?" he asked, looking at Feyre, and she nodded, moving a little closer to the table. "Well, when she was little, she was scary. Once, she got so angry with our father that her whole room was covered in thorny vines. She couldn't sleep in it for a week."