May

Trapped in the Dark - Azriel x Reader

Azriel finds his mate in a prison under Hewn City

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4 - Cerin POV (can totally be skipped and things will still make sense)

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7- coming soon

The Aftermath - Azriel x Reader

Azriel's mate returns from under the mountain but he's oblivious of their connection

Part 1 - writing this upset me enough that I might have to make it a series

Discoball - Azriel x Reader

Azriel bumps into his tipsy mate on a night out. The IC don't know she exists

On one hand, Azriel is a warrior. Buuuuuut, he's fighting with someone that can literally move his skeleton.

And................ he's not exactly winning so far, is he?

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel winnows you back to Hewn City for the start of the rescue mission

T/W: torture, abuse, angst

A/N: I've rewritten this a billion times and there's probably still typos....

Part 5 in case you missed it

Reader POV – 

"What makes you think I would trust you enough to go back to Hewn City with you in tow?" You ask Azriel. 

He leans back in his chair; his posture is deceptively relaxed as he lifts his eyes to meet your own. 

"I don't trust you either if that helps your confidence at all." Azriel murmurs dryly, like he’s letting a sliver of humour slip through the cracks. His mouth quirks slightly like he’s trying to hold back a smirk. 

Despite yourself, you laugh. There’s no real attempt at provocation in his words, but the blunt admission feels too sassy to ignore.  

"Do you want me to come with you?" Mor asks. 

You sigh before you respond, "To be perfectly honest I don't want anyone to come with me. If someone has to tag along, I'll take the shadowsinger.” 

Mor arches a brow but says nothing. Azriel only watches you with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

You cross your arms. “Why help me at all?” you ask, narrowing your eyes. 

“People don’t do favours in Prythian out of the goodness of their hearts. Especially not your court.”  Your gaze flicks between him and Mor as you ask, “so, what exactly do you want in return?”

Azriel’s shadows curl over his shoulders like living smoke. “You assume this is transactional.”

“Isn’t it?” you shoot back. "You’ve spent hours asking pointless questions. I’ll admit the drugs made me more talkative than I would’ve been otherwise, but I still haven’t told you much.”

“If I haven't made it clear then I apologise. I do not care about the answers my family are trying to get from you." He says simply. 

Rhysand lets out a soft, unimpressed hum. 

“Careful, Az." Feyre says softly.

Azriel doesn’t so much as glance in their direction. 

“You want to go to Hewn City.” he says, eyes fixed on you instead. Shadows coil lazily around his shoulders before tightening, like they’re pulling at him. “And my shadows have been dragging me in that direction all day. It makes sense to go.”

"It makes more sense not to go and instead to get answers out of the girl." Amren says.

“She could stay here.” Cassian chips in.  

Your jaw tightens immediately. “I’m not staying.”

Darkness swallows the room before anyone can say another word. Cold night air slams into you as shadows curl around your body, steadying you through the violent pull of winnowing. Stone appears beneath your boots a heartbeat later.

You rip your arm from Azriel’s grasp. “What the hell was that?” Behind you, the entrance to Hewn City looms like the mouth of some great beast carved into stone.

Azriel’s shadows ripple around him, strangely calm now that you’re here. “They would’ve kept arguing if we stayed.” he says simply.

“And your solution was kidnapping me?” You retort. 

A flicker of something almost amused crosses his face. “You were already planning to come.”

“That does not mean I wanted to be dragged here by you. I already said I don't trust you." You state simply. 

Azriel goes still, in that quiet, immediate way he does when something matters more than the surface conversation suggests, like he’s just registered something beneath your words that doesn’t belong there. Something about the idea that you’re used to decisions being made for you, rather than with you.

*

You stomp into Hewn City angry and ready to end this fight. Azriel lands next to you a heartbeat later. He doesn’t speak. He just takes in the space, the angles, the exits, and then you.

“You’re fast.” you mutter, already moving quickly down a corridor. 

“You’re reckless!" he returns immediately, falling into step beside you. No judgment. Just the truth.

"We should split up." You state not wanting to explain why. 

"Is that a smart idea if your husband is up ahead?" Azriel asks as his shadow slip onwards, mapping the corridor ahead of you both.

"He already knows I'm here. He would've felt the minute I entered Hewn." You say not explaining how. You can't find it using borrowed magic from healers, but you know it's there - a small sliver of his magic, threaded into the architecture of you bones where healing has never quite reached. You feel it stir awake when you're in close enough proximity to him. It isn’t pain, more like a shift in pressure. Every step you take reverberates through that hidden imprint; it's like a living signal he can follow without any effort. 

He doesn’t push you for information this time. He’s family has asked you enough. 

You stop so abruptly Azriel nearly collides into you. He halts instantly instead, instincts snapping him into place a fraction of a second before impact.

"What's wrong?" He whispers eyes searching your face as he thinks of a million different reasons why you might’ve stopped. 

You hesitate, jaw tightening as you try to find the right way to say it. "I feel like I need to warn you about him." You say quietly. The words feel heavier than they should. 

“He can…” You stop for a second trying to think of how to say it. "He can move you." you force out, eyes unfocusing as the memory tries to surface whether you want it or not. The words sound ridiculous spoken aloud. It sounds impossible… At least you used to think it was. 

"Not your body." Your mouth feels dry. "You."

Azriel's brow furrows.

"Your shoulder; your jaw; your spine. He just decides they belong somewhere else." The memory rises anyway. The feeling of your own skeleton resisting you. The sound of your own scream echoing off stone. 

A tremor runs through your hands.

"And eventually..." You look away. "You can't remember what it felt like to be in control." Your voice wavers despite your effort to keep it steady, and you hate that it does.

For a moment, Azriel doesn’t respond at all because he pieces together not just what you said, but what it implies. The familiarity in your fear.

“You’re afraid of him.” Azriel says quietly. 

The statement lands with uncomfortable precision. You avert your gaze as if that will shield him from reading the truth written plainly across your face.

A cold sensation crawls up your spine. The hidden thread of magic woven through your bones shifts as it awakens. 

Your stomach drops as your husband steps from the darkness. 

"I was beginning to think you'd finally died." his eyes flit over your body slow and deliberate, like a predator watching prey before going in for the kill.

"Do you know how disappointing that would've been?" He smiles at you like the thought genuinely saddens him. 

Every instinct in your body screams. RUN.

"You always were stubborn about seeing things through." You answer flatly.

His smile widens with genuine amusement before he responds. "There's the sense of humour I remember."

Behind you, Azriel shifts slightly, it’s a nearly imperceptible adjustment to position himself between you and the male without fully stepping in front of you.

Your husband notices and his attention drifts to Azriel instantly. "Ah." The single syllable carries a surprising amount of disappointment. "Another shadowsinger." Something cold settles in your chest as his smile grows. 

He isn't looking at Azriel like an enemy. 

He's looking at him like a puzzle he can figure out. 

To Azriel this feels less like meeting a stranger and more like staring into the ghost of the male who raised him. He doesn't attempt any pleasantries with the male, his shadows simply explode outward, flooding the corridor in a violent surge. They snap for your husband’s throat, wrists, and knees, aiming to strip away every means of leverage before the fight even begins.

You feel the air hum before the shadows can land. Your husband tilts his head slightly - almost curious and then Azriel stumbles mid-step and you realise he’s already testing him.

His momentum stutters as though something unseen has reached into him and decided his body is misaligned with itself. Azriel forces through it anyway, he has to. For you. And for the other Shadowsinger.

He lets his shadows do what his body cannot, they surge ahead in a suffocating wave, coiling around your husband in choking layers. Azriel pushes util the darkness is thick enough to blot your husband from sight. A blade flashes from the dark, aimed between his ribs with a careful precision. Before it finds its mark, Azriel feels a sudden wrongness in his shoulder as if the joint has been quietly reassigned to a different command. His arm jerks sideways, forcing the blade off course.

He exhales sharply through clenched teeth, but adapts instantly, instinct taking over where his control is stolen.  He adjusts mid-motion, already moving again. His follow-up hit never lands either, his elbow locks before his strike can land, but he cannot afford to stop.  

Then his knee moves with a microscopic violation of anatomy. The pattern becomes undeniable and Azriel goes still for half a breath.

Your husband isn't trying to kill him. 

He's studying him, learning him, the same way he once learned every weakness in your own body.

A sickness rises in your throat as memory overlays the present: the questions disguised as concern; the way his hands would linger after an injury; the way he'd watch you move afterwards. Always learning until eventually he knew your body better than you did. Now he's doing it again… to Azriel.

For a heartbeat you think Azriel actually landed a counter hit, as the wall behind your husband caves inward, dust exploding through the corridor and swallowing him from sight.

Then your husband emerges smiling from the debris entirely untouched. "Most people break after the first one… This is fun." You grimace at your husband’s word choice. 

Fun is not synonymous for what’s happening here. 

Panic claws up your spine and it should be the only thing you feel. Instead, your attention keeps snapping back to Azriel like something in your refuses to let him disappear into this fight alone… It’s disorienting, and entirely unhelpful. 

You force yourself to look away before it can settle into something worse. If you watch any longer, you’ll stay with Azriel, and If you stay, Cerin remains alone.

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Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel stands up to Rhysand to protect you

T/W: torture, abuse, angst

Masterlist

Part 4 in case you missed it

Rhysand POV

Azriel doesn’t move. His shadows coil violently around his shoulders, writhing like living things trapped between attack and retreat. Rhys has seen his brother furious before. He’s seen him cold enough to make seasoned warriors lower their eyes and rethink every decision that brought them into the same room. He’s watched entire courts fear what Azriel becomes when his restraint finally fractures.

But this… this borders on madness.

Cassian straightens immediately, discomfort flashing across his face at the outright defiance. “You’re letting a stranger compromise your judgment, Az.”

“She can barely stand,” Azriel replies flatly.

“She also nearly broke Madja’s wrist on instinct alone.” Amren drawls from the corner. “I’d hardly call that helpless!”

You let out a weak laugh despite the pain splintering through your ribs.

Rhys ignores it entirely.

“Step away from her.” The command lands sharp enough to cut. The voice of a High Lord accustomed to obedience.

Yet Azriel still doesn’t move.

Something cold and ugly twists in Rhys’ chest at that. Not because his brother is challenging him - they’ve fought before, disagreed before. Cauldron knows Azriel has ignored orders in the name of his own moral compass more than once.

But never for someone like this… A stranger dragged from the dungeons beneath the Hewn City. A female who lies as naturally as breathing. One moment she flinches like prey, the next she watches the exits like a trained killer calculating the distance and what it would take to get there. 

“She is compromised, and for some unthinkable reason, you are far too close to this. Put her down and leave the room.” Rhys says, each word clipped. His voice drops into the tone that makes armies listen. 

Still nothing.

Azriel’s shadows suddenly lash toward the doorway hard enough that Cassian instinctively shifts into a fighting stance. The shadows snap back against Azriel violently, forcing his body rigid.

Nesta narrows her eyes. “What the hell was that?”

Darkness gathers around Azriel, shadows tightening like he’s about to winnow. Rhys grabs his arm instantly. “Wait.” The word comes out harsher than intended, sharpened by the panic crashing through the bond from Feyre.

The shadowsinger is in danger. Elain's terrified voice crashes into his mind.

Again.

And again.

The message pounds through Rhys’s mind with growing strain.

The shadowsinger is in danger.

*

Azriel POV

Azriel’s shadows are in open revolt. They claw through his mind so violently he can barely separate their voices from his own thoughts.

Help him.

Help the other one.

He’s alone.

The urgency slams into his chest hard enough to make his pulse spike. His shadows surge toward something distant with frantic desperation, tugging against his control so hard it borders on pain.

“Elain thinks you’re at risk.” Rhys says quickly. “We don’t know what’s happening to her magic. Whatever this is could spread.”

Azriel barely hears him because you sway in his arms. Despite the lies. Despite the manipulation. Despite every reason he should distrust you, you still look like you’re fighting to stay conscious through sheer spite alone. He tightens his grip on you automatically before addressing Rhysand, “she’s not a threat.”

Rhys exhales sharply, disbelief written across every inch of his face. “How can you possibly know that?”

Azriel’s jaw tightens. “How exactly am I in danger, Rhys?”

“Elain said the shadowsinger is in danger.” Rhys snaps. ““What else could that possibly mean?”

Move.

Go now.

His shadows surge harder toward the door.

Azriel forces calm into his voice. “What exactly did Elain see?” 

He doesn’t believe for a second that you’re trying to hurt him. Defensive? Absolutely. Dangerous? Without question. But this? No.

*

Reader POV

You suddenly shift in Azriel’s hold before slipping free entirely. His hand shoots out automatically, hovering near your elbow as you steady yourself far too easily for someone who looked half-dead mere seconds ago.

Then you look directly at Rhysand, adrenaline burning through the pain clouding your face. “Which shadowsinger?” you mumble, pressing hard against your temples like you can physically stop the pounding splitting your skull apart.

Azriel goes unnaturally still beside you. “Do you know more than one?” he asks carefully.

Rhys looks between the two of you like you’ve both lost your minds.

“Obviously.” You roll your eyes. Rhysand is so catastrophically self-righteous he apparently thinks he’d know if another shadowsinger existed.

Cassian steps forward slightly. “Who are they? And are they connected to the missing people?”

You don’t answer immediately and pain tears through you again automatically. Your shoulders tense instinctively as you fight not to fold in on yourself.

Rhys notices. “You brought it up. So, explain it.” he says coldly. 

You force yourself upright through the agony, jaw locking tight enough to ache. “Gods, you’re exhausting.”

Another violent pulse lashes through you - worse this time. Madja takes a hesitant step closer. “Something is still very wrong.”

“No kidding.” you mutter through clenched teeth. Your attention has already shifted elsewhere… To the medicine cabinet behind her.

Your eyes lock onto it with sudden, razor-sharp focus. Azriel follows your gaze, confused. “What are you looking at?”

You move before he can stop you.

Rhys intercepts you instantly, his hand snapping around your wrist hard enough to halt your momentum. You hiss quietly at the pressure against bruised skin before glaring up at him.

“Not another step.” He warns you. 

“I’m trying very hard not to collapse in your house.” You mumble. 

“You are not touching anything in this room.” He states. 

Your gaze drops pointedly to his hand still wrapped around your wrist. “Do all High Lords grab women this much or are you uniquely unpleasant?” you ask dryly.

Cassian coughs violently to hide a laugh.

Rhys doesn’t even blink.

“What do you want?” Azriel asks quietly, already sounding like he intends to get it himself.

“A solution.” you murmur.

Rhys immediately cuts in. “To what?”

You look him dead in the eye. “To the fact that someone pumped me full of enough compounds to sedate a small army.” You conveniently leave out the part about the truth serum. 

That silence that follows is heavy but brief.

Rhys’s eyes narrow before he asks, “you expect us to believe that?”

“I genuinely do not care what you believe.” You say flatly before acting like the pain has caught up to you. You make your body sag forward and Rhysand reacts on instinct, catching your elbow before you can hit the floor. The second he steadies you, you smirk and then twist cleanly out of his hold.

Cassian barks out a startled laugh. “Oh, she’s a great actress.”

“Shut up,” Rhys snaps without taking his eyes off you.

You’re already at the cabinet. Your fingers move rapidly through vials and tinctures with practiced precision. Glass clinks against glass as you search with terrifying efficiency, in a way that makes it obvious to everyone observing that you’ve done this before, many times. 

Madja looks increasingly horrified as you start pulling ingredients seemingly at random. “You cannot just mix random compounds together-”

“They’re not random. I’m not stupid” you cut in before she can continue her warning. 

“Debatable.” Amren mutters under her breath. 

Azriel steps closer as you start pouring liquids together. “Can you maybe refrain from poisoning yourself?” He lunges forward, too late. 

You swirl the vial once before throwing the contents back in a single swallow. Rhys swears violently as the empty glass slips from your fingers and shatters across the floor.

Azriel reaches you first, he moves so fast it’s a blur. One second, he’s across the room, the next his hands cup your face urgently as he demands to know “What did you take?”

“Hopefully the antidote, but I guess we’ll see.” you mutter.

His thumbs brush unconsciously against your jaw as he searches your expression for signs of distress. “Don’t do that again.”

You give him a small, exhausted smile. His concern shouldn’t affect you. It definitely shouldn’t settle somewhere deep beneath your ribs, warm and unfamiliar, and yet there’s something about him you can’t seem to pull away from. 

The effect of your concoction is almost immediate and his relief hits you like the emotion moved through your own chest instead of his own. 

You feel the fog lift from your head first, then magic floods your senses all at once. Not one source, all of them. Rhysand’s darkness presses against your skin like gravity. Feyre’s magic splinters strangely beneath his. Amren feels ancient and monstrous enough that instinct screams at you not to look directly at her. 

And Azriel… Gods… Azriel’s shadows are unbearable. They hiss over each other endlessly, overlapping warnings and panic until your skull throbs beneath the noise. The shadows gather at your feet, curling around your boots, brushing against you almost desperately. You simply frown at them before announcing, “Wow they’re loud.”

Azriel goes completely still. “You can hear them?”

You tilt your head. “I can hear everything right now.”

Amren’s gaze sharpens instantly. “What exactly does that mean?”

“This is exactly what I warned you about.” Rhys says immediately, stepping forward. “Step away from her, Az.” There’s real fear beneath the command now.

“Whatever is affecting her is clearly interacting with your shadows.” Rhysand states imploring his brother to see reason.

Feyre studies you carefully. “Are you the other shadowsinger?”

You laugh outright at the suggestion, shaking your head.

“It’s not her.” Azriel says before you can answer. “She’s listening to them. Using them, maybe. But not in the same way I would.”

You glance at him, genuinely curious now despite the pounding magic overwhelming your senses. “How would you use them?”

“Obviously he’s not going to tell you that.” Nesta snaps.

You ignore her completely because the pressure in the room is becoming unbearable. Magic presses against every nerve ending until your vision nearly blurs.

Only Rhys notices the exact moment your head tilts slightly in Madja’s direction, as though you’re listening to something none of them can hear. He feels the magic before he sees what you’re doing. 

The bruises along your arms fade within seconds as if time is reversing. You flex your hand experimentally meanwhile Madja recoils in horror. “That shouldn’t be possible.” She grimaces.

The split along your lip seals shut. Angry purple marks disappear from your throat one by one until untouched skin remains beneath them. Then the bruising across your face begins to fade. A cut near your temple closes smoothly, leaving no trace behind.

Amren’s gaze sharpens instantly before she asks, “what are you?”

Mor goes completely rigid. Her face drains of colour so fast Cassian notices immediately, turning toward her in confusion. Now that the bruises are gone, there’s nothing obscuring your features anymore. Recognition crashes across her face with horrifying clarity.

“Y/N?” She calls out. Your attention snaps toward her instantly.  

“I thought you escaped.” she whispers, horror flickering across her face as the realisation settles in that you were trapped in the Hewn City this entire time.

Your expression hardens instantly. “We didn’t exactly part on friendly terms, Mor.” You give her an unimpressed look before continuing. “So, forgive me if I’m not rushing into some emotional reunion.” Your voice sharpens. 

Mor flinches. Her mouth opens like she wants to argue, to explain, to fix this - but nothing comes out. She looks smaller somehow. Stripped of the usual composure she wears like armour.

“All I want is to go home. If you can facilitate that, brilliant.” You gesture vaguely toward the door. “If not, then simply don’t talk to me.” The finality in your tone lands harder than any shout.

“I’m sorry.” Mor says quietly, voice raw in a way none of them are used to hearing from her.

“I should have checked. I should have known.” She adds voice cracking completely. 

“I’m so sorry.” she repeats, softer this time, like the words are the only thing she has left to offer.

“What exactly makes you think I want a heart-to-heart now? Or that an apology fixes any of this?” You ask unsure where she’s got her audacity from. 

Mor’s breath catches like she’s been struck.

The room goes silent.

Cassian breaks first, a short disbelieving laugh escaping him. Not because anything about this situation is remotely amusing, but because this stranger is standing in the middle of the Night Court insulting every member of the Inner Circle like she has absolutely no concept of self-preservation.

Azriel shoots Cassian a glare, lethal enough to silence most people instantly, but his irritation disappears almost as quickly as it comes the second his attention shifts back to you. The swelling that had hidden your features has vanished completely, leaving him abruptly, painfully aware of how beautiful you are.

Your thoughts stutter briefly beneath the intensity of his gaze. Then instinct snaps back into place and your eyes flick to the weapons strapped along his body. You immediately catalogue every blade within reach, every possible exit, every person standing between you and the door - including him.

*

Before you can make a move, Azriel’s shadows swarm again snapping through the room in a violent rush of fractured information. It takes only a moment for the chaos to sharpen into something clear.

Keir is executing someone for the disappearances.

Azriel catches the smallest shift in your expression. There’s tension that wasn’t there a moment ago. 

“You’re connected to this.” He states quietly, gaze locked onto yours as clarity hits him in real time. 

There’s a question sitting unspoken in your posture now, silent but obvious enough for him to catch. Who is it?

“You already knew that.” You sigh shakily but your eyes don’t leave his.

His shadows coil tighter around his shoulders, restless, pressing at him like they want him moving already but he doesn’t look away from you. “How are you involved?” he asks quietly. 

You don’t answer.

Behind him, the Inner Circle shift as confused glances are exchanged but Azriel doesn’t turn around. 

“I’m not asking to judge you.” He adds after a beat, trying his hardest to reassure you.  

“You say that but I’m openly judging you for supporting this regime.” You inform him. 

He sighs shutting his eyes for a second. “Just tell me what we’re walking into if we leave here.” 

Part 6

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Azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel bumps into his tipsy mate on a night out. The IC don't know she exists.

A/N: I am 100% picturing the blumarine dress of my dreams... also apologies to anyone with purple hair....

Azriel had stopped listening to the conversation at the table the moment you twirled into peripheral view. One second you were laughing with one group, the next you’d somehow folded yourself into another like you’d been with them all along. You move through the dancefloor collecting people as you go, hands flying as you recount wildly animated stories one after another.  

Cassian pushes back from the table mid-argument with Mor about whose turn it is to get drinks. “She’s going to notice you staring eventually.” He mutters into Azriel’s ear on his way past.

“I’m not staring” Azriel responds flatly. 

Cassian snorts in disbelief at the lie. “You are absolutely staring!”

Mor leans over Nesta, peering through the crowd until she spots you. “Go say hi. She’s hot… I might go introduce myself if you don’t” she wriggles her eyebrows at Azriel as if that will encourage him to talk to anyone. 

Azriel finally drags his attention away from you just long enough to shoot her a look. “You wouldn’t survive five minutes.” 

“Rude.” Mor says, offended but delighted with herself at getting such a reaction out of the Shadowsinger. 

“I love her dress!” Feyre remarks enraptured by the sequin number. 

As if on cue, you turn mid-sentence, mid-gesture and spot him in the crowd. Your entire face lights up as you lock eyes with him. You disentangle yourself from the group without missing a beat, patting someone’s arm, giggling at something else, then immediately setting your sights on the booth like it’s your next destination.

“She’s coming here.” Amren says eager to see if this is a complete disaster waiting to happen. 

“I don’t think we have time for a lesson on how to flirt.” Rhysand giggles into his glass as he watches you weave through the crowd towards their table. 

You arrive slightly breathless, instinctively latching onto the edge of the booth to disguise your slight sway. Your eyes are bright and unfocused in a way that even if you weren’t unstable on your feet, it’s clear you’ve been drinking. 

“Budge up.” you mumble, already climbing into his space before he has a chance to move. Azriel shifts automatically, one hand finding your waist to steady you. He’s seen you drunkenly slide off of too many chairs to trust it won’t happen again. 

“Who died?” you ask far too loudly. “Seriouslyyy, why is it so serious over here? Did someone start a war without me?”You look between them all for an answer as you lean further into Azriel. 

Mor blinks, giving you a look of pure confusion as she asks, “Do we know you?” 

“No but I feel like you’re already deciding if I’m worth the headache.” you grin totally unserious before you zero in on Azriel. “You definitely think I am, so, why do you look like the fun police?”

“I don’t disapprove of fun.” He says quickly, raising his hands in mock defence.

“Right… So, it’s a lifestyle choice not to engage?” You ask, nodding to yourself like that makes total sense. 

You poke his chest, a smirk tugging at your lips like you’re about to say something you shouldn’t and absolutely will anyway. His hand comes up automatically to steady your wrist before you can jab him again, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin. He exhales softly through his nose resigned to your teasing. 

“I’m just trying to work out if this is your personality or your current blood alcohol level.” Rhysand states leaning back in his chair while glaring at you like you’re under investigation. 

 “I wish I could blame the alcohol, but this is a combination of the two I’m afraid.” You wave a hand over yourself like it’s obvious before your attention drifts right back to Azriel as if Rhysand has already been dismissed.

“I didn’t expect to see you h-” Azriel starts. 

“Ugh I know!” You cut him off with a shout right into his ear. He tenses instinctively as you lean closer, as if your tone isn’t already deafening. 

“This place is overrated. I say it every time. And I’m totally right about that by the way. But Dean is flirting with the bartender like it’s a full-time job and it’s honestly painful to watch…like physically painful but yeah Rita’s was out of the equation which sucks because her food is amazing… Anyway long story short I’m here. You’re welcome.” You ramble as if this is a reasonable summary of your night so far.

Azriel’s mouth quirks as he looks over to the bar intrigued, “Which bartender?” 

That earns him immediate reactions from his family.

Nesta slowly turns her head toward him and stares like he’s lost his mind for encouraging you to go on.  

Feyre lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Is this what happens when you remove him from silence? Pure chaos.”

Rhysand leans forward, squinting between the two of you. “Wait is he actually invested in the bartender situation?”

“Is it the one with all the earrings?” Azriel asks you for clarification, giving you so much attention that it seems like this is genuinely important intelligence he needs to gather.

“Purple hair… I mean, that alone tells you everything you need to know about their life choices” You mutter making him laugh.

Your gossip is cut short when Cassian walks over with a tray full of drinks. “I left for five minutes and Azriel is laughing with a beautiful stranger.” Cassian says, staring like he’s witnessing an alternate reality. “Did he have a personality transplant while I was gone? And, sorry, did we acquire a new member of the Inner Circle in my absence?”

You smile innocently at him, “Don’t worry about that, Az said he doesn’t want to babysit another drink, so you can hand it over.” 

“I did not say that!” Azriel says immediately as you down the shot that was meant for him. “You’re incorrigible - do you know that?”  

“Whatever happened to what’s mine is yours?” You laugh, slipping a hand into his hair to smoothing it back absentmindedly like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

Everyone is so distracted by your audacity to touch Azriel that they don’t register your words. Feyre freezes mid-breath, already preparing damage control. Rhys leans forward. “Did she just…” 

“You’re either very brave or very stupid.” Nesta mutters as they all watch Azriel for a reaction that never comes. Instead, he just looks at you entirely unbothered like nothing about this is strange.

You clutch a hand to your chest dramatically as you look to Nesta, “that’s genuinely, actually is one of the nicest things anyone’s said to me tonight.” Your laughter cuts off as quickly as it starts, as you rush to add “Also I actually get that A LOT!” 

Rhys huffs a laugh. “Somehow, I can believe that.” 

“I’m surprised you’re here; This isn’t really your scene.” you say to Azriel. 

“Cassian gets antsy if we don’t let him out the house.” Mor supplies making you giggle. 

“Totally off topic but your shoes are incredible.” Feyre remarks. 

“I thought you liked the dress?” Mor asks quickly. 

“If there’s one thing about this group we can appreciate a good outfit.” Amren comments to which they all nod. 

“So many people have said that to me but if we’re being honest, I think they’re starting to cut off my circulation! Wait - do you think that can actually happen?”  You ask looking to Azriel for an answer. 

Refraining from saying he told you not to wear them, Az shakes his head at the question. “No, I don’t think you have to worry about that just yet.” 

“Are you having a good night?” Azriel asks wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him to hear your answer over the music. 

“Yeah, but I’m tired. Is that what happens when you get old?” You ask supressing a yawn. 

Azriel exhales through his nose. “I’m two months older than you!”

“Don’t tell people how old I am, I have a terrible reputation to uphold Azriel!” you scold him before breaking into a fit of tipsy giggles and curling even closer into his side like it’s instinct.

“Oh, you’re very drunk y/n” Azriel mutters.

You laugh again. “It’s the two-month age gap… it makes me less responsible.” 

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.” He says wrapping an arm around your shoulders. 

“Oh, trust you to find him but lose your jacket” Dean mutters walking up to the table and throwing your jacket at you. 

“My hero!” You yell back catching it without looking in his direction. 

“Wait. No. This is wrong; why are there so many sleeves… ugh.” You struggle with it like it’s a puzzle for all of two seconds before Azriel quietly helps. “Thank you. I’ve gone super cold.”  

“First my drink, now my jacket.” Azriel remarks looking at the familiar fabric drowning you.  

“Next your dignity.” you mumble, smiling sleepily as you slump back into him.

Feyre laughs. 

“She’s efficient, I’ll give her that.” Cassian says proudly.

“She has no survival instinct” Amren comments. You grin at her like that’s a compliment.

“Anyway the purpose of the drop by is that Luna’s having an afterparty. Are you coming?” You ask Azriel. 

Rhysand clears his throat to get your attention before he can answer. “Sorry, how exactly do you know each other?” Rhys pries. 

“Please don’t tell us she’s one of your spies.” Amren mutters. 

You open your mouth ready to say something flippant and deflective, but Azriel beats you to it. “She’s not a spy” he says, glancing at your glitter-covered outfit. “Look at her.”

He can’t look away.

“I feel a bit dizzy.” You admit abruptly. “So, is that a yes or a no Az? Because snacks are calling me.” 

“Drink this.” He says suddenly holding a glass in front of your face. 

“Is this water? See what I mean about the fun police now?” You remark humouring him by taking a sip. 

“Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning.” He counters. 

“If I say no to Luna’s, will you go?” Azriel questions with a yawn of his own. 

You shrug. “Yeah! If you go back to brooding in a booth while pretending you’re having fun, I’ll go to Luna’s and tell everyone I tried to save you from yourself.”

“What time did she want us there?” he asks. 

“So, you’ll come?” you clarify. 

“I can’t have you judging people without me, can I?” He asks much to your delight. You beam up at him, practically glowing, like that was the correct answer all along, and Azriel feels his heart go giddy in his chest.

“So what time are we leaving?” He repeats. 

“Oh! She wanted everyone about an hour ago but…” Your eyes glance back to the bar for a second before you look back to Azriel. “Dean’s still flirting, so we have time. Wow he moves slow!” You sigh like he’s a personal disappointment. 

“I think you should give him some tips Az. Like I said, this is fucking painful to watch!” you add seriously. 

Azriel shakes his head, amused despite himself. “I am not giving him tips.”

“I didn’t say you have to flirt with him! Just go diffuse that situation… That’s your thing!” You instruct him, crossing your arms expectantly. 

Cassian’s wheezes. “You cannot be serious. Azriel is not the guy you go to if you need help flirting.” 

“Why? He’s good at it!” you shoot back immediately, offended on Azriel’s behalf.

Rhys slowly looks between the two of you. “He is?”

Cassian points at Azriel like he needs confirmation. “This one? This exact male? The one who avoids eye contact like it’s a sport?”

Feyre tries and fails not to laugh. “I’ve known him for years. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen him flirt.”

You frown at them, confused. “What are you talking about? He flirts with me all the time!” 

You practically feel the entire table collectively wince on your behalf. “Oh sweetheart… That does not help your case.” Cassian smiles at you giving you a look of pity, like you’ve said something you’ll regret in the morning. 

Then Azriel leans down, close enough that his mouth is just by your ear as he mumbles, “Careful. You’re going to give away all my secrets.”

 “You’re so cute it’s unreal.” You giggle smushing his cheeks together.

Rhysand expects his brother to bat your hand away instead Azriel takes your hands gently prying them off his face but not letting go. 

“What if we blew off Luna’s and went home?” he asks quietly, giving you a look that practically shouts he’s ready to leave. 

You watch him grab his jacket and call him out on what this really is. “Are you tired Az?”  

“Yes. Don’t forget I am older” He winks at you like it’s a lie. 

“Mm… Do we have snacks?” You ask him urgently. 

His mouth twitches for a second before he answers “Yes. I’ll even make you something before you sleep so you’re not totally miserable tomorrow.”  

“Okay. You’ve sold me!” You respond with a yawn.  

Azriel reaches for the jacket already hanging off your shoulders, tugging it properly into place and smoothing it down like its habit. “Right then, I’m taking her home before she forgets how to walk. I trust you’ll all survive without me” 

“He says that like he won’t pass out the second we get home. It’s bold of you to assume I’m the only liability here.” You dramatically roll your eyes. 

Cassian chokes. Mor nearly spits her drink.

“You’re… going home together?” Feyre asks slowly.

Cassian points between you both. “As in the same home?”

“That’s usually how living together works, yeah…” You glance at them with a raised eyebrow.

Mor’s jaw visibly drops to the floor. “You’re together?” She asks quickly. 

Azriel x Reader

Summary: What's happening to Cerin while the inner circle interrogate you

T/W: torture, abuse, angst

A/N: a small, deeply upsetting, interlude while I write the next part...................

Part 3 in case you missed it

Cerin POV

Cerin sits with his back pressed to the wall, knees drawn tightly to his chest in a posture that’s too careful for a child his age. He looks like he’s trying very hard not to take up space, to make himself smaller so he’s easier to miss. 

“Stop it” he whispers to himself, rubbing at his wrist where old marks are starting to fade into fresh irritation. 

“She said she’d come back.” The words don’t sound convincing even to him.

He swallows, hard, forcing the next attempt out like if he says it enough times it might become real. “She always comes back.”

He can’t stop his gaze from drifting to the door every 5 minutes. It remains locked in a way he doesn’t understand, the faint hum of the wards is maddening but there’s no one around to make it stop. 

He pushes himself up carefully, small hands pressing against the damp wall as he crosses the room. He stops at the door, ear pressed to the wood trying to listen to any movement. 

There’s nothing but the familiar hum. 

Maybe she won’t come for me.

It's never taken her this long to find me.

Eventually he moves back to the opposite side of the room and slouches back down in the corner. 

He raises his hands as high as he can despite the bindings and tries to cover his ears to block the incessant noise. 

His throat tightens from anxiety and he swallows it down like he’s practiced. “I’m fine!” Cerin says quietly into the empty space, like it’s an instruction rather than a lie. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.” His voice wavers on the last one and he looks back to the door. 

Mum always comes back when he's in a mood. She always steps in before things get bad.

It’s been over a week. 

Where is she?

He's not heard from her since she told him to run… Clearly that didn’t work out well for him. The thought barely finishes forming before the air in the room changes. The wards hum differently for a fraction of a moment, confirming something has passed through them.

“Mum?!” he calls out into the darkness relief flooding his body as he stands to greet her.

A figure steps forward. It’s not her.

His father steps out of the shadows, gaze dropping briefly to his bound wrists, then to the faint tremor Cerin can’t hide from him. 

“You’ve been left alone too long” he says, almost thoughtfully. As if that’s the biggest problem in this scenario. 

He feels his stomach drop in horrible anticipation of what’s to come.

His heart starts pounding in his chest, loud enough that he thinks his father might be able to hear it. He glances around the room frantic for a way out or somewhere to hide.  There is nowhere to go.

His father grins at his son’s discomfort in sick satisfaction. “She’s dead my boy.” His father states.

Cerin stares silently as the words land. He blinks, once, then again slowly, as if he’s not heard properly. 

The world doesn’t change fast enough to match what he heard, so his brain tries to fix it, he shakes his head violently. “No, she wouldn’t leave me. She wouldn’t. She said she’d come back. She always comes back.” His voice rises into something desperate now, too loud for the small room.

His face crumples as his father’s expression remains unchanged. 

“She fought harder than I expected” His father sighs like he’s bored of talking to him. 

Cerin makes a sound like he’s been struck. “You?” he whispers.

The silence that follows is answer enough.

She can’t be gone, Cerin thinks to himself. 

“I need her” he chokes out suddenly, raw and broken. 

His father steps closer, voice calm as he orders Cerin to “be quiet.” 

Cerin stumbles back instinctively but the wall is already at his spine. He bites down on his lip in a futile effort to swallow the sobs before they form; grief doesn’t listen and another broken sound slips out of him.

Whenever he feels his father’s power rise like this, when the pressure in the room changes, she always steps in. He's never seen his father’s rage reach this far before because she never let him. That realisation makes everything worse. 

Pain blasts through Cerin's body as his insides rearrange. His scream cuts off halfway, strangled into nothing as his ribs tighten in his chest, forced inwards just enough that breathing becomes impossible without permission. 

“Stop” He stammers as his spine uncontrollably locks into place, his shoulders jerk back against his will, even his jaw doesn’t want to obey him anymore.

Tears spill down his face silently as his whole-body trembles with the effort of fighting himself and losing. His bones feel wrong: misaligned. Shadows swirl weakly around him trying to reach him through his panic. 

She’s not coming to help me. 

I can’t get out of this. 

I want her to come back.

“Good. That’s better.” His father mumbles to himself, already turning away.

When he's alone again he knows he needs to calm down and think of an exit strategy. If no one is coming he needs to think harder.

Cerin focuses on what he can control first - breathing in for four, holding, then out for four. It's shallow from his father's magic still clutching at his chest. 

His shadows flicker, fraying like they’ve been stretched too far. Cerin pushes anyway in sheer desperation. Go. Find someone. Anyone who can help. He watches as they slip out through the cracks in the wards like smoke. 

He closes his eyes and keeps counting under his breath in the way his mum taught him when the world got too loud inside of his head. 

Part 5

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This is so sweet!!! I am a bit stuck with part 2 so I think I will write after I've done a bit more of Trapped in the Dark bc I'm more clear where that's headed

I drafted it and it's too depressing to share with the world LOL

I picture Eris and Az like this ngl

Azriel x Reader

Summary: The inner circle interrogates you for answers

T/W: torture, abuse, angst

A/N: POVs are a bit of a mess in this one but idc it is what it is

Part 2 in case you missed it

Consciousness returns slowly. It's starts with a dull, throbbing ache settling deep into your bones until there isn’t a single part of you untouched by it. Your arms burn the worst, a lingering, screaming reminder of where you’ve been suspended. 

Next you register someone’s loosely holding your hand. “Cerin?” you mumble, voice rough as you try to place the touch. You’re too delirious to register it’s not a child’s grip. The hand is too large, too covered in scar tissue to be your son. The fingers around yours shift slightly at the sound, tightening just enough to try and anchor you. 

Something soft is beneath you. Not the cold damp stone of the dungeons. It’s soft and fluffy like lying on a cloud. Your brow furrows, lashes fluttering as you drag yourself up through the thick fog clinging to your mind. 

For a moment, you think it’s another trick, another hallucination born from exhaustion and whatever they forced into your veins. But the air is clean: it smells like antiseptic and herbs. 

All you can hear is muffled voices - all overlapping as people discuss you and the possibility of something being wrong with your magic. “I've reset her bones but she’s not reacting normally to any other treatment. My magic can sense something… is not quite right.” Madja states. 

You groan involuntarily as you rouse. Golden light floods your vision, intrusive and unwelcome. The light makes it obvious: this isn’t Hewn City.

Your heart stutters once, then you force yourself to calm down and assess the situation. Pain tears through you the second you sit up, it’s violent enough to nearly fold you in half, but you clamp down on the reaction, forcing your spine straight even as your vision blurs.

Don’t show weakness.

“Easy.” A male voice says calmly. 

You drop his hold immediately once your mind registers that’s not Cerin holding your hand. 

Your gaze snaps to him sharp and assessing despite the haze still dragging at your mind. He’s beautiful in the way that is unfair. Dark curls fall around his brow making him look more boyish than he is, shadows curl around him tightly and their familiarity almost makes you relax.

But he’s still a threat. You will always assume a threat before anything else. Trust has never come quickly to you. 

As if he’s reading your thoughts he speaks up again, “You’re safe. You can relax.” He says it with conviction, like he believes it, like saying it immediately makes it true. 

You don’t respond to him. Instead, you survey the room, mentally cataloguing what’s around you. 

One, two, three - there’s at least eight people in this tiny room. All of them, apart from the shadowsinger, are watching you like you’re a threat. 

Fog grips your mind and you blink slowly trying to clear it without letting them see the effort it takes. Questions burn at the back of your mind: you want to ask where you are, where’s your son, or how the hell you got here. You swallow all of them, asking would be a mistake, it’d show them how vulnerable you truly are. 

You take stock of your injuries, your unresponsive magic and your lack of knowledge about the exit route here. Your odds are poor, unsurvivable if you try fighting your way out of this like you normally would, so you decide to do what you’ve always done: lie, bluff, make everyone here hesitate long enough for you to find a way to get home. 

You control your breathing, steadying it like you believe the spymaster's lie that you’re safe here. You let your shoulders loosen slightly until you’re the picture of comfortable.

Let him see what he wants to see.

Azriel watches you closely unsure if this is a front or if you’re truly just exhausted. He should know better. He should see you as the threat the rest of the room does.

You look to him, the one who held your hand. He’s clearly the most invested. You know you can use his false sense of bravado and heroism against him if you lean into the damsel in distress narrative he clearly wants. So, you ask one of the questions at the forefront of your mind, keeping your voice quiet and timid just enough to be believed “H-how did I get here?”

“We found you in the basement of Hewn. Do you remember how you got there?” Mor asks softly. You recognise her from years gone by but ignore that to keep your act up – it’s not like she’d remember you anymore. 

Truth and lie that’s how you play this. You tilt your head slightly, confused on purpose. “My husband.” You say forcing your lip to wobble as fake emotions surface. 

“You’re okay. Take your time.” The Shadowsinger says from the chair next to you, brushing your knuckles like that’s reassuring. It’s not. He even lowers his voice like he’s afraid of startling you. 

“He just... kept asking me question after question.” you whisper, letting your hands shake now, small and controlled. 

“He asked things over and over again. I don’t understand… why would he?” Your breath fractures convincingly. “Why would he do that to me?”

“What did he ask you?” Rhysand asks carefully. This isn’t just curiosity; there’s desperation beneath his tone. You know without this going further that he’s going to ask you the same questions, and like your husband, he believes that he can actually pressure you into giving answers.

You feel his magic go for your mind a second later, it’s sharp, like a knife gliding along your mental barrier. It hurts like the start of a migraine until he withdraws. Your mental barrier holds but barely, you feel it fraying, and without access to your magic you cannot repair it. 

You need to get out of here.

He’s going to read your thoughts any minute. 

You don’t let Rhysand see your rising anxiety as you respond with the truth, “They didn’t let me sleep. Most of what they asked me is a blur.” 

"You must remember some of it - they broke bones to get you to answer them." Cassian states raising an eyebrow.

Your flinch is real.

You give yourself a minute to repress your real feelings before you let out a fake wobbly sigh, looking down into your lap before continuing. “They wanted to know about Darius.” A half-truth. 

“Who is Darius?” Rhysand asks too quickly.  

“He’s on Keir’s list, he’s missing.” Mor supplies, turning back to you. “What do you know about Darius and what happened to him?” 

It’s the wrong question to ask. If she was smarter, she’d ask how you’re involved. 

“He thought I knew where Darius had gone. I saw him the day before. He looked after Cerin, I picked him up later that day. Nothing else happened. It was ordinary.” You mutter scrunching your brows together like you're confused at the sentiment.

Rhysand is watching too closely like he’s caught you slip up. “Who is Cerin?” The High Lord’s focus momentarily shifts away from you to the others in the room as if the answer might be within the group. 

Mor only shrugs, the movement is careless like it doesn’t matter. 

You don’t let your relief crack your façade. They don’t know him. 

But that means he’s still within reach of your husband. Your grip tightens slightly against your own palm where it presses into the bed, grounding yourself before the panic can surface. 

Your mind races, mapping possibilities, outcomes, every version of what could already be happening back home.  

Cerin isn’t safe.  

Rhysand turns back to you waiting for an actual answer to the question.

“He’s my son.” you say, and this time there’s no mistaking the edge beneath it. “I need to go back and find him.” It’s not a request; it’s a statement that you are leaving here. 

You push to your feet, wobbly but upright, nonetheless. Your body protests immediately but you ignore it, concerned that every second that you stay here being questioned by them is another second he’s alone. 

“No.” Rhysand sighs like he’s tired of you. 

You stare at him like he’s being unreasonable. “He’s just a child.” 

“I don’t care.” Rhysand retorts and you believe him. There’s not a flicker of hesitation on his face. 

He steps closer voice lowering into something more dangerous as he speaks up “For months now, people have been disappearing from Hewn City, and then you appear, half dead, and the disappearances stop.” Your stomach tightens as he adds, “that’s not a coincidence.” 

You always thought the High Lord’s visits to Hewn were him masking who he was but maybe you were wrong and this is actually him.

“You’re not leaving until you tell us about whatever it is that you’re hiding.” Feyre states firmly. 

“I’m not hi-” you cut yourself off as pain hits you, it’s instant and brutal. It coils through your ribs, stealing the rest of the sentence from your lungs. Your breath fractures, a sharp inhale breaking free before you can stop it.

Rhysand goes very still.

“What was that?” Azriel questions looking between Rhys, Feyre and Madja. He directs you to sit down on the edge of the bed much to your annoyance.

“It wasn’t me.” Rhysand clarifies sensing his brother's anger, he trusts her for no discernible reason. 

“It wasn’t me either.” Feyre confirms confused by what triggered such a reaction.

Madja is already moving. “It could be nothing more than trauma surfacing,” she says quickly. She sounds calm, but you see the concern written on her face as she continues to theorise “It could just be bruising or something internal.” 

Rhysand stops Madja before she can reach the female. “Can we question her before you examine her again?” 

“I don’t know how stable she is.” Madja admits. 

“I’m fine. Can we just get on with this so I can go home?” You force your voice to crack at the right moment hoping it’ll make at least one more person in the room empathise with you. 

“Who is killing the people of Hewn City?” Rhysand tries again. 

“You. Your regime, the power structure you actively support there.” You answer quickly lacing your tone with another anxious wobble. 

Azriel lets out a loud shaky sigh. This isn’t going well. 

“You seem in an awful rush to get back to Hewn. Are you forgetting they don’t exactly like you over there?” Cassian questions. 

“I need to get to Cerin.” you say, urgency cracking through your control. What if he’s alone, scared or worse what if he’s with someone else?

Azriel’s voice is strained when he speaks up, “Rhys, let me go find the boy. If she’s telling the truth...” 

“No” the High Lord interjects with the same ruthless finality. “Neither of you are going anywhere.”

“My shadows are screaming at me to get that child out.” Azriel tries to explain. He shifts like he’s itching to leave. 

“Let him go.” You demand unsure why you trust him already out of everyone in the room. Something inside you knows that he wouldn’t harm Cerin; he might actually help him to control his shadows. 

"He's the same age as Nyx." You look to Feyre, the only other mother in the room. "What if it was him trapped there?"

"It's not and it never would be. We're not stupid enough to leave him alone. Answer my questions and I’ll consider letting Azriel search for him” Rhysand says.

Asshole.

You let out a humourless laugh. "You think I had a choice?"

“What did they ask you?” He repeats the question from earlier.

Waiting longer might cost you everything. You also know you can’t tell him the truth. 

“I already said.” The pain is worse this time. It slams through you hard enough that your vision flickers. Your breath comes too fast now. You force it slower, trying to drag your control back.

You need to think quickly to work around it like you were doing before. 

Azriel shifts, “Rhys, she’s-”

“I don’t care.” Rhysand cuts him off nor breaking your eye contact.

“They wanted names,” you say carefully, shaping each word. “Movements. Who’s been meeting who.”

Rhysand notices immediately your lack of pain. 

“What names?” Mor presses. 

You hesitate just for a second and pain lashes through you again in warning. You choke it down, forcing your expression to neutral. “Low-level courtiers, messengers,” you push out.

*

Rhysand POV

His gaze is fixed wholly on you, he’s hungry for information, watching your every tell.

When you resist you seem to be in physical pain. Is it possible that something could exist that overrides will and punishes the act of resistance. A force that doesn’t just demand truth but makes lies physically unbearable…

Surely that’d be better known, but what else explains your reactions?

He reaches out to Madja's mind, asking her if she's ever come across such a substance.

"No. But her magic isn't acting as it should even with faebane in her system." Madja talks into his mind.

The healer looks over to him questioning silently if she can re-examine you. He nods deciding to give the female a much-needed break from their line of fire.

Maybe she'll be more susceptible to talking if Madja helps with the pain.

*

No one realises that you’re still in fight of flight. As Madja’s hands reach for you, you react before she can touch you. Your arm snaps up way too fast for someone supposedly half-conscious. You strike her hand away with a crack that echoes in the too-quiet room. The force of it stings up your arm, but you don’t bat an eyelid. 

Madja freezes, startled more than hurt, her hand hovering where you knocked it aside.

“Don’t touch me” you warn her. You lean in just enough, your voice dropping to a cold whisper meant only for her “try that again and I won’t stop at your hand.” 

That wasn’t the reaction of someone dazed or helpless.

Next to you, Azriel’s head tilts like he’s reassessing the threat you pose. It’s the kind of attention that doesn’t land lightly, because it’s been sharpened by centuries of learning exactly how to survive court politics. In his mind, he’s already running through if you could become dangerous to the Night Court but he’s clouded by the pull he feels towards you. 

Rhysand feels himself smile widely, like you’ve just confirmed something he was already beginning to suspect. “Welcome to the conversation.” 

Your hand lowers slowly back to your side, but your body stays tense, coiled like a wire pulled tight with restrained violence.

“Well, you certainly recover quickly.” Amren mutters. If things were different you’d laugh, instead you narrow your gaze at her. 

“You’re not as helpless as you’d like us to believe.” Feyre states watching you closely.

Rhysand steps nearer. “Let’s try that again. What did they ask you?”

“Maybe if you want better answers, you should try better questions.” You roll your eyes at him. 

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to disrespect your High Lord?” Feyre questions.

You glance at her, slow and unimpressed, like the title means very little to you. “I think if he wanted respect, he should’ve started with earning it.” 

Feyre’s expression tightens instantly, irritation flashing across her face. “You don’t get to walk in here, lie to us, and then act like you’re in any position to judge him. You’re alive because of him. So maybe rethink how far you want to push that attitude” She growls. 

“You can’t stand there and pretend this is a mercy, you’ve dragged me out of a cell just to lock me in another.” You remark already annoyed by her. 

“Maybe if you tell me who controls the 'messengers', I will consider letting Azriel leave to find your son” Rhysand states, finally asking the right question. 

You don’t respond. Agony tears through you so violently your knees nearly give out.

Your control is slipping. 

“You’re hurting her.” Azriel states and this time there’s no attempt to soften it, he’s glaring at Rhysand openly now.

Rhysand looks like he truly doesn’t care what it costs you as long as he gets answers. 

“You’re letting emotion cloud your judgement Az.” Rhysand states. 

Cassian shifts like he might step in. Mor looks between them, uneasy now. Amren watches like she’s enjoying the fracture forming.

“Answer me.” Rhysand barks at you. 

Pain explodes through your body again as you say, “I can’t tell you.” A sound leaves you that you don’t recognise as fae.

Azriel catches you before you fall, but this time your body doesn’t register it properly. His arms are there, solid around your shoulders, anchoring you upright but your mind keeps misfiring.

For a second, you’re not in the room. You’re back in the cold damp of the cells with someone asking you questions you can't distinguish.

“Stop.” He says to Rhysand. 

You blink up at Azriel, but his face keeps shifting “I’m fine,” you try to say. It comes out wrong, slurred at the edges like you’re drunk.

“No, you’re not” he says quietly.

"Do you know what they gave you?" Azriel questions, adjusting his hold on you carefully.

“Azriel-” Rhysand interjects.

“Stop. She can’t stand, and you’re still pushing her.” Azriel says in disbelief as he stares at his brother.

“She is still the only source of information we have that is directly tied-”Cassian tries to justify their actions. 

“I don’t care!” Azriel snaps.

That gets everyone’s attention.

“You should.” Amren responds in warning. The shadows around him deepen slightly, surging to protect him as his anger rises.

Your fingers twitch against Azriel’s sleeve. He feels it instantly and looks down at you, “Stay with me.” he whispers brushing a finger along your cheek.

“Azriel put her down and walk away.” Rhysand instructs him. 

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A/N: I'm thinking I might have a short Cerin POV next... Prepare to be upset

Azriel x Reader

Summary: your return from under the mountain isn't how you pictured it

T/W: Angst, depression, references to torture, loss of wings

You’re silent as Rhys winnows you both home. You’re not ready to speak about any of it.

The world doesn’t feel real anymore. It’s distant, sort of muted. It feels like you’ve been pulled just slightly out of yourself, watching everything happen from somewhere you can’t quite reach.

When your feet hit solid ground, the quiet shatters. “She’s my mate.” Rhys says over and over again, like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it might fix something. 

Mor moves instantly. She goes to him first, steadying his face between her hands. But her eyes keep flicking past him to you because you don’t react to his tears nor her presence. The you from before would have been at Rhys’ side, forcing him to breathe, forcing him to feel something other than sadness. You’d typically fling yourself into her arms and chat her ear off about something hilariously entertaining. 

She tries to read you and fails. There’s nothing on your face to indicate how you’re feeling, no sign of empathy for Rhys. You are standing like a statue – back completely rigid. 

That alone unsettles her more than Rhys’s grief. She murmurs something quickly to him, then stands upright and steps toward you, arms opening on instinct.

You recoil away so sharply it looks painful. “Don’t touch me.” Your voice is flat, unrecognisable 

Mor freezes immediately, studying you properly now that she’s closer. Something about you is wrong in a way she can’t immediately name. Her gaze drops until it lands behind you and stops abruptly. 

Everything in her face changes when she notices what’s missing.  “Your wings…” It isn’t a question. The words fall out of her like something dying. The utter horror in her voice is unbearable. 

You close your eyes immediately, but it’s already too late. The memory doesn’t wait for permission; it forces itself in.

The noise is what you remember the most. 

The wet, sickening sound. Your own voice breaking into something that didn’t belong to you anymore. Amarantha’s laughter. Bright and delighted with herself. 

Mor’s breath catches sharply as if she can see it now.

Rhys standing there, unable to look at you. Unable to save you. Unable to meet your eyes while you were being used for hours as means of entertainment. 

Your stomach twists violently at the memory. 

“Help Rhys,” you whisper to Mor, and even you hear how wrong your voice sounds. “I just… I need to be alone.”

You turn before anyone can reach you. Before she can look at you like that again - like you’re something broken beyond repair.

You won’t admit that you already feel it.

“I just want to go home,” you choke out, your composure cracking as you make it halfway to the front door.

You don’t turn around but you know she’s still staring at where your wings should be. Like if she looks long enough, they might reappear.

You don’t know how to exist like this.

Every step feels misaligned. Like your body is arguing with itself and losing.

You remember falling the second they were amputated. How your body forgot how to hold itself upright. Eris caught you. That bit still doesn’t make sense in your head. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t hesitate. Just held you steady until you were back in your chambers. Like you weren’t something ruined. You never thanked him. You couldn’t even form the thought at the time. 

It was Rhys who saw the rest. Who stayed while you failed, again and again, until standing became something you could almost manage;  until walking was no longer synonymous with falling; until breathing didn’t feel like drowning. 

Your throat tightens painfully as you fight the urge to cry. Rhys didn't think before winnowing you here - if he did he would've gone to a house with less stairs.

*

A shadow brushes the side of your neck. Soft and familiar. More follow, curling around your arms and your shoulders. 

Azriel lands in front of you seconds later. His eyes move over you the way they always do - automatic, precise.

Your posture is wrong. Your weight is wrong. The way you stand is wrong.

Then his gaze drops behind you. Where your wings should be and aren’t. His face goes completely still. His shadows lash outward violently, then snap back in, curling tight around him like they’re trying to contain something inside his chest.

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move.

Someone took your wings. Someone did this to you. Someone took your wings. Ripped them from you. And he wasn’t there to stop it happening. The thought hits him so hard it makes him feel physically ill.

Then he’s moving. Two strides, and he’s in front of you, pulling you into him like he needs to prove you’re real.

You don’t hesitate like you did with Mor. You fold into Azriel completely, like your body has been waiting for this exact permission to stop holding itself together.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” you whisper, your voice cracks completely on the last word. Azriel tightens his arms around you like he’s afraid if he loosens his grip, you’ll vanish. 

“Likewise,” he manages, but his voice sounds raw with emotion. His shadows curl around you both, brushing gently along your back before they falter at the empty space they don’t expect. It unsettles him more than he lets show.

You pull back slightly, but he doesn’t let go entirely. His hands stay on you like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re still here. Still alive. Even if parts of you aren’t.

“Rhys is here,” you murmur softly. 

Azriel nods once, his jaw tight enough to crack. He knows. He felt him the moment he landed, but he came to you first. He will always come to you first.

“I’ll speak to him in a little bit” he says quietly. “Let’s get you home first.”  He offers his hand. You take it but he feels the hesitation immediately.

He lifts you without warning, carrying you down to street level with effortless ease. Your breath catches, once, you would have done that yourself easily, without thinking. You would have flown beside him, faster. Now you have to be carried.

Your eyes burn. You try to blink it away and fail. Azriel feels the moment the first tear slips free and it wrecks him. He knows what this means to you, to all Illyrians. He knows this isn’t just pain. It’s identity; pride; self - all gone.

His grip tightens slightly before he sets you down again, careful like you might break under air alone. You hate how gentle he is, and hate more that it’s necessary.

The walk to your apartment is silent but it feels suffocating because every person who sees you reacts. Guards look twice, then again, then stop talking. A passerby’s eyes flick to your back, and then away too quickly. Even they understand something is missing. 

Azriel notices every reaction. You are being looked at like something changed beyond recognition. His shadows stay close, brushing against you softly, like they’re trying to offer comfort he doesn’t know how to give.

When you reach your door, he pulls out keys. You stare at them in slight disbelief. “You just happen to have those?” you ask, your voice smaller than you mean it to be.

His gaze flickers to you, something raw slipping through. “I hoped you’d come back to me eventually, so yes.” Your chest aches at the confession. 

You step inside. It looks exactly like you remembered. Everything is the same. Fresh flowers sit on the counter - someone’s been replacing the flowers in your absence. You don’t have to ask to know it was him. 

“Thanks for walking me home,” you say, because it’s safer than anything else sitting in your chest. Azriel exhales softly, like the words frustrate him. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

He watches you look at him like you’re remapping his face. He looks older since you last saw him. Still beautiful beyond words.

Suddenly all you can think about is what he sees when he looks at you.  You’re not whole. You’re not the same person you were before. You know other Illyrian’s would think you were lesser now, but he wouldn’t show you that overtly, even if he felt that way himself.

“I missed you, every day that you weren’t here” he says quietly. You feel the truth in the way his voice breaks slightly around the words. You squeeze his hand reassuringly and step closer, drawn to him like something instinctive hasn’t been taken from you. Not yet.

“I missed you too,” you whisper.

Your gaze drops to his mouth. “Can I kiss you?”

For a brief moment he leans toward you. Every instinct pulling him closer. Want flooding his better judgement. 

But then he sees it again. The way you stand like gravity is still something you’re negotiating with. The absence behind you that even his shadows cannot ignore. You’ve already lost so much.

“I…” His hand drags through his hair; his shadows lash wildly around him completely uncontrolled. He feels sick. Because he wants you. Because he loves you. Because every part of him is screaming to close the distance and never let you go again. He looks like he’s trying not to fall apart in front of you.

“I wanted to talk to you about last time,” he says, forcing the words out like they’re tearing him apart on the way. The silence is immediate as you wait for him to finish. “I think it was a mistake.” The second he says it, he regrets it. 

He feels your fingers immediately loosen in his hand. You shrink, not visibly at first, but in the way your presence withdraws. He feels it happen in real time. 

“We’re friends,” he forces out. “We’ve always been-“ He stops, because the words are failing him. “I can’t lose that again.” Losing you once nearly killed him. Wanting you now, loving you like this feels like risking the only thing left that still feels real and he doesn’t think he’d survive it a second time.

“Not that it wasn’t good,” he adds quickly, almost desperately. “It was. It-” He exhales shakily. “That’s the problem.”

“You deserve someone who won’t risk hurting you more than you already are,” he says quietly. “And I don’t trust myself not to.” He won’t be another person who takes something from you, even if it means walking away from the one thing he’s ever truly wanted.

“Okay,” you say softly. The word is barely there. You step back, putting space between you before he can see how much that hurt because all you can hear is: You’re not enough anymore.

“Well… thanks again for walking me back,” you add, your voice distant. Azriel flinches like you struck him.

“I’ll bring food,” he says quickly, like he needs a reason to come back to not let this be the end of the moment.

“I’m tired,” you reply. “I’ll get something tomorrow.”

“Go see Rhys.” You instruct him after an uncomfortable silence. 

He nods but does not move immediately because he is still looking at you like he is trying to remember a version of you the world has already started forgetting. “It’s good to have you home,” he says quietly.

You nod. You can’t trust your voice anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he adds, apologising for not being there and for everything he cannot fix without breaking something else.

“Me too,” you say, and it nearly unravels him completely. He turns away before doubt can take hold, before he can step back towards you and choose you anyway, no matter what it costs.

His shadows hesitate at the threshold. They don’t obey at first - curling around you instead, brushing your arms like they’re trying to hold on. Like they’re trying to stay where he cannot. Like they don’t want to leave you; but they always return to him in the end.

Azriel forces himself to move. He doesn’t look back because if he sees you standing there smaller, quieter, missing pieces of yourself, then he won’t walk away.

You watch him walk away, lip trembling. You wait until the silence starts to press into you and then you break. Not suddenly, not cleanly but all at once.

Everyone saw it.

You are not who you were. 

You didn’t just lose your wings. 

You lost the part of you that still believed you could be seen like this and loved anyway.

*** A/N: I blame Radiohead for how upsetting this got bc I was listening to 'Let Down' I might have to make a part 2 to this to emotionally recover

Azriel x Reader

Summary: The aftermath of Azriel saving you from the cells under Hewn City

T/W: torture, abuse, angst

Part 1 if you missed it

They reappear in Velaris in a rush of shadows and cold air. Azriel barely steadies the landing, urgency fracturing his control. Mor stumbles to a halt, but the female in his arms doesn’t even flinch.

“Who the hell is that?” Cassian’s voice booms through the corridor. He watches in disbelief as Az strides straight past him with the female held carefully in his grip.

Azriel doesn’t ignore him. He simply can’t spare the attention. His focus is locked on getting his mate to Madja.

She weighs virtually nothing. She’s too light, too fragile. As if whatever was done to her hollowed her out from the inside.

“We did it,” Mor breathes out quickly in her overwhelming relief to be home. “We actually-”

“We haven’t done anything,” Azriel cuts in, sharper than intended, already turning toward Madja’s rooms.

“We don’t know anything yet. For all we know, she has nothing to do with this.” And if she doesn’t, they’ve dragged an innocent female out of hell only to make her guilty by association in Hewn City’s eyes.

“You make it sound like being in our presence is a death sentence,” Cassian smirks at the motion.

“Sometimes it is,” Amren says from across the room, joining the conversation with no prior context.

Azriel’s jaw clenches as something sharp flares through him. It’s too quick to name, too instinctive to ignore. The bond reacts to Amren’s words like it recognises the threat even if he refuses to.

Mor falls silent, trailing after him. Unease settles in her chest; something about the female feels familiar in a way she can’t place.

“Madja,” Azriel calls, pushing open the door without knocking.

The healer looks up and immediately crosses the room. “Put her here.” She gestures to the cot in the centre of the room. 

Azriel lowers the female with careful precision, as though the smallest jolt might break her entirely. He lingers, stepping back only when Madja nudges him aside. Even then, he doesn’t move far. Azriel hovers within reach, tense and alert, ready to intervene if needed.

He only realises he’s staring when Madja shifts in front of him. He adjusts automatically, just enough to see past her again.

His fingers flex at his sides, scars tightening as he resists the urge to reach for her.

There’s blood everywhere. Too much of it. It soaks the sheets beneath her, streaks her skin where no wound should still be bleeding. There are too many injuries to count.

Madja works in quiet efficiency, murmuring under her breath. Azriel watches every movement like he’s memorising it, like if he understands what she’s doing, it could give him control over the outcome.

But he has none, and that lack of control sits under his skin like a living thing riling up his nerves.

If he’d moved faster.

If he’d gone deeper into Hewn City sooner.

If he hadn’t waited for permission, for confirmation…His shadows stir, restlessly echoing that thought. 

He was too late to stop this but that doesn’t stop him from wishing that he could somehow spare her from whatever they’ve done to her.

His shadows drift toward the edge of the bed, drawn to her despite the blood, despite logic. Azriel drags them back with effort, jaw tight.

His gaze drops to her face. It’s impossible to tell what she actually looks like beneath the damage.

Logically, he knows that he’s seen worse. He’s done worse.

That thought should steady him. It doesn’t, it lands heavier than it should.

Madja clicks her tongue in disapproval of Azriel’s proximity to her own personal space. She ignores his wince at the way the female’s body doesn’t even try to react when Madja presses near her ribcage.

“If you’re going to stand there, at least make yourself useful,” she snaps, loud enough that Rhys will undoubtedly hear from the next room. 

“What do you need?” Azriel asks immediately, grateful for the distraction.

Madja lists off supplies in quick succession, and he moves without hesitation, crossing the room to gather them. 

Behind him, Mor steps closer to the female. Her stomach twists as she takes in the full extent of the damage in brighter light. She feels herself gulp at the fact that it’s hard to tell where one injury ends and another begins.

Her gaze catches on the necklace around her throat. It’s darkened with blood, half-hidden beneath tangled hair but it’s familiar.

“I think I know her,” Mor says quietly, uncertain.

Azriel’s head snaps towards her before following her gaze. He frowns instinctively at the bloodied necklace.

“That’s what you’re basing this on?” he mutters in disbelief.

“I recognise it,” Mor insists voice raising at his arrogance.

“She used to wear it all the time.” She adds quickly.

Azriel glances back to the female’s face scanning it like he’s searching for a semblance of recognition himself. “Who is she?” he asks, knowing he’s never met her before.

Mor hesitates, something akin to dread flickering across her features. “Her husband works with Keir. She used to help in the kitchens… years ago, when I still lived there.”

Azriel goes completely still.

“She’s married?” The word comes too fast, wrong on his tongue.

A quiet, controlled exhale leaves him while he waits for her to answer. 

It feels like an eternity before Mor nods slowly, though doubt creeps in further now that she’s said it aloud. “I think so. It’s hard to tell if that’s really her like this”

Married.

His gaze settles on the female again.

If that male is still breathing, he doesn’t deserve to be.

Footsteps sound in the corridor before Rhysand appears in the doorway, the rest of the Inner Circle close behind him. They fill the threshold in silence as his gaze sweeps the room and lands on the bed.

“Is she one of the missing?” he asks, eyes flicking Mor.

Mor doesn’t answer immediately. She can’t stop staring. “No,” she says finally, “If that’s who I think it is, she’s not on Keir’s list.”

Cassian leans against the doorframe crossing his arms, “I don’t think I want to know what that means.”

“It means she’s either involved,” Nesta says flatly, “or someone thought she knew enough to want her out of the picture.”

“Or she knows nothing and they’ve dragged her back for no reason” Cassian counters.

Nesta’s glare is nothing short of lethal as she asks, “You really believe that’s a coincidence?”

Silence stretches as Cassian doesn’t dignify his mate with a response.

“People are still disappearing,” Rhys says, stepping fully inside the room now. There’s no softness in Rhys’ expression, only calculation. 

“We’ve been chasing ghosts for weeks. This is the first real lead we’ve come up with. We can’t waste it.” He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.

“We won’t get another chance like this,” Feyre agrees.

Rhys studies the unconscious female carefully. “If she’s tied to Keir, to the missing, she could be the only thread we have left to pull. When she wakes up, we get our answers. Quickly.”

Azriel closes his eyes momentarily, trying to control the anger flaring uncontrollably within him. 

Amren glances at the female. “Whoever had her down there did half the work for us.”

Azriel feels his jaw tighten at the words.

Half the work.

Like she’s not a person.

How has he ever managed to do this before? His gut twists in guilt as the thought flickers through his mind cold and unwelcome.

“And if she doesn’t talk?” Cassian asks although the question feels more like confirmation than uncertainty.

Rhys answers immediately. “Then we make her. Azriel do what you need to do.”

“No,” Azriel says instantly.

The word lands hard. Every head turns in his direction awaiting an explanation

Rhys studies him. “Azriel-”

“No,” he repeats, sharper this time, leaving no room for debate.

Cassian straightens, “We’re talking about information that could-“

“Shut up, Cassian,” Azriel snaps, voice dropping dangerously low something lethal threading through it. “I know exactly what we’re talking about and I still said no.” 

His shadows curl tighter around his back, then extend slightly shielding her from view. 

Rhys studies him, his expression unreadable, “You don’t get to make that call.” Rhysand states.

Azriel’s hands flex at his side as he considers taking a swing at his brother. “No one touches her,” he says unyielding.

Cassian breaks the charged silence that follows with a heavy sigh, “We don’t have time for this.”

“We’re running out of time,” Feyre speaks up trying to talk Azriel around to their point of view more calmly than the others.

“If she knows something and we wait, more people die. That’s the reality Az.” She reminds him. 

The words land and he doesn’t answer immediately. He knows that she’s right. 

He’s stood in rooms like this countless times before. He’s seen the cost of waiting; the cost of mercy. He knows exactly what hesitation breeds.

His gaze drifts to the female on the bed. She’s still bleeding, still broken, barely breathing as Madja works. 

Something in his chest twists so violently it almost feels like a physical wound.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I know what happens if we wait.”

Cassian softens slightly. “Then don’t make it harder than it has to be Az.”

Azriel lets out a humourless breath.

If it were anyone else, it wouldn’t be hard at all.

“You’re asking me to do my job,” he says, voice rough. “I understand that.”

Rhys meets his gaze confused. “Then act like it.” He instructs Azriel harshly, unaware of the bond between him and the female. 

For a moment, just a moment, Azriel almost nods. Then the female on the bed lets out a faint, fractured breath and something inside him breaks its alignment.

He shakes his head once in Rhysand's direction.

“You want me to treat her like a threat before we even know what she is, to act first and decide later if it was justified. I won’t.” Azriel states firmly. 

“Why?” Rhys’ voice is calm, but his annoyance is palpable. 

“You’ve never hesitated before,” Amren adds.

Azriel doesn’t look at them. 

Feyre studies him carefully wondering why he’s drawing a line where’s there’s never been one before. 

“Az, what’s changed?” She presses softly. 

“Nothing. I said I’ll get you the information. That hasn’t changed. But no one is hurting her.” Azriel snaps at Feyre. 

Rhysand steps in front of Feyre immediately concerned that Azriel is acting irrationally.

Cassian scoffs. “She’s the only lead we have. We can’t afford to be so cautious.” 

Azriel turns his head slightly towards Cas, shadows shifting in warning.

“I heard you and I meant what I said.” Azriel says, voice low and controlled in a way that feels more dangerous than shouting.

Tags:

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A/N: I can't express how many times I've changed the ending to this chapter...

Azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel saves you from the cells under Hewn City

TW: torture, abuse, angst

Reader POV

Sleep is all that you can think about.

That, more than anything, tells you just how long you’ve been awake.

Beneath Hewn City’s vast, echoing halls, this cell feels suffocatingly small. 

Your thoughts drag, slow and sticky, barely forming before they dissolve again.

The voices in the shadows whisper and overlap, but you don’t have the strength to make sense of them. You don’t even have the will to try and untangle their mutterings.

You know Keir is mad, but—

The chains jerk violently as your body betrays you, slipping into yet another micro-sleep.

You barely register the moment before you’re yanked back into consciousness. You’re abruptly awaken by a hand clamping around your face. Long fingers dig painfully into your cheeks, forcing your head upright.

“Don’t go to sleep on us,” a guard says, smiling like this is a game to him.

You try to focus on him but his face won’t stay still. His features keep sliding and reforming into something unfamiliar every time you blink. It takes days for sleep deprivation to do this.

So, you’ve been here for days.

Even now, inches from you, you have no idea what he actually looks like.

Your brain begs you: just close your eyes. Just for a second. It would be so easy. They're stupid thoughts. You know if you sleep, they’ll just find another way to wake you.

You faintly register that someone else is speaking and turn your head slightly - trying to latch onto the sound, to ground yourself in it.

It’s pointless, like listening underwater, the words seem to warp before they reach you. It's the same with the shadows.

You don’t feel yourself drift off again.

You just snap back awake with a broken, breathless laugh as cold water splashes over your face. It drips down your skin, soaking into your shirt.

To your right, a guard screws the cap back onto his flask. “His Lordship will be here shortly,” he says, as if that explains anything. As if that justifies all of this.

Your stomach drops in dread. The last person you want to see is your husband.

He makes his arrival known from the sheer aggression with which he opens the door. Your chains jangle as you instinctively straighten at the decibel of the ricochet from the door slamming the wall. 

Polished black leather shoes step into your blurred vision. You force your gaze upward, meeting his own with your bloodshot eyes.

“Are you ready to talk?” he asks, smiling too wide, too pleased with himself.

You close your eyes in an attempt to calm yourself. Just for a second. It’s long enough that darkness swallows you—

Pain explodes across your face and your head snaps to the right as his strike lands, sharp and precise.

You bite down hard on your lip, tasting blood but refusing to show him even the smallest inclination that hurt you. 

“Tell me what I want to know,” he says softly, “and this can all end my love. Everything can go back to normal.”

The lie is so obvious it almost makes you laugh. He's never called you that for a start.

You can’t even remember what he wants anymore. 

Your expression must give you away, because he sighs in irritation. “I always knew you were dense, sweetheart, but you can’t have forgotten why you’re here. You’re not that tired.”

Not that tired. The words echo in your head.

“So tell me,” he continues, pacing now. “How are you involved with the missing people? I know you helped Mor all those years ago. How do you do it? Who helps you? And where’s Darius?”

Too many questions. Too fast and too boring to snap you out of your haze. You’re already drifting again.

Another slap. Sharper this time.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

“Pathetic,” he growls.

He pauses long enough that you feel a shift in the air. You know you're not going to like whatever he wants to harp on about next.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he sighs again. You know he is growing bored with your lack of answers now.

"Then don't" You grumble, briefly wondering what else he could do in his efforts to break your resolve.

“You’ve given me no choice.” He mutters in response.

You miss the glint of a syringe in his hand, only looking down when you feel a sharp scratch on your arm. Cold spreads quickly through your veins, heavy and wrong. 

"What is that?" You question feeling your heart uncontrollably pounding in your chest either a reaction to whatever it was or anxiety from the needle.

“Kier has engineered his own faebane that's supposed to make you more susceptible to talking." His words sound like a slur by the time they reach you.

You blink trying to clear your vision as it clouds at the edges.

Someone faintly asks about the dosage as you slip into unconsciousness.

-

Mor POV

Mor regrets this the second that she steps into the mountain. The deeper she walks into Hewn City, the heavier the air feels.

She’s always found the walls of this place to be claustrophobic, but Rhys somehow convinced her that this was necessary, that she would be the best person to help Az given her history here.

Beside her, Azriel is silent.

He hasn’t said a word since they arrived, and it’s doing nothing for her nerves.

He should know better, she’s always been an anxious talker.

“Say something,” she mutters under her breath needing a distraction from this place and her own memories here.

He doesn’t respond, too focused on opening the final door.

Mor gags the second he swings the door across.

The smell of blood hits them first.

Azriel’s shadows move before either of them do, slipping across the room, silent and lethal. The guards don’t even have time to react before they're upon them.

-

Azriel POV

Azriel steps inside and stops at the sight of the female hanging from the ceiling.

She’s bruised, bloodied and swollen beyond reason. 

Mor swallows hard. “Thank the Cauldron she’s asleep,” she whispers, moving carefully across the blood-slick floor.

“I can’t imagine how painful that would be.” She reaches for the chains. Mor ignores the burning sensation of the faebane laced metal, working on undoing them as gently as she can.

The moment they release, the female drops.

Azriel moves quickly to catch her before she can hit the ground. His shadows erupt around him as his control slips the second she lands in his arms. The room plunges into temporary darkness as the shadows swarm, screaming into his ears:

Mate.

Mate.

Mate.

Mate.

Mor looks to him for an explanation that never arrives. He takes her arm wordlessly and winnows without another thought.

Part 2