Cait🕸️

@prythianpages

🔞 Lay All Your Love On Me ✪ Cassian is your best friend and best friend’s don’t thirst after one another. Best friends don’t get jealous. Best friends also don’t fall in love with one another. But you did.

@velarisdusk

🔞 Meant to Stand Rhysand has one request: restore a half-collapsed cabin into something fit for veteran Illyrians. The catch? You'll be doing it with Cassian—and the two of you haven't truly spoken since that mission four years ago.

@inkedinshadows

🔞 The Evening After You and Cassian are officially mated. You both know what happens now: the mating frenzy.

@azrielbrainrot

🔞 Teasing Touches Cassian let's you play with his wings.

@stargirlrchive

🔞 just the tip SMUT — cassian x fem!reader, ‘just the tip’ sex

@hockeylover25

🔞 Books of Truth ✪ when Nesta catches you reading a smutty book, you explain your feelings with sleeping with your mate and she convinces you to spice things up in the bedroom. 🔞 Claimed in Silence Rhysand’s sister realizes Cassian is her mate after years of hidden longing, and everything between them finally snaps into place at court.

@elledc

🔞 wing play Cassian x afab!reader who accidentally touches Cass' wing during sex

@arrantsnowdrop

🔞 Bed Rest Cassian turns up sick with the fae cold while you're filling in for Madja in her absence. You decide to let your decades-long crush spend the weekend at your place to monitor his condition, only to discover he's harbored feelings for you for just as long.

@qu1cks1lversb1tch

🔞 Reunion One hundred years after walking away, returning to Velaris was never part of the plan—until Rhysand's invitation changes everything.

@ddejavvu

🔞 suffocate Facesitting with cassian but you’re scared you’re gonna suffocate him and he just holds you down on his face and doesn’t care about that

@luna-e-clips

🔞 before battle  you and cassian have been sleeping together for a while now, and feelings have begun to stir between the two of you. you're known by the ic to have quickies in public, and preparing for battle was no exception.

@sweetpeaaquarius

🔞 Mirror Sex He knows exactly how good you look, and he wants you to see it too.

@steveslevis

🔞 somnophilia Cassian has had a long fucking day. 

@lipstickmarks

🔞 I Could Take You (not in a fight) You tease Cassian. The result are as you'd expect.

The morning light filtering through the House of Wind's windows had absolutely nothing to do with your mood, which remained, despite the sun's best efforts, stormy.

Rhysand had done something unforgivable the night before. He'd promised (with that solemn hand-over-heart nonsense he knew always made you laugh) that he'd be home in time for the dinner you'd spent all afternoon planning. A ridiculous wager about who could actually cook a decent meal without cheating and using magic to speed things along. You'd marinated, you'd chopped, you'd burned your knuckle on the pan and refused to heal it just so you could hold the injury over him dramatically at dinner.

And then he simply hadn't come home.

Some court business with Keir had swallowed him whole, four hours past when he'd said he'd be back, and by the time he finally winnowed into the dining room, you'd already eaten alone.

You'd gone to bed and pretended to be asleep when he slid in beside you murmuring apologies into your hair, one hand splayed warm over your stomach like he could apologize his way through your skin if words wouldn't do it.

You were not currently speaking to him.

This was, you'd decided somewhere around three in the morning while glaring at the ceiling, a matter of principle. It wasn't about the dinner…not really. It was about the look on his face when he'd finally arrived, like he expected you to simply forgive him on the spot because he was Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, devastatingly handsome and devastatingly aware of it. Well. Not today.

You descended the stairs into the main room with your chin high and your resolve firmly buckled into place, sailing past where Cassian and Rhys sat hunched over a spread of papers. 

"Morning, Cass," you chirped, leaning down to press a bright, affectionate kiss to his cheek.

Cassian blinked, clearly thrown by the sudden enthusiasm. "Uh—morning?"

"Good morning, darling," Rhys said, looking up with an easy, hopeful smile.

You hummed and glided straight past him toward the kitchen with the singular purpose of a woman who had a cup of tea to make and absolutely no High Lords to acknowledge in the process.

Behind you, the silence stretched. One second. Two.

Then Cassian's low, delighted snort, badly disguised as a cough. "Oh. Oh, that's bad."

"Shut up."

"No, no, take your time, genuinely, this might be the single greatest thing I've witnessed all week—"

"I said shut up, Cassian."

You allowed yourself a small smirk as you reached the kitchen, already reaching for the kettle, already congratulating yourself on your flawless execution of Operation Ignore Rhysand Into Submission.

You heard the scrape of a chair, papers rustling with far less diplomatic care than they probably deserved, and then the unmistakable, rapid cadence of footsteps closing the distance behind you at a speed that was unfair.

You picked up your pace, aiming for the far counter like it was a finish line in some race you hadn't agreed to enter.

You did not make it. Obviously. He had wings and several centuries of reflexes and you had a nightgown and injured pride.

An arm banded around your waist, spinning you with a dizzying ease that made your stomach swoop despite your best efforts, and then your back met the edge of the kitchen counter, Rhysand's body caging you in on either side with his forearms braced against the counter, close enough that you could smell that maddening scent of his.

You squirmed. Half-heartedly. In the specific way that technically qualified as resistance on paper but wouldn't have dislodged a mildly determined kitten, let alone a male who had absolutely zero intention of letting you go anywhere.

This is, annoyingly, your favorite place in the entire world.

Still, you fixed your gaze pointedly on the small, fascinating patch of wall just past his left ear.

Rhysand groaned. "Darling."

You said nothing. The wall was really quite an interesting shade of gray.

"You're doing the thing," he said, "where you look at literally anything except me. I invented that move. You cannot use it against its creator."

Still nothing. Riveting wall. Truly.

His hand came up, catching your chin with a gentleness that was almost more infuriating than if he'd been rough about it, tilting your face up until you had nowhere left to look but directly into those wounded violet eyes.

"Please talk to me," he murmured, thumb brushing along your jaw. "I'm sorry."

You jerked your chin sideways out of his grip with as much dignity as you could muster, reinstating your glare at a slightly more aggressive angle.

He simply followed, tugging your face back to his with unbothered patience.

"Stop it!" you burst out, voice cracking with something caught halfway between fury and helpless laughter. "I can't be mad at you when I have to look at you! That's not fair, that's basically cheating, you know what your face does to me—"

Something amused flickered across his features, entirely too pleased with himself for someone who was technically still in trouble. His head tilted slightly, dark hair falling across his forehead, and he had the audacity to look smug about it. "Then stop being mad at me, you stubborn monster."

"I don't want to!" The words came out wobbly, more frustrated than you intended, and to your absolute horror you felt your eyes go hot and prickling at the edges. Not sad, just overflowing with the sheer indignity of being furious and thoroughly charmed in the very same breath.

Rhysand's expression melted instantly, all traces of smugness gone, replaced by something so soft and worried it was borderline unfair on top of everything else. "What's wrong now, my love?"

"I'm mad at you," you said thickly, glaring through the threatening tears with everything you had, "for making me mad at you. Which means it's still your fault, so don't look at me like that."

He pressed his lips together, valiantly fighting back a smile and losing rather badly. "Okay. Noted. How do I fix it?"

"I don't know!" You shoved uselessly at his chest, which accomplished nothing except reminding you exactly how solid he was, which was, again, deeply unhelpful to your cause. "Apologize properly, you overgrown bat. Grovel a little. I want groveling."

He brought both hands up to frame your face fully now, thumbs brushing gentle, reverent strokes at your cheekbones, all traces of teasing finally gone soft and sincere, that particular quiet voice he only used for you and no one else in any court. "I'm sorry I made you be mad at me. I should have known better than to behave so despicably. You're perfect, and you're never wrong, even when you're glaring at me like I've personally offended your entire bloodline. And I love you."

You glared up at him, eyes still glassy, jaw stubbornly set, fighting the traitorous twitch pulling at the corner of your mouth. A long beat passed, tense and ridiculous and entirely too fond.

"Fine," you finally grunted, like the word cost you something precious. "You're forgiven. But I'm still telling everyone I won the cooking bet."

"You didn't even finish the bet—"

"You are so—"

He didn't wait a heartbeat longer, hauling you flush against him and kissing you deeply, thoroughly, one hand sliding into your hair while the other pressed warm against the small of your back like he was trying to physically communicate every apology he hadn't managed with words. You melted into it despite yourself, despite the whole morning, despite Cassian's very audible presence somewhere behind you, and Rhysand laughed low into the kiss, delighted and relieved in equal measure.

"You ridiculous woman," he murmured against your lips, "conceding a war over one bowl of cold soup."

"It was excellent soup," you muttered back, "and you missed it."

"I did." He kissed you again, softer. "Never again."

"You nap hard."

"I train warriors."

"You bully them."

"They like it."

Rhys pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose as though warding off a headache centuries in the making.

"You are asking me," he said carefully, "to host an event that would require coordinating multiple courts, adjusting diplomatic schedules, and potentially uprooting centuries-old grudges—because you want to 'mingle.'"

"Yes."

Azriel's mouth twitched. Cassian swallowed loudly. "I support mingling."

Rhys shot him a look. Cassian immediately pretended to be very invested in his plate again.

I leaned forward across the table, widening my eyes in a way that had secured me far too many victories in this household.

"It'll be good for relations," I insisted. "Neutral ground. Good food. Music. No one plotting war."

Rhys let out a long, theatrical sigh. I knew that sigh. That was the sound of defeat.

"Fine," he muttered at last. "I will send correspondence and see who is available."

I shot to my feet so fast my chair scraped loudly across the floor. "Yes!"

Cassian whooped. Azriel merely shook his head, though the faint curve of his lips betrayed him. Rhys levelled a knowing look at me.

"I am also fully aware," he added slowly, "that you are only begging for this so you can flirt with Tarquin or Helion."

I did not even attempt to look ashamed.

"And so what?" I said brightly. "I have to keep my options open. You never know. I could end up High Lady of Day or Summer." I winked dramatically.

Rhys groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

Cassian's eyes lit up with mischief. "Imagine her in the Day Court."

Azriel leaned back in his chair. "Helion would encourage her."

"That's the point," I said sweetly.

Rhys muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse in an ancient dialect.

Cassian snapped his fingers suddenly. "What about Beron?"

I choked on my juice. Actually choked. Liquid went down the wrong way and I had to clap a hand over my mouth as I fought to swallow without humiliating myself entirely.

"Do not," I managed hoarsely, once I could breathe again, "ever curse me like that."

Cassian grinned like a demon. "You'd look lovely in Autumn colours."

I threw a strawberry at his head. He caught it in his mouth without breaking eye contact and chewed exaggeratedly.

Azriel outright laughed this time.

Rhys looked between the two of us like we were feral animals he had mistakenly invited indoors.

"Well," I said once I had regained my composure, brushing crumbs from my dress, "this means we have to go shopping."

Silence. Three pairs of male eyes snapped to me.

Rhys recovered first. "I have meetings."

Cassian shook his head slowly. "I have training."

Azriel said nothing but the way he began to rise from the table suggested imminent escape.

"Nope," I said cheerfully. "You are all coming with me."

Rhys narrowed his eyes. "Why."

"Because," I said, as if it were obvious, "I need a gown worthy of potentially becoming High Lady of somewhere."

Cassian groaned loudly enough to rattle the windows. Azriel actually attempted to vanish.

"Don't you dare," I warned. His shadows betrayed him, curling around my wrist like traitors.

"You already own gowns," Rhys pointed out.

"Not ones designed to make Helion forget his own name."

 Cassian barked a laugh. Rhys stared at me as if reconsidering every life decision that had led him here.

And then because they never truly denied me anything he sighed. 

"Get your coat."

The boutiques of Velaris were a dangerous place when I was determined.

The shop we entered was all velvet drapes and gilded mirrors, racks of silk and chiffon arranged like art rather than clothing. The shopkeeper's eyes widened almost imperceptibly when she recognised Rhysand.

"High Lord," she greeted smoothly. Rhys inclined his head.

I was already halfway through the displays.

"I need something," I announced, running my fingers along a rack of shimmering fabrics, "that says 'effortlessly radiant but possibly future royalty.'"

Cassian muttered something about this being a mistake. Azriel took up position near a mirror, arms folded, resigned.

For the next hour, I paraded out in gown after gown. Emerald silk. Crimson velvet. A silver piece that Cassian declared made me look "dangerously expensive."

Azriel was forced into giving opinions. "Too much," he said of one. "Too little," of another.

Rhys sat in a velvet chair like a long-suffering monarch, chin resting on his knuckles, violet eyes tracking me with an expression that was equal parts indulgent and calculating.

Then I found it.

It was absurd. Deep midnight blue that shifted almost black in certain light, cut to skim every curve without apology. The bodice was embroidered with constellations in fine gold thread, the skirt flowing like liquid starlight when I moved.

I stepped out onto the platform.

The room went quiet. Cassian blinked. Azriel's shadows stilled. Rhys straightened slightly.

"Well?" I demanded.

Cassian cleared his throat. "If you walk into a room wearing that, someone is going to propose."

Azriel nodded once. "It suits you."

Rhys's gaze dragged slowly from head to toe, assessing, thoughtful. "Turn," he said softly. 

I did. The skirt flared perfectly. 

He exhaled. "That's the one."

I grinned. Then I glanced at the tag. My grin faltered. "That," Cassian said, peering over my shoulder, "could fund a small war."

"It's an investment," I said weakly.

Rhys didn't even blink. "We'll take it."

I turned toward him. "Rhys—"

He waved a hand dismissively. "If I am hosting half of Prythian, you are not walking into that room in something modest."

Cassian was immediately burdened with garment bags and boxes. "I hate this tradition," he muttered as I handed him another parcel.

"You love me," I replied.

He grumbled but he did not put the bags down.

Azriel held the door open as we stepped back into the street, his shadows already drifting ahead of us.

I linked my arm through Rhys's. "You're the best High Lord ever," I informed him.

"I am aware," he replied dryly.

Cassian adjusted the mountain of boxes in his arms. "If one of them flirts with you in that dress, I'm starting a war."

Azriel didn't disagree.

I laughed, the sound bright against the city air. "Relax," I said. "It's just a party."

It was not just a party.

By the time the evening arrived, the house overlooking the Sidra had been transformed into something out of a dream. 

Chandeliers of starlight floated overhead, casting soft silver illumination across polished floors and towering windows. 

Music drifted through the open archways, strings and piano weaving together in something elegant and warm. 

The scent of citrus, wine, and night-blooming jasmine lingered in the air.

The Night Court did not do anything halfway.

And neither, apparently, did its High Lord when indulging me.

I stood at the top of the staircase for a moment before descending, letting the murmur of gathered voices rise up toward me. Nobles and emissaries from across Prythian filled the hall below in silks and jewels, colours from every court blending into a living mosaic.

The gown was everything it had promised to be.

Midnight blue, nearly black in the softer light, the constellations stitched across the bodice shimmered faintly as though I carried a piece of the night sky with me. 

The fabric skimmed my waist and hips before falling in a fluid cascade to the floor, parting just enough at one side to reveal a flash of leg when I walked.

I felt powerful. Dangerous. Radiant. And very aware of three pairs of eyes watching me descend.

Rhys stood near the base of the stairs in formal black, crown absent but authority unmistakable.  Cassian lingered to one side, arms folded, already scanning the room like a soldier anticipating an ambush. Azriel stood half in shadow near one of the columns, quiet and lethal and entirely too perceptive.

Their expressions shifted in unison as I reached the final step.

Cassian muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

Rhys extended an arm to me, his smile slow and knowing. "You look," he said softly, "exactly like trouble."

"Good," I replied.

The first hour passed in polite greetings and carefully measured conversations. Courtiers bowed. Lords inclined their heads. Compliments were offered regarding the decor, the music, the wine.

Then the doors opened again.

Warmth entered the room before the sunlight-colored robes did.

Helion of the Day Court stepped inside like he owned every beam of light filtering through the windows. Gold gleamed at his wrists and throat, his hair falling artfully around a face that had been sculpted for both war and poetry.

His eyes found me immediately. Of course they did. A slow, appreciative smile curved his mouth.

Rhys felt it too, his hand at the small of my back tightened almost imperceptibly. "Behave," he murmured.

"I always behave," I lied.

Helion approached with effortless grace, bowing first to Rhys in a show of diplomatic respect before turning that brilliant, assessing gaze on me.

"The Night Court's princess," he said warmly. "You outshine even the stars this evening."

I dipped into a polite curtsy. "Flattery already? You've barely arrived."

He placed a hand over his heart. "It is not flattery if it is fact."

Behind me, I could practically hear Cassian grinding his teeth. Azriel had gone very, very still. Rhys smiled pleasantly. Too pleasantly.

"And how fares the Day Court?" I asked, tilting my head slightly.

Helion stepped closer not inappropriately, but near enough that his voice lowered just for me. "Brighter, now."

I laughed softly.

Rhys's fingers pressed a fraction firmer against my back.

"I should hope your entire court does not hinge on my presence," I replied. "That seems structurally unsound."

Helion's eyes gleamed. "On the contrary. I believe it would be a wise investment."

Cassian made a choking sound somewhere to my left.

Before the conversation could escalate further into poetic nonsense, another ripple moved through the room.

Cool, salt-tinged air seemed to follow the next arrival.

Tarquin entered with the quiet strength of the sea itself, turquoise and white fabrics flowing around him, his crown subtle but unmistakable.

Where Helion was sunfire and charm, Tarquin was tide and calm depth.

His gaze softened when it landed on me. He bowed slightly. "You look well."

"And you look like you brought the ocean with you," I replied.

A faint smile touched his mouth. "It insisted."

Cassian muttered, "I hate this." Azriel did not comment, but the shadows at his shoulders thickened slightly.

Tarquin offered his arm. "May I?"

Rhys's jaw tightened. I raised a brow at him. He released my waist slowly. "For diplomacy," he said smoothly.

"Of course," I agreed innocently.

Tarquin guided me toward the centre of the room where couples had begun to gather for the next dance. His hand at my waist was steady and respectful, his other holding mine as the music shifted into something slower, smoother.

"You've been quiet since the war," I said softly as we moved.

"And you've been restless," he countered.

I smiled. "Restless is better than broken."

His grip tightened slightly. "You would not have broken."

Across the room, I caught sight of Helion watching us with open amusement.

Cassian looked like he was calculating how difficult it would be to throw a High Lord through a window without causing an international incident.

Azriel's gaze flicked between every potential threat in the room, though it lingered longest on me.

Rhys stood with a glass of wine in hand, expression perfectly composed except for the faint violet glow beginning to thread through his eyes.

When the dance ended, Helion appeared at my side almost immediately. "My turn," he declared lightly.

Tarquin released me with a nod.

Helion's hand was warmer, his presence more overtly magnetic. He spun me once beneath his arm, the skirt of my gown flaring like night unfurling.

"You are enjoying yourself far too much," he murmured.

"Is that not the point of a party?"

His laugh was rich and low. "If this is your idea of diplomacy, I am suddenly in favour of far more gatherings."

Across the room, Cassian's patience visibly eroded. "He's smiling too much," he muttered to Azriel.

Azriel's reply was quiet. "She is smiling too."

Rhys downed the rest of his wine.

When Helion finally released me, I found myself immediately bracketed by three very familiar presences.

Cassian crossed his arms. "Having fun?"

"Immensely," I replied sweetly.

Azriel's gaze scanned my face. "You're enjoying provoking us."

"Maybe."

Rhys leaned closer, voice velvet and warning. "You are aware that if either of them so much as suggests relocating courts, I will remind them precisely whose city this is."

I laughed. "It's just harmless flirting."

Cassian made a noise of protest.

Helion caught my eye from across the room and raised his glass. Tarquin inclined his head in quiet acknowledgement.

Three High Lords in the room. Two of them smiling at me.

And three males at my side looking moments away from declaring territorial warfare.

I slipped my arms through Cassian's and Azriel's, leaning my head briefly against Rhys's shoulder.

"Relax," I murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."

Cassian huffed. Azriel's shadows eased. Rhys pressed a kiss to my temple. "You are exhausting," he informed me fondly.

I grinned up at them.

"And yet," I said, glancing back toward the dance floor where Helion and Tarquin still lingered, "you let me host the party anyway."

Cassian's POV -

The party had reached that dangerous, glittering stage where everyone was just tipsy enough to believe themselves charming.

Music flowed through the house in warm waves, laughter rising toward the starlit chandeliers. Silk brushed silk. Jewels caught the light. Diplomats who had once argued across battlefields now debated wine selections with polite smiles.

And I was sitting in the corner of the bar with a crystal glass of amber liquid in my hand, pretending I had chosen to be there. I hadn't.

It had simply... happened.

Rhys had been claimed by a cluster of nobles eager for his attention. Azriel had drifted into a quiet conversation with someone important-looking and tense. 

And she was across the room, laughing at something some male had just said.

I swirled the liquid in my glass, unimpressed.

The male was tall. Polished. Wearing an expression that suggested he'd practised it in a mirror. He leaned closer when she spoke, as if proximity alone would secure him victory.

She laughed again. I narrowed my eyes.

"She's going to blind someone in that dress," I muttered to no one.

The gown shimmered every time she shifted, stitched constellations catching the starlight overhead. It was dramatic. Excessive. Perfectly her.

The male said something else. She tilted her head. Smiled politely.

Then she stepped back. Said something I couldn't hear. The male blinked. She patted his arm. Patted him. Like he was a well-meaning but slightly dim puppy. 

And walked away. Just like that.

She crossed the room with easy confidence, the skirt of her gown whispering over the floor, and made a beeline straight for me.

I straightened instinctively. She slid onto the stool beside mine and reached for my glass without asking.

"Hey—"

She took a sip anyway. Then wrinkled her nose. "That's terrible."

"It's strong," I corrected.

She waved that away and signalled the bartender for something else entirely.

I stared at her. "What happened to Prince Charming?"

She leaned her elbow on the bar and rested her chin in her hand, looking entirely pleased with herself. "Boring."

I snorted. "Five minutes ago you were laughing."

"I was being polite."

"You hate being polite."

She grinned.

I studied her for a moment longer before asking, "So why'd you ditch him?"

She picked up the new drink the bartender set down and lifted it toward me in a small toast. "Because," she said lightly, eyes glinting, "I like my brother far more."

There was no softness to it. No heavy emotion. Just simple, blunt fact.

I snorted. "Obviously. I'm the superior option."

"You are," she agreed easily. "You're way more entertaining." She clinked her glass against mine and took a sip.

Across the room, Rhys had clearly noticed the shift. His conversation tapered off. Azriel's as well.

Within moments, they both drifted toward us like they'd planned it that way all along.

Rhys leaned against the bar on her other side. "Should I be concerned that you've abandoned foreign diplomacy?"

Azriel stopped just behind us, shadows brushing the edge of the counter.

"She grew bored," I supplied.

She gasped softly. "Do not expose me."

Rhys arched a brow. "You're telling me that male was not captivating?"

"He tried to explain trade routes to me."

Azriel made a quiet sound of sympathy.

Rhys winced. "Unforgivable."

She pointed at him. "Exactly."

The bartender slid another round of drinks down the counter, strong, clear, dangerous-looking. I eyed them suspiciously. "What is that?"

She lifted one immediately. "Fun."

Rhys looked at the glass. "That looks like regret."

Azriel picked his up without comment.

She lifted hers high. "To tonight."

"To surviving it," I amended.

"To not starting a war," Azriel added dryly.

Rhys tilted his glass toward her. "To our menace."

She beamed. We knocked the glasses back. It burned all the way down. She coughed. Rhys coughed more delicately. Azriel didn't react at all, which was deeply unfair.

"That is vile," she choked.

"You ordered it," I reminded her.

She laughed anyway, that bright, unrestrained sound that always made the room feel smaller and warmer all at once.

Another round appeared. And another.

At some point, the four of us had turned inward, backs half to the rest of the party. The music and chatter faded into background noise as we leaned closer together, trading increasingly ridiculous stories.

Rhys recounted an exaggerated version of me falling out of the sky during training centuries ago.

"That was wind interference," I argued.

"You hit a tree," Azriel corrected calmly.

"It attacked me."

She laughed so hard she nearly tipped sideways off her stool.

I grabbed the back of her gown before she could slide to the floor. "Sit up, you disaster."

"I'm fine!" she protested, still laughing.

Rhys was grinning openly now, violet eyes bright with liquor and amusement. Azriel's shadows had gone loose and lazy, drifting in slow arcs around us instead of scanning for threats.

And just like that, the rest of it stopped mattering.

The High Lords, the politics, the gowns and glittering nobles—all of it blurred into irrelevance.

It was just us crammed into a corner of our own party like overgrown adolescents, arguing over ancient stories and daring each other to take one more shot.

She leaned back slightly, looking between us. "I like this better," she admitted softly.

Rhys's expression gentled. Azriel nodded once.

I slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Told you," I said. "You don't need foreign princes."

She rolled her eyes but didn't pull away.

Rhys lifted one final glass. "To family," he said quietly.

Azriel echoed it.

I squeezed her shoulder once. "To family."

She smiled at us wide and bright and utterly ours in the most platonic, unshakable way.

And in a room full of power and posturing and potential alliances, the four of us laughing like idiots in the corner felt like the most important thing in it.

Just us. Exactly how it should be.

A/N - Last part, and we're ending things the only way this group knows how, a little chaos, a lot of banter, and some very needed comfort :)

This series has been such a joy to write and I really hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed bringing it to life!!

The next one is called "The Way Back" and it's an Eris one! Think second-chance romance and lot's of yearning—the masterlist is already posted for anybody interested x

Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think <33

"We just sat down for dinner," Rhys said mildly.

"And we can sit down for drinks instead," I countered without hesitation.

Azriel's dark gaze flicked to me, unimpressed. "Nothing good ever comes from us going to Rita's."

"That," I said, rising onto my knees and pointing at him triumphantly, "is precisely why we should go."

Cassian barked out a laugh. 

Azriel sighed, as though the weight of centuries had finally caught up to him.

Rhys steepled his fingers. "You recall the last time we went? Cassian nearly challenged a visiting emissary to a duel over a spilt drink."

"He insulted my wings," Cassian grumbled.

"He did not."

"He looked at them wrong."

I waved that away impatiently and crawled closer to Rhys's chair, resting my chin dramatically on the armrest.

"Please," I said again, softer this time, widening my eyes in a way that had worked on them since I was very small and very devious.

Cassian folded his arms, pretending deep contemplation. Azriel looked at Rhys. Rhys looked at me. Silence stretched. Then—

"Let's go!" Cassian declared suddenly, shooting upright like he'd been waiting for an excuse.

I leapt to my feet so fast I nearly knocked over the table. "Yes!"

Cassian grinned at me. "You had me at 'please.'"

Azriel pinched the bridge of his nose. Rhys only shook his head faintly, though there was the slightest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth.

I shrugged off my coat in one dramatic motion.

Cassian's grin faltered. Rhys's eyes sharpened. Azriel went very still.

Beneath the coat, I wore a fitted dress that shimmered like captured starlight—deep midnight blue scattered with tiny flecks of silver that caught the light with every movement. 

The fabric clung in ways that were entirely intentional, the neckline daring, the skirt short enough to reveal the delicate straps of matching heels winding up my calves.

Cassian blinked. Rhys slowly scanned me from head to toe. Azriel's shadows stilled completely.

Rhys tilted his head. "So," he said carefully, "you didn't even anticipate we'd say no."

I grinned. "When have you ever said no to me?"

Cassian opened his mouth.

Rhys cut him off with a look. "Never," he admitted.

I beamed and stepped forward, pressing a quick kiss to Rhys's cheek. "You're the best High Lord ever."

"I know."

Before any of them could reconsider their life choices, I grabbed my coat and bolted for the door. "Move before I lose momentum!" I called over my shoulder.

Rita's was already alive by the time we arrived.

Music pulsed through the walls and into the street, a deep rhythmic beat that seemed to sync with the heartbeat of the city itself. 

Violet lights spilt from the windows, laughter and conversation blending with the intoxicating hum of a hundred conversations happening at once.

The moment we stepped inside, warmth and sound swallowed us whole.

I inhaled deeply. "This," I declared, "is exactly what I needed."

Cassian's answering grin was feral.

Rhys scanned the room automatically, High Lord instincts never truly at rest, while Azriel's shadows slipped into the dim corners as naturally as smoke.

"Someone get me a drink," I announced, already backing toward the dance floor. "I'm going to dance."

"You are not going alone—" Rhys began.

Too late. I slipped into the crowd before he could finish the sentence.

The music wrapped around me instantly, the beat heavy and irresistible. I let it take me without thinking, arms lifting, hips swaying, hair falling loose down my back as the world narrowed to sound and light and movement.

Around me, strangers laughed and spun and lost themselves in the rhythm. The lights glinted off my dress, scattering tiny constellations across the dance floor every time I moved.

For a few blissful moments, there was nothing else. No politics. No training. No expectations. Just music.

A familiar presence brushed against my mind.

Enjoying yourself? Rhys's voice purred straight into my head.

Immensely, I shot back, spinning once just to feel the air move around me.

From across the room, I caught sight of them near the bar.

Cassian had already acquired two drinks and was arguing animatedly with the bartender about something ridiculous. 

Azriel stood beside him, posture relaxed but gaze scanning the room in quiet vigilance. 

Rhys leaned casually against the counter, violet eyes locked on me despite the chaos around him. Protective. Always.

I rolled my eyes affectionately and turned back into the music, letting myself disappear into it again. 

I danced without restraint, laughing when a group of females beside me cheered at a particularly dramatic spin, the lights catching in their hair and jewels. 

For a few minutes, I was nothing but movement and rhythm and warmth.

And then I stepped backwards at the wrong moment.

My heel clipped something solid.

I stumbled, catching myself just as a glass slipped from someone's hand. Amber liquid sloshed over the rim and splashed down the front of an exquisitely tailored jacket.

The music didn't stop, but something in the air shifted.

I turned immediately. "I'm so sorry—"

The male in front of me stared down at the spreading stain on his jacket as if I'd just committed treason. He was impeccably dressed, dark hair swept back perfectly, rings glinting on his fingers. 

Around him stood a small cluster of equally polished males and females, all silk and jewels and carefully arranged smiles.

One of the females looked me over slowly, her gaze dragging from my heels to my hair.

"Well," she said lightly, though there was nothing light about her tone, "I suppose we shouldn't expect better."

The male dabbed uselessly at his jacket. "Honestly."

I straightened slightly. "It was an accident. I said I'm sorry."

Another male in the group let out a short laugh. "From Windhaven, aren't you?"

The words were casual. Almost bored. But they hit like a blade sliding neatly between ribs. My spine went rigid.

The female's lips curved faintly. "That explains it."

A pause. Then, softly, just loud enough. "They're all a bit unsocialised up there, aren't they?"

Something in my chest tightened.

Windhaven. Cold stone and harsher voices. Males who measured worth in bloodlines and brutality. Females who were taught to lower their eyes and their expectations.

I had spent centuries clawing my way out of the shape that place tried to force me into.

I knew better than to let words like that sink too deep. I knew better. So I smiled. A small one.

"If you'd like," I said evenly, "I can pay for the cleaning."

The male scoffed as if I'd insulted him further. "It's not about the money." Of course it wasn't.

"It's about manners," the female added sweetly. "Some of us were taught them."

The music throbbed on around us, but it felt distant now, muffled under the rush of blood in my ears. I was used to this. Used to the sideways looks, the assumptions, the polite disdain dressed up as wit.

I had learned long ago to swallow it. To ignore it. To be unbothered.

So I inclined my head slightly. "Enjoy your evening."

I turned to step away. I didn't make it two paces.

Cassian's presence hit the air behind me like a storm breaking. "What," he said very clearly, "did you just say?"

I froze. The group stiffened.

Cassian moved to stand at my shoulder, broad and imposing, wings flaring slightly behind him. His jaw was tight, hazel eyes burning with a kind of controlled fury that I knew very well.

"Cass," I murmured under my breath.

Azriel appeared on my other side so quietly that it was almost unnatural. His shadows were no longer lazy, they coiled tightly around him, writhing with something sharp and cold. His face had gone utterly blank.

Which was worse. Much worse.

Rhys approached more slowly. Calm. Measured. Terrifying in an entirely different way.

The crowd nearby had begun to notice. Conversations faltered. Space subtly widened around us.

The male with the stained jacket lifted his chin, though his earlier confidence had thinned noticeably.

"It was nothing," he said quickly. "A misunderstanding."

Cassian stepped forward anyway. "You don't get to insult her and call it nothing."

"It wasn't an insult," the female interjected, though she wouldn't quite meet Azriel's gaze. "It was an observation."

Azriel's shadows slid across the floor at her feet. She went pale.

Rhys clasped his hands loosely behind his back, expression almost bored. "I would choose your next words very carefully."

There was no raised voice. No visible threat. That made it worse.

The male swallowed. "High Lord, we meant no disrespect."

Cassian laughed once, sharp and humourless. "You're doing a spectacular job of showing that."

"Cassian," I said more firmly, catching his wrist.

He didn't look at me. His focus was entirely on the male in front of us. Azriel's silence was heavier than the music, heavier than the crowd.

I stepped slightly in front of Cassian before he could close the distance further.

"Enough."

All three of them looked at me. Rhys's eyes searched my face carefully. Cassian's wings twitched with barely restrained violence. Azriel's shadows stilled.

"It was an accident," I said steadily. "I apologised. We're leaving it there."

The female bristled. "She spilt—"

Rhys turned his head slightly toward her. That was all it took. She fell silent.

The male with the jacket forced a tight smile. "Of course. No need to escalate."

Cassian leaned down slightly so they could hear him clearly over the music. "Be grateful she's the one speaking right now."

My grip tightened on his wrist. "Cassian." His jaw flexed.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might ignore me. Then he exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped back.

Azriel's shadows retreated slowly, reluctantly, like blades being sheathed.

Rhys gave the group one final, assessing look, cold and royal and utterly unforgiving. "Enjoy your evening," he said smoothly.

It was not a suggestion. The group scattered almost immediately.

The music seemed to swell back into place as the tension dissolved.

I turned toward my brothers. Cassian was still vibrating with anger. Azriel's gaze was searching, sharp, as if looking for cracks in me. Rhys stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Are you alright?"

I forced a small smile. "I've heard worse."

Cassian's hands curled into fists again. "That doesn't mean you should have to."

Something warm and painful twisted in my chest. "I'm fine," I insisted softly. "Truly."

Azriel studied me for a long moment. Then he said quietly, "They won't say it again."

It wasn't a promise made lightly.

Rhys's fingers brushed mine, subtle and grounding. "You do not belong to that place," he said, voice calm but unyielding. "And no one in this city will ever make you feel small for surviving it."

Cassian nodded once, fiercely.

The music pulsed around us again, the lights flashing gold and violet.

I took a steadying breath. "Can we," I said lightly, forcing a grin, "go back to dancing before one of you declares war?"

Cassian huffed. Rhys arched a brow. Azriel's shadows softened.

And after a moment Cassian held out his hand.

"Fine," he muttered. "But I'm still throwing the next punch if someone looks at you wrong."

I laughed despite myself and took his hand, letting them pull me back into the crowd—three shadows at my back, daring the world to try again.

Azriel's POV - 

"Someone fly me home, my legs don't work."

The words were slightly slurred, softened by laughter and whatever concoction Cassian had convinced the bartender to make her "just to try." 

She stood in front of us in the quiet street outside Rita's, bouncing on the balls of her feet in a futile attempt to fight off the bite of the winter air. Snow still lined the rooftops of Velaris, glowing faintly under the lantern light, the Sidra reflecting the moon like spilt silver.

"Your legs are working," Cassian pointed out, laughing. "You're using them right now."

She stopped mid-bounce and glared at him as if he had betrayed her on a fundamental level.

"They are working against their will" she informed him gravely.

Rhys chuckled softly, pulling his coat tighter around her shoulders without comment. She leaned into it automatically, unaware of the way he adjusted it to shield her from the wind.

The earlier tension inside the club had faded into something softer now, diluted by music and motion and the steady reassurance of us at her back. 

But I had not forgotten it. I doubted I would for a long while.

The way her spine had gone stiff. The way she'd smiled anyway.

I stepped forward before Cassian could continue teasing her. "I'll take her," I said quietly.

Cassian opened his mouth to argue on principle alone. Rhys cut him off with a look.

She turned toward me, eyes bright, hair slightly windswept, that starlit dress catching the moonlight.

"You're my favourite," she announced.

Cassian gasped in exaggerated outrage. "Blatant favouritism!"

Rhys placed a hand over his heart. "After everything I've done for you."

She was already walking toward me.

I bent slightly, and wrapped an arm around her waist, feeling the faint unsteadiness beneath her bravado. Her arms slid around my shoulders, warm even through my leathers.

"Comfortable?" I asked quietly.

"Mhm," she murmured, cheek resting on my shoulder.

Cassian stretched his wings beside us. "Race you."

Rhys rolled his eyes. "You're insufferable."

Cassian grinned. "You love me."

I unfurled my wings and launched into the night before they could escalate into a full argument.

The city fell away beneath us in a blur of silver rooftops and winding streets dusted in moonlight. The Sidra shimmered like spilt starlight below, the air cool and clean against my face. Her grip tightened slightly as we gained altitude, but not in fear just instinct.

She had always loved flying.

Her laughter drifted past my ear when I angled us slightly, catching a smooth current of air. "You're showing off," she accused softly.

"Cassian shows off," I replied. "I'm efficient."

She hummed in disagreement.

Behind us, I could hear the powerful beat of two other sets of wings, Cassian's louder and more aggressive, Rhys's steady and controlled. They kept pace easily.

We reached the house first.

I landed lightly on the balcony, folding my wings as she slid away from me, swaying only slightly when her heels touched the stone.

I steadied her without comment.

Inside, the house was quiet, warm. She kicked off her shoes near the door with a dramatic sigh of relief.

"Worth it," she declared.

I watched her for a moment as she wandered farther inside, tugging pins from her hair and letting it fall freely over her shoulders.

The silence between us was softer now. Quieter. She moved toward the window, looking out over the city lights.

I stepped closer. "You know we've got you, right?"

The words left me before I had fully decided to speak them.

She didn't turn immediately. For a heartbeat I wondered if she would pretend not to understand what I meant.

The club. The comment. Windhaven.

She nodded. "I know," she said softly.

I studied her profile, the strength in it, the resilience that had been forged in a place that had tried very hard to break her.

They deserved worse. The males at the club. The ones in Windhaven. Anyone who had ever looked at her and seen less.

My shadows stirred in agreement.

She finally glanced at me, offering a small smile. "I'm okay, Az."

I inclined my head. I believed her. That didn't mean I forgave them.

The front door opened moments later with the unmistakable sound of Cassian's voice carrying through the house.

"We let you win the race," he announced as he strode in.

Rhys followed at a far more dignified pace. "By 'let,' he means he lost."

"I did not lose."

"You absolutely did."

She laughed, the sound lighter now, freer.

Cassian dropped onto the couch dramatically. "I'm starving."

"You're always starving," she replied, moving to flop down beside him.

Rhys poured himself a drink, leaning against the sideboard with elegant ease. "So," he said lightly, "successful evening?"

She tilted her head back against the cushions, considering.

"I danced," she said. "Cassian nearly committed murder. Az scared half the room without speaking. And you threatened someone politely."

Rhys lifted his glass in acknowledgement. "A balanced night."

Cassian nudged her shoulder with his own. "Next time someone says something like that—"

"I know," she interrupted gently.

He studied her face for a moment. Then he sighed and draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side in a display of open affection.

She didn't protest.

Rhys crossed the room and pressed a kiss to the top of her head as he passed.

I took the armchair opposite them, shadows settling quietly.

The four of us sat there in easy companionship, the city lights flickering beyond the windows, the earlier confrontation fading into something distant and unimportant.

She yawned.

Cassian immediately looked offended. "You said your legs didn't work, not that you were tired."

She shoved him weakly and mumbled something incoherent as sleep began tugging at her.

Cassian glanced back at me. Rhys met my gaze across the room. No words were needed.

We had her. Always.

A/N - A night at Rita's turns into them protecting her after some entitled comments are made :(

They absolutely do not let that group live it down afterwards and we do end on some well-earned comfort, a bit of warmth, and the boys collectively deciding that anyone who looks at her sideways has chosen violence x

Thank you for reading <33

Roofs were dusted in white, the riverbanks soft and bright beneath the winter sky, the distant mountains gleaming like silver blades against the horizon. 

Even from my window I could see Velaris moving slower than usual, shops opening late, chimneys puffing smoke into the crisp air, children already dragging sledges through the streets.

Snow days meant one thing. 

No training. No responsibilities. No Rhysand pretending to be High Lord while secretly wanting to throw snowballs like the rest of us.

Which meant I had work to do.

I practically vaulted out of bed.

Within minutes I had dragged on thick socks, a heavy sweater, boots that laced halfway to my knees, and a coat that I barely bothered fastening as excitement hummed through me like electricity.

Then I marched straight down the hallway toward Rhys's room. The door burst open with dramatic enthusiasm.

"Get up!"

Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court and terror of half of Prythian, barely had time to open one eye before I grabbed his arm and started hauling. He slid halfway across the enormous bed, dark hair spilling over the pillows, wings twitching irritably as he groaned.

"What—" he muttered hoarsely, voice thick with sleep. "If this is another one of your ridiculous morning ideas—"

"It snowed," I announced.

Rhys blinked slowly. Then he groaned again and rolled onto his back, dragging a pillow over his face.

"Tragic," he said into the fabric.

I kicked his leg. Hard. "You have ten minutes."

Another groan. I didn't wait for further complaints before sprinting across the hall.

Cassian's door flew open with a bang. He was sleeping upside down.

I had long since stopped questioning why.

One wing dangled off the bed, one arm flopped across the floor, and his legs were tangled somewhere in the blankets like he had been attacked by them in the night.

He looked incredibly peaceful. 

Which meant it was my sacred duty to ruin it. I leapt directly onto his stomach.

"GET UP!"

Cassian woke with the kind of violent gasp usually reserved for battlefield ambushes. His wings flared. His body jerked. And I was promptly bucked off the bed as he swore loudly enough to wake half the house.

"What in the Cauldron—"

But I was already yanking the blankets away.

Cold winter air hit him instantly. Cassian curled inward like a dramatic dying animal. "You are the worst creature ever born," he groaned into the mattress.

"Ten minutes!" I sang, tossing the blankets aside.

Then I skipped down the hall toward the final door.

Azriel's was already slightly open. Of course it was. I pushed it wider, peering inside.

The room was dim, quiet, shadows drifting lazily through the corners like curious cats. Azriel lay on his back, perfectly still beneath the covers, wings folded neatly behind him.

His shadows noticed me first. They slithered eagerly across the room, brushing against my coat and curling around my wrists as if greeting me.

"Good morning to you too," I murmured.

They parted politely, granting me passage toward their master.

"Wake up, Azzie!" I announced far too loudly.

Azriel's eyes snapped open instantly. For half a second they were sharp, assessing, scanning me head to toe for danger the way only a spymaster could.

Then recognition dawned. Followed by a slow, long-suffering sigh. "What did you do?" he asked.

"Nothing yet."

He sat up slowly, already resigned to whatever chaos awaited him.

"Everybody outside in ten!" I shouted down the hallway as I left.

The cold hit like a slap when I stepped outside.

Snow crunched beneath my boots as I spun slowly in the courtyard, breathing in the sharp winter air. The sky was pale and bright, the kind of soft grey-blue that only appeared after fresh snowfall.

The entire world looked newly made. I stretched my arms wide, turning in a slow circle as flakes drifted lazily around me.

Behind me, the doors creaked open. Three very disgruntled males stepped into the snow.

Cassian had barely bothered pulling on a proper coat. Rhys looked like someone who had been dragged from the grave. Azriel, of course, was already fully dressed and alert despite the early hour.

Cassian glared at me like I had personally insulted his ancestors. "You are evil," he groaned.

I blew him a mocking kiss. "Look how pretty it is—"

The snowball hit the back of my head with deadly accuracy. Cold exploded down the back of my collar.

For a moment I stood there, stunned. Then I turned slowly.

Cassian stood ten feet away, smirking with the smug satisfaction of a male who had just made a very poor life choice.

"Oh," I said softly.

Rhys took one careful step backwards. Cassian's grin widened.

"Oh it is on," I hissed.

I scooped up a handful of snow and hurled it at his face. It struck him squarely across the cheek.

War erupted instantly.

Cassian lunged for more snow, Rhys laughing as he ducked out of the way of an incoming barrage. Snowballs began flying in every direction, exploding against wings and coats and hair as the courtyard descended into chaos.

Cassian launched one that narrowly missed my head. Rhys retaliated with two perfectly aimed throws that struck Cassian's shoulder and chest.

"Traitor!" Cassian shouted.

"You started it!" Rhys replied.

Another snowball whizzed past my ear.

I grabbed Azriel by the arm before he could quietly retreat from the madness. "Azriel, you're on my team."

He blinked down at me. "What?"

I was already dragging him toward the far side of the courtyard.

"What!?" Rhys groaned behind us. "Why do you get to choose?"

"Because I woke you up!" I shouted.

Cassian was already packing snow into suspiciously large ammunition. "That is not a rule!"

"Yes it is!"

Azriel allowed himself to be hauled behind a low stone wall where we crouched like conspirators.

Across the courtyard, Rhys and Cassian were arguing loudly. "You were clearly my second choice," Rhys was saying.

"Oh second choice?" Cassian scoffed. "You hesitated!"

"I did not hesitate!"

"You absolutely hesitated!"

I grinned wickedly. "We've already won," I whispered to Azriel.

He raised an eyebrow. "Have we."

"You're a spy," I said proudly, gesturing to him. "We have the advantage."

Azriel's shadows curled lazily around us, drifting outward into the snowy battlefield like scouts slipping through enemy lines.

Across the courtyard, Cassian finally noticed. "Oh that is cheating," he shouted.

Rhys squinted toward us. "Are those shadows carrying snowballs?"

Azriel's mouth twitched faintly. I scooped up another handful of snow. "Ready?" He inclined his head.

Across the battlefield, Cassian was already winding up another throw.

Rhys lifted his hands dramatically. "Let history record," he announced, "that this war was started by Cassian."

"LIES!" Cassian roared.

And then the next volley began with chaos.

Snow exploded across the courtyard as Cassian launched the first attack, the snowball sailing through the air like a missile aimed directly for my head.

Azriel moved before I could. One of his shadows surged upward and the snowball burst harmlessly against the stone wall beside us.

I blinked.

Across the courtyard Cassian froze mid-throw. "Did your shadow just block that?"

Azriel did not answer. He simply rose from behind the wall with quiet, terrifying efficiency.

I had seen my brother fight on battlefields before, had watched him dismantle opponents twice his size with eerie calm, but somehow it was far more unsettling to witness him apply those same instincts to a snowball fight.

He moved like a ghost.

One moment he stood beside me, the next he was gone entirely, slipping along the courtyard wall with silent precision while his shadows scattered outward like scouts.

Cassian squinted suspiciously. "Where'd he go?"

Rhys tilted his head thoughtfully. "Excellent question."

Another snowball struck Cassian square in the shoulder.

He spun around. Nothing there. Another hit him in the wing. Then one struck the back of his head.

Cassian whipped around in circles, glaring wildly. "Show yourself, coward!"

Azriel reappeared behind a statue ten yards away and calmly launched another perfect throw.

It nailed Cassian directly in the back. I nearly choked trying not to laugh.

"This isn't fair!" Cassian shouted.

"You said war," Rhys replied cheerfully.

Cassian narrowed his eyes. Then, slowly, very slowly, his gaze shifted toward Rhys. "You're suspiciously clean."

Rhys looked down at himself as if noticing this for the first time. "That is interesting."

Cassian bent down and began packing the largest snowball I had ever seen. "You're going down first."

Rhys's brows shot up. "Oh now hold on—"

Cassian launched the snowball like a catapult. Rhys ducked. The missile soared past him—and exploded directly against Azriel's chest.

Everything went very still. Cassian blinked. Azriel looked down slowly at the snow dripping from his coat.

Cassian pointed immediately at Rhys. "That was his fault."

Rhys snorted. Azriel's shadows rippled. Then he disappeared again.

Cassian swallowed. "Oh no."

The ambush that followed was nothing short of surgical.

Snowballs appeared from impossible angles, striking Cassian in the shoulder, the back, the wing, the side of the head before he could even turn.

"Where is he?" Cassian roared.

"Everywhere," Rhys said solemnly.

Cassian growled and lunged for Rhys.

Which was precisely when Rhys betrayed him. 

Cassian had just scooped up another snowball when Rhys casually stepped aside. "Actually," Rhys said thoughtfully, "I've reconsidered my alliances."

Cassian stared at him. "You traitorous—"

I seized my opportunity. I packed a snowball quickly and launched it straight at Cassian's head. Halfway through the air it curved. Not much. Just enough.

Cassian watched it happen in slow horror. "Did you just—"

The snowball smacked directly into his face. Perfect hit. Snow exploded across his nose, cheeks, and hair.

Cassian stood there frozen.

Rhys folded his hands behind his back innocently. "Natural wind pattern."

Azriel appeared beside me again, shadows curling lazily. "There's no wind," he said immediately.

Rhys smiled.

Cassian wiped snow from his eyes slowly. Very slowly. Then he pointed at me with terrifying calm. "Eternal revenge."

I burst out laughing. "Worth it."

Cassian scooped up another massive handful of snow with deadly focus. "Oh it's not over," he promised darkly.

Rhys leaned toward me conspiratorially. "You may want to start running."

Cassian launched the next snowball like artillery.

And suddenly the war began all over again.

Rhysand's POV - 

By the time we made it back inside the house, the four of us looked as though we had personally fought the entire winter season and lost.

Snow clung to our hair, our coats, the edges of my wings. My boots left damp prints across the polished floors as the warmth of the house began slowly melting the frost that had gathered along my sleeves. 

Cassian shook himself like an overgrown dog the moment the door shut behind us, sending a spray of snow and ice scattering across the entryway.

"Cassian," I said dryly.

"What?" he replied, wings rustling as he brushed snow from his shoulders.

"You are not a mountain wolf."

He ignored me entirely.

Across the room, she stood in the middle of the entry hall with her hair dusted white and her cheeks flushed bright from the cold, looking absurdly pleased with herself.

Her eyes lit up suddenly. "I'm going to make hot chocolate for everyone!" she announced.

Before any of us could respond, she spun on her heel and darted toward the kitchen.

Cassian groaned like a male who had just been sentenced to death. "Why," he demanded to the ceiling, "are we letting her into the kitchen?"

Azriel closed the door behind us with quiet patience, brushing the snow from his shoulders.

"She's trying to be nice," he said mildly. "Be grateful."

Cassian pointed toward the kitchen with deep suspicion. "Last time she tried to be nice she nearly burned the whole house down."

"That was one time."

"It was three times."

Azriel merely raised a brow. I sighed and began walking toward the kitchen.

"If the house burns down," Cassian muttered as he followed, "I'm blaming both of you."

The moment we stepped into the kitchen, it became abundantly clear that Cassian's concerns were not entirely unfounded.

She had already dragged a stool across the floor to reach the higher cupboards, balancing on the very edge of it while attempting to pull down a tin of cocoa powder.

Cassian inhaled sharply. "She's going to fall."

"She is not—"

At that exact moment she leaned too far forward. The stool wobbled. Cassian lunged forward.

Before he reached her, I flicked two fingers behind my back and steadied the stool with a small thread of magic. Azriel's shadows curled around the legs at the same time, anchoring it further.

She remained blissfully unaware.

"Got it!" she announced triumphantly as the tin came loose.

Cassian turned slowly toward Azriel. "You see?"

Azriel pretended to examine the counter. "See what?"

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

She hopped down from the stool and began assembling ingredients across the counter with determined focus.

Milk. Sugar. Cocoa. Marshmallows. An alarming amount of cream.

Cassian leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching her like a soldier observing an unstable battlefield.

"I give it three minutes," he murmured.

She reached for a pot. Knocked the spoon off the counter. Nearly elbowed the sugar bowl onto the floor. Azriel caught it mid-air with one quick hand before it shattered.

She didn't notice.

Cassian lifted a hand slowly and began counting on his fingers. "One..."

She opened the cupboard to grab mugs and immediately stood up too fast. Her head collided directly with the wooden door. The sound echoed loudly.

She blinked. "Ow."

All three of us moved at once.

Cassian grabbed the cupboard door before it could swing back and hit her again. Azriel gently closed it.

I stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Are you injured?"

She rubbed the top of her head, frowning slightly. "No."

Cassian exhaled deeply through his nose. "That counts," he said, lowering one finger.

She ignored him and turned back to the counter. Milk sloshed into the pot. Some of it missed entirely and splattered across the surface.

Azriel wordlessly reached for a cloth and wiped it up before it could drip over the edge.

She added cocoa powder. Half of it puffed into the air like a small explosion.

Cassian coughed. "Two."

"Stop counting," I told him.

"I refuse."

She stirred the pot enthusiastically. The spoon slipped. Cocoa splattered across the counter. Azriel quietly cleaned it.

When she reached for the cream, the bottle slipped from her hand and rolled off the counter.

Cassian caught it before it hit the floor. He stared at it for a long moment. Then slowly handed it back. "You're welcome."

"Thank you," she said brightly, already focused on pouring the chocolate into mugs.

Marshmallows came next. She grabbed a handful and attempted to toss them into each cup.

Three landed perfectly. Two bounced off the counter. One hit Cassian in the chest.

He stared down at it. Silence fell. Then Azriel's shoulders began shaking faintly. I turned away before she could see me smiling.

Cassian picked the marshmallow off his shirt with great dignity. "I hate this kitchen," he said solemnly.

She placed the mugs on a tray with proud satisfaction and turned toward us. "See? Perfect."

Behind her, the counter had been quietly wiped spotless. The spilt milk was gone. The sugar bowl was back in place.

Every small disaster had somehow vanished.

Azriel leaned casually against the wall. Cassian held the cream like it had always been in his hand. I took one of the mugs and sipped.

The hot chocolate was... surprisingly good. I raised a brow. "Well," I said.

Cassian took a cautious drink. Then blinked. "...Alright," he admitted reluctantly.

She beamed.

And none of us mentioned the quiet teamwork that had prevented the kitchen from becoming a complete catastrophe.

A/N - Snow days!! I was slightly inspired by that one part from "In Bloom" and we end up with a very serious, very strategic, absolutely chaotic war in the snow :)

Rhys immediately switches sides when it suits him, Azriel is quietly amused by everything and Cassian is one marshmallow away from declaring permanent retirement from all group activities. Meanwhile, she nearly takes herself out making hot chocolate, but insists it was "perfectly under control the entire time" xx

I loved writing this part—it was very indulgent, cosy, and a little unhinged in the best way!!

Thank you for reading <33

You stopped when you noticed his breathing had evened out, and his body had finally relaxed. You gently stroked his hair, trying to keep him asleep. Your eyes found Azriel's, warmth spreading through you at the unguarded admiration he was giving you. Azriel forgot he was staring until Rhys’ hand on his shoulder pulled him back to the moment. “She's good with him.” Rhys says, watching his son sleeping peacefully. “She is.” Azriel agrees, his eyes still on you as the soft lullaby your humming drifts across the room.

“Careful or she'll want one of her own.” Rhys teases but there's truth in his words. “I'll give her as many as she wants.” Azriel says without hesitation. He doesn't try to deny that he's imagined it himself. Everytime he witnesses a quiet moment between you and Nyx he's imagined it. He's patient though, waiting for you to decide you're ready without him feeling like he's pressuring you into it. “You might not have to wait much longer.” Rhys says with a grin before walking towards you.

You let Rhys pick up Nyx, making sure not to wake him. He stirs but doesn't wake as Rhys carries him towards his room. It isn't long before Azriel's standing beside you. “You're good with him. Better than most of us.” Azriel says as he sits beside you. “He makes it easy.” You say, letting Azriel hold you close to him. “Rhys says if I'm not careful you'll want your own.” Azriel says with a grin. “And what if I did?” You ask. You've been ready to have this conversation for a while now. “I'll give you as many as you want, love.” He says, the truth behind his words making the bond glow. 

It started with little things.

You'd laugh through dinner.

Teasing Cassian.

Reading with Nesta.

Dancing with Mor.

Smiling at Rhys when he made another terrible joke.

Then someone would ask, "Are you alright?"

And your smile never faltered.

"I'm fine."

Azriel began to hate that word.

Because twenty minutes later...

You were gone.

At first he assumed you simply liked your solitude. 

Until he started noticing the pattern.

You never disappeared when you were happy.

You disappeared when something hurt.

When a memory resurfaced.

When someone made an innocent comment that cut a little too deep.

When you felt like crying.

Instead of letting anyone see...

You'd vanish.

Roof. Library. The balcony overlooking Velaris.

The training ring long after everyone else had gone home.

Always alone.

Always "fine."

One night Azriel found you sitting on the edge of the House of Wind.

Your legs dangling over the drop.

A cup of tea in hand. Untouched. Long since gone cold.

Just because the wind was loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

He didn't speak.

Didn't ask if you were okay.

Didn't tell you everything would be fine.

He simply sat beside you.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Eventually you whispered,

"...You're really bad at conversations."

He huffed the smallest laugh.

"So are you."

Silence again.

"I know you aren't fine."

Your shoulders tensed.

"I'm okay."

"No. If I've learned one thing since meeting you, it's that every time you tell us you're fine... twenty minutes later, you're alone."

He swallowed.

"That's not fine."

Your eyes finally met his.

"You noticed?"

"I notice. Not because I'm a spymaster..." He looked out over Velaris. “I know what it’s like to be ‘fine’“ 

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

"So what?" you whispered.

"If I tell people the truth..."

You looked down at your hands.

"...then they worry."

"If I cry..."

“They'll pity me."

"If I explain..."

"They'll leave."

"So..." your voice trembled.

"I just say I'm fine."

Azriel looked at you for a long moment.

Then quietly,

"...Who taught you that?"

He frowned, like he was trying to put words to something he'd never said aloud.

"That your pain had to belong to only you." 

That seemed to shatter something in you. 

Not because he'd solved you.

Not because he'd fixed you.

But because no one had ever asked the right question before.

"I don't know how to let people see this part of me."

"You don't have to show everyone."

He reached over, hesitating before hooking his pinky wtih yours.

"But you don't have to carry it alone anymore."

You looked down.

His pinky still hooked around yours.

As though he was giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn't.

Instead...

You hooked yours around his a little tighter.

It started with little things.

You'd laugh through dinner.

Teasing Cassian.

Reading with Nesta.

Dancing with Mor.

Smiling at Rhys when he made another terrible joke.

Then someone would ask, "Are you alright?"

And your smile never faltered.

"I'm fine."

Azriel began to hate that word.

Because twenty minutes later...

You were gone.

At first he assumed you simply liked your solitude. 

Until he started noticing the pattern.

You never disappeared when you were happy.

You disappeared when something hurt.

When a memory resurfaced.

When someone made an innocent comment that cut a little too deep.

When you felt like crying.

Instead of letting anyone see...

You'd vanish.

Roof. Library. The balcony overlooking Velaris.

The training ring long after everyone else had gone home.

Always alone.

Always "fine."

One night Azriel found you sitting on the edge of the House of Wind.

Your legs dangling over the drop.

A cup of tea in hand. Untouched. Long since gone cold.

Just because the wind was loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

He didn't speak.

Didn't ask if you were okay.

Didn't tell you everything would be fine.

He simply sat beside you.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Eventually you whispered,

"...You're really bad at conversations."

He huffed the smallest laugh.

"So are you."

Silence again.

"I know you aren't fine."

Your shoulders tensed.

"I'm okay."

"No. If I've learned one thing since meeting you, it's that every time you tell us you're fine... twenty minutes later, you're alone."

He swallowed.

"That's not fine."

Your eyes finally met his.

"You noticed?"

"I notice. Not because I'm a spymaster..." He looked out over Velaris. “I know what it’s like to be ‘fine’“ 

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

"So what?" you whispered.

"If I tell people the truth..."

You looked down at your hands.

"...then they worry."

"If I cry..."

“They'll pity me."

"If I explain..."

"They'll leave."

"So..." your voice trembled.

"I just say I'm fine."

Azriel looked at you for a long moment.

Then quietly,

"...Who taught you that?"

He frowned, like he was trying to put words to something he'd never said aloud.

"That your pain had to belong to only you." 

That seemed to shatter something in you. 

Not because he'd solved you.

Not because he'd fixed you.

But because no one had ever asked the right question before.

"I don't know how to let people see this part of me."

"You don't have to show everyone."

He reached over, hesitating before hooking his pinky wtih yours.

"But you don't have to carry it alone anymore."

You looked down.

His pinky still hooked around yours.

As though he was giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn't.

Instead...

You hooked yours around his a little tighter.

It had been made very clear, very early on, that such things were not to be spoken of. 

That they were embarrassing. Weak. Something shameful that females were meant to endure quietly and privately.

So that was exactly what I had done. For hundreds of years.

Twice every year I simply disappeared for a few days, sequestering myself away until the worst of it passed. 

It had never been particularly difficult to evade everyone's notice. 

I glamoured away the scent of blood with practised ease and waited out the pain in silence, returning once my body stopped feeling like it had been run through a battlefield.

It was simple. Manageable.

Except this time I had made the mistake of thinking I could push through it.

Which was why I currently stood in the middle of the training ring opposite my three brothers, trying very hard not to vomit up the contents of my breakfast across the dirt.

The morning sun hung high above Velaris, casting warm gold across the Sidra far below and spilling into the training ring.

Normally the sight energised me. Today it felt like a hammer pounding against my skull.

"Are you okay?"

Azriel's voice cut through the haze of pain for the third time.

I blinked at him.

He stood a few paces away, wings tucked neatly behind him, shadows curling faintly around his shoulders as they always did when he was uneasy. His dark brows had drawn together in a deep crease, his hazel eyes scanning my face with quiet, careful concern.

"Yes. Fine," I panted, tugging at the collar of my shirt where it clung uncomfortably to my skin. "Again."

The word came out more breathless than I intended.

Azriel didn't move. Didn't attack. He just continued studying me, that crease between his brows deepening further.

Behind him, Cassian and Rhys were sparring with the kind of brutal enthusiasm that came naturally to both of them. 

The clash of wings and fists rang across the training ring, Cassian's laugh echoing loudly as Rhys attempted unsuccessfully to sweep his legs out from beneath him.

Usually I would have been right there in the middle of it. Usually.

"Hey," Cassian called suddenly, stepping back from Rhys. "Maybe we should take a break."

His voice felt strangely distant. Like it was coming from underwater.

I turned toward him slowly, blinking against the sunlight. Cassian's broad form blurred slightly at the edges, his red siphons glinting as he wiped sweat from his brow.

Rhys stood beside him now, violet eyes fixed on me with a sharpness that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Sweetheart," he said carefully, tilting his head as he studied me. "You good?"

I opened my mouth to answer. Nothing came out.

The ground beneath my feet shifted strangely, tilting sideways as if the entire ground had decided to lean.

I swayed. The next thing I knew the dirt rushed up to meet me.

Strong hands caught me before I could hit the ground. 

"—shit." Cassian's voice. Loud. Panicked.

For someone who spent most of his life charging headfirst into battle, Cassian panicked very quickly when it involved the people he cared about.

Rhys had already dropped to his knees, gathering me against him before I fully registered what had happened. One of his hands cradled the back of my head while the other grasped my face, turning it gently toward him.

His voice was low, urgent, a stream of words that blurred together as the world spun slowly around me.

"Hey—hey, stay with me. Look at me. What happened?"

I blinked up at him.

Everything felt heavy. The sunlight above us seemed far too bright.

Beside us Cassian was swearing under his breath, pacing in tight circles like a caged animal. His wings flared outward, the massive span of them trembling slightly as he ran both hands through his hair.

"What happened?" he demanded again, louder this time.

Before either of us could answer, Azriel vanished. 

One blink and he was gone, shadows swallowing him whole. The next moment he was back again, kneeling beside Rhys with a small bottle in his hand.

"Drink," he said quietly, pressing it toward my lips.

His shadows curled around my shoulders as if attempting to steady me.

I managed a few small swallows before the cool water soothed the dryness in my throat. The dizziness eased slightly. Enough that I tried to sit up.

Rhys immediately tightened his hold. "Easy," he murmured.

"I'm fine," I insisted weakly, attempting to push myself upright again.

That was when the glamour slipped. The scent of blood that I had carefully concealed all morning flickered. Then shattered completely.

The reaction was instant. All three males went still. Completely still.

Cassian froze mid-step, his head snapping toward me as his nostrils flared. Azriel's shadows tightened sharply around my shoulders. Rhys's hand stilled against my cheek.

"I can smell blood," Cassian said. His voice had gone frighteningly sharp. "Where are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I insisted again.

I tried to sit up once more.

Rhys didn't allow it. His arm wrapped firmly around my back instead, pulling me closer as his violet eyes searched my face with growing intensity.

"Where are you hurt?" Cassian demanded again, the panic in his voice rising dangerously.

Before I could respond the world folded inward. The familiar tug of winnowing yanked the air from my lungs.

And suddenly we were in my bedroom.

Rhys still held me against him as we appeared beside the bed, Cassian and Azriel materialising moments later.

Cassian was already moving again.

"Where are you hurt?" he repeated, crouching in front of me as if preparing to examine every inch of my body for wounds.

Azriel's shadows slipped forward cautiously, brushing along my arms as though searching for injuries.

"I'm not hurt," I tried again.

None of them looked convinced.

Cassian's eyes darted across my face, my shoulders, my arms, searching desperately for any sign of damage. "You passed out," he said roughly.

"I'm fine."

"There is blood."

"I know."

"Then where is it coming from?"

The question hung in the air.

Heat crept slowly up my neck. My stomach twisted again, another dull wave of pain curling through me as I groaned quietly and pressed a hand to my abdomen.

Three pairs of eyes immediately followed the movement.

I sighed "...I'm just on my cycle," I muttered.

Silence fell. Then three very loud, very relieved sighs filled the room.

Cassian practically collapsed backwards onto the floor with a dramatic groan, running both hands down his face.

"Mother above," he breathed. "I thought you were dying."

Rhys leaned back slightly, some of the tightness finally leaving his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his brow.

Azriel's shadows loosened their grip around me.

Only then did Cassian peer up at me again. "...Now," he said slowly, "why wouldn't you just say that?"

The question made my stomach twist for an entirely different reason.

I looked away. "It's embarrassing," I admitted quietly. "And weak."

The reaction from the three of them was immediate.

Cassian stared at me like I had just declared the sky green. "Embarrassing?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"Weak?" Rhys echoed, brows lifting slightly.

"That's what everyone says."

Cassian barked out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Everyone at Windhaven also thinks smashing your head into a wall proves strength," he said. "That doesn't make it true."

Azriel stepped closer then. He didn't say anything at first. His shadows brushed gently along my arm, soft and cool. "You're in pain," he said quietly.

"Yes."

"And you still came out to train," he said quietly. "That isn't weakness."

Rhys nodded in agreement, his voice softer now. "If anything," he added, "that sounds like the opposite."

Cassian leaned his forearms against the mattress, shaking his head.

"Next time you tell us," he said firmly. "Before you collapse dramatically in the middle of the training ring and give me a heart attack."

"I do not collapse dramatically."

"You absolutely did."

Rhys smiled faintly.

Cassian pointed at me accusingly. "You dropped like a sack of rocks."

Azriel's shadows curled lazily again.

And despite the pain still pulsing through my body—I found myself smiling.

That should have been the end of it. In theory.

In practice, however, the next several hours turned into something closer to being placed under extremely attentive and extremely irritating guard.

The moment Rhys allowed me to settle back against the pillows, Cassian immediately stood and announced, with the air of a general delivering battle orders, "Right. She's not leaving this room."

"I was not planning to," I muttered, pressing a hand to my abdomen as another dull ache curled through it.

"That's not the point," Cassian said.

Rhys leaned against the bedpost with that maddening calm he slipped into whenever he was pretending not to worry. But his violet eyes flicked over me every few seconds regardless, as if confirming I hadn't spontaneously begun dying since the last time he checked.

Azriel, meanwhile, had already disappeared again. He returned moments later with a tray.

Not just a cup of water this time but tea, bread, something that smelled faintly of honey, and a small bottle that looked suspiciously medicinal.

"You're not poisoning me, are you?" I asked weakly.

Azriel set the tray down beside the bed. "It's a tonic," he said.

Cassian leaned over my shoulder to inspect it suspiciously. "It smells terrible."

"It works," Azriel replied calmly.

Rhys gestured toward it. "Drink."

Three pairs of eyes settled on me. Watching. Waiting. Hovering. "Are you all going to stare at me until I do?" I asked.

"Yes," Cassian said immediately.

Rhys inclined his head. "Most likely."

Azriel simply slid the cup closer. I sighed and drank. It did, in fact, taste terrible.

Cassian looked deeply pleased about that. "See?" he said to Azriel. "Her face just did that scrunched thing."

"I did not do a scrunched thing."

"You absolutely did."

Rhys was trying very hard not to laugh.

They did not leave. Not for the next hour. Or the next. Or the next. At first I assumed they would eventually grow bored and wander off to do literally anything else.

Instead they somehow became worse.

Cassian brought food. Rhys brought blankets. Azriel kept appearing with various tonics, teas, and suspiciously helpful remedies that he never explained the origins of.

At one point Cassian returned with an entire plate of pastries.

"I thought you said you were bringing soup," Rhys said.

Cassian shrugged. "She likes pastries."

"That is not soup."

"She'll survive."

"I can hear you both," I said from the bed.

Cassian grinned. "That's good. Means you're alive."

Rhys sighed. "Your bedside manner is atrocious."

"Better than yours," Cassian shot back.

Azriel quietly set another cup of tea beside me.

By late afternoon the pain had dulled slightly. Not vanished but softened enough that sitting up no longer felt like an act of heroism.

Cassian had claimed the chair beside my bed at some point and refused to relinquish it. His wings were half-spread behind him, one boot propped against the bedframe as he leaned back with the air of someone who had settled in permanently.

"Cass," I said eventually.

"Hm?"

"Sit still."

"I am sitting still."

"More still."

He squinted at me suspiciously. "Why?"

Instead of answering, I reached forward and grabbed a section of his long dark hair.

Cassian blinked. "...What are you doing?"

"Fixing this mess," I said.

"My hair is not a mess."

"It absolutely is."

Rhys snorted from the window. Azriel's shadows twitched in amusement.

Cassian groaned as I began separating the strands into sections. "You're braiding it, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"This is humiliating."

"You love it."

"I do not."

He sat perfectly still. I continued braiding.

Rhys watched the entire thing unfold with great interest. "I should fetch a ribbon," he mused.

Cassian shot him a murderous glare. "Don't you dare."

Azriel's shadows slipped closer, inspecting the braid with quiet curiosity.

"Hold still," I murmured, tugging lightly when Cassian tried to turn his head.

"I am holding still."

"You're squirming."

"I am not squirming."

"You're squirming like a child."

Rhys laughed openly now.

Cassian muttered something deeply unflattering under his breath but remained seated while I finished weaving the thick braid over his shoulder.

When I finally tied it off, I leaned back to admire my work. "There."

Cassian reached up cautiously and touched the braid. He groaned like I had personally wounded him. "I look ridiculous."

"You look majestic."

Rhys leaned closer to inspect it. "I think it suits you."

Cassian glared at him. Azriel's mouth twitched slightly.

A quieter moment settled after that. The room was warm with late afternoon light, the tension from earlier long gone.

Cassian still sat beside the bed, braid intact despite his complaints. Rhys had reclaimed his place leaning against the wall, arms crossed loosely. Azriel stood near the window, his shadows drifting lazily in the golden light.

The pain still pulsed faintly through my body but it felt... easier somehow.

I watched Cassian absently tug the braid again.

A thought slipped out before I could stop it. "If I could," I said quietly, "I would give you this pain."

Cassian looked up. His brows drew together.

"I mean it," I added.

"I know," he said.

For a moment none of them spoke. Cassian leaned back in the chair with a long, exaggerated groan. "Absolutely not though," he declared. "I refuse."

Rhys burst out laughing. Azriel's shadows rippled with quiet amusement.

Cassian pointed accusingly at all of us. "First the braid. Now you're trying to curse me with female suffering."

Rhys wiped a tear from his eye. "You would not survive a single hour."

Cassian scoffed. "I've survived worse."

Azriel tilted his head. "You fainted when you dislocated your shoulder."

"That was tactical fainting."

"That was not tactical."

Cassian crossed his arms stubbornly. "I stand by it."

And despite the lingering ache in my bones, despite the exhaustion still tugging at my limbs—I laughed.

Because somehow, even on the worst days, they made it impossible not to.

Cassian's POV -

Growing up in Windhaven as a bastard-born male had been difficult in ways I still felt etched into my bones.

Cold mornings before the sun had even touched the mountains. Bruises earned in the training rings. The constant, gnawing knowledge that the world expected you to fight for every scrap of respect you ever received.

But that had been simple compared to watching my sister grow up there.

Because I could fight males.

I could bloody their noses when they mouthed off. I could break a wrist if someone pushed too far. I could make myself bigger, louder, more vicious until they thought twice about crossing me.

She never had that luxury.

From the moment she could hold a practice blade, she tried to make herself just as hard as the rest of us. Harder, sometimes. 

While other females in the camp were shoved behind doors and taught silence, she forced her way into the training rings with scraped knees and a glare that promised violence to anyone who laughed.

Gods, she did glare.

I remembered her at barely twenty, hair wild from the mountain wind, chin lifted in stubborn defiance as a group of older Illyrian warriors sneered at the sight of a girl holding a sword.

"Go home, little female."

She hadn't. She'd swung that blade until her hands bled. And afterward she'd wrapped the wounds herself and pretended it didn't hurt.

That had always been the part I hated most. Not the training. Not the fighting.

The pretending. The way she swallowed pain like it was poison she refused to let anyone else taste.

Which was exactly why I now stood beside her bed like a guard dog who refused to leave.

She lay half-curled beneath the blankets, breathing steadily, the sharp lines of pain in her face finally easing now that the tonic had started working. A damp cloth rested across her forehead where Azriel had placed it with careful precision.

Rhys leaned against the far wall with deceptive ease, arms folded, violet eyes tracking every shift of her breathing.

Azriel stood near the window, silent as ever, shadows drifting lazily around his shoulders but even they seemed watchful.

They were all staring. Watching. Waiting.

I scowled. "Stop staring at her like she'll break."

Rhys didn't even look away from the bed. "You've checked her pulse six times."

I crossed my arms. "Seven."

Azriel's mouth twitched.

Rhys finally turned his head toward me, amusement flickering through his eyes despite the concern still sitting there.

"Comforting."

I ignored him and looked back at my sister.

At the faint crease between her brows. At the way her hand curled loosely in the blankets like she was bracing against another wave of pain.

A familiar, ugly feeling tightened in my chest.

Because somewhere in the back of my mind I could still see her in that training ring earlier, swaying on her feet while insisting she was fine.

Always fine. Always stubborn. Always pretending nothing hurt.

A quiet groan broke the silence. All three of us snapped our attention back to the bed.

Her eyes cracked open just enough to glare at us. "I regret telling any of you."

I leaned forward immediately.

"Too late." I said, completely unapologetic. "You're stuck with us now."

A/N - I actually can't believe I haven't written about the Fae cycle yet considering how many stories I've posted... but here we are :)

The boys take care of her fiercely (and very loudly), and we get plenty of banter, teasing, and overprotective chaos as per usual x

They're basically just pacing disasters with wings at this point!!

Thank you for reading <33

He stood just inside the threshold of the courtyard, wings tucked in tight, shadows coiling at his boots. 

His brothers stood beside him, laughing under their breath as they watched dancers weave like firelight among lantern-lit terraces. 

But Azriel—

Azriel was watching the sky.

It bled peach and gold at the horizon, the last gasp of the sun caught in the marble. 

A fading brilliance. A moment suspended.

Dusk he thought. 

The hour where light and dark met and neither won.

Perhaps that was why the Day Court had chosen it.

“Try not to scowl at the festivities,” Cassian murmured beside him. “The locals might think you’re planning to assassinate the sun.”

“I’m not scowling,” Azriel said, though his shadows whispered in agreement.

Rhysand turned, his violet like eyes glinting as twilight bled deeper into the sky. “It is called the Festival of the Sunfire. The entire point is to be seen.”

Azriel gave him a look. “Then why am I here?”

“Because even sunlight needs shadows to admire it.”

“I liked him better before he became a poet,” Cassian muttered, and Feyre’s soft laugh echoed down the marble steps.

The palace behind them unfurled like a dream carved in gold. 

It glittered, glowed with the last of the sun’s warmth, catching fire with every breath of wind. 

And beneath that golden burn, the city had come alive—lanterns floating into the sky like drifting stars, laughter curling through the gardens, and bonfires already crackling to life in their enchanted braziers. 

Flame-dancers spun sparks in the air.

Azriel didn’t know what the celebration truly meant—only that Helion had called it a renewal. 

A ritual of fire and light to welcome the solstice, and all the life it brought.

And so they’d come.

Diplomatic guests. 

Night among day. 

Shadows against flame.

As they approached the dais at the edge of the courtyard, Helion greeted them in silks the color of sunlight distilled—his smile wide, his arms open. 

He looked like the setting sun itself, resplendent and roaring.

“Welcome,” he purred. “My dearest friends of night. You’ve arrived just in time. The festival begins the moment light kisses the horizon. And there—” he gestured to the sky, where the sun was slipping low “—is your kiss.”

Their family stood as one—dark elegance wrapped in starlight and steel, the quiet power of Night unmistakable among the firelit splendor of the Day Court. 

Feyre and Rhysand radiated calm command, Mor shimmered like she belonged to the festival itself, Cassian exuded unbothered confidence, and Amren—sleek and still—watched with a gaze sharp enough to draw blood. 

And beside them, silent and shadow-steeped, Azriel stood as dusk settled over the courtyard—wings folded, head inclined in a nod that gave nothing away, though his shadows stirred like they knew something had shifted.

But Helion didn’t seem to mind. “Come,” he said. “I have a gift for you all. Something special to mark the evening.”

Azriel followed warily, the whisper of his shadows tightening. 

The bonfires flickered as they passed, casting long ribbons of light across the gleaming stone. 

Music had started again—a soft, pulsing drumbeat, heartbeat-steady.

They stopped before the wide marble stairs leading down into the heart of the courtyard. 

Every reveler turned toward them. 

Silence rippled outward like heat off flame.

And then Helion lifted his voice.

“Allow me the pleasure of unveiling the Day Court’s latest treasure,” Helion announced, his voice rich with pride, echoing like sunlight through crystal. 

“A matched storm of brilliance—thunder and lightning, fire and spark. The golden twins of a new era, as radiant as the dawn itself.”

From behind a veil of flame-silk curtains, two figures stepped into the dusk.

The male moved first—tall, broad, carved in sunset shadow. His golden hair was tousled by the breeze, and power—raw, deep, thunderous—hummed beneath his skin.

But it was the female beside him who stopped Azriel’s heart.

She looked like she had been born from sunlight.

Golden curls tumbled down her back, aglow with the very last light of the sun. 

Freckles dusted her face like flecks of sunlight caught in amber—soft, golden, glowing.

And her eyes—clear, crystal blue—swept over the courtyard with laughter already rising in them. 

She wore a dress of saffron and flame, soft and loose, as if she’d been wrapped in the breath of fire itself.

Tiny sparks crackled at her fingertips.

Not threatening. 

Not uncontrolled. 

Just… playful. 

Like her magic wanted to laugh.

Azriel felt his shadows shiver. 

Felt something in his chest twist, shift, burn.

“Please,” Helion said, clearly enjoying the stunned silence, “Welcome Auren and Aurelya. My new advisors.”

Applause broke across the courtyard.

A cheer rose. 

Someone let fly a burst of glittering flame, which danced high into the dusk and exploded into a golden flower.

Rhys murmured to Helion, “And where, exactly, have you been hiding those two?”

“I find it terribly dull to reveal all my cards,” Helion said, his grin all smooth mischief. “Mystery keeps things interesting.”

Auren offered a quiet bow, his presence as grounded as thunderclouds before a storm. But Aurelya—gods—

She didn’t bow.

She danced forward. 

Just a step. 

Her sparks flared softly as she came to a stop in front of Azriel.

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the world went still.

Not from silence. 

But from a kind of quiet. A breath held. 

A balance tipped.

She smiled.

“Hello, Shadowsinger,” she said. Her voice was a warm, velvet sort of bright. “You look exactly as I pictured.”

Azriel blinked. “You pictured me?”

“I like to imagine people before I meet them.” A shrug. “It keeps life interesting.”

Auren sighed behind her. “She imagines everyone. It’s a habit.”

Aurelya grinned up at Azriel, uncaring. “You were easier to get right than most.”

He found himself asking, “Why?”

Her eyes glittered, brighter than her sparks. “Because you’re made of the things people try to hide.”

The shadows around him stirred.

She tilted her head. “But I think shadows are only the echoes of light. You can’t have one without the other, you know.”

Azriel didn’t answer. 

He couldn’t have if he tried.

She didn’t wait for a response. 

Just smiled again and turned to join her brother—her sparks trailing behind her like golden threads, dancing through the dusk like they were glad to be alive.

Rhysand let out a low breath behind him. “Well.”

Cassian clapped him on the back. “You’re in trouble.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

He only watched the sparks she left behind.

And when he breathed in, it smelled like sunlight caught in rain.

Like change.

𖤓

The twilight courtyard had been transformed into a dreamscape of color and motion—curtains of gauzy gold swayed in the breeze, catching the last embers of the sun. 

Long tables arched around a central marble platform, carved from iridescent stone that glimmered like spilled honey. 

The nobility of the Day Court lounged upon velvet cushions and carved benches, wine glasses in hand, laughter like wind chimes in the perfumed dusk. 

Lanterns floated lazily above, glowing spheres of citrine and rose quartz, bathing everything in soft, enchanted light.

The Night Court’s most trusted stood together near the dais, an island of cooler tones amidst the blaze of color—velvet and leathers and sharp, knowing smiles. 

Observing. Always observing.

Then, from a gilded lounge at the heart of it all, Helion rose.

He emerged like a flame caught by a gust—robes cascading in molten silks, rings gleaming like scattered sunlight, a grin tugging at his mouth like he was in on a secret the world hadn’t earned yet.

He raised his goblet in a toast that didn’t need words, then spread his arms wide to the courtyard with all the practiced charm of a high priest and a seasoned performer.

“My beloved guests,” he called, voice smooth as sun-warmed amber, “shall we dazzle you?”

A hush fell like a held breath.

And in it—lightning coiled faintly from one side of the dais, thunder rumbling softly from the other.

The storm had been waiting.

And it was finally ready to dance.

Auren and Aurelya stepped forward. 

And in the quiet that followed, Azriel swore the very air leaned in.

They didn’t speak.

They simply moved.

Auren raised his hand and thunder answered. 

It rolled low and resonant, a sound that didn’t crash but pulsed, deep and steady like a heartbeat in the stone beneath them. 

It didn’t come from the sky—it bloomed out of him, like his very veins carried storm.

He lifted his palm, and the marble tiles trembled faintly.

Not in warning. 

In reverence.

Then Aurelya lifted her arms, and light bloomed.

Not in a burst—not yet. 

Just a shimmer at first. Sparks spilled from her fingertips like spun sugar catching flame. 

They crackled golden-bright, arcing through the dusk like dancers freed from gravity. 

They didn’t scorch. They shimmered. 

And the wind caught them—twisting them into coils that swirled around her.

She twirled, bare feet skimming the marble as the sparks trailed behind her like ribbons.

Auren struck his fists together.

Thunder cracked—sharper this time. 

A sudden percussion that split the quiet. 

From his knuckles surged a controlled pulse of energy that rolled outward in a perfect circle—stirring hair, rustling silks, making the lanterns bob in delight.

Aurelya leapt through the echo of it, a dancer mid-spin, and as she did, she flung both hands skyward.

The sparks exploded.

They scattered like golden rain, suspended midair—each tiny bolt dancing with sentience.  

They spun and dove and flickered in a swirling pattern that looked almost like—

A storm given grace.

Not a violent tempest, but a celebration of skyfire—each spark a laugh in the dark, a heartbeat of gold dancing on the wind.

Like memory.

Like a thousand fireflies catching breath mid-flight.

Azriel didn’t mean to gasp. But he did. 

Just quietly. 

Just the once.

Because it was beautiful.

Not just the power. But the way she wielded it—with no fear, no restraint. 

Just joy.

And that joy moved something inside him.

Auren clapped once, and the thunder roared again. 

From beneath the platform, a ring of deep violet smoke surged outward like a pulse. 

The smoke didn’t sting—it smelled of storm-wind and old magic, and within it danced sparks from Aurelya’s storm.

She didn’t pause.

With a grin, she beckoned the magic higher, flicking her fingers and forming shapes in the air—figures that twirled and danced: animals of light, winged and wild. 

A hawk soared from her palm and dove into the crowd before exploding in a shower of gold.

The children squealed with laughter. 

Even Amren blinked.

Then came the final act.

Aurelya and Auren clasped hands.

Her lightning coiled around them both. His thunder surged beneath.

And together, they lifted their free arms and unleashed.

A spiral of storm and spark tore into the sky, painting a trail so bright the afterglow lingered on Azriel’s retinas. 

The column split—curling into twin helixes of light that danced around each other, then burst above them in a silence so absolute it felt sacred.

A breathless hush. Then—

Applause erupted like a wave.

The crowd surged to its feet.

Cassian whooped. Mor whistled between her fingers. Even Rhysand offered a small, genuine clap.

Azriel?

He stared.

His shadows had gone utterly still. Not hiding. Not snarling.

Just watching.

As if they, too, had never seen anything quite like her.

Because it wasn’t just her power—it was the way she owned it. 

The way her body moved like magic itself had to keep up. 

And the way her eyes, sparking with something untamed and electric, met his—

And held.

Not for long.

Just long enough to make his throat tighten.

Just long enough to make his heart falter.

Just long enough that something inside him whispered: That. Her.

Then she turned, falling into step beside her brother, their laughter crackling like sparks in the fading light.

The crowd laughed again, overcome with delight.

Azriel didn’t.

He could still feel the lightning on his skin.

Not dangerous. Not violent.

Alive.

And something in him—something ancient and aching—wondered what it might be like to hold that kind of light.

To let it touch the darkest parts of him, without fear it might burn.

𖤓

The festival folded into night like a whispered incantation.

Drums murmured deep and steady, a heartbeat beneath the flutter of flutes and laughter.

Lanterns—small captive suns—hovered overhead, casting a trembling honey-gold glow that bathed the gardens in liquid light. 

The scent of cedar smoke and wild citrus mingled with the cool night air, sharp and sweet.

Azriel lingered at the fringe, where shadows thickened but still met the bonfire’s warm breath. 

His wings folded like quiet wings of night, rustling faintly in time with the music’s pulse. 

His eyes, dark as storm clouds, were fixed on the center of the gathering, where a singular spark had set the night ablaze.

Aurelya.

Her laughter broke through the night like a sudden flash of lightning—bright, electric, impossible to ignore. 

Golden strands of hair spilled wild around her face, catching the bonfire’s flicker and setting her aglow like a living flame. 

From her fingertips, sparks of pure light danced and shimmered, weaving delicate filaments of electricity that traced the air like secret messages whispered by the wind.

She was sunlight made flesh—an untamed current of warmth and light, a gentle storm that crackled with life. 

So unlike the shadowed quiet he carried, yet somehow, utterly impossible to look away from.

Then she turned toward him.

Her eyes—crystal blue, flecked with sunlit freckles that scattered like drops of gold on a clear morning—found his.

Aurelya’s smile was a flash of mischief and soft invitation, a spark that lit the space between them. 

Without a word, she stepped closer, and held out her hand—fingers curved open like a thread of live wire, pulsing with quiet promise.

Azriel’s heart, usually a slow, steady beat, fluttered against his ribs, a strange, unfamiliar rhythm. 

He longed to take that hand, to step beyond his shadows and into her blazing light, to dance beneath the lanterns and stars.

But the shadows inside him whispered caution—quiet, watchful, wary.

He dipped his gaze to her hand, then back to the warmth in her face.

“I’m better watching,” he said, voice low, almost a secret. “I don’t want to disappoint.”

Her laughter chimed—lightning crackling softly over warm summer rain. “You could never disappoint me.”

That gentle certainty settled in his chest like sun after a storm, squeezing tight.

With a wink, she pressed her hand gently closer, sparking a tiny pulse of warmth beneath his skin.

“Soon,” she breathed, “you will.”

Her words hung between them, charged and electric—like the hush before thunder rolls, full of promise and quiet certainty.

Azriel swallowed hard, unprepared for the sudden heat rising inside him.

For a fleeting moment—the shadows softened, the night held its breath—and he felt the faintest flicker of something new. 

Something dangerously like hope.

Azriel stood just beyond the firelight, shadows curling gently at his heels as he watched Aurelya dance.

The music was low and lilting, threaded through with laughter and the crackle of the bonfire. 

She moved like she was born to it—barefoot in the dust, her golden hair unbound, her sparks flickering and winking in rhythm with her steps. 

People smiled just watching her, as if her joy was something tangible, something that reached out and touched them.

It made his chest ache.

He didn’t notice Cassian approaching until his brother’s voice cut through the night. “You’ve been staring for ten minutes.”

Azriel didn’t turn. “Just watching.”

Cassian huffed a soft laugh. “Same thing.”

From the other side, Mor slid in beside him, arms crossed loosely as she followed his gaze. “She’s beautiful.”

Azriel said nothing.

Mor nudged him with her shoulder. “You’re allowed to think so out loud, you know.”

“I didn’t come here to flirt.”

Cassian grinned. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Azriel finally looked away, eyes dropping to the glowing embers dancing at the edge of the firepit. “She’s… bright,” he said after a moment. “Too bright for me.”

Mor raised a brow. “Azriel. She was literally making lightning twirl in the air and she looked right at you like you were the most interesting thing here.”

“That’s not what I saw.”

Cassian leaned against a nearby pillar, arms folded. “You don’t see a lot of things when it comes to yourself. Doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t.”

Azriel exhaled through his nose, his wings shifting slightly behind him.

“She asked me to dance,” he said quietly. “I said no.”

Mor gave him a long look. “Why?”

“I didn’t want to—” he faltered. “I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Cassian’s teasing expression softened, just a little. “Az. You don’t ruin things. You just make them… slower.”

Mor smiled. “Maybe she doesn’t want fast. Maybe she just wants real.”

Azriel looked toward Aurelya again. 

She was laughing now, head thrown back, sparks trailing from her fingertips in soft, golden spirals.

Something inside him stirred—strange and quiet and a little terrifying.

“I don’t know what to do with someone like her,” he murmured.

Cassian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Good news is—you don’t have to know. You just have to show up.”

Mor grinned. “Besides, when have you ever known what to do with a female who sparkles?”

Azriel huffed a soft sound that might’ve been a laugh. 

And though he didn’t move from where he stood, something in him shifted. 

Loosened.

And as the music carried on and Aurelya danced in the firelight, he kept watching—still silent, still unsure.

But no longer afraid.

𖤓

It was the hour when even the moon seemed to rest.

Velvet shadows draped the golden corridors of the Day Court, soft and slow as breath. 

The last whispers of celebration had dwindled into silence, leaving behind only the hush of night wind and the echo of music clinging to the sand. 

It was the kind of quiet that made the world feel holy. 

Suspended.

Azriel drifted through it like smoke.

He wasn’t seeking anything. 

Not exactly. 

Sleep had eluded him, as it often did—but tonight, it wasn’t the old sharp-edged wakefulness that kept him pacing the gilded halls. 

Tonight it felt warmer. 

Like the air before lightning strikes—charged and waiting.

He moved without sound, his shadows trailing him like watchful sentinels. 

They seemed calmer now. Slower. Curious.

And then—he felt her.

Not her scent, not at first. But the impression of her. 

Like golden warmth brushing through the quiet. 

A soft hum where everything else had gone still.

Then came the fragrance—warm milk, honey, cardamom. A comfort he hadn’t known he missed until he smelled it.

He followed.

Down empty corridors, past shuttered balconies and the dying glow of faelight, until he reached the soft amber flicker beneath a half-open door.

The kitchens.

She stood within, back to him, bare feet silent on the cold tile. 

A loose braid fell down her back, strands of gold escaping to catch the lamplight. 

Sparks curled lazily from her fingers as she stirred something on the stove—like magic itself was lulled into gentleness by her touch.

Azriel stopped. Watched.

And felt the breath leave him.

She was stunning.

Not in the way females were often called beautiful in courts and ballrooms. 

No, she was the kind of beautiful that didn’t belong to paintings or sonnets. 

She was a flame in the dark, soft and wild all at once. 

The silk of her nightdress clung to her like it knew the shape of her, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips.

And her hair—he had never wanted to touch someone’s hair before. 

But now, in this moonlit quiet, he could imagine running his hands through it. 

Slowly. Reverently.

Savouring the feel of silk between scarred fingers.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. 

Only that he didn’t want to leave.

“I thought it might be you,” she said without turning, voice like a secret.

He stilled. “How did you—?”

“You walk like a shadow,” she said, finally glancing over her shoulder. 

A soft smile curved her mouth, sleepy and knowing. “But you leave a different kind of silence behind you. One that listens.”

Azriel blinked, caught off guard.

She held up a cup, steam curling from its lip. “Warm milk?”

“I…” His voice sounded low and strange to his own ears. “I haven’t had that since I was a child.”

Her smile deepened. “Then it’s long overdue.”

She poured a second, the scent of honey and spice curling around them like memory. “You look like someone who hasn’t had enough softness lately.”

He stepped into the golden hush of the kitchen, shadows curling low against the stone as if even they were trying not to intrude. 

When she handed him the cup, their fingers brushed. 

Warm skin. 

Warmer magic.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked gently, sipping her own.

He shook his head once. “Not quite.”

She didn’t press. Just nodded, her braid slipping over her shoulder like a ribbon of light. 

The sparks at her fingertips dimmed, resting in the hollow of her palm.

After a moment, she looked back at him with a quiet smile. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

Azriel arched a brow. “Where?”

Aurelya’s smile was sunlight caught in mischief. “Somewhere the moon likes to linger.”

He huffed a soft breath—amused despite himself. “Should I be worried?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, sparks dancing at her fingertips. “Only if you’re afraid of enchantment and good company.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll risk it.”

“Brave Shadowsinger,” she said with a mock bow. “Come on, then.”

𖤓

They passed through slumbering corridors wrapped in silk and sunlight-painted stone, their footfalls hushed by velvet runners and golden hush. 

Aurelya didn’t speak, and neither did he—but there was something alive in the silence between them. 

Not awkward. 

Not uncertain.

Just building.

Eventually, she opened a narrow door at the end of a quiet hall and beckoned him through. 

A spiral staircase wound upward like a secret, the stone smooth from centuries of use.

“Almost there,” she whispered, voice reverent.

They emerged into a small turret room—circular and cozy, lined with faded tapestries and low cushions. 

But it was the window that took his breath.

A half-moon arched high in the sky, framed by the open curve of the stone balcony. 

 Beyond, the sky was a deep ocean of indigo, speckled with a scattering of distant stars — quiet sentinels watching over the sleeping world. 

The pale moon hung low, its silver light tracing delicate patterns on the courtyard below, where shadows curled and stretched like whispered secrets.

Distant lanterns still flickered across the dunes from the remnants of the festival far below, like embers of a memory.

“This is where I come to think,” Aurelya said quietly, curling onto the windowsill like it belonged to her bones. “Or not think.”

Azriel joined her, sitting carefully beside her on the broad ledge. 

His wings curled instinctively behind him to avoid brushing her.

“I used to have a secret place like this back home, I would go there with my brother,” she added, resting her cup on the stone. “When we were children, and later, after our mother died.”

Azriel glanced at her, surprised. “You lost her young?”

She nodded once. “Too young. She used to make us warm milk before bed—always with honey and cardamom. Said it would keep the dreams sweet.”

The ache in her voice was subtle, like a distant rumble of thunder.

He studied her profile—the freckles on her cheeks, the slight downturn of her mouth as she stared into the night. 

Her golden hair had come loose from its braid, curling around her shoulders like sunlit vines.

“She sounds like she was kind,” he said softly.

Aurelya turned to him then, eyes brighter than moonlight. “She was. And fierce. A storm in her own way.” She smiled faintly. “Sometimes I think she passed that onto Auren and me—just in different flavors.”

Azriel took a sip of the milk. It was warm and sweet and nostalgic in a way that hit places inside him he rarely let himself feel.

“You and your brother,” he said, “you’re close.”

“We had to be. There wasn’t anyone else.” Her voice was wistful, but not sad. “It was just us for a long time. And then Helion found us—well, found Auren first, actually. He’d gotten into trouble for causing a lightning storm during training.” She laughed, the sound soft and full of affection. “I joined the scolding halfway through.”

“And now you’re his advisors.”

“His headaches, more like.” She grinned. “But he calls us his golden storm. I think he likes the drama.”

Azriel huffed a quiet chuckle. “He would.”

They fell into a silence that was more comfort than pause. 

Outside, the breeze brushed over the balcony like a sigh. 

Aurelya leaned her head back against the stone wall and tilted her face toward the sky.

“I like this part of the night,” she said after a moment. “When the stars feel close enough to touch, and everything is quiet, and there’s nothing left to be but real.”

Azriel looked at her. “Is that hard for you? Being real?”

She considered. “Not hard. But… sometimes I’m afraid if I stop smiling, I’ll forget how to start again. You ever feel that?”

He nodded. “All the time.”

Her gaze drifted toward the shadows curling at his feet. 

They rose and fell with his breath, quieter now, less sharp.

“You’re not what I expected,” she murmured.

Azriel’s brow lifted. “What did you expect?”

“Someone colder. Sharper. Less…” She reached out and tapped a finger gently to his heart. “Less good.”

Azriel stared at her, uncertain what to say.

“You look like you were forged in a storm,” she went on, “but you’re not made of lightning. You’re made of stone. Steady and quiet and enduring.” A pause. “It’s beautiful, in its own way.”

His throat tightened.

Then she lifted her hand again—this time, palm-up—and a dozen tiny sparks danced across her skin, crackling with soft light. 

They swirled into the air, a glowing constellation of energy.

Azriel’s shadows, curious and slow, reached out.

And instead of recoiling, the sparks twirled toward them.

They circled each other—light and shadow—like they’d been waiting all night for this moment.

“It’s always been like that,” she whispered. “They like each other.”

Azriel looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Aurelya smiled, wistful. “I used to dream of shadows. When I was little. I never told anyone, but… they didn’t scare me. They comforted me. Wrapped around me like a blanket.”

His pulse thudded. “You dreamed of them?”

She nodded. “I think they were yours. Reaching for me even then.”

His breath caught. 

The bond in his chest tugged, not painfully—but insistently. 

Like a string being drawn taut after years of slack.

“I’ve always known,” Aurelya said softly, her voice barely a breath. “That I would belong to someone who lived in the dark. And that the dark would not frighten me—it would feel like home.”

Azriel swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you say anything before?”

She smiled, eyes shining. “Because you didn’t feel it yet. I was waiting. You needed to find me in your own time.”

He looked down at their hands, now resting close but not touching.

The moonlight danced over her freckles. The sparks above them spun in slow, drifting spirals. His shadows didn’t pull away.

Neither did he.

And then—softly, tentatively—she leaned her head on his shoulder.

The warmth of her seeped into him like sunlight, like honey.

And something inside him, something long-dormant and tightly coiled, unspooled.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud.

It was quiet. Gentle. Inevitable.

Like a spark finding dry tinder.

A breath.

A pull.

A bond.

Azriel exhaled shakily, eyes wide as he felt it thread through his soul.

Aurelya’s voice was barely audible. “Can you feel it too?”

He nodded once, unable to speak.

The sparks curled around them like a promise, and the shadows nestled closer.

He let himself lean in.

Not to claim.

Not to conquer.

But to breathe.

Her hands rose, trembling slightly at first, then steadying as they cupped his face—the smooth curve of his jaw, the roughness of a few days’ shadow, the slight tremor beneath her fingertips.

Her palms felt warm against his cool skin, grounding him in a way he hadn’t known he needed.

Their lips hovered, a whisper apart, charged with all the quiet longing that had been held beneath years of shadows and silence. 

When they met, it was slow—soft and searching—the gentle press of warmth against cold, the feather-light glide of her mouth over his.

He tasted the faint sweetness of her, like honeyed sunlight, delicate and intoxicating. 

Her breath mingled with his, slow and steady, like the tide finally pulling back after long drought.

Her fingers threaded through the thick strands of his hair, pulling him closer with a tender urgency that both startled and soothed him. 

His hands rose, resting against her waist, fingers curling into the fabric of her nightdress, feeling the softness of silk and skin beneath.

The kiss deepened, unfolding like a sigh—a sacred conversation without words. 

It was careful but consuming, gentle but fierce, a raw offering of everything she was: warmth, light, and a quiet strength that wove through every delicate touch.

In that moment, the edges of his world softened, the shadows retreating as something new—something fragile and fierce—kindled within.

When their lips finally parted, the world felt softer—less sharp, less fractured. 

He traced a slow line along her jaw, his fingers lingering where her skin still seemed to shimmer with the faintest electric warmth.

In the quiet that settled between them, Azriel’s voice came low and steady, almost a breath against her ear.

“You were worth the wait.”

She smiled then, eyes bright with something tender and wild, and he knew—without a doubt—that every shadow he had borne had led him here, to her.

He taught you to fly. Gently. When it didn’t work, your mother took it into her own hands, doing precisely what she had done to Rhys. It worked. And you’d fly with him, sometimes, whenever you returned to the Night Court after a rotation throughout Prythian. You’d tell him of Dawn and Day and Summer, and he’d look at you, grinning like you were showing him the world.

With a past of deprivation and enclosure, your mother knew more of what she didn’t want for you than what she did want. She wanted none of the barrenness that came from being raised an Illyrian woman, terrified to lose her wings. Doing anything to prevent her cycle, to deny her body its natural course, only to have it come anyway, sending her to the square to have her freedom stripped. Caged. Clipped.

She wanted none of that for you.

You grew up around Prythian—as free as she could make you. It was a boarding school sort of arrangement; cycled throughout the courts for your schooling. Dawn, Day, Winter, Summer. Night Court was but a resting point, a home. You did your basic schooling there, but it was among the other four courts you attended that you truly grew, meeting new people who taught you various crafts and trades.

Your mother justified the system to your father by claiming it would teach you how to gain the favor of the other courts, encouraging alliances. For all you knew, perhaps it would lead to marrying you off someday. The daughter of a High Lord, even half-Illyrian, was still a daughter, after all. But for the first decades of your life, you couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when women in your court—women like your own cousin—were suffering from within their cages, trapped.

It was thanks to your mother that you were nothing like them. That you were happy, safe, free.

You were barely twelve when Morrigan was brutalized by her own family, too young to truly understand the capacity of your eighteen year-old cousin’s suffering at the time. But you grew to  appreciate the gift your mother gave you. It became your guiding star, your saving grace.

Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

Even with so much time away from the Night Court, you saw Rhys often; despite being as worthy a warrior as his bastard brothers, he was in and out of Illyria to visit the Night Court as the High Lord’s son. You’d grown to know many sons of High Lords and found your brother to be a better, gentler, more cunning heir than the rest. More importantly, even as you saw him growing stronger, he was still just your brother; you saw none of that politics in him. He always seemed to make sure of that around you, as if he’d wanted to spare you. Considering he was the one your father focused on for such things, it wasn’t too difficult. It was your mother that placed any weight in your endeavors, who knew you truly.

Your mother had been merciless to Rhys in the way most Illyrian mothers were, though not unkind and generous—far from it. You knew it was your mother that made Rhys the way he was, who made your brother someone so fiercely loving despite your father and not someone cold and sharp because of him.

You might not have seen him often, but never once did you doubt him.

Rhys’s love always glimmered behind his eyes, even in that stony mask of cold he put on outside in court matters. You could see it whenever you met his gaze, that hidden warmth behind his cunning violet. But you most often saw that part of him that was a brother more than anything  in your mother’s house—when he was with the two he considered his own siblings. 

It was different for you, to know those two other Illyrian boys. You never stayed in your mother’s Illyrian house—she did all she could to keep you from Illyria, after all—and when you first began to visit her house at eighteen during your Night Court months, sick of staying in the Hewn City and desperate not to become what had been destined for Mor, it felt like being among intruders. Because throughout your life, you had been moving constantly, from court to court and back again. You had never had one safe harbor or refuge besides people. Home was Rhys and your mother—not these two Illyrians. Yet they were here, familiar to your home and not to you, born before you were even conceived. And they fit like puzzle pieces, even if you did not recognize them.

You were no stranger to Illyrians and their twisted ways; it was part of why your mother was so insistent on having you study abroad so often, unchained to any sort of possibility of what she had endured. That made you wary of Cassian and Azriel. What your mother had suffered—and almost suffered—at the hands of their kind, her kind, was horrific. Nearly unspeakable. Illyrians were brash, ruthless, lethal, merciless, and these two were no exception. But you soon learned the brash and ruthless one had been shamed and abandoned, had lost his own mother. And the lethal and merciless one had endured horrors and torture that turned his soul inwards. Yet neither brought their wrath upon you. No, they seemed tentative, careful with you at first. And yet—urgent. Steadfastly attentive. As if anything with a drop of their honorary brother’s blood was their own.

You would remember that day forever: returning from a month in Day Court, languid and sleepy after poring endlessly in Helion’s sprawling, glittering libraries, and opening the door to a swaggering, thunderous Cassian who moved rather comfortably in the house. You'd opened your mouth when your mother embraced you, wanting to mention that she hadn’t mentioned there would be other people here, too. You’d shaken hands with a quiet, cool Azriel introducing himself without an ounce of acknowledgement of the shadows cloaking him or the fact that he was a stranger in your home. A sleepy-eyed Rhys had slid into the house after dusk, shrugging off his leathers and kissing the top of your head before collapsing into one of the dinner table chairs. Then he smiled and chuckled and laughed, as if those two filled him with life.

For years, you couldn’t help your spark of ire. 

A part of you—a hateful part of you—considered that perhaps you weren’t sufficient. But then Rhys would come home and you’d see how his eyes would crease in the corners when he faced his brothers. His voice would lilt between the brothers’ animalistic fighting and thrown words, and even silent Azriel’s eyes would sometimes grow soft, losing that fogged, haunted gaze that had always seemed to cloud him. And so even if they were more brothers than you were a sister, perhaps Cass and Az were Rhys’s brothers. And if anything, you were glad there was a place for him to keep tending to the flames of his warmth.

There was a period later on, of course, when he’d become withdrawn at the hands of your father, who separated him from his brothers entirely. You’d seen little of them, with the shadowsinger at the High Lord's whim and Cassian commanding legions. Rhys only had you until the trio reunited at the Blood Rite. That week, you were staying at the Night Court, and you couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. You had no doubt in Rhys, in his abilities, and you had heard enough about his brothers by then to know that they, too, were formidable. But there was always a chance. And those who expected Rhys’s survival—all of the Night Court—thought him unbreakable. But you had seen him broken and softened too many times to imagine him as the rest of Prythian did.

And when Rhys won the Blood Rite and returned… he’d come back with his brothers, but you were the first place he winnowed to, taking you into his arms and holding you with such ferocity you thought you might crumble. He’d always cared for you, loved you as your brother, fiercely protective in the way many Fae males were, and you had always attributed it to those instincts and later; his guilt. But that day, when he’d held you so tightly, like it was this he’d been waiting for after reaching the top of Ramiel, you he was climbing towards rather than the summit, you realized how much he loved you for the sake of it. How much he needed you. And how much you needed him. 

Nearly two decades drifted by. The war passed. Rhys gained and lost legions—gained and lost himself. He’d fought in battle, again separated from Cassian among the troops while Azriel was kept close to your father as spymaster. There were no more warm days in Illyria, no more voices filling the walls of your mother’s home. You hadn’t realized that it was the presence of those three and your mother that had made Illyria bearable at all—made it feel like a home at all.

You spent most of those seven years in Dawn, Day, and Velaris. Your mother, too, retreated from Illyria as it busied with warriors and preparations and kept to the City of Starlight. 

Your brother, at least, kept in touch through your mind. There was no bond there, no steady assurance between you, but sometimes you’d be within one of Helion’s libraries when Rhys’s voice would find you, courts away.

He tried to hide it every time—how war hollowed him, stripped him bare. 

And his walls were always up—those mental shields, blocking out the horrors of what he’d seen. Whenever the Illyrian legions returned to their home bases, you’d abandon Velaris entirely, relieved to find Rhys with your mother in her home. You always knew he was alive—nearly every night, he’d manage to send some kind of message to you, which you’d pass to your mother—but that never dulled the blow when you finally saw him.

One night, though, he hadn’t sent word before his arrival. You’d woken to the sound of the door opening, and you found him in the living room, sitting on the ground, wings drooping and his head in his hands, as if he’d been too tired to even sit on the couch.

I couldn’t find them, he’d always tell you first. It was often the first thing he’d update you with—if he’d found his brothers among the dead. This time, however, he hadn’t noticed you. Hadn’t even lifted his head. Instinctively, you slipped into his mind, finding the answer without startling him—

And was struck with the scene, so visceral and bloody you stopped short in your tracks.

That carnal, raw violence of the final stretches of battle, when weapons did little. When it was flesh upon flesh, brute force against brute force, and will against will. Bones cracking and guttural screams. No mercy. And the aftermath: bodies upon bodies, piling under the smoke. Flies and insects like maidens of death, flitting about the sea of the fallen. 

And your brother, digging through them, hurling corpses aside at every sight of a wing.

Gently—so gently—you retreated from his mind. So smoothly and soft, as if you were part of his own darkness, soft enough for him not to notice.

“Rhys,” you whispered, and his chin lifted to you. His eyes were black, but his face was raw. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. Rasped, “Didn’t find them.” 

Good news, a relief. But there was little warmth in your brother’s voice. Only exhaustion. Bone-deep and so, so, lonely.

You said nothing. You only kneeled at his side and held him. Let him shed his tears in this darkness and solitude so that his legions would never know the heir to command was breaking apart. You knew that this place was a reprieve for him, that it was a pocket of the world that didn’t know bloodlust and death. You and your mother helped Rhys heal from that absence of love during the War, but it was difficult when there was always a return to the battlefield.

That night you saw your mother from her doorway, woken from sleep. Even an Illyrian mother, never coddling, her eyes would narrow in that way they always did when she saw either of you in pain—in true pain. In sorrow and desolation. As if she felt it, too.

Yet so softly, she would smile. As if her children, loving each other in a realm of so many brothers and sisters warring for power across the courts—it made up for it.

Impossibly, those seven years passed. You’d barely been able to study or focus knowing Rhys was off in the war, and to even imagine the rest of those you knew fighting made you sick.

Morrigan. Cassian. Azriel.

Your cousin, you were the most assured of. For she was making legends of herself with her successes, and there was always word of her—off with the human queens, leading the charges and strategy, formidable and guided by truth. And Cassian, though never in the same rotations as Rhys, would pass through the Illyrian camp near your mother’s house with his own legion, and whenever you were there, the relief was disarming. You’d find Rhys’s mind—or try to; he had always been better at the ways of daemati than you—and tell him his brother was still alive.

But Azriel… he was nowhere to be found. Nowhere at all.

Rhys told you it must have been because he was with your father, working closely as spymaster. You had little access to your father as it was and only Rhys’s word to count on. But you couldn’t erase the shadowsinger’s nature from your memory, no matter how vague it was. He was the only one who might thrive in solitude. In desolation. Still—at least Rhys and Cass were able to reconnect with your family in their own ways, no matter how rarely. Meanwhile, Azriel was the only Night Court spymaster there was. For all any of you knew, he could have been entirely alone with his shadows for those seven years. Just as he had been long, long ago.

As your family fought, you traveled between allied courts and mastered all else. Your studies were a welcome distraction as you grew, cultured yourself. You learned academics and the ways of healing and crafting and art. You practiced magic and glamours and fostered power. By three decades of life you knew things that Fae in their centuries hadn’t yet learned.

By the end of the war, when the wall was built and humans were given freedom, you were not hailed as a hero, as the others were, but had still become formidable in your own way. A jewel of all courts.

You did not know politics, however. Not like Rhys. And you had met Tamlin before, albeit briefly, and Rhys had spoken highly of him. You didn’t know that the rest of the Spring Court—Tamlin’s father and two brothers—hated your court for ridding them of their human slaves. Hated Rhys for the power he so clearly demonstrated. What you knew was what your studies and travels had shown you: the kindness of Fae. The warmth of different courts.

It hadn’t occurred to you that there was a reason you’d never been sent to Spring Court. No more than their stance on humans in the past.

Five years after the war ended, your benefit of the doubt was enough for the sight of Tamlin’s father, the Spring Court High Lord, at the traveling Illyrian camp not to scare you. Not when you saw him over her mother’s shoulder.

Not until he drew a blade and plunged it through your mother’s chest.

You had learned healing in Dawn and Day, been taught things overseas that many your age would never have acquired. And though your power was not the same as those with such magic native to them, you think there had always been a part of you, unexplainable, that could tap into anything. Any little bit of magic if you tried hard enough. And it was Dawn and Day you had honed most finely, grown to feel at home in. It was the skills learned there that let you survive the onslaught and play dead, fashion a glamour until you seemed no more than a corpse for him to abandon. To try to heal your mother through the tears and delirium—to mend the horrific, bloody strips of membrane left from being cut off. To somehow heal where the wings had been serrated from her, taken as if meant to be some prize or decoration. Her life force and freedom stolen to be framed like a prize of war.

You had failed in healing her, of course. Her head was already gone by then. But that didn’t stop you from being covered in your mother’s blood by the time Rhys found you. You still don’t remember what happened after that. Only the sight of Rhys when you woke in the House of Wind: his face in his hands, shuddering, too worn and shattered to even hear you wake. To even prevent you from hearing his voice when he thought you were asleep. It should have been me. It should have been me.

You did not fly after that. Not because you couldn’t—your wings were intact, summoned at will like Rhys—but rather because there was no part of you that could face your own Illyrian blood again. To use so freely what your mother had lost in agony with her life. Because it could have been you. Could have been you, keeping your wings in your mother’s place rather than tucked back behind you, disappearing into wisps of shadow. You could have been the prize, the target, rather than the spare that survived only because the Spring High Lord had underestimated you.

 You never told Rhys what you heard him say when you first woke in the House of Wind, but you so terribly wanted to tell him that he was wrong. That it should have been you.

“Just something. Anything.”

You hated it when Rhys sounded like this. Strained. As if it physically hurt him, grated the insides of his throat to speak to you.

“Please,” he said for perhaps the sixth time that morning, his chin tipped down so low that he looked through his lashes at you, hugging yourself under the covers. His violet eyes glistened with miserably breathtaking beauty. Beauty you hated yourself for dimming. “You love the Rainbow. Come on. Just an hour. Half an hour.”

“Rhys.” You sounded hoarse. “Leave.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, but you saw him stiffen. It was the first time you’d spoken in nine days. It had been like this for three months, having you lock yourself into your room in the House of Wind, with Rhys visiting every morning and night to try to coax you out of bed. Nobody else had tried to. Nobody else could.

Robbed of your mother, you had abandoned everything, body and mind. You didn’t want to move or eat or speak. You did not use your wings. Did not summon them. 

“I don’t know,” Rhys said at last, impossibly soft. “I don’t know how to help you.”

You swallowed a wince at the pang that shot through you. It hurt to see him this way, and you turned your back.

He called your name so desperately that you nearly whipped around.

“Please,” he repeated, and the break in his voice this time was unfamiliar. Strange. “Father wants to send you to the Hewn City. But if you find a life here in Velaris, I think you can… I don’t know,” he said, nearly frantic. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I—” His voice cracked entirely, and there was a sharp intake of breath that made the first tear slip down your cheek. “Please. You need to get up. You can’t be like this forever. If Father sends you down there, I don’t know if you’ll come back.”

To the Hewn City. To the place you insisted on being sent away from barely a decade ago, just a few years before the start of the War.

“Rhysand,” you breathed. “Go. Away.”

“Like hell I will,” he growled, but his voice died instantly. “I’m not leaving you here to rot any longer. I need you to let me help you. You need to live again. Even just a little.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Why?”

“You can’t—can’t be sent down there. You know what’ll happen.”

Whatever would have happened to Morrigan.

You all but pounced past the barriers of your brother’s mental shields, tearing through walls of dark, foggy smoke. Get the fuck out of my room, you snarled into his mind.

Get up and make me.

Prodding my anger won’t get you what you want, Rhysand.

A pause. All I want is for you to be all right.

For a moment, you saw yourself from his eyes—a silhouette under the covers, cloaked in night. You felt his anguish and fear and rage. The deep, languid shadows of his mind were familiar, warm to you despite their inherent cold, and he was permitting you free rein—you knew he was—but you also knew that you could pass through his defenses most of the time already. You retreated back into your own mind, sending out your next words, brisk and toneless: Get out.

Let me see it, he replied. 

No.

I won’t do anything to hurt you.

No.

I just need to see what hap—

No.

Father has been wanting to—

GET OUT.

Out of your head. Your room. Your life. Your grief. You thinned your defenses to the scrape of his talons on your shields, letting your brother see precisely what it was you meant, what it was you wanted. To wither away, to fall from the cliffs you’d once flown from. After years of soaring in the sky, to crash headfirst into the ground.

Rhys slipped past your mental shields like smoke spilling into glass. I’m mourning her too, he said. I didn’t endure what you did, but I understand your pain, sister. I want to help alleviate it. Any way I can. Let me.

You said nothing.

He sighed. I can arrange for someone else to escort you out, if you’d like.

The very thought of anyone new, unfamiliar, untrustworthy made your stomach roil.

Cassian, then. He’d be happy to join you.

I barely know Cassian. 

You trust him.

No more than you.

Who would you trust more than me, then?

Your mother’s face flashed into your mind.

I’m sorry.

Get out of my head.

You felt him retreat.

“Please,” Rhys said out loud. Again. “Just let me watch the memory. It could help Father find him. Make him pay. If you want, I can remove—”

Don’t finish that sentence. Your pillowcase was damp now, and you didn’t have the energy to speak. Just go.

For a moment, there was only stillness. I’ve apologized to you endlessly, and I’ll continue to do it until the day I die, he said. But I need to help you. How about Day? I’m sure Helion would be willing to host you for a time.

Helion has a court to run.

You are like a daughter to him.

I am nobody’s daughter anymore.

Rhys let out a shuddering breath.

“Go,” you said hoarsely. “Please.”

He sounded faint. “How can I leave you like this?”

Just like you have every other night I ignore you.

Talons scraped against your shields.

If my company is the issue, he said, consider Cassian or Azriel, at least. Genuinely. Just let them take you to the Artist’s Quarter for twenty minutes. Walk around. Say nothing. Wear a glamour for a while. Just leave the house. Even the room. I don’t have to be with you.

You felt it then, his pain. His guilt. Felt his regret at not meeting you and your mother halfway on your way to him as he was meant to, instead training his Illyrian legions. For mentioning to Tamlin where you were at all.

You turned back over to your brother. Faced his twisted expression. Your company is not the issue, Rhys.

Your brother’s brows quivered. How could you have forgotten, you thought, that he was the same male who had blamed himself for every fall you made when learning to fly? Who’d snarled at even Cassian’s sly remarks at your expense in the first year you’d lived with them for your Night Court visits? He had been gifted the power to experience the minds and lives of others—yet it surely tormented him now, to feel any of it. 

You were evil, you thought, for making someone so fiercely loyal suffer with you like this. 

His eyes softened. “Tell me what to do to make it better for you. Tell me how, and I’ll do it.”

And you knew he meant it.

For the first time, you settled in a place indefinitely. You moved to Velaris and dealt with the grief until it dulled enough to paint itself into the sky rather than every living thing the sun touched; just enough to function again. To start visiting Dawn or Day again and even sometimes Summer or Winter. 

Never Spring. Never Autumn. 

The latter was filled with power hungry hounds. Beron’s sons, you’d learned, weren’t all terrible—Eris was somewhat tolerable alone, you’d discovered in a solstice ball, when he’d proven himself not as vile as his brothers—and in turn had learned you were not as the Night Court had been made out to be. 

Lucien Vanserra was the only Autumn Court son you’d come to somewhat befriend. You’d seen how his own court was cruel to him, how he, too, had love stripped away from him before his eyes. But when he fled Autumn to serve as an emissary for the Spring Court, you never saw him or sought to. You wouldn’t hold it against Lucien, knowing that in a life like his, any kindness at all, any safe harbor, was deeply, wholly necessary. Let him have it, even under the court that killed your mother. Even after you would hear years later that the order for your head instated by Tamlin’s father had been annulled by Tamlin himself upon coming to power. Let Lucien have that kindness; so long as you would never lay any eye upon it.

You kept to Velaris. You had already been fond of it, but you grew to find a true, steadfast love for it, walking along the Sidra and visiting the Artist’s Quarter. Nodding to passersby faeries who had never needed to face the monstrosity of the world beyond.

You still did not fly. Did not summon your wings.

Even as you began to smile again, enjoy yourself again—when fleeting moments of joy would find you, and for just a breath, you would forget the hole burrowed deep within you—seeing Illyrian wings made you want to collapse in on yourself. They struck you like the memory of blood against stone, like a fragment of the past thrust upon the present.

Rhys had never summoned his wings when begging for you to leave your chambers those first few months of your grief. He had no reason to. And outside of your nightmares, you never saw such wings at all, But half a year after your mother’s murder, when you did try, slowly, to live again, it turned out Azriel had begun to take partial residence in Velaris almost immediately following the incident while serving as your father’s spymaster.

“He’s rarely here because of missions,” Rhys told you a month after you began to join him for dinner. “He’ll be here for this week before the next. I just thought you should be made aware if you hear someone arrive in the middle of the night, or if you see any shadows slipping around. Chances are you won’t hear him at all.”

That much, you knew. In your mother’s house, Azriel was only heard when he wanted to be—when he knew you needed to know someone was in the house or approaching. Mostly when Rhys or Cassian were doing Cauldron knew what in their chambers and Azriel’s presence was enough to humiliate them into silence.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Rhys asked over his shoulder. He looked rested today—though worn. He’d been warmer lately, almost relieved. Perhaps he thought you were truly getting better.

“Starfall,” you said absently, following Rhys to the hall. You’d seen Azriel in the years following the war before your mother’s death. You’d taken those five years for granted—your brother, his brothers, and your cousin who felt more like your sister finally united with you again. There had still been affairs following the war that drew them to their duties, but you’d been able to sleep easily for once and learn to work without an undercurrent of dread. Gods, you’d replay the memory of Azriel coming back to the House of Wind forever after the War: how he’d embraced Rhysand and Cassian like they were air. The shadowsinger had never been so overwrought with emotion—and your brother never so relieved.

And you, watching them reunite… you’d decided right then that you would never forgive your father.

“That’s almost a year,” replied Rhysand.

You hummed distractedly, gaze trailing the archway. A month ago, you’d finally agreed to leave your bedroom to join Rhys for dinner—and only because you’d heard him arguing with your father. The High Lord had visited you those first few months, but you were too hollowed out and empty to care. After that, whenever he came, you often only heard the tenor of his voice burgeoning until Rhysand’s joined him—until they were roaring at one another, then the sound barrier would come up, and you would lose any hold on what they said. It became clear to you, though, what was happening.

Rhys was suffering for what you had become, in more ways than one.

You had decided that would be no longer. Even if a part of you would always thrum with dread when you opened a door to an unfamiliar knock, even if you would never fly again, at least Rhysand could heal. He could thrive if he didn’t have you weighing on his conscience. You could endure being hollow and broken, but you were tired of being a burden.

As you followed Rhys into the dining room, you saw Azriel—his back to you as he moved something along the kitchen counter. Behind him, as they often were, his wings were tucked in tight.

The memory struck you like thunder.

It was clear as day: wings, discarded and shriveled from detachment, as if they had tucked into themselves without their host. Red fluid from the membrane glimmering over wooden floors.

You stopped short, blood screaming through your veins.

A hand caught your shoulder, and you flinched, a yelp slipping from you. Rhys’s eyes were round, and the certainty of the panic in his expression—as if he wasn’t surprised but ready for this, waiting for you to crumble even if he didn’t know why—struck you with startling humiliation.

This is what you had become. Something skittish and fragile. So easily shattered. 

“What is it?” Rhys asked softly. Behind him, Azriel had turned, brows lifted—then settled as he found you. Shadows danced around him like ocean currents.

He said nothing, eyes flicking to Rhysand first. You already knew there was a conversation happening between them.

“Speak out loud,” you snapped. “Don’t tread around me like a child.”

Azriel’s gaze finally landed upon you. Darkness incarnate. Yet warm. “I’ve been wanting to check on you for weeks, but Rhys said you wanted to be alone.” His eyes were unreadable, but his throat shifted. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

His chin dipped, as if it were a perfectly sufficient response. You’d forgotten what it was like to speak to Azriel, the only one of those three brothers who seemed to accept your silence.

What is it? Rhys repeated. Your mental shields weren’t up—they rarely were lately, with how little you left the House. And how little energy you had.

You swallowed, passing by your brother to get a glass from the cabinet. Nothing.

Something exasperated and tiresome pulsed towards your mind. Please don’t do this.

I’m too tired to push you out, Rhys.

Good. I don’t want you to. You practically threw terror at my shields a moment ago.

Azriel reached over you when you opened the cabinet, giving you a glass from the upper shelf. “Thank you,” you murmured.

Still waiting, by the way.

Your fingers clenched around the glass as you went to the faucet. Go back to Azriel’s head.

I’m afraid he already beat you to cursing me and throwing up his walls.

You slammed your shields up—much to your detriment, squinting your eyes for a moment as you filled the glass. Azriel’s gaze warmed you from your side, but you pretended not to notice for the sake of your dignity. There was already one Illyrian male coddling you. One too many.

Clouds of darkness surrounded your mental shields, slipping into the thinnest of crevices of your mind. Don’t tell me you forgot we can bypass each other, sister dearest, Rhys purred.

You jerked the faucet down and whipped around to him, glaring. Stop. Out.

Won’t do that.

Rhysand.

Tell me.

Why the fuck do you want to know so badly?

Because I haven’t felt that level of fear from you in months, he said. Did something trigger it?

You loosed a breath. I’m fine.

For Cauldron’s sake, stop trying to put on a show. His eyes burned. Just tell me what’s fucking wrong.

“My mother is dead is what’s fucking wrong,” you hissed, then froze. Azriel was at your side, and you could have sworn his shadows winced. Rhys blinked, then his features seemed to twist. 

Shame flushed over you in an instant. “Fuck,” you muttered, practically dropping the glass into the sink and shouldering past Azriel.

You were already out the door by the time you heard Rhys call your name.

It wasn’t your room you went to, but the balcony outside the dining room. 

When you’d begun to leave the House again, whenever your brother was out carrying your father’s orders, you were often left entirely by yourself. Rhys had managed to modify the wards of the House to allow you—and only you—to winnow in and out so that you wouldn’t be dependent upon his flying.

Because you certainly couldn’t depend on yours.

Rhys knew why you wouldn’t fly. He knew. But that hadn’t stopped him from pressing, over and over again, for weeks, months. And now, as you heard footsteps approaching behind you, you braced yourself for more questions, more why’s and tell me’s even though he knew damn well what had happened to you. It was as if enough questions would give the truth room to change. As if you could return to the way you were half a year ago, before the attack.

Biting your cheek as you stared out towards Velaris, you managed a weak, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Hear what?”

You turned to Azriel. He glanced over his shoulder, as if your brother would be there.

“He left, if you’re expecting him.” The shadowsinger reached your side, looking out onto the glowing streets far below. “I think he understands now.” 

“Understands what?” you asked.

“That he crossed a line.”

“No shit,” you muttered.

HIs gaze flicked to you. But he kept quiet.

“I shouldn’t have told him that,” you said. “I was just… I don’t know.”

Azriel shrugged. His shadows trickled onto the terrace rails, curling over your fingers. “He was pushing you too far.”

“You couldn’t even hear him.”

“No,” he admitted. “But I could see you.”

You felt your neck flush. “Lovely knowing my brother isn’t the only one watching me closely for damage control.”

“I’m not watching closely. It’s obvious. You’re an open book.”

“I’m not an open book. You’re just a spymaster. It’s your job to observe.”

He shrugged again. But his shadows seemed to compress—darken.

You frowned at him as his gaze drifted along the winding Sidra. “When did you start working directly under my father again?” After the war, his duties had loosened considerably—enough for him not to work at your father’s every whim. Enough for your brother to see him again.

“Only this year. After the ambush.” 

The ambush. Not the Spring Court attack. Not your mother’s murder. Nameless yet direct. You didn’t know what to make of it.

“Is it… all right?” you asked. When his eyes met yours, questioning, you added, “I mean, I remember the war—how long you were gone. And I know my father. I can imagine working under his command is… demanding. Besides, the last time I saw you was last year.” You scoped his features. Azriel did look tired, you realized. Not entirely, but enough, with darkness pooling in more places than before—under his eyes, in the hollows under his cheekbones. The angles and planes of that undeniably beautiful Illyrian face had been sharpened. Honed. “You seem… preoccupied.”

“It’s been fine,” he answered simply, not wasting a breath. Rhys had told you the truth—that Azriel had been on constant missions, put under even more unrelenting pressure than even Rhys himself. At least your brother had the comfort of familial bonds to push back against your father when needed. Azriel had nobody and nothing to protect him. Nothing but his duty and honor as a shadowsinger.

“How’s Cassian?” you asked. You’d only seen him weekly since moving to Velaris. According to Rhys, he’d tried to visit almost every other day during those first few months when you isolated yourself, but Rhys hadn’t allowed anyone to see you. You’d barely been able to face your own brother and father, much less anyone else. When you began to enter the world again, it was Cassian and Mor who escorted you to the Rainbow on the days Rhys went off to his duties. Cass was kind, warm, easy. A welcome light in your pit of darkness.

And you hated it, how both him and your brother so easily looked after you.

“I haven’t seen him in a month,” Azriel replied. “But he seemed fine when I last did.”

You shifted on your feet. When you had resided in your mother’s home, Rhys and his brothers couldn’t go more than a day without needing each other’s company. Now things felt like the war—but without their resistance as they tried so desperately to find each other. “Rhys said he barely sees you these days, too.”

His wings seemed to tighten impossibly more—drawing your attention to them again and lodging in your chest.

Blood on wood. Blood on stone. Blood on wings. Blood on your hands.

Your breath caught, and you pressed a palm to the marble rails, drumming your fingers to stay in reality. To feel the cold. This is real, you told yourself. Velaris glittered, pulsed at your feet. This is where you are. The memories are just memories. What happened in them is over. 

“What you said to Rhys wasn’t wrong,” Azriel told you suddenly. You looked at him. He was already watching you. “I know you regret telling him that. But if anything, it made Rhys see a little more clearly.”

You exhaled. “I just… feel bad. He’s suffering.”

Azriel swallowed. “I know.”

“I don’t know what to do. How to make it easier for him. I feel like I’m making him suffer more.”

Azriel looked at you. Blinked, as if… startled.

You bristled. “What?” 

He seemed to regain his focus. “Nothing, just… he said the exact same thing about you just now. Word for word.”

Somehow, that made it worse. More tangible. You were the face of Rhys’s guilt, and you knew it. 

“I know that you know,” he went on, “but he cares for you. Deeply. The kind of love he has for you is rare, even among siblings. Just be patient with him.”

You winced and hated yourself for it. Your brother loved you, and you knew it, and yet the idea only felt like a burden. “I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to worry for me anymore.”

“It can’t be helped,” Azriel said. “Both of you need time to heal. He’s grieving for himself, but he’s also grieving for you. You’ve always meant the world to him. You’re one of the only things he has that the court can’t take away from him.”

Perhaps when you were being schooled all across Prythian so long ago, when you had recounted the other courts to Rhys and he looked at you with such wondrous love, as if you were the world—it had been the world you were showing him. Perhaps to your brother, you had been a breath of freedom. And when you collapsed into yourself—turned into a shell—he had lost that. Been trapped in the world he was born into again.

Heat welled into your vision. “Fuck,” you said, and you turned from Azriel, now humiliated as much as you were heartbroken. If you weren’t so damn fragile, so weak-hearted, Rhys wouldn’t know you were irreparable. He could have found peace if you could just force this fear down, this grief. He could have had you as a safe harbor while his brothers were gone, pulled apart by politics and time and war.

Azriel shifted behind you, coming closer. You felt his shadow pass over you. “They will pay,” he said, deathly soft. “They will pay for everything they did to you.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears slipping down your cheeks. Shook your head. “They might not.”

“I swear it.” He sounded rougher now. Sharper. “I swear to the Mother.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Give me your hand.”

You sniffed, turning back to him. “What?”

“Give me your hand.” He extended his palm to you. “I’ll make a bargain with you. My primary task under your father has been to find the Spring Court’s weaknesses to counterattack.” His shadows whirled around him, almost entirely shrouding his wings. “Let me prove it to you. Let me promise you.”

You blinked. “I don’t… don’t want to force you.”

“I’m already bound to this mission by the High Lord himself. There’s no more forcing to be done.”

You held Azriel’s gaze, that hazel in the gilded fae light. They carried more than you had ever seen from him in those passing months each year in your youth.

“I swear on my life, daughter of the Night Court,” he said. “The High Lord of Spring and his sons will pay for what they did to you.”

Your brows furrowed. “That’s a vow, not a bargain.”

He inclined his head. “Then if I succeed, you’ll do a favor of my choosing. Deal?”

Azriel’s outstretched hand was lined and marred with scars, whorls of roughened skin. Memory, nightmares, permanently engrained into him. The darkest backbone of his life, wearing his promise.

You accepted. It felt like something had finally steadied within you as Azriel’s hand gripped yours, warm and firm. “It’s a deal, Shadowsinger.”

Almost imperceptibly, Azriel’s mouth tugged. And when you finally released his hand, your own was inked with the mark of the bargain, covered in night-dark lines. 

author's note thank u for reading lovelies <3 let me know what you think! i've been in genuine flow state writing this fic because the concept of a half-illyrian daemati who isn't rhys and is a girlboss is just… well yes. you can expect weeklyish updates if not sooner. taglist is open, just comment to be added!

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