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The baxter building was quiet, it wasn't that rare but it's the quietness that only comes when everyone is asleep, or too tired from a mission. It's past midnight, everyone should be asleep right? The city was still awake, and so are you and johnny, the glow from the city, the moonlight glowing past the kitchen, soft and subtle.

You and johnny weren't supposed to be awake, you had plans with the team early in the morning. You shouldn't be awake but there's an unspoken tradition between the two of you, midnight cereal raids. Sneaking in the kitchen like trained spies just to eat not one, or two but multiple bowls of cereals.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, spoon dangling on your freshly manicured fingers, feet fully flat on the cold tiles, barefoot. Johnny didn't even get a bowl, he casually started eating the cereal from the pack itself, already halfway even if the cereal box was just freshly opened. Somehow the fridge was left open, it gave sort of a soft light against you two.

"You'll like this," Johnny grinned. He suddenly played a song, putting down the cereal box on the counter, next to you. He smiled, wide, his body swaying while pointing finger guns at you.

The first slow notes of your favorite song played, it's Every Breathe You Take by the police. You laughed, giggled at johnny who's now swaying his body to the rhythm of the music while looking at you with eyes that screamed, "it's our song, c'mon."

It was your song, not just the romantic type, but also the kind that screams, "we've danced to this song more than we can ever count." You instantly knew, when his fingers trailed over the speaker, you knew he'd play this song. It's both a tradition and comfort, a bond that no one can ever top, a connection no one can break, a song that binds you two.

You raised a brow. “Really? At midnight?” oh you love this, you both danced to this song even if it's morning, brushing your teeth or in the middle of getting ready, and even before sleeping.

Johnny smirked, "C’mon. It’s our thing, sweetheart.”

" I thought our thing is eating cereal at ungodly hours and not dancing in front of an open fridge, your sister will scold us-" He cuts you off, grinning.

"News flash, sweets, it's both are thing. Whether you like it or not, it's our thing."

"Well good thing, i like it." You smiled, showing your dimples. He held his hand over his chest, pretending like you've shot him through his heart before he mutters a, "so gorgeous."

Johnny smiled, wiggling his eyebrows too that made you laugh. Both of your laughs and giggles, voices filling the kitchen. Johnny walked closer to you, barefoot too, he held out his hand, trying to sound formal but you two ended up laughing. "May i have this dance, sweetheart?"

Of course you took his hand, you will always take his hand. You rolled your eyes while he intertwined his fingers with yours, his palm was warm, fingers curled around yours. You placed your hand on his shoulder, while his other hand held your waist. You two started swaying through the music, his hand guiding your waist.

He took you by surprise by twirling you around, your night gown flowing while your hair did to. When johnny looked at you, he was starstrucked, it's like he's falling in love with you over and over again. it's like everytime he sees you twirl around while dancing barefoot in the kitchen, bedroom, living room, or even dance floors, you're always in slowmo for him, like everything is blurry except for you. He sees you smile, giggle, the sound of your voice piercing through his heart, it made him stop and stare before completely catching you in his arms.

"Your hands are freezing,” he murmured then softly adds, “I’ll warm them up for you.” and he did just that and more. Every touch from johnny felt so warm, the warmth of his embrace or touch, especially the warmth of his love will always overflow, letting you feel every inch of his love.

A soft laugh escaped you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping just enough that you felt it in your chest, “but I’m your ridiculous.” he suddenly guides your hand, soft and steady, warm and cozy, he hooked your arms in his neck, while both his hands are on your waist now. You two were so close, inches apart maybe.

“I love this… you, me, the world asleep. It’s… easy.” johnny said, blue eyes softened when he adds, "also, even if the world is awake and chaotic, i love to live it because it has you and me."

You hummed in agreement. As long as he's there, peaceful or chaotic, you'd live it with him. “Even with cereal breath?” you joked.

He chuckled, leaning closer. “Especially with cereal breath.” he placed a soft kiss on your lips, pace soft and steady, there's no rush, just two people taking their time to show how much they love eachother. When you pulled away, you leaned against his body, head on his collarbone, still softly swaying.

You didn't notice sue, standing in the hallway. She woke up from thirst, wanting a glass of cold water but was greeted by you and johnny looking so cozy, slow dancing in the kitchen under dim lights with cereals on the counter. She saw her hotheaded little brother looked so calm with you, like the world outside didn't exist, it was just you and him. Sue saw his brother's eyes, it was full of life, his eyes telling a story of how much he loves the girl in his arms, that was you. She saw how Johnny's fingers brushed circles on your back while you laughed ay something he said.

In the chaos of the superhero life, sue saw something precious between you two, it was safe and steady.

Sue's lips curved into a smile, it's like she knows how the future will unfold for you two. She didn't want to take the moment away from you two, so she stepped back, leaving you two in your own bubble, barefoot, swaying under the dim kitchen lights, while johnny is sneaking cereal in his mouth. She was convinced, she knows that johnny is in good hands and so are you.

Unknown to you, johnny actually noticed his sister. Years of training and experience made him feel that he's being watched. But it wasn't danger looking at him, it's his sister, eyes all soft and a smile on her lips.

Johnny's eyes caught her, his eyes past your shoulder looking over at his sister. Her expression being soft and readable, it was warm. He didn't stop from swaying his body with yours. He felt something rush in his chest, because it wasn't just sue, it was the woman who also raised him, someone who still took care of him and made sure the world wasn't harsh to him.

And now she's looking at you two, at johnny who now has a safe person, a person who keeps him grounded, a person that reminds him that it's not him that's too much, it's just the harsh world he's living in. You were just humming along with the song while johnny smiled at his sister, while sue nodded at him.

Johnny's eyes dropped on you, your head rested against him with so much trust and love. He knows you're it for him, he knows what you two have is not temporary, it's for a lifetime. He found you, the person who didn't just like him for the persona he shows to everyone as the human torch, but you liked him or loved him even more as johnny, as him, the whole him.

"You have no idea how much i love you, sweets." He murmurs against your ear while the song softly fades in thr background. Of course you do, you know how much he loves you. Because johnny is a man of his words and actions, he tells you and shows you.

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“Yes, I did.” You drop the bags of groceries onto your kitchen counter. The sun through the windows turns the room bright and golden.

“Two seconds is not thinking about it.”

“Mor, I just—”

“Are you mad at me?”

You glance at her, frowning, as you start unpacking. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

She shrugs, helping despite the pout in her voice. “I don’t know. You won’t even hear me out.” Together, you fall into an easy rhythm, navigating around each other to put things away. “And I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

You sigh, guilt prickling at your mind. She’s not wrong. It’s been a while.

“I know,” you admit. “I’ve been busy.”

It’s not a lie. You had been busy. The wards across Velaris were due for their generational reset—old magic re-stitched with the new. You’d been at it for months, mapping fault lines only you can see, weaving protections that last. Every corner of the city, from the Sidra’s bend to the foothills, needs rethreading.

A project of that scale usually doesn't leave much room for a social life.

Mor rustles behind you. “I get it. I just want to spend time with everyone. I guess I—Cauldron. How much fruit did you buy?”

When you turn, Mor’s holding up two hands full of fruit. You roll your eyes, crossing the room to relieve her of the weight, placing them in their designated areas.

“Don’t judge me. The farmer’s market was good today.”

She snickers. “Did you buy out every stand?”

“Some of us can’t survive on wine and snacks alone.”

She tsks. “Actually—”

“You need better eating habits. Come with me next week. Some of the booths have jewelry, too. Let me show you—”

Mor catches your hands in hers and spins you to face her, eyes narrowing in mock sternness. “You’re changing the subject.”

“Am I?”

She squeezes your palms. “Come to Adriata. Please.”

Adriata. The Summer Court trip. A lord’s wedding. A diplomatic affair dressed up as a simple vacation.

You knew about the trip. Rhysand told you early, his excitement neatly tucked beneath diplomacy. He’d offered the invitation plainly, no pressure either way. Whether you said yes or no, he’d made it clear: the decision was yours, and he wouldn’t push.

You hesitate. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

There’s a different tone in her voice now—softer. Younger, like she’s asking because she’s afraid of the answer.

“I’m really busy.”

Mor frowns. “Rhys will understand.”

“I’m not working solely under Rhys on this.”

“He can still help them understand.”

“That’s not professional. I don’t—”

“It’s two days.”

You hold her gaze.

It was possible you’d been half-lying. 

Yes, you had been busy—but you’re not anymore. You finished the work ahead of schedule, burned through your projects at a pace that left even Amren raising a brow. 

Not because you were efficient—though you are—but because you pushed. If your hands weren’t moving, if your mind wasn’t knotted around ancient spellwork, you’d think of him. Of the ache that returned the second you slowed down.

Mor whines. “C’mon. Fancy party. Beach vacation. Endless drinks.”

You look anywhere but her face—anywhere but the love in her eyes.

You realize, again, that you’re a liar. A big, fat liar.

You’d told her you were fine now. That things with Azriel weren’t hard anymore, that the ache in your chest was gone. That you could all be together again like before. That you missed them. That you wanted it back.

And Morrigan, despite her power of truth, hadn’t seen through that lie.

You are not fine. Seeing Azriel still hollows you out. You leave every event early, citing headaches or work—but the truth is you can’t stand the weight in your chest when he’s near. You can’t breathe around it.

But you’ve never told her that.

In her mind, this is just family time. This is her making a last-ditch attempt to bring you back into the fold. To remind you that you’re still wanted.

“I miss you,” she says quietly. “I know things were weird, but I’m selfish and lonely and I really want to spend time with you.”

Lonely. There it is—that soft, meek thing threaded under her voice this whole time. Amren’s been busy. The boys too, probably. And Mor, who has everything she could want, just wants her friends.

“It’s one weekend,” she says, a final card played. “What could possibly go wrong?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You wake up to the sound of seagulls screaming and something sticky clinging to your cheek.

You blink, groaning, and pry your cheek from the tacky surface of the pillow beneath you—is that... syrup? Gods, you hope it’s syrup—then roll onto your back. Everything hurts.

The ceiling spins.

You sit up, slowly, and take stock of your surroundings. A couch cushion hangs halfway out a shattered window. Glitter is embedded in the grain of the hardwood. Somewhere nearby, the distinct, sour smell of potent liquor clings to the air.

At the edge of your bed, something stirs. Blonde hair spills over rumpled sheets, limbs sprawled at odd angles.

“Mor,” you croak. Your voice is sandpaper. You reach out with your foot, nudging her. “Hey.”

She makes a low, disgruntled noise, swatting lazily at your hand.

“Mor,” you say again, more insistent. “Wake up.”

She mumbles into the mattress.

“Morrigan.”

"What?" she groans, cracking one bloodshot eye. She squints at you like you’re the offense here. You squint back, then frown.

“What is that?”

Mor blinks at you. “What is what?”

You gesture at her face. “That. On your face.”

She frowns, reaches up, rubs at her cheek—and then pulls her hand back, smearing a line of ink.

There’s a long, slow moment of realization.

“There’s a dick on my face, isn’t there?”

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin. “There is, indeed.”

“Fucking hell,” Mor groans, pawing frantically at her skin. “Who drew a fucking cock on me?”

You crawl toward her and catch her chin gently, tilting her face into the morning light. It’s... impressively detailed. Even signed, scrawled crookedly along the curve of her jaw:

Cass.

You snort. “Wanna guess?”

Mor makes a noise somewhere between a growl and a whimper. “Dead. He’s so dead.”

You laugh—despite the splitting pain behind your eyes—and push to your feet. You glance around at the wreckage. “Well, that might not be entirely out of the realm of possibilities,” you tell her.

Mor furrows her brow, following your gaze as you point to the bed Cassian had loudly claimed last night.

It’s empty.

“He’s missing,” you clarify.

Mor sits up, blinking blearily at the chaos.

“What the hell happened last night?”

You raise a brow. “Very good question.”

A muffled groan echoes deeper in the suite.

You and Mor exchange a look—and scramble toward the sound. She swears behind you, nearly tripping on the strappy heels still buckled to her feet.

You find the source in the living room: Azriel, slumped on a battered couch, face-down, wings limp. He’s clutching a wooden spoon in one hand.

“Azriel?” you ask cautiously, stepping over a broken lantern. He groans into the cushions.

You nudge his shoulder. “Come on. Wake up.”

You glance back at Mor. She nods, steps through the debris, and—without warning—shoves him off the couch.

You wince as he hits the ground with a heavy thud, wings flaring just enough to cushion the worst of it. He groans again, louder, and pushes himself up, shadows skittering from under the couch in a pile of black smoke. He blinks blearily at you both.

You hate that he still looks good. You’re sure you look like shit, judging by the pain behind your eyes. But Azriel is still Azriel. And some part of you still aches for him, in that familiar, insufferable way.

He glances at you—then looks away. But one of his shadows replaces his gaze, curling softly around your calf. It drifts up until it finds your left hand, curling around it loosely.

You close your eyes.

Then—gently—you brush it away. You can’t handle the feel of him on you. His shadows, delicate things you loved once, feel like a home you’re no longer allowed to enter.

Az doesn’t say anything. You don’t know if he even noticed.

“What happened last night?” you ask. Your voice is steadier than it feels.

Azriel blinks, slow. “No idea,” he mutters. “I can’t remember anything.”

“Just great,” Mor groans, slumping onto the couch. “Did we all collectively get amnesia?”

You wince. “I don’t think our issue is medical, Mor. Sure doesn’t smell like it.”

Az shifts. “Let me see. Just—give me a second.”

He lifts the spoon, frowns at it, and tosses it aside, shadows darting after it. He runs a hand through his hair.

Mor pauses, halfway sitting up again. Her face twists. “What is that, Az?”

You don’t like her tone.

Azriel frowns. “What?”

She stands—fast—and points at his left hand. “Your hand. Left hand.”

He follows her gaze. His wings lock rigid.

A solid, black band. Snug around the base of his ring finger.

Your stomach sinks.

Mor turns to you slowly, brows raised. “No,” you say flatly. “There's no way.”

But your stomach is already in freefall.

You glance down—at the hand that shadow had brushed. Your left.

You freeze.

A ring. Same finger. A delicate, dainty thing.

You shoot to your feet. “No. No, no, no.”

Lightheaded. The room feels wrong. Azriel is still staring at his hand.

Mor points between you both. “You two are... I think you’re fucking married.”

Az looks up—finally meets your eyes. Panic creases his expression, like the truth is only just settling. And gods, he’s still beautiful. Disgusting.

You can’t answer. Can barely breathe.

Azriel doesn’t speak either.

Mor grimaces at your twin expressions. Then—half-hearted—she offers,

“Congratulations?”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

“So there’s nothing we can do?”

The spellmaster, a wiry older male with sunspotted skin and a necklace made of shells, offers an apologetic smile and shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

Behind you, Azriel sighs.

You resist the urge to throw something. Or cry. Or both.

“And you’re absolutely sure?” Mor presses, her voice sweetened by desperation. She leans on the counter, eyes wide and pleading. “Not even a sketchy third option?”

“It’s deep vow magic,” the male explains again. “Uncommonly used among our priestesses. And, unfortunately, also very binding. Only a matching counterspell will break it. Which, alas, I do not have.”

You stare at a knot in the wood wall, jaw tight. You can feel Az’s eyes on you—have felt them the entire time—but you haven’t looked at him once. You won’t. This whole mess, as absurd as it sounds, has made you feel exposed in a way you haven’t in years.

Mor exhales hard, clearly defeated. “Right. Thank you.”

The shopkeeper claps his hands together, bright-eyed, and turns to you. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

You blink. “I—” but you don’t finish it. You don’t trust yourself not to say the worst things aloud. No sir, we aren’t in love. He’s incapable of fighting for it.

“Strong couple,” the male says, beaming. “Strong spell.”

You freeze. Mor makes a quiet choking sound. “Nope. No congratulations. No couple.” She’s already grabbing your arm, Azriel’s too. “Thank you so much, you’ve been great,” she blurts, practically shoving you both toward the door. “We’re leaving now!”

The bell above the door clangs violently as she throws it open, and the three of you are spat into the blinding Adriata sunlight.

It’s blistering hot and your body reacts with a wave of nausea. Yesterday it felt glorious. Now it feels like divine punishment.

You drag yourself to the nearest café table and collapse into a wrought iron chair, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes.

“That wasn’t... ideal,” Mor mutters, tying her hair into a rough ponytail as she takes the seat beside you. The skin of her cheek is still faintly pink where she scrubbed away Cassian’s artwork. “But it’ll be fine. Right? Eventually. Probably.”

Azriel hovers just off the patio, wings pinned tightly. He’s doing his best not to be in anyone’s way—but they still stare. Hard not to, given who he is. A living shadow standing next to your table.

He's also your husband now, a voice in your mind whispers. You shove it deep, where you’ll never have to hear it again.

You press your fingers to your temples. “Where the hell is Rhys? He’ll know what to do.”

Mor gives you a long, flat look.  “Okay. Not going to take offense to that, considering the stressful circumstances.” She folds her arms across her chest, then gestures loosely toward Az. “But if anyone should know, it’s Az.”

You glance over at him without meaning to.

He straightens like he’s been caught, his hands still hovering near the band on his finger. He steps closer, catching a ray of sunshine, and his shadows bristle, recoiling from the light.

“I can’t reach any of them,” Azriel says, his voice quiet, meant for Mor. “Not Rhys. Not Cass. Not Amren.”

You sit up straighter. “But they’re okay... right?”

His gaze slides to you and his face softens.  Even his wings, for a brief second, hang lower. He opens his mouth—but Mor cuts in.

“Of course they’re okay!” she says, as if volume can make it true. “If a High Lord and two of the most powerful in Prythian got hurt, we’d know. There’d be chaos. Evidence. Right?” She looks at Az.

Azriel just stares back.

“Right?” she repeats, voice thinner.

Az hesitates, then slowly shrugs, palms up. The gesture says everything.

Mor goes still. “Oh, gods.”

You lean back, letting the sun heat your closed eyelids. The gulls scream overhead. Adriata is having a far better morning than you are.

You absently twist the ring on your finger. It doesn’t move.

Out of habit, not hope, you try again. Still nothing.

Beyond your better judgement, you peek through your lashes to look at it. Just for a second.

It’s beautiful. Pale gold, antique cut. You hate it.

Across from you, Azriel’s ring is different. You’d noticed earlier — the way it caught less light than yours, the way it seemed to disappear against the tan of his skin. But now, with the sun slipping in slats through the awning, you see it clearly.

It’s not metal. Not gold or silver. It’s rubber — matte, dark, fitted tight against the rough skin at the base of his finger.

 Azriel doesn’t wear rings. He never has. Not because he’s above it or uninterested, but because jewelry doesn’t sit well on his hands. His skin is too scarred, too textured in places. The nerves are unpredictable. Metal irritates, pinches. You’ve seen him try before — small, quiet attempts that lasted maybe half an hour. And then he’d take it off and never mention it again.

But this one — this ring — it doesn’t bother him. Doesn’t seem to be causing any pain or distress.

It fits. It’s safe. 

Which means someone had thought about that. Had chosen something that wouldn’t hurt him.

It had to have been you.

Even drunk, even oblivious—you’d remembered what would be gentle on him.

The thought makes you nauseous. Because it means that deep down, in some part of you that still loved him, you cared. Even unconscious, even ruined, you cared.

And that makes you feel small. Pathetic.

You shove it down until your chest aches.

“Okay,” Mor says again, too chipper as she fans herself. “Let’s regroup,  go back to what we do remember.”

You nod. “Right. The ceremony.”

“A dream,” she sighs. “Even the napkins matched the sky.”

“There was music,” you murmur.

“There was wine,” Azriel adds.

You glance at him, brief. He’s not looking at you.

“There was a lot of wine,” Mor mutters. “And then—”

“Afterparty,” you say.

Your mind strains. A hallway that sparkled. Something blue. Cassian’s voice laughing. Someone’s arm around your shoulders. You remember feeling weightless, free.

Then—nothing. Just black.

You chase the gap like it might give up something new, a sliver of a moment, a voice, a flash of memory. But there’s only static. The missing hours taunt you, no matter how hard you dig.

You don’t notice how far you’ve spiraled inward until—

“Oh!”

You blink. Mor is squinting near the patio edge. A little girl stands there—small, maybe six at most, hair a nest of tangles from the wind.

The child doesn’t respond, just gives Morrigan a shy smile and brings her gaze back to Azriel. She seems completely unfazed by the shadows that curl at his back like smoke, some of them now drifting out in lazy spirals, curious about their new, smaller audience.

She squints a little, tilts her head. Then lifts a hand and points.

“I like your wings.”

Az’s brow lifts, surprised. He looks down at her—then, briefly, at you—and says, “Thank you.”

She just stares, wide-eyed, like he’s the most magnificent thing she’s ever seen. His shadows drift toward her again—tentative, almost playful—and the girl giggles as one brushes her ankle.

Azriel begins to kneel.

“Would you like to touch them?” he asks.

She nods eagerly, and he shifts, ever so carefully, turning his body to angle one wing toward her. You watch, unable to speak, as he slowly extends it—broad and gleaming, catching the sunlight in waves of deep mahogany.

She reaches out, delicately, reverently, and his shadows shepherd her hand away from any overly sensitive areas. Az glances at you, the smallest smile tugging at his mouth.

And your heart soars.

Because gods—he’s smiling. Not in the guarded way he so often does, not in polite dismissal or thin-lipped silence. It’s soft. Real.

It feels awfully like remembering something you forgot you lost —the whole dream of it. A future you’d once let yourself imagine. A different life, where you could’ve built something together. Where mornings like this might’ve been real. Where maybe you wouldn’t have been so scared.

He’s vulnerable for this little girl’s laughter—this male with a reputation that terrifies half of Prythian. He’s letting her touch what others fear. The version of him only a few ever got to see.

And you used to be one of them.

You mourn it. That closeness. That possible future.

The girl beams. “They’re even bigger than the other one’s!”

Your head snaps toward Mor at the same moment hers snaps toward you. 

“The… other one?” Mor echoes.

The child nods. “Yeah! He had wings too.”

Something shifts in Azriel. Not alarm—Azriel rarely shows anything that clearly—but an alertness you know all too well.

You sit forward. “Did he look like him?” you ask, pointing at Az.

She considers. Then raises her hand as high as she can. “Taller.”

You and Azriel lock eyes. His are already on you.

“Do you remember where you saw him?” 

And once again, the child nods. “My family’s shop.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Her family’s shop, as it turns out, is a pawn and trade shop, tucked into a narrow corner of the Adriata market.

Azriel goes in first—still holding Naela’s small hand since the moment she insisted on it.

You follow behind, trying not to melt at the sight.

She’s so small beside him, swinging his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he is no threat, no scarred monster. Your chest squeezes. Mor softly sighs beside you. You don’t look at her. You’re scared you’ll find the same expression you’re wearing now.

It isn’t until Naela spots a male near the counter that she lets go, grip loosening, eyes lighting up.

“Pappa!”

The man looks up just in time to catch her. He scoops her into his arms with an ease born of routine, pressing a kiss to her temple as she giggles and tucks herself under his chin.

“Oh, my little pearl,” he murmurs. “Where have you been, eh?”

The moment is so tender, so domestic, that you almost feel like you shouldn’t be watching. You’re not sure your heart can handle anymore.

You’re grateful, however, that the sweet nature of the past half hour has distracted you from your hangover—still humming beneath your skull now that you’re standing in a cooler, shaded space.

“I’m sorry if she caused any trouble,” her father says, glancing over her shoulder at the rest of you.

Mor waves him off with a warm smile. “Not at all. She’s... she’s a sweetheart.”

Naela’s still nestled against him, but she isn’t looking at her father. Her eyes remain fixed on Azriel. Wide, sparkling, utterly enamored.

You glance at Az. He’s already looking at you.

And—Cauldron—you swear he blushes. A soft flicker of color beneath his cheekbones before he shifts his gaze back to Naela. When you look at her again, she’s gone pink in the face too, tucking herself deeper into her father’s neck.

Someone has a crush, you think, and when you glance at Mor, she’s thinking the same thing. Her expression has gone misty. She mouths: baby fever. It tugs at something soft in you. You nod.

Az clears his throat. You barely hear it despite the silence that’s bloomed.

“We’re looking for someone,” he says carefully.

He steps forward—just one pace—but it’s careful, almost awkward. His body language tightens, like he’s trying to fold in on himself: shoulders hunched, wings pressed flush to his back. His shadows are mostly gone, except for one, flickering lazily at his side.

Naela’s father studies him with a flicker of apprehension. You frown. You can imagine the flicker of sadness in Azriel’s eyes without even looking at him. A small, small detail that only someone who has spent hours looking into his eyes can tell.

The sharp reminders that he has done his job too well. He is feared.

But then Naela leans in and whispers something in her father’s ear. The change is immediate. His shoulders drop and he nods.

“Ah. Yes.”

He sets her down gently, brushing her hair back. Then he turns toward the curtained doorway behind him and calls out for ‘Milo’. He uses another term of endearment, one that hums with familiarity. You can’t catch the exact words, but they sound like home.

A moment later, another male appears. His eyes move first to Naela, then sweep across your group. When they land on Mor, they widen.

“Hello,” he says. “You are the High Lord’s third in command—Morrigan, yes?”

“Guilty.” Mor beams. “I’m also his cousin. But that’s not as fun.”

She steps forward, launching into the explanation. “Your daughter said she saw someone. A male. Looked like him”—she gestures at Azriel—“but taller. Longer hair.”

Milo nods. “Yes. Cassian.”

You step forward, a small smile of relief on your face. “You know him?”

“Of course,” Milo says, “He was here last night.”

You glance back at Azriel instinctively, but he’s been intercepted. Naela is at his feet again, tugging on his hand with the determined energy only small children possess. Her tiny fingers wrapped tight around two of his—trying to drag him to the far end of the store.

Az looks mildly panicked, eyes darting to you like he’s begging for help. You bite back a laugh, give him a helpless shrug.

Then Mor’s voice cuts in. “Amazing news. When was the last time you saw him?”

Naela’s father—whom Milo had called Tovik when he first emerged—returns to the counter. He lifts a brow. “Not since the trade last night.”

Mor frowns. “The trade?”

“Yes.” Milo’s expression grows more serious, his tone careful. “But from the looks on your faces, I’m assuming something went wrong.”

You hesitate. For a second, you consider lying. You glance at Mor, who lifts her brows, a noncommittal shrug: your call.

You exhale. “Yes. We think so. And… we can’t find him. So any information you can share—it would be great.”

Behind you, a soft giggle. That particular, enchanted sound only a child makes. Both men glance past you, and you turn just enough to catch Naela gently wrapping one of Azriel’s wings in a delicate string of beaded necklaces.

He’s letting her. Az is letting her.

The sight should not ache the way it does.

The fathers smile faintly, then share a meaningful look—something quiet and knowing passing between them like a current.

Milo says, “We haven’t seen him since. But please, allow us to give you back the trade.”

Without waiting for a response, the two of them slip behind the curtain at the back of the shop. The beads clack softly behind them and the room falls quiet.

You repeat their words in your mind and glance at Mor. “Do we have any money for them?”

She frowns, already checking her form. “Nothing on me.”

“Shit,” you mutter.

Before either of you can panic further, the two males return. Milo carries a small wooden box, which he sets gently on the counter. Tovik unclasps the lid and pushes it toward you.

Mor leans in, peeks—then immediately flinches back. “Oh, gods spare me.”

Inside, nestled on soft velvet, are seven red siphons.

Shit. That isn’t good. Evidence, Mor had said. Evidence if something had happened. This, more than anything, seemed like evidence. Your shoulders sink.

“We don’t have anything on us,” you say quickly. “But if there’s any way we can make a bargain or—”

Both males lift a hand, stopping you mid-sentence.

“That,” Milo says, nodding past you, “is payment enough.”

You turn.

Azriel is in the corner, kneeling now, one arm resting on a low bench. Naela’s at his side, following the movements of his shadows. They’re both quiet, locked into whatever small project she’s dreamed up. You watch her little hands twist and braid, his shadows curling and responding with delight. Az doesn’t even flinch when she presses a tiny hand to his wing.

Tovik rests a hand on Milo’s shoulder. “She has a hard time,” he murmurs, “with the other kids.”

You meet Milo’s gaze. He smiles. “You’ve got a good husband,” he says. “Kind-hearted.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh—I—”

He nods toward your hand. You can’t even bring yourself to correct him. So you do the only thing you can. You nod.

It makes you feel small again, as if you’ve shrunk every time someone made you ache for Azriel.

Mor is already watching you. “Excuse me,” you say gently, “I need some air.” You look at her. “I’ll be right outside.”

She nods without question, already pivoting back toward the counter. You catch the tail end of her asking what Cassian traded for before the door swings shut behind you.

Outside, the breeze hits you full in the face. You squint and lift your left hand to block the sun.

Adriata is stunning. Alive like Velaris, but in a different way. Where Velaris shines, Adriata glows—soft and warm and golden. The sky is impossibly blue. Somewhere, not too far, music floats down from a rooftop.

You still feel a little sick, a little dizzy, but it’s easier now. The worst of the hangover has passed. Or, at least, quieted.

You close your eyes and breathe. Try to picture where Cassian might be. What kind of mess Rhysand is dealing with. Whether Amren is somewhere close.

“This air is more enjoyable now that my liquor has settled,” a voice says beside you.

You jump.

“Cauldron, Azriel,” you gasp, pressing your palm to your chest. “I forget how quiet you can be.”

He looks a little sheepish, mouth tipping into a small, guilty smile. His gaze flicks downward—to your hand over your heart. His expression shifts, softens into something heavier.

You follow his line of sight.

That godsdamned ring.

You drop your hand like it burns.

“I was actually thinking the same thing,” you say, voice wry. “About the air.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Azriel doesn’t reply right away.

He’s still looking at you—still hasn’t moved—and you become acutely aware of how close he is. Maybe it’s not much, just a step or two, but it feels significant. It might even be the closest you’ve been to him in months. Maybe last night was closer, but you can’t remember last night. So, for now, this is the closest.

And under his stare, you feel bare.

Like he’s peeling you apart with nothing but his silence. And it’s not bad, exactly—it’s Azriel. But it’s too much. It’s just about to be too much.

You nod your head back toward the shop and say, “I think you’ve got an admirer in there.”

Az’s mouth twitches, that barely-there dimple pressed in place. “It appears so,” he murmurs.

"You can go back in. Wouldn’t want to take her male.”

He huffs a soft laugh. You laugh at your own joke too, which loosens something—makes the space between you feel less tight.

“I said my goodbyes,” Azriel says. “She’s a little too young for me.”

You laugh again—really laugh this time—and Az’s answering smile is soft in a different way. It seems like he’s not just amused, but surprised. Or grateful. Or in awe.

And then, quietly, he adds, “Besides, I’m a married man, apparently.”

You freeze—not all at once, but enough that he notices. His shadows lift slightly behind him, a soft twitch of reaction. His gaze flickers—uncertain, like maybe that was too far, too fast.

Before you can say anything, the door behind you opens. Mor steps out into the light, box clutched triumphantly in her hands. “I know where to go,” she announces, breathless with urgency. “I know where he is.”

You and Azriel both turn toward her, exchanging a hopeful glance.

Then Mor’s face crumples slightly. “Which one of you can winnow us?” she asks, grimacing. “Because I—I can’t.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The moment your feet hit the ground, the world tilts sideways.

You stagger, bracing yourself against a tree. Your stomach lurches—violently—but nothing comes up. Just dry heaving. It leaves you dizzy and sweating, like you’ve been wrung out.

Soft footsteps approach behind you. Then Azriel’s hand is at your back, steady and warm. His presence alone sends your mind spinning in two directions—one towards comfort, the other towards regret.

It transports you back to every drunken night you spent together. Returning home from Rita’s, giggling into the dark, the comfort of his hand trailing your spine until you fell asleep.

“I’m fine,” you manage, voice horse. “Just—give me a second.”

Behind you, there’s the sharp sound of retching. Real retching. Mor.

You glance over just in time to see Mor bent over, one hand on her knee, the other waving you off weakly. “I’m good,” she croaks, barely lifting her head. “Just needed to baptize the local flora.”

Even now—pale and bent over—she manages to look beautiful. It’s actually offensive.

Azriel helps you to your feet, hand pressed at your elbow. When you finally lift your head, you frown.

You’re surrounded by ruins. Soot-slicked stone, shattered windows, smoke stains stretched like fingers up the walls. It sags in on itself, the skeletal frame of what was once a building. You blink, hoping maybe your vision is just blurred from the winnow.

It isn’t.

“Mor,” you call, still catching your breath. “Not to question the credibility of Azriel’s girlfriend’s family, but Cassian isn’t here. There’s nothing here.”

Azriel rolls his eyes playfully. Dangerous territory, and you both know it. Picking at the thread, opening yourself up to banter, of all things. Still, he says nothing.

“Well, shit,” Mor mutters, wiping her mouth and straightening.

You survey your surroundings. "What would Cass have been doing here?"

Az’s body snaps upright, still as a bowstring. Before he can speak, a familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Because fourteen hours ago,” Rhysand says dryly, “it wasn’t ruins.”

You all whip around. Mor gasps—an honest, relieved sound—and launches herself at him.

“You’re okay,” she breathes, hugging him tightly.

Rhys hugs her back, his eyes sweeping over you and Azriel. “Of course I’m okay. Was that… in question?”

You stare. You're not sure what to say.

Rhys wrinkles his nose. “You smell like vomit.”

"I take my excitement back." Mor scowls, pulling away. “I liked you better when you were missing.”

“Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you,” you tell him.

“For me?” Rhys scans your faces, then waves off the question. “I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

“I couldn’t reach you,” Azriel says quietly. “None of you.”

Rhys sighs. He drags a hand through his hair. “It’s—it’s a long story.”

You hesitate. “Do you remember last night?”

“Because we have a situation,” Mor adds.

Rhys laughs, humorless. “Yeah. We have many, apparently.”

Azriel shifts beside you, still in that quiet, alert way that always means he senses something unsaid. “Where are Amren and Cassian?”

Rhysand’s sigh this time is heavier. “Cassian is in prison.”

“What?” You, Mor, and Azriel all blurt it at once. “For what?”

Rhys looks past you, at the blackened ruins. “You’re standing on it.”

Your stomach turns.

Mor surveys the destruction again, slower this time. “And Amren?”

Rhys closes his eyes. “She’s in prison too.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Cassian's cell is surprisingly beautiful.

Or, at least, it’s the kind of prison only the Summer Court could produce: all warm stone and curved archways, sunlight streaming through the barred windows, the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance. If not for the iron door and the heavily-armed guard outside, it might’ve passed as a very modest guest suite.

You're leaning against the bars, peering in at Cassian, who’s sprawled out dramatically on the low stone bench inside. His hair is still damp, and he looks both impossibly smug and slightly sick.

“I just don’t understand why you needed to trade your siphons,” you say, dragging a hand down your face.

Cassian sighs, draping his arm over his eyes. “I told you. You ever try to convince Amren not to tell Rhysand when you’re about to do something possibly damaging to his image?”

You blink at him. He's speaking too quick and his words barely make sense. “...No.”

“Well, I did,” he says, lifting his head just enough to squint at you. “And she wasn’t listening. So I needed leverage.”

“And the leverage,” you say slowly, “was a centuries-old puzzle box.”

Cassian beams. “A very rare one! Gold-inlaid. It sings when you touch it.”

Azriel, standing a few feet behind you with his arms crossed, mutters, “You gave up your siphons for a singing box. Gods.”

Cass lifts a brow. “Says the male who got married to his ex—”

“Don’t,” Azriel says, low and sharp. It’s a warning filled with promise. Cassian immediately holds up his hands.

“Shutting up,” he says, turning to you with a grimace. There’s an apology in his eyes. “Sorry.”

You wave him off, though your stomach twists. “Seems like we all made some... stupid, meaningless mistakes, right?”

Cassian gives a quiet, knowing nod. He doesn’t say anything else. But you feel his eyes flick toward Azriel, then back to you, and you do your best not to follow that look.

Rhys and Mor return before the silence stretches too long. They’re mid-conversation, Mor gathering her hair over one shoulder, Rhys rubbing at his temple like he’s aged a decade in the last twenty minutes. You’re not entirely sure he hasn’t.

“He’s going to be here for a while,” Rhys says, gesturing vaguely at Cass. “We need to stay until things are sorted.”

Cassian shrugs in his cell. “I’ve had worse vacations.”

“And Amren?” you ask, glancing between them.

Mor sighs. “They put her in solitary.”

“She asked for solitary,” Rhys corrects. “She said she wanted silence for a newly acquired project. Threatened them until they gave it to her.”

“Cauldron boil me,” you mutter, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay. But we still need to figure out this whole—” You hold up your left hand and wiggle your fingers, “—situation.”

Mor hesitates, like she wants to offer a solution, then glances at Rhys.

“I mean—I could maybe find a workaround,” she says. “Quickly run around and look.”

Rhys shakes his head. “We don’t have time. I need your help here.”

You shake your head. “It’s okay. I think we can figure it out.” You glance toward Azriel, meet his eye. “Right? Slowly but surely.”

He nods once. “Right.”

Cassian perks up from his bench. “They collected my personal items when they brought me in. Maybe something in there could help?”

You turn around, eyeing the little box by the wall.

You pick up a small foil packet, turn it over. “Cassian," you say flatly, "this is a stick of gum.”

“Yeah,” he says, utterly serious. “Never hurts after a hangover puke. Trust me.”

“Incredible. Truly.” 

Azriel approaches the small table and lifts something else. He holds it up between two fingers. “A condom?”

Cassian doesn’t miss a beat. “Better to be prepared.”

Mor and Rhys both groan.

Mor leans closer to the foil wrapper. “Wait—look at this.” She points to a corner. “There’s a seal.”

You squint. “A logo?”

Azriel tilts the condom toward the light, and sure enough, there it is again—etched faintly in silver: a half-moon inside a wave crest.

“Looks like you’ve got your next breadcrumb,” Mor says, grinning. Then her gaze cuts to you, suddenly serious. “Give me that stick of gum.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It’s different now, with just you and Azriel.

Not awkward, exactly, but it’s still too much. There’s something about being alone with him again that makes everything more sensitive. Every brush of his shoulder as you walk, every second you catch his eyes flicking toward your hand, your face, your mouth—each moment tightens a string that hasn’t fully snapped in years. You wish it would just break already.

You hate that you’re still so acutely aware of him. That his presence is still a gravity you haven’t figured out how to escape. That it makes your breath shallow. Makes your chest ache.

It’s a cruel joke, really.

The only male you ever imagined spending your immortal life beside—the only one you ever wanted—is the one you’re now trying to spiritually divorce. The ring on your finger is real. And yet it’s not. It never was.

Whether you were drunk or dreaming, it doesn’t matter. You’ve already been down that road. You know the answer.

He isn't not yours. He hasn’t been yours for a very long time.

You're not certain he ever was.

When you finally catch the silver-marked logo again, a club off the main strip of Adriata, a deep sense of relief rolls through you. One step closer to freedom.

The door opens, and daylight disappears.

Inside, the club is almost jarring in contrast. Everything is turquoise velvet and leather, dim and plush—faint laughter drifting from somewhere deeper inside. You glance around at the sleek decor, the draped fabrics, the silk-wrapped lounges, and snort.

“I can’t believe you guys took us to a pleasure hall.”

Azriel side-eyes you, one brow arched. “Who says it wasn’t you, Mor, and Amren who took us?”

There’s that faint mirth in his voice—dry, edged with something warm. Something that sounds suspiciously like a smile. You look over, your eyes catching his. “This doesn’t really scream me.”

Az lifts the condom from earlier, twirling it lazily between his fingers. “No? Branded condoms and gum. That’s very classy. Very you.”

You roll your eyes and swat at his hand, ignoring the terrible, ridiculous delight at the sight of his ring. “Put that away.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “What? You love branded things. It is a nice logo.” He shrugs one shoulder. “We could frame it. Commemorate the whole weekend.”

You try to grab it from him, but he moves just enough to dodge you, your fingers brushing the inside of his wrist. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in—just slightly.

Your hands fall between you. His shadows stroke gently across your forearm, light as breath. The space between you has narrowed so subtly, so dangerously, that you can smell him. That familiar scent of home. Your eyes flick to his mouth before you can stop yourself.

And his drop, just for a second, to yours.

It’s almost something.

But then a voice slices through the low hum of the club and shouts your name.

You turn, blinking in surprise—because the female who rushes toward you is a stranger. You don’t recognize anything about her.

She’s halfway across the room already, beaming, her arms flung open like she’s known you forever. She smells expensive—warm florals and sweet citrus—and the hug she gives you is enthusiastic, bordering on overwhelming. Her voice, when she pulls back, is just as bright.

“How was last night?” she asks, glancing between you and Azriel.

You conceal a frown. “Good?” you say, caught off guard.

Her expression falters, softening. “Oh. You don’t remember, do you?”

You hesitate, shoulders deflating. “I’m sorry—”

She waves you off. “Don’t be. You took so many courage shots, I should’ve expected it.”

Courage shots. Crafted elixirs that peel back fear, silence doubt. Supposedly designed to strip away hesitation, to make you the truest, bravest version of yourself for a few short hours.  That, or the most reckless and impulsive.

You resist the urge to look at Azriel.

Because if you do—if you meet his eyes—you’d want to know which one it was. If marrying you in a drunken haze had been some desperate kind of truth he could never speak while sober, or another dare his competitive ego couldn't turn down. 

You realize now, just how tired you are. It isn't simply the hangover, or the unbearable heat. Deep down, you're tired to your very soul. Tired of everything reminding you that you and Azriel are better at wanting each other than you are at having each other. 

And yet, it’s so damn easy to smile when, for a second, you forget everything else. Easy to laugh at his dry jokes and catch him looking at your mouth when you get too close. To let yourself lean in and know—know—that he would meet you halfway. That he would stay, as long as you didn’t ask for too much.

Some people you love like a habit. Some people you love like a wound. Azriel was both.

The female before you doesn’t seem to notice your dilemma. She’s still smiling. “Is Cassian around?”

You notice the blush rising on her cheeks. Subtle. But it’s there.

“Cassian is indisposed at the moment,” you tell her.

She pouts, just slightly. “That’s alright. I’m just glad to see you guys!” She’s about to move on—until her eyes catch the glint of your hand. “By the Mother! Let me see that.”

You don’t stop her. Can’t, really—she’s already lifting your hand before you can say anything.

She holds it delicately, turning it toward the light. “Gods. It’s beautiful.”

You can’t find your voice.

“Maybe Cass and I can take a trip to Theaemotherin sometime too,” she says wistfully, still admiring the ring.

You look up. “Theaemotherin?”

She nods. “The Temple of Theaemotherin, where the priestess bound you.”

Azriel’s voice is calm when he speaks. “Can you show us where this temple is?”

“Oh, of course! I can draw you another map.”

She hands it to you a few moments later, neat and beautifully detailed.

“Tell Cassian I’ll think about his offer, will you?”

You smile. “I will.”

You’re still holding the map when you and Azriel step back into the Adriata sunlight.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You land hard.

Not because the winnow was rough—Azriel’s never are—but because the moment his grip loosens, you’re already stepping away, tearing yourself from his reach. There's a pressure in your chest you can’t quite exhale, and you blame it on the fact that your body still thinks it’s allowed to recognize his warmth.

You need distance—some quiet correction to how easy it had been to almost slip into old patterns. His hands on your waist. The way his shadows curled around your wrist without thinking. The way your body remembered that once, he was home.

Never again.

You push that thought down like a sickness. Like bile.

The space around you is quiet—somewhere coastal, a stretch of weathered land and sun-bleached stone, the ocean curling blue at the edge of it all. The sun hangs low behind the cliffs, painting everything gold. It’s beautiful and open and it doesn’t help.

You take a few steps forward, trying to breathe through the weight still lodged in your chest. Your heel catches a ridge in the stone, and you stumble—but before you can fall, shadows snap to attention around your ankle, steadying you. Azriel’s hand lifts, too, half a second behind them.

You jerk your arm back before he can touch you.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to hold it back.

“I’m fine."

“I can give you a moment,” Az says quietly.

“I don’t need a moment.”

“You look a little—”

“I said I don’t need a moment.”

Your voice is sharper than you meant. It echoes off the cliffs.

You hear him exhale softly.

You don’t stop walking. You follow the path forward, using the map and directions Sora had given you. This wasn’t a temple in the traditional sense, she’d said. Not some grand structure or ancient hall. More of a hidden pocket—an old place tucked into the land itself, veiled by wards and old magic, meant only to be found by those who needed it. Winnowing was unreliable as a result.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Azriel’s voice follows you.

You don’t stop walking. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He pauses. “You’re very quiet.”

“Am I not allowed to be quiet?” You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his expression. “It’s been a long day.”

“I only meant—back there, when we—”

“Don’t,” you snap, turning so fast the word hits like a whip.

Azriel halts to a stop. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t start, Azriel.”

He straightens slightly. “I’m not starting anything.”

“Yes, you are. You’re doing that thing where you ask and hover and pretend this is something we can talk about like it’s normal and we’re friends."

Azriel has sensed the shift in you. “I thought we were friends.”

You let out a bitter laugh. “I’m not interested in whatever version of friendship this is.”

“I’m trying to check on you,” he says. Softer now. “That’s all.”

“Well don’t.” You bite the words out. “Don’t check on me. Don’t ask me if I’m alright. Don’t act like this is some shared little secret we’ll laugh about in a week.”

Azriel’s brows draw in. His shadows coil tighter into the hollows beneath his wings, a restless sort of tension rolling through him. That gods-damned patience of his.

“We’re not doing this,” you say. “I don’t want to talk about what happened back there. I don’t want to analyze it or joke about it or pretend any of this means anything. I just want to find this priestess, take this stupid, ugly, meaningless thing off my finger—” you lift your left hand, the ring catching a bit of the sun, “—and forget this whole nightmare ever happened.”

It’s out before you can soften it.

Azriel doesn’t react at first, but something flickers in his eyes. A crack in the shield. A flicker of pain you wish you didn’t still recognize. It’s enough for you to know you hit something—something soft and open and still healing. 

And you blink, hard, because it was mean. It was cruel.

And you’re mean. You know that.

You’re mean and you love him.

You love him and it hurts.

And you wish you could look away, because all he does is stand before you—so still, so unreadable, the way he always gets when he’s hurt.

You hate this part. The part where Azriel doesn’t argue. Where he just takes it.

“It brings you that much pain?” he asks finally. “The idea of being married to me?”

Your heart stutters. The disbelief hits first, then the heartache, then the rage.

“Are you serious?”

His face is unreadable. Closed-off in that way only he can manage—dark and careful, but underneath it, you know his words are pressing against his ribs. He’s still waiting for you to read his mind instead of just saying it.

There’s a sense of contradiction built into Azriel. This quiet, simmering pride that exists right alongside the shame. He wants to prove something. Still. Even now. Even after pushing you away, even after all this, he wants you to say it doesn’t hurt. That maybe, just maybe, being married to him isn’t the worst thing in the world.

And it is. That’s the problem. It is the worst thing in the world.

“You are,” you whisper, laughing without humor. “You’re unbelievable, Azriel.”

“Does it?” he asks again.

“Marrying a coward is painful,” you bite, “Yes.”

Azriel’s wings twitch and you catch the feathering of a muscle in his jaw.

“And don’t—don’t ask me that shit,” you say, voice trembling with fury. “You don’t get to do that. You can marry me drunk, Azriel, but you couldn’t do it sober. And you are a coward.”

Azriel straightens a bit, nods once. It’s controlled—measured.

“Alright,” he says, and his carefully crafted mask slips right back on.

You want to scream. You want him to yell back. You want him to fight for it—no, not for it, for you. And yet, you don’t. Because that’s not fair. You don’t want it, and you do.

You just nod. You're agreeing to some invisible contract between you. Yes, this is how it is now. This distance. This version of you that used to know each other better than anyone, and now can hurt each other in ways no one else ever will.

He takes a step back, like he's giving you space. Always so careful. Always so respectful.

You turn away, following the faint markings etched into the rocks ahead—small trails of glowing faelight that shimmer between the cracks, barely visible to anyone who wouldn’t know to look.

You walk the rest of the way in silence, Azriel a few paces behind you.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The air has thickened, heavy like the hush before a storm— or a miracle. As it turns out, the path Sora marked had barely been a path at all.

Her voice rings in your ears: When you feel the pull, follow it. It is the only way you’ll find her. She’d said it like it should’ve meant something to you, some inherited instinct. Maybe it did, to priestesses and saints and those who believed. You weren’t so sure.

Your luck was so rotten that faith felt like a form of self-punishment.

You arrive at the marked location as the sun is tiring out, the horizon bruised with dusk. Azriel comes to a slow stop beside you. According to Sora's map, you should be standing before the temple itself.

But there’s nothing. No gilded gates, no overgrown ruins, no temple laid out beneath the sky like something proud. Just a stretch of dry, trampled grass over a coastal cliff, the wind carrying the distant crash of waves up to where the sky feels almost too close.

You exhale, long and bone-tired. "There’s nothing here. We must’ve gotten lost."

You turn to leave and Azriel’s hand gently grabs your arm. “Wait.”

Frowning, you face him, his voice registering in your mind much faster than the word itself. You glance down at his hold and he quickly draws his hand back. Your skin aches with the ghost of his touch.

“I just want to say that I’m sorry.”

The same heat from earlier rises in your chest. An all-too-familiar sense of defensiveness. You feel the words readying themselves, another sharp retort perched behind your teeth—but his eyes stop you. They’re tired.

“I know,” Azriel says softly. Then again, slower: “I know.”

It stops you—because he does know, in some way, exactly what you’re going to say.

“But I am sorry,” he says again, voice steadier now. “For the stress of all of this. For—for everything. I really am.”

The wind catches the ends of your hair and tugs it across your mouth, but you don’t bother moving it. Your chest pulls tight and something inside you tugs like a knot finally loosening. You offer him a nod of acknowledgment—of something closer to forgiveness than you've been in years.

A thread pulled, but not yet broken.

Then Azriel’s wings flare before you register a change, his hand moving instinctively in front of you, the other flicking toward the shadows that curl tighter around his legs. “There’s something here,” he murmurs.

You feel it then, too. A hum in the air—something like pressure.

The world shimmers. You blink—and the air fractures, like glass catching light. A ripple spreads outward, and suddenly, impossibly, there is something where nothing had been.

A structure. Simple, soft-looking, almost grown from the cliffside itself. Pillars that look carved of sea-salt and bone. A roof overgrown with flowering vines, pink and lavender blooms swaying gently.

You exchange a glance with Azriel and take a cautious step forward. There’s a strange, soft pull that urges you closer. Az’s eyes scan the perimeter, wings still half-flared, but even his shadows have calmed.

A small sign hangs from one of the pillars, weather-worn and etched in a language you don’t fully recognize. But some words glow faintly, touched by magic:

THEAEMOTHERIN 

You tilt your head. “A little… casual,” you say, and Azriel exhales a quiet huff—almost a laugh.

The building looks nothing like any temple you’ve ever seen. It feels unceremonious. Familiar.

Before you can step forward, Azriel brushes a hand along your back. “Let me go first.”

You nod. He crosses the threshold— and thankfully, nothing happens. No wards, no pulse of ancient magic. You follow.

Inside, temple expands. Light filters in from nowhere and everywhere, catching motes in the air. Vines twist up columns. Alcoves in the walls hold candles, stones, and dried petals—offerings from those who came before.

“Welcome.”

The voice behind you is calm and rich, like earth soaked in summer rain.

You turn to see her: a female standing still, dark skin veined with gold just beneath the surface, thick, black curls haloed around her face. Her eyes are gold, her beauty almost unbearable.

You exchange a glance with Azriel. She doesn’t offer a name.

Still, something in your chest settles. Even Azriel’s shadows stretch curiously toward her. He pulls them back, protective.

“We were told this is where we’d—” You hesitate. “—find what we’re looking for.”

She smiles. You feel seen. As if she knows every sharp, ugly piece of you—and loves you anyway.

“I know,” she says, stepping closer. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“You have?”

She hums, and the sound vibrates somewhere below your ribs. She looks to you, then to Azriel, then down to his shadows.

“Yes,” she says simply. “All of you.”

You almost ask how she knew. But you don’t. You don’t want to know.

Instead, you ask, “You can unbind it, then?”

Her gaze softens. “Yes. But the magic of my ceremonies is old. Stubborn. They unravel only one thread at a time.”

You glance at Azriel, heart ticking. “What does that mean?”

She lifts a hand and turns. “Come. I will show you.”

You both move to follow but she stops, looking to Azriel. “Not you.”

He stiffens. “But we are bound—”

“Yes.” She nods, kind. “Which is why you must face it alone.”

You hesitate, glancing at Azriel. He looks ready to protest.

But the priestess speaks again, quieter: “A thread tied by two hands cannot be unknotted if both pull at once.”

Well, she has a point. You give Az a small, reassuring smile. “It’s alright,” you murmur. He exhales and his shoulders drop.

The priestess steps aside for you, then offers Azriel a warm touch to his arm. “Please—rest. I will call for you when it’s your time, Azriel.”

Then she turns to you, her gold-flecked eyes kind. “Come, child. Let’s begin.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

The room is warm—honey-thick and gold. You can’t tell if it’s candlelight or some enchantment that makes the air ripple, but everything feels soft around the edges. The priestess shuts the door behind you with a quiet click, then turns to face you.

“You have questions,” she says.

You open your mouth, then close it again. “I don’t want to waste your time.”

“That’s what life is for,” she says, tilting her head. “Wasting time. Chasing it. Grasping it before it’s gone. Please—ask.”

You glance around. The walls shift the longer you look: bare, then not. A shelf appears where there was none. A plant reshapes itself, vines retreating and unfurling in turns. The room is no longer still. You wonder if it’s responding to her or to you.

“I don’t remember last night,” you admit. “How did we find you?”

She walks past you slowly, her fingers brushing along the edge of a table that hadn’t existed a moment before. A bowl of water fades into view, the surface rippling.

“I imagine the memory of that journey will return to you when it’s ready.”

You frown. The answer doesn’t satisfy you, but you move on. “Was it just the two of us?”

“Yes.” She smiles. “Only you and Azriel.”

A knot inside you loosens—not relief, exactly, but the easing of a fear. Whatever humiliations last night held, at least no one else had witnessed them. That’s something. It’ll make it easier to carry when the memory returns.

You look down at your hand. The ring on your finger gleams faintly. “These rings,” you begin. “Where did they come from?”

“They are born of the thing between you,” she says simply.

You try not to sound stupid. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.”

She crouches near a cabinet that wasn’t there before. Velvet lines the interior, and nestled in its folds are smooth, pale river stones—each inscribed with gold runes that pulse faintly, like breathing.

“Every binding I perform begins with vows,” she says, more to the stones than to you. “You write a letter—each of you. You don’t share them. You don’t read them. I take the truth beneath your words and I shape it.” She gestures to your ring. “Your own words forged it.”

You run your thumb along the band. “Is that why it won’t come off?”

She nods. “They often reflect their maker.” Her eyes meet yours. “Love makes them stubborn things.”

“I don’t know if love is the right word,” you say. The words taste flat. Uncertain. “Not really.”

She studies you, but doesn’t correct you.

“Vows are strange things. Sometimes they know more than we do.”

Your shoulders ease, just slightly. You don’t know why. There’s something about her voice that feels like it’s speaking directly to the part of you that’s been hiding. It makes you want to believe her. All of it.

“Longing. Grief. Hope. Even desperation,” she continues. “They all wear love’s shape. Sometimes, they are love. Time reveals which.”

You nod—barely.

She reaches for a cushion and gestures for you to sit. You do.

“To begin, I must ask you one thing.” Her voice is a murmur. “Why do you want it undone?”

Your throat tightens. The room waits.

“It was a mistake,” you say, reflexively. “I don’t want to be bound to a drunk mistake.”

Something flickers across her face—patience. She brushes a loose strand of hair from your cheek, her touch light as air. “Try again. You don’t have to say it aloud. But it must be true. When your heart is ready to release what binds you, then—and only then—can the unmaking begin.”

“How will you know?” you ask.

She says simply, “My magic will know the truth.”

You look down at the ring on your hand. Yes, it was a mistake. You know that much. But the part that makes you want to cut it from your finger isn’t the mistake itself—it’s that you’ve grown used to it. Worse: you’ve grown fond of it. The weight of it, the way it fits. The knowledge that Azriel wears one too.

You like that. You like the idea of belonging to him. Of him belonging to you.

And you despise yourself for it.

Because it reveals what you’ve tried not to name: if he asked for this—if he wanted you, truly wanted you—you would say yes. You would gather every scattered piece and stitch them back together.

But he hasn’t.

The ring is a punishment. A private cruelty of your own making, forged from a want you cannot bear to admit.

You close your eyes. You hold the truth where she can find it.

She kneels before the river stones. Her hands move in slow, graceful arcs, fingers sketching symbols into the air. Her lips shape words you do not know—an old tongue. Light gathers—not candlelight, not sunlight—but something from her, from inside her. That same gold you noticed before, pulsing now like a heartbeat beneath her skin.

The ring tightens once. Then softens. It begins to fold—inward, again and again, until all that remains is a small slip of parchment resting in her palm. 

When you both stand, she holds it out to you. “These are Azriel’s vows.”

You don’t take it at first.

“I don’t perform many bindings anymore,” she says. “Fewer unbindings. But this is the one blessing: when untethered, you may read what was once sealed.”

You hesitate. Then, slowly, you take it from her.

“Thank you,” you say, and mean it.

She steps forward and folds you into an embrace. It is neither comfort nor pity. It is something older and kinder, and you breathe her in.

When you walk through the door, Azriel is waiting just outside. You don’t meet his eyes. His shadows brush against your hip as you pass—gentle, curious. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak.

The priestess murmurs something you don’t catch as she draws him inside.

And then the door closes behind you.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

Outside, darkness has settled—thin and spare, save for the faelights still flickering behind you. The air stays warm, but a breeze from the ocean stirs your skin, waking you inch by inch. You keep walking, eyes fixed on the parchment in your hand, half-hoping that more distance might dull the temptation to open it. To read what was never meant to be heard.

You know you shouldn’t. There is no point.

And yet—of course—you do.

You unfold the paper, watching the creases smooth and breathe under your fingers. Azriel’s beautiful handwriting spills across the page.

To my wife, There is a version of me that existed before you. I don’t recognize him anymore. I moved through the world like I owed it penance. Survival was a sentence handed down that I had no right to question. I was allowed to exist, but not to want. Not to ask for more than what fate saw fit to give. I believed that what I carried inside me made me unworthy of good things. That all the worst things I’d done—the things I’d become—had already sealed my fate. I believed I'd made peace with that. But then I met you. And you looked at me, and you smiled, and I was never the same. I began to want. I began to hope. Overnight, my world became color. Light. Suddenly, I understood. I understood why people fight to stay alive. Why they pray for more time, why they beg for another dawn. Because it might mean one more laugh, one more glimpse of your face, one more second spent in the sun of your presence. You carry something sacred inside you. I feel it when you laugh. I see it when you smile. I hear it when you say my name. If there is grace in this world, then it has always been you. I look at you and I think—how foolish I was, to believe the world was only cruelty, when you are proof it can still be merciful. I love you in ways that make no sense. In ways that make me ache. I love you in the quiet moments no one sees. In the breath before I fall asleep, when your voice is the last thing I hear in my head. I love you when I’m scared. When I’m selfish. When I’m small. I love you when I’m ugly inside, when I feel hollow, when I think I have nothing left to give. There is no part of me you haven’t touched. You are written into me, marrow and bone. You have undone me. Unmade me. You have ruined me, my love, utterly and beautifully, and have built something new in my place. And what you’ve made is not perfect. But it is yours. And for as long as you’ll have me, I will keep becoming. I will keep trying. I vow to wake up every day and choose this devotion, to stand in the light of you and be remade, again and again. I vow to spend the rest of my life loving you, and learning how to love you better—louder, braver, clearer. Because there is no before you that matters. And there is no after you that I want. There is only you, and all that I will become because you love me. Yours forever, Azriel

Faintly, you hear footsteps approaching. You know it’s him. But you can’t move.

The words blur, smearing behind the tears you’ve been holding back since the first sentence. You try—gods, you try—to breathe through it, but your hand are trembling and your chest tight. Every word feels carved into you.

Every truth he never gave you when you still had time.

You swipe at your eyes, uselessly, and turn to face him. He stops a few feet away, the glow of the faelights casting him in soft shadow, and you think absurdly that he looks like a dream. Like something you’ll wake from.

"Why would you write this?" Your voice comes out cracked. Raw. "Why would you—Azriel, why would you say these things?"

His eyes don’t waver. "Because I meant them."

You shake your head, taking a half-step back, hoping distance will dull the ache.

"No," you whisper. "No, this is cruel. This is—" You hold up the paper, wrinkled now between your fingers. "This is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done."

You want to scream, to shake him, to demand how he could write these impossible, devastatingly beautiful words—words that feel like love, like forever—when he never found the courage to say them before.

"I read this," you say, broken, "and I think: if I’d known. If you’d told me. If you’d just let me see you. I would’ve fought. I would’ve stayed. I would’ve—"

You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together, forcing air through your nose.

Azriel’s eyes shine. "I know."

Your head snaps up. The breeze tugs at your hair and Az tracks the movement—memorizing you, desperate not to blink.

"Then why didn’t you fight for me?"

He finally steps forward. A few, careful, steps, like you might bolt. "You have to understand—"

"No. I don’t have to understand," you snap. "I spent years trying to understand you. Trying to love someone who wouldn’t let me in. I was going to marry you, Azriel. I was ready to promise you my whole life."

He flinches—visibly, painfully.

"I didn’t want to hold you back," he says, voice cracking. "I didn’t want to hurt you."

"You did hurt me." It comes out a sob. "You didn’t choose me."

Azriel’s face collapses into pure agony. His hands half-raise, like he’s desperate to touch you, to reach, but they fall again—fists clenched.

"No—no, my love—" His voice breaks entirely. "That’s not true."

You wait. He fills the silence.

"I did choose you," he says. "I do. I choose you."

Tears spill anew. Azriel watches them trace your cheek, and you force yourself to look away from the pain etched across his face. You turn, step away, but his footsteps follow, soft and pleading.

"I thought I was making sure you’d be happy," he says, louder, breaking open. "I thought—I was trying the only way I knew."

You spin to face him. "Don’t you get it? I just needed you. I needed this." You shake the letter. "I needed this years ago. Decades ago."

Azriel looks gutted, his shadows curling like they don’t know how to soothe him. For a long, aching moment, he says nothing.

"I was scared," he admits. His voice is hoarse, fraying at the edges. "I was so fucking scared. I thought you’d wake up one day and realize you made a mistake by tying yourself to me. I couldn’t even imagine it—losing you like that would’ve killed me."

He brushes your arm, barely there, his shadows brushing gently along your skin.

"But I’m not scared anymore," he says.

You shake your head. "That’s bullshit."

"Okay—maybe," he concedes, stepping closer. His hand wraps gently around your arm, tentative. You don’t pull away. "Maybe I’m still terrified. But I love you more than my fear. I love you more than my shame. More than the voice that said I wasn’t allowed to have you."

His other hand lifts, uncertain, reverent.

"I love you," he says. "More than I have words for. More than I have any right to."

He’s so close, forehead nearly to yours, his breath shaky with held tears.

"I’ll make this right," he promises. "I have to."

Your tears fall fresh and your shoulders fold inward—but you don’t move. And that’s all he needs. His hands come up, cradling your face, his thumbs gentle against your cheeks.

"Oh, my love," he breathes. "Please. Let me make this right. Tell me how."

His warmth is right there, in your skin, in your bones. You’ve missed him.

"What’s the point?" you whisper. "Why should I?"

He doesn’t even pause. "Because there is no other option. It’s only you. It’s only ever been you."

His forehead presses lightly to yours. "There’s no future I want without you in it."

Both hands are cradling you now. You are something fragile and precious in his hold. 

"I’ll marry you again," he whispers. "Sober. Awake. Ready. I’ll love you better. Braver. Clearer."

Your hands find his wrists. You melt into his touch further and his breath hitches, mouth now hovering just shy of yours.

"Let me choose you," he whispers. "Tell me how. It’s only ever been you and me. And I think—I think you meant your words to me, too"

You wonder, for a fleeting second, what vows you wrote that made him this brave. This open.

It shatters something in you. Finally.

You nod.

He pulls back just enough to see you, to make sure.

"Is that a yes?"

You recognize the tone in his voice. He needs to hear you say it, as if it won’t be real until then.

You’re breathless. "Yes."

His face breaks—unguarded, joyous. A smile cracks his mouth and his eyes close. "Thank the Mother."

You laugh, watery and helpless. There's nothing else to do.  After all of it, the heartache, the fear, this is what’s left. It almost feels ridiculous in its simplicity.

You think, stupidly: you both are so dramatic. Mor will have a field day telling your love story. 

Azriel is smiling, thumbs sweeping your mouth like he's relearning it by touch. "I’ve missed that," he murmurs. "That smile. That laugh."

You think of the vows you still hold, how he wrote of you like you were something sacred. Worthy of worship, even.  He holds you like that now. Like the divine is truly something you can touch.

If love is faith, Azriel is the closest you’ve ever come to religion.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pull him down, and kiss him like a prayer.

The world narrows to this—the warmth of his mouth, the way his hands tremble when they hold you closer.  You kiss him until there is nothing else. Until even the stars seem to retreat, leaving only the two of you beneath a sky made small by love.

Behind you, the temple ripples—soft, like a breeze across still water. The faelights vanish, one by one. Azriel’s shadows slip toward the sign by the threshold.

THEAEMOTHERIN.

For just a moment, they veil a few letters. Reframe it. 

THE MOTHER.

And then—like it was never there—it disappears.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE: silly, stubborn exes to lovers i will always adore you. i hope you guys enjoyed!!! this came to me in a dream and im using it to inspire myself back into writing more hehe

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