#azrielxreader

The Sidra glittered like spilled starlight beneath the afternoon sun, its currents slow and deceptively gentle as they curved past Velaris. Feyre’s studio windows were thrown wide, letting in the river breeze scented faintly with citrus and salt.

Y/N kept her back to the wall.

Not obviously. Not suspiciously. Just enough.

Canvas stretched before her, paints neatly aligned, brush held with steady fingers that had once been trained to hold blades instead.

Across from her, Feyre Archeron stood barefoot in a smudge of cobalt and gold, sunlight catching in her hair as she leaned back to examine her work.

“You’re very quiet today,” Feyre said gently.

Y/N offered a small smile, soft and harmless. “I’m trying not to ruin your floor.”

Feyre laughed. “It’s survived worse.”

Silence settled again, but not uncomfortable. The kind that came with the scratch of bristles against canvas, the murmur of the river beyond the glass.

Y/N painted what she always painted when she needed to look unthreatening, wildflowers along a woodland path. Nothing sharp. Nothing burning. No shadows. Just softness.

Feyre glanced at her canvas. “You always choose something gentle.”

“I’m not very imaginative,” Y/N replied, lowering her gaze as if embarrassed. “I’ve never been particularly good at… grand things.”

A lie. But an easy one to wear.

Feyre hesitated. The brush in her hand slowed. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Y/N’s fingers stilled only for a fraction of a second before continuing their careful stroke of pale lavender.

“Yes?”

Feyre exhaled quietly. “Mor has been asking questions.”

There it was.

Y/N tilted her head slightly, confusion carefully arranged across her features. “Questions?”

“And Nesta…” Feyre’s mouth tightened faintly. “She doesn’t distrust easily. But when she does, it’s hard to change her mind.”

Y/N set her brush down slowly, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“I understand,” she said softly. “I’m from the Autumn Court. That alone is reason enough.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Feyre insisted. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Not here, Y/N thought, at least not in the last two years while residing in Velaris.

Aloud, she only shrugged lightly. “I’m just a lesser Fae who wanted to see Velaris. To learn from you.” Her eyes lifted, open and almost shy. “There isn’t much more to me than that.”

Feyre studied her, painter’s gaze perceptive in a way that made Y/N’s skin prickle.

“I just want everyone to get along,” Feyre admitted quietly. “We’ve fought enough wars. I don’t want suspicion turning into something worse.”

Y/N’s chest tightened at the word war.

She dipped her brush back into white paint to steady her hands.

“I don’t blame them,” she said. “If I were in their place, I would be cautious too. I don’t expect trust. Only… tolerance.”

The humility was practiced. Polished over decades.

Outside, the river shifted, light fracturing across its surface like broken glass.

Feyre stepped closer, studying Y/N’s canvas. “You paint like someone who’s searching for peace.”

Y/N forced a faint, almost self-conscious laugh. “Or someone who’s never had much of it.”

That part wasn’t a lie.

For a heartbeat, something flickered in Feyre’s expression, recognition. Understanding. Shared history of survival.

“You’re safe here,” Feyre said gently. “You know that, don’t you?”

Safe.

The word felt foreign. Fragile.

Y/N lowered her eyes again, lashes casting careful shadows across her cheeks.

“I’m grateful for your kindness, High Lady,” she murmured.

Feyre frowned slightly. “Just Feyre.”

Y/N smiled, softer this time. Warmer.

“Just Feyre, then.”

But even as she said it, her gaze drifted briefly to the open window, to the skyline, to the rooftops, to the shifting light beyond.

Measuring distances. Counting exits. Noticing shadows. Always shadows.

And far above the Sidra, unseen, something dark moved across the rooftops, silent as a held breath.

Y/N did not look up. But she felt it.

Feyre’s eyes softened. She set down her brush and took a step closer. “You know… I was hoping—” She hesitated, almost shyly. “Would you… like to come over for dinner tonight? Just us, or… a few others from the Court. I think… it would be nice to share a meal once again.”

Y/N blinked, hesitating before lowering her brush completely. “Dinner… tonight?” Her voice was soft, almost unsure, like she’d forgotten how to ask for herself.

Feyre nodded, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Yes. Nothing formal… just a meal. I thought it might be nice for everyone to gather, relax a bit.”

Y/N’s fingers fidgeted with the edge of her smock. “You know, I… I’m not very good at… gatherings.” Her words trailed off. She felt exposed, though she tried not to show it.

“You’ll be fine,” Feyre said gently. “I’ll be there. Mor, Nesta… perhaps Cassian and Azriel. It’s casual, really.”

Y/N hesitated again. Then, almost shyly, she asked, “What… what should I wear?” Her cheeks warmed slightly. She hadn’t expected to have to consider appearances beyond her careful composure.

“Something comfortable. Something you like,” Feyre replied, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Velaris is warm tonight. Flowing, soft colors… nothing extravagant.”

Y/N nodded, absorbing the guidance, though internally she was counting possibilities: not too bright, not too revealing, not too formal. Just… ordinary. Safe. Inconspicuous.

“And… the occasion?” Y/N asked, lowering her eyes to her canvas. She didn’t want to appear overeager, but the question slipped out anyway.

Feyre’s smile softened. “Just dinner. To… talk. To laugh. To see each other outside the studio. Nothing more than that.”

Y/N allowed herself a faint, careful nod. “I… I’ll come, then.”

Her words were polite, measured. But inside, her heart beat a little faster. For someone trained to hide everything, even this small act, agreeing to dinner, choosing how to appear, felt dangerously intimate.

Feyre reached out and touched her shoulder lightly. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

Y/N’s lips curved into the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. “As am I… grateful,” she murmured.

𓌜

The dining room smelled of roasted herbs and fresh bread, candles flickering softly along the table. Velaris’ evening light spilled through the windows, painting everything in gold and rose.

Everyone was seated. Feyre at the head, Y/N to her right, Cassian across from her, Azriel at the far end, Nesta and Mor flanking the table like statues of cautious judgment.

The first moments passed in polite silence. The clinking of cutlery and the occasional sip of wine were the only sounds.

Y/N kept her hands folded neatly on her lap, her posture correct, her expression calm. Her brushstrokes may have been softer, but now she wore the same control on her body and voice. Every smile measured. Every glance calculated.

Feyre noticed it immediately. The tension. Mor and Nesta barely spoke, and the occasional glance they cast Y/N felt sharp, like a blade she was carefully dodging.

Feyre leaned slightly toward Cassian under the table and nudged him lightly with her foot. A spark of thought flickered between them, the mental link, subtle but clear. Ask her something. Anything. Get her talking.

Cassian’s eyebrow quirked, a grin ghosting across his face as he caught Feyre’s cue.

“So,” he began casually, voice smooth but teasing, “Y/N… tell me, have you ever tried painting before you applied for Feyre’s class, or is this your first brush with the fine arts?”

Y/N’s fingers flexed slightly under the table, almost imperceptibly, before she responded with the same calm that masked the slight rush of surprise. “I’ve… tried, yes,” she said softly, brushing imaginary dust from her lap. “Though I’ve never… had lessons like yours. This is… different.”

Cassian leaned back, pretending casual interest but keeping an eye on her reactions. “Different how?”

Y/N considered, tilting her head faintly. “It’s… peaceful. Quiet. But… you can still make mistakes. The world doesn’t punish you for a crooked line, only for the choices you don’t correct.”

Her words were careful, veiled. But Feyre caught the slight undercurrent, discipline, control, a life spent correcting errors before anyone noticed.

“Hmm,” Cassian murmured, clearly intrigued, “sounds like you’ve spent a lot of time avoiding… trouble.”

Y/N offered the faintest smile, just enough to seem polite and humble. “I suppose… everyone does, in one way or another.”

Across the table, Mor and Nesta exchanged a glance, silence stretching between them like a taut wire. Azriel’s gaze lingered on Y/N for a fraction longer than necessary, shadowed by something Feyre couldn’t read—concern? curiosity?

Feyre reached over and touched Y/N’s hand lightly. “See?” she whispered. “You’re doing just fine.”

Y/N’s lips curved just slightly, polite and unreadable. “Thank you,” she murmured.

But even as she said it, her eyes flicked subtly to the window, to the rooftops beyond, measuring exits, counting shadows. The calm she projected was impeccable, but not complete.

And for the first time that evening, she felt the faintest pull of… possibility. Of connection. Of danger.

The soft murmur of polite conversation was interrupted by the soft chime of the door.

Rhysand stepped in, tall and composed, his dark eyes scanning the room briefly before landing on Feyre. Behind him came Nyx, the little prince, bouncing lightly on his small feet, dark hair tousled, eyes bright with mischief.

“Apologies for being late,” Rhys said smoothly, though a hint of amusement touched his voice. “The little prince here absolutely refused to leave the Sidra. Negotiations were… extensive.”

Nyx crossed his arms dramatically. “I was not ready, Father! They didn’t even serve the proper afternoon tea, and you,” He pointed a small finger at Rhys, “tried to drag me out before I finished organizing my… my treasure map!”

The adults around the table couldn’t help but smile. Feyre laughed softly. Even Mor’s usually guarded lips twitched in amusement. Nesta’s eyes narrowed slightly, though the corners of her mouth betrayed a hint of humor.

“What have you been up to today, little troublemaker?” Nesta asked cautiously.

Nyx puffed up proudly. “I taught Father a very important lesson about manners, about bravery, and about the correct way to climb the library ladder! Also,” he added solemnly, “he fell in the fountain twice, which was very educational.”

Rhysand gave a short, resigned laugh. “Yes, educational. Very much so. I believe I now owe him three apologies, one for each fountain splash, and a promise to never touch his treasure map again.”

Feyre shook her head, smiling. “An interpretive fountain lesson, then?”

Nyx nodded gravely. “Exactly. And then we had a debate about which cloud looks most like a dragon. I won, obviously. Father concedes gracefully, eventually.”

Y/N, seated quietly at the table, tilted her head slightly at Nyx, lips curling in a faint, amused smile. “Sounds like a very… productive day.”

Nyx beamed, proud that someone acknowledged the complexity of his lessons. “It was! And I expect you all to learn from it too. That’s why I let him bring me here. I’m a very generous prince.”

Even Nesta chuckled quietly at that, and Mor’s stern expression softened further. Azriel, across the table, watched Y/N closely, noting the subtle way she kept her composure, calm, polite, yet perceptive as she studied the tiny prince’s antics.

Feyre leaned closer to Y/N under the pretense of passing her a plate. “See? It’s fine to let your guard down a little. Even just a flicker. Moments like these… they matter.”

Y/N allowed herself the smallest smile. “A flicker, yes. Only a flicker.”

And while laughter and chatter began to fill the room, Y/N’s gaze briefly flicked to the window, calculating, observing, always aware, her calm practiced, but not complete.

The last of the dishes had been cleared, though a few crumbs still dotted the table. Feyre sipped her wine, eyes flicking toward Rhysand as he stood, stretching slightly.

“I should excuse myself for a bit,” he said, smiling at the group. “The afternoon with Nyx took longer than expected, and there are still a few things I need to handle in my office.”

Nyx, perched on a chair beside Feyre, pouted dramatically. “Father, I was teaching you important lessons! About maps! And bravery! And… the proper way to eat roasted figs without spilling them!”

Rhys chuckled. “Indeed, lessons were learned. But the office will not wait forever, Nyx, and neither will my reports.”

Nyx crossed his arms, but didn’t move. “Fine. But you owe me a proper game tomorrow!”

“Agreed,” Rhys said, smiling down at him, then gave the table a small bow. “Don’t let me keep you all from finishing dinner. I’ll return shortly.”

He left the room, and the moment his footsteps faded, the atmosphere shifted.

Nyx, now the center of attention, began bouncing slightly in his chair, recounting the “important lessons” from the afternoon with Rhys. His voice was high, sharp, and insistent, gesturing wildly with his tiny hands.

“And then Father had to climb the library ladder while holding my treasure map!” Nyx exclaimed. “And then he slipped, twice! And it was very educational!”

Cassian laughed, loud and booming. “Sounds like a proper Illyrian training session!”

Feyre smiled, shaking her head. “More like a proper disaster.”

Mor chuckled quietly, Nesta remained stiff, and Azriel’s shadow seemed to twitch subtly across the floor, drawn toward Y/N as she kept a careful, polite smile, listening while pretending to focus on her plate.

The table erupted into a mixture of laughter, teasing, and mock outrage. Cassian exaggerated every part of Nyx’s tale, Nyx interrupted with corrections, Feyre laughed and rolled her eyes, and even Mor joined in the sharp commentary, which only fueled the chaos further.

For Y/N, the noise, the overlapping voices, the sudden bursts of laughter, the clattering of cutlery, was overwhelming. She pressed her hands together, careful to keep her composure, but her pulse quickened.

Quietly, almost imperceptibly, she rose from her chair under the pretense of needing air, her steps measured and calm. The adults were too absorbed in the laughter and Nyx’s ongoing commentary to notice.

All except Nesta.

Nesta’s gaze shifted just in time to see the empty space where Y/N had been. Her eyes narrowed.

“Wait,” Nesta said, voice low but sharp. “Where’s Y/N?”

Azriel’s head turned, his expression tightening as he noted the absence. Calm and controlled on the outside, but inside, unease stirred. Something about her leaving now mid-laughter, mid-story, didn’t make sense.

Nesta’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the empty space where Y/N had been sitting. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “She’s gone.”

Feyre leaned back in her chair, brow furrowed. “Do we really need to…? Maybe she just went to the balcony or-”

“No,” Nesta interrupted sharply. “I’m going to find her.”

Feyre’s hands flew up slightly. “Nesta, wait! Is that really necessary? She’s just… maybe needed a moment alone.”

Nesta’s gaze didn’t waver. “Alone? Or scheming? You know how she is. I don’t trust her.”

Feyre’s hand went to Azriel, who had been watching quietly, shadows coiling subtly at his feet. “Azriel, can you… go with her? Make sure she’s okay?”

Azriel tilted his head, calm but guarded. “Why do you seem so certain she’s… dangerous? You’ve barely spoken with her.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed further. “She’s from the Autumn Court, Azriel. That alone is reason enough. And she’s too polished, too perfect. I don’t like it. And you know me, I notice things.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened faintly. “Feyre chose to spend time with her. She has good sense. Feyre doesn’t take risks with people she considers dangerous. Not without reason.”

Nesta crossed her arms, unmoved. “All the more reason for us to see for ourselves. If you won’t go, I’ll go alone. But the chance of me being seen… without the Shadowsinger, it’s higher. And I’d rather not give her an advantage.”

Azriel’s shadow shifted subtly at his feet. He exhaled, a quiet, measured breath. “Then I’ll go. But only to ensure nothing happens. Nothing more.”

Nesta gave a curt nod, satisfied, and rose from the chair. “Fine. Let’s not waste time.”

Azriel’s eyes flicked briefly toward the hallway, already calculating, already scanning. Nesta walked toward him, and he fell into step beside her, shadows lengthening quietly as if reaching toward her.

Azriel’s shadow stretched long across the stone floor as they moved down the hallway. Nesta walked briskly ahead, jaw tight, arms crossed.

He fell into step beside her. “Nesta… why do you not trust her?” His voice was calm, careful, but curious.

Nesta glanced at him, eyes narrowing. “Because she always disappears. Every time we’re together, there’s a moment where she vanishes. It started the first time Feyre forced a… girls’ night.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “Girls’ night?”

Nesta shot him a sharp look. “Yes. A girls’ night. Y/N was… gone for a long time. Claiming she was on the… bathroom, or something. Then she came back, looking apologetic, saying she wasn’t feeling well. But I noticed.”

Azriel’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk. “And what if… she met a young fae. And went off with him for a while? She’s not exactly ugly, you know.”

Nesta stopped in her tracks, spinning around to face him. Her eyes were sharp as knives. “Are you saying you find her attractive?”

Azriel froze, momentarily caught off guard. Silence.

Nesta’s lips quirked in a dangerous smile. “Wicked. I knew it. You always have eyes for the unpredictable.”

Azriel’s shadow shifted, darkening and tightening around him as he didn’t answer, letting the accusation hang in the air.

Nesta’s arms crossed again, smug. “Figures. You’re no different than the rest of them. And yet, somehow, I’m supposed to follow your calm, measured judgment? Hmph.”

Azriel kept walking silently, side by side with her, a small tension coiled between them, half amusement, half irritation. And somewhere, deep beneath the shadows, a pull of unease lingered.

Y/N rounded the corner just as Nesta and Azriel came into view, shadows stretching long across the corridor. And then, impossibly, Rhysand appeared beside her, tall, composed, eyes sharp but calm.

Nesta froze mid-step, shock flickering across her face. “Rhysand? With her?”

Rhysand’s lips curved in a small, reassuring smile. “Yes. She’s fine. I found her just as she was about to step outside. We’re on our way back.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed, still skeptical. “Why was she gone?”

Y/N’s hands folded neatly in front of her, gaze lowered slightly. “It… it was so loud. So many impressions at once. I’m not used to it. I didn’t want to disturb anyone. And I didn’t want anyone to worry. I just…” She paused, voice soft but steady, “stepped outside for a moment. That’s when Rhys found me.”

Rhysand nodded smoothly, stepping slightly ahead. “Exactly as she says. Nothing to worry about, Nesta. The noise, the chaos, it was overwhelming for her. Best we all just walk back together.”

Y/N lowered her gaze politely, hands folded neatly. “I… I think my stay has overstayed its welcome. I should probably return home soon.”

Rhysand chuckled softly. “But, see…” He glanced subtly at Nesta. “You make others feel… awkward.” Nesta huffed but Y/N shook her head gently. “I simply don’t wish to impose on the family any longer than necessary. I’d like to say goodbye to the others first, then I’ll go.”

Azriel’s shadow shifted subtly beside her. “I can escort you home,” he offered quietly.

Y/N’s lips curved in a small, appreciative smile. “That would be… wise. Thank you.”

Rhysand gave her a nod. “Good. Then all’s settled.”

They began walking back toward the main hall. Rhysand led ahead with his usual grace, Y/N beside him. A few steps behind, Azriel fell into step beside Nesta.

Nesta’s gaze followed Y/N, narrowed thoughtfully. Then she muttered, low and pointed, so only Azriel could hear: “She always disappears.”

Azriel’s eyes flicked toward her, calm but deliberate. “If I accompany her home, she won’t vanish again. You can be sure of that.”

Nesta’s lips curved into a knowing grin. “Figures”

Azriel didn’t answer, just walked beside her, shadows coiling subtly at his feet, aware of every step Y/N took just ahead.

The group moved through the quiet halls of the Town House, the faint echo of footsteps a rhythm between caution, care, and the unspoken tensions that hovered just beneath the surface.

𓌜

The streets of Velaris were quiet, the Sidra flowing gently beside them, reflecting the last streaks of sunset. Y/N walked beside Azriel, her steps careful, measured, as always, but slightly slower than usual.

“You don’t need to take me home,” she said softly, glancing at him, though not too directly. “I… I can find my way.”

Azriel’s shadow shifted subtly, falling across the pavement in a protective sweep. “I know you can. I just… prefer to make sure you do.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, her lips curling faintly in a polite, thoughtful smile. “It’s strange,” she murmured. “I try to be polite, careful… but somehow, I still seem to irritate them. Mor, Nesta… even Feyre notices, though she doesn’t say it.”

Azriel’s dark eyes softened, just the slightest crease at the corners. “People are wary. They notice when someone isn’t quite like them. That doesn’t mean you’re… bad. Just… different.”

Y/N’s hands flexed subtly at her sides. “Different is dangerous, though. Or at least… unwelcome. What else can I do? What would make them like me?”

Azriel considered, looked around him, then stepped slightly closer so his wing brushed her faintly. “You’re polite. You’re careful. You try. That’s… more than most offer. The rest… they’ll have to see it in time.”

Y/N looked down at her feet, thoughtful. “It’s exhausting,” she admitted softly. “All these calculations, watching every movement, every word. I just… wish I could be… easier to accept.”

Azriel’s lips pressed into a line, uncharacteristically quiet. “You’re doing enough,” he said finally, voice low. “Don’t let their judgment define you.”

She glanced up briefly, just enough to meet his eyes, and then looked away. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “but I still feel… out of place.”

Azriel didn’t answer, just fell into step beside her, silent, his presence steady and reassuring. He wasn’t on Nesta’s side. That much was clear.

And for Y/N, that quiet loyalty, though unspoken, subtle, was enough to calm the restless edge of her mind, if only for a few steps along the cobblestones of Velaris.

He glanced at her, shadows flickering subtly at his feet. And while he finally put his arm around her shoulders, he whispered in her ear “Isn’t it enough that I like you?” His voice was low, teasing, but warm.

Y/N smirked, just the slightest curve of her lips. “You like me?” she said, voice playful, leaning just a fraction closer. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Azriel’s lips twitched into a faint, dark smile. “Really? Because I would have thought you’d feel it… every time I nearly glare at anyone who dares to bother you.”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled, amused. “Ah, so that’s your way of showing affection? Threaten anyone in my vicinity?”

“That, and occasionally make sure you don’t disappear into the night without me noticing,” he said, voice dropping just a little.

Her smile softened slightly, still teasing. “If Nesta knew you followed me, she’d have a fit.”

Azriel’s shadow shifted closer. “She’s noticed you disappear before. If she knew you vanished… with me?”

Y/N’s lips curved into a quiet challenge. “Then I suppose I’d better make sure you stay the night. Can’t have you worrying all alone.”

Azriel’s eyes darkened with a hint of humor and something warmer. “What if Nesta expects a report and notices I’m not back?”

Y/N leaned closer, voice low and playful. “Tell her you lounged by my window all night to make sure I didn’t vanish. That I’m… responsible for your safety.”

Azriel let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Responsible, huh? And yet somehow I feel like I’m the one keeping you safe.”

Y/N’s gaze flicked to his, teasing but intimate. “Maybe… that’s the way it should be.”

He fell silent for a moment, letting the quiet stretch between them, shadows entwining subtly as they walked. Then, almost reluctantly, he added, “Alright. Tonight… I stay.”

And so the cobblestone streets of Velaris held their little secret, a flirty, intimate rhythm of shadow, trust, and moments stolen from the world outside.

𓌜

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, painting the room in pale gold. Y/N lay curled against Azriel, her bare skin warm against his chest. His arm was draped protectively over her, the other tucked gently around her shoulders, and one of his wings curled lightly over her, shielding her from the chill of the early hour.

Azriel’s fingers threaded through her hair, thumb brushing along her temple as he breathed her in, quiet and steady. “Do you really have to return to the Autumn Court today?” he asked, voice low, almost hesitant.

Y/N nuzzled closer, resting her cheek against the curve of his shoulder. “Mother isn’t well,” she murmured. “I need to be there… to care for her. But I should be back in three, maybe four days.”

Azriel’s lips pressed briefly to the crown of her head, a soft, lingering kiss. “If I went with you…” His words trailed off, uncertainty flickering in his dark eyes.

She shook her head slightly, eyes meeting his, soft but firm. “It’s not a good idea. You’re… not really welcome there, you know that. It would draw attention, and I can’t risk that.”

Azriel’s hand slid down her arm, tracing gentle circles on her skin, as if memorizing the warmth of her in his presence. “I’d rather risk a hundred eyes than let anything happen to you,” he murmured, voice husky with quiet emotion.

Y/N smiled softly, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat. “I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I love you.”

He caught her hand, pressing it to his lips, a soft, lingering kiss. “And I love you,” he said, letting the words settle between them like a shield against the world.

She shifted slightly, brushing her lips against his jaw, then his lips, tenderly, and he responded, careful but insistent, the kiss slow and intimate, filled with all the quiet longing of the night they had shared.

Azriel drew her closer with a sigh, one hand resting at the small of her back, his wings curling protectively around them both. “Three days, four days,” he murmured. “I’ll be counting every moment until you return.”

Y/N pressed her forehead to his chest, breathing in the steady beat of his heart. “Promise me… you’ll stay safe too,” she whispered, soft and vulnerable.

Azriel kissed the top of her head, then her hair, lingering, his voice low and steady. “I promise. But only if you promise to come back to me.”

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, her eyes half-lidded with warmth and trust. “I will. Always.”

Azriel pulled back just enough to look down at her, his dark eyes searching hers with that quiet intensity that always made her heart stutter. “When do you have to leave?” he asked, his voice soft, almost reluctant to break the fragile calm between them.

Y/N rolled onto her side, stretching slightly, and glanced at the clock on her bedroom wall. “Hmm,” she murmured, tracing a finger along the edge of the timepiece, “I should be on my way in about an hour. I really shouldn’t dawdle too much.”

Azriel let a slow, playful grin tug at his lips. “No problem,” he said, his voice teasing but warm. “I don’t need long anyway,” and with a soft rustle, he burrowed himself back under the blankets.

Y/N shook her head slightly, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she leaned back against the pillow. “Az… I really don’t have much time. I need to be ready.”

From beneath the covers, his voice floated up, low and teasing, but threaded with genuine affection. “I’ll be quick,” he murmured, and she could feel the faint vibration of his chuckle through the mattress. “I always am for you.”

„You always say that,“ she warned him and glided her fingers through his hair.

“Mmmh,” he nodded, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along her inner thighs, working his mouth inward, as his breath ghosts over her cunt. Then his tongue darted out- tentative, flat, licking a broad stripe from entrance to the clit. “So good.”

Azriel murmured the words again, his voice low and warm, as he gently stilled Y/N’s hips beneath his hands. Then he raised his head slightly, dark hair falling into his eyes as he peeked out from beneath the covers, a faint, mischievous smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you sure you only have an hour?” he asked, voice husky with amusement.

Y/N let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something softer, her fingers threading into his hair. “Azriel,” she warned, though the way her voice dipped betrayed her lack of resolve.

His shadows curled lazily along the bedposts and across the sheets, wrapping the space in privacy as he disappeared beneath the covers again, determined and entirely unrepentant. The quiet that followed was punctuated only by her sharp intake of breath and the soft rustle of sheets shifting.

“Az-” she started, but her words dissolved into a quiet gasp, her hand tightening instinctively against his shoulder.

He hummed in response, entirely pleased with himself.

Minutes later, when he finally resurfaced, there was a satisfied glint in his eyes and warmth flushed across her skin. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss just below her navel before stretching up beside her again, pulling her close as though he had no intention of ever letting go.

“See, you still have time,” he murmured against her temple, brushing his nose lightly along her hairline.

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, though her breath was still uneven. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he replied, lips ghosting over hers in a slow, unhurried kiss, “you’re still here.”

The intimacy between them wasn’t frantic or reckless. It was familiar. Earned. A quiet understanding built from shared wounds and shared trust. Even in laughter, even in teasing, there was something deeply grounding about the way he held her afterward, not possessive, not fleeting, but certain.

And when she finally rested her forehead against his, both of them a little breathless and very aware of the ticking clock, the world outside their bedroom felt far away.

Afterward, the quiet felt different.

Not light. Not playful.

It settled over them like something fragile and sacred, as though even the air understood that this moment was slipping through their fingers.

Azriel lay on his back, one arm curved around Y/N’s waist, holding her close, not tightly, not desperately, but with the kind of steadiness that came from someone who had spent his life losing things. His other hand traced slow, absent patterns along her spine, fingertips warm and reverent, as if committing every inch of her to memory.

Y/N rested against his chest, her cheek pressed over his heart. The rhythm beneath her ear was strong, steady, but she could feel the subtle change in it. It wasn’t racing anymore. It wasn’t heated. It was heavy.

Neither of them spoke. Because speaking would mean acknowledging the clock.

The faint ticking in the room sounded louder now, intrusive. Each second felt like a quiet theft.

Azriel’s fingers paused at her shoulder blade, then resumed their slow path upward, brushing along her neck and into her hair. He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of her, warmth, skin, something entirely her. Something that had come to mean safety in a way he had never allowed himself to need before.

“I hate this,” he said quietly.

There was no anger in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

Y/N tilted her head slightly so she could see his face. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling as though calculating something impossible, how to stop time, perhaps. Or how to bend fate to his will.

“Hate what?” she asked softly.

“The part where you leave,” he admitted, his voice roughened by something he rarely allowed to surface. “The part where I have to let you walk out that door and pretend it doesn’t feel like something is being carved out of my chest.”

Her breath caught.

Azriel did not speak like this. He did not expose the tender places.

His hand slid to her jaw, thumb brushing gently along her lower lip. “I’ve lived my entire life in shadows,” he continued, quieter now. “I’ve learned how to endure silence. Distance. Waiting. But you…” His throat tightened slightly. “You made it feel like I didn’t have to endure anymore.”

Emotion burned behind her eyes, sudden and fierce.

Y/N swallowed against it, afraid that if she let it surface too quickly, it would spill into something she wouldn’t be able to contain. She shifted slightly, lifting herself just enough to meet his gaze fully, her fingers resting lightly against his chest as though grounding herself there.

“This…” she began softly, her voice almost unsteady despite her effort to keep it calm. “Whatever this is. Whatever it becomes. It’s already more than I ever thought I would have.”

Azriel’s brow furrowed faintly, not in confusion, but in quiet concern.

She offered him a small, vulnerable smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes because it was holding too much feeling beneath it.

“I’ve never had this before,” she admitted. “Not like this. Not something that feels steady. Or chosen. Or safe.” Her thumb brushed absent circles against his skin, mirroring the pattern he had drawn along her spine moments before. “I don’t know what the future looks like. I don’t know what we’ll be in a year, or five. But I know that whatever this is… it’s real to me. And it’s already more than I ever thought I deserved.”

Azriel’s expression shifted at that, something softening, something almost pained.

“You deserve more than you think,” he said quietly.

She shook her head slightly, not in disagreement, but in disbelief. “Maybe,” she whispered. “But this? Lying here. Feeling like I don’t have to prove myself. Like I don’t have to be anything other than what I am in this moment.” Her voice dipped lower. “That’s new for me.”

His hand slid from her jaw to cradle the side of her neck, thumb brushing beneath her ear in a slow, reverent stroke. “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he murmured.

Her breath trembled at that, just barely.

“I know,” she said.

And that was the frightening part.

She rested her forehead lightly against his, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them. The clock continued its steady ticking, but for a heartbeat, it felt distant, irrelevant.

“I don’t know what this will become,” she continued softly. “But I know it’s already changed me.”

Azriel studied her as though trying to memorize the exact cadence of her voice, the way her lashes lowered when she let herself be honest.

“Good,” he whispered.

And for a moment, the weight of what lay beyond that bedroom door felt a little less sharp, not because the world had softened, but because they had found something in each other that neither of them had ever been allowed to hold before.

𓌜

The streets of Velaris were quiet, the city still stretching and yawning under the soft gold of dawn. Y/N and Azriel walked side by side, their steps in sync, though neither spoke much. The warmth of the night still lingered between them, soft, intimate, a thread of closeness neither wanted to break.

Azriel kept one hand near hers, just close enough to brush against her fingers every few steps. The shadows around him twisted faintly, protective, almost as if aware of the subtle tension that now hung in the crisp morning air.

“You really must go,” he said finally, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Her expression softened, a gentle shake of the head. “It won’t be long. I’ll manage. I always do.”

He exhaled quietly, tension leaving his shoulders in a small, reluctant sigh. “You always do,” he murmured. Then, almost teasing, he added, “That’s what worries me.”

Y/N smirked faintly, brushing her hand lightly over his arm. “You worry too much.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, shadow curling around them like a protective cloak. “But I care too much to do otherwise.”

Her smile softened, warmth in her eyes. “I know. And I appreciate it. Always.”

They reached the outer streets of Velaris, where the cobblestones gave way to wider roads leading out of the city. Azriel paused, his gaze sweeping the horizon. “I’ll see you safely out of the city, at least. After that…” His voice trailed, heavy with restraint.

Y/N’s hand brushed against his, quick but deliberate. “After that… I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

His shadow shifted subtly, protective even as his eyes followed her, dark and unreadable. “I don’t like letting you go. Not even for a moment.”

She pressed her forehead briefly to his arm, a quiet, tender gesture. “Then come with me as far as you can. But after that… let me manage. I can’t put you at risk.”

Azriel’s lips twitched in a small, reluctant smile. “Fine,” he murmured, though his eyes never left her. “But I’ll be thinking about you every step of the way.”

With a soft nod, Y/N turned toward the path leading out of the city, and Azriel followed alongside her until the shadows of Velaris began to stretch longer and the gates came into view. Each step was measured, calm, but beneath it, a coil of tension, worry, care, something unspoken, followed them both.

And as the city faded behind them, the world outside remained unaware of the quiet, intricate bond between the two, a bond forged in trust, intimacy, and the delicate balance of letting go.

𓌜

The morning had started quietly, a soft gold spilling over the streets of Velaris as Y/N left Azriel’s side. She had spoken of her mother, of needing to see her, but the truth was far more precise, far more deliberate.

She wasn’t simply visiting for care or comfort. Her steps were measured, her mind focused. Each motion, each glance over her shoulder, was part of her duty, an obligation she carried carefully, under the guise of concern. The streets, the passing shadows, even the light of the sun, were all details she took in as she moved, calculating, observing, and preparing.

This was no leisurely visit home. This was work, in every sense of the word. And the Autumn Court awaited.

The Autumn Court sat in crisp morning light, its colors sharper, edges colder than Velaris. Y/N entered quietly, bowing lightly to Eris, her movements precise, measured, careful to appear the dutiful visitor he expected.

Eris looked up from his desk, eyes sharp and assessing. “You’ve returned earlier than expected,” he remarked, voice smooth but edged with curiosity.

Y/N inclined her head. “I needed to report,” she said, voice steady. “And… I observed Rhysand over the past few days. He’s spent much of his time alone in the ruins.”

Eris’s eyes narrowed slightly, interest piqued. “Alone?”

“Yes,” Y/N continued, keeping her tone calm. “At the last gathering… the dinner, he spoke often of artifacts. He and I discussed them, what still exists, what could be found. He confirmed there is a crown… and that it resides somewhere in the Night Court.”

Eris leaned back, eyes darkening slightly. “The crown.” His fingers drummed on the desk. “And the Night Court… the ruins would place it nearby?”

Y/N inclined her head again, careful to remain factual, detached. “Yes. It would be safest to assume it is near the ruins. He has been careful, but the location is likely not far from where he has spent the last days alone.”

Eris’s dark eyes flicked to her, a slow smile touching his lips. “Good. Keep observing. Any movements, conversations, or plans… I want them noted. And make no mistake, accuracy is paramount.”

Y/N nodded, bowing lightly. “Of course, High Lord. I will ensure you have all necessary information.”

She began to turn, ready to leave, but Eris’s voice stopped her, calm yet commanding. “Wait.”

Y/N paused, eyes lifting to meet his.

“I have a crucial task for you in the coming days,” he said. “You will not return directly to the Night Court. I need my best agent for this.”

Y/N hesitated, a small furrow in her brow. “High Lord… I… I cannot stay longer than three days. I promised… I need to be back. It shouldn’t appear that I’ve been absent too long.”

Eris leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp and unwavering. “The mission may take longer than that. And I truly need you. No one else is suited for this task.”

Y/N’s shoulders slumped slightly, a flicker of hesitation passing across her features. He was, after all, her superior. She let out a small, resigned sigh, keeping her voice steady despite the pressure.

“Where do you need me?” she asked quietly, the words measured, obedient, the faintest edge of submission in her tone.

Eris’s lips curved faintly, approving. “Good. You will leave at dawn tomorrow. Details will follow.”

Y/N nodded once, careful, precise. Every gesture, every word was perfect, as though she had always been meant to serve him in this way. Yet beneath her composed exterior, the wheels in her mind were already turning, calculating, planning, preparing for the days ahead.

𓌜

Eris melted into the shadows near Y/N’s small house, the edges of the Autumn Court folding around him like a cloak. She had said she could not stay away longer than three days, just a brief absence, she had promised. That limit had planted a seed of curiosity, a quiet suspicion in him. Three days, no more. He had counted them carefully, observing from afar, ensuring she kept her word.

Now, on the third day, he watched.

The night was still, pale dawn brushing the rooftops, and yet he could see her moving with the same grace, the same careful precision he had always admired. She returned later than expected, not from the mission he had assigned, not from the tasks she had promised to complete. Her movements were meticulous, deliberate, but there was a subtle hesitation in her steps, a quiet difference he could not ignore.

He had trusted her. Trusted her implicitly. She had endured so much under his father, had worked tirelessly for the Court, and now she was one of his most capable agents. Yet tonight… something felt wrong.

Eris’ jaw tightened. She had said she couldn’t be gone longer than three days, yet here she was, returning at the edge of dawn, the pale light catching her hair, the small curve of her shoulders as she moved through the quiet streets.

A shadow shifted closer to the doorway. He had watched her prepare, observed her for minutes that stretched into an hour, cataloging every detail. And now, it was time to confront the uncertainty gnawing at him.

With a quiet step, Eris moved to the door, hands steady. He let the shadows slip from him like water and raised a hand to knock.

The sound was sharp in the stillness. Three measured taps, deliberate. Not aggressive, not accusatory, just enough to announce his presence.

He waited, every sense alert, as the door moved. Inside, Y/N would be aware, perhaps, but he would let her explain herself. And if she lied… he would know.

Y/N opened the door with a faint, polite smile, though her brow creased slightly at the early knock. “High Lord Eris… you’re early,” she said, voice careful, masking any surprise. Her poker face settled instantly, smooth and controlled.

Eris’ dark eyes studied her, unreadable. “I thought I’d check in,” he said evenly, stepping inside without invitation. “A few adjustments to the mission… and a need for a brief update on your progress.”

Y/N inclined her head, composed. “Of course,” she replied, her tone steady. She gestured for him to sit, though she remained standing, posture perfect, movements fluid.

For the next several minutes, she spoke carefully, reporting everything she had observed over the past few days. Each detail, each subtle shift in behavior, every fragment of information she had gathered, left uncolored by emotion. She maintained the poise of the loyal agent, efficient and precise, leaving no trace of doubt, or so she thought.

Eris listened, silent, his gaze unblinking, assessing every word, every nuance, every flicker of her expression. He said nothing of his suspicion, giving no hint that he knew she had not returned from her mission as she claimed.

“I want you to meet with me at the end of the day from now on,” he said finally, his voice smooth and controlled, “We will discuss the rest of your progress then. I hope it won’t take longer than three days”

Y/N inclined her head, masking the faint relief that she had made it through without raising alarm. “Understood, High Lord,” she said, voice steady. “I’ll be ready.”

What she did not know, could not know, was that she had yet to set her glamour. The faint, almost imperceptible smell of the Shadowsinger clung to her, and Eris smelled it immediately. The truth of her night away was clear, undeniable, even though her words had told a different story.

He remained calm, silent, letting her leave the room with the illusion of trust intact. But now, everything was laid bare in the shadows: where she had been, what she had done, and the careful deception she believed she had maintained.

Eris’ lips curved in the faintest, controlled smile. The game had just grown far more interesting.

The next days in the Autumn Court moved with a precision that was both comforting and suffocating. Y/N settled into her routine quickly, reporting small observations, cataloging what she could of the Court’s movements, and subtly navigating the hierarchy she had long known. Every word she spoke, every bow, every careful pause, was perfect, meticulous, loyal, untouchable.

Eris never revealed his knowledge. He listened as she spoke of her days in the Night Court, the artifacts, the Inner Circle’s subtle behaviors, the places she had “observed.”

Y/N told him everything, careful, precise, efficient. And Eris received it all with a calm face, giving no indication that he already knew more than she could imagine. He noticed the way she lingered too long at certain windows, the faint worry in her eyes when she thought she was alone, the way she brushed against his office door as if she hoped to catch a glimpse of him, to feel the faint comfort of his presence without knowing he was watching.

By the second day, Eris’ patience began to strain subtly. He did not move in the shadows any closer, but the intensity of his attention followed her like a second skin. He noticed her small gestures, the way she adjusted her cloak, the way she traced her fingers along the edge of a table as she thought, the way she hesitated before leaving a room.

She still spoke as if her mission were everything, but the little things told him otherwise. And though he did not voice it, he began to anticipate the moment she would depart, when she would walk back toward Velaris, and the mysteries of the Night Court would pull her once more into motion.

Y/N, oblivious to his suspicions, planned her own schedule meticulously. Three days, no longer, she reminded herself. A return window carefully calculated to appear loyal, careful, unremarkable. Yet the shadows were patient, and Eris’ senses were precise. He knew she had more in mind than she let him see, but he waited, silently, letting her think she still controlled the game.

The air of Autumn Court pressed around her like a cage of gold and frost. She moved with grace, with purpose, but underneath it all, there was the subtle tension of unspoken eyes, of silent scrutiny, of a High Lord who knew more than he let on.

The third day dawned crisp over the Autumn Court. Y/N arrived at Eris’ study promptly, expression calm, posture perfect, ready to report. She had completed her observations meticulously, cataloged every detail, and yet her mind lingered on the upcoming steps.

Eris looked up from his desk, a faint, approving smile on his lips. “Well done,” he said smoothly. “Your diligence over the past days has been impressive. You’ve gathered a lot of useful information.”

Y/N inclined her head politely. “Thank you, High Lord. I did as you instructed.”

Eris gestured for her to come closer, placing a small, detailed map on the desk. “Now, we move to the next phase,” he said, voice calm but firm. “I want you fully briefed. The operation will happen soon. Here is the date, mark it.” He tapped the parchment. “The location, these ruins. The target… the crown. And before we retrieve it, the House of Wind must be cleared.”

Y/N leaned in, absorbing every detail, her mind already mapping out the steps. She did not notice the faint smirk tugging at Eris’ lips, the way his eyes glimmered with hidden amusement.

“What I’m telling you now,” he continued, “is all you need to know. My other agents have confirmed the details, the timing, the defenses, everything is set. Your role is crucial. Ensure the plan unfolds as described.”

Y/N nodded, determined, believing every word. “Understood, High Lord. I’ll ensure it is executed exactly as you intend.”

Eris watched her, silent for a moment, then allowed a slow, approving exhale. “Good. You’ve proven yourself indispensable these past days. But remember, vigilance is key. What I’ve told you is accurate for your purposes, but…” His voice dropped slightly, a subtle weight beneath the calm, imperceptible to her, but clear to the reader. “…not all is as it seems. Some things will need adjustment once the operation begins.”

Y/N inclined her head, unaware of the subtle layers of deception threading through every instruction. To her, this was a straightforward mission, a matter of obedience and precision.

But one thing is clear: Eris had just fed her false information, dates, locations, targets, all carefully crafted. Y/N would carry it back to the Night Court, believing it true, while Eris shaped the battlefield in secret, orchestrating the coming attack with her unwitting help.

As Y/N left the room, map in hand, the Autumn Court’s golden light streaming across her path, the tension hung in the air. Every step she took now carried the weight of misdirection, every word she would repeat would be a thread in Eris’ carefully woven web and the game had only just begun.

𓌜

The Night Court greeted Y/N with its familiar velvet darkness and the faint scent of the Sidra lingering in the air. She had arrived barely a day after receiving Eris’ plans, her mind already a battlefield of conflicting thoughts.

Azriel stayed close, his presence warm and grounding, relief and quiet possessiveness radiating from him. He had missed her during her absence, and though she returned safely, his attention clung to her like a shadow, comforting but suffocating in its intensity.

Y/N forced a small smile, masking the storm inside. She could not tell him the truth, could not let him know who she really served, what she had learned, or what she intended to do. Her duty, her mission, demanded secrecy. Yet the weight of it pressed against her chest, making each heartbeat a drum of tension and guilt.

The evening stretched into quiet hours. Azriel finally relaxed slightly, letting himself sink into the rhythm of their closeness. Y/N allowed herself a fleeting moment of warmth, of comfort, letting her head rest lightly against his chest. His arm draped over her, his wing folding protectively around her, the familiar safety of him a fragile shield against the world.

But the night held a choice. And Y/N’s training, the long years of discipline, of survival, of secrets, took over. She slid carefully from his arms, practiced and silent, her movements ghostlike. Azriel stirred slightly but did not wake, the deep trust between them allowing her passage.

Once clear of the room, she melted into the shadows, her cloak drawn tight, feet soundless against the cold stone floors. Every instinct, every lesson learned in years of Autumn Court training, guided her steps.

Once clear of the room, she melted into the shadows, her cloak drawn tight, feet soundless against the cold stone floors. Every instinct, every lesson learned in years of Autumn Court training, guided her steps.

She reached the Town House and knocked softly. The door opened to Feyre, concern etched in her features.

“Y/N? Is everything… okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Y/N said quickly, forcing a reassuring smile. “I just… needed to speak with Rhys.”

From behind, a calm voice cut through. “Feyre, it’s alright,” Rhysand said, stepping into view. “I’ve been expecting her. I need to speak with Y/N privately.”

Feyre’s brow furrowed, but she trusted him and stepped aside.

Rhysand led her into his office, closing the door behind them. Shadows curled along the edges of the room, the quiet hum of magic lingering in the air.

Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “He believed it,” she said. “He believes the artifact is in the ruins. That part… we’ve convinced him.”

Rhysand leaned against his desk, gaze sharp. “Then why do you look so tense?”

She hesitated, then spoke carefully. “Eris… he plans to attack the House of Wind in two days. He wants it cleared, emptied… before he comes for the artifact. I can’t stop him directly. I can only make sure no one is left here, so no one gets hurt.”

Rhysand’s lips curved faintly. “You can help me,,” he said gently, meeting her eyes.

“Eris expects me to fight for him. That means the others, Azriel, Cassian, everyone, they will see me standing on his side. I’ll have to play my part,” Y/N replied with her eyes fixed on the ground.

“I know it costs you their trust… and his,” he added, nodding slightly toward her thoughts of Azriel.

Her chest tightened. “I… I don’t know if I can,” she whispered.

“You can,” Rhysand assured her. “And you will. You’ve done more than most could manage. Tomorrow, Cassian and Azriel and I will use the day to plan. Velaris is heavily protected, we’ll meet him at the city walls. His men won’t even make it inside. You don’t need to worry about being seen, neither on his side, nor mine. Just focus on keeping them safe.”

Y/N nodded slowly, a flicker of relief mixed with the weight of the task. She would be forced to betray appearances, to risk Azriel’s trust, all for the greater plan, but she would do it. She had to.

Rhysand’s eyes softened. “We’ll handle it together, in the shadows. You won’t have to face it alone.”

For the first time that evening, Y/N allowed herself a small, quiet exhale. She could help. She would help. And even if no one knew what she truly was, she could make sure the people she cared about survived.

𓌜

The sun hung low in the Velaris sky, painting the gardens with gold and amber. Y/N and Azriel sat side by side on the stone bench outside her small house, the faint scent of blooming flowers drifting on the warm breeze. A soft smile tugged at Y/N’s lips as she let the sunlight wash over her, the weight of the past days momentarily eased by the quiet beauty around them.

Azriel leaned back slightly, letting one arm rest casually on the bench behind her. “It’s nice,” he murmured, voice low, almost reluctant to disturb the stillness. “To just… sit.”

Y/N nodded, letting her fingers trail along the edge of the bench. “It is. I… forget how calm it can be here sometimes,” she said softly, though her thoughts were already elsewhere.

The quiet was broken by the faintest pulse at the edge of Azriel’s mind, a pull he had learned to recognize instantly. Rhysand. A thought, a presence, reaching out to him.

“I need to go,” he said, his voice tense but controlled. “Rhysand… he wants to speak with me.”

Y/N’s chest tightened imperceptibly. She knew exactly why he had been called. Her stomach fluttered, nerves igniting, but her face remained calm, serene.

Azriel knelt slightly to meet her eyes, a quiet intensity in his gaze. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. Before she could respond, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough for warmth to spread through her chest.

“Of course,” she said lightly, hiding the storm inside. “Go ahead. I’ll be right here when you return.”

Azriel gave her a questioning glance, reading the unspoken worries in her expression, and offered a reassuring, almost playful smile. “I mean it. I’ll be back quickly.”

With that, he stood, lingering for only a moment longer to let her feel the faint echo of his presence, and then walked away.

As he walked away, Y/N sank a little deeper into the bench, the warm sunlight no longer comforting. Her mind churned. Is it really worth it, living like this? she wondered. The lies, the secrets… pretending to be one of them while serving another. Would it be easier to just choose one side?

Her heart clenched as she thought of Azriel. The way he trusted her, the way he depended on her presence for comfort and safety. Could she truly balance this double life without breaking that trust?

And yet, the decision had been made. She belonged to Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court. Her loyalty, her purpose, was clear. Every risk she took, every subtle move, every secret smile exchanged in shadowed corners, it was all for him, for the people she wanted to protect.

But why, then, did it feel so heavy? Why did the weight of the deception press so hard against her chest?

Y/N leaned back, eyes tracing the garden paths, the sunlight catching on the leaves, on the flowers, on the distant rooftops of Velaris. She exhaled slowly, a quiet breath of resolve mixed with lingering doubt.

She had chosen. She was committed. And yet, for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to feel the cost of that choice, alone in the quiet garden, with only the faint hum of the city and the whisper of the wind to witness her thoughts.

Y/N stood in her small Velaris kitchen, hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, but her mind wasn’t on the drink. A soft melody floated from the corner of the room, Feyre’s favorite music playlist she had left running earlier, filling the space with gentle piano notes and distant, lilting strings. She had let herself be distracted, letting the music soothe her tense thoughts.

Her eyes stared out the window at the garden, but she saw nothing of it. The sunlight warming the stone paths, the gentle sway of flowers in the breeze, all of it blurred into a background haze. Her mind was elsewhere, devouring her, gnawing at her with the weight of impossible choices.

She closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her for a few moments longer, trying to ground herself. But the melody couldn’t drown out the tension rising in her chest. She could feel the storm coming, far away yet inevitable, creeping closer with every passing second.

Her fingers tightened around the mug, knuckles whitening. I’ve chosen. I serve Rhysand. I protect them. I must.

But even as she reaffirmed her decision, doubt lingered like a shadow at the edges of her mind. Why does it feel so heavy? Why does it hurt so much to lie to those who trust me?

The soft notes of the piano faded into silence as her heartbeat quickened, the tension in the room suddenly sharp and tangible. And then, the pounding at the door, urgent and frantic, shattered the fragile calm she had allowed herself.

Feyre, Nyx, and Nesta burst in, voices taut with alarm.

“Y/N! Rhysand sent us, he said you need to be here, you have to protect us!”

“What’s going on?” Y/N asked sharply, her voice low but urgent, already moving toward them.

Feyre’s eyes were wide, and her grip on Nyx tightened. “It’s Eris,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “He’s here. He… he has no good intentions. His forces are already in the city. They’ve started fighting, attacking the Town House, the House of Wind… everything.”

Y/N’s stomach clenched. The attack… today? Her mind raced. Eris had moved faster than expected. The House of Wind and the Town House were already under siege. The carefully laid plans, the misinformation he had fed her, everything had changed.

Without a word, Y/N dropped into motion. Every habit, every lesson from her years of training surged forward. Her fingers brushed the weapons at her belt, her stance shifting into precise, protective readiness. The calm, polite mask she wore in the Night Court dissolved, replaced by the deadly efficiency she had honed over decades.

Nesta froze for a moment, eyes wide, taking in the change. “Who… who are you really?” she demanded, voice tinged with disbelief and awe.

Y/N met her gaze steadily, unwavering. “I cannot tell you that,” she said, voice firm but quiet. “What I can tell you is this: my loyalty, my true allegiance, is here, in the Night Court. My actions, my skills… they are for Rhysand, and for no one else.”

Her hands rested lightly on her weapons, ready for anything. “You are safe here,” she added, glancing at Feyre and Nyx. “I will protect you.”

Nesta’s expression softened slightly, but the shock lingered. The polite, distant fae she had known, the one who smiled at small gatherings and painted in the sunlight, was gone. In her place stood someone far more formidable, someone who could not be underestimated.

Nyx, sensing the shift, pressed close to Y/N, eyes wide. Feyre gripped her hand, relief and fear mingling.

Y/N drew a slow breath, centering herself, every muscle coiled and ready. “You stay behind me. No one will get through,” she said, voice low but unyielding. Her gaze hardened, scanning the distant horizon, every sense alert. “I serve only Rhysand. Nothing else matters. And right now… your safety is my priority.”

Nesta, still staring at her, whispered, almost to herself, “I never knew…”

Y/N gave no answer, only a brief, steady nod. Words were unnecessary. In that moment, actions spoke louder than any explanation could.

Y/N moved quickly, shutting and locking the windows, bolting the doors, and activating wards she had learned to craft in the Autumn Court. The faint hum of magic filled the room, a protective barrier that ensured no one could enter, or leave, without her knowledge.

“Alright,” she said, stepping back and brushing her hands over her clothes. “We’re secure. No one gets in, no one gets out. For now, you’re safe.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed the room, clearly unnerved but also intensely curious. “Who are you really?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “What are you? I want to know everything, why you move like that, why you… why you’re capable of this.”

Y/N shook her head, her expression calm but firm. “I can’t tell you. Not now. If I reveal too much, I put all of you at risk. Everything I do, every move I make, has to stay hidden. That’s the only way you stay safe.”

Feyre’s brow furrowed, concern softening her features. “Does Azriel know about this?” she asked cautiously, glancing at Y/N.

Y/N blinked, genuinely confused. “Why… why would you ask about Azriel?”

Feyre let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking her head. “Oh, you two are such idiots,” she said, her tone teasing. “As if anyone couldn’t tell you sneak off together all the time. And honestly? I can’t smell anything else in this entire apartment besides him. You’ve been very obvious, Y/N.”

Nesta gaped at her, a mixture of exasperation and incredulity on her face, while Y/N only tilted her head slightly, lips twitching as if to suppress a smile. The tension in the room shifted just a fraction, but the gravity of the situation remained.

Y/N’s eyes hardened as she glanced around at the three of them. “Focus. You’re safe here for now. That’s all that matters.”

𓌜

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of fire. The streets of Velaris shook under the pounding of armored boots, and the cries of the wounded echoed through the city like a chorus of despair. Azriel moved through the chaos like a shadow, blades flashing, cutting down anyone who threatened the innocent or the few defenders holding their ground. Cassian roared beside him, wings beating against the choking smoke, axe swinging in a brutal rhythm that sent soldiers and walls alike crashing to the ground.

Y/N’s senses flared from afar, every piece of intelligence she had gathered in the last days replaying in her mind. She couldn’t intervene directly, she had to maintain Eris’ trust, but her stomach twisted at the screams, the smell of blood, and the sheer carnage erupting in the streets.

The Night Court’s defenders pushed back, but Eris’ forces were relentless, flooding the streets with brutal efficiency. Limbs were torn, armor dented and soaked, faces streaked with blood and soot. The clash of steel, the roar of magic, and the sickening thuds of bodies hitting stone filled the air. Even the most seasoned soldiers flinched at the chaos.

And then, in the center of it all, Rhysand and Eris faced each other. Rhys’ eyes burned with fury, wings spread wide, shadow and starlight coiling around him like living armor. Eris sneered, aura dark and twisting, his own power lashing outward like a black wave.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” Rhysand said, voice low and deadly. His magic twisted the shadows at his feet, turning the street around him into writhing tendrils that threatened to snare Eris.

Eris laughed, dark and sharp. “And yet, here I am. You’ll see me again, Rhysand. I always come back. You cannot stop me.” His hand flared with black fire, striking at the air, melting stone, and searing the cobblestones beneath their feet.

The fight escalated instantly. Rhysand twisted, dodging a blast of fire that spat molten stone into the air, chunks flying like deadly shrapnel. Magic collided with magic, soundless shockwaves tearing through the streets, ripping doors from frames and shattering walls. The smell of burning stone, scorched flesh, and iron from spilled blood was overpowering.

Azriel and Cassian tore through soldiers, shadows and steel moving as extensions of themselves. Every strike was precise, every slash deliberate, yet the sheer volume of Eris’ men made the battlefield grotesque. Limbs flailed, screams echoed, and bodies tumbled into the smoke-choked streets, some already broken, some writhing in the dirt as magic crackled over them. Cassian roared, driving his axe through another attacker, only to be slammed back by a blast of raw force from a horde behind him.

Through it all, Rhysand held Eris at bay, the two of them spinning a deadly dance of magic and menace. Shadows clashed against black flames, stone cracked, and the city itself seemed to groan under the weight of their powers. And yet, even as Rhysand forced him back, Eris’ voice carried over the chaos, venomous and unyielding:

“This isn’t over,” he spat, blood streaking his face, a dark grin cutting across his features. “I will return. And next time… you won’t be ready.”

Rhysand’s eyes narrowed, his wings unfurling like midnight silk. “You’re already losing,” he said, voice a low growl, and with a final surge of shadow, he forced Eris to retreat.

The battlefield fell into tense silence as Eris vanished, his forces scattered and broken, but the lingering stench of death and fire remained. Azriel and Cassian stood panting, blood and soot streaked across their skin, scanning the wreckage.

Velaris had survived… for now. But the city, its streets, and its defenders bore the marks of a battle that had left the air thick, heavy, and unforgettable.

𓌜

The wards on the apartment shimmered once, twice, before the darkness in the center of the room folded in on itself.

Rhysand stepped out of it.

Smoke clung to him. Blood, not all of it his, darkened the sleeves of his shirt. His wings were half-spread, as if he had not yet convinced himself the fighting was over. For a heartbeat, the room went utterly still.

Feyre was on her feet immediately. “Rhys-”

“Innocents died,” he said quietly, before she could ask. His voice was steady, but something strained beneath it. “They pushed through the lower district before we stopped them. We caught most of them at the city walls,but not before damage was done.”

Silence fell like a weight.

Nesta’s jaw tightened. Feyre’s hand drifted instinctively to Nyx, who had begun to stir, sensing the tension in the room.

Y/N did not move. Her fingers were still wrapped around the hilt of her blade.

Eris moved early.

Rhys’ violet gaze found hers. Not accusing. Not doubtful. Just sharp.

“You need to go,” he said to Y/N.

Feyre blinked. “Go? Go where?”

“Back,” Rhys answered without looking at her. “To the Autumn Court.”

Y/N’s spine straightened immediately. “He’ll suspect.”

“He already does,” Rhys said. “And if he’s as calculating as I believe, he’s heading to your residence now.”

A flicker of understanding passed between them.

“You were never here,” Rhys continued, stepping closer to Y/N. “You did not leave your apartment. You heard rumors of an attack through the usual channels. Nothing more.”

Feyre looked between them. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Feyre-” Rhys began.

“No,” she cut in, frustration rising. “People died tonight. Eris marched into our city. And you’re sending her back to him without explanation?”

Rhys’ tone did not harden,but it cooled. “This is between Y/N and me.”

The words landed heavier than any shout.

“For now,” he added, softer but firm. “Until this is finished.”

Feyre’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing more. She trusted her mate. Even when she didn’t understand him.

Rhys turned fully to Y/N. “Stand still.”

Power brushed over her skin like cool silk. His glamour slid into place with precision, erasing the faint trace of Night Court air from her scent, muting the subtle imprint of Azriel’s shadows, replacing it with crisp Autumn, dry leaves, smoke, distant frost.

“No one will smell Velaris on you,” Rhys said quietly.

Y/N nodded once. Controlled. Focused. But her throat tightened.

“Do you have everything you need?” he asked her, low enough that only she could hear.

“Yes.”

“If he presses you-”

“I’ll handle it.”

Their eyes locked for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

Then darkness swallowed them both.

They reappeared inside Y/N’s Autumn Court residence.

Cold. Still. Untouched.

Rhys released her immediately and moved toward the window, scanning the treeline beyond the estate.

“He’ll claim this was a test,” Rhys said quickly. “Or that his timing changed due to ‘new intelligence.’ Don’t challenge it.”

“I won’t.”

“He’ll watch your reaction carefully.”

Y/N gave the faintest, humorless smile. “He always does.”

Rhys stepped closer, lowering his voice.

“We intercepted a portion of his forces retreating north. He lost more than he expected tonight. That will wound his pride.”

“And make him reckless,” she finished.

“Yes.”

A pulse of power rippled at the edge of the estate wards. They both felt it. He’s close.

Rhys’ jaw tightened.

“You were here,” he reminded her one last time. “You heard nothing until rumors reached you. You’re frustrated he didn’t inform you sooner.”

Y/N inhaled slowly, letting her posture shift, her expression cool and sharp, Autumn’s finest weapon sliding back into place.

“I understand.”

Rhys hesitated, just for a fraction of a heartbeat. “Be careful.”

Then he was gone. The air settled. And not five seconds later, a knock. Three deliberate raps against her door.

Y/N did not rush. Did not falter. She walked calmly across the room, each step measured, every emotion sealed behind the mask she had perfected.

Her hand closed around the door handle. And she opened it.

𓌜

It took Azriel days to get back to Y/N’s place. Days plagued by remorse. He did not immediately step into Y/N’s apartment when he arrived. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, letting the quiet settle around him, as if the space itself might offer an explanation before he had to look for one.

The apartment felt untouched. Not ransacked. Not disturbed. Just… absent.

He closed the door softly behind him and moved further inside, his shadows stretching along the walls, brushing across familiar surfaces. The faint scent of her lingered in the air, jasmine threaded with steel and something darker beneath, but it was already fading, as if it had not been refreshed in a week.

That alone made something tighten in his chest.

He had grown used to her presence here. The books stacked in uneven towers near the couch. The blanket draped carelessly over the armrest. The small knife she always left on the kitchen counter, within reach even in a place that was supposed to be safe.

Tonight, everything was too orderly.

He walked toward the bedroom without quite meaning to. The bed was made with careful precision, the sheets smooth, the pillows aligned. He stepped closer and laid a hand against the fabric. Cold. Not recently vacated. Not stepped out of at dawn.

Cold in a way that meant she had not slept here at all.

Azriel exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

Nesta’s words returned to him, unwanted but persistent. That Y/N disappeared too often. That she slipped away before he woke. That there were nights when the bed beside him had already gone cold by the time he reached for her.

He had defended her. Quietly. Firmly. Without hesitation. Because trust, to him, was not given lightly. And Y/N had earned it. Or he had believed she had.

Eris’ attack had been too precise. The shift in timing, one day earlier than expected, according to the information Rhys received from an unknown intel. Knowledge of the House of Wind. Of their movements.

There was only one bridge between Night and Autumn. Only one person who moved freely between both courts without raising suspicion.

Y/N.

The thought settled into him with slow, dreadful clarity. He returned to the living room, his gaze falling on the couch.

Memory rose before he could stop it.

She had been curled against his side there, her legs tucked beneath her, listening while he read aloud from a book she had insisted he finish. She had claimed his voice sounded different at night, quieter, warmer. She had fallen asleep halfway through a chapter, her fingers loosely hooked into the fabric of his shirt as if afraid he might disappear.

He had kept reading long after she slept. Just so the sound would wrap around her.

The memory pressed against his ribs like a bruise.

Azriel crouched slowly in front of the couch. He did not want to do this. Did not want to turn her space into an investigation. But he was not just a male who cared for her.

He was Spymaster of the Night Court. His shadows slid between the cushions first, more cautious than his hands, searching deeper than fingers could reach. They hesitated.

Then coiled around something thin. Folded. Hidden deliberately. Azriel reached in and drew it out. A letter. The seal had been broken, but the dark red wax left no doubt as to its origin.

Autumn.

His pulse did not quicken. It slowed. He unfolded the parchment carefully. The handwriting was unmistakable, elegant, precise, controlled. It belonged to no other than Eris.

The message was brief, efficient, stripped of unnecessary words.

Well done. You’ve proven yourself useful. We proceed as discussed.

Azriel let his eyes move over the words slowly, as if by taking his time he might discover some hidden meaning between the lines, some subtle indication that he had misunderstood. He read the letter once, then again, absorbing every curve of Eris’ elegant handwriting, every calculated phrase that confirmed coordination, trust, strategy.

Nothing shifted. Nothing softened.

The message remained what it was, clear, deliberate, undeniable.

For a long moment, he simply stood there, the parchment held between steady fingers while something far less steady settled inside his chest. It was not the sharp flare of anger he might have expected, nor the violent rush of betrayal that could have justified immediate action. Instead, the realization moved through him slowly, like winter creeping over a landscape, quiet, numbing, inevitable.

She had been corresponding with Eris. Not under duress. Not by accident. But effectively. Successfully.

Useful.

The word lingered in his mind far longer than it should have.

A tight, hollow ache spread beneath his ribs, not dramatic enough to bring him to his knees, but deep enough to make breathing feel different, heavier, more deliberate. Disappointment did not erupt; it settled. It layered itself carefully over trust, over memory, over every quiet night spent on that couch where she had leaned into him without hesitation.

He allowed himself to close his eyes for a brief moment, and in that darkness he tried, truly tried, to imagine another explanation. Perhaps it was a game within a game. Perhaps she had embedded herself deeper than anyone realized. Perhaps this was part of something larger that he had not yet uncovered.

But hope, he knew better than most, was a fragile foundation for strategy.

As Spymaster, he could not afford the luxury of believing in possibilities simply because they hurt less than the truth. He could not gamble Velaris, Rhys, Feyre, Nyx, the city that had rebuilt itself from centuries of fear, on the chance that this was all an elaborate misunderstanding.

If Y/N had been feeding Eris information, then she represented a breach in their defenses, no matter how much it wounded him to think it.

And breaches were his responsibility. Not as a male who cared for her. Not as the one who had memorized the rhythm of her breathing in sleep. But as the protector of the Night Court.

With movements that were careful rather than cold, Azriel folded the letter along its existing creases, smoothing the parchment once before slipping it inside his jacket, as though handling something fragile instead of something that had just fractured the ground beneath him.

When he stepped out onto the balcony, the night air met him like a quiet reckoning. Velaris shimmered in the distance, lanternlight reflecting against the Sidra, the city beautiful and unaware of the fault line running silently through its heart.

He rested his hands briefly against the stone railing and allowed himself one final glance back into the apartment. The couch stood exactly as they had left it days ago, the blanket still draped over its arm, the indentation in the cushions barely visible unless one knew where to look.

He remembered her laughter there. The way she had tilted her head to listen more closely when he read. The softness in her expression when she thought he wasn’t watching.

For a fleeting second, he wished, truly wished, that he could remain in that memory instead of stepping forward into whatever waited for him in Autumn.

“Let there be more to this,” he murmured quietly, not as a demand, but as something closer to a prayer.

The city did not answer him. The night offered no reassurance.

And so he straightened, the hesitation draining from his posture as resolve replaced it. Whatever truth awaited him, he would face it directly. Not out of anger. Not out of vengeance. But because the safety of his court demanded clarity.

His wings unfurled in a slow, powerful sweep, shadows tightening around him as if sensing the gravity of the choice he had made. Then, without looking back again, Azriel stepped into the open air and rose into the night, flying toward the Autumn Court with a heart heavier than it had been in years, yet steadied by the unyielding certainty of duty.

𓌜

Y/N remained seated for a long time after the ink had dried, her gaze fixed on the folded letter as though it might rearrange itself into something easier to bear. The firelight flickered across the parchment, casting restless shadows along the walls, and for a fleeting moment she allowed herself to imagine what it would feel like to simply abandon all of this , to stop calculating, stop balancing lies against survival, stop measuring every word for the damage it might cause.

But that had never truly been an option for her.

Not in the Autumn Court. Not in the Night Court. Not in the fragile space between them where she had chosen to stand.

Until Eris trusted her completely again, she was tethered to this place. Every step beyond its borders would be scrutinized. Every absence weighed. If she moved too soon, if she reached for Velaris before suspicion had faded entirely, she would undo months, years, of carefully constructed deception in a single breath.

And Eris would not forgive that kind of betrayal.

She knew what he was capable of when crossed. She had seen it. Had survived it once already.

Which meant she had to endure this now, the distance, the uncertainty, the tightening coil of fear that pressed quietly at the base of her spine whenever she imagined his patience wearing thin.

Beyond the red and gold forests, beyond the heavy air of Autumn, Azriel was out there somewhere. Perhaps searching. Perhaps doubting. Perhaps already drawing conclusions she could not blame him for reaching.

The thought hurt more than she allowed herself to acknowledge.

Because if he did begin to suspect her, if he believed the worst, she would not be able to correct him. Not yet. Not without tearing down the very shield she was trying to hold over all of them.

She folded the letter to him with deliberate care, smoothing the crease as though gentleness might somehow carry through ink and parchment. Her words were measured, restrained, carefully neutral, but beneath them lived everything she could not openly confess: that this distance was strategy, not abandonment; that the silence was protection, not indifference.

When she finally rose from the desk, the fire had burned low, the last traces of Rhysand’s letter reduced to nothing but pale ash. No evidence remained. No proof that she belonged anywhere but here.

And yet her loyalty had never been clearer to her than it was in that moment. She did not serve Autumn. She did not serve Eris.

She served the Night Court, and the High Lord who had trusted her with a role no one else could have played.

If that meant allowing Azriel to doubt her, even to resent her, for a time… then she would carry that weight too.

Y/N moved toward the window, staring out over the endless blaze of Autumn trees, their beauty deceptive in its warmth. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Velaris, luminous and fragile and worth every sacrifice she had already made.

Whatever Eris planned next, whatever suspicion lingered in his gaze, she would endure it. She would outlast it. She would remain exactly where she needed to be until the moment came to strike without shattering the fragile illusion she had built.

And until that moment arrived, she would do what she had always done best.  She would survive the fire without letting it consume her.

Y/N felt the shift in the air before she understood what it meant. It was subtle at first, a tightening in the invisible threads of magic that ran through her apartment, as though the room itself had inhaled and forgotten how to exhale. The late afternoon light spilled in through the tall Autumn Court windows, casting the space in molten gold and deep amber, deceptively warm, deceptively peaceful.

She had just stepped away from her desk when the shadows changed.

Not the natural stretch of evening darkness.

His shadows.

When she turned, her breath caught in her throat.

Azriel stood in the center of her living room.

He had not shattered through wards. Had not announced himself with force or fury. He was simply there, as if the darkness had shaped itself into him and given him form. His wings were half-spread, not in aggression but in restraint, as though he had landed only moments ago and had not yet decided whether to remain or to strike. The shadows around him were restless, fractured in their movement, some clinging close while others drifted uncertainly through the room.

Shock moved through her swiftly, but she mastered it just as quickly. Not because she feared him. But because he had found her. And that meant something had unraveled.

She studied him in the span of a heartbeat. The rigid line of his shoulders. The unnatural stillness in his posture. The way his jaw was set too tightly, as though holding back something far more volatile than anger. His eyes were the worst of it, not blazing, not cold, but searching. Wounded.

He did not greet her. He did not ask why she had not written.

He reached into his jacket with slow, deliberate precision and withdrew a folded piece of parchment.

Her stomach dropped before she even saw the seal.

When he held it up between them, she did not need him to unfold it. The fractured red wax was enough. The handwriting she could not see was already burned into her memory.

Eris.

Silence thickened between them, heavy and suffocating.

Azriel’s voice, when it came, was low and steady, but threaded with something raw that made her chest tighten.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

There was no accusation in it yet. No fury. Only a final, fragile request.

His gaze locked onto hers with devastating intensity, as though he could force the truth from her by sheer will alone.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he repeated, and this time the words felt less like a demand and more like a plea from a man who already feared he knew the answer.

She could have lied.

She was trained for it. Conditioned to let falsehoods roll off her tongue with the smoothness of silk. She had done it with Eris without blinking, had layered truth and deception so seamlessly that even suspicion struggled to take hold.

But this was Azriel.

And the truth she was forbidden to speak was more dangerous than any lie she could craft.

If she told him she served Rhysand, if she revealed that every calculated step had been for the Night Court, she would not only shatter her cover, she would condemn them all. Eris’ lingering doubts would crystallize into certainty. Whatever patience he still possessed would evaporate. The next move he made would not be cautious.

It would be lethal. Rhys had been clear. No one else could know. Not even him. Especially not him.

So she did the only thing she could.

She said nothing.

The silence stretched, long enough to change something in him.

She saw it happen, the moment hope drained from his expression, not in a dramatic collapse, but in a quiet resignation that felt far worse. It was the look of a man who had prepared himself for pain and received confirmation instead.

He lowered the letter slowly, but his other hand moved with lethal familiarity. Truth-Teller appeared as though conjured from the darkness itself, the blade catching a sliver of Autumn light before coming to rest against the delicate line of her throat.

The steel was cool. Unyielding.

Close enough that she could feel the promise of it against her skin.

His hand did not press hard enough to break flesh, but she could feel the faint tremor beneath his control, a tremor that betrayed how violently he was restraining himself.

His shadows reacted in contradiction. Some recoiled from her, withdrawing as though they sensed treachery. Others drifted closer despite him, curling around her waist, brushing her arms, hovering near her shoulders in something that felt dangerously close to protection.

They could not decide what she was. Neither, perhaps, could he.

Y/N did not move. She did not reach for a weapon. She did not attempt to step back or twist away. Instead, she held his gaze steadily, allowing him to see composure rather than fear, even though her heart was beating hard enough to bruise her ribs from within.

He mistook her stillness for acceptance. For guilt.

For the quiet understanding that she knew what she had done and was prepared to face the consequence.

His throat worked as he swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice had roughened, stripped of the seamless control he usually wore like armor.

“When you lie to me,” he said quietly, the words dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling, “I can endure it. I can survive a lie.”

The blade remained at her throat, steady but trembling ever so slightly in his grip.

“But if you stay silent…” His jaw tightened, and she saw the fracture beneath the surface, the strain of a male torn between duty and something far more personal. “If you say nothing, I don’t know how to survive that.”

The ache in her chest flared so sharply she almost faltered. Almost told him everything. Almost let the fragile structure of secrecy collapse just to spare him this moment.

But she could not.

Not if she wanted any of them to survive what was coming.

So instead, she lifted her chin slightly, exposing more of her throat to the blade, a deliberate gesture that acknowledged the danger without resisting it. Her voice, when she spoke, was steady, heartbreakingly calm.

“Then do what you have to do.”

Azriel’s grip on Truthteller did not waver, yet there was a tremor in his posture, a subtle shiver that betrayed the war raging within him. Every fiber of his being wanted to act, to punish, to sever the threat he believed Y/N represented. But another force, quieter yet far stronger, restrained him. The Night Court, the people he had sworn to protect, the city he had devoted himself to, was more important than any personal attachment, even one that had once burned so brightly across the borders of loyalty and desire. He had loved her, perhaps even deeply, but duty was the cornerstone of his being. The whisper of betrayal he felt now could not outweigh the lives depending on his choices.

His shadows tightened, coiling closer, restless and conflicted. Azriel’s jaw flexed, his knuckles whitening as he fought against instinct, against the burning ache in his chest. He could almost hear the echoes of his own thoughts: This is her, and yet… this is the Night Court. She cannot imperil them. I cannot allow her to.

Then, impossibly calm, Rhysand appeared. Not a shout, not a dramatic entrance, but the soft, commanding weight of presence that could still make the air itself pause. His arrival was quiet, deceptively simple, yet it carried the authority of someone who had long ago learned how to halt storms without calling attention to them.

“Enough.”

The word was low, precise, and as he extended his hand, subtle threads of Night Court power wrapped around Azriel’s own shadows, halting the blade just inches from Y/N’s throat. The pull was gentle but absolute, stopping the motion before it could even fully manifest.

Azriel froze, eyes wide, disbelief and confusion contorting his features. “What… what are you doing?” he demanded, voice rough with disorientation. “Let go. She’s a traitor, Rhys. She’s-”

Rhysand’s gaze held him still, steady as obsidian, unwavering. “Y/N works for me,” he said, his tone even, almost detached. “She is a double agent.”

Azriel’s mind whirled. The weight of the revelation pressed down on him, his pulse spiking in a way that made every muscle in his body ache. “For you?” he breathed, incredulous. “After everything… for you?”

Rhysand stepped closer, his calm radiance cutting through the storm of confusion. “I met her long ago, when I was young, arrogant, insatiably curious. I accompanied my father on one of his political visits to the Autumn Court under High Lord Beron Vanserra. During that visit, I slipped away, foolish, reckless, and wandered into a forbidden area. It was the training ground for the Autumn Court’s secret agents. She was there.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched as he listened, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly, even as the story began to piece together in his mind.

“She saw me get caught,” Rhys continued, voice low, precise. “Not by Beron, but by the instructors, the guards. I was cornered, frightened, and… she did something entirely illogical. She distracted them. She intervened, putting herself at risk, and allowed me to escape.”

Azriel’s hands, still hovering tensely near the Truthteller, clenched and unclenched. Every instinct screamed that Y/N had been untrustworthy, yet here was Rhysand, calm and certain, revealing a thread of loyalty and empathy that Azriel had not expected.

“Why?” Azriel’s voice was barely audible, a mixture of disbelief and dawning understanding.

“She saw fear in me,” Rhys said simply, his eyes meeting Azriel’s with that unshakable intensity. “Something human, something real, that most of the others in that camp could not feel. It stayed with me. Years later, when I became High Lord, I sought her out. I gave her a choice, one she could have refused. She accepted. She serves me because she trusts me, because she chose this path deliberately, knowing the stakes. Everything she has done, everything she has sacrificed… it has been for the Night Court.”

Azriel’s breath caught, and for the first time in moments, he lowered the blade slightly, though his shadows still quivered around Y/N. Rage had been replaced by a slow, shattering realization. Betrayal had never been hers. Her silence, her deception, everything he had interpreted as treachery, was nothing more than a carefully maintained armor, forged over a lifetime, designed to protect the ones she truly cared for.

He let out a long, ragged breath, the tension leaving his shoulders fractionally, replaced by bitter regret. He had been ready to strike, ready to extinguish the life of someone who had already given everything she had. And now he saw it. He had almost destroyed her for a cause she had served all along.

Azriel’s hands fell to his sides, shadows slackening as his mind reeled. He looked at her, at Rhys, and the weight of his near-decision pressed down on him like a stone. Anger, fear, and guilt collided, yet under it all, a quiet, grudging understanding took root. She had chosen her side long before he had ever fully understood it, and the Night Court, their people, their city, their lives, came before even the ties of love, trust, or pain.

And for the first time, Azriel realized he had been ready to betray her for the very cause she had dedicated her life to protecting.

Rhysand’s presence was calm, but the weight of it pressed down like a tide against the shore. His gaze flicked once toward Azriel, who still stood tensely, shadows twitching and coiling as though trying to restrain a storm. Rhys’s eyes softened slightly as they met Azriel’s, and then he gestured for him to sit. “Azriel,” he said quietly, almost gently, “you need to settle yourself. I can feel the storm roiling beneath your skin. You are allowed to be human here, to process what just happened.”

Azriel obeyed, sinking into a chair with a reluctant groan, his wings folding against him as he struggled to untangle the mix of anger, relief, and betrayal that churned inside. Rhys’s assessment was correct, he could feel it all, Azriel’s fury at the thought of losing Y/N, his guilt for nearly striking her, the fear that she had been leading him astray.

Y/N, still standing a few paces away, watched silently, her chest tight with anxiety. She knew the fragility of this moment, that the truth of her life, her choices, and her loyalties were precarious, and that a single misstep could ruin everything. Yet Rhys’s voice cut through the tension, calm and commanding.

“I received your letter,” he said, glancing at Y/N, a small trace of wry amusement touching his expression despite the gravity of the situation. “Perfect timing, as it seems. You need to come back to Velaris. Now. You are not safe here. Staying in the Autumn Court, even for a moment longer, risks too much, not just for you, but for all of us.”

Y/N’s stomach clenched, knowing exactly what that meant. Her cover, carefully maintained for years, would be in jeopardy the instant she returned. She could feel the layers of Eris’ surveillance, the inevitable analysis, the questions, the footprints he would trace until he realized she was missing, until he found a trail leading straight back to Velaris. Her home in the Night Court would no longer be simple. Even Velaris itself would not remain untouched by his pursuit.

Rhys continued, his tone sharpening subtly. “Eris will not stop. He will track, observe, interrogate, sniff out patterns until he discovers the truth. Mor already sees you as a risk, as do others who do not understand your… methods. You will not have an easy path ahead, Y/N. Not here. Not even in your own city.”

Y/N absorbed the weight of his words. She could see it clearly, the inevitability of it. Eris would come, sooner or later. He would question witnesses, trace energy, follow scents, analyze movements. If she wasn’t prepared, Velaris would suffer. And she could not allow that. She had lived her entire life as a weapon, forged in silence, trained in secrecy, honed for precision. And now, for the first time, she made her choice, not at the behest of another, not as a tool of someone else’s ambition.

She stepped forward, voice steady, even as her hands trembled imperceptibly. “Rhys, I… I have decided. I will face Eris. I will go to him, not as a spy, not as a traitor, but to end the game myself. If this is the path, then I will take it. My life, my choices… this is where they lead.”

The room was quiet, except for the low, resonant hum of shadows around Azriel, still lingering with cautious watchfulness. Rhys studied her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable, but then he nodded slowly.

“Then so be it,” he said, voice low and steady. “I will not stop you. You have always been your own weapon, Y/N, and now you are directing it where it must go. I trust you to see this through.”

Relief and apprehension mingled in her chest. She had the blessing of her High Lord, the support of the Night Court, and yet the weight of the coming storm pressed down heavier than any mission before. Still, she had made her choice, and that was something no one—not Eris, not fear, not even the memories of a lifetime of obedience, could take from her.

Rhys turned toward Azriel, offering a small, imperceptible gesture of reassurance. “You will have some time,” he said, voice softening. “Time to adjust, to prepare. Do not lose yourself in the immediacy of this. Y/N and you, make sure you are ready before she steps into the fire.”

He gave Y/N a final glance, the kind that held both authority and trust, before stepping back, winnowing away with a whisper of shadow, leaving only the two of them behind. The weight in the room did not lift, it shifted, settling differently, full of purpose, of decision, of the quiet ferocity of a life finally under her own control.

Y/N exhaled, shoulders releasing a fraction of their tension. Azriel looked at her, eyes heavy with unspoken understanding, his jaw tight, yet no words passed between them. They did not need them. Both knew that the coming days would test everything, but for now, there was a fragile calm. She had chosen, and for the first time in her life, she had chosen entirely for herself.

Y/N sank onto the edge of the couch, her movements deliberate but soft, careful not to startle him. Azriel’s gaze was still fixed to the floor, shadows of turmoil flickering in his dark eyes, betraying the storm that raged within him even as he remained outwardly still. She could see it, the war he waged in silence, the conflict between the man who had almost struck her in fear and fury, and the man who had devoted himself to the Night Court and all it represented.

She leaned closer, her hand brushing lightly against his arm, an unspoken plea for understanding. “Azriel,” she began, voice low, careful, “I… everything between us, it was real. I never played you. Not once. That was the only truth in all of this, my feelings for you.”

His silence stretched, deep and impenetrable. He didn’t speak, and she understood, with the weight of all their shared history pressing down on her, that if he opened his mouth, the finality of what was coming would crush him. Azriel had found someone who understood him, who loved him for the broken pieces he carried. And he could not yet let go, could not yet put words to the loss he felt.

Y/N’s chest tightened. She saw his silence as a farewell, a quiet acceptance of the inevitability of what must happen. She could feel it in the set of his shoulders, in the heaviness of his gaze, and in the way the shadows around him seemed to draw in and coil tighter, as if bracing themselves for absence. She pressed her lips lightly to his cheek, soft and fleeting, a last promise and goodbye wrapped in one.

“I… I have to go,” she whispered, standing. Her cloak brushed against the floor, light and airy, leaving nothing behind but the lingering warmth of her presence. She carried nothing with her, no weapons, no letters, no illusions. She had nothing to take, because she had long ago made peace with the path she had chosen. She knew the danger that awaited her. She knew the truth would unravel as soon as she faced Eris, and yet she walked toward it with steady steps.

But before she could reach the door, a hand closed over hers, firm and unyielding. She froze, a flicker of surprise crossing her features, and looked up. Azriel’s dark eyes met hers, steady and unwavering, shadows coiling protectively around him. In that single touch, in that silent hold, the unspoken promise was clear: he had chosen her. He would find a way to protect her and Velaris, to safeguard both, without betraying the Night Court.

“You don’t get to leave,” he murmured, voice low, intimate, yet carrying the authority of someone who had made a decision he would not reverse.

Y/N’s lips curved in a faint, almost ironic smile. “I thought I had to,” she said softly.

Azriel’s fingers tightened slightly around hers. “Not this time. I won’t let you go.” His eyes flicked upward, catching hers fully. “I have a plan, a strategy to force Eris into position without you facing him directly. You won’t have to confront him alone. You won’t be the pawn, Y/N. Not this time.”

She felt the weight of it, a mixture of relief, tension, and awe. He had coordinated with Rhysand without telling her while she was explaining herself, ensuring her safety while still keeping her in the loop only as far as she needed to be. The careful balance of secrecy, protection, and trust was a dance she knew intimately and yet seeing it executed on her behalf, by someone she had loved, left her momentarily breathless.

Azriel’s voice dropped, soft but unwavering, a whisper that cut through the chaos. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll never let you out of my sight again.” His gaze locked with hers, shadows folding in a protective embrace. “I’ve spent my whole life in the shadows, Y/N. Don’t think for a second I’d be afraid of yours.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, emotion pooling in her chest, and she allowed herself a single nod, silent understanding passing between them. No more words were needed. They had both spoken volumes in the quiet of that touch, in the shared breath, in the weight of the promise that hung between them like a living thing. And with that, the world outside could rage, but in that room, for a moment, they were aligned, unbroken, and ready for whatever would come next.

Y/N’s legs gave way before she realized it, her strength ebbing from the weight of everything she had carried, the fear, the tension, the choices she had made alone for so long. She stumbled, a fleeting panic in her chest, and Azriel’s arms were already there, catching her with effortless precision. His hold was steady, protective, unwavering, the solid anchor she had longed for without fully admitting it.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he murmured, his voice low and warm against her ear. “I’ve got you. Whatever comes, whatever he tries… you won’t face it without me.”

Y/N leaned into him, letting herself melt into the safety of his embrace. Her cheek pressed against the warmth of his chest, the faint rhythm of his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. It was grounding, reassuring, everything the world outside was not. Her home wasn’t the Autumn Court, not the Night Court, not any gilded palace or strategic stronghold. Her home was here, in his arms, where the shadows softened and the weight of duty and deception fell away, if only for a heartbeat.

Azriel shifted slightly, tightening his hold just enough to make the world feel smaller, manageable. “You’re not alone, Y/N,” he repeated, and there was no hesitation in his words, no ambiguity. “Not now, not ever. We’ll face this together. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a soft smile, laughter catching in her throat as she pressed herself closer, inhaling the familiar scent of him, of home, of safety, of belonging. She allowed herself a tiny, teasing thought, one she whispered just loud enough for him to hear.

“And… if anyone doubts it,” she murmured, “you can always duel Mor to prove I belong here, with the Night Court.”

Azriel’s chest rumbled with laughter at the edge, warm and deep, and she felt the vibrations under her cheek, grounding her further. “Oh, I can handle Mor,” he replied with mock severity, though his grin betrayed him. “No one doubts that you’re ours.”

Y/N let out a laugh, rich and relieved, and buried her face deeper into his chest, inhaling the faint, comforting scent of him. For the first time in what felt like forever, the chaos of lies, spies, and looming danger faded into something that simply was. Here, in his arms, she could breathe. Here, with him, she was home.

And Azriel, with shadows coiling gently around them, with steady hands and unwavering eyes, held her as though the entire world could crumble outside, but inside this embrace, they were unshakable.

“Your power has so much more use than partying YN, if only I could convince you to join my team” A gloved hand reached down, your knees split from the fall, the blood now flowing as you allowed him to pull you up. 

“Whatever Az, as if he’d allow me on any of the fun missions. Taking me back to my cell?”

“Do you mean your plush room in a palace? Then yes” he smiled softly, tucking your arm close to him, shadows ran up and down your bare legs attempting to bring some semblance of heat back to them.

“A gilded cage is still a cage” You sighed, a sympathetic smile growing on his face as he dissolved you both into shadow, the sound of the guards finally reaching you both a distant memory, to match the freedom you briefly felt. 

The landing to your House of Wind living quarters was as gentle as ever, Azriel in full knowledge of your hatred for winnowing. You threw yourself down on the edge of your bed, your ruined shoes being kicked free. 

“Night YN” Azriel smiled as you flattened yourself out of the delicate sheets, eyes fixed on the swirl of stars painted across the ceiling. 

“Where’s my keeper?”

“He’s busy getting nowhere with Nesta” he laughed quietly while you uprighted yourself to look towards the Shadowsinger again, a smirk painting your face. 

“I enjoy the stress that female puts on my dear brother, it keeps me young and beautiful” You grinned, striding over to sit at your vanity, your fingers pulling stray sticks from your locks.

“You don’t need help with that” 

“What?” You turned to question Azriel’s barely audible words but he had already gone, leaving you alone again, the wind reverberating against the towering windows. 

-

You sauntered into the long dining room, your footsteps against the stone cutting into the clearly awkward silence between the three other residents of the House of Wind. The legs of the large oak chair scrapped along the worn stone, making Nesta recoil slightly from the other end of the table, Cassian watching her face carefully from the opposite end. Azriel looked grateful to have you sit across from him, anything to end the tension between the two on either side of him. 

“So, sent dear Azzie out to fetch me again brother?” or start new tension Azriel thought, your almost bored words dragging Cassian's eyes to you. 

“You shouldn’t go to those parties, anything could happen you”

“Yeah like a break from you two...or something interesting” You muttered down to your grapefruit, Azriel’s foot briefly tipping against the top of your toes in a comforting movement so short you couldn’t say it happened for sure. 

“They’re all out to stop our freedom YN” Nesta chewed out, a blow clearly directed towards Cassian who threw a glare to her. You didn't hate Nesta per say, sure she kept your brother occupied which allowed you more time to sneak away but you paid the price of having to deal with her tantrums. As well as having to deal with the foul moods she put your brother in.

“I appreciate the support Nesta but with all due respect you’re a traumatised, spendthrift, alcoholic, I just have a control freak for a brother” Azriel nearly choked on the orange segments he ate with bad timing as now both Nesta and Cassian directed their annoyance towards you.  Neither heated glance fazed you, you knew Cassian's weak spots since a child and as for Nesta, she wasn’t yet up to the skill it would take to leave a scratch on you and so there you sat, eating your grapefruit with a smug sense of comfort. 

“Takes one to know one” Nesta scoffed towards her breakfast. 

“Excuse me?” You bit back, Azriel’s foot gently tapping you again, its reassurance doing little to your escalating anger, a stray shadow now wrapping around your ankle.

“Don’t play all high and mighty, Cassian’s told me all about the whoring party girl you used to be-”

“-Enough Nesta” Azriel spoke with a slow composure that conveyed a level of anger you prayed never to be on the other end of. 

“Why!? You’re all allowed to talk about my drinking and fucking!? Why can’t I talk about the original party girl of the group? The female that got so drunk that she slept through Tamlin and his father stealing away Rhysand’s sister? Some lady in waiting you are! Or should I say were?” Venom from Nesta’s tongue stung more than any blow her power could deliver. Your deepest regret, the deepest darkest lowest point of your 500 years on this Earth, thrown at you like it was nothing. You thought about that night often, how you just wanted one night of entire numbing, to not feel the deep scars down your back where your wings once were just once and how you would pay the price of that for centuries after. You screeched the chair along the slate again, standing with escalating anger as Cassian began reprimanding Nesta.

“I hope you never feel an ounce of what I did that night Nesta, I hope you get everything you want in life and it still not be enough” Your voice was an even calmness that came with pure white-hot rage as tears began to brim along your lash line. You met the dining room door quickly, the room descending into a deeper realm of tension than when you had arrived. 

“And I also hope you fall down those steps your feeble muscles can’t even bring you down” You added before slamming the door of the dining room, jolting Cassian slightly. Azriel stood from his place, his fingertips pressed into the oak as it pushed back against him. 

“Speak to her like that again and I’ll personally help Rhysand kick your sorry ass to the wilderness” Azriel often avoided full eye contact with Nesta and yet this time found himself staring down Lady Death with only rage bubbling through his veins.

—

You flung your favourite clothes into the rucksack Cassian had carried through his first war. You looked down at its deep indigo colouring, its tattered fabric a reminder of the battles your brother fought for his people, for you. 

“YNN?” Azriel called softly from the other side of your door, shadows beginning to leak under the doorframe. You sank into your power, vanishing from visibility as Azriel entered the room slowly. He crossed to your bag and tipped the contents back onto the bed, his shadows curling into him. 

“I know you’re here YNN” You didn’t respond to him, his eyes still fixed on your clothing until shadows darted from his side and pinned you against the silver wallpaper of your room.

“Agh! Cheater!” You called back, dissolving the mist of invisibility you had built. 

“You know I will always find you, no matter where you run to” He smiled sweetly at you before glancing at the emptied bag of your belongings. 

“I know, an annoying characteristic of yours that I love” You laughed, his shadows releasing their hold allowing you to return to pack your bag at Azriel’s side. 

“She was being an idiot, you know no one blames you for what happened?” You didn’t reply to his gentle words. For centuries you fought the demon in you blaming you for that night, how you might have stopped it if you hadn’t been licking your wounds. Countless times the Inner circle absolved you of blame, reminded you that regardless you wouldn’t have been able to stop a High Lord and his son, how no one ever for an ounce of time thought you should pay the penance you had set on yourself. 

“Cassian is downstairs reprimanding her, pretty sure she’ll be getting the silent treatment for a while” he added.

“That shit probably turns her on”

“So snarky for, what was it? A former party girl whore?” He laughed back at you, your eyes finally returning to his, your own grin forming. 

“If the shoe fits” You held up your disregarded pump from last night's antics, Azriel taking it from you, his marred hands dusting off the now-dried peat.

“Well, hopefully, the whore part doesn’t fit you anymore” he looked from the satin fabric forever stained back to you. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You chuckled, returning your clothing back to the rucksack, his free hand taking hold of yours as it made its way to gather more articles of clothing.

“I would actually, tell me, tell me about the males who try with no success and great success. Tell me so I may hunt them down and destroy them for ever thinking themselves worthy of the moon, a beauty we mere Earth dwellers may only admire from afar. Tell me YN, tell me so I may stop searching every room I enter in hopes I find you there and not wrapped around some other male. Tell me so I can find comfort in the invisibility you are blessed with that I am cursed with. Tell me, party girl, tell me so I can move on from you” Azriel’s words hung in their honesty between you like apples on a tree. Yours to take or yours to leave. 

“How-how do you always know where to find me Azriel?” You found yourself asking, your eyes looking from his down to the shoe he held. He would always come for you before you even knew you needed him, always there to your rescue or support. Always there to defend your antics to Cassian when he feared his sister was lost to her old self again. Always there to pull you back before you could meet that old self again. Always there. 

“I think you know YN” his voice like smoke and glowing embers, comforting you as it always did, tethering you to him like it always did. Tethering. 

“You’re my mate” It came out like a statement, not a question, a statement of something always true but not always obvious to you. Had your gift been obscuring the truth from you or had it been your own selfish ways, it didn't matter, what mattered was-

“Yes, I’m your mate, yours YN but you are free to be anyone else's or no one’s at all, I will not add to the gilded cage” he dropped the shoe, moving to release your hand only to find yours tighten its grip, charged with a quiet intensity that had never been there before. His hand lifted, trembling slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, last night's make-up probably still smudged in your waterline. The touch lingered, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek until your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned into the touch, the warmth of his palm soothing every frayed nerve that ever jolted in your body. Azriel leaned in, unable to deny himself any longer, knowing now that you wanted this to. That you wanted him. The kiss was gentle, glowing like a realisation that all you had both ever wanted had always been down the hall from one another. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling you in closer as you reassured him with soft breaths that you wanted this, wanted all of him. Never wanting it to end but also not wanting to suffocate. You separated with somewhat sharp breaths, oxygen flooding your blood again. 

“How long did you know Az?”

“The night Spring took our family and I found you passed out at the end of your bed, your back still raw from that sick sick cruelty of our blood-” his hand travelled from your neck down to your shoulderblades, the small mounds of scars pressing into the soft fabric of your shirt “-I lifted you into your bed and just, just stayed watching you all night from your vanity chair, watching your breath and holding my own breath every inhale you took, waiting for the exhale. You used to really scare us YN”

“I know” You ran the back of your hand down his cheek, soaking up the stray tear that leaked from his eyes. 

“I-I never admitted this to anyone but I felt-I felt relief finding you there, that-that they didn’t take you too, that they didn’t hurt you like they hurt them” his head dipped in shame, a secret he held since that night. You kissed him sweetly then, pushing away his growing sorrow. 

“I’ll admit the same to you, I felt relief when I found out you didn’t accompany Rhysand to Amarantha’s ball like you were supposed to, that she didn’t get you too” You dipped your glance briefly at your admission before Azriel surprised you by smiling. 

“Rhysand has terrible friends, one of them is trying to fuck his sister-in-law and two others are glad it's him and not them that the terrible things happen to” You laughed at his obvious parody of your lives. You sat on the bed, the rucksack sinking into the bed beneath your hips, Azriel joining your side. 

“Where were you going to run to?” He found his curiosity asking, his shadows swirling lovingly around you. 

“There’s this party at this old bunker in Winter Court I was going to check out”

“An old bunker? Are they ever in buildings that haven’t been condemned?” he chuckled, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. 

“Not any good ones” you returned the laugh. 

“Are mates welcome?” 

“I don’t know does the whole mate thing really go with the party girl whore image I apparently projected” 

“Maybe that's okay too” he smiled, your head leaning into his shoulder.

“I think so too”

--------------------------

Everyone knew how clumsy you were. The inner circle was wondering if they require entire schedule on who should supervise your daily antiques so you don't accidentally set yourself aflame and take everyone else with you.

But you troubled no one more than you did him, the Great Shadowsinger.

Yet neither did he complain nor did he wish to. He would rather have you wake him up in the dead of the night for snacks than for you to not talk to him at all.

Because even his shadows knew how unworthy he felt to be in your presence. He would never tell you that though, for he knew how you felt about his self-loathing antics.

And so he sat at the very edge of his chair, trying and failing to remain straight-faced as he watched you carry the fattest stack of books ever from room to room because you "couldn't for-the-love-of the-mother find a comfy spot."

Why you couldn't let him help you though was quite beyond his reach. Every time he tried to utter a word of assistance you'd shut him up and he knew you well enough to know that if he tried anything, chances are the books would be flung at him.

He had to admit though, as worried as he was that you'd drop those books and topple alongside them, damn you looked adorable when you were grumpy.

And maybe somewhere in the back of his mind he didn't at all mind the sense on domesticity you brought him in these moments.

"Damn it House! Why, why do you hate me so, huh? what could i have possibly done for you to make all my pillows disappear!", He heard you whine from the other room.

Maybe he should try to help again, he thought as he got up.

"Listen, how abo-"

You let out a nervous chuckle, meeting Mor's brown eyes. "Hey, Mor," you greet softly, waiting to see your friend's next move. Mor stands frozen in place, her eyes wide with surprise as she gazes at you. But a moment later, she lunges forward, her arms encircling you in a fierce hug. "Is it really you?" She exclaims, her voice filled with relief and joy. 

You release a held breath, letting go of Azriel's hand to wrap your own arms around the taller female, letting yourself feel the sweet relief of your friend's happiness at your return. Mor clings to you, her grip tight and possessive. "Where have you been?" she demands, her voice muffled against your shoulder. Mor pulls back slightly, her wide-eyed gaze roaming over your face, as if afraid you’d disappear if she looked away.

You smile sheepishly, pleasantly surprised that the sharp sting of jealousy from Mor's beauty never comes. "I've been traveling. Seen my fair share of the world now," the half lie comes out easier than expected. It was true enough, having seen breathtaking scenes that you could never hope to master in your sketchbook.

Mor leans back further, her hands still holding your shoulders as she studies your face, her gaze narrowing slightly. "Traveling, huh?" she muses, a hint of suspicion in her voice. But despite her questioning look, she grins, her earlier disbelief replaced with a glimmer of excitement. "You have to tell me all about it. Come on," she urges, grabbing your hand and tugging you towards the dining room.

You stammer, not getting a word in as you’re dragged along, Azriel trailing behind you as Mor leads you into the dining room. Six pairs of eyes land on you the moment your feet enter the room, and you’re sure you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

Cassian, Rhysand, and several unknown strangers' eyes all widen in surprise at your sudden appearance in the room, their expressions varying from shock to joy. For a brief moment, the room is eerily silent, only the crackling fire in the hearth providing noise.

Finally, Rhysand stands from his seat, his gaze taking in your form. "Well, I'll be damned," he breathes out, a stunned smile playing on his lips.

You slowly smile back, taking in his healthy appearance. You had left before he had been trapped Under the Mountain, the word of the Night Court's fearsome High Lord reached you. Stories of the war with Hybern followed not too long after. Standing before you now though, he looked good. Happy. A gorgeous female had been seated next to him, her curious blue eyes assessing you. That must be Feyre. You dip your head towards your High Lord. "Rhys. Happiness suits you, friend," you meet his violet gaze, smiling sincerely.

Rhysand's lips twist into a cocky smirk in response to your greeting, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. He gestures to the female beside him, saying, "Allow me to introduce my mate, Feyre."

Feyre, who had been quietly observing the interaction, smiles warmly and offers a polite nod in greeting. "It's nice to meet you," she says softly, her voice warm and gentle, a contrast to Rhysand's rough yet charming demeanor.

"Pleasure is mine, my High Lady," you bow your head, giving her the respect she rightly deserved from all you’ve heard. The reason why Prythian had been set free. Feyre's eyes soften at the gesture, a small smile playing on her lips. "Please, there's no need to be so formal," she says gently, her voice carrying a note of warmth.

Cassian snorts from his seat closest to Rhysand, his gaze roaming over you before settling on your face. "Formal? From the female who disappeared without a word for years. No letter, no sign, nothing. Sounds pretty informal to me."

Your smile fades as you meet Cassian's narrowed eyes. You hadn't expected him to be the one to hold a grudge against you. Though you couldn't blame him. "Cass," you greet softly, wary eyes holding his gaze. 

Cassian crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing as he studies you, a mixture of emotions flickering across his face. "Don't 'Cass' me. Where have you been, you little shadow of a fae?" he demands, his voice gruff and tinged with annoyance.

Rhysand and Feyre exchange a glance, noticing the tension between you and Cassian. Even Azriel remains motionless, his gaze fixed on the interaction. The female next to him, you assumed Nesta, grabbed her wine glass and sipped with a hint of excitement. Amren watched from the other end of the table, not having said a word since you’ve entered.

"I've been around," you say carefully, lifting your head up. No matter how upset he was with you, he was one of your closest friends beside Azriel. He'd come around, you were sure of it. They all would. They’d understand.

Cassian huffs, his arms crossing over his chest. "Around, huh? Nice vague answer, really helps explain the past few years," he retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Rhysand watches them both, a knowing look in his eyes. He glances at Azriel, noticing how his shadows seem to hover protectively around your form, silently offering support. Mor promptly picks up her wine glass, knowing the inevitable outcome.

"Don't think I still can't land you on your ass, Cassian," you say firmly, familiar power reeling up inside you. You had trained with them at a young age, knowing how to hold your own was an understatement. You had knocked each of the males around the table down a peg or two through the centuries. You had no problem doing it again.

Cassian's eyes narrow dangerously, his mouth pulling into a snarl at your comment. He leans forward, the gleam of challenge in his eyes. "Oh, really? You think you can still take me on, after all this time? After 76 years!?" he mocks, his gaze flicking to your curled fist.

You gave in to Cassian's provoking, leaning forward as your eyes lit up with that fury you kept such a tight leash on. "I can take you on with twice as much ease." The deadly seriousness in which you spoke heated the room. A strange darkness seemed to have settled over you, leeching throughout the room. Everyone felt the subtle twitch of fury spiking in their own bodies. Rhysand narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

Cassian's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with excitement at your response. "Oh, really? You think you can beat me?" he taunted, his hand gripping the back of the chair tightly as he slowly stood. The others in the room remained silent, their gazes moving between you and Cassian, anticipating a potential sparring match. Feyre glanced at Mor and Amren, deciding to pick up her own wine glass, just in case.

You moved across the room in a blink of an eye, landing a solid blow upon his chest. His feet lift from the ground, before he's falling through the air and landing on his ass. You look down at him, the feral energy you’ve kept at bay for so long wrapping around you, making it hard to breathe as you narrow your fierce eyes.

Cassian hits the ground hard, a surprised grunt escaping him as he lands on his ass. He stares up at you, a mixture of shock and awe replacing the earlier annoyance and anger. A slow grin spreads across his face, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Not too bad," he says, pushing himself off the ground and dusting himself off. "I guess some things don't change." Rhysand and the others watch the interaction, their expressions ranging from surprise to amusement.

You blink, the power fading from your limbs just as quickly and you step away, looking nervous. "I'm sorry, Cass. I really am," you say softly. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back. You’re not ready.

The blinding whiteness melted into a pale yellow glow. He looked upwards, and saw the sky churning with color. Pinks, and oranges, and blues all bleeding into each other, and punctuated with huge, fluffy clouds hanging overhead. Azriel briefly thought about how stunning the view would be to fly through.

He stretched his arm out, trying to touch anything. Trying to ground himself. His fingers made contact with the plush Earth. Grass, he realized, as he laced his fingers through it and tugged.

He moved to sit up, but froze at a soft touch to his head. Slim fingers lacing though his hair and pulling though the inkly blackness of it. The touch was so gentle that it made his whole body relax into the ground.

His head, he suddenly realized, was elevated. Laying on something. No, not something.

Someone.

At the apex of soft thighs covered in satin. A dress. A woman. He was laying his head in a woman’s lap.

“Shh!” Came the voice again, just a whisper, “Are you even listening, Azriel?”

His eyebrows knitted together at the sound of his name rolling off of the stranger’s tongue.

He made a soft sound at the back of his throat in response. He had a million questions, but nothing would come out of his mouth.

Where was he?

Who was she?

He looked up again, and instead of the swirling sunset he saw the swell of the woman’s breasts clad in a champagne colored silk, and the outline of her soft jaw. Pale white skin, nearly translucent. Her back was eased against a tree. The bark must’ve been cutting into her skin, but she didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t acknowledge anything but him.

She looked down at him, but her face was concealed by white mist. It made something in chest flutter. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He had to see her face.

He could make out golden blonde hair falling around her, nearly to the ground, framing her cheeks, and cascading down her shoulders. He wanted to reach out and touch it. He knew it would feel like silk in his fingers.

She spoke again, “Listen to me, Azriel.” She had a book in her pale hand, the one that wasn’t still laced in his hair.

Her voice was high pitched and clear, like a soft tinkling bell, but smooth like sweet honey. Azriel strained to listen.

“Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet-”

Then the blinding white light was back, and the woman cried out. Azriel thrashed against it. He kicked and he-

-

Azriel jolted up, flailing in his bed. His chest was heaving, lungs gulping for air. A slick sheen of sweat coated his muscles and blinked furiously into the dark room around him. His shadows swirled frantically all around him, and he instinctively reached for his favorite dagger, Truth Teller. He gripped the handle of the weapon tightly, his knuckles going white. The house was silent except for his own panting.

He ordered his shadows to search the house, and when they found nothing amiss, he relaxed. He put Truth Teller back in its place beside his bed, and sighed.

He’d been having dreams like that since the war- infrequently, every couple of months, maybe. But when it did come, it left him feeling rattled. Azriel had no idea who the woman was, or why she kept appearing, and it made him feel uneasy.

Shaking off his dream, the Shadowsinger hauled himself out of bed, and stretched his wings out. He gave them a slow flap or two, before making his was to the bathing chamber. He had a sinking feeling that it was going to be a long day, so he opted to take his time getting ready for it.

He bathed himself in the massive tub, then dried thoroughly, before slipping into his Illyrian fighting leathers for his morning training session with Cassian.

After dressing, the Shadowsinger headed to the kitchen of the House of Wind. Cassian and Nesta were already at the table, halfway through their breakfast. Azriel was usually the first one there.

Cassian smirked through a bite of eggs, “G’morning! Slept in?”

Azriel rolled his eyes, and Nesta chastised the General for talking with his mouthful.

“I admire the effort, but if Cassian hasn’t learned to have manners in the last 500 years, I don’t think he’s going to now.” Azriel told her, sliding into his own chair, a plate of eggs and toast appearing in front of him.

Nesta snorted, “I’ve still got to try. What if we have a babe? I can’t let them learn from… that.” She pointed her fork at Cassian, who pouted in response.

“Hey! I’m a good influence! …Kind of. Anyway,” He started, clearly shifting the focus away from himself, “Let’s talk about Az!” He turned to look at his brother.

“Why did you sleep in, hmm? Have a female over last night?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, making Azriel and Nesta both roll their eyes.

“I don’t want to know what Azriel gets up to in his bedroom!” Nesta groaned.

Cassian smirked, “That’s not what you said when you suggested a threeso-”

“Shut up!” Nesta hissed, as Azriel’s fork clattered down at the table in shock.

Cassian threw his head back and roared out a laugh, as Azriel and Nesta both tried to hide the dusting of pink on their cheeks.

“I’ve heard plenty of what you two get up to. And I don’t think you could handle me.” He retorted with a smirk, making Cassian bark out a laugh.

“I don’t think you could-”

Cassian’s reply was cut short when both Illyrians felt the familiar talon scape across their mental shields.

‘Training is canceled today. Meet me in my office.’ The High Lord’s voice came loud and clear.

The warriors shared a look, and Cassian groaned.

Nesta looked between the two knowingly, “Rhys?”

“Yeah,” Cassian nodded, “We can’t lead training today. You can lead the Valkyries through the basics though.”

Nesta agreed, and the brother winnowed to the River House in Azriel’s shadows.

-

The High Lord’s office was scattered in paperwork, which was highly unusual for the meticulous male. He was seated at his desk, and his face was grim.

“What’s going on?” Cassian asked, his tone firm and serious. He was staring at Rhys intently, the playfulness from his early morning banter was replace by his strict, Warrior upbringing. He stepped into his Lord of Bloodshed persona with ease.

Azriel had always been a little bit jealous of his brother’s ability to go from lighthearted, to serious, back to lighthearted. He himself had always struggled with the playfulness that his brother was capable of. Azriel was typically quiet and brooding, because he needed to be as a Spymaster. He was always on guard.

He watched as the High Lord stood and pointed the map on his draft board. The Spring Court.

“Something is going on in Spring. As you know, Lucien has been spending more time there, helping to rebuild. But he has reported back some…suspicious happenings.”

“Suspicious, how?” Azriel questioned.

Rhysand turned to face his brothers.

“According to Lucien, Senteries have been going missing left and right. Tamlin refuses to look for them, and has forbidden anyone else to seek them out as well.

Azriel quirked his eyebrow, “So the Spring Court woods has a pest control problem. What’s that have to do with us?”

Rhys stepped forward towards Azriel.

“Lucien has also said the Tamlin will disappear himself at odd hours, and has been behaving oddly, especially in the Woods.”

Cassian cracked a wry grin, “It’s Tamlin. He’s always behaving oddly.”

The grin faltered at Rhys’s searing glare.

“Be that as it may, something odd is happening there. Especially if it concerned Lucien enough to bring it to my attention.”

“And we trust Lucien?” Azriel asked.

“I would not have made him Emissary if I did not trust him,” His eyes softened, “Feyre trusts him. He has been a good friend to her. And…”

Rhysand sighed, and Cassian and Azriel nodded for their brother to continue.

“Lucien suspects that he wants to train his sentries to come here. To take Feyre back.”

The look on Cassian’s face was deadly, and it nearly matched Azriel’s own expression.

“He’ll never accomplish that. He’s a fool.” Cassian spit out.

Rhysand nodded, “And that’s why I’m sending you two to Spring. Gather as much information as you can.”

Azriel nodded, “When do we leave?”

“Now.”

At the High Lord’s command, Azriel and Cassian each packed up a small bag of supplies, then met at the balcony of the House of Wind. Cassian said a brief good bye to Nesta, who was leading Valkyrie training in the ring, before Azriel winnowed them both to the Spring Court border.