#shadowsinger

You couldn't sleep. You had been tossing and turning, staring out the window for what felt like hours now.

The hazy effects of the wine you’d had at dinner had long since faded, leaving only a restless energy beneath your skin.

Well, restless and horny.

Your mate had worked you up all evening without even realizing it. The soft, absentminded caresses of your back and shoulders whenever he passed behind your chair. The gentle way he would rest his hand on your thigh beneath the table, giving it a lazy squeeze every so often.

His sweet kisses pressed to your temple. His genuine attentiveness—always making sure you were comfortable, that your wine glass stayed full, knowing precisely when to switch it for water before you’d had too much. Keeping your plate filled with all the little things he knew you loved most.

He was just so perfect. And you loved him so much.

You had loved Azriel long before either of you knew what the bond between you truly was.

You’d met before Rhys went Under the Mountain, when Azriel had been sent on some mission to the Summer Court, your home. You had been visiting a friend near the palace when someone barreled into you from behind hard enough to send you sprawling. You’d landed badly on your arm, the sharp pain immediate and blinding.

The poor male had looked stricken. Truly horrified. He had insisted on escorting you all the way to the healer’s cottage himself, hovering like a silent shadow the entire time, refusing to leave until the healer declared the break clean and easily mended.

Taking pity on the beautiful, guilt-ridden stranger, you’d informed him the only proper way to make amends for breaking your arm was to have dinner with you and your family.

Reluctantly, and with a suspicious narrowing of those hazel eyes, he’d agreed.

Eventually, friendship blossomed where neither of you expected it to. Azriel began finding reasons to return to the Summer Court. Then reasons for you to visit Velaris. Rhys and Cassian quickly became like brothers to you, welcoming you into their circle as if you had always belonged there. Azriel never once asked Rhys for special favors, but Rhys had always suspected something deeper lingered between you long before either of you were ready to see it.

It was after Rhys was trapped Under the Mountain that the bond finally snapped into place.

In the midst of fear, grief, and helpless waiting, you and Azriel found solace in one another. Pain forged what fate had already begun, tempering it into something unbreakable.

And maybe it was because he was grieving. Maybe because the walls he’d built around himself were too exhausted to stand. But for the first time, Azriel truly let you close.

He let you love the parts of him no one else saw. The quiet, gentle pieces hidden beneath the deadly reputation of the Night Court’s spymaster. The tenderness in him. The softness. The sensitivity he guarded more fiercely than any secret.

You loved all of him equally.

Azriel adored you just as deeply. The newness of being mates had never worn away, even after all these years. You were still just as enamored with each other as you’d always been. He was your best friend, your better half, everything you could have ever asked for.

But gods, did he keep you worked up.

The intimacy between you had never been anything less than devastatingly perfect. Equal parts worship and ruin.

You rolled onto your side and looked at him now as he slept peacefully beside you. Thick dark lashes brushed against his cheeks. His full lips were slightly parted, his handsome face stripped of its usual tension and vigilance. He looked younger when he slept. Softer.

Your mate was so unfairly pretty.

You loved looking at him—always, if you were honest. But especially like this, when he was asleep and couldn’t tease you relentlessly for staring. Though, truthfully, you quite enjoyed when he did that too. Being teased by Azriel was equal parts torment and reward.

Your gaze traced slowly down the sharp line of his jaw, where the faint shadow of stubble had begun to grow in. Along the strong column of his neck. Across the broad expanse of his chest and the sculpted planes of muscle that had no business looking so sinful in moonlight.

The dark swirls of his tattoos beckoned you, winding over golden skin like promises meant only for your eyes.

A soft sound nearly escaped you as you clenched your thighs together, your gaze catching on the small script over his heart.

Your name.

The tattoo that had appeared the night you accepted the mating bond. Not carved by hand nor inked by needle, but etched into his skin as when fate itself had marked him. Elegant script over the place where his heart beat strongest, a vow written in flesh that he would love you beyond breath, beyond death, beyond the final beat of his immortal heart.

Even now, seeing it made warmth bloom in your chest.

You were carried with him always. Into battle. Into sleep. Into every quiet breath he took.

Azriel sighed softly in his sleep, the sound drawing your attention from the broad planes of his chest down the hard lines of his stomach. Moonlight traced every sculpted ridge of him, and your mouth nearly watered at the sight.

You could wake him. You could climb over him right now, sink down onto him, and take exactly what you wanted. He had told you often enough to do just that.

The memory of his deep voice, rough and breathless in your ear as he made love to you, played through your mind.

"I’m all yours, baby. Use me. Love me. Take me whenever you want me…whenever you need me."

Your gaze wandered back up his body, lingering on the powerful lines of his arms and those rough, beautiful hands. Dark tattoos curled around corded muscle, veins tracing beneath golden skin. Even in sleep, there was strength in every inch of him.

Your breathing grew heavier as the scent of your own arousal filled the room.

Still, you didn’t want to wake him. Your sweet mate had been working himself ragged lately—long nights, early mornings, sent to Windhaven for training more often than not. You missed him terribly, but you knew he needed every scrap of rest he could get.

So when his tongue darted out in sleep to wet his lower lip, your resolve shattered.

Slowly, carefully, you slid your panties down your hips and legs, tossing them onto the floor beside the bed. Your fingers slipped between your thighs, finding yourself slick and aching.

You ran your fingertips through your folds, coating your clit before circling it gently. A shaky breath escaped you. It felt good, good enough to make your back arch, but not enough.

You had been spoiled for decades by your mate’s thick, calloused fingers. Your own touch never quite compared.

As you continued stroking yourself, your eyes landed on his large hand resting beside your hip.

Fuck.

You needed it.

Gently, trying not to wake him, you lifted his hand and guided it between your thighs. You pressed his fingers where you needed them most, using your own hand to move them through your wetness.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the feel of his rough skin against your most sensitive places.

You were just beginning to find a rhythm that might finally send you over the edge—rubbing his middle finger over your swollen clit with the perfect amount of pressure—when his fingers twitched.

Then slid deep inside you.

Your eyes flew open. Panting, you turned to look at him.

Azriel still appeared peacefully asleep beside you, lashes resting against his cheeks, expression calm. Yet his fingers were buried knuckle-deep inside you.

A helpless whine escaped as you rolled your hips, trying to coax movement from him, trying to make him hit that spot only he ever seemed able to find. Your own hand returned to your clit, circling quickly as you rode his fingers.

Pleasure built fast, hot and relentless.

Then he gave the slightest curl of his hand inside you.

You shattered.

Your mouth fell open, unable to hold back the soft cry that spilled free as pleasure rushed through you.

The mattress shifted sharply beside you.

Azriel jolted upright, instantly alert, eyes sweeping the room before landing on you as if checking you were unharmed.

His dark hair was tousled from sleep, lips swollen and soft. It took him only a heartbeat to understand what he was seeing.

His gaze moved over your flushed face, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the rise and fall of your chest. Then lower—realizing his hand was no longer resting at your waist where it usually stayed while he slept.

A low sound rumbled from deep in his chest when he found his fingers still buried inside your trembling body.

Experimentally, he curled them deeper.

You gasped.

His groan answered you.

“What’s this, sweet girl?” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep as he slowly withdrew his fingers. You whimpered at the loss, and a smirk touched his lips. He brought those same fingers to his mouth, wrapping his lips around them as his gaze darkened over your body. “Just for me?”

Your cheeks burned.

“I needed you,” you said, reaching for him with a pitiful pout.

Immediately, he moved over you, covering your body with his own. The delicious weight of him pressed you into the mattress, and you felt how hard he already was against your thigh.

He brushed his nose along the side of your neck before pressing a soft kiss below your ear.

“Poor girl,” he murmured. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

He kissed your pout, then drew back to frown down at you.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of my mate.”

His hands slid up your sides, pushing your nightgown higher as they went.

“You’ve been working so hard lately,” you said seriously, catching his right hand and pressing a kiss into his palm. “I wanted you to rest. I’m sorry for waking you. I should’ve gone to the bathroom.”

He frowned harder at that.

“Don’t ever hide from me. Not for anything.” His voice softened, but the intensity in it made your chest tighten. “I hate being gone so much. You’re all I think about when I’m away.”

He brushed his knuckles over your cheek.

“You waking me in the middle of the night for time with me is never something I’d refuse. Whether it’s to talk, to hold you, for you to boss me around…” His mouth curved wickedly. “Or for whatever wild little thing you were just doing with my fingers.”

You covered your face with both hands, mortified.

Azriel laughed softly and pulled them away, threading his fingers through yours before pinning your hands above your head. He crawled closer until every inch of him surrounded you, then kissed you slow and sweet.

“I love touching you,” he murmured against your lips. “Even in my sleep.”

His hazel eyes held yours, molten with affection and heat.

“Don’t insult me by denying yourself something I’m more than happy to give you. I’ve already told you that.”

Warmth flooded your chest at the look on his face, the love there so open it nearly stole your breath.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, legs hooking around his hips as a smile curved your lips.

“Then I suppose,” you whispered, tugging him closer, “you’re going to have to remind me just how much you love touching me.”

Azriel went still for half a heartbeat, hazel eyes flashing with something hot and possessive before a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips.

“Is that so?” he murmured. “My sleepy little thief steals from me in the dark, then gets demanding when she’s caught.”

You tugged him down by the back of his neck, smiling against his mouth. “I’m your mate. It’s hardly stealing.”

A low laugh rumbled from his chest. Gods, he loved his mate. And Cauldron help him, you knew exactly how to make him weak in the knees. Waking to the feel of your tight warmth wrapped around his fingers, using his hand to chase your own pleasure, had nearly undone him on the spot.

His wicked little female.

Azriel moved over you with practiced grace, shedding the last of his clothing before reaching for the hem of your nightgown. He peeled it slowly over your head, tossing it somewhere into the darkened room without care. His gaze swept over your bare body, open admiration written plainly across his face.

“Beautiful,” he said, voice rough with sleep and want. “Always so beautiful for me.”

Heat climbed your cheeks, but he gave you no time to answer.

He bent to your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin there. His mouth trailed lower, down the line of your neck and across your collarbone, lingering over the swell of your breasts. He groaned softly as he took one nipple into his mouth, tongue circling it with maddening precision while his scarred hand slid between your thighs.

You gasped, back arching as his fingers found the slick heat waiting for him.

“There she is,” he murmured against your skin. “So ready for me.”

His fingers drew slow, rough circles over your swollen clit, the callouses on his hands sending pleasure skittering through every nerve in your body.

“Azriel—”

“I know, sweetheart.” He kissed between your breasts, then lower. “I know exactly what you need.”

He moved down your body, kissing a path across your stomach. When he reached your belly, he paused, nuzzling there affectionately, almost reverently, before pressing one soft kiss to the skin. The tenderness of it made your chest ache.

Then he breathed warm air over the place you needed him most, and every coherent thought vanished.

“I need to taste you,” he growled.

Before you could answer, his tongue swept through your slickness in one long stroke. A deep groan tore from him at the taste of you, like it was something he could never get enough of.

Your fingers buried in his dark hair instantly, tugging hard enough to earn a pleased sound from him. He looked up at you from between your thighs, hazel eyes dark and hooded, mouth shining.

The sight alone nearly sent you over the edge.

“Gods,” you breathed.

“That’s right,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Look at me.”

He licked you again, slower this time, savoring every reaction he pulled from you. Your legs trembled around his shoulders.

“I need you inside me, Az.”

The words came out broken, needy, and Azriel swore under his breath. Who was he to deny you anything? Especially this.

He kissed his way back up your body, leaving your skin flushed and sensitive in his wake. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Then he settled between your thighs, broad shoulders fitting there like they belonged nowhere else.

His arms braced on either side of your head, caging you in. You glanced at them immediately, at the flex of muscle, the elegant swirl of tattoos disappearing over powerful forearms.

Azriel caught you staring and smirked. He knew exactly how much you liked his arms. You’d told him enough times.

So, being the arrogant male that he was, he flexed them for you.

Your lips parted. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, dragging the blunt head of himself teasingly along your entrance, “you’re soaked for me.”

He nudged against you once, twice, making you squirm.

“Azriel.”

“What?” he asked innocently. “I’m just enjoying how pretty my mate looks when she’s impatient.”

You reached for him, nails scraping lightly down his back. “Stop teasing me.”

That breathy plea shattered whatever restraint he had left.

His teasing expression softened into something molten and hungry. He bent to kiss you once—slow, deep, claiming—before guiding himself inside you in one steady thrust.

Both of you moaned at the same time.

He buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, forehead dropping to yours as he fought for breath.

“Every time,” he whispered hoarsely. “Every damn time, you feel like the first.”

Your arms wrapped around his neck, legs locking around his hips. “Then stop talking,” you murmured against his lips, “and show me how much you missed me.”

Azriel caught the challenge in your voice, and something heated flashed through his gaze.

“Careful what you ask for, sweet girl,” he murmured.

Then he moved.

The first slow roll of his hips stole the breath from your lungs. He held himself over you on those powerful arms, every line of muscle flexing as he set an unhurried rhythm that felt designed solely to ruin you. Each measured thrust dragged a gasp from your lips, each retreat making you chase him helplessly.

“There you are,” he said softly, watching every expression that crossed your face as though it were something sacred. “Missed this look on you.”

You could barely form words. “Azriel…”

“I know.” His mouth found your throat, kissing the spot beneath your ear that always made you shiver. “I missed hearing my name like that too.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding the place that made your body tighten instantly. The contrast of his rough touch and the tenderness in his eyes nearly undid you.

He always knew exactly how to touch you. Exactly how to take you apart and hold you together all at once.

The room filled with the soft sounds of breath and whispered praise. Azriel never stopped speaking to you when he loved you like this, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he missed you, how perfectly you fit him, how he thought about you every night he was away.

You clung to him, nails dragging lightly across his back as pleasure built hot and relentless inside you.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, voice roughening. “Let me have it, baby. Let me feel you.”

Your body trembled beneath him. He dropped lower, bracing on one forearm while the other arm flexed beside your head, bicep taut beneath your grasp.

When release finally crashed through you, you cried out and bit down on his bicep to muffle the sound.

Azriel groaned low and deep at the sensation, the sound vibrating straight through you. Instead of pulling away, he pressed closer, letting you hold onto him however you needed while waves of pleasure rolled through your body.

“Good girl,” he whispered against your temple, kissing there gently. “That’s it.”

Your legs tightened around him, body still trembling.

The feel of you coming apart around him was what finally shattered the last of his own control. He buried his face in the curve of your neck with a broken sound, arms tightening around you as he found his own release, holding you so close it was hard to tell where one of you ended and the other began.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Azriel lifted his head, hair tousled, lips swollen, and eyes heavy with satisfaction as he glanced down at the mark blooming darkly across his bicep.

A slow, smug grin spread across his face.

“You bit me.”

You buried your burning face against his chest. “I did not.”

He huffed a laugh, wrapping an arm tighter around you before lifting the marked arm into the moonlight like evidence.

“This says otherwise.” He admired it shamelessly. “Think I’ll need to get this tattooed. Memorialize the best morning of my life.”

“It is not morning,” you mumbled into his skin.

“Feels like it.” He kissed the top of your head. “Waking up with my mate using my hand to make herself come, then leaving me a pretty little mark while I finish the job?” He gave a thoughtful hum. “Best way I’ve ever woken up.”

You groaned and tried to hide deeper against him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.”

He tipped your chin up just enough to kiss your pout away, smiling against your lips.

Laughing, she shoved at Cassian's shoulder, but even though she put a good portion of strength into it, all he did was grin at her, his feet firmly rooted where he stood.

"Should we place him between us and see who he comes to when we call?"

Cassian snorted. "You'll lose that one. I've perfected my distress call years ago and it's bone-chilling. Bone-chilling, I tell you. No way he'll ignore that."

"Uhm, hello? I'm his mate. Mate over brother, everybody knows that."

"I'd totally run towards Azriel before I ran towards Nesta."

"Yes, because Nesta would cut off your balls for even thinking she could need your help."

Cassian cackled at that. "Funny you should mention my balls, 'cause this morning—"

"I really don't want to hear about Nesta handling your balls, Cassian."

He looked offended at that. "You just told me that you lay on top of Azriel naked this morning. Maybe I didn't want to hear that!"

"I mentioned it! I didn't go into detail, which I'm sure you would have." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Or would you like to hear all about how I rode your brother? Because in that case, I think we might be zeroing in on a bigger problem here."

"You rode him?" Cass teased with a smirk. "That's hot."

She snorted, and suddenly the fighting sounds found an end with Rhys slamming back-first into the floor—hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs for a second.

Cassian hooted. "Getting slow, brother!"

"Your fault," Rhys wheezed as he took the hand Azriel offered him and got back to his feet. "I can't concentrate with your yapping."

Y/N grimaced. "Sorry, Rhys."

As the two of them neared the side of the ring where Cassian and Y/N stood, she caught Azriel's gaze, noting the flicker of amusement his eyes carried. Sweat glistened on his bare chest, winding black tattoos adding to the appeal, and when she tugged on the bond, the corners of his lips twitched higher.

"Alright, our turn," Cass proclaimed, and when he patted her ass twice in a request to move, she snorted.

"Excuse me?"

"Let's go! I'm so gonna whoop your ass."

It was Azriel's low voice that spoke next, his words conversational as though talking about the weather. "Touch her ass again and I'll whoop yours."

Cass grinned as he stepped into the ring, unfastening the buckles of his leathers as he went. "Don't worry, Azzie. The ass shall henceforth remain untouched."

"I'm not fighting you, Cassian," Y/N said, arms crossed over her chest and brow raised in scepticism. "I don't even know how to fight."

Cassian's face fell at that, his gaze moving on to a spot next to her, and when she turned to follow its direction, she found Azriel's eyes already on her, bewilderment edged into his features.

"Sure you do," he said.

"No, I don't."

Rhys clicked his tongue from where he sat catching his breath, water bottle in hand. "Az, you didn't teach her how to fight? What have you guys been doing since you got mate—actually you know what, don't answer that."

Cassian snickered, but Azriel's eyes stayed on her. "I'm sure I've seen you fight before."

Now she was the confused one. "When? You've seen me train before, yes. But not fight."

A few silent seconds ticked by—seconds in which Azriel desperately tried to think of a situation in which he'd seen her fight. But she knew he'd come up empty handed, as the only opponent she'd ever taken on was a punching bag.

"Well, this is awkward," Cassian stated from where he bounced on the balls of his feet in the middle of the ring, chest now as bared as Azriel's.

"Would you want to learn?" Azriel asked quietly, tilting his head as he looked at her, his eyes flickering down her face.

She shrugged. "I mean ... sure. If you think I should."

He lifted a hand to her face, palm cupping her jaw, thumb running along her bottom lip. "You should know how to defend yourself. Things happen and one day I might not be there." He shook his head slowly to himself. "I've been negligent in not teaching you."

She smiled against the pad of his thumb. "Teach me now, then."

"Get your ass in here and I'll teach you," Cass piped up.

"What's it with you and asses today?" Rhys chortled.

Y/N ran a sceptical eye along Cassian's figure as she entered the ring with Azriel following close behind.

"Are you a good teacher?"

Cassian stilled, his arms hanging limply by his sides as he gave her a deadpan look. "Did you miss the part where I'm literally General of the Night Court? Of course I'm a good teacher."

"Yes, but I'm not a seven-foot, two-hundred-pound Illyrian," Y/N said. "And I'd rather not end up in Madja's hut. Or, you know ... the graveyard."

"It's okay, we'll start with the basics," Azriel spoke softly from where he stood next to her, his broad palms finding her waist to turn her into the correct position. "Hold tension here, wide stance, knees slightly bent, fists up."

"You're gonna want to go for the weak spots," Cassian added, taking one of her fists and bending her fingers into the correct position. "That's eyes, throat, balls. You could go for the kidneys too, that's here," moving her fist to the side of his body, he pressed it into his skin, "but I'm guessing you'll have to build up strength first. And if your opponent wears armour, it's virtually useless unless you have a dagger."

"Are you calling my punches weak before I even got to pummel you?"

She could hear Azriel's low chuckle by the side of her head. "Don't underestimate her, Cass. I've seen her make a punching bag cry itself to sleep."

"Yeah, because it can't punch back," Cassian taunted with a grin, moving into a fight position himself. "Show me what you got, then."

She straightened where she stood, hands dropping to her sides. "Just like that?"

Rhys snorted, and Cass dropped his own hands. "Well, yeah."

She threw a glance at Azriel, her brows lifted in disbelief. "Your great training consists of telling me how to stand and where to aim and that's it?"

The shadowsinger smirked, his hand on her lower back as he nudged her to turn back around and face Cassian.

"Let's just see what we're working with. We'll adjust as we go."

A quiet huff passed her lips as she got back into position, holding Cassian's amused gaze. As fast as she could, her fist shot forward only to be wiped from the air like Cassian was swatting at an annoying fly.

"Pulling your punches," he said. "Don't worry about my pretty face, I can handle a little beating."

"Yeah, imagine his face is the punching bag," Rhys said, the grin apparent in his tone.

She tried again, aiming for the throat, but Cass was once again quicker. But this time, instead of just swatting her hand away, he grabbed hold of it, turned her around and yanked her to his chest with a strong arm wrapped around her throat.

As her wide eyes met his gaze, Azriel sighed.

"Get yourself out of it," Cassian ordered with a grin lacing his every word.

"Your biceps is the size of my head, how on earth am I going to get myself out of this?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere, sweetheart."

Without giving it much thought, Y/N turned her head as far as she could to promptly dig her teeth into the flesh of Cassian's Arm, who in return yelped and let go of her.

As the Lord of Bloodshed rubbed at his skin with a sour expression, Rhys burst into laughter on the sidelines.

"You didn't tell us she was a biter, Az! Lucky bastard."

Now full on failing to hide his grin, Azriel returned to her side, gentle hands bringing her back into position.

"The trick is reading your opponent," he spoke quietly so only she could hear. "You need to figure out their pattern, so you'll be able to dodge. You'll only get a punch in if you're able to dodge." She felt his lips pressing briefly to her temple then, and when he spoke this time, his words were only whispers of air kissing the shell of her ear. "Cass always slightly tilts his head before he attacks."

She suppressed a smile at that, and when Azriel stepped back, Cassian got back into position himself.

"That was no fair," he proclaimed. "No self-respecting soldier bites."

"Good thing I'm not a soldier, then."

"You'd certainly give them a run for their money with that tactic," Cassian said, though his growing grin hinted at the turn of his thoughts. "But I think some of them might end up getting the wrong idea."

It took another three failed attempts before Y/N understood what Azriel had meant. Cassian's pattern was so incredibly subtle that she never would have figured it out on her own—which probably went to show just how great of a fighter he truly was.

However, before each punch he threw, his head ticked into the opposite direction of the hand he'd use. The movement was barely enough to see, but it was there, and when she finally began to get the hang of it, dodging his punches became a little more bearable.

She honestly didn't know what came over her when in a moment of practiced punch-and-dodge drills she suddenly yanked up her knee to bury it in between Cassian's legs.

A flinch tore through the Illyrian, who immediately cupped both hands over his crotch and gave a low groan of pain.

At her sides, Azriel and Rhysand burst into bellowing laughter.

“Well,” the High Lord spoke in between gasps while Azriel pulled her into his side, nose burying in her hair for low chuckles to reach her ear. “That’s certainly one way to win.”

“Sorry, Cass,” she grimaced. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Smoke still clung to the charred ruins of the village, curling through the early dusk air like ghostly fingers refusing to let go. The ground was slick with soot and blood, a patchwork of scorched cobblestones and scorched earth. The scent, acrid, raw, was more than just fire. It was despair, clinging to the bones of the place like a second skin.

Azriel stood beside Rhysand and Cassian at what had once been the village square, soldiers and warriors surrounding them. Now it was just rubble. A well had collapsed inward, blackened beams jutted from the earth like broken ribs, and half-burned furniture lay strewn about, a child’s wooden toy horse among them, snapped in half. It was quiet now, but not peaceful. Too quiet. The kind of silence that hummed with what had been done.

“They came through at night,” Rhysand informed everyone, his voice low and tightly leashed. “Wards were weak, barely held together. Half the villagers were Fae with lesser magic. Some couldn’t even defend themselves. The males who led the attack… they didn’t just want to kill.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. His wings twitched, as if he couldn’t decide whether to fold them in or unfurl them in rage. “They weren’t just soldiers. They were predators.”

Azriel didn’t speak. His shadows slithered around his boots, darting in agitated wisps toward the edges of the square, as if still seeking out threats or witnesses. They found neither.

“The ones we caught,” Rhys continued, staring at the wreckage like it personally offended him, “are in chains. The rest… fled before we arrived. The survivors, the ones hiding, have been found. Healers are seeing to the injured. Children have been taken in by the temple elders from the northern hillside.”

Azriel’s shadows whispered again. A soft, mournful hum.

“It’s done,” Rhys said, scanning the hollowed shells of cottages and shattered windows. “Everything that can be done, has been. It’s over.”

But it didn’t feel over. Not to Azriel. Not with the metallic tang of blood still staining the air. Not with the look on that elderly female’s face when she had asked them, in a broken voice, “Why didn’t anyone come sooner?”

He hadn’t had an answer.

Rhysand glanced between Azriel and Cassian after the soldiers left, noting their silence. His own eyes, usually glowing with a spark of slyness, were dull. Exhausted. “You can rest now,” he said. “Or go home.”

Azriel looked past him, to the tree line beyond the village where the smoke thinned into mist. He caught a glimpse of a child sitting on a stone step, clutching a burned blanket, eyes hollow. The child didn’t cry. Just stared.

Rhys would return to Velaris. To Feyre. To warm arms and gentle laughter. To peace. But Azriel and Cassian… they had always found peace harder to carry. Harder to believe in.

“I’ll fly back in the morning,” Cassian said, rolling out his shoulders. “Want to make sure the families here have shelter. Food. Some of them don’t even have shoes.” He paused. “It still feels… raw.”

Azriel gave a quiet nod. “I'll stay here, too.”

Rhys hesitated, as if he wanted to protest, to pull rank. But then he just studied their faces and sighed.

“Fine. But rest, both of you. You're of no good use if you overstrain yourself,” he said softly. Then he was gone, winnowing in a shimmer of darkness and violet starlight.

The world felt heavier once he left.

Cassian turned toward a row of broken homes and muttered, “I’ll check the supply wagons again, make sure nothing’s gone missing.”

The village quieted further without him. Just the sound of crackling embers and murmuring healers in the distance. Cassian broke off to check the perimeter, but Azriel lingered by the outskirts, near the forest line.

The temporary camp had been set up just beyond the village outskirts, a collection of tents pitched beneath the shadow of the pines, where the smoke from the ruins thinned into something cleaner, but not quite peaceful. The sky had bled into twilight, bruised and streaked with orange. The smell of fire still lingered on the wind.

Azriel stepped into the tent he shared with Cassian, a canvas shelter thrown together more for function than comfort. His leathers creaked as he unbuckled his chest plate, his siphons clicking faintly as he set them down beside the low cot.

Cassian wasn’t there yet, probably still helping rebuild the central well, or lifting logs like they were made of kindling. Azriel rolled his shoulders and sat down heavily, stretching out his long legs and leaning back against the support pole. For a moment, he let the silence settle around him. He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

Then a shadow darted into the tent like a dagger. Fast. Sharp. Urgent.

Azriel’s eyes snapped open.

He didn’t need words. His shadows never spoke in them, not truly, but their intent thrummed through him like a pulse. There’s another. A survivor. Still out there. Still in pain.

He was already moving.

Armor forgotten, he strapped his siphons back on with swift, practiced movements and swept out of the tent without a word. No time to tell Cassian. No time to alert the others. His shadows were already leading the way, slithering ahead of him like smoke toward the trees.

The forest was dark, dense. Pines loomed like sentinels, and the path was barely a path at all, just loose soil and patches of moss tangled with roots. Azriel moved like a ghost, silent and fast, eyes trained ahead, shadows feeding him flashes of what they’d sensed.

Fae. Alive. Hurt. Alone.

He ran deeper, branches clawing at his shoulders and wings, the shadows growing sharper in their urgency. The quiet of the woods wasn’t peaceful, it was stifling. Suffocating. No animals moved. No birds cried.

Something clenched in his chest.

Then, a scent.

Blood. Faint, old. Human-like, but Fae.

His shadows curled tight around a cluster of trees, and Azriel slowed. Stepped carefully now. Each footfall deliberate. His siphons glowed faintly, casting a subtle blue hue against the undergrowth.

And then he saw her.

She was barely a shape in the gloom, slumped against the base of a thick pine, her body partially hidden by brush and shadow. A small Fae woman. Her wrists were bound cruelly above her head, tied to the tree with frayed rope that had cut deep into her skin. Her dress was torn, legs smeared with mud, face streaked with dried blood. One of her ankles looked swollen.

Her eyes were closed. Chest rising shallowly. Not asleep, not unconscious, just… still. Too still.

Azriel’s heart lurched. For a split second, he feared she was already gone.

He was beside her in a blink.

“Hey,” he said softly, dropping to one knee, his siphons dimming as he reached out. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not even a flinch.

He hovered a hand near her cheek, not touching, not yet. “You’re safe now. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Slowly, slowly… her lashes fluttered.

She didn’t open her eyes, but her body tensed. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Azriel felt it then, not just the physical damage, but the weight of something deeper. A silence that had settled into her bones. Not shock. Not in this moment. This silence was old. Familiar.

He reached for the ropes carefully, cutting through them with a dagger he pulled from his belt. The bindings snapped with a dry crack, and her arms slumped forward, too weak to catch herself. Azriel caught her gently, cradling her body with one arm as he sliced the rope from her wrists.

She didn’t try to pull away. But she didn’t relax either.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

She blinked again, just once, then lifted her hand weakly, her fingers twitching in the air.

Signing.

Clumsy. Slow. As if she hadn’t done it in years.

Azriel’s breath caught. He understood.

“Don’t hurt me.”

He remembered the signs from centuries ago. His throat worked around the knot forming there. He shook his head, voice a whisper. “Never.”

Another flicker of fingers.

“I couldn’t scream.”

She wasn’t just mute from pain. It was something older. Deeper. She hadn’t screamed because she couldn’t.

Azriel gently gathered her into his arms. She was light, too light. Starved and cold. Her fingers clutched weakly at the collar of his leathers as he stood.

“I’m taking you back,” he said, already moving through the trees. “You need to see a healer."

And though she didn’t speak, he felt it, a shiver in her body. Not of fear, but something near it. Not trust, not yet. But recognition. A thread, fraying and fragile, tying her to this moment.

To him.

His shadows twined around them both as he carried her toward the broken village, a silent promise echoing in the night: Never again. Never left behind.

Azriel moved quickly through the woods, his steps fast but careful as he cradled the small Fae female against his chest. Her weight was next to nothing. Too thin. Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder, but every now and then, he felt her tense-sharp flinches whenever his boots crunched too loud, or when a branch snapped somewhere nearby.

Trauma lived in every muscle of her body.

“You’re safe,” he murmured again, more for her than himself. “Just a little longer. The healers will take care of you.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t sign, didn’t lift her head, but he felt her heartbeat flutter like a bird’s wing, fast and erratic against his arm.

The treeline broke, and the village came back into view: still smoldering, still broken. Torches burned in a quiet perimeter around the camp. The night had deepened now, casting everything in a dull, aching gray.

Azriel descended the last rise toward the path leading to the camp when a familiar voice called out.

“Az?” Cassian emerged from around a pile of crates, brow furrowed. He froze mid-step as his eyes landed on the figure in Azriel’s arms. “What the hell?”

“She was in the woods,” Azriel said without slowing, his voice clipped but steady. “Tied to a tree. Alive. Barely.”

Cassian’s face darkened. “You’re serious?”

Azriel gave a sharp nod, eyes flicking down to the female in his arms. She kept her face turned inward, buried against his shoulder, as if the mere sight of another male might break her.

Cassian stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Where exactly did you find her?”

“Half a mile east of the perimeter,” Azriel said. “Tucked into a tree line past the ravine. They left her there.”

Cassian’s fists clenched. “Left her?”

Azriel didn’t miss the way her shoulders flinched again. He tightened his hold around her protectively.

Cassian’s expression softened just slightly as he crouched to her eye level. “Do you remember who did this to you?” he asked gently.

She stirred then. A hand moved hesitantly from Azriel’s chest, slow and trembling, as if even that effort cost her. Her fingers began to move, barely forming a sign before faltering.

“She can’t speak,” Azriel said quietly, his shadows curling around her like a shield. “She’s mute. I think she always has been.”

Cassian blinked, stunned. “Shit.”

“She couldn’t scream,” Azriel went on, his voice sharper now, more bitter. “That’s probably why they left her. Grew tired of her when she didn’t make enough noise while they—” He cut himself off, his jaw locking. “The marks on her body… they didn’t come from the ropes alone.”

Cassian swore under his breath, eyes flicking with a warrior’s rage and a male’s sorrow. “Monsters.”

Azriel looked down at her. “She needs a healer. Now.”

Cassian nodded immediately and moved aside, clearing the path ahead. “Go. I’ll make sure they know to expect you.”

Azriel strode past him, his steps swift as he made his way to the makeshift healer’s tent at the edge of the village. It was lit with soft blue faelight, quiet voices murmuring within. He ducked inside.

The healers, two older Fae females and a half-Illyrian male apprentice, looked up in surprise.

“She’s injured,” Azriel said. “Badly. Found her just now.”

One of the healers, a calm-eyed woman named Thera, stepped forward and motioned for him to lay the girl down on the cot. “Bring her here, carefully.”

Azriel hesitated only for a second. He turned to the girl in his arms, his voice soft. “You’re with healers now. No one will hurt you. I promise.”

She looked up at him, finally meeting his gaze.

There was nothing left in her eyes, no fight, no anger, not even fear. Just exhaustion. And behind it, buried deep, something older. A wound without a name.

He set her down gently. Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t pull away from his hand until the healer nudged him back.

“We’ll take it from here,” Thera said gently, already unfastening the remnants of the ropes from her wrists.

Azriel didn’t move far. He stayed just a few steps away, arms crossed, shadows flicking around him protectively like they were refusing to let go of her.

Cassian appeared in the tent’s entrance, arms crossed, watching her with the same quiet horror Azriel had swallowed down moments before.

“She’s lucky you found her,” Cassian said after a beat. “Another night out there and…”

Azriel didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed on her face, on the way she winced at every touch, even the gentle ones. “It’s not luck.”

His voice was low. Absolute.

“She was meant to survive.”

────────────

Warmth.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the cloying, suffocating heat of ropes cutting into her skin or the rank, sticky breath of her captors. No. This warmth was soft. Dry. Almost… clean.

A blanket. Someone had tucked a blanket around her.

She blinked her eyes open. Faint blue light bathed the room, soft and shifting like water. The ceiling above her was canvas, not sky. She was lying on a cot. Her arms, for once, were free.

Her throat tightened.

I'm not tied up.

But her wrists still ached. Her whole body felt stiff, like her bones had forgotten how to lie still without pain. The pressure at her ankle pulsed in slow waves, wrapped now in linen and balm. She smelled herbs. Clean ones. And something else, leather, faint smoke, a scent like fresh wind after a storm.

She turned her head. He was there. The male who had found her. The quiet one. The one made of shadows.

He sat just beyond the edge of the cot, wings tucked in tight, shadows flicking softly around his shoulders like living smoke. His siphons gleamed blue in the faint light. But he was sitting like a sentry, not a predator.

He was watching her without staring, his expression unreadable. Not cold. Not cruel. Just... steady. A pillar in the storm.

She tried to move her hand. It shook.

The blanket slipped off her shoulder and panic rose like bile in her throat. She flinched, curling slightly, waiting for the blow, for the sneer, for the voice that would growl “Don’t waste my time again, mute girl.”

But nothing came. The shadows stirred. Not toward her, around her.

A gentle breeze kissed her temple. Not wind, not air, shadow. It felt like someone brushing hair from her face.

Her vision blurred. She blinked fast.

The last thing she remembered clearly was the sound of boots. Loud. Heavy. She'd kept her eyes closed as the footsteps approached the tree, too exhausted to move, too broken to care. She had thought, truly, deeply, this is the end. The males who left her had no interest in finishing the job. They just didn’t want to look at her anymore. She hadn’t made enough noise for them.

She'd learned early: screams fed monsters. Silence bored them.

So she stayed silent. Even when it hurt. Even when the ropes cut skin. Even when she bled. And they’d left her. Forgotten. Until him.

She turned her head again. Looked at him. His shadows stilled. Not gone, never gone, but quiet. Curious.

She lifted her hand. Slow. Trembling.

Signed: “Thank you.”

His head tilted slightly, and to her shock… he understood. He nodded once, low and firm, and murmured, “You don’t have to thank me.”

She stared at him.

Another sign: “You know?”

A pause. Then: “I do. A long time ago.” His voice was a whisper. Rough and soft at once. “I used to know someone like you.”

The words made her throat burn. Something inside her cracked open a little, not wide enough to be a wound, but enough to let air in. Enough to breathe again.

Her hand fell slowly back to her chest, the simple motion of signing already exhausting.

But he didn’t look away.

Azriel’s shadows curled faintly, retreating to his shoulders like they were giving her space. His wings shifted slightly, and then, with a quiet rustle, he moved closer. Not looming. Not hovering. Just near enough that his voice could stay low.

“Do you have a house here?” he asked, careful and quiet, like he was afraid to press too hard. “I could check. See if anything’s left.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, painfully, her fingers began to move again.

“I saw it burn.”

Azriel’s breath caught, but he didn’t interrupt.

“My sister was inside. I couldn’t—”

Her hands trembled too much to finish. The signs faltered and fell apart, and her throat clenched in frustration. Not being able to scream was one thing. But not being able to say it, even now, made the grief coil tighter around her chest.

Azriel didn’t ask for more. Didn’t demand she finish.

“I’m sorry,” he said instead, his voice rough. He shifted again, closer but not touching, and added, “You’re sure you’re alone now?”

She nodded once. It was the hardest motion of all.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The healer’s faelight swirled around them, blue and soft. Outside, the quiet hum of the camp settled into the air — the distant sound of Cassian’s voice barking orders, wood being stacked, water poured.

And still Azriel sat with her.

Then he spoke again. “We’re going to rebuild the village. All of it. We’ll keep it safe. I promise you, this will never happen again.”

She looked at him, not with hope, not yet. But with a fragile thread of belief. Not because she trusted easily, or because his words were sweet. But because his eyes didn’t lie.

Because when he said we’ll rebuild, she knew he meant every stone, every broken family, every shattered soul, including hers.

And he wasn’t promising to fix her.

He was promising that she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

────────────

The war room in the House of Wind smelled of parchment, cedar, and the faintest trace of lavender, likely from something Feyre had left behind. Morning light streamed through the high windows, catching on the scattered maps and marked reports laid across the obsidian table.

Rhysand stood at the head, fingers steepled under his chin as his violet eyes swept over the latest reports.

“They’re calling it Emberon now,” he said at last, tapping a finger to the northern ridge of the map. “The villagers decided on it a few days ago. Said they wanted something that acknowledged the fire, but didn’t let it define them.”

“Emberon,” Cassian echoed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. “Has a ring to it.”

“Poetic,” Azriel added, though his voice was low, contemplative. His eyes lingered on the spot on the map, far beyond the borders of Velaris. The smoke and ash had long since cleared, but the memory remained vivid, especially one particular memory.

Rhys nodded. “Most of the homes are rebuilt. They’ve started clearing out the western fields for planting again. The last supply drop from Velaris got there two days ago. But I want to see it myself.”

“You’re going?” Cassian asked.

“I’ll only stay for the day. Feyre’s painting again, and Nyx has been using my leathers as a canvas. But I want to speak to the village leaders in person. Make sure they have what they need.”

“I’ll come,” Cassian said immediately. “I want to see the families again. The way they bounced back from that mess…” He trailed off, eyes hardening. “They deserve everything we can give.”

Rhysand turned to Azriel. “You?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His shadows curled thoughtfully across his shoulders, stirred by something quieter than words.

In truth, he’d been thinking about that village for days. Ever since the last courier had brought back news of a functioning market square and newly laid stone paths, a thread of thought kept pulling at him.

The girl.

The one he’d found bound to a tree, all bone and silence, eyes hollow from more pain than any person should endure. She hadn’t spoken, couldn’t speak, but her hands had told him enough.

He never got her name.

She’d stayed in the healer’s tent the last time he saw her, still too weak to walk. When he and Cassian had flown back to Velaris days after the attack, she hadn’t woken to say goodbye.

He hadn't expected her to. But he had thought about her far more than he admitted, wondered if she had a roof again, if she still flinched in her sleep. If she still signed “thank you” with trembling hands.

Azriel looked up. “I’ll come.”

Cassian raised a brow. “Didn’t think you’d say yes. Thought you were brooding too hard in your tower lately.”

Azriel gave him a flat look. “I’ll be brooding in the skies today.”

Cassian grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

Rhysand just offered a small nod. “Then we leave within the hour. Bring warm gear, it still gets cold up in those hills.”

As Rhys vanished to prepare, Cassian stood and stretched with a dramatic groan. Azriel remained seated, tracing his gaze over the inked lines of Emberon on the map. It wasn’t just a village anymore, it was a scar turned to a seed.

He wondered if she was still there, among the rebuilding. If she had a home now. If her silence still felt like a prison, or if it had started to feel like power.

He didn’t know what he hoped for.

But he knew this: when he set foot in Emberon again, the first person he would look for was her.

The wind was brisk over the hills when they crested the last ridge and Emberon came into view.

It looked nothing like the place they’d left behind.

Where there had once been scorched timbers and the ghostly remains of shattered cottages, now stood a patchwork of new roofs, whitewashed stone, and garden plots with sprigs of green clawing their way through the thawing earth. Smoke curled from chimneys — not the smoke of ruin, but of hearths. Cooking fires. Blacksmith forges. Life.

Children ran between homes, their laughter carried on the wind. Baskets of bread and vegetables sat outside doors. Bright scraps of fabric fluttered on clotheslines like prayer flags.

A rough wooden sign greeted them at the edge of the road: Welcome to Emberon Forged by Fire - Reborn by Choice

Azriel’s shadows stilled around him as they landed at the edge of the main square. He wasn’t the only one surprised.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “They’ve done a gods-damned miracle here.”

Rhysand didn’t respond immediately, his violet gaze scanning every face, every movement. Then he gave a quiet, satisfied nod. “This is what rebuilding should look like.”

The square was buzzing with activity. A group of Fae elders spoke quietly at a stone table under a tree in bloom. Two younger males carried buckets from a well. And off to the side, a tall healer was speaking with a few villagers, nodding in approval at someone’s bandaged arm.

But Azriel wasn’t focused on any of them.

His shadows had stirred again. Not warning, guiding.

They pulled softly at the edge of his coat, brushing his neck and nudging his gaze toward the far side of the square. Toward a small communal garden fenced with woven branches.

And there she was.

Kneeling in the soil, sleeves rolled past her elbows, dark earth streaking her hands and forearms. A loose braid of hair hung over one shoulder, strands escaping to catch the sun. Her face was turned toward the raised bed, her expression hidden, but there was something different about her now.

Not fragile.

Focused.

She moved carefully, planting tiny seedlings into the soil with practiced care. Around her, several others worked, older women, a pair of teenagers, but even in the crowd, Azriel saw her as clearly as if she stood in a spotlight.

He felt it again, that thread, that invisible pull in his chest. It didn’t ache like it had before. Not grief. Not guilt.

Just a quiet, steady certainty.

She was alive.

He hadn’t imagined her resilience, her presence. She wasn’t still in a healer’s cot, curled into herself. She was here. Rooted.

Cassian followed his gaze, and a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that her?”

Azriel didn’t answer.

Because in that moment, she looked up.

Her eyes met his across the square, not startled, not afraid, just still.

Recognition flickered there, followed by something gentler. Like the first breeze of spring brushing across old wounds.

She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her apron. And though she didn’t smile, didn’t wave, didn’t move toward him… she didn’t turn away either.

Azriel’s shadows curled like smoke around his boots. “She’s stronger,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Cassian clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Looks like someone’s been taking care of her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Or maybe… she’s been taking care of herself.”

Across the square, she tilted her head, just slightly, and lifted one hand. The sign was small. Barely a motion.

Hello.

And for the first time in weeks, Azriel felt the corners of his mouth lift. Not a smile, exactly. But something close.

Hello, he signed back.

Azriel crossed the square with deliberate steps, not because he feared startling her, not anymore, but because he wasn’t sure how to approach her. Not because of any distance between them, but because he had grown used to watching her from a distance, giving her the space she needed to heal.

As he neared the low fence, she noticed him. She straightened, brushing her palms against her apron once again. There were faint traces of dirt on her cheeks, and her hair was loosely braided, a few strands escaping as she worked. She didn’t seem startled by his presence, but instead looked at him with quiet curiosity, the same way she had the first time he had found her in the woods.

When Azriel reached the edge of the garden, he stopped. He gave her the choice, as he always did, waiting to see what she would do next.

She tilted her head, just slightly, and then without a word, she stepped through the small gate, closing the space between them.

Azriel stood still for a moment, taking in the changes he could see in her. Her face had filled out with strength, the faint weariness in her eyes replaced by something more like calm determination. There was a quiet confidence in the way she held herself, the way she moved between the rows of plants, even as the shadow of her past still lingered in her gaze.

When she stood before him, she didn’t look away. There was no tension in her body, no unease, just an understanding that they were both in this moment together.

Her hands moved, slow but steady. “You came back.”

Azriel’s voice was soft, low. “I wanted to see the village. And see if you were still here.”

For a long moment, she didn’t respond. Then she signed again, more slowly this time, as though careful with her words. “I never left.”

Azriel’s chest tightened at her words. He didn’t know what he had expected, but there was something in her response that settled in him, a quiet kind of peace, maybe. That she had stayed. That she had found a way to stay.

She hesitated, fingers trembling ever so slightly before continuing. “You never asked for my name.”

Azriel felt a pang of realization. He hadn’t asked for her name, hadn’t thought to ask it before. The moment of crisis, of survival, had taken away the small things, the human things. He hadn’t asked, because there hadn’t been space to.

“I didn’t want to ask until you were ready,” he replied quietly.

She regarded him for a long moment, her eyes studying his face, then placed her hand gently over her chest.

“Y/N.”

Azriel repeated the name in his mind, letting it settle like a new melody in his thoughts. He nodded, though his voice was quiet when he spoke again. “Azriel.”

There was no smile, but her lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something there. Maybe it was acknowledgment. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was both.

She then turned slightly, gesturing to the garden around them. “Do you want to see?”

Azriel nodded and followed her through the rows of plants. She led him from one raised bed to the next, pointing out herbs, vegetables, and flowers, thyme, rosemary, young lettuce, and the beginnings of carrots and squash. With every motion, she signed the name of the plant, and Azriel followed her hands, his gaze not on the plants but on the rhythm of her movements. The way her hands danced through the air as if she had been doing this all her life.

At one point, Y/N handed him a small wooden trowel, her expression one of quiet challenge. Azriel accepted it, and with a slow, deliberate motion, crouched beside her, taking his time as he began to dig gently into the earth. Together, in silence, they planted a row of small sprouts.

There was no rush. No expectation. Just the quiet work of two souls who, for this moment, shared something that wasn’t spoken aloud but was understood.

After some time, Y/N stood and wiped her hands on her apron. She didn’t look at Azriel immediately but glanced down at the garden, a small flicker of something passing over her face. When she finally did look back at him, there was no sadness in her expression. No fear.

Just quiet contentment.

Azriel’s shadows, which had settled low around him, shifted lightly at his feet, as if aware of the change in the air between them. The space between them felt less like distance, less like hesitation, and more like a soft, growing connection.

For the first time since he’d found her in the woods, Azriel allowed himself to believe in the possibility of what could come next, in the small, steady steps forward, and in the quiet trust that was beginning to blossom between them.

The village of Emberon was slowly coming back to life. The faint hum of hammers and chisels filled the air as more homes were rebuilt, children played in the dirt streets, and the scent of fresh bread wafted from a small bakery on the corner. Azriel walked beside Y/N, his shadows swirling at his heels, as she led him toward the place she had called home since her recovery. It was a modest house, but to her, it was a sanctuary. The early evening sun bathed the streets in golden light as they made their way through the village, Azriel glancing at the quiet houses and newly constructed buildings.

"I can't believe it's finally coming together," Azriel murmured quietly, his tone soft as he looked around at the rebuilding.

Y/N gave him a smile, though it was subtle, and motioned toward the direction of her house with a small wave of her hand. She signed quickly, and Azriel nodded, catching the gist of her words. "I’m proud of it. Of what’s been built here."

They had been walking in silence, and Azriel found comfort in the stillness, the sense of normalcy beginning to return to the village. His mind drifted as they walked, but it was broken by the sound of raised voices from down the street. His sharp eyes cut through the crowd, and he spotted Cassian and Rhysand talking to a tall fae male, a general from another region, right outside one of the shops. The conversation seemed to be heated, and Cassian’s boisterous voice was hard to miss even from a distance.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then gestured for Azriel to follow her toward the group. She wanted to show him her new home, but there was no harm in saying hello. As they approached, Cassian turned and spotted them immediately, his grin widening at the sight of Y/N.

“Well, well, look who it is!” Cassian called, his voice booming across the street. He took a few steps forward, his eyes scanning her, noticing her calm but wary demeanor. “How are you?”

Azriel stood back a little, watching as Y/N stepped forward to respond. She raised her hands, signing rapidly, and Azriel moved closer to her side. His shadows drifted around her, a constant comfort, as he translated her words for Cassian.

“She says she’s doing better,” Azriel said softly. “She’s settling in.”

Cassian nodded, his expression softening. “That’s good to hear. You know, we’ve been working hard to help everyone here. You’ve got a good home now.”

Y/N signed again, this time more slowly, and Azriel watched as her hands moved fluidly. He translated for her again, the words flowing as she spoke.

“She’s thankful for everything that’s been done,” Azriel said, glancing back at Cassian. “But she still remembers everything. It’s hard to move past it all, even if she has a place of her own.”

Rhysand, who had been quiet up until now, stepped forward, his violet eyes locking with Y/N. The breeze shifted as the power of his Daemati abilities sparked in the air around him. Without a word, Rhysand reached out, connecting with her mind. Azriel’s brow furrowed as he watched, instinctively stepping back, sensing the power at play. He couldn’t hear their conversation, and neither could Cassian, but it was clear what was happening.

Y/N’s eyes softened as Rhysand’s voice entered her thoughts, and Azriel felt a strange mix of emotions as he watched her respond, her lips moving slightly, but not making a sound.

“You’ve helped so many here, Rhysand,” Y/N’s voice came, quiet but clear in Rhysand's mind. “Without you, and without Azriel and his shadows, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

Azriel felt the weight of their conversation in his chest, but he couldn’t hear what they said. He didn’t need to. The connection between the two of them, that subtle shift in her expression, told him everything he needed to know. There was a tenderness in the way Y/N held herself, a gratitude so deep that Azriel felt it resonate with his own heart.

Suddenly, Rhysand broke through the mental connection, his voice cutting through the air for all to hear, loud and firm.

“It’s our responsibility,” Rhysand said, his voice carrying over the conversation. “To protect, to help, and to make sure this never happens again. We will rebuild this place, just like we’ve rebuilt so many others.”

Azriel stood still, his eyes focused on Y/N’s reaction. She blinked, as though Rhysand’s words were just as powerful in her mind as they were in the air, and she gave a small nod. It was as though she had heard it all before, and yet, it still made a difference to her.

Y/N turned to face them, her hands moving again. She signed with slow, graceful gestures, her fingers weaving through the air as she asked Azriel to translate.

“She’s offering us food,” Azriel said with a small smile, his voice quieter now. “She wants us to come to her place. A quick meal.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow. “I’m not turning down a free meal,” he said, his voice teasing.

Azriel glanced at Y/N, who smiled at Cassian's words. Then, with a subtle nod, she turned toward her home, motioning for them to follow.

Rhysand’s eyes lingered on the village for a moment before he turned to follow them. “Lead the way, Y/N. We’ll be happy to join you.”

Azriel, trailing behind, allowed his shadows to flow around him like a cloak. He could feel the weight of the day lifting, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the meal or because Y/N had invited them into her world. They had done what they could for her, for the village, but it was clear that her journey was far from over. Still, there was a small flicker of hope in the air, a belief that maybe, just maybe, she could begin again.

The inside of Y/N's house was simple, yet welcoming. The small kitchen area had a hearth where a pot of stew simmered on the flames, filling the air with a savory aroma. The furniture was modest but carefully placed, and the warmth of her home was a stark contrast to the cold, barren village Azriel had found her in all those weeks ago. The stone walls were lined with fresh herbs, and small touches of color from woven fabrics gave it a sense of life.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel stood near the entrance, surveying the space. Cassian was running his hand along the rough wooden shelves, his eyes scanning the room for anything that stood out. He noticed a few things still left unfinished, some shelves that weren’t fully mounted, a small pile of firewood in the corner that needed to be stacked.

Rhysand’s eyes were softer than usual as he observed the place. The High Lord of the Night Court was always in command, always exuding a certain distance, but here, in the quiet of Y/N’s home, something in him softened. He turned his attention to her, and his voice was gentle as he reached out to her mind.

“Y/N,” Rhysand’s voice was like a whisper in her thoughts. “Would you like us to help finish anything here? We could take care of the shelves or the firewood, whatever you need.”

Y/N paused for a moment, considering the offer, but then signed in a quick, dismissive motion as she shook her head. She wanted to refuse, her hands moving gracefully in the air as she said to Azriel, who translated for the group.

“She says she couldn’t possibly ask for the High Lord of the Night Court to do something like that,” Azriel said with a chuckle, his voice warm as he glanced toward Rhysand. “She’s too proud.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft laugh. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the small space. “I won’t put my hands on anything. But Cassian over here”, he grinned slyly, “he’ll do all the work.”

Cassian’s eyes widened in mock horror. “What?” he grumbled. “I don’t even know how to-”

Before Cassian could protest further, Rhysand just waved a hand dismissively, clearly enjoying the banter. Azriel couldn’t help but grin a little as he watched the two of them, but his attention soon shifted as Y/N turned back to the stove, checking on the stew.

Azriel gave the room one last sweep and noticed that Y/N had already begun setting the table for the meal. He could see the care she’d put into everything, but there was still a certain sense of unfinished business, the house wasn’t quite complete, and the simple details spoke volumes about how much she had left to do.

He moved toward her, not wanting to stand idle. “I’ll help with the stew,” Azriel offered quietly, his voice low but steady.

Y/N glanced at him, a smile playing at the corner of her lips before she nodded. She handed him the ladle to stir the pot, and Azriel did so with ease, his attention on the bubbling stew. He caught the faint scent of vegetables and spices, his mouth watering slightly. The sounds of Cassian and Rhysand’s conversation in the background faded as he focused on the simple task of preparing the meal.

Once the stew was ready, Y/N began ladling it into bowls with precise, careful movements, her hands flowing through the motions as if she had done it a thousand times. Azriel stood by, ready to help, and as she placed the bowls on the counter, he moved to take them and set them on the table.

But just as he was about to move, one of his shadows seemed to get in his way. It darted out from behind him, swirling in front of his hands like an unruly piece of cloth. He tried to move past it, but it lingered, twining in front of him like it had a mind of its own. His focus was split for just a moment, and before he realized it, the stew spilled over the edge of the bowl, splashing onto his hands.

Azriel cursed under his breath, grimacing as the hot liquid seared his skin. He jumped back, quickly wiping his hands on the towel he had nearby. The sting of the burn made his jaw tighten, but it wasn’t unbearable. He muttered a curse to himself, knowing it was his own fault for not being more mindful.

“Damn shadows,” he told them, low and to himself, not realizing how loud his thoughts were as he cursed.

But then, just as he was preparing to move the bowl again, a cold, wet cloth pressed gently to his hand. Azriel froze, his brow furrowing in confusion as he looked up to see Y/N, who had come to his side without him even realizing. She was focused, her hands working quickly to press the towel to his injured skin.

Azriel blinked in surprise. “How did you-”

Y/N’s gaze met his, and she tilted her head, her brow furrowed in concern. She seemed to sense his confusion and signed back to him, her hands moving slowly and deliberately as she explained.

“I heard you,” she signed carefully. “I could hear you talking to yourself. I thought... I thought you were in pain.”

Azriel’s breath hitched. He had been speaking to himself, yes, but there was no way she could have heard him. Wasn’t it just his internal thoughts? She couldn't have—

“Wait,” he asked, his voice a little unsure, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You... you heard me?”

Y/N nodded, a flicker of confusion in her own eyes. She signed again.

“You were talking to your shadows. I heard it. Are you okay?”

Azriel’s mouth went dry, and his mind raced. He had been speaking to his shadows, sure, but the fact that she could hear him... that was something else entirely. He had never imagined that someone who couldn’t speak could somehow hear his thoughts. It was impossible... but then again, this was Y/N.

Azriel paused for a moment, staring at her, trying to process everything. “Can you hear... my thoughts? Like how Rhysand can?”

Y/N’s brow furrowed even more in confusion, and she signed again, this time slower, as if trying to make sense of it herself.

“I don’t know. I just... I could hear you. In my mind. Can you hear me, too?”

Azriel blinked, feeling the faintest ripple of something he couldn’t explain, something new between them. “I... I think I can.”

He wasn’t sure how it worked, or why it was happening, but as he stood there, with the cold cloth still pressed to his hand, a strange connection started to form. He could hear her in his head, her thoughts were as clear as if she had spoken aloud.

Azriel’s mouth went dry as he turned to her, unsure whether to be thrilled or confused. “This... this is new.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a small, unsure smile. She signed once more.

“Maybe it’s something we share now. I’m not sure.”

Azriel smiled faintly, looking down at his hand, which no longer burned from the hot stew. His shadows had settled, and his mind was still spinning. But in that moment, he felt something shift between them, something tangible and warm.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said quietly, feeling more at ease than he had in weeks. “Together.”

Y/N nodded, and Azriel couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope rise in his chest. Maybe this was a new beginning, one where she didn’t have to remain silent anymore.

────────────

The sun had already dipped behind the hills, casting the village in soft lavender hues when Azriel knocked gently on Y/N’s door. A cool breeze stirred the leaves in the trees outside, rustling just loud enough to be noticed. Her home, tucked between two larger cottages near the outer edge of the rebuilt village, was bathed in the golden light of a few lanterns within.

Y/N opened the door before he could knock again, her expression neutral at first, but softening immediately at the sight of him. She stepped aside wordlessly, inviting him in.

Azriel stepped inside, the warmth of her home wrapping around him like a soft blanket. It smelled faintly of dried herbs, pinewood, and something sweet.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked him, speaking gently into his mind.

He nodded. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

A flicker of warmth crossed her face as she moved into the small kitchen area, setting a kettle on the iron stove. From a wooden drawer she pulled out a small tin and opened it, releasing the delicate fragrance of her favorite blend, peppermint, chamomile, and rose hip. The colors were beautiful in the low light: deep green leaves, pale yellow petals, rich crimson fruit. She dropped them into a small teapot and poured hot water over them.

Azriel watched her from a nearby chair, silent, but something about the domesticity of it, her careful movements, the quiet ritual of preparing something comforting, felt oddly intimate. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this kind of quiet.

When the tea had steeped, she poured two cups and handed him one. Their fingers brushed briefly. He muttered a soft “thank you,” and she nodded, taking her seat by the hearth, gesturing for him to join her.

They sipped in silence for a few minutes, letting the warmth of the drink settle into their bones. Then, she looked up at him, her gaze sharp but kind.

“You’re troubled,” she said into his mind, gently, without judgment.

Azriel leaned back, his fingers wrapped around the cup, wings slightly hunched behind him. “I’ve been thinking. About… this. You and me. Whatever this is.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just waited, eyes steady on his.

“It’s not a mating bond,” he said slowly. “At least, I don’t think it is. I’ve read everything I could find on the subject over the years. I thought… I hoped I’d recognize it instantly, if it ever happened. I would know. But this...” He paused. “It feels different.”

Y/N’s eyes didn’t leave his. Her mental voice was quiet, steady. “It’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel stiffened, then nodded once. “You’re sure?”

“I had one once,” she said. The words slid gently into his thoughts, but their weight landed heavily. “A true mating bond. I rejected it.”

His brows drew together. He set the cup down, leaning forward. “Why?”

“Because he was cruel. Manipulative. He wanted to break me, not cherish me.” Her hands remained folded in her lap, but her voice in his head was calm. “The bond was there, yes. But I would rather walk alone than be bound to someone like him.”

Azriel’s chest ached. He shifted to sit across from her now, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “And yet,” he said, “you and I… we have something.”

“We do.”

“I can speak to you without sound. You can answer. It’s not like what you have with Rhys, I can’t do that with anyone else. And you can’t do it with anyone else, either, can you?”

She shook her head. “Only you. And Rhys, because of what he is. But with you… it’s different. Easier. Natural.”

He studied her face, her stillness, the way her shadows always seemed to draw nearer when he was near her. “Maybe it’s the shadows,” she offered softly. “They understand me. I’ve always felt like they listened when no one else could. Maybe they… carry me to you.”

Azriel looked down. His own shadows curled at his ankles, one brushing the hem of her skirt. They didn’t pull away. If anything, they seemed... content. Restful.

“You might be right,” he admitted. “I’ve never known them to behave like this before. They whisper to me, warn me, guide me… but they’ve never connected me to someone like this.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Do you think they’re giving you something you didn’t know you needed?”

The question was quiet, but it dug in deep. Azriel looked up, met her eyes, and for a moment, it felt like she’d peeled back every layer he spent a lifetime guarding.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low even in his own mind. “Maybe they are.”

Y/N’s lips curved faintly, not quite a smile, but something just as kind. She reached for the teapot, poured them both another cup.

And as they sat there, in the fading evening light with the scent of peppermint and rose hip between them, neither spoke aloud.

They didn’t need to.

The air between them shifted, thick with unspoken words. The warmth from their tea had settled into the bones of the small cottage, but Azriel couldn’t shake the feeling that something heavy lingered in the space between them. He’d always known Y/N was a survivor, that there was more to her silence than met the eye, but he hadn’t pushed, until now.

The shadows at his feet coiled tighter, drawn to the quiet stillness of the room. He could feel them, just as he could feel the weight of her presence. She was stronger than she realized, but there were cracks in her walls. Azriel’s mind lingered on those cracks, and the realization hit him hard: She has a story. And I need to hear it.

“Y/N,” Azriel began, his voice quiet but steady, “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to, but... I need to ask. Were you always mute?”

She paused, her fingers gently tracing the edge of her teacup. Her eyes fell to her lap, and for a moment, he feared she would close off completely, retreating into herself. But then, slowly, she looked up at him. The silent communication between them was a delicate thread now, one she grasped without hesitation. And for a brief second, Azriel saw the rawness behind her calm facade.

“No,” she said, her mental voice soft, laced with pain. “I wasn’t always like this.”

Azriel leaned forward, sensing that this was the moment where the walls would either crumble or solidify. He said nothing more, allowing her the space to share her story on her terms.

She inhaled deeply before speaking again, her voice now shaking, though still only audible to him. “I was born into a family that was... never safe. My parents were good people, I think. But the world around us was always breaking, always trying to tear us apart. I was just a little girl, caught in the chaos.” Her mind drifted for a moment, eyes looking past him, as if seeing something Azriel couldn’t.

“When I was young, our village was attacked, too. They came at night, burning homes, ripping families apart. My parents were taken from me, pulled from my arms while I was screaming, too loud, too helpless. They told me to be quiet. They told me that if I made a sound, I would die like them.”

Azriel’s heart twisted painfully at her words, at the way she spoke with such quiet certainty of loss. But what struck him the most was the calmness in her voice, as though she had long ago resigned herself to the horrors she had lived through.

Her mind continued, and the weight of her trauma filled every thought. “After they... they killed them, the others came for me and my sister. They said they’d cut out my tongue if I ever screamed. They said I was worthless if I didn’t learn to obey, to shut up. And they made sure I understood by threatening to do it right there.”

Y/N’s eyes squeezed shut, the pain almost palpable even though it was confined within her mind. Azriel could see the shadows at her feet, as if they, too, felt her anguish. He reached for his own, needing the connection, needing to hold something tangible as her memories bled through their shared silence.

“They locked us away. Kept us in a room, chained to a wall. And every time I tried to make a sound, anything, there were punishments. Whips. Swords. It didn’t matter. The message was clear: Don’t speak. Don’t make a sound. And after a while... I couldn’t anymore. I was so terrified. Every time I tried, it felt like my voice was gone.”

She paused, the heaviness of her confession suffocating the air between them. Azriel could feel it, could see it in her eyes. The tears that had never fallen, the silent scream she could never release.

She looked at him now, her eyes full of something else, resignation, but also a quiet, unyielding strength. “It’s like my voice was stolen. It’s not just fear anymore. It’s like my body just... refuses. Even now, if I try to speak, nothing comes out. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

The silence that followed was deep, and Azriel felt like the room itself had stopped breathing. His hands clenched into fists, the sharp ache of helplessness pulling through his chest. What she had been through, what she still carried, was unimaginable. And yet, she was still here. Alive. Still fighting.

Azriel didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if there were words to make this right. Instead, he took a slow breath, pushing through the growing ache. “You don’t have to fix it, Y/N,” he said softly, his voice rougher than usual. “You don’t have to speak for me to understand you.”

Her eyes flickered with something like relief, but she didn’t respond. She just closed the space between them, a tentative touch to his arm, her hand resting there, silent but full of meaning.

“I just…” she thought, her mental voice hesitant, “I want to be heard. In my own way. To be understood.”

Azriel reached up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. He didn’t need to speak aloud. He didn’t need to fill the silence with words. Instead, he let her know, through the bond they shared — through the shadows and his steady presence — that she was heard.

Azriel sat in stillness for a moment longer, watching the way her fingers curled around her teacup as if grounding herself through the warmth. The weight of her story still hung in the room, but there was something new now, a vulnerability she hadn’t shown before, and the trust it took to reveal it.

He shifted slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His voice came quiet, thoughtful, each word etched with a heaviness he didn’t try to hide.

“Aren’t you afraid,” he asked gently, “that something like that might happen again?”

Her head lifted at that, her eyes meeting his, not startled, not offended. Just honest. He hesitated, then continued.

“It happened again, Y/N. Just a few weeks ago. That night I found you... bound, bleeding. Alone.”

The shadows at his back flickered restlessly, echoing the unease he barely contained.

She was quiet for a long time before her voice slipped into his mind, soft and sure. “Yes. I’m afraid.”

She didn’t try to hide it. And the admission, simple as it was, carved deeper into Azriel than any scream ever could.

“But I trust Rhysand,” she added. “This village matters to him. To you. I believe he’ll keep us safe.”

Azriel’s jaw flexed as he looked at her, at the softness of her features, the hard-earned strength beneath. The shadows whispered against his skin, tugging at him, as if echoing what he was about to say.

He took a breath, ran a hand through his hair, and then asked what had been weighing on him since the day he left the village: “Would you come to Velaris?”

Y/N blinked, taken aback, her fingers going still against her cup.

“It’s safer there,” Azriel said quickly, before she could answer. “The city is protected. Guarded. No one would touch you. I could take you there. You’d be safe.”

He didn’t say I’d sleep better knowing you’re behind those wards. He didn’t say I think about you more than I should. But it was all there, in the way his voice dipped, the way his shadows hovered near her like they were drawn to her pain, her quiet strength.

Y/N’s thoughts reached him after a moment, hesitant but clear. “I can’t abandon them.”

Azriel frowned slightly, but said nothing as she continued.

“These people… they stayed. They rebuilt this place together. With blood on the ground and ash in their mouths, they still stood. I can’t leave them behind.”

He nodded slowly. He understood, more than she could know. Still, he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “But you can’t scream for help.”

He hated the sound of that truth aloud. “If something were to happen again-”

“Then maybe,” she cut in gently, “you could teach me how to stay safe.”

Azriel blinked. Her eyes met his, unwavering. There was no fear in them now, only quiet determination.

The shadows stilled.

“You want me to train you?” he asked, surprise flickering through his voice.

She nodded. “I don’t want to be helpless again. I don’t want to rely on someone hearing me. I want to be able to protect myself… and others too.”

Azriel’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something close. “Alright.” His voice was gravel and warmth. “Then tomorrow, we begin.”

And even though she said nothing aloud, he felt the quiet warmth ripple across their bond, gratitude, fierce and radiant, and beneath it, something new: Hope.

────────────

The sun had just begun to dip behind the Sidra, painting Velaris in shades of gold and lavender as Starfall’s first shimmering streaks whispered across the sky.

At the House of Wind, laughter and warmth swirled through the grand dining hall like old music. Lanterns floated gently above the long table, casting soft hues of blue and violet over wine glasses and golden plates. The Inner Circle was gathered, every one of them dressed in star-kissed silks or tailored leathers, the room buzzing with anticipation, except for one lingering question.

“Why aren’t we eating?” Nesta asked, arms folded, her patience thinning as she eyed the untouched food on the table. She looked radiant tonight, as always, in midnight blue, like she belonged among the stars themselves.

Rhysand, lounging at the head of the table with Feyre nestled beside him, smiled with that infuriating calm of his. “Because,” he said smoothly, “Azriel is picking someone up.”

Cassian, who had just downed a sip of wine, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “You mean Azriel and his girlfriend.”

Mor nearly choked on her drink, eyes sparkling. “Wait, seriously? Are they…?”

She left the question open, eyebrows raised toward Rhysand.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward the open balcony, where the night sky had begun to stir with faint threads of starlight. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, thoughtful. “I don’t know what to call it,” he said. “But I can feel it. Whatever is between them, it’s real. And different.”

Amren, perched near the end of the table, narrowed her silver eyes. “He shares something with her he doesn’t with any of us. That much is clear.”

Feyre nodded softly, brushing her fingers along the stem of her glass. “I’ve seen it, too. The way his shadows behave around her, like they’re part of her now.”

The conversation faded into a hush as a faint sound stirred from the hall, the rustle of boots on stone, the quiet press of wings folding behind them.

The door opened, and Azriel stepped inside, dressed in soft black, his Siphons gleaming like frozen stars on his hands and shoulders. At his side walked Y/N.

She wore deep forest green with a shimmer of silver woven into the fabric, nothing elaborate, but breathtaking in its simplicity. A small braid was pinned behind her ear, and her gaze moved over the Inner Circle with a calm steadiness that held no fear. Only curiosity. And quiet strength.

Azriel kept close beside her, a shadow brushing along her arm like it was anchoring her, or maybe the other way around.

Rhysand stood first, his smile genuine. “Welcome.”

Y/N bowed her head gently in greeting, and though she didn’t speak, she didn’t need to — the way her eyes met each of theirs, full of quiet warmth and gratitude, said enough.

“Thank you,” her voice echoed gently into Rhysand’s mind. “For letting me be here.”

Rhysand inclined his head with a smile, then turned toward the rest of the room. “Shall we eat now, Nesta?”

Nesta rolled her eyes, though a smirk played at her lips.

Cassian was already rising to his feet, nudging a chair out beside him. “Come sit, Az. And Y/N, we saved the good bread for you.”

Mor beamed as Y/N took a seat beside Azriel, the shadows around him curling like smoke in moonlight, peaceful for the first time in days.

And outside, the stars began to fall, like silver rain from the heavens, silent and endless.

Dinner was laughter, the clink of glasses, warm candlelight, and the shimmer of magic laced in the air.

Y/N sat quietly between Azriel and Feyre, a faint smile on her lips as she watched the easy rhythm of the Inner Circle, the way Cassian teased Mor with flicks of bread rolls, the way Amren rolled her eyes and muttered about “children,” even though the corners of her lips were quirked in amusement.

“Did Azriel tell you,” Cassian said mid-chew, gesturing toward Y/N with his fork, “that he threatened three construction workers last week for letting a hammer fall too close to your garden?”

Azriel, without looking up from his plate, said calmly, “I told them to be more careful.”

“You said,” Mor mimicked in a deadly-serious tone, “‘Drop that again and I’ll rip your arms off and bury them in the herb bed.’” She grinned at Y/N. “We were all there.”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly in amusement, then her hands moved, quick, fluid gestures of her fingers.

Feyre laughed, translating instinctively, “She says the hammer didn’t even touch the ground.”

Azriel’s lip twitched.

“I told you,” Cassian said, pointing his fork again. “Absolutely whipped.”

Azriel didn’t argue. He just raised a brow and flicked a shadow toward Cassian’s wine, tipping the cup ever-so-slightly.

Y/N caught the movement and bit back a laugh, shaking her head as if to say boys.

The Inner Circle was basking in warmth, and Y/N felt the unfamiliar but comforting sensation of being part of something, even if she mostly listened. Still, she didn’t feel apart from them. Not tonight.

Azriel stayed close at her side, his shadows uncharacteristically calm. Every so often, he’d lean in, not out of necessity, but as if it was simply his instinct now.

When Cassian launched into another embellished story about Mor and a bakery brawl years ago, Y/N turned slightly toward Azriel and caught his eye.

“Are they always like this?” she asked in his mind, her tone dry, amused.

Azriel’s lips curved faintly. “This is tame. Wait until Cassian’s had three more glasses of wine and starts dancing.”

She laughed silently, a soft sparkle lighting her eyes.

“You’ve changed,” she added after a moment, more hesitantly now. “Since the night you found me. You seem… lighter.”

Azriel turned his head to her, searching her face in the flickering glow. “Maybe because you’re here. And safe. It’s easier to breathe when I know that.”

Across the table, a pair of sharp silver eyes were watching them closely.

Amren said nothing. She swirled the deep red wine in her goblet and observed the pair, the way they seemed to speak without a sound, how Azriel’s shoulders loosened when he was with Y/N, how Y/N’s expressions shifted as though full conversations were happening in silence.

There was something deeper there. Not a mating bond, she’d known enough of those to recognize it, but something… older. Stranger.

When dessert arrived, Amren stood without a word.

Feyre glanced over. “You’re not staying?”

“I have something to look into,” Amren replied, her tone clipped as always, though her eyes flicked once more to Azriel and Y/N before she turned. “Something I should’ve thought of sooner.”

And then she was gone, shadows slipping behind her as she vanished from the dining hall, no doubt heading toward the library’s oldest corners.

Back at the table, Y/N noticed Azriel watching Amren leave. She nudged his arm gently, tilting her head.

“Everything alright?”

He shook his head once. “With her, who knows.” But his eyes softened when he looked back at her. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded. “I’m more than okay. This is the first time in… years… that I feel like I’m not surviving. I’m just living.”

Azriel blinked slowly, something fierce and fragile sparking behind his eyes.

Then, almost without thinking, he reached under the table, just a brush of his pinky finger against hers, a quiet promise. She stilled, and then wrapped her fingers around his.

Later, when most of the Inner Circle had drifted to other corners of the House of Wind, some to sip wine by the fire, others to dance beneath the starlight, Azriel and Y/N slipped away to one of the balconies.

They said nothing for a while. They didn’t need to.

Y/N leaned against the stone railing, gazing up at the stars as they fell in slow, glowing streaks. The sky shimmered with ancient magic, vast and silver-blue and full of unspoken dreams. Her hair moved gently in the breeze, and Azriel, standing just behind her, watched as one of his shadows twined itself around her wrist like a ribbon, then flitted away as if shy.

She turned to him after a moment, her voice touching his mind in that soft, singular way.

“Is it always like this?”

Azriel shook his head. “Some years, the stars fall slower. Sometimes the wind carries them in spirals. This… this is rare.”

She smiled faintly, her eyes reflecting the light. “Then I’m glad I’m seeing it like this. With you.”

A pause.

He looked at her, really looked, as if this was the first time he could, uninterrupted by fear or pain or the weight of everything else they’d survived.

“I thought I knew what I was looking for,” Azriel murmured. “All these centuries. I thought I’d know the shape of it when it came.”

Her brows lifted, curious.

He stepped closer, slowly, giving her time, space, always.

“But this,” he said, voice lower now. “This wasn’t what I expected. It’s not a mating bond. It’s not fire. It’s… quiet. Like peace. Like my shadows finally have nothing to warn me about.”

She didn’t speak to his mind immediately. Instead, she reached out, just barely, and brushed her fingers against his.

Azriel’s eyes darkened as they held hers.

“Then maybe,” she said gently in his mind, “you weren’t looking for fire. Maybe you were always looking for quiet.”

The words landed like a balm across a scar.

Slowly, deliberately, Azriel lifted one hand and cupped her jaw. His thumb skimmed the curve of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Her breath caught, eyes wide and shining.

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t claimed. It was reverent.

Their lips met beneath the falling stars - soft, slow, warm.

Y/N exhaled into him, and Azriel breathed her in like he had waited a lifetime to do so.

Above them, a shooting star blazed past, brighter than the rest. And for a moment, time stilled.

When they parted, Y/N rested her forehead against his chest, her mind brushing his again with a whisper: “You make me feel safe.”

Azriel’s hands trembled just slightly where they held her.

“I will always keep you safe,” he murmured aloud. “No matter where you are.”

The stars were still falling when the soft click of the balcony door stirred them from their shared silence.

Azriel turned first, instinctively, his shadows twitching before settling as the figure stepped into view.

Amren.

She looked… different. Not in appearance, still timeless, still clothed in midnight silk and draped in something sharper than elegance, but there was an intensity in her silver eyes that hadn’t been there at dinner.

“I thought I’d find you two out here,” she said, folding her arms. “You’ve become rather inseparable.”

Y/N straightened slightly, unsure if she should step back from Azriel, but his hand remained gently over hers, grounding, not possessive. She didn’t move.

Amren strode to the balcony’s edge, glancing once at the sky, then at them again.

“I saw the way you were interacting tonight,” she said plainly. “The way you speak without sound, how your magic knows each other before you do. It reminded me of something I once read. A long, long time ago.”

Azriel narrowed his eyes. “You went to the library.”

Amren’s mouth twisted into something half-smirk, half-snarl. “Of course I did. I don’t like mysteries I can’t name. And what you two have-” she waved a hand vaguely between them, “-is not a mating bond.”

Y/N’s brows drew together. Amren turned her gaze to her.

“No, girl, it’s not a bond of body or desire. But it is powerful. And old.”

She paused, and for once, the silence was heavy.

“It’s called a thirren bond,” Amren said at last, voice quieter. “From a language lost before Velaris was even built. It only happens under very rare, specific circumstances. Two souls, both fractured, but not by fate, like mates. By experience. By grief. And sometimes, when the cracks align just so…”

Her gaze swept between them again, sharp and unreadable. “They fill each other.”

Azriel’s voice was low. “And what does that mean, exactly?”

Amren tilted her head. “It means you share more than thoughts. You share… knowing. Not just emotions or whispers. You don’t complete each other. You comprehend each other. There’s no hierarchy. No instinct to dominate or claim. It’s a conscious harmony. A chosen one.”

Y/N stared at her, mind gently spinning.

Azriel was quiet beside her, shadows curling slowly at his feet.

“But it’s rare,” Amren continued. “Rarer than any mating bond. Most fae don’t even believe in it anymore. Because it requires pain. It requires survival. And a willingness to connect that deeply without being compelled.”

She stepped back toward the door, her words falling like stones.

“So whatever this is between you,” she said, “don’t waste it trying to label it with something lesser.”

Then she turned and disappeared into the hallway, her scent fading with the soft click of the door.

Silence fell again.

Azriel looked over at Y/N.

Her eyes were distant, thoughtful.

“Do you believe her?” he asked gently, his mind brushing hers.

Y/N looked at him then, searching his face, the raw honesty in it, the care.

And she nodded once.

“I think we already knew. We just didn’t have a name for it.”

Azriel stepped closer, reaching for her hand again.

And this time, when their fingers laced together, it felt like confirmation. Not the beginning, not even the middle, but something ancient finally remembered.

The night air was cool, laced with starfall’s faint shimmer. They stood close, quiet in the wake of Amren’s revelation, both of them turning it over in their minds like a precious, fragile truth.

Y/N’s gaze lingered on the distant hills beyond Velaris, her expression thoughtful but unreadable. Then, finally, she turned to Azriel.

“What does this mean for us?” Her mental voice was soft, tentative. “This… thirren bond?”

Azriel looked at her for a long moment. His shadows were quiet now, as if they, too, were listening.

“I don’t know exactly,” he admitted, brushing his thumb gently across her knuckles. “But I know what it feels like.”

He searched her face, his voice a low murmur in her mind. “It feels like I’m not carrying the weight of the world alone anymore.”

A soft, trembling smile curved Y/N’s lips, and her eyes flicked down to their hands, still laced together.

“I feel that too,” she said. “But it’s not just the bond.”

Azriel’s head tilted, curiosity blooming in his features.

She looked up at him then, eyes lit with quiet fire.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” she said. “Not because of the connection. But because of you. Because of how gentle you are with me. How patient. How you see me without needing me to explain every broken piece.”

Azriel stilled, just for a breath, shadows curling gently at his shoulders, like they’d heard something sacred.

Then he stepped a fraction closer, his voice brushing against her mind with warmth.

“I’m falling too.”

Her breath caught as he reached up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

“I’ve been trying not to rush,” he whispered aloud this time. “Trying to give you space, especially after you said you didn’t want to leave the village.”

Y/N gave a small, almost sheepish smile — the kind that crinkled the corner of her eyes and made something bloom in his chest.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” she teased softly. “Maybe I want to come to Velaris. To be closer to you.”

Azriel’s heart stumbled.

“You do?”

She nodded, her smile widening just a little.

Azriel let out a breath, more like a laugh, really, one of disbelief and gratitude mingled, before he cupped her cheek in one hand and leaned in.

This kiss was slower than the one beneath the stars earlier. Deeper. A quiet promise shared under falling starlight, between two people who had once lived in silence and shadow, and now found peace in each other’s presence.

When they parted, their foreheads resting together, Azriel whispered, “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

“I think I do,” Y/N whispered back into his mind, her fingers brushing his cheek.

They stayed like that a while longer, wrapped in each other, beneath the gentle rain of stars, knowing that whatever this bond was, it was theirs to define.

At any point before you knelt before him, he could have been honest and told you it wasn't necessary. That by the time you moved on with your day and joined Feyre in her studio or Nesta in the library, the wounds would be nothing to him. Scratches he will eventually forget he ever had.

“I swear, Az,” you mutter, dipping your fingers into the little glass jar beside you. Your nails have gotten longer. Painted a pretty blue that looks eerily familiar. “I don’t know how you’re still walking around after all of this.”

Azriel huffs a quiet laugh. “I heal fast.”

You shoot him a look—one of those unimpressed, sharp glances that remind him exactly who your sisters are. Rhys sometimes says that when Feyre looks at him, he feels like bowing down. Cassian constantly says he's at Nesta's mercy.

Azriel thinks he finally understands the sentiment. He would kneel to you, make himself at your mercy. He would bend to your will.

He smiles down at you. Your sharp eyes narrow in a way that always seem to make his shadows curl around him in amusement, like they also find you cute. “That doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.” You say.

He doesn't reply. Because he knows you're right. And because the gentle press of your fingers against his skin makes his throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with pain.

Because he wants you to keep touching him.

It was such a mortal thing, this tending to cuts and bruises. Rhysand and Cassian would have waved you off with a smirk and told you it was pointless. Maybe even laughed at the naivety of it, at the idea of warriors tending to these small injuries like they were huge inconveniences.

You weren’t a warrior though. You hadn’t grown up knowing the brutality of being an Illyrian. And you didn't grow up with the efficiency of fae healing. To you, wounds meant something—they weren't just small things that could be shrugged off but proof that someone you cared about had been hurt. They were proof that someone you cared about was not invincible.

So he lets you fuss over him, lets you press too-gentle fingers to his ribs. He forces his breathing to remain even when your nails scratch over his stomach by accident and you offer him an apologetic smile.

It was sweet. Infuriatingly, heartbreakingly sweet how you tended to these cuts and bruises like they were fatal.

“You don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, watching as you smoothed the salve over his shoulder, fingertips lingering against his skin.

You shrug, continuing to touch him. "I want to.” You say simply.

He swallowed hard. Nobody had ever wanted to take care of him. At least, not like this. Madja was always there for the inner circle. His brothers loved him, so did Mor and Amren in her own way, maybe. But nobody had ever wanted to take care of him. Not in this simplistic way.

He glances down where your fingers dance across his collar bone. Watches your hands as they examine the bruises along his chest.

Your hands were so different from his. Soft where his were scarred, warm where his were cold. They didn't know battle, did not know pain in the way his did. And yet, they were careful with him. As if he were something fragile. Something you wanted to take care of.

No one had ever touched him like this before.

You pull your hands away, sit back on your heels and tilt your head at him. Then you grin, devastatingly beautiful. “There,” you say with quiet satisfaction. “Not perfect, but it’ll do.”

Azriel wanted to tell you that it was perfect, anything you did was perfect. That the ache in his ribs had nothing to do with the fight and everything to do with the way you were looking at him now—soft, fond, completely unaware of the chaos you created inside his chest.

Instead, he reaches out, brushing his fingers lightly over your cheek. A quiet thank-you, unspoken but understood because he knew you understood him.

Your lips part slightly, breath catching, and for a moment—just a moment—he let himself believe that this was something he could have. That this tenderness was meant for him.

Then you smile, small and knowing, like you could read every single thought Azriel had. Like you understood why his heart was racing.

Azriel’s fingers linger against your cheek, scarred and rough, but you didn't flinch and he didn't pull away. You just sat there, looking at him like he was something more than shadows and scar and unworthiness.

“Az,” you murmur, voice the softest that he's ever heard it, like you knew his mind had trickled into thoughts of not being good enough for this, for you.

He swallowed hard. He should pull away, stand and urge you to stand up with him. Should let his hand fall away and bury whatever this feeling he has beneath layers of duty and restraint. Go back downstairs and join the rest of your family at the kitchen table.

But you were still kneeling before him, still so close, and he could see the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips parted, like you felt this as much as he did.

He was an idiot.

A complete, utter idiot.

Because instead of pulling away, his thumb brushes over your cheekbone, barely a whisper of a touch, and he says, “You shouldn’t waste your time on this.”

Your brows knit together, and you reach up, wrapping your fingers around his wrist before he could retreat. “Why not?”

His throat tightened. “Because it’s pointless.” It is. Not the tending to cuts, not your mortal practice, doing this for him. Wasting your time worrying over him, was pointless.

Your grip doesn't falter. If anything, it only grows firmer, grounding him. “I don’t think it is.” You say softly.

Azriel inhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head, but you don't let him look away. You tilt your head again, studying him the way you always did—like he was something you wanted to figure out.

“Just because you heal fast,” you say slowly, carefully, “doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be taken care of.”

Something in his chest cracked, splintering apart under the weight of your words. No one had ever said something like that to him before. No one had ever looked at him like this before.

Like he was something worth taking care of. He had never been afforded this gentleness.

He let out a breath, slow and uneven, and decides to allow himself one more indulgence—just one. He turns his hand, catching yours in his grasp, and he squeezes.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, even though the words feel like a lie. Maybe they are one.

You let out a soft, exasperated laugh. “Of course you are.” You say, but you don't let go. You just sit there, hand wrapped around his, warm and steady and real.

Azriel should let go. He should get up, finally put space between you and remind himself of all the reasons why this—you—were not his to have.

Azriel doesn't let go though, and neither did you.

The silence between you stretches on, but it's comfortable. His mind may be warring and his heart may be racing, but silences with you were never anything but comfortable. It was like you knew how to exist with him. Like you knew he needed a moment to sort his thoughts out.

And the truth was, his thoughts were coming down to the fact that he was afraid to want this. Afraid of what it would mean for his relationship with Rhys and your sister. Would Rhys see him worthy of one of Feyre's sisters? Would Feyre? Would they confirm every thought he's ever had about himself?

(Did it matter? If you looked at him like this? If you touched him like this? Did it matter what anybody else thought?)

Your free hand lifts between the two of you and he startles out of his thoughts. You smile gently as your nails trace the edge of his jaw softly before gently cupping his cheek.

His pulse stutters. He's touch starved and desperate for you. Azriel's eyes flicker between yours, searching for doubt or fear or disgust, something to prove to him that he shouldn't do this.

But he finds none, and he's done fighting, so he lets his eyes slide shut. He lets himself lean into your touch.

(He doesn't see your eyes flickering down to his lips. He has no clue that your own heart is racing in your chest. Azriel is completely unaware that for so long, since you came out of that cauldron irrevocably different, all you've wanted is him.)

He can only feel your hand, still wrapped in his, tense with nerves. He can feel the hesitant brush of your lips against his and he inhales sharply.

Then he kisses you. Any ounce of restraint he had, which hadn't been much, disappears.

His hand moves to cup your face instead of staying intertwined with yours and his fingers thread through your hair as he pulls you closer. Your legs extend into a tall kneel at his urging.

You shift so your front is almost fully pressed against him, your hands holding onto his waist. It's a little awkward and entirely uncomfortable for his back and your knees, but neither of you care all that much. His wings expand around you two, his shadows swirl in excitement.

Your arms move to wrap around his neck and your breasts press against his chest when you do so. He makes a quiet, desperate sound against your mouth before kissing you harder, as if he’d been starving for this. He supposes he has been.

From the moment he saw you in the mortal lands. From the second a scream tore from his lungs when you were dumped into the cauldron and then dumped back out. He has starved for you. For this. For your touch. For your body to be pressed against his like this.

Your hands shift to his shoulders, fingertips running over warm skin and fresh-healed wounds, but he doesn't care. This had never been about the wounds. All he had wanted is you with him, if he was being honest.

When you had seen him come inside from training with Rhys and Cassian and gasped at the cuts while you ran your fingers across his torso and back, he had been vibrating with want. When you had wrapped a hand around his wrist and pulled him towards your room because you had a jar of salve, he had gone willingly, just wanting to be in your space.

Not because he cared about these cuts. But because he cared about you.

Your lips part against his and his tongue slides into your mouth. Both of you groan and he presses so close to you that neither of you are truly sure where one of you starts and the other ends. He kisses you like he's not entirely sure he'll ever get to kiss you again.

And when two you finally, finally, pull away—just enough to catch your breath—his forehead drops to yours, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own.

His eyes open slowly. They meet yours, still sharp but now even more beautiful and dazed.

You smile at him, breathless. “Not so pointless now, is it?” You tease. "My care regiment."

Azriel lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as his thumb traced along your cheek. “Not even a little. Do you always kiss your patients?"

You laugh, a little like you can't believe he made that joke. "Just the very pretty, Illryian shadowsingers." You say quietly with a bright grin.

And what kind of male would he be if he didn't kiss you again?

-

Ever since you’d started studying to become a Healer, you hadn’t been able to spend much time anywhere but the library.

Thankfully, you were close enough with Gwyn and Clotho that they gave you an office to keep your books in and have a quiet, private study space.

You sat in the desk chair of your office, elbows propped up on the desk and chin in hand. It was past midnight, but study calls. 

You flipped through one of your pre-Healer books half-asleep when a shadow landed on your shoulder and tickled at your neck.

“Hey Az,” you giggled, smiling.

Moments later, he appeared in the doorway with your favourite flowers in hand. 

He wasn’t in his battle attire, he wasn’t the scary Spymaster, he was just your loving mate.

You rose from your chair, heading to the doorway to greet him.

“Aw Azriel,” you grabbed the flowers then touched his face, “you’re the sweetest male in the world.”

“I miss my mate,” he said wearily.

Guilt swallowed you whole. You knew that Azriel hadn’t been on any official Night Court business trips in a while, and it was getting to him.

It was kind of a good thing because it meant no shady shit was going on that needed taking care of, but it was also a bad thing because Azriel needed the adrenaline of Spymaster duties. He was restless without it, and without you.

It was like he didn’t know what to do with all his free time. Especially since you were so busy studying. 

You couldn’t even remember the last time you had sex, which seemed to be exactly what Azriel was thinking too. 

You swatted some notebooks out of the way and placed the flowers on your desk, Azriel following you into your office.

“I know Az, I miss you too. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately and I haven’t had much time for us.”

“It’s okay princess…it makes me happy knowing you’re studying for something you want so bad. I’m really proud of you.”

Your heart melted at your mates reassuring words. You really loved him more than anything, and he was the only one to ever say he was proud of you, so every time he said it it was the best feeling in the world.

You leaned against your desk as Az put his hands on your waist.

“I love you,” you whispered to him.

He pressed his forehead to yours and the scent of him made your head spin.

“I love you too,” he whispered back and placed a soft kiss on your lips.

“What’d you do today?”

“I paced around our bedroom, sparred with Rhys because I was jealous that he has his mate around all the time, made dinner, ate dinner, then Nesta said she was sick of my brooding and gave me one of her smutty books, and now I’m here because I don’t want to be away from you any longer.”

He nudged you with his head like a cat.

“Aw…so you read Nesta’s books huh?”

He smirked at you and bit his lip to hide his smile.

“Is that why you’re really here, Az?” You teased, “Did those books get you all worked up?”

“Maybe…but I do really miss you princess, I miss touching you,” he breathed and started moving his hands up your body.

You closed your eyes and inhaled. Your final exam was only two days away. You couldn’t get distracted now, when you were so close to the finish line.

You pushed off the desk and out of Azriel’s grasp.

“I miss you too sweetheart, I really do,” you started as you circled the desk to reach your chair, “but my exam is in two days. Just use that Spymaster patience for two more little days and then we can fuck like rabbits. I promise.”

He didn’t look convinced. 

“Babyy,” he whined, rolling his eyes and sinking defeatedly into the seat across your desk. 

“I’m sorry Az! You know how important this is, c’mon don’t be a big bat-baby, it's two days.”

“Just because you put emphasis on ‘two’ doesn’t make it sound better you know.”

You scoffed playfully at Azriel’s needy attitude, but you stood your ground.

“You heard me, Shadowsinger.”

He dipped his head and looked at you intensely with his hazel eyes; one of his wings twitched. 

“Fine,” he huffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms.

You smiled at having won, and because you liked seeing your mate all sexually frustrated like this. A little teasing never killed anyone. 

You assumed the same position you were in before Azriel entered. 

Roughly five minutes passed of you two sitting in complete silence. The only sound was the one of you flipping the page every now and again. 

Azriel was completely still the whole time, focused on you. Then, he moved.

He pushed his seat back, but instead of getting up, he tucked his wings in tight and got on his knees, crawling beneath the desk.

Your eyebrows rose.

“Az? What are you doing…?”

You looked down and he appeared right at your knees, placing a scarred hand on either one and slowly spreading them apart.

“You can keep reading your books all you want princess, but I can’t wait two minutes for you, let alone two days.”

You were at a loss for words. You knew Az loved going down on you, but you’d never seen him this desperate to taste and touch you. 

Once your knees were spread to his liking, he hooked his hands beneath your thighs and pulled your hips closer to him. You gasped as your ass slid down the seat of the chair. 

He bunched your short skirt up to your waist and lifted your legs so that your ankles rested atop your desk. You pushed your ankles down onto the desk to help you lift your hips up so Azriel could peel your panties off.

You were spread out, on full display before your mate who was on his knees, looking at your pussy like it was God. 

You softly moaned at the sight of him, and he did the same. 

He dragged his eyes from your wetting core back up to your eyes. 

“Keep reading.”

“What?”

“You need to study, right? So keep reading.”

Cauldron. There’s no way you’d be able to retain any of the information you read while Azriel ate you out. That male can and has made you scream on his tongue. 

“Read out loud this time,” he added before placing his hands on your thighs, readying himself.

He looked up at you in a way that you knew meant he wouldn’t start until you did. 

You grabbed the book off the desk and leaned back into the chair. 

“Chapter six, the limits of healing,” you started.

You felt Azriel’s breath against your pussy, and heard him mumble something along the lines of ‘I need you’ before he started pressing kisses to your cunt and flicking his tongue up and down it.

Your voice trembled as you continued reading.

“Th-there are b-boundaries of healing that should n-never be crossed, fuck, the c-conseq-quences will be deadly.”

Azriel licked and sucked at your pussy with wild desperation. 

He moaned as he sucked on you and spit on your pussy, licking his spit back up as it slid down your core and burying his face in you. 

His grip on your thighs was tight enough to leave bruises that matched his siphons. 

His wings began twitching underneath the desk, making it shake left and right. 

Azriel’s wings only twitched in unison like that when he was close to cumming…

Was he gonna cum just from tasting you? 

The thought pushed you right to the edge.

“Fuck, A-Azriel, I’m g-gonna cum.”

He groaned his approval against your pussy and plunged his tongue inside you, fucking you with it until you came on his tongue, your wetness dripping onto his chin. 

“It’s not enough,” he said as he practically threw the desk off his wings and stood up again, pulling you off the chair and bending you over the desk that was now five feet away from where it should be.

“I’m sorry princess, but your books can wait two minutes until I’ve had my turn with you,” he pulled your tank top over your head and grabbed your breasts, pulling you against his hard on.

“Azriel,” you breathed out, “I love it when you get like this.”

“Yeah? I’m sure you do,” he responded while he stripped out of his pants and underwear, “you’ve made me wait way too fucking long, I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

He lined his hard length up with your entrance and moved himself against your clit.

“I’m sorry baby,” you moaned out, “I swear I didn’t mean to.”

Azriel placed your hands on the desk, then placed his own hands beside yours, towering over you and hovering atop your head. 

He leaned forward and kissed your temple.

“Don’t apologize princess, I feel so much better now,” he whispered close to your ear as he slid himself into you and you moaned in pleasure.

Azriel started fucking you at a steady pace, grabbing your jaw and tilting your head upwards to look at him.

“I fucking needed this,” he groaned, “I fucking needed you.”

“Mmm, yes, Azriel, fuck,” you drawled out as the sound of Azriel’s hips snapping against your ass filled the office, maybe even the whole library. 

You braced your hands more firmly on your desk and used them to help push your hips back against Azriel’s dick.

He whimpered as he gripped your hips with both hands and started pounding into you, faster and harder. 

“I need to cum in you, I need it so bad princess, please can I cum in you?”

“Cum in me Azriel please,” you replied out-of-breath as you neared your orgasm too.

“Fuck, f-fuck baby,” he moaned as his wings twitched and he emptied himself inside you, your orgasm following right after. 

He put his arms around you and held your shaking body through it until you caught your breath.

Azriel slid out of you ever so slowly, so as to make sure you kept all his cum inside you. 

You pressed your thighs together once he was fully out to keep his cum from sliding down them.

Azriel, still with his hands on your hips, turned you around to meet his gaze.

“Thank you princess,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours once more.

“Thank you Az, I needed to decompress.”

He giggled lightly and held you close in the silence for a few moments.

“Do you think you’re gonna do some more studying?”

“I don’t think I can focus on a single sentence with my brain this warm and fuzzy.”

He smiled.

“Then, do you think I could have more?”

You furrowed your eyebrows at him in confusion.

“You wanna have sex again?”

“No,” he said rather shyly, “I want to make you cum on my face again.”

Your pussy filled with butterflies. 

“What happened to the Azriel who told me never to be too greedy?”

“What can I say,” he said as he began lowering himself to his knees before you, “you healed me princess.”

You smiled down at him and put your fingers in his hair as his shadows skittered up your arms.

Azriel placed a kiss on your pussy then looked up at you.

“You really are gonna make a great Healer.”

You looked at him with admiration.

“Thank you, my Azriel.”

He whined at the sound of you calling him your Azriel, and buried his face in you once more. 

thanks for reading!

xoxo, luna e. clips ✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

It wasn’t always this bad.

He chalked it up to Solstice being the reason he ever entered the jewelry store to begin with. He needed a gift for Amren after all.

What he hadn’t accounted for was you.

You watched you emerge from the back, wiping your hands on a towel, and removed the loop from your face as he walked in. Winter afternoon sun filtered in. Where it reflected off the snow outside, it glinted off the shining jewels and metals in here. Metal and gems of all kinds, elegantly set with precision and displayed in glass cases.

And yet he found you to be the brightest jewel among them.

“Hello, welcome in!” you greeted, bright and warm from behind a display case.

He gave a small nod in acknowledgment, tearing his eyes away.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” you asked gently, head slightly tilted.

“Something unique. For a solstice gift,” he explained quietly, scanning the pieces. From rings to elaborate, layered necklaces—no doubt heavier than they looked—they rested on plush satin pillows or small velvet busts. His gaze flicked up at you briefly, assessing just as quickly. It was a centuries’ old habit; he was a spymaster after all.

“Everything here is custom and made in-house, so you’re sure to find what you’re looking for,” you replied lightly, stopping behind a display case of pieces that were embedded with diamonds and emeralds. He watched you pull out one of those velvet busts that held a necklace. “This is a part of our upcoming spring collection,” you added with a small smile, meeting his eyes.

They were undoubtedly beautiful, he thought, as were your eyes, he added mentally despite himself. He immediately shook that thought away. Where had that even come from?

While beautiful, it didn't feel right for Amren. “It’s beautiful,” he began, hazel eyes flicking up to yours briefly. They were much brighter up close; not just the color but also the shine in them. “Beautiful, but I don't think it’s quite what I'm looking for," he added almost apologetically. His gaze was dragged away in favor of the other display cases, attention snagging on a display case a few yards away.

His shadows trailed behind him as always as he neared it. Silver metal weaving, looping around twilight-colored gems, a mixture of sharp elegance, cut and set with unbelievable craftsmanship. Everything here was, he realized.

His gaze flicked up as you neared before returning. These seemed more Amren’s style. “I'll take this one,” he said, glancing between you and the elaborate necklace resting on a black velvet bust.

He watched you smile, carefully packing up the necklace and ringing him up. He handed you the payment in exchange for the bag. His fingers brushed against yours briefly, his stomach giving a strange twirl, but he promptly named it as hunger.

— • —

It had been six months since then, and he was—by definition—addicted.

Amren had loved the gift (as much as Amren would approve), and Azriel had conveniently used her as an excuse for the following visits where he could. At first, it was twice a month, and then it became weekly. Then he thought a couple of extra times wouldn’t hurt until one day, he blinked and realized it had become at least twice a week.

All because he wanted to catch a glimpse of you.

Sure, he was a spymaster and could, well, spy on you if he really wanted, but that was creepy, and a creep was the last thing Azriel had wanted you to think of him.

He still found any and all excuses to come into the shop, never once leaving without a new purchase. An alleged birthday here, a “need to return to good graces” gift there. Luckily, you hadn't asked why or how he was such a loyal customer. He just was.

Of course, Azriel was beginning to suspect why he was. What exactly about you intrigued him in a way he’d only felt twice before? He also knew the heartache that paired with both of those times. So, like before, he’d do what he’s done best for centuries—observe from afar. Yearn from afar (but he didn’t dare label it that).

“Oh, before you go,” you began, eyes lighting up just as you handed him the small bag of his new purchase of silver bands. Not marital kinds, of course, but something new and for once, himself. Not that it would be suited for his occupation, but perhaps something new to try.

His eyes flicked to yours, expectant, but as always, his face never gave anything away. He thought it was curious—precious even—how opposite you were to him in the smallest ways. You are bright and expressive to his careful neutrality and aloofness.

“Since you’re my most loyal—and favorite, but don’t tell anyone else that—customer, I wanted to give you something. I know it’s not much, but I just wanted to give you…something special as a token of my appreciation.” You spoke—rambled really—with a small laugh. Nervous, even as he watched you hand over a small box from under the register.

He blinked and then tentatively took the box. “Oh,” he murmured, briefly dumbfounded. He carefully removed the lid, revealing a simple silver chain. It was woven tightly, seeming closer to tightly woven moonlight plucked from the night itself. Like everything else in the shop—that you made, he’d learned by his third visit—it was beautiful. Whether it was the artistry or perhaps because he started seeing parts of you through every purchase, he wasn't sure.

A scarred thumb gently stroked over the finely detailed metalwork. He opened his mouth to speak, but your nervous rambling beat him to it.

"I… I don't often make jewelry for males, let alone chains like that, but I'm trying something new, and thus a collection, so I thought, why not give you something exclusive?" You added softly, quickly, and with animated gestures. He didn’t miss how you wrung your fingers. It was preciously endearing to him.

His gaze searched yours, and for the first time since you’d met, he had the faintest hint of a genuine smile. “Thank you, then.” He replied just as quietly, securing the chain back in the box and into the bag with a reverence as if it were precious glass.

Azriel's crush had now grown to an exponential, out-of-control, big fat crush.

— • —

It had been a month since that visit.

In that time, he’d caught himself briefly grazing fingers along the chain when he was alone, disguising it as scratching an itch or a collar adjustment. Sometimes his shadows would twine around it like snakes hugging a branch. And every instance, without fail, he’d catch himself thinking about you. About your eyes or your smile, your voice or your laugh. The minimal contact of fingers brushing against yours at the end of every trip to your store.

How and when did he let it get this bad?

For better or for worse, Azriel is sure you haven't noticed the way his gaze softens a fraction or how he tries to linger in your shop for a few seconds longer.

He needed to get a grip. He was going to finally do something about it.

He sighed a breath before he entered your shop, the familiar little bell signaling his arrival.

He watched you smile and thank a customer just as you wrapped up their purchase.

He watched your gaze meet his halfway across the store, and for one delusional moment, he let himself believe that your eyes lit up and sparkled a little more in recognition of him.

"Hey!" you greeted, bright and warm as ever.

"Hi," he breathed, watching your smile grow a fraction. He felt his shadows buzz with excitement but kept it contained. Or perhaps it was nerves. He wasn't sure yet.

"What's led you to little ole me today?” you mused, leaning against the display case that always separated you two.

He shrugged with a smile, tugging his lips before pretending to look around, browsing. Many of the pieces were familiar, some new, but quite frankly, and for once, he wasn’t here to buy something.

"Not sure. But I'll know when I see it," he replied quietly, passing a gold and ruby collection. How could he possibly say, “I'm here for you. I only ever come here to see you." How could he say every silly, corny, stupid line that’s crossed his mind for nearly the past year without sounding like a desperate fool or worse?

You huffed a laugh, accustomed to him and this routine. So you just watched him browse from the corner of your eye as you moved about the shop.

A few quiet minutes have passed, only filled with footsteps on hardwood and occasional shuffling.

Azriel nearly lost his mind, and you were none the wiser. He felt like his world was crashing and healing all at once, all by you just being in the room. Selfishly, he wanted more.

In the next fifteen minutes, he miraculously mustered up the courage. He selected a random bracelet—one he couldn't be bothered to even ask the story of, like he normally would. He watched you ring him up like always, handing over the small bag in exchange for payment.

When his fingers brushed against yours just enough, just like always, he lost his nerve.

He'd faced unfathomable evils, fears turned tangible, and flirted with death more times than any soul should. Yet this seemed to be the most terrifying among them.

He mustered a polite smile and decided his plan would have to wait another time as he turned to leave.

It seemed fate was taking matters into her own hands. Or rather his shadows, for they tugged him to a stop just as he reached to open the door. They seemed adamant that he’d go through with this today. No amount of pulling or mental scolding got them to let go. "Traitors," he thought.

His shadows whispered in one ear how you were watching him from behind the register as he stood by the door, the other ear filled with encouragement that was borderline scolding.

You raised a slight brow as he froze, slowly turning on his heel after a minute.

"Azriel? Are you—”

"Are you free tonight?” He blurted, searching your gaze from across the shop. He was sure you could hear his heart pounding and prayed to the Mother you didn’t. He watched you blink twice, undoubtedly startled.

"I—yes?" You replied though it came out like a question more than a statement.

His lips parted, words dancing on his tongue. He was caught in the middle between his heart and mind, logic and emotion. Desire and self-preservation.

"I…would you like to get dinner with me?” He rushed out before he gave up now, holding your gaze. Azriel watched you blink twice before widening a fraction. Something buzzed with satisfaction as his shadows whispered of a blush growing on your cheeks.

"Oh…" you murmured, your own heart skittering. “I…I would like that. "Yeah," you found yourself saying. It took every effort not to burst in disbelief or giddy excitement.

Maybe the universe wasn’t imploding for Azriel.

He huffed a disbelieving and excited laugh—the most emotion you’ve probably ever seen from him. "Good. That's…that's—yeah. Okay," he stammered, more to himself, like confirming this was real and happening. "Okay. I'll pick you up here at seven. Don't feel like you have to dress fancy," he added, finding his confidence and mental footing again despite his racing heart.

"Okay," you whispered, disbelieving yet elated. Your heart fluttered at his growing smile, one you couldn't help but mirror.

"Okay." He whispered back across the shop. "It's a date," he added, smirking as he watched your cheeks warm again. He memorized it—your beaming smile and sparkle in your eyes—like it would be the only thing to keep him alive until seven.

His gaze lingered before he finally left the shop with the biggest smile Velaris had ever seen from their Shadowsinger.

It only grew when a sneaky shadow lingering by your shop returned to his shoulder with whispers of your giddy shrieks and cheek-splitting grin a block away.

Azriel was utterly doomed yet was exactly where he wanted to be.

Notes: first time writing kinda nervous 🫣 any feedback is appreciated!