#soft azriel

Because Azriel’s hair was doing that thing.

Loose and mussed, still a bit damp from the rain, one stubborn curl flopping onto his forehead no matter how many times he shoved it back. Couple that with rolled sleeves, relaxed mouth, faint line of concentration between his brows—

Pathetic, she thought to herself, fond and exasperated. You’ve seen him covered in blood and you’re undone by a curl.

One of the shadows slid from his wrist and brushed her ankle beneath the table, like it had heard her. Like it was smirking.

She nudged it with her foot. Traitor.

“Stop tormenting my mate,” Az said mildly, eyes still on the dagger. The shadow flicked away, chastened.

She huffed. “Bold of you to assume they’re not obeying my orders.”

He glanced up at that, mouth twitching.

“Oh?” he said, turning the blade to catch the last slant of sun, checking for imperfections. “Are you the one who told them to tangle my bootlaces earlier?”

She lifted her book a little closer to her face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He dipped his head, but the edge of his mouth lifted a bit more. The bond between them hummed, that quiet, steady warmth he’d become in her mind. Not overwhelming, never a demand—just there. Like the knowledge of her own heartbeat.

She peeked over the pages.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

He snorted.

“Today was… irritating,” he admitted. “A lot of waiting on rooftops while other people argued inside.”

“Your least favorite activity,” she said. “Listening to people talk.”

“Listening to people talk badly,” he corrected. “If they’re going to lie, they should at least be interesting about it.”

She smiled, shut her book, and pushed her chair closer with a vowel-soft scrape.

“Anything worth the bruised ears?” she asked.

“Not particularly.” He set the whetstone down, wiping the blade with a cloth. “Day Court emissaries. Arguments about border trade, who’s responsible for what patrol, whether Koschei is a shared threat or simply our problem—” He broke off, catching himself before his mood truly soured. “Helion was there.”

“Ah.” She tipped her head. “How many times did he flirt with you?”

Az scoffed. “He flirted with Cassian. I got… commentary.”

She grinned. “And what pearls of wisdom did the Day Court’s most dramatic peacock bestow today?”

He leaned back, stretching his legs under the table until his boot nudged her bare foot.

“Helion says,” Az intoned, mimicking the High Lord’s rich, amused drawl, “‘If Rhys insists on sending his shadow into my sunlight, the least he could do is accompany it with proper food and drink.’”

She laughed. “He’s not wrong.”

“He’s impossible,” Az said, but there was no real heat to it. “He did host us, though. Apparently the ‘border trade talks’ were simply an excuse for him to show off a new vineyard.”

She perked up. “There was wine and you didn’t bring me any?”

He gave her a sideways look. “Do you want the rest of this report or are we pivoting to your greed?”

“Rude. Continue.”

He rolled his eyes, then softened.

“There was… a spread,” he said slowly. “Food from each court. Helion’s idea of diplomacy, I suppose. He had these flatbreads—Day Court specialty. Very particular spices, you could taste the heat in the olive oil.” His mouth twitched, remembering. “I didn’t get to actually sit and eat. Rhys wanted me watching the room.”

“Of course he did,” she murmured.

“I did steal a bite in the kitchen afterward.” He shot her a faintly guilty look. “Don’t tell him.”

“Traitor,” she said, but there was a smile in it. “Was it good?”

“Annoyingly,” he admitted. “Same with a pastry from Dawn. They had these twisted things with sugar and some sort of citrus glaze. I almost got away with a whole one before Mor appeared and declared she could smell cheating from three rooms away.”

She shook her head, biting back a laugh.

“You spend your life saving the world,” she said, “and your High Lady’s cousin is policing your pastry intake.”

“That’s the real tyranny,” he deadpanned.

“Any Summer Court delicacies?”

He shrugged one shoulder.

“Some sort of fruit custard thing,” he said. “Looked good.” Then, more offhand, gaze drifting back out over the city— “I’ve flown over the Dawn Court a hundred times. Summer too. Never actually sat down to eat in either of them. Day I only ever see from rooftops or neutral halls.”

He didn’t put any particular weight on it. Just a dry observation, tossed out like so many others.

But something in her chest went very still.

She watched his profile. The fading light caught on his cheekbone, on the small scar at the edge of his mouth that she loved tracing with her thumb. His eyes were on the horizon, where the last smear of sunset bled into night. Shadows curled around his wrists again, restless in the pause.

“You’ve never…” she started, then stopped, making herself keep her tone light. “You’ve never stayed? After missions, I mean. To see anything else.”

“Staying makes you predictable,” he said simply. “Predictable gets you dead.”

Her fingers tightened on the edge of her chair.

“Even now?” she pressed. “With Rhys openly allied, with courts that welcome you?”

His mouth twitched with something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Old habits,” he said quietly. “Besides, someone has to come home and cook for you.”

She swatted his arm with the back of her hand.

“I can cook,” she lied.

His brows climbed, slow and disbelieving.

“The last time you touched a pan, the House of Wind put up wards,” he said. “It was one time,” she muttered.

“It was three times,” he corrected. “And the third one was soup. I still don’t know how you burned it.”

She refused to dignify that with a response.

Instead, she watched the way his gaze kept skipping away from her when she tried to meet it, out to the far-off mountains and back again, as if his eyes were drawn to distance out of sheer muscle memory.

“Az,” she said, a little softer. “You know you’re… allowed, don’t you?”

He frowned faintly. “Allowed to what?”

“To land,” she said. “To sit down somewhere that isn’t a war room. To look at a place you didn’t map for an ambush and just… taste it. Touch it. Exist in it.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, once.

“I know,” he said. “In theory.”

“In practice?”

He hesitated.

“In practice,” he said lightly, “I forget.”

Her chest ached. Gods, she hated how matter-of-fact he could be about the places he’d never gotten to be anything but a blade.

That was when she knew.

Not gifts. Not weapons. Not anything that would feel like repayment or obligation.

Solstice.

A night when it was allowed to stop.

She reached across the table and took his hand.

“You’re home now,” she said. “At least half the time. Someone should remind you.”

He squeezed her fingers, warm and rough and real.

“You do,” he said simply.

She smiled at him, aching.

You see the world for us, she thought. Someone should bring some of it back to you.

She’d been thinking about it since the Solstice candles went up in the city. About gifts, and how none of the material ones felt right. About how the one thing he never had was time—or taste—or permission.

An idea slotted quietly into place. It had the sharp, decisive click of a blade sheathing. Something inside her said, Yes. This.

She held his gaze a second longer, then let her mouth tilt into something teasing.

“Next time Helion complains about lack of snacks,” she said, “tell him to send recipes instead. Maybe I’ll oblige him.”

Azriel snorted. “The Day Court would collapse.”

“You have so little faith,” she said loftily, ignoring the way his fingers squeezed hers again, affection curling warm in the bond. “Go be useful and stab things tomorrow. I’ll… think about dessert diplomacy.”

“Those words together terrify me,” he said.

She only smiled wider.

⸻

Two days later, Helion walked straight into a trap.

Not the kind he was used to—no wards snapping shut, no shadows binding his wrists. Just a letter.

It arrived on a slant of afternoon sunlight, borne on a soft flare of Day Court magic: a neat envelope that appeared in the air above Rhys’s desk and drifted down with entirely too much flourish.

Rhys cracked the seal, skimmed, and groaned.

“She’s asking you for what?” Cassian demanded, hanging upside down off the sofa, wings flopped out like a bat.

Rhys dropped the letter on his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Recipes,” he said, sounding both pained and amused. “From each court. Specifically: ‘the kind of food you would serve someone you… actually like, but aren’t trying to impress with a seven-course political performance.’”

Cassian barked a laugh.

“Mother save us,” he said. “She’s going domestic.”

“She bolded the ‘not for Rhys’ part,” Mor observed, leaning over the desk to peer at the letter. “‘And don’t tell Azriel.’ Twice.”

Rhys rubbed his face.

“Of course she did.”

Cassian’s grin shifted—still wicked, but softer at the edges, like something in him had clicked into place.

“Oh,” he mused, suddenly thoughtful. “It’s for Solstice, isn’t it.”

The room stilled.

Rhys’s eyes lifted from the paper, violet gaze going distant for half a heartbeat—like he was seeing not the words, but the intent behind them. Like he could already picture it: flour on hands, stubborn silence, the whole thing done quietly on purpose because she knew Azriel would bolt from anything that looked like too much affection without a reason.

“I suppose so,” Rhys said softly.

Mor’s mouth curved, slow and delighted.

“Oh, that’s—” she breathed, as if savoring the idea. “That’s actually… devastating.”

“It’s manipulative,” Amren remarked from her chair by the window, wine glass tilted toward her mouth. Her eyes gleamed with entirely too much satisfaction. “In the best way.”

Nesta, half-asleep in the corner chair with a book on her lap, didn’t even look up—just said, flat and exact:

“If any of you ruin this, I will kill you.”

Cassian’s laugh choked into something almost reverent.

“Gods,” he whispered, still hanging upside down like a ridiculous gargoyle, “she’s going to make him sit down and eat a meal like a normal person.”

Mor flicked his forehead as she passed, and Cassian yelped in protest.

“And he’s going to look at her like she hung the stars,” Mor said, grinning, “and he won’t even understand why until it’s too late.”

Rhys exhaled, staring at the letter like it was both a battle plan and a blessing.

“We keep this quiet,” he said.

Mor’s grin turned wolfish. “Obviously.”

Amren lifted her glass in a small, solemn toast. “To secrecy. And baked goods.”

Cassian flipped himself upright in one smooth motion, wings snapping open with sudden purpose like he’d been given a battlefield objective.

“Oh, this is sacred,” he declared. “I will die before I let Azriel sniff this out.”

Nesta’s gaze finally lifted, sharp as a blade.

“You won’t have to,” she said. “Because if he finds out, it’ll be because you told him, and then you’ll die anyway.”

Cassian clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me.”

Rhys ignored him, raising his voice just enough to the empty air—because if Helion could send mail with theatrical flair, he could certainly listen in.

“Fine,” Rhys called. “Helion, if you can hear this, send her the good ones. And if you drag me into any culinary disaster, I will personally unleash Nesta on your library.”

Nesta bared her teeth in something that might have been a smile.

The air warmed, just a little—sunlight kissing the room from nowhere at all. A flicker of laughter brushed the back of Rhys’s mind, along with the faint sound of turning pages and Helion’s amused drawl:

Gladly.

⸻

The kitchens of the House of Wind were not used to entertaining others.

Not her, anyway.

They were accustomed to Feyre occasionally wandering in to steal fruit or ask how to recreate something. To Rhys appearing at odd hours to make his own tea. To Cassian raiding their stores and being swatted away with wooden spoons.

They were prepared for Azriel, quiet and competent, sleeves rolled, moving around their domain like an extra shadow as he diced onions and stirred sauces with a care that made them mutter in appreciation.

They were not prepared for her—hair skewered up with a dagger, expression grimly intent, striding into the doorway and announcing:

“I need you to teach me how not to burn everything.”

Every cook, assistant, and kitchen maid froze.

One of the older cooks, a broad-shouldered female with flour on her cheek, set down her rolling pin slowly.

“My Lady,” she said carefully. “Is something… wrong with the House?”

She blinked.

“What? No.” Then, remembering her last attempt at toast: “Probably. But that’s not why I’m here.”

She marched to the nearest table, slapped a stack of parchment down.

“I have recipes,” she declared. “From Helion himself. And from Thesan. And from… whoever runs the Summer Court’s kitchens. I need one thing from each of them, good enough that Azriel will recognize the region just by taste and immediately regret every time he only saw the place from a rooftop instead of a dinner table.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Also,” she added, “this is a one-time miracle. Maybe two. So enjoy it while it lasts.”

A younger cook made a faint choking noise.

The older female—Miris, she remembered Az mentioning—recovered first.

“Unbelievable mates,” Miris murmured, somewhere between horrified and delighted. She shoved her rolling pin into a bowl, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped forward. “All right then. Hand me those.”

She slid the recipes over.

Miris scanned the first page, lips moving silently over Helion’s dramatic script.

“Of course he phrases it like a seduction,” Miris muttered. “All right. Day Court flatbread—doable. Needs time to rise. We’ll start with that. Then… Dawn Court twist pastries. Hm. Tricky. A lot of folding. You’ll hate it.”

“I already hate it,” she said cheerfully.

Miris’ mouth twitched.

“That’s the spirit.” She slapped her hands on the table. “You lot! Clear that counter. We’re teaching the lady how not to poison her male.”

A flurry of motion answered.

Within minutes, she was up to her forearms in flour, glowering at a lump of dough that refused to cooperate.

“This is stupid,” she muttered, trying to knead and mostly just shoving. “Why does anyone do this voluntarily?”

“Because some of us like to eat,” Miris said dryly, guiding her hands into a proper rhythm. “Don’t attack it. You’re coaxing it. Like shadows. Or diplomats.”

“That is an insult to my magic,” she said, but she adjusted her pressure, feeling the dough slowly smooth under her palms. “How long does this need to… sit?”

“Until it doubles,” Miris said. “Like your regret.”

She blinked. Then snorted, helplessly.

“I like you,” she said.

Miris shrugged. “I’d be more flattered if you weren’t currently massacring my flour supply.”

The first batch of twist pastries burned.

She stared at the smoking tray, hands planted on her hips, jaw clenched.

“You did something wrong,” Amren observed from her perch on the counter, swinging small bare feet and sipping wine like this was a theatre performance. “Which is convenient, because that’s your specialty.”

She turned her head slowly.

“Say that again,” she said, “and I will personally bake you into the next tray.”

Amren’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

“At least your temper is consistent,” she said. “Helion will be pleased.”

Miris swatted both of them with a dish towel.

“Less squabbling, more learning,” she snapped. “You over-cranked the oven. Again. You can’t intimidate yeast.”

She muttered something dark and reached for more flour.

⸻

It took three days before she produced a batch of flatbread that Miris deemed acceptable.

“Acceptable,” Miris said, tearing off a piece and chewing thoughtfully. “Not perfect. But it’ll do. The herbs are right. The char is good. It tastes like Day.”

Sweat cooling on the back of her neck, she leaned on the counter and blew a stray lock of hair out of her face.

“Az likes ‘acceptable,’” she said. “He thinks it’s high praise. ‘Good’ makes him suspicious.”

“That’s because he knows that’s what you call deeply stupid risks,” Amren said, finishing her second piece. “This is better than acceptable.”

She blinked at her.

“Thank you,” she said, a little startled.

“Don’t get used to it,” Amren said.

The Summer Court dessert involved caramel.

She discovered, two burns and one pan of scorched sugar later, that she hated caramel with a passion that felt almost personal.

“You have to watch it,” Miris chided, guiding her back to the stove. “You can’t just wander off and pick fights with ghosts in your head because you’re bored.”

“I wasn’t bored,” she protested. “I was strategizing.”

“Strategize with your eyes open,” Miris snapped. “When it goes from pale gold to amber, you add the cream. Not before, not five years after. Pay attention.”

She did.

She gritted her teeth, watched the sugar melt and bubble, felt sweat bead at her temples from the heat. When it finally hit that precise shade—like good whiskey, like all the sunsets Azriel never watched from ground level—she poured the cream in carefully and did not flinch when it hissed and spat.

“Better,” Miris said, approving. “You’re learning.”

“It’s like handling Rhys,” she muttered. “Too much heat and he does something dramatic.”

“We heard that,” Rhys’s voice called from the doorway.

She glanced over her shoulder.

Rhys stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching her with a look she couldn’t immediately categorize. Somewhere between amusement and something like… fondness.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said. “This is a classified mission.”

“Of course,” he said solemnly. “I will now forget everything I’ve seen, including the fact that you have caramel on your cheek.”

She swiped at her face with the back of her wrist.

Miris smacked her hand away and dabbed it clean with a cloth, muttering about children.

Rhys took a few steps into the kitchen, inhaling deeply.

“Smells like every treaty negotiation I’ve ever been to,” he said. “And the aftermath.”

“Try this,” Miris ordered, thrusting a spoon at him.

He tasted. His brows shot up.

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “That’s… very good.”

“She made it,” Miris said.

Rhys’s gaze swung back to her, sharply curious.

“You did,” he said slowly.

She lifted one shoulder.

“With heavy supervision,” she said. Then pointed a caramel-coated spoon at him. “And before you say something sentimental—if you tell Azriel any of this before Solstice, I will leak your most embarrassing dreams at the next family dinner.”

Rhys smiled, small and genuine.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “You seem very… determined.”

“Determined is one word,” Amren muttered. “Obsessed is another.”

She ignored her.

Rhys lingered a heartbeat longer, studying her flour-dusted hair, the burn reddening on her wrist, the absolute ferocity with which she watched the saucepan.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to fix everything for him.”

She went still.

“This isn’t fixing,” she said, not looking up. “This is… giving.”

He held her gaze for a moment when she finally glanced up, violet eyes soft.

“All right,” he said. “Carry on, then.”

He left with a spoonful of caramel and a secret he would keep like a blade at his ribs.

⸻

By the time the Night Court stew was simmering in a heavy pot, the whole kitchen staff was conspiring.

They timed their own work around hers, sliding ingredients under her hands before she had to ask, gently nudging her away from the knife block when her frustration made her too careless.

Someone—she suspected the House of Wind—put a little ceramic jar of salve on the counter after her second burn, lid tied with a ribbon the exact shade of Azriel’s siphons.

She pretended not to notice. Used it anyway.

On the fourth evening, Miris leaned both hands on the table and surveyed their work.

“All right,” she said. “We have flatbreads that won’t embarrass the Day Court. Dawn twists that won’t shame a baker. A Summer custard that Helion would probably proposition. And stew like my grandmother made. That’s four.”

“Winter,” she said, staring at the spread. “We’re missing Winter.”

Miris snorted. “You expect to master Winter Court cuisine in a week? No. You can serve him spiced tea and pretend.”

She considered. Then nodded.

“Tea I can do,” she said.

Amren sniffed.

“I’m amazed you still have eyebrows,” she said. “Never mind competency.”

She picked up a towel, balled it up, and lobbed it at her.

Amren caught it with two fingers, lips curving.

“Don’t burn the hall down,” she said lightly. “It would upset the House.”

⸻

On the night before Solstice, she sent Azriel with Cassian to inspect a new batch of recruits at an Illyrian camp.

Cassian had grinned like a wolf when she’d asked him to keep Azriel out until sunset.

“Finally letting me help you with your evil schemes,” he’d said. “I knew you’d come around.”

“Just don’t get him killed,” she’d answered. “I need him back in one piece by sundown.”

Cassian had sobered, just a little.

“Always,” he’d said.

She waited until Azriel was fastening his bracers—calm, efficient, entirely unaware he was about to be professionally deceived.

She stepped into him, smoothed her hands down the front of his jacket as if she were merely fixing a crease. As if her pulse wasn’t doing something reckless.

“I thought,” she said, as if it had just occurred to her, “we could have a quiet meal together before we rejoin the family for gift opening.”

Something softened in his face at that—relief, almost. Like quiet sounded like home.

“All right,” he said, leaning in to kiss her once—brief, warm, familiar. “I’ll be back.”

Cassian grinned like a conspirator.

⸻

Now, as the sky over Velaris slid from lavender to deep blue, the House of Wind’s kitchen was quiet.

Most of the pots had been washed. The counters had been wiped down. Miris had shooed everyone out hours ago, muttering something about Solstice madness and mates with no business being near ovens.

She stood in the doorway to their sitting room, pressing her palms down the front of the dress she’d changed into.

Not for him. For herself.

It was simple, as her clothes went. Soft and dark, with sleeves pushed up to her forearms so she could still move easily. Her hair she’d left down, curls falling around her shoulders—Azriel liked it that way. She had a thin burn line on one wrist, fading to pink thanks to the salve, and a smear of flour she’d missed near her temple.

The room smelled like every court she could reach without leaving home.

On the low table sat the flatbread, steaming gently in a covered dish, brushed with herbs and oil. Next to it, a plate of Dawn Court twists, sugar glinting in the lamplight. The stew waited in a pot on a trivet, rich and dark, scent of wine and rosemary curling upward. A shallow dish of Summer fruit slices and pale custard rested in a bowl of cool water to keep it from setting too fast.

She’d laid two plates. Two cups. A small pot of Winter-spiced tea sat ready, cinnamon and clove and orange peel drifting up in gentle clouds.

Her stomach swooped.

This is ridiculous, she told herself. You’ve commanded armies. You’ve stared down kings. It’s just dinner.

It wasn’t just dinner.

It was Solstice.

Solstice gave people permission.

A night when softness wasn’t suspicious. When small gestures were tradition. When you could give someone warmth and call it custom instead of need.

So she’d chosen this.

Not an ambush. Not a grand revelation. Just… a quiet dinner tucked neatly into the evening before they went to the River House to exchange gifts with their family.

Something that belonged only to him.

Something that said: you don’t have to earn this.

She heard the soft thud of boots in the outer hall before she felt his familiar presence in the bond, tired but intact, dragging across her awareness like a hand pressing to her shoulder.

She exhaled.

The door opened.

Azriel stepped in, shoulders tense, armor dusty, hair more disordered than when he’d left. Shadows slipped in around his heels and curled toward her like hounds scenting home.

He halted on the threshold.

His gaze flicked from her—barefoot, casual dress, flour on her temple—to the table.

Heat. Spice. Bread. Sugar.

His brows drew together.

“Did the House enslave a chef I don’t know about?” he asked slowly.

She swallowed a laugh, nerves making it come out a bit high.

“No,” she said. “I… cooked.”

He went very still.

“You… what?” he said.

She lifted her chin.

“I know it’s shocking,” she said. “Try to keep your horror contained.”

His eyes softened. “You didn’t have to.”

She answered truthfully.

“You never stop,” she said softly. “And Solstice is the one night you’re allowed to.”

He stared at her for another heartbeat. Then his gaze dropped to her wrist.

“Is that a burn?” he asked, voice low.

She glanced down. The line was faint now, barely more than a blush against her skin, but his eyes caught it like it was a fresh wound.

“It’s old,” she said quickly. “Well. A few days. It’s fine.”

He crossed the room in three strides.

Gently—like she was made of glass and not someone who could crack stone with her bare hands—he took her hand in his. Turned her wrist. His thumb brushed the mark.

“You did that… here?” he asked, eyes flicking toward the kitchen.

“Yes,” she said, trying for dry. “The oven and I had a disagreement.”

He did not smile.

Instead, he lifted her wrist and pressed his mouth, very softly, to the faded burn.

Something in her chest clenched.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said, voice rougher now. “Any of this.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s… sort of the point.”

His eyes met hers, dark and searching.

“What is this?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed.

“A minor experiment in… geographical fairness,” she said. Then, because she needed him to understand—because she’d chosen Solstice for a reason, and she wanted the meaning to land gently, not like a knife—she added, quieter: “It’s a Solstice gift. Before we go to the River House. Just… for you.”

Azriel went so still it was frightening.

Not the stillness of a warrior about to strike.

The stillness of someone trying not to break in half.

“Sit,” she said softly, because his eyes looked like they’d stopped knowing where to rest. “Please.”

He hesitated, then obeyed, lowering himself onto the cushion by the low table. The movement clearly cost him—his shoulders had that post-camp ache, the one that meant he’d been sparring longer than he should have, pushing too hard in too-thin air.

As he leaned back against the sofa, shadows settling around him, she found her hands steadier than she expected.

She uncovered the flatbread first. Steam rushed up, carrying the sharp, bright scent of herbs, the deeper warmth of baked dough.

Azriel inhaled, eyes widening a fraction.

“That smells like—” He cut himself off, frowning as if he didn’t want to assume.

“Day,” she supplied. “Or… as close as we’re going to get without importing Helion’s entire kitchen.”

He looked up at her sharply.

“You asked him,” he said.

“Technically, I threatened him,” she said. “Then he gave me recipes.”

His mouth twitched.

She tore off a piece of bread and held it out.

“Try it,” she said. “If it’s terrible, I’ll… blame Helion.”

He took it carefully, fingertips brushing hers.

He bit.

Chewed.

His eyes closed.

For a moment, everything else in the room—her heartbeat, the candles, the faint murmur of Velaris far below—fell back, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

He swallowed.

“This is… good,” he said, opening his eyes.

She exhaled, tension she hadn’t even known she was holding easing a fraction.

“Acceptable?” she asked.

He huffed. “Better than acceptable.”

She filed that away with a small, fierce flare of satisfaction.

“From here on,” she said, reaching for the next dish, “no one falls in love with this but you. I nearly burned down Miris’ kitchen for those.”

He blinked. “Miris let you in her kitchen?”

“Miris conscripted me,” she said. “She said she’d lost a bet.”

He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite process that.

She placed the plate of Dawn twists down, sugar catching the candlelight.

“These,” she said, “are apparently the Dawn Court’s answer to peace treaties.”

He stared.

“You made twist pastries,” he said faintly.

“With heavy supervision,” she said. “And threats of violence from Amren if I ruined another batch.”

“Amren was there?” he demanded, baffled.

“Mostly to heckle,” she said. “Rhys tried one and didn’t die, if that helps.”

His eyes darted between her and the food.

“You’ve never spent this much time in a kitchen without muttering about assassination,” he said slowly.

She popped a piece of twist in her own mouth to avoid answering, sugar melting on her tongue. It actually tasted… right. Bright citrus, soft dough, a hint of something floral she’d argued with Miris about for an hour.

He reached for one more cautiously, like it might vanish if he moved too fast.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

She pretended to misunderstand.

“They need to rest before we eat them?” she said. “Too late. I’m starving.”

“How long,” he said again, softer, “have you been doing this?”

She hesitated.

“Four days,” she said. “Off and on. It’s fine.”

“Four days,” he repeated. “Training. Meetings. Patrol. And then… this.”

“It’s not like I was out killing kings,” she said. “I was… learning how not to burn caramel.”

He set the pastry down carefully.

She swallowed.

“You said,” she managed, “you’d flown over the Dawn Court a hundred times and never sat down to eat there. Same with Summer. And Day.” Her throat felt oddly tight. “You said you only saw them from rooftops.”

He stared at her, face unreadable.

“So I thought,” she went on, words tumbling now because if she stopped she might not start again, “that maybe, just once, you could taste them from somewhere that isn’t a battlefield. Or the… rafters.”

His jaw worked.

“You did all this,” he said, “because of a throwaway complaint?”

“This isn’t because you complained,” she said. “This is because you… never got the choice. You kept going back to the sky for us.” Her voice dropped. “And Solstice is about coming back down. Coming home.”

Silence.

He looked back at the table.

At the flatbread, steaming gently. At the twists. At the stew pot she hadn’t even unveiled yet. At the custard dish, condensation beading on the glass.

“You… cooked this,” he said again, like he needed to keep saying it until it sank in. “All of it.”

“With heavy supervision,” she said. “And minor arson. Don’t ask.”

He made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh, might have been a gasp.

“Show me,” he said roughly. “All of it.”

So she did.

She ladled out stew first, rich and dark, pouring it into his bowl. The scent of wine and slow-cooked meat and herbs filled the room.

“Night,” she said. “Miris’ recipe. She says her grandmother used to feed their entire street with this and a crust of bread.”

He brought the bowl to his face and inhaled, eyes closing again.

It smelled like home. Like winter nights in Velaris when the world was quiet and safe for once. Like something he’d never had in his mother’s house, in that cold, unforgiving camp: a meal meant to fill and comfort, not just keep alive.

He tasted. His shadows went still, as if listening.

“Stars,” he whispered.

Her heart tripped.

“Too much salt?” she asked, half-nervous, half-teasing.

“Perfect,” he said. “It tastes like—” He shook his head, searching. “Like sitting at the River House table when everyone’s already bickering about dessert.”

She smiled.

He ate in silence for a few moments, slow and deliberate, as if each bite was something to be cataloged, examined, committed to memory.

Between bowls, she poured the tea.

“Winter Court approximation,” she said. “We’re guessing, but Amren said the spices were right.”

He sniffed the steam, eyes softening.

“I’ve never been to Winter,” he said. “Rhys doesn’t like the cold.”

“Then this is Winter now,” she said. “Here. In this room.”

He looked at her over the rim of the cup.

“Do you even like cooking?” he asked quietly.

She snorted.

“I hate cooking,” she said honestly. “It’s tedious and everything takes longer than it should and you can’t stab dough to make it cooperate. Miris tried to ban me yesterday.”

“Then why?” he asked.

“Because you’ve spent five hundred years being sent places as a weapon,” she said, voice low and steady. “And I… wanted to give you one night where the world came to you for something else.”

His throat bobbed.

He set his bowl down, fingers trembling just enough that she noticed.

“You can’t just say things like that over stew,” he said, barely above a whisper.

She frowned, suddenly unsure.

“Is it too much?” she asked. “I didn’t want it to be some… grand gesture. I just—”

“It’s not too much,” he cut in. “It’s—” He broke off, exhaling hard. “No one’s ever… done this. For me.”

“You’ve had home-cooked meals before,” she said. “You cook.”

“That’s different,” he said. “Cooking for others is easy. It’s… practical. Efficient. It keeps people alive. But this…” He gestured helplessly at the table. “This is… indulgent. It’s just for me.”

“Not just,” she said. “I’m going to eat that custard before you if you don’t pull yourself together.”

He let out a breath that shook.

“I love you,” he said.

It wasn’t new. He’d said it before. She’d felt it every day since he’d learned how to give it shape.

But here, with flour on her temple and burns on her wrist and a table full of things she’d wrestled into existence because he’d once confessed to never having them—it landed in a new way.

“You’re allowed to have nice things,” she said quietly. “Not because you earned them with blood. Just because you exist.”

His eyes went bright, shine catching in the low light.

“Do you know,” he said hoarsely, “how many times I’ve flown over those courts, looking down at their lights, thinking… none of that is for you?”

Her breath hitched.

“I always saw myself as… the knife the Night Court uses,” he said, words loosening as if some dam had cracked. “Needed, sometimes. Effective. But not… the kind of person who sits at a warm table and eats food someone made just because they thought of me in a market. That was always for other people. The ones who didn’t do what I’ve done. The ones who get to be… people.”

She stepped around the table, something like fury and grief tangling in her chest.

“You are a person,” she said, kneeling in front of him so he had to look at her, so he couldn’t duck his head and fold in on himself. “You are mine.”

His lip trembled.

“I know that now,” he whispered. “When I’m with you, when I’m here. But there are… old parts of me that don’t. That see the world and think: you’re the shadow at the edge, not the one who sits in the sun.”

“Then we’ll keep correcting them,” she said fiercely. “With food and bad baking and… whatever else it takes.”

He huffed a watery laugh that turned into a sound suspiciously close to a sob.

She reached up and cupped his face, thumbs skimming over the scars he’d once hated.

“It’s not payment,” she said. “This isn’t… gratitude for missions or a reward for surviving. This is just… me, thinking of you, and wanting you to know there are parts of the world that are sweet and warm and yours.”

He closed his eyes briefly, lashes damp.

“You went to all this trouble,” he murmured, “for a feeling I didn’t even know I was missing.”

“That’s what love is, unfortunately,” she said, lightening her tone because his eyes were dangerously close to spilling over. “Terrible return on investment, very high risk.”

He laughed again, actually laughed, shoulders shaking.

A tear slipped free anyway.

She wiped it away with her thumb.

“Eat your custard,” she said, voice soft. “Before I change my mind and feed it to Rhys.”

He sniffed, half-amused, half-raw.

“I will stab Rhys,” he said, “if he touches this custard.”

“There he is,” she murmured, kissing his forehead. “My murderous little bat.”

They ate the rest more slowly.

He savored each bite as if mapping a new land—not for weaknesses, for once, but for surprises. The way the flatbread crackled at the edges. The stickiness of the sugar glaze on the Dawn twists. The cool slide of custard under summer fruit.

Halfway through, she realized he was watching her more than the food.

“What?” she asked, tongue flicking out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of her mouth.

His gaze tracked it.

“You have no idea,” he said quietly, “what it means that you did this. That you chose Solstice for it.”

“I have a vague idea,” she said.

He shook his head, searching for words.

“You built me a world,” he said slowly. “On a table. One where I wasn’t… required to be anything. Just… someone you thought of. Someone you went to war with dough for.”

“Dough started it,” she said.

He smiled, crooked and aching.

“I don’t… cry,” he said, almost in disbelief.

“You do,” she said gently. “Sometimes. When it’s safe.”

“It feels… safe,” he admitted. “With you. Here. Even when I’m tired and… not entirely myself. I walk in and it’s…” He gestured again, helpless. “Warm. It smells like things that have nothing to do with blood. The first thing I see is you.”

Her eyes pricked.

“That was the plan,” she said softly. “We’ve been to enough war rooms. We deserve… this.”

Her eyes stung. Annoying.

“We should go soon,” she said quietly, nodding toward the clock. “Family will start gifts soon.”

His hand tightened on hers.

“In a minute,” he said.

He set his spoon down, reached for her, fingers hooking in the fabric of her dress. He tugged, wordless.

She went willingly, climbing into his lap, curling in sideways so her knees bracketed his hip. His arms came around her automatically, like they’d been waiting for the excuse.

He buried his face in her shoulder, breath fierce against her neck.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice raw. “For this. For… seeing the parts of me that don’t know how to ask.”

She closed her eyes and held him, one hand in his hair, the other pressed to his back.

“Thank you,” she murmured back, “for coming home.”

“Happy Solstice,” he whispered, voice rough.

Her breath caught.

She leaned in, kissed his hair—right where that stubborn curl had fallen earlier.

“Happy Solstice,” she murmured back. “You’re home.”

They stayed like that for a long time.

Eventually, the tea cooled. The candles burned lower. The House of Wind sighed contentedly around them, floorboards and walls settling like an old beast going to sleep.

At some point, he pulled back just enough to look at her.

“You know,” he said, voice steadier now, “if you ever decide to do this again, you can ask for help.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“That defeats the point,” she said. “This was… from me.”

“Exactly,” he said. “And next time, I’d like to be greedy enough to help. To stand beside you at a stove and get flour on my nose. To be part of the making, not just the one receiving.”

She considered.

“Maybe,” she said. “If you promise to let me badly chop something for you one day.”

He smiled.

“Deal,” he said.

She traced the curve of his mouth with her fingertip.

“How does it feel?” she asked, teasing now, because she could feel the bond humming with something lighter, brighter. “To be on the receiving end of a ridiculous gesture?”

He huffed.

“Humbling,” he said. “Overwhelming. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

He kissed her knuckles.

“It makes me want to give you the world back,” he said softly. “Piece by piece. Every court, every sky, every pastry you burned for me. It makes me want to be better. Not for what I do. For who I am when I’m with you.”

Her eyes stung again, annoyingly.

“You already are,” she said.

He exhaled, slow and shaky, then leaned in and kissed her.

It was not a hungry kiss, not like the ones they shared in doorways and shadows and stolen corners. This was slow, deep, almost reverent. Tasting of herbs and sugar and all the things they’d just shared, all the things they hadn’t had names for until now.

When they broke apart, foreheads resting together, he whispered:

“You’re never allowed to say you’re bad at cooking again.”

She snorted lightly.

“I almost set your kitchen on fire,” she reminded him.

“You gave me a life I never thought I’d touch,” he replied. “Flour and burns and all.”

She closed her eyes.

“Then next time,” she said softly, “we’ll burn it together.”

His fingers tightened, just once, in the fabric of her dress.

“Next time,” he agreed.

The city glittered below. The wind moved through the open balcony door, cool and gentle. For the first time in a very long time, the male who had flown above so many courts and never landed for himself lay still and full and loved in his own.

And the female who had been made for war pressed a kiss to his hair and thought, fiercely:

This. This is also what we fought for.

Not just peace in treaties and borders. But nights like this.

Bread and sugar and the quiet miracle of watching him realize, bite by bite, that he was allowed to taste a world that wasn’t just made of blood.

Happy Solstice, my love.

—

You laced your hand with his. He exhaled like you’d taken a weight off his lungs. That was the first lesson: if there was a way to touch you, Azriel would find it. A palm on your back, the curl of his fingers through your belt loops as you reached for something high, a thumb pressed to the hinge of your jaw like he could unknit the day with a patient circle.

He said your name when he did it, always—like he was reminding the world who it needed to be gentle with.

⸻

In the training ring, he was worse.

You’d be hot-cheeked and stubborn, hair escaping whatever you’d tried to pin it with, stance a fraction off because tired lived in your knees that day. He’d circle you slow, all margin and intention, and when he stepped in to adjust your hand on the hilt he did it like you were glass and he was choosing where the light should go through.

“Lower,” he said, voice low enough to make your bones listen. His thumb pressed at the base of your fingers; you felt the calluses, the honesty of them. “There.”

When you refused to yield an inch, when your jaw went iron and the old anger showed its teeth, he didn’t match it. He never matched it. His hands stayed soft as instruction, even when his mouth didn’t. You ended up panting and irritated and victorious by degrees—and when you dropped the blade at last, he took your wrist and kissed the hammering pulse there in apology for every hard thing the world asked of you.

“Az,” you said, warning curling the syllable into a grin.

“What?” He blinked, too innocent. “I’m grounding my partner.”

“By kissing my wrists?”

“Effective,” he said, and you hated that he wasn’t wrong.

⸻

At the market, he threaded his fingers through yours and let his shadows trail the rest. The crowd had a way of swallowing edges; Azriel had a way of finding them again and leading you through with his hand warm and sure in yours. He could be impossible about it, possessive in the gentlest way, tugging you closer when the press grew too much, palm sliding to your waist like you were the only quiet in a noisy square.

“Do you need out?” he asked once, mouth near your ear, his breath a breeze that smelled like spice and something darker.

“No,” you said, even though you did. He didn’t argue. He just tucked you in against him, put his hand between your shoulder blades, and let the world move around you like water around a stone.

“Tell me if you change your mind,” he said.

“I will.”

“I know,” he answered, as if that knowing were the point.

⸻

After hard missions, he didn’t ask permission so much as offer it like a towel. “Please,” he’d say quietly, eyes already on your hands to check if they shook. “Let me.”

He took your gear with careful fingers. He unfastened buckles like he was undoing knots in a child’s hair. In the bath he gathered your hair away from your face and washed the wind and ash out of it, palms sure, not lingering anywhere that wasn’t welcome. If you leaned into him he made that soft sound in his throat like a man allowed to survive. If you flinched, he adjusted by inches until the water remembered how to be warm and you remembered how to let yourself lean.

“Gentle,” you breathed, and he nodded as if you’d told him a truth instead of a request.

“Always.”

Even when he was angry, even when fear made his voice go thin as wire, his hands stayed like this—quiet, reverent, repeating the promise because it helped both of you believe it.

⸻

You discovered, by accident, that Azriel made the smallest, most ruinous sounds when you put your hands on him with the same care he used on you.

It started with a storm. The shutters rattled, the Sidra threw her voice against the bank, and you found him in the library all coiled restraint and terrible patience at a table of maps. You didn’t speak. You stepped behind his chair and slid your palms over his shoulders—slow, steady, unhurried—and felt him exhale like a landing.

He tilted his head back, eyes closed, and made a breath, a rough noise that you wanted to gather and keep.

“Again,” he said, already wrecked.

You kneaded into muscle with the same focus you used on a knotty problem, thumbs pressing a line below his shoulder blades where his wings anchored. He shivered. The sound that fell out of him was quiet and honest and helpless in a way you’d never heard in a battlefield.

“Az,” you murmured, half laughter, half awe. “You make the softest sounds.”

“Do not,” he said, scandalized, “use that tone on my noises.”

You raked your nails lightly down, a cat’s affection. He made another one. You smiled into his neck. “Oh, I’m going to be unbearable.”

“Y/n,” he warned, except it wasn’t a warning. It was your name, offered up with his throat bared.

⸻

There were nights he came home with the kind of gravity in his shoulders that made you afraid to touch him at all. That’s when you learned how to offer your hands instead of your solutions.

He’d stand in the doorway of your room like a penitent. You’d open your arms like a church does, without question, and he’d come to you with every apology he couldn’t say yet written into the way his palms found your waist, your ribs, the back of your neck. You held his face the way you wished someone had taught him to hold his own.

“You’re here,” you said, as if it were the easiest truth in the world.

“I’m here,” he echoed, relief making him almost lightheaded. “Can I—”

“Yes,” you said, before he could finish. “Whatever it is, yes.”

He always asked. Please let me touch you like this. Even in the urgency that followed—breath hitched, clothes in the way, the two of you moving together with that old, inevitable draw—his hands never forgot how to be kind. If heat ran high, his palms stayed careful. If you had him on the edge of sense, his thumbs still traced soothing circles on your hipbones, guiding you both into joy, into relief, into the soft, brave work of getting free by being held.

And when you reached back for him—when you mapped him with the same reverence, learning every line of his shoulders, the warm flex of his stomach, the fall of his throat—Az lost his composure like a man grateful to be allowed to put it down.

He made quiet, helpless noises into your mouth. His breath broke when your hand spread over his ribs. His whole body answered when your palm slid between his shoulder blades and pressed him closer like you were reminding him he got to choose closeness, too.

He went feral for softness. Yours undid him most.

⸻

Once, after an argument that should have gone worse than it did, you stood in the hall, both furious and half-smiling at the stubbornness of the other. Pride was a wall you could both scale for sport, but neither of you wanted to live on the far side of it.

He looked wrecked in the low lamplight—explain-it-to-me eyes, jaw tight, careful because anger had always ended badly in the rooms of his life. He didn’t reach for you. He held his hands like you’d taught him: visible, steady, waiting.

“I’m still mad,” you said.

“I know.”

“And I still want you to touch me.”

He went very still. “Y/n.”

“Do you—” you tried again, steadier, “do you want to?”

He didn’t move for a beat; you saw the bite of restraint in his shoulders, the way he feared taking more than he was offered. And then you saw him choose trust. He stepped in and put his palm to your cheek, thumb sweeping that careful arc you’d grown addicted to, and the anger in both of you folded into something you could hold without being cut.

“Thank you,” he said, and meant it like a prayer. “For telling me how to love you.”

“Don’t thank me,” you said, mouth softening against his wrist. “Just keep doing it.”

“Gladly.”

⸻

He would reach for your hand in the most inconvenient places: mid-briefing, walking through the artists’ quarter, on a roof made of old slate while the city breathed underneath. He kept your fingers interlaced as if you were a tether he refused to misplace. Sometimes you tangled both hands and he leaned his forehead to yours in the open air like scandal lived elsewhere.

“Addicted?” you teased once, and he didn’t even pretend otherwise.

“Completely,” he said, like the word tasted good on his tongue.

⸻

On the rare mornings you woke earlier than him, you took inventory with your hands. The scar that cut the brow you’d kissed a hundred times. The soft place under his jaw that made his breathing change. The ridiculous, lovely mouth that had learned to smile first when he looked at you. He pretended to sleep and failed to hide the small exhale you never stopped falling in love with.

“You’re bad at pretending,” you whispered.

“I am trying,” he murmured, eyes still closed, smiling into the pillow.

You slid your palm down the long, warm line of his back. He made a sound so sweet your ribs ached.

“You like my hands,” you said, smug and dangerously fond.

“Worship,” he corrected, opening his eyes at last. He caught your wrist and pressed his mouth to your pulse with the single-minded focus that had made you survive a dozen kinds of nights. “Please keep touching me.”

“Bossy.”

“Begging,” he countered, and did not stop kissing your wrist until you laughed and gave him your other hand too.

⸻

It wasn’t always heat. Sometimes it was the plain, holy work of being two people in a life that didn’t apologize for being hard. The way he reached for you at the end of a crowded dinner, pinky hooking yours under the table as if he could pull you toward the quiet you both wanted. The way you tucked your hand into his sleeve on cold walks so your fingers would stay warm against his skin. The way he counted your breaths with the pads of his fingers splayed over your ribs when nightmares came hunting and left with nothing because your name, said in his wrecked, reverent voice, was a blade they didn’t recognize.

He loved you with his hands. He learned you with them, too—the little shiver you couldn’t hide when he traced the knob of your spine under your shirt, the way your breath hitched when his palm cupped the back of your neck and urged your mouth up to his. He kept a private litany of your soft sounds and the places he could earn them. It wasn’t conquest; it was devotion.

And when you gave that devotion back—when your fingers followed the arch of his wing where it met muscle, when you pressed careful kisses into the battered line of a scar he used to avoid showing—Az made those quiet, beautiful noises he’d never made for anyone else and looked at you like you were the answer he’d been afraid to write down.

“Again,” he would say, blinking hard like a man surfacing into light. “Please.”

“Always.”

He believed you. He touched you like he did.

⸻

People called him a thousand names. Shadowsinger. Spymaster. Knife. Ghost.

In your mouth, he was simpler: “Az.”

And he looked, every time. The hands that had held a hundred kinds of danger softened like they were relearning how to hold a miracle. Even when he was angry. Even when you were. Even when the world deserved to be taken by the throat.

He never took you by anything but the hand.

What you learned, between storms and markets and rooms that needed doors locked, was this: the fiercest thing he did was be gentle with you. Even when desire ran high, even when the bed asked for a little ruin—his palms stayed soft, his fingers coaxed instead of commandeered, his touch sang here, here, you’re safe, you’re wanted, stay with me. And when you turned that gentleness on him, when you ran your hands slow and sure over the body that had won a war and lost one and kept living anyway—he came apart like a man finally allowed to.

He made the softest sounds into your mouth. He whispered please without shame and thank you without pride and your name with a devotion that made you ache.

Addicted to touching you? Of course he was. He’d learned long ago that some salvations arrive in quiet, open hands.

He took them. He kept them. He kept you.

And every time he found your fingers in the dark and laced them with his, you felt the vow he didn’t have to speak, resting warm as a pulse across your knuckles:

Always, always, like this.

⸻

The magic responded to him instantly. A shimmering door appeared within the stone walls of a tucked-away home, ancient and warded with protections only Rhys could grant.

Elain’s lips parted slightly, a hint of wonder in her expression. "That’s... incredible."

Azriel gestured forward, his voice softer now. "After you."

She stepped through with cautious excitement, her skirts whispering around her ankles as she entered the dimly lit tunnel beyond. Azriel followed, watching the way the soft glow of the faelights illuminated her face, highlighting the delicate beauty of her features. She didn’t belong underground, in the dark halls of a library—but, Gods, he had never seen anything look more radiant against the shadows.

As they stepped further into the library, Azriel found himself watching Elain more than their surroundings. Her eyes were wide, drinking in the towering shelves that spiraled endlessly into the heart of the mountain, as if Velaris itself had carved out a sacred place for its stories and secrets. The soft glow of faelights bathed the intricate stonework in gold, and the quiet hush that blanketed the air felt almost reverent.

Elain’s lips parted slightly in awe, and he caught the way her fingers reached out, grazing the stone railing that overlooked the vast chasm below. Her expression was so full of wonder that something deep inside him stirred—something he tried to smother. He had been the first to show her Velaris, the Sidra… and now this. The thought filled him with an unexpected warmth.

He allowed himself a small, rare smile as he guided her through the labyrinth of shelves to the central desk, where Clotho stood waiting, her warm, patient presence an anchor in the library’s vastness.

Clotho tilted her head slightly in greeting, the soft rustle of parchment filling the air as her magic stirred. Azriel rarely smiled in public, where people knew him as the brooding, lethal shadowsinger. But here, in this quiet place, with Elain beside him—he couldn’t help it.

"Clotho, this is Elain," he said, his voice softer than usual.

Elain stepped forward, offering Clotho a bright, genuine smile. “It’s so wonderful to meet you. Feyre and Azriel have spoken so highly of you.”

A slip of paper appeared on the desk, the words forming in Clotho’s elegant script: "And I have heard much about you, Elain. Azriel says you are helping with the gardens of Velaris. The world needs healing in many ways, and I am sure you will change lives with your gifts. There are three main sections that might be of interest to you. Let me show you."

Elain’s face lit up with surprise, and Azriel felt a strange sense of pride swell in his chest. He had told Clotho about Elain's work, about her dreams to rebuild the gardens, and seeing the acknowledgment of it written so plainly made it feel... real. Important. He studied Elain’s face, noting the delicate pink that dusted her cheeks, the way she stood just a little taller at Clotho's words.

“Thank you,” Elain said softly, then turned to him, hesitating. “I don’t want to keep you...”

Azriel shook his head. “I enjoy exploring the library. There are so many areas I have yet to see.” A small lie. Clotho raised an amused brow at him, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes. He had spent centuries wandering these halls, learning their secrets. But he’d explore them a thousand times over if it meant spending a little longer with Elain.

Elain smiled up at him, and something in his chest constricted. “Wonderful!”

Clotho led them up a spiral staircase to one of the upper floors, her graceful fingers gesturing toward the rows of shelves marked with ivy-shaped sigils. "These first two rows contain studies of plants found only in the Night Court. Each court has its own dedicated section, and rows fourteen through sixteen focus on more technical botanical studies. I have gathered a few books that may serve as a starting point."

With a flick of her hand, a neat stack of books appeared on the nearest table. The scent of old paper and dried herbs filled the air. Elain’s eyes shone as she stepped closer to the table, brushing her fingers over the spines of the books. “Thank you! These are so helpful. I truly appreciate you taking the time to gather them for me,” she said, her voice full of warmth.

Clotho’s smile was subtle but unmistakable. Azriel knew she would like Elain. Everyone did. Being around her was like standing in sunlight, gentle, comforting, and impossible to ignore.

"I'll have the shadows take them back to the Townhouse" he said, and with a wave the shadows curled around them and they disappeared. "I still don't understand how that works," she admitted, her voice soft but laced with curiosity. The way his shadows moved—how they knew him so intimately—was unlike anything she’d ever seen. They were an extension of him, and yet, something more.

Azriel chuckled, the sound low and smooth, and she looked up to find that rare smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not sure I entirely do either,” he confessed. “Clotho and I have spent many hours trying to understand them, but they’re sometimes a mystery even to me. What we do know is they allow me to bend time and space, to... keep things.” His hazel eyes flickered with amusement. “I suppose you could call it my own personal cabinet.”

Clotho’s pen scratched over parchment, and a piece of paper floated before them: "The shadows exist in a space of their own, beyond this realm. He can store and retrieve from them at will."

Elain’s lips parted slightly. "So that’s where your stacks of paper come from each morning," she mused, glancing up at him.

Azriel inclined his head. "Yes, from my office at the House of Wind."

Elain nodded thoughtfully. “I forgot everyone has a room there... I don’t remember much about being there. I was... in a fog when I arrived.” Her voice drifted, the words tasting heavy on her tongue.

Azriel felt something twist inside him. He remembered those days too well. “I know. You had been through a lot, Elain. But yes, everyone from the Inner Circle has a space there. Even Amren—though I doubt she’s ever used it.”

Elain smiled, though it was faint. “Amren still scares me.”

Azriel chuckled. “She still scares me, and I’ve known her for centuries.”

Clotho’s parchment appeared once more: "She scares me too."

Elain's laughed rang like a bell. He could have lived in that moment forever, in the warmth of her laughter echoing through the cavernous space. But Clotho continued on, leading them to the next section. She gestured to a section lined with thick tomes and ancient scrolls.“This section focuses on healing,” Clotho explained, leading her forward. “Both with plants and magic. You’ll often find healers studying here.”

Elain’s fingers brushed over the bindings, her heart fluttering with a sense of purpose. “I’d love to learn more,” she murmured, eyes scanning the shelves. “Feyre told me about the medicines Madja creates from plants.” She looked to Azriel, excitement glimmering in her gaze. “To be able to heal with what I grow… that would be wonderful.”

Azriel watched her, a quiet admiration in his eyes. “I think Madja would like you,” he said softly. “She’s always searching for new remedies.”

They continued deeper into the mountain, the air cooling with each step down the winding staircase. Elain shivered slightly beside him, and every fiber of his being screamed at him to drape his jacket over her shoulders, to shield her from the cold. But he kept his hands fisted at his sides.

Clotho gestured ahead, her parchment stating: "This is where we house our archives on magic. And in your case... Earthvein."

Azriel watched as Elain’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Earthvein?” she echoed.

He nodded. “I believe The Mother gifted you with more than sight. Earthvein is incredibly rare. It allows you to connect with the earth, to make things grow, to heal the land itself.”

Her lips parted slightly in realization. “With the sweet peas,” she whispered.

Azriel gave her a small smile. “Yes.”

She hesitated, a fear raging in her eyes. “Please don’t tell the others,” she whispered. “I... I can barely handle being a Seer. If Feyre knew I had another power... she’d worry too much.”

Azriel met her gaze steadily. “I promise.”

Clotho nodded as well, sealing the promise in silence. Elain glanced back at the shelves of books and sighed softly. “Thank you.”

"I have a few books you can begin with. Outside of the Spring Court, we have the largest collection of Earthvein archives," Clotho's paper wrote, her graceful handwriting forming quickly. "If the Spring Court were not in its current state, we could request to borrow from their collection. But I fear that might take some time."

Elain hesitated, then suddenly turned to Clotho, a spark of urgency in her voice. “What about Seers? Do you have anything on them?” It was as if the thought had just struck her—realization dawning that answers could be found within these very walls. Azriel stiffened, already knowing the answer. He and Clotho had scoured these shelves for weeks, combing through ancient texts and forgotten scrolls, only to come up empty-handed.

Clotho's parchment lifted once more, the words appearing with practiced ease. “What we have is very limited. Seers are incredibly rare, and the Night Court has not had one in over a two thousand years. If we look outside our archives, the Day Court would be the most likely to hold useful information.”

Azriel's jaw tightened slightly. “But for now,” he said, his voice careful, measured, “we need to keep this information contained.”

Elain glanced up at him, confusion flickering in her expression. “Contained?”

Azriel exchanged a brief look with Clotho before answering. “If other courts found out about your gift... we can’t be certain how they would react.”

Elain’s brows knitted together. “React?”

Azriel exhaled slowly, weighing his words carefully. He and Rhysand had spoken of this possibility in hushed tones before the war—how dangerous it could be if Elain's gifts became known beyond their court. Seers had always been highly sought after, their abilities used to tip the scales of power. Wars had been waged for less. And while he was tasked with reporting any significant visions she had, something inside him whispered that Elain deserved the chance to come to terms with it herself, without pressure.

His voice was soft but firm when he finally spoke. “Having a Seer in their court is something other rulers would fight for. Some would stop at nothing to claim you.”

Elain’s face paled slightly, her lips parting in quiet shock. “I... I don’t want to start a war,” she whispered, guilt and uncertainty pooling in her eyes.

“You won’t,” Azriel assured her, his voice gentle yet resolute. “We’ll find out more about your gift, Elain. I promise.”

Clotho’s parchment floated toward her again. "Do you wish to take any of the books we have?"

“No,” Elain said quickly, shaking her head. She took a deep breath, pressing her hands together as if grounding herself. “The visions… they’ve begun to fade. And I’d rather learn how to stop them than encourage them. At least right now. I’m still... I just don’t think I can face it yet.”

Azriel’s hand, scarred and steady, reached out to rest lightly on her arm. “You don’t have to apologize, Elain. Clotho and I will be here when you’re ready.” Elain met his gaze, relief softening the tightness in her expression. She turned to Clotho, who nodded in quiet understanding.

“Thank you,” Elain whispered. Azriel gestured, and his shadows obediently curled around the books, whisking them away.

She exhaled, a hint of a smile ghosting over her lips. “Thank you, Clotho. For showing me all of this. I have so much to learn… but I suppose now I have hundreds of years to do it.”

Azriel watched the twinkle return to her eyes, that spark of hope that had been absent for too long. He had known the risk in bringing up the Earthvein, in pushing her to confront what lay beneath the surface—but she deserved to know. He couldn’t keep things from her, not when trust had begun to bloom between them like the delicate flowers she nurtured.