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You spent nine years with that mark on your hand. It took time to accustom yourself to, but you grew fond of it, as if the warmth of when Azriel had taken your hand, gentle and assured, lived upon you now. Reminding you of where you were and were not.

The pattern of the bargain tattoo was a precise mirror of Azriel’s scars, you had realized—his own had been lined by the ink of the bargain. Almost traced. You didn’t know how the patterns of bargains were chosen, but whatever it was certainly did not have a sense of humor.

As usual, Azriel was gone more often than he wasn’t. Sometimes you could feel a presence in that mark, in the bargain between you. Whenever the shadowsinger was in the same room, sometimes you’d feel a stronger pulse that grabbed your attention, often mirroring the intensity of his shadows, and you assumed he felt the same from your own emotions. You’d learned to lean into it, to find comfort in it, rather than worry too deeply. It was silent but steady, wordless but always there. And whenever the memories came, you would look at the ink and see something new. Something that did not exist the day your life had been stripped away from you.

Six years into the bargain, you were having dinner in the House of Wind with Mor. She’d been residing in the townhouse for some time, but often came to keep you company. As you lounged in the dining room, listening to her gossip, something jolted within you—burned in your hand—and you yelped.

“I know, right?” Mor said, mistaking it for a reaction. She’d been telling you about one of the Hewn City dealings between two families. “Absolutely insane, if you ask me. But I told them—”

“Mor.” You lifted your hand slightly, frowning at your palm. “Azriel’s in danger.”

She went rigid. “What?”

“He’s—” Your hand was trembling. Not because of him, but a sudden fear, a sudden certainty that gripped you. “Get Rhys. Get him—send him to—”

What’s happening? Rhys was in your mind in an instant. What’s wrong?

Where’s Azriel? You’d never sounded so frantic in your own mind before.

Autumn Court, getting intel on Spring. Why?

Find him. Now.

Rhys’s presence in your mind vanished. No questions asked. No time wasted. Not when it was his brother who might be in danger. The Inner Circle knew about the bargain the two of you made—not why or what, for Azriel had been as tight-lipped as usual when prodded, and so you had followed suit—but the mark said enough. Enough for Rhys to trust you.

And it saved Azriel’s life.

“Godsdamned bloodbane," said Cassian, scowling at an unconscious Azriel in the House of Wind hours later. The two of you were standing by the door next to a positively lethal looking Rhys as he listened to Madja’s explanations. Mor had just left to cover for your brother in a matter with the Court of Nightmares, making you promise to send word to her as soon as there were any updates.

“Godsdamned Beron,” you murmured, looking at Azriel’s sleeping face. He looked pale—unnaturally pale—and the color in his lips was nearly gone. There was an uncharacteristic but not unwelcome sense of peace in his expression, but his shadows had dissipated entirely, gone to Cauldron knows where. “How did they even capture him?”

“Ash weapons,” said Rhys, shutting the door after Madja. He looked like a murderous lynx ready to pounce. “Az picked up news of their stores being shared with Spring, and went to get information for my father.”

You straightened. “You let him go to inspect a storage of ash? Alone?”

 “Of course not,” Rhys growled. “He didn’t even tell me about this. He probably knew I would have gone to our father about it.”

You kneaded your temples. “His shadows aren’t magic. They shouldn’t be affected by the faebane.” 

“They aren’t,” said Rhys, his brows furrowed as he looked at his brother. “They disappear sometimes, when he’s unconscious. Or exhausted.”

The three of you watched him for a moment, metered by the rise and fall of Azriel’s chest. He would hate this, seeing you all worry for him.

“He can’t keep this up much longer,” you said at last, more to yourself than anyone else. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

“Father won’t listen to me,” Rhys murmured. “I’ve been telling him to give Az subordinates, at least. Even non-fae, wraiths and the like. He refuses.”

Cass looked like he was going to throttle the bed Azriel slept upon. “If this doesn’t convince him, I don’t know what will.” He turned to you—gaze softening only slightly. “It’s thanks to your lover’s pact that he’s alive. Thanks, princess.”

“Not a lover’s pact, Cass.”

“That’s all you took from what I said?”

You sighed. “I don’t know how to work it.” You held up your palm. “Bargains aren’t supposed to form… emotional bonds. I don’t know why this one did.”

Rhys leaned against the doorway. “The bargain you made was emotional, I assume. The bond matched its intensity.”

You chewed on the inside of your lip. For the first time since making that pact, the mark on your hand felt like… a mark. Nothing more. Nothing alive or breathing within it. You tried to reach deep inside of you for something to enliven it, make it burn warmly again, but found nothing.

“It could be a real innovation, you know,” said Rhys, eyeing you. “If you can figure out a way to manipulate bargains to create a form of communication.”

You considered it. It reminded you of things you’d read in Dawn and Day’s libraries. There was a spark of curiosity—no, excitement—that flickered inside of you like a match at the theory, the possibility of developing it further. Just like you used to feel when Helion taught you a new technique or Thesan brought a new mechanic to show you their trade.

As quickly as the burst came, it slipped away, and your shoulders slumped. You only shrugged. Something cracked through Rhys’s face.

You hated the sight and brushed away the shame, leaning into Cass’s shoulder. He mussed your hair. “When do you think he’ll wake?” you asked.

“I wouldn’t wait on him,” said Rhys. “Madja expects him to be out for a while. His body is showing signs of fatigue from long before this attack.”

Your chest lurched. A part of you was angry with Azriel for allowing this to happen to him—then angry at yourself for ever blaming him at all.

“Let’s go, princess,” said Cass, guiding you out the door. You knew from the look Rhys gave him that they’d been speaking mind-to-mind just a second ago, but you were too preoccupied to care. “Time for you to sleep, too. You don’t look so good yourself.”

You slapped his arm, and he chuckled as he steered you to your bedroom.

Those nine years passed quietly before the bargain was fulfilled. As promised, Azriel’s efforts found the weak spot in the Spring Court’s defenses, the proper timing to attack the High Lord and his sons. It had been his relentless missions that had allowed Rhys and your father to exact revenge.

By then, you’d let Rhys see the memory of what happened to you—let him watch as Tamlin’s brothers plastered you to the ground, tore their blades into you, tormented you and your mother until they believed you were both dead. The memory was eternal, returning to your dreams every night, even nearly a decade later. And when Rhys joined your father to exact revenge upon the Spring Court, Rhys himself tore them apart, one by one.

It had been your request to spare Tamlin’s mother, and Rhys made sure to receive your father’s word that she would be. That what happened to you and your mother would never happen to any mother or child ever again.

In the end, your wishes, as they often were to your father, meant little. For he did not keep his promise.

It was a swift and brutal night. While the High Lord of the Night Court slaughtered the High Lord of the Spring Court, Rhys slaughtered his heirs for what they did to you. But then your father advanced to Tamlin’s mother and Tamlin himself. 

Tamlin had always been among the strongest of the heirs. And when your father found him, Rhys chasing after, the heir to Spring realized what was happening. He smelled the blood, saw the death that had been scraped through that glittering court. Knew his family had been murdered.

And he killed your father in a single blow.

Rhys had shown you that part of the memory, let you look at the wide-eyed Tamlin facing Rhys in the dark after that moment. You’d felt the power shift from your father to Rhys as if you were Rhys himself, jolted by the sudden energy in your veins. You’d seen how Tamlin seemed to have felt it from his own father, too. And through the memory, you had watched your brother flee. 

That night, your brother became the High Lord.

Azriel was in the House of Wind the next morning. You didn’t even see his wings or his face—you all but ran to him when he landed on the balcony, dazed. He was windswept and looked like he hadn’t slept in days, but he was no longer your father’s spymaster. He was your brother’s, at last.

 It was the same as being entirely free.

The urge to reach for him overcame you, but you knew better than to touch Azriel unwarranted. He barely endured Cass’s touchiness. You knew for certain he wouldn’t allow yours. “You did it,” you breathed, blinking through your stinging vision. “And you’re…” Free from my father. Your own person again. Free. Free. Free.

Azriel’s gaze fell to your hand first. You thought he looked relieved. “Are you… doing all right?”

You blinked, still fighting a smile of relief. “What?”

“Your father.” Azriel scratched the back of his hair. “I… I’m sorry for your loss.”

Right. Of course. The father who was no father to you at all. You shook your head. “It isn’t like that.”

His chin dipped. “And Rhys? How is he?”

You wrung your fingers, glancing towards the House. His relationship with your father was strained, neutral at best, but it still took a toll upon him far more than you. You only shook your head. “He needs time.”

Az nodded. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

“More than all right, Az. I’m glad you’re…” You swept over his figure, as if to acknowledge it. “You won’t have to work like this anymore. If you choose to work for Rhys, it’ll basically be a partnership.”

He drew in a long breath, as if he’d been thinking the same thing. “Yes. I believe so, too.”

“You want to? Work as a spymaster, I mean.”

He nodded. “For Rhys, I would.”

You mirrored him. Then looked at your tattoo. “And this?” you asked, wiggling your fingers. “Why is it still here?”

“Because the bargain isn’t over,” he said. “You still have to do the favor I was promised.”

You stared, trying to recall the bargain at all—you’d forgotten the actual details, considering it was mostly his promise that had remained with you. “Oh,” you finally said. “I suppose you’re right.” You shifted on your feet. “What is it, then? What do you want?”

He considered you. “Another bargain,” he said.

For a moment, you only blinked. “What?”

“Another bargain,” he repeated. “I want another one. A simpler one that can be fulfilled easily.” He flicked his chin in gesture to the mark. “Then you can test out the extents and uses of a bond’s communication.”

You had mentioned the theory to him before. But there hadn’t been time to experiment with it, test its limits or take anything to Day and Dawn. You tilted your head. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Az affirmed.

“Why?”

“Why not?” he asked. “Rhys said that theory might be able to do us some good. Or would you prefer something more difficult?”

“No,” you said briskly. “No, that’s… fine. What’s the other end of the bargain, then?”

“Up to you,” he said. “Just pick something easy to fulfill.”

Your lips twisted in thought. “All right.” You reached behind the nape of your neck, unclasping the chain tucked beneath your neckline. “Put this on,” you said, offering it forward.

He stared at it, but took it, putting it around his neck. There was no pendant, no design. Only the silver your mother had given you.

“This belongs to you now,” you told him. “If you ever remove that necklace, it will belong to me.”

He shook his head. “You need to be the one who can break it.”

“Then go the other way around.”

He nodded, unclasping the necklace. You put it back on. “If you remove that necklace, it will belong to me. Deal?”

A simple fulfillment. “It’s a bargain.” You offered your still-marked hand. He took it and shook.

The mark disappeared all but for a moment—then returned.

It was the same, now-familiar pattern, but in lighter ink now, beautifully deep navy and violet that shifted like starlight and auroras over your skin. You could still feel it, that warmth laced deep into your flesh, your bones, your being.

“Test it whenever and however you want,” Azriel said.

You nodded. “Why do you want me to, anyways?”

“Who else in Prythian can?” he asked. “You’re the most versatile of High Fae.”

“I’m not High Fae,” you corrected.

“Doesn’t matter what you are. You’re likely the smartest of any living fae.” He didn’t seem fazed by the quiver in your expression. “Let me know how your research progresses. I think I’ll be in the House of Wind more often now.”

You couldn’t help your grin now—perhaps the first one you had worn in years. “Will do, Shadowsinger.”

His eyes brightened, only a sliver. “Glad to hear it, princess of Velaris.”

Another year passed, and while you were still averse to wings, your grief could only ground you for so long. With Illyrian blood, like magic itself, there was always the inner urge to use what was given to you; to fly, or to let power surge through you. And perhaps the fae parts of you that had thrived in other courts had sustained you well before all this guilt, before all this burgeoning rage. But now, they could no longer.

You were four and a half decades of age when you first stepped foot into the Illyrian camps.

It was a miracle Rhys permitted you. You’d never forget how the blank look on his face had twisted into something like panic—or disgust—when you first told him.

But by then, exactly a decade after your mother’s death, a fourth of your life had already been spent without her. It was only a matter of time before you or Rhys reached your centennial, yet you were still considered young, so young. You were afraid you might lose all of who you once were in your first three decades by the time the absence of your mother took up the majority of your life.

You wanted to grow stronger. To fix the parts of you that had failed. And you knew no other place to do it, with your Illyrian blood thrumming through you, begging you to be released after so long.

You had begun to visit Dawn and Day more often. It had been a worthy distraction, to research and learn and spend time in a place so far removed from the horror that haunted you every night. But you decided to dedicate yourself wholly to training. There could be no more distractions.

It was time, you thought. Time to at least be surrounded by those wings even if you thought you would never be able to wear them yourself again.

But Rhys wasn’t a fool. He knew, in part, you were also punishing yourself.

He also knew that if you didn’t do this under his supervision, you would find other ways to channel your guilt. And you were an Illyrian as much as he was, after all. You knew he would struggle to deny you an opportunity that had been so easily given to him.

Being a female, it was a privilege of your blood to stand in the training camps as a warrior and not be killed the moment you stepped out. That made it no easier. Your brother spent those first days visiting the camp, growling at anyone who so much as glared at you. But you didn’t want to be coddled, and he wasn’t your parent—even if he was all you had left. That’s where Cass and Az came in. The greatest warrior in the camp and the shadowsinger seemed about as welcoming as the rest at first, vicious and capable—more capable than any others in the camp—but they were somewhat familiar. And when they looked at you, there was no guilt in their eyes. No desperate need to atone for something you still couldn’t tell if he could have prevented.

You had grown far closer with Rhys in the time you’d come to stay in Velaris, and it was easier not to have him stand your ground at the camps. Your name did enough to prevent anything unforgivable, but that made no less of the treatment easier to endure. Cassian was a general, and his word went, but he’d grown into something as ferocious as Rhys without provocation, as protective over you as someone of your own blood, as if he saw you just as Rhys did. And he was too familiar with the males of the camps: it seemed the Illyrians wanted to provoke Rhys and Cass. Always little by little. Because violence, confrontation, battle, they knew. But Azriel… they didn’t know his ways, and they were afraid of him, the shadowsinger. The times he came to the camp, he didn’t need to make himself known to ward off offenders. They cleared at the shadows in his eyes, around his shoulders. And when he looked at you… they cleared ever slightly, gaining back that ease you’d seen in him when you were children.

He’d stay in your mother’s house with you when he visited. It was where you kept rather than those horrible male barracks. And he was warmer there—quiet, listening more than speaking, unlike Cassian, but warm. Never unkind. Thoughtful, even, with how accommodating he was. It wasn’t uncommon to wake second to him in the mornings and find food already on the table, or your leathers cleaned before you had a chance to. It seemed you were his guest in that house more than him—and you supposed you were, with how much longer he’d spent there. Sure, Cass and Rhys were often doing much of the same, but you supposed the real reason you preferred Azriel’s company was that nothing came in return: no questions, no delicate treading.

Az didn’t ask you why you didn’t summon your wings. He didn’t ask about what the nightmares were, or what had you screaming in the middle of those unlucky nights they overtook you in the house during a visit. The three of them always came at any sound, of course, if only to make sure you weren’t truly in danger. But Az never made you feel like you were being… plagued by your past. Rhys always pulled you from your dreams by seeing them first, and you never had the heart to tell him not to look in your mind. At least in these recollections, he could be there. You wouldn’t be alone. He’d hold you, speak softly, look at you like he, too, was in pain, and it tormented you.

Cass was a little better, but he looked at you with a gaze that said, I’m sorry. Not out of guilt but genuine sadness. He cared for you, hated that this was what you endured when all you merely wanted was peace.

Azriel did none of those things. The first time he was there to hear your thrashing, it was his touch that pulled you from the nightmares, bare, scarred hands running down your shoulders, warm and firm. Then the sound of his voice, deep and smooth coursing as the shadows themselves, yet so gentle, so careful. There was no surprise like Cass, no desperation like Rhys—perhaps a little hint of alarm, of urgency, which you couldn’t blame him for but was certainly more than you’d ever heard from the shadowsinger—and he was unbreakably practical. It was a dream. It wasn’t real. Always that first. Always that it was over, that you were safe. Then would come your name, tenderly, calm, to soothe you rather than fight your temper.

Az always let you cry, never wavering—never silently joining you as Rhys sometimes did as he held you. And you could never blame your brother for that; you had the privilege of breaking apart in Velaris before putting yourself somewhat back together. He hadn’t. He’d become High Lord, for Cauldron’s sake. Despite how much you loved him, how much he knew your pain, and how much as he could have somehow prevented what happened, you were certain he could ever ease your pain with his own.

Azriel didn’t know your pain, and yet he understood it. He saved you from its echoes better than any other person could. And when you woke the next mornings, there were no questions. Even if you fell back asleep in his arms, you’d wake alone, sunlight pouring through the windows, the smell of toast wafting from the kitchen, and a shadow trailing from the blinds and slipping under the door, as if to both report to its master and tell you to come down. And if you wanted breakfast silent, Az would stay silent. His shadows would flitter around him and his own wings, but he never pressed beyond your well being.

You already knew the horrors of his upbringing through Rhys—the same way you were sure Az knew about your past—and you knew his brothers found him difficult to pry information from. Perhaps it was his own history that made him understand when to press and when not to.

He understood that if you wanted to say it, you would.

All of them knew what you had gone through already. That had never stopped Cass or Rhys from pressing about something or the other. You wouldn’t be surprised if Rhys had passed over the memory of finding you to them. Never your own memory, of course—when you finally came around to show him, to shoulder that burden, Rhys had offered to dim that. He’d offered to strip it away, and your reaction—your horror—at the very mention had been enough for him never to offer something like that again.

So, while Azriel’s quiet terrified the rest of Prythian, like your brother, you saw the warmer parts of his quiet. Of his deliberation. Even that fated day three years after you began training in Illyria, when you were at the strongest you had ever been and a half dozen Illyrian males still managed to string you out into the forest in the middle of the night, addle you with bloodbane, and try to clip your wings from when they materialized during your nightmares, Azriel was quiet when he winnowed into the clearing. He was quiet when he threw the first one so violently into a tree that it splintered and cleaved. So quiet, even as your brother winnowed in a breath later, wordlessly sweeping you into his arms with undiluted rage in his eyes. So quiet, even in that heartbeat before Rhys winnowed away, when the shadowsinger began to slaughter those Illyrians who touched you, one by one.

You took on emissary work. There was little for you to learn in Illyria anymore unless you wanted to participate in the Blood Rite, which you both did not wish to do and did not wish to burden Rhys with. If a training camp was horrid to you, every qualifying Illyrian in lawless territory was worse than a death sentence for a female. Better yet, your experience across territories growing up gave you an edge as an emissary—most courts, even those not particularly fond of the Night Court, still had at least one or two figures of power who tolerated or actually liked you; even Autumn court had Eris. You had ties everywhere.

Spring Court was the exception, but by choice. The few times you saw Lucien across courts, it was clear you both had no hope or desire to do diplomatic work between Night and Spring. It was Lucien Vanserra you spoke to when you saw him, not the Spring emissary, and it was you he respected, not the Night Court. 

At least he knew better than to ever mention Tamlin, even if only to notify you that you would not be hunted as Rhys or anyone from his Inner Circle would. Even he seemed to know it was as assuring as if Eris invited him back to Autumn.

It helped you pick up pieces of yourself, being an emissary. Visiting many courts didn’t even feel like work. From staying in Day and Dawn, relations, as Rhys called it, often felt more like passing along notes to friends. Helion and Thesan had been more familiar faces than the Night Court for months at a time before your mother’s death, and they had always been kind to you. It had been Helion’s power, after all, that had saved your life that day. You hadn’t been awake for it, but when Rhys found you, he’d sent for Helion immediately, who picked up where Madja left off. In your first visits back to his court when you finally managed to be a semblance of yourself again, you were sure to tell Helion he had saved your life in more ways than one. 

After news had emerged of Tamlin’s father’s atrocities—and years later, the atrocities your own father committed in retaliation in front of your own brother—while many courts cautiously, subtly withdrew from the Night Court, it was Dawn who sent immediately for word of your recovery and if anything could be provided—ranging from prosthetic body machinery to even refuge. 

The High Lord of Dawn was luminous, but you had never seen Thesan doused in such shadow as when you had visited him those first times after the attack. You could have only imagined the state of you then. Now, for your emissary visits, he was brighter, at ease. 

You came to enjoy returning to Velaris, to the nights where the entire Inner Circle was home and you’d find them already convened around the table for dinner. Even on the nights they didn’t anticipate your return, the seat between Rhys and Mor was always left open, the latter clapping furiously in delight at your arrival.

It was the closest thing you had to the years in your mother’s house again. Your brother would rise to press a kiss to the crown on your head, wings already settling comfortably back in his seat as Cass passed you a filled plate. Sometimes your gaze lingered on Rhys’s wings—sometimes he wore them, other times not, and you were sure it would be more comfortable to abandon them here even though the chairs accommodated them. But Rhys loved them—his wings. Somehow, despite everything, he loved them.

And here you were, still making your brother keep the House wards modified to let you winnow in.

Everyone was home when you returned from your latest work in Dawn, helping allocate resources and imports for the Night Court. Rhys wore his wings today, and you’d been mellowed by the ease of Dawn, so untroubled, for once, that the sight made you falter before you reached to greet him. With Azriel’s shadows swirling around his tucked wings, and Cassian’s wings confidently half-lifting with each grin, your brother looked so perfectly suited among them. They had made homes in their wings. Even Azriel, who hated Illyria. 

“Sister dearest,” Rhys purred, enveloping you in a hug. You frowned into his chest as he dipped his chin to your ear. “Mor and Cassian are at it again,” he whispered. “Don’t mention anything relating to romance. Or females.”

It only earned him a snort before you slid next to your cousin, who was glaring daggers at Cass. You didn’t hide your amusement, but didn’t say anything, either.

“What happened to you in Dawn, girl?” asked Amren, who had torn her eyes from the two and landed upon you. “Where did you go?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I sense something. Darkness. Something old.”

It was enough to draw Mor’s attention to you, momentarily forgetting her qualms. “Did something happen?”

“No,” you said. “What are you talking about, Amren?”

Her eyes narrowed, silver-gray flashing like unsheathed blades. “It’s in your scent.”

“I don’t smell anything,” said Rhys.

“Of course you don’t,” she snarled. “This sort of scent is millennia older than you. You wouldn’t know it if it were right in front of you—it is right in front of you.”

“And what, precisely, is it?” he asked calmly.

“That place,” she seethed, baring her teeth. You flinched.

“The Prison?” Rhys asked incredulously. His eyes shot to you now, alarmed. “Did you go there?”

You shook your head. “Maybe someone at Dawn did. I know Thesan had visitors, but I didn’t see them.”

“The only way for you to reek like that is to have been there.” Amren’s eyes were glowing now. “Speak the truth, girl. I don’t like to be reminded of that place.”

“I am speaking the truth,” you snapped.

Amren only hissed, looking like she was about to launch from her chair.

“Easy,” said Azriel, and your gaze flicked across the table. He’d nearly fizzled out in the shadows, making you forget of his presence. His eyes were on Amren, scoping how her demeanor had shifted into something ravenously predatory. His interjection was enough to make her wait—but not soften.

“Explain,” Rhys said to Amren.

“It’s the scent of containment,” she ground out. “Of power being locked away, stifled, until it compresses into itself and becomes something endlessly darker.”

Your eyes were wide upon her, mostly in disbelief. “I spent a week negotiating imports. Then I went to the library. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“She’s mistaking your scent for something else,” said Azriel. His attention flicked to your brother, and you knew there was a conversation, brief and fleeting, happening between them. 

“It’s the wings,” Rhys said at last. “It’s your wings being contained.”

For a moment, you didn’t know who he was talking to. There was no more your wings when it came to you. Enough time had passed for you not to attribute that to yourself any longer. But when the room kept silent, and everyone’s eyes had finally found you, it settled with dark, grainy certainty.

You didn’t know how to answer.

“Not like that,” said Azriel suddenly, glancing at Rhys. “Absolutely not.”

“Not what?” you managed, too disconcerted to reveal your annoyance at Rhys's daemati conversation to shut you out. But the two of them were suddenly locked as if in a staring contest.

Az was scowling at Rhys. “It’s not up to you.”

Rhys scowled back. “She needs to.”

“She wouldn’t want—”

“She is right here,” Mor snapped, drawing back their attention. You silently thanked her, even as you glared at your brother.

“Use your words, Rhys,” you said. “Don’t piss me off.”

Rhys let out a ragged breath. “Should you, Az, or should I?”

Az didn’t respond to him. He just looked at you. “Some Illyrian wings, when left unused for too long, will accumulate the reserves of their energy. Similar to how an Illyrian would feel if they didn’t wear their necessary Siphons. It can… condense within the host and bring a slew of issues. It’s similar to the scent Amren is sensing because of its contained power.”

Understanding began to settle. Your mouth felt dry. “Plenty of females with clipped wings don’t have this issue.”

“Clipped wings are different,” said Rhys. His violet eyes were tentative. “Yours are in perfect condition. The Illyrian power in you hasn’t changed. It will have the same side effects if contained within you like that.”

“You’re saying she needs to summon her wings?” asked Cassian. He’d been keeping quiet for once, which only made you more nervous. If he knew not to talk, then this had to be more serious than you wanted it to be.

“No.” Rhys’s throat shifted. “More than that.”

Blood drained from your face. You looked at Az, who said to Cassian, “She needs to fly.”

author's note ohhh yeah next chapter is probably my favorite so far. thank you for sticking along and commenting/reblogging/sharing! you're truly angels. taglist is still open, just comment to be added xx

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Day and night he was with me, asking how I was feeling, if I was tired, if I was hungry, if I was too warm, too cold, too anything. He asked so often that I had started laughing every time he opened his mouth.

But this morning... this morning something felt... off.

Not wrong. Not painful. Not anything I could explain properly. Just different. 

Like my body was quieter than usual, or maybe I was just more aware of everything happening inside me.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time, one hand resting absentmindedly over my stomach, trying to decide if I was being ridiculous or not.

Azriel slept beside me, one arm still draped across my waist, his wings relaxed behind him. He looked peaceful like this, more peaceful than he ever looked anywhere else in the world.

I didn't want to wake him but then a thought came to me.

"Az," I whispered softly.

He hummed but didn't wake.

I smiled slightly and leaned closer, brushing my fingers lightly along his arm. "Az, I think the baby wants those cinnamon pastries from the bakery beside the Rainbow for breakfast."

His eyes opened immediately. No confusion. No hesitation. Just awake.

He blinked once, then nodded like this was the most normal request in the world. "Of course they do," he murmured, already sitting up and reaching for his clothes.

I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing.

He didn't even question it. Didn't tease me. Didn't point out that I had never once craved those pastries before in my life.

He just pulled on his shirt, leaned down to press a quick kiss to my forehead, then climbed straight out the window and launched into the morning sky.

I snickered to myself as I got out of bed slowly, wrapping a robe around my body and making my way downstairs.

The house was quiet, filled with soft morning light and the faint sounds of Velaris waking beyond the windows. I moved around the kitchen slowly, setting out plates, pouring tea, trying to ignore the strange, uneasy feeling sitting low in my chest.

I sat at the breakfast table and rested both hands gently on my stomach, rubbing small circles absentmindedly.

"Cinnamon and sugar sounds really nice," I hummed softly to myself.

But the strange feeling didn't go away.

I couldn't explain it. I didn't know what was wrong. I just felt... off. Like something was different this morning and I didn't know why.

I was still sitting there when the window opened again and Azriel stepped inside, a small paper box in one hand and two cups in the other.

He landed quietly, like he always did, then walked straight over and set everything down in front of me like this was a normal morning and not a male who had flown across the city at sunrise for pastries.

"You're spoiled," he said quietly, though there was no heat in the words.

"You love spoiling me," I replied.

He leaned down and kissed the top of my head. "I do."

He sat beside me, opening the box so the smell of cinnamon and sugar immediately filled the room. My stomach growled instantly, which made him smirk slightly.

But I didn't reach for the pastry right away.

He noticed immediately. His shadows shifted slightly behind him, curling closer, and his eyes moved to my face. "What is it?"

I hesitated. "I don't know," I admitted quietly. "I just feel a little... off this morning."

He didn't panic. Didn't tense. Didn't react the way I had been afraid he might. He just reached across the table and took my hand, rubbing his thumb gently over my knuckles.

"Off how?" he asked calmly.

"I don't know," I repeated, frowning slightly. "Not sick. Not in pain. Just... different. I can't explain it."

He studied my face for a long moment, like he was trying to read every thought I hadn't said out loud.

Then he stood, walked around the table, and gently placed his hands on my waist before leaning down slightly so his ear rested lightly against my stomach through the thin fabric of my robe.

I laughed softly. "Azriel, there is nothing to hear yet."

"I know," he murmured, though he didn't move right away.

He just stayed there for a moment, one hand splayed protectively over my stomach, his shadows drifting low and slow around us.

Then he straightened and pressed a soft kiss just below my ribs.

"Everything is fine," he said quietly. "You're probably just tired. Or hungry. Or both."

"You always think food is the solution," I said.

"It usually is," he replied.

That made me smile. He guided me gently back into my chair and pushed the plate toward me. 

"Eat," he said softly. "Then if you still feel off later, we'll call Madja. But right now, you and the baby are going to eat cinnamon pastries."

"The baby," I repeated softly, smiling slightly.

He looked at me then, really looked at me, his expression softening in that way that only I ever saw.

"The baby," he confirmed.

So I picked up the pastry and took a bite, and Azriel sat beside me drinking his tea, one hand resting lightly on my knee the entire time like he needed the contact.

Like he needed to remind himself we were both still here.

And slowly, as we sat there together in the quiet morning light, the strange feeling in my chest eased just a little.

Not gone but quieter. Easier to ignore.

I told myself it was nothing. That my body was changing, adjusting, doing things I didn't understand yet. That not every feeling meant something was wrong. That I didn't need to panic over every small shift, every unfamiliar sensation.

So I didn't say anything else. And the day passed. Soft. Calm. Almost normal.

Azriel stayed close, as he always did now, never far, never out of reach. His presence wrapped around me like a constant shield, his shadows quieter than usual, drifting low and watchful.

By the time evening fell, I had almost convinced myself that the unease from this morning had been nothing more than nerves. Almost.

The door opened just as the sky outside deepened into shades of violet and gold.

"Ah," Cassian's voice rang out, loud and familiar as ever, "how's my favourite pregnant female?"

A small laugh escaped me despite everything. "Cass, I'm the only pregnant female you know."

"Details," he waved off, already stepping further inside.

"What he means to say," Rhysand added dryly from behind him, "is that we brought dinner."

He set a bag down on the counter, the scent of warm food quickly filling the room. Cassian hovered behind him, already peering inside like he hadn't been the one carrying it two seconds ago.

Azriel appeared behind me then, close enough that I felt the heat of him before I even turned. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he took in the scene, no doubt about to make some comment.

But the words never came.

A small groan slipped from my lips before I could stop it. It wasn't loud. Barely more than a breath but it was enough.

Azriel stilled instantly behind me.

Rhys's head snapped in my direction, violet eyes narrowing slightly. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah," I said quickly, a little too quickly. "I'm fine."

I pressed a hand lightly to my stomach, rubbing absently, trying to ignore the dull, unfamiliar ache that had started to settle low in my abdomen.

It wasn't sharp. Not unbearable. Just... wrong.

Cassian had gone quiet. Which, in itself, was enough to make my stomach drop.

"Mother above—" he breathed. 

Something in his tone made my heart stutter. Slowly, too slowly, I followed his gaze downward. 

And everything in me stopped.

The white fabric of my pants—was red. Bright. Spreading. For a second, my mind refused to understand what I was looking at. Refused to make sense of it.

Then it hit. All at once.

"Az?" My voice came out small. Fragile. I turned to him blindly, my hand fisting in the front of his shirt as panic crashed over me so violently it stole the air from my lungs. "Something hurts."

His name was barely out of my mouth before he was moving.

"Sit down," Azriel said immediately, his voice sharp but controlled, his hands already on me, guiding me, steadying me, lowering me into the nearest chair.

His shadows surged around us, faster now. Tighter.

"Rhys," he snapped.

"I'm already getting her," Rhysand replied, his voice calm but urgent, a hand lifting slightly as his power flickered.

Cassian was beside me in an instant, crouching down in front of me, his usual ease completely gone. 

"Hey, hey—look at me," he said, his voice softer now. "You're okay. Just breathe, alright? Just breathe."

But I couldn't. I couldn't breathe.

The pain was getting worse, sharper now, twisting low in my stomach, stealing every coherent thought from my mind.

"Azriel—" I gasped, clutching his hand tighter.

"I'm here," he said immediately, dropping to his knees beside me, one hand gripping mine, the other resting gently but firmly against my stomach like he could somehow stop whatever was happening. "I'm right here."

There was something in his voice I had never heard before. 

Fear.

Madja arrived moments later. Or maybe minutes. Or maybe seconds. Time didn't make sense anymore. She moved quickly, efficient, calm, practiced but I saw it. 

The shift in her expression the moment she took everything in.

The blood. The way I was shaking. The way Azriel hovered so close it looked like he might break apart if he stepped back.

Her magic was warm as it settled over me, but it didn't feel soft and glowing. It felt heavy. Searching. Too serious.

I watched her face the entire time. Waiting. Praying. Azriel's hand never left mine. Not once.

The room had gone completely silent. Even Cassian wasn't speaking. Even the shadows had stilled.

Madja's hands slowed. Then stopped. And something in my chest—shattered.

She looked up at us slowly. At me. Then at Azriel. There was hesitation in her eyes. And that was worse than anything she could have said.

"I'm so sorry," she said gently. The words barely registered. "I'm so sorry... but you've lost the baby."

No. No, that—no, that wasn't—that wasn't possible.

My head shook slightly before I even realised I was doing it. "No," I whispered. "No, I—this morning, we—"

It had been real. It had been real.

Azriel's grip on my hand tightened painfully, but I barely felt it. Everything felt distant. Muted. Like I was underwater.

"I'm sorry," Madja said again, softer this time.

My chest caved in.

Like something had reached inside me and ripped everything out, leaving nothing but emptiness behind.

The bond... I felt it.

The grief. The heartbreak. The devastation that wasn't just mine, but his, too, crashing through it all at once, too much, too overwhelming but I couldn't focus on that.

I couldn't focus on anything except the hollow, aching void where hope had lived just hours ago.

Where the baby had been.

A broken sound left my throat, something between a sob and a gasp, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach like I could still protect something that was already gone.

Gone.

Tears blurred my vision quickly, my entire body shaking violently as the reality settled in piece by piece.

Three years. Three years of hoping. And just when we finally had it—it was gone.

My heart broke quietly. Completely.

And there was nothing anyone could do to put it back together again.

Azriel's POV -

Our baby. Our baby that had been alive hours earlier... now wasn't.

The words didn't make sense in my head. They didn't fit together properly. They didn't belong in the same sentence. Alive. Gone. Baby. Loss. None of it felt real. None of it felt possible.

And yet there was blood on the floor.

And Madja was still standing in front of us with that careful, gentle expression healers wore when there was nothing left to fix.

I didn't remember standing up, but suddenly I was. My hand was still wrapped around my mate's, and I realised distantly that I was holding on too tight but I couldn't make myself loosen my grip.

She was shaking. Not crying yet. Just shaking. Like her body hadn't caught up to what was happening.

"I'm so sorry," Madja said again quietly.

I barely heard her. I was watching my mate. Watching the moment it truly hit her.

Her hand moved slowly to her stomach, pressing there like she could still protect something, still hold onto something that was already gone. Her face crumpled then, not all at once, but slowly, like something inside her was breaking piece by piece instead of all at once.

Then she made a sound I had never heard before.

I had heard her laugh. Cry. Yell. Whisper. I had heard her in pain and in joy and in anger and in love.

But I had never heard a sound like that.

It was raw. Animal. A sound that came from somewhere deep and shattered and beyond words.

She doubled over slightly, her fingers clutching the fabric of her shirt over her stomach as the sobs started, violent, uncontrollable sobs that shook her entire body.

I moved instantly, pulling her into me, wrapping my arms around her as tightly as I could without hurting her.

"I've got you," I whispered, even though the words felt useless. Empty. Worthless. "I've got you. I've got you."

She clung to me like I was the only thing keeping her standing, her hands gripping the back of my shirt as she cried into my chest. Her tears soaked through the fabric, hot and endless.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

The words hit me like a blade.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I said immediately, my voice rough, my hand cradling the back of her head. "Nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing."

Madja was still speaking, soft, gentle, explaining something about pain and cramping and more bleeding, about what her body would go through over the next few days but my mate wasn't listening.

I wasn't sure I was either.

All I could focus on was the way she was falling apart in my arms and the fact that I couldn't do anything to stop it.

I could fight armies. I could torture enemies for information. I could endure pain, darkness, anything.

But I couldn't fix this. I couldn't protect her from this. I couldn't bring our baby back.

And that helplessness was worse than anything I had ever felt in my entire life.

She cried until her voice went hoarse. Until her body was shaking so hard I thought she might collapse. Until her fingers stopped gripping my shirt and just hung there weakly.

Then she started screaming. Not words. Just screaming.

Rhys moved then, stepping forward slightly, but I shook my head once without looking at him.

Give us space. Please.

He understood immediately. He always did.

He put a hand on Cassian's shoulder and quietly guided him out of the house. The door closed softly behind them, leaving just the three of us, me, my mate, and Madja.

Eventually the screaming stopped. Eventually the sobs stopped. Eventually she just... stopped.

She didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't cry anymore.

She just sat there in my arms, staring at nothing, her face empty, her eyes unfocused like she wasn't really in the room anymore.

I had seen that look before.

On soldiers who had survived battles when their friends hadn't. On prisoners who had been broken too far.

Catatonic. Shut down. Gone somewhere inside themselves where nothing could reach them.

"Talk to me," I whispered softly, brushing her hair back from her face. "Please. Talk to me."

Nothing. She didn't even blink.

Madja touched my shoulder gently. "She's in shock," she said quietly. "Grief like this... it can do that. Just stay with her. Don't leave her alone."

I nodded, though I hadn't planned on leaving her ever again anyway.

That night, I carried her to our bed because she wouldn't walk on her own. I cleaned the blood from her skin because she didn't seem to notice it was there. I dressed her in one of my shirts because she didn't respond when I asked what she wanted to wear.

She didn't speak. Not once.

She just lay in bed staring at the wall while I sat beside her, one hand holding hers, the other resting lightly on her stomach that had held our child just hours before.

Rhys and Cassian came the next day.

I heard them downstairs, their voices quiet for once, asking if she was awake, if she had eaten, if she had said anything.

Mor came later. Then Amren.

They all tried to visit. They all tried to talk to her. She didn't respond to any of them.

She would sit there, eyes distant, hands folded in her lap, not speaking, not reacting, not even really looking at them.

It was like she had left her body behind and gone somewhere far away where none of us could follow.

And I didn't know how to reach her.

I would have faced every monster in Prythian if it meant fixing this. I would have given anything to take this pain from her and carry it myself. But I couldn't.

All I could do was sit beside her. Hold her hand. Stay.

And watch the female I loved more than anything slowly disappear in front of me.

A/N - The aftermath in this part gets pretty heavy emotionally, especially after all the hope they finally allowed themselves to have after years of infertility and wanting this baby so badly.

Sometimes the cruelest part of grief is that there isn't always a reason or someone to blame. Sometimes awful things just happen completely out of your control :(

Please take care of yourself while reading if this is a sensitive topic for you!!

If themes like pregnancy loss or grief hit close to home, always remember there are support systems and helplines available and you never have to carry those feelings alone <33

Mate.

A gasp escaped your lips as the word screamed into your mind. Mate. You had a mate, and the Shadowsinger no less. From the moment your eyes locked, you had been unable to look away; his hazel eyes were so beautiful- the way they shone in the dim lighting of your room.

Azriel cleared his throat, then spoke so softly you might have missed it had your senses not been zeroed in on him for the past few minutes. "Are you -" sigh "Fuck this". Then he turned around and left the room. As he left, you felt your heart shatter into a million pieces; the rejection of your mate was excruciating. It felt as though your lungs were on fire, and every breath only fanned the flames higher and hotter.

~

On the other side of the house, Feyre watched as Azriel stormed past the library where she sat reading with Nesta and Elaine. The three women looked at each other, then back towards the door, and decided to check on the happenings of the house. Feyre headed towards Rhysand's office; maybe Az was upset due to an assignment, but halfway there, she turned right at your bedroom door. She had a sneaking suspicion that the Shadowsinger was upset about you. And so she stood outside your door and knocked, but no answer ever came.

Nesta came up behind her sister and looked pointedly in the direction Azriel had been moving in and then at your door. Feyre said, "I knocked, but she didn't answer." Nesta sighed heavily and shook her head, a disbelieving smile on her lips. Nesta grabbed the handle, turned it, and pushed the door open just a hair and called in to you, "Y/N? Are you alright?" Again, no answer came.

Nesta opened the door wider and stepped inside, finding you on the floor of your room, clutching at your chest and sobbing. As the two fae approached, you looked up, then back down quickly. "Go, I don't want you to bear witness to my shame. The aftermath of my rejection as a mate."

Nesta and Feyre shared a look, confused. "Just yesterday, he was bringing you flashbacks of your assault, and now you mean to tell us that you have been rejected as his mate?" Feyre questioned. "Azriel came to my room to apologize, presumably, and my eyes met his; it snapped, and I know how crazy that sounds, but that's the truth," you explained. "I didn't say anything because all I could do was stare at him, his face, those eyes. Azriel seemed to be trying to say something to me, but he must have changed his mind when he realized that we were mates because he said fuck this, and left my room."

Nesta was silent, and Feyra gasped, "He really said that?" she asked. You nodded in response, and just before you could say anything else, Elain came bursting into the room, wearing the biggest smile on her face. "Azriel has been given a mate by the mother!" she exclaimed. She went on, not even noticing your tears of anguish, "How wonderful that Azriel gets a mate; I am so happy for the two of you, y/n!"

Elain finally looks at your face and her expression changes, her proud smile fading, "What's the matter?" she asks. You respond as a matter of fact, not noticing the small shadow slipping into the room from the window as you spoke, "I have been rejected."

Contents -

⋆ One | Forgotten | 2.6k words

⋆ Two | The Unravelling | 2.9k words

⋆ Three | The Price of Secrets | 3k words

⋆ Four | After the Silence | 2.3k words

⋆ Five | Everything Overdue | 2.4k words

⋆ Six | Seen | 3.1k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

This is my very first Archeron sister fic! For the sake of the story, I've had to make the sisters a little harsh at times but that's purely for plot reasons, not an invitation to throw shade at them x

Expect healing, found family vibes, and basically an overlooked girl x quiet boy kind of story. There will be heartbreak, angst and eventually fluff :)

trial and error • azriel x reader

↳ by @pellucid-constellations (angst, single mom!reader, comfort, fluff)

little star • azriel x reader

↳ by @idkyetxoxo (slow burn, friends to lovers, yearning, comfort, fluff)

azriel, are you okay? • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @mahalachives (humour, angst, smut)

shadows of the exile • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @sweet-pea-channie (angst, fluff, comfort, slow burn, soft!az, smut)

my only anchor • azriel x reader

↳ by @mooniscrying (angst, unrequited love)

tip of my tongue • azriel x single mom!fem!reader

↳ by @peachesofteal (fluff)

made to wait • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @ellecdc (angst, yearning, pining, fluff)

the bond that breaks • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @irisandink ((very angsty, slow burn, comfort, fluff, smut)

shadowstruck • azriel x reader

↳ by @zarteyaz (angst, fluff)

the softest place to fall | part two | part three • azriel x rhys’sister!reader

↳ by @julietreject (enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst)

sing to me • azriel x mermaid!reader

↳ by @prythianpages

supposed to be together • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @angelshadowsinger (angst, smut)

the dusk in your eye • azriel x reader

↳ by @driedposies

the night we met | part two • azriel x reader

↳ by @mahalachives (angst, yearning, fluff)

ONE-SHOTS - BLURBS - HC’S

all’s fair in love and war • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @soulofapatrick (hurt/comfort)

maps • azriel x reader

↳ by @berryz-writes (dad!azriel, fluff, comfort)

my hero • azriel x reader

↳ by @really-fanny-longbottom (fluff)

bound by secrets • azriel x beron’s daughter!reader

↳ by @inkedinshadows (angst, fluff)

beautiful stranger • azriel x reader

↳ by @prythianpages (fluff)

a tactical ploy • azriel x reader

↳ by @azrielwingspan (jealous!azriel, fluff)

a part of me is tethered to you • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @soulofapatrick (fluff)

like calls to like • azriel x shadowsinger!reader

↳ by @sodapopwrites (angst)

no grave (can hold my body) • azriel x reader

↳ by @valentina-writes (pregnant!reader, angst, hurt/comfort)

how will i know • dad!azriel x mom!reader

↳ by @coquettefrancaise (fluff)

figure you out • rockstar!azriel x reader

↳ by @court-of-starss (angst)

beneath the surface • azriel x reader

↳ by @anmwrites (angst)

inner ace • azriel x reader

↳ by @dont-look-its-embarrassing (angst, fluff, slow burn)

the great frosting incident • azriel x reader

↳ by @bluelillybooks (smut, fluff)

in the heart of velaris • azriel x reader

↳ by @nightcourtnovels (dad!azriel, fluff, slight angst, comfort)

i got you babe • sick!azriel x reader

↳ by @coquettefrancaise (hurt/comfort)

lovestruck • azriel x reader

↳ by @velaris-fic-repository (fluff)

in the silence, i found you • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @sweet-pea-channie (mute!reader, angst, comfort, fluff)

moms day off • azriel x reader

↳ by @ghostlyinsight (dad!azriel, mom!reader, fluff)

shadows and candlelight • azriel x fem!reader

↳ by @durgenyx (fluff, suggestive)

don’t panic • azriel x reader, friend!nesta x reader

↳ by @tovibeornottovibe (friend!nesta x reader, angst, fluff)

his waking nightmare • azriel x reader

↳ by @hellsenthero (angst, hurt/comfort)

for you i would • azriel x reader

↳ by @azrielblue (friends to lovers! fluff)

a lovely person • azriel x reader

Contents -

⋆ One | Forgotten | 2.6k words

⋆ Two | The Unravelling | 2.9k words

⋆ Three | The Price of Secrets | 3k words

⋆ Four | After the Silence | 2.3k words

⋆ Five | Everything Overdue | 2.4k words

⋆ Six | Seen | 3.1k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

This is my very first Archeron sister fic! For the sake of the story, I've had to make the sisters a little harsh at times but that's purely for plot reasons, not an invitation to throw shade at them x

Expect healing, found family vibes, and basically an overlooked girl x quiet boy kind of story. There will be heartbreak, angst and eventually fluff :)

One year, seven months, seventeen days and six hours had passed since the mating bond had snapped into place. 

One year, seven months, ten days and zero hours had passed since the day she walked into his life. Since the last time he had ever touched you.

They were the most agonising nine months of your life, and yet you bloomed through the pain so gracefully because you’d rather he was happy and free than unhappy and yours. You loved him, without a doubt. And there was a time when you thought he loved you too. 

But here you sit, in Feyre’s vanity room with a flute of sparkling wine and a throbbing headache as the girls all fawned over Elain in her dazzling gown. She looked beautiful and radiant, the absolute picture of Fae grace, as she should do on her wedding day.

You were happy for her. You truly were. She was kind and caring to the core. She wasn’t ruthless and reckless like you. He deserved somebody to steady him, to make a home for him, a warm one that he never thought he deserved until her; not rile him up and be an everlasting stressor in the back of his mind.

You swayed back and forth on the canapé, taking in how the stark snow white of her gown very subtly faded into a cobalt blue right at the very bottom, like a brush of cornflowers pooled at her feet.

Tears pricked your eyes, and you hated yourself for it.

“You look absolutely breathtaking, Elain.” You swallowed hard, yet gave her the most genuine smile you could muster.

She turned to you, and alarm quickly overtook her beautiful features. “Oh, don’t cry.” She pattered over to you and sat next to you on the canapé, much to Mor’s annoyance who wasn’t finished applying her makeup. Elain draped her arm along your shoulders and rested her head on yours. “Don’t cry, lovely. Your time will come too.” She giggled genuinely.

Oh, how far she had fallen from the real reason for your tears. But you were happy to let her think the way she did. That your tears were as shallow as they seemed.  

“I’m not sure it will.” You sniffed, but gave her arm a squeeze. “Go back to your makeup chair, before Mor guts us both.”

She beamed at you, showing off her perfect teeth beneath those blush lips. Lips that would touch him in all the ways you couldn’t. In all the ways that you had dreamed you yourself would cherish and worship your mate for the rest of your days.

Amren left the gaggle of females around the makeup chair, and walked gracefully towards you. Only her and Rhys had ever scented the truth, and you supposed it was somewhat comforting to have one person know the true reason for your tears. Even if it was Amren.

She placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed hard, yet reassuringly, bringing you out of your thoughts. 

“It will be okay, girl.” She murmured quietly.

You smiled sadly up at her. “I’m not so sure.”

She stared down at you, stone faced. “There’s no other option.”

You nodded to humour her, despite how aware you had become of all your other options that did indeed exist. Your head was filled with poison, and you were sure no alternative would be enough to drain it out.

A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts. “It’s me.” Rhysand’s smooth voice slid through the gaps in the doorframe. “Am I allowed in? Are you females all decent?”

“Come in!” Elain called out, after they had all giggled at his choice of words.

The door creaked open, and in walked Rhysand, in a midnight blue suit that made his violet eyes sparkle. He walked over to Feyre, pressed a chaste kiss to her lips and then turned to Elain.

“My, my!” He shook his head in disbelief. “You are quite the sight.” He took her hand and twirled her around.

He looked overjoyed for Elain, despite his initial aversion to their pairing. But that was before Lucien had left Prythian for good, satisfied with the life he’d built with his so-called Band of Exiles. Rhys shortly came around after that, mainly thanks to his own mate’s persuasion to ironically ‘let nature run its course’, and her ideology that what’s meant to be will be.

You had almost laughed out loud at her reasoning. Nature had quite literally told you what was meant to be, but that didn’t seem to matter to either party.

No, not to Azriel. And certainly not to Elain with Lucien. So all you could do was sit there and drain glass after glass of wine and wallow in self-pity, watching a beautiful girl get her gown tailored and makeup done for her wedding to the male whose invisible thread was bound to the depths of your very soul. 

Not that he seemed to care, not with the way he looked at you with such disdain. Looked at you like your very existence tainted the air that his precious Elain breathed; like you yourself were just vermin he wished to be exterminated.

Gone was the male who kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without you. The male you’d shared your mind, body and soul with. Gone were the hushed whispers and stolen kisses after midnight and the reverent touches in places you’d never even reached yourself. For a short while, you were his religion. But in this case, his faith had long dissipated.

No, that male was long gone. But there was an extraordinary phenomenon that took place, that even he couldn’t explain. 

Azriel was always adamant that he controlled his shadows; and that they didn’t control him. But when he had tried to send them to spy on you, not out of concern for you but to ensure you didn’t harm Elain in the early stages of their courtship, they flat out refused. 

Like the shadows still knew you, despite what had become of yours and his’ relationship. His shadows would not conduct any surveillance on you, much to his discontent. And this was the first time anyone had seen anything like it.

A few quiet sobs from Feyre broke you out of your poisonous train of thought, and you glanced up in alarm until you realised she was just emotional for her sister. 

Something withered inside you. Wilted and broke down and died. Nobody would ever shed such emotion for you. Nobody would ever prepare you for your wedding and cry for you and cheer for you and stand by you as you began the rest of your life, no.

Your heart still belonged to him. And it always will.

After chatting with Elain, Rhysand marched in your direction, taking a seat next to you. 

“Unclench your jaw.” He spoke softly. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Does it matter?” You barely acknowledged him, staring straight into space.

He took the wine glass out of your hand, and placed it on a side table. 

“You look like you need air.” He whispered. You just shrugged in response.

He raised his voice slightly, before he said. “I think you should go fetch us some more wine, just to be on the safe side. Can’t let Mor run out before she’s done working her magic.” Rhysand winked at Mor, and then winked subtly at you.

You squeezed his hand gratefully, before hurrying out of his and Feyre’s bedroom door before anyone could say or ask you anything. 

Clutching your chest, you practically sprinted in your heels down the hallway until you reached the little terrace balcony opposite the stairs to the main hall in the River House. You shoved open the lattice doors, and immediately gasped for air.

You couldn’t slow your breathing. You swallowed lungful after lungful of air, clawing at your throat and yet nothing was making the tightness, the constriction subside. You braced your hands on the stone balcony fencing, leaning over it and trying to slow your hyperventilating.

Your mate was getting married. Your mate was getting married and not to you. The male who held you like you were his biggest blessing and tasted you like you were his favourite sin, was about to wed another female. He saw what he wanted, saw how her sisters’ lives had panned out and decided he was entitled to complete the pattern; three sisters for three brothers. 

Your heart thundered against your ribcage, but finally, your breathing began to slow. Your hair had no doubt been ruined from leaning over the balcony and it blowing freely in the wind, but you didn’t care. You raked your fingers through it and let it tumble down.

Suddenly, you froze as you heard the terrace door behind you creak open.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. His scent was ingrained in every fibre of your being, written into your biology like he was part of you. No, you’d recognise it for eternity.

You held your breath, bracing yourself for the door to slam once he realised who was outside, but no such sound came.

“Are you alright?” Azriel spoke quietly.

Your knees practically buckled in shock as you turned around, glancing at him over your shoulder. “What?”

“How are you doing?” He stared at you with an unreadable expression.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat not subsiding. “Since when do you care?” You whispered hoarsely.

“It’s polite to check on a female in distress.” Was all he said.

“Right. I forgot how polite you are.” You turned back around to face the Sidra to conceal the sneer that escaped you.

“I’m trying to be better.” He explained. “For Elain. She makes me better. Less volatile.” 

“That’s fantastic.” You clenched your jaw and squeezed your eyes shut. 

“Are you being sarcastic?” He asked in disbelief, as if it was ludicrous for you to feel disdain towards him after everything. Of course you were angry, even if your heart still cried for his.

“I’m not trying to.” You spoke through gritted teeth.

“Don’t make this hard for me.” He whispered, and you whipped back around in shock.

“What?” You scoffed in disbelief, pointing at yourself. “Me?”

But there was something unfamiliar in his eyes. Something that resembled remorse.

“Yes, you.” He stood his ground.

You laughed humourlessly. “You have some fucking nerve, Azriel.” 

His expression immediately turned sour. “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

“You had the choice to do the right thing over a year ago.” You seethed. “Don’t come here and play the victim because you want to clear your conscience .”

“I’m not here to clear my conscience.” He thundered, taking a step closer.

“What are you here for, then?” You huffed a shrill laugh. “Enlighten me.”You blinked hard, as the wind quickened and blew some strands of hair into your face. 

“You can’t take anything seriously, can you?” He shook his head. “And you wonder why I chose her.”

His words slapped you harder than any palm ever had and would. Even he looked slightly taken aback at his own monologue.

Yet where tears would have usually fallen, all you could feel was the anger thrumming in your veins thanks to the copious amounts of wine that bubbled under the surface and finally reached your system.

“I’m happy for you Azriel.” You stepped closer, so much so that your chests were almost flush. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard. “Truly. I hope you live happily ever after and have a plethora of children and she bakes and gardens for you for the rest of your days.”

He misunderstood your tone entirely, and rage bloomed on his face. 

“Perhaps the simple life is what I desired all this time, but you only ever cared about yourself to see that.” Azriel crossed his arms.

You looked him up and down. “You can lie to me all you want, but please don’t lie to yourself.” You said quietly. “You never liked simple.” You glanced down once more. “Are you satisfied, Azriel?” you hummed, stepping closer.

You knew that even if he tried to deny it, thanks to the bond his skin would always burn and his blood would always pump harder in close proximity with you.

“Do not ask me such questions.” He seemed like he was almost squirming.

“Does she touch you better than I did?” Your voice sounded gravelly.

No response came from him, so you simply laughed. “I suppose the baking makes up for that, then.”

He grabbed you by the throat, spinning you both and pushing you hard against the lattice doors. Before you moved away, flashbacks of being in similar positions with him ambushed your mind. 

Movements that were usually accompanied by whispers and strokes and grasping at each other desperately like you couldn’t breathe had somehow turned into being accompanied by rage and rebuttal and loathing.

“You speak of baking and gardening like it is sin.” His fingers flexed around your throat, and his jaw clenched hard. “I’m rather satisfied that my betrothed takes on such homely tasks, instead of slaughtering and torturing in dungeons and on battlefields for a living and then drinking and soliciting men in her free time.”

He held up his scarred hand for you to see, his speech clearly not over. “I would rather feel this again than to ever be touched by you again. You disgust me.”

This time, hot tears did burn your eyes as you felt your heart crumple from within. Your traitorous, fitful heart. 

You struggled to take a deep breath with the hand around your throat, but you tried. “I was by your side on every one of those battlefields.” You rasped softly.

His eyes widened and he loosened his grip slightly, before he suddenly became aware and his face became apathetic again. His grip remained loose, though. 

He let go, and pushed off the wall and away from you. “If it were down to me, you wouldn’t even be in the wedding. But Elain wants you there. She’s kinder than we’ll ever be.”

You rubbed your throat gently, grateful to be able to take deep breaths again. He pulled the handle on the lattice doors, clearly deeming it time to end the conversation. 

“Congratulations, Azriel.” You said softly, before the door fully closed. And you thought for a moment that you saw him hesitate. Saw him pause in his tracks. But the door closed anyway, and he was gone. 

You slid down against the doors and the tears came in full swing. You hugged your knees to your chest as rumbling, sorrowful sobs escaped your throat. The clouds began to darken slightly, as though rain was pending. But at least it was still warm, despite the winds.

You cried for at least twenty minutes, until you wiped your nose and pushed your hair out of your face, and decided it was time to face the music. 

But first, you went in pursuit of that wine Rhysand had ‘sent’ you for.

-

Third seat, second row. 

That was where you sat amongst the rest of the attendees, all in agonising anticipation of the event to come and to see the bride in her gown, for not everybody had shared the privilege you had of getting ready in the High Lady’s chambers with the bride herself. 

Harp strings twinged, and fiddles groaned as the music slowly came to life, and you knew Elain would be walking towards the altar any moment now. The altar you refused to look at, for he was stood there. Tall, proud, and devastatingly beautiful. Elated and anxious and excited to begin this chapter; to start the beginning of the rest of his life.

But you couldn’t help yourself. You glanced up at him once. 

And once was enough to notice him staring straight at you with an unreadable expression. 

You slowly shook your head, as fury and frustration began to simmer under the surface of your skin once more. What in the Cauldron’s name was he playing at?

You clenched your fists and sank your teeth into your lip to try and send pain to your brain before the tears started. A tactic that never usually failed you. But this time it was no use. Both your lip and your eyes stung, and you looked up again to see him finally look away.

Commotion rustled behind you, and you turned around. And there she was. 

Elain. Beautiful, radiant, and a devastating bride in her custom gown. Taking such slow, graceful steps  that you could barely see her ballet pumps under the cobalt hem of her white dress. The blue that perfectly matched the siphons that glinted on the male waiting at the end of the aisle.

Rhysand walked beside her, her arm tucked in his as they strolled towards the altar with Feyre and Nesta in tow, both holding beautiful bouquets just like Elain, comprised of white lilies and blue cornflowers, then embraced by twined sprigs of rosemary and thyme from Elain’s garden as a finishing touch.

You hated how much of a bitter taste it left in your mouth. You hated yourself, mostly. Both for feeling this way, and for whatever you had been or done to not be good enough for him to choose his mate. The one the mother had chosen for him. The one he was not supposed to live without, and yet you weren’t good enough. Gods, you loathed yourself. You picked up the nearly empty bottle from where it was hidden under your seat behind your dress, and poured yourself a new glass. Not wine, but whiskey this time.

It’s ironic how the burn of the whiskey soothes you, rather than disgusts you. Soothes your scorned heart and tortured soul; you can’t burn something that has already gone up in flames.

A voice smooth like silk slid into your mind. “Steady on the drinks.” 

You looked up towards the front of the aisle, where Rhysand’s head was ever so slightly turned in your direction. He narrowed his eyes so that you’d get the message.

You always listened to him. He was your voice of reason. 

Not today. Not anymore. Today you were a woman scorned, and you didn’t care to conceal how much you felt like acting like one. You raised the whiskey to your lips and drained almost all the contents, before dropping the glass on the floor where its fall was cushioned by the tulle near the hem of your dress. It was pink. You fucking hated pink.

A smile crept onto your face as the amber stain began to spread across the pooled material of your dress on the floor.

“What are you doing.” Rhys tried again. This time, you put your shields up and shut him out entirely. You watched his eyes widen as him and Elain reached the altar. 

Dealing with him would be a problem for another day. Right now, you didn’t want to feel, and the liquor was helping you achieve just that.

Elain finally reached the altar, and took her place opposite Azriel. You couldn’t bear to look as he reached forwards and took one of her hands away from the bouquet, before lifting it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles.

Your stomach lurched. He had worshipped you like that once. Felt so deeply for you that nature bound you together. And it still wasn’t enough for him.

You felt a genuine ache spread through your chest, and the nausea rose up your throat as they began to read their vows.

The priestess glanced at all the attendees in the pews, and called out; “Does any male or female in this court object to this union?”

Rhysand glanced at you. 

Amren glanced at you.

You almost scoffed at them both, but didn’t wish to draw attention.

But then Azriel looked at you. One long, empty look and you could have sworn you watched the rise and fall of an extremely heavy breath on his chest. 

And your stomach turned again. You closed your eyes and counted down the minutes until everyone filtered out of the temple towards the festival hall. Once you were sure it was less conspicuous, you launched out of your seat and darted down the aisle to the nearest bathing chamber. You could have sworn somebody called after you, but you didn’t have time to turn back.

The moment you opened the chamber door, you hurtled your body over the toilet and violently deposited the entire contents of your system, your throat burning as the whiskey made its way back up. You heaved over and over again, your respiratory tract on fire and your chest like somebody had stuck a knife into it. You couldn’t fucking breathe.

Several minutes that felt like hours later, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and rose, taking one look at yourself in the mirror.

What stared back almost made you laugh hysterically. Mascara streaked down your cheeks, your lipstick smudged and the space under your eyes was so hollow it looked purple.

“Of course he doesn’t want me.” You cackled to your own reflection, holding up the bottle of whiskey you managed to remember. “By the cauldron, who would?”

You wiped your lipstick onto the sleeve of your dress, squealing in delight as you ruined the pink material more and more as the day progressed. 

Finally emerging from the bathroom, you threw back the rest of the whiskey and set it down on a nearby maid’s tray, before taking the two flutes of sparkling wine that had sat upon the tray.

One in each hand, you sauntered into the Great Hall, where tables were laid out with elaborate foods and wines and elixirs and petals and gorgeous smelling candles. The cobalt blue theme decorated the entire hall, and you all but sneered at the accents. 

Your eyes narrowed in on the central table, where Elain and Azriel sat, gazing into each other’s eyes with what could only be described as absolute contentment and joy. Rhysand and Feyre sat to their left on the circular table, followed by the rest of the inner circle. You drained your first flute, and set it down.

Rhysand missed nothing. His eyes flicked up, and his expression soon became horrified as he took in your drink and your ruined dress. Feyre then looked up, and you struggled to hold her stare as devastation was written all over her face. She no doubt knew now, too.

You ripped your gaze away, tipped your head back, and poured one flute of sparkling wine right down your throat, ignoring the burn of the bubbles.

And then he saw you. And the love and content that was directed at Elain was replaced with pure ire. Disgust. Fury.

You expected him to simply sit there and scowl, but he banged a fist on the table, and stood straight up. Guests all around the room whipped around and stared in confusion as the groom stalked through the room like an apex predator, nothing but bloodlust on his expression.

Azriel grabbed your wrist. Hard. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” He thundered. 

You tipped your glass towards him. “I’m enjoying the party!” 

A drop spilled, landing on his leather shoe. 

“Oops!” You whispered, covering your mouth.

“Get out.” He said calmly. Too calm.

You pouted up at him, even though your chest burned. It burned with regret, humiliation, any and every form of self loathing that existed. And it burned with the bond, still alive and roaring not to be ignored.

“Get the fuck out.” He repeated. “And don’t show your face around Elain or I again. You’re no longer welcome in our lives.”

You stared at him, as the world suddenly fell silent. The flute slipped from your hand, smashing on the floor. Gasps echoed around the room, the quartet ceased their string work, and you looked behind Azriel. At Elain’s panicked face. 

She didn’t deserve this. She didn’t deserve for you to ruin this for her. 

“I’m sorry, Elain.” You whispered, and you knew she couldn’t hear it. But the expression on her face after you inclined your head told you she understood.

You backed away, sparing Azriel one last glance. It must have been your inebriation, because you could have sworn that the rage on his face faltered for a split second as you slowly stumbled backwards.

“I’m sorry.” You repeated. But no one could hear you, as the strings resumed, the cutlery touched plates and drinks clinked. Everyone had moved on. 

Everyone except you.

“I’m sorry.” You murmured towards the floor, as you slipped through the grand doors.

You slipped off your heels and ran down the stone hallway as a burning pressure began to attack your throat and close it up. Tears stung your eyes and you ran fast, faster, willing your legs to keep up with your mind until you crashed into the double doors leading out into the garden.

You heaved for air, and when you felt your lungs had finally refilled you let out the most harrowing scream you could muster. It registered, it hit you that this was all real. You had lost your mate. Forever. 

Your love wasn’t enough. It never would be. You were broken, torn apart and scarred by life but so was he. Yet although he was enough to make you feel complete again, for him you would never be the cure.

You stared at the garden that Elain had so lovingly cultivated. You were sure their happy, half Illyrian children would run through these bushes one day. And you wouldn’t be around to see it, and it was nobody’s fault other than your own. 

A few hushed whispers sounded like they came from the hushed rustling behind you, but you assumed it was the alcohol. You were hearing things.

Until they got slightly louder, and you were able to make out a few words.

Big event.

Night Court.

Opportunity.

Final chance.

Before you even had a chance to turn around and inspect it for yourself, you scented it before you felt it. The ash arrow, that ricocheted straight through your gut.

AZRIEL 

He had been gazing lovingly at Elain as she chatted happily with her sisters when he felt it. 

His stomach lurched, and an excruciatingly sharp pain struck him in the chest. He doubled over, clutching his chest tightly as he felt a metallic liquid run up his throat and coat his tongue. Blood. His blood. But why?

Rhysand and Elain both whipped around in horror as they had scented his blood first. 

Azriel spluttered as he tried to explain that he had no idea what was going on, but no sound came out as he choked and coughed. The rest of the inner circle began to turn around, and an unfamiliar expression suddenly dawned on Rhys’s face.

“Azriel.” Rhysand’s voice like smooth, calming silk entered his mind. Azriel simply nodded to him to indicate that he had heard as he tried his best not to heave.

“Azriel,” He repeated. “Search inside yourself for the bond.” Rhysand’s forehead suddenly seemed to be slick with sweat.

Azriel blinked at Rhysand in confusion, before his gaze flickered to Elain, and then back to Rhysand. And then his eyes widened, as it dawned on him. As the realisation hit him, what was running through Rhys’s mind. 

Azriel searched. He tugged. Something faint glimmered, but it had dulled tenfold. It had been a long time since he had acknowledged that it was even there, but it still glowed stronger than this recently.

“What’s going on?” Elain murmured, glancing between the two males. “Are you speaking into his mind?”

Azriel couldn’t respond as his chest pain grew with every second, his stomach doing somersaults as he covered his mouth to keep from retching. Elain put a hand on his arm to comfort him as he tried not to vomit. He clutches his chest hard, standing up and doubling over.

“It’s fading.” He choked, out loud this time.

Rhys closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, but Elain and Feyre only looked more bewildered. Nesta and Cassian had returned from their dance hurriedly to check on Azriel as he struggled to keep himself out.

“What’s fading?” Elain screamed, not out of annoyance but out of sheer panic and worry for her new husband. 

“Follow it. Follow what’s left of it, NOW, Azriel.” Rhys panted, wiping his forehead.

Azriel used whatever strength he dug up from within him to ignore the pain and sprint towards the double doors. He tried to follow his heart, but all he felt was the hollowness he’d always believed resided in its place. So he followed scent instead.

The dull ache in his chest became one, sharp sensation worse than anything he had ever felt. And then it was gone. And a flicker of relief washed over him.

Until he saw them. Two Autumn Court sentries, darting through the doors to the courtyard and garden. 

“Hey.” Azriel shouted, walking towards them with Rhys in tow. “HEY.” He screamed.

Rhys made a swift gesture with his hand, and both of the sentries paused as if time had stopped as the High Lord and his friends caught up to them. 

But once they’d made it through the garden doors, Azriel stopped in his tracks.

Azriel froze in shock as he beheld you. Once blushed and bright skin, now sunken and pale. Your expression was permanently fixed into one of despair and…longing. As if you had wished you hadn’t gone through this alone. Your long, lovely hair caked in blood as one arrow was nestled in your neck, and the other in your chest. 

The sound that ripped out of Azriel’s throat was one his friends had never heard, and hoped to never hear again as he fell to his knees and pulled your torso towards him.

He’d known how to scent death on a Fae since before he could walk or fly in the Illyrian camps, and yet he still didn’t accept it as he flattened his palms on your chest and pushed, willing your heart to start again.

“Please.” He whispered.

“Azriel.” Rhys placed a hand on his shoulder. 

But the Shadowsinger shoved his hand off and grabbed your jaw, making you face him. 

“Wake up.” He spoke through gritted teeth, pushing your hair back from your face.

“She’s gone, Azriel.” Rhysand shouted, his tone sterner this time. “You didn’t want her, and now this removes the complication of the mating bond. Isn’t this what you wanted, anyway?” He scoffed.

“Mating bond?” Elain and Feyre said softly in unison from where they had finally caught up. 

Azriel looked over his shoulder at his new wife as tears stung his eyes. 

What had he done? 

He looked back at you. Dead. You were dead.

Rhysand straightened, and turned towards the Archeron sisters. 

“They were mates.” He swallowed hard, and gasps resounded from the small crowd that had began to gather following the commotion. 

An unwelcome figure walked up from behind the Inner Circle, and stared down at your body with shock and anger.

“I told him not to do anything.” Eris Vanserra shook his head as his voice cracked. “He said a Night Court wedding this level of prestigious would be too good of an opportunity to pass up to send you a message.” He covered his mouth as he turned to Azriel. “I’m so sorry.”

Behind him, Elain had began crying. But the sound didn’t disarm Azriel as it usually did. 

“This was Beron?” Rhys thundered.

“I believe so.” Eris muttered. “I rushed here as quick as I could. But I was too late.”

“What have I done?” Azriel whispered. 

“Get the fuck out.” He repeated. “And don’t show your face around Elain or I again. You’re no longer welcome in our lives.”

He had well and truly spoken those words into existence, and he shook his head as he stared at your lifeless body. He pulled your head onto his lap and stroked your hair silently, rocking back and forth as he whispered his apology to you over and over again. 

His mate had died. He could have prevented it. He could have done literally anything differently, and the outcome would have been better than this.

He looked up at the sky, and let out the most bloodcurdling scream to have been heard in all of Prythian, as he searched for the bond within his chest, finding no light and no familiar hum. Just emptiness.

You were truly gone.

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

300 Years Ago

All your life you were taught to be careful and to be cautious of those around you. Your parents were High Fae, one of the last High Fae with no nobility title in the Court of Nightmares. it was no pleasant place to grow up in for certain, filled with anger and violence towards one another. Neither one of your parents loved living there, they preferred to go to the Court of Dreams instead since Rhysand, the High Lord who ruled both Courts, was a kind and thoughtful ruler and lived in the Court of Dreams. He ruled the Court of Nightmares, but he never stayed since the citizens never saw him as the true High Lord. He was Half High Fae and Half Illyrian, an odd mixture but in your eyes, he was noble nonetheless. Your family saw a true leader in him, tough at times when he ended to be and he knew how t delegate, but there was still goodness in him that was buried deep.

Your father was planning a grand escape for your all, out of the Court of Nightmares and into the Court of Dreams once and for all. He was tired of the cruelty tired of all the darkness that seeped out of the walls of the castles under that mountain. Your mother was a gentler soul, yet it needed to be hardened from her time there in that Court. You were their only child, a young thing almost 300 years old and consider a Youngling in the eyes of others. One night you overheard your parents talking together in their room, discussing when they were going to plan their escape.

"We have to go tomorrow night. It's now or never, and we cannot have our daughter stay here for the rest of her life and suffer. We need to give her a chance!"

So you fled the next time, barely making it out alive.

Your family was found to be in the service of the High Lord himself, who required your father's services as a handyman and architect of sorts. Your father was an excellent carpenter, not to mention one of the best architects and builders back in the Court of Nightmares. High Lord Rhysand got wind of your father being in the Court of Dreams, Velaris specifically, and he hired him to help in remodeling some new homes for the newer citizens that arrived and immigrated from other Courts. He was all that you thought he would be as a High Lord, noble and stoic in appearance, thoughtful and powerful in his tone, yet he was kind and a generous leader in his decisions. You are entranced with him, but when you were standing behind your father as he spoke to the High Lord, you knew he wasn't alone either.

Two Illyrian soldiers flanked him as he stood in front of a newly remodeled apartment building, the rest of the citizens were walking to and fro as your father discussed the plans with Rhysand. Illyrians were fighters, their massive wings made them fast in the sky and powerful in a fight, you only heard stories about them and how they were born to fight. Both of the Illyrian soldiers were clad in leather uniforms, their wide and massive wings were curled in and pressed against their broad backs as their tall statures were almost like statues. They were intimidating to look at, yet the one with the longer hair seemed to be more calm and relaxed. It almost felt playful with that Illyrian as he was shifted from one foot to another. His long hair was tied up behind him in a messy way, trying to be out of his face. Even the image on his handsome, and yet powerful face, seemed boyish.

My eyes went from him to the other one, who was a pinch leaner in stature and with short black hair and had a stern stare on his face. He looked far more serious like he was analyzing the entire area with his eyes as the conversation was still going on and unfolding. There was something about him that both frightened you and let intrigued you, and there was no real way to pinpoint it to one factor. His tanned complexion was almost complementary to the bright hazel color in his orbs that reminded you of jewels or even the brightness of the trees around Velaris. Or maybe it was the way he carried himself, standing so tall and stiff it seemed like he wasn't going to let anything make him bow or bend. He seemed young, like the other Illyrian, but he almost seemed like he was old and wise beyond his years.

"My daughter, she will be assisting me in this project," My father said to Rhysand, gesturing to me from my spot behind him. You walked up to stand next to your father, bowing your head slightly to the High Lord as a form of recognition and respect. Rhysand merely chuckled, you looking up to see soil you did something wrong.

"As kind of a gesture that is, I don't wish for you to bow to me," he said to you, his velvety smooth voice was almost like a purr as he smiled kindly to you, "Although I can see where you get your manner and kindness from,"

Your father seemed a bit flushed from the kind compliment, and you smiled slightly at him as Rhysand tilted his head to you, "You help your father in his work?"

"I do, My Lord," You answered, "I helped him at our old home since I was a child. He wished to keep me away from harm and out of trouble," The two soldiers behind Rhysand were watching you now from hearing your explanation. The younger cockier one seemed impressed, a small smirk on his lips. Whereas the other one, the stoic silent one, was almost gazing at you too. The look on his face seemed more… reserved and almost careful. As if he was afraid to stare at you for too long.

"A wise choice no doubt, the very choice a father should make for their offspring," Rhysand hummed in agreement, "For your services, I can provide an apartment for your family to use that is already refurbished and ready for use while you work on the complex. There is no budget to worry about either, but I'm looking to keep this to be highly marketable,"

"Of course, My Lord," Your father said, "And thank you, you are far too kind,"

"I can't let my reputation be trifled with," Rhysand said in a light joke as he then pointed to the two soldiers behind him, "Cassian and Azriel will be more than helpful in finding you some workers to help you with the project."

"I already have a few in mind that need the extra work," The charismatic one said with a snort, chuckling as he said this. Even Rhysand smirked as the strong silent one only gave one small hint of amusement on his face. Your breath caught as he did this, almost lightening his face at the tiniest moment. When he looked over at you, his hazel eyes hitting yours, everything around you seemed brighter and almost warmer instantly. You never felt this before with anyone else in your Fae life.

Once Rhysand broke off to talk with your father privately to go over the arrangements and some of the floorplans, you were left with the two Illriyans. They both walked up to you, the younger one holding out his hand for your to shake and seemed so calm and comfortable, "I'm Cassian. Rhysand has a nasty habit of not introducing his high commander of the Illyrian army,"

"Cassian," the brooding yet handsome one scolded him gently. Cassian rolled his eyes at the other one as you shook his hand. Cassian looked back at you, then at your joined hands. He almost looked impressed.

"Good handshake," He hummed to you, having you blush at him with how he had a cocky smile on his face. He moved out of the way to stroll over two Rhysand and your father. it felt you in front of the second Illyrian, who was now walking over to you in smooth yet small steps. Before you knew it, he was in front of you and peering down at you since he had inches on you. Being this close to him seeing the seriousness on his face and within the lines of his eyes, you felt very exposed and vulnerable in front of the warrior as he then held out a hand for me to take.

"I'm Azriel," He said his name, and it felt like it did fit him perfectly. It sounded rough and rigid, yet soothing and gentle like a riverbank or the rustling of leaves in the trees. It made you smile widely at him, almost feeling a stutter in your heartbeat.

"It's nice to meet you," You said to him keeping your voice light and soft. You could have sworn he briefly smiled too, though it happened for a millisecond.

"It's nice to meet you too,"

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

Present Day

You woke up again to an empty bed in your room, breathing in the soft scent that was left there amongst the sheets and pillow. You breathed it in, picturing the very being that left that scent there almost for you to find on your own. The sun was now high in the sky, the rays were cascading into your room through the thin curtains and drawing in the cozy atmosphere that was your home.

Home. You've yearned for that word and place for some time.

Your body moved out of the warmth of the bed, let the sunshine that was coming in was already giving the room some warmth and life while you walked over to the bathroom that was joined to your bedroom. The shower automatically turned on, getting the right temperature perfectly and instantly thanks to both the magic of the townhouse. You stripped off your clothes, piece by piece as you were readying yourself for the shower. As you were removing your clothing, you could see some blemishes and small scars that were there along your hips and wrists, even the smaller ones near your fingertips and palms. You froze, remembering how you got those scars.

Darkness….pain…..the sharp cries of other Fae that were trapped.

Trapped…you were trapped….

Snapping out of it for another second, you moved into the shower. Standing right under the shower, you slammed your eyes shut and breathed in the fumes of the water, letting the water cascade down and over your entire body. It felt like you were being cleansed all over again, wherever stains and marks that you thought were left on your skin were being washed away. It reminded you of the river, washing your clothes there in the hot sun and seeing the dirt float down the river.

The dirt on you though was deeper. Deeper and darker.

You washed your hair, staring ahead at the tiled wall in front of you and giving yourself the same mantra over and over again as you did when you first got out from being trapped and imprisoned. It was the mantra that you repeated that did save you a few times from losing your sanity, from not coiling into a deep depression, and losing your mind.

I am alive…..

I am surrounded by warmth and peace…..

I am not a prisoner or a slave…….

I am loved……..

He loves me….he loves me…..he loves me………

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

200 Years Ago

Azriel crept into your life little by little.

You adjusted to your new life in Velaris quite well, it was such a contrast to the life within the darkness and sin of your old home and old home. Now, now it was filled with colors, wonder, and life. You didn't see any pain on any of the citizen's faces, nor did you see any sadness or doubt. Everyone in Velaris was happy and in peace. Even your parents were happy in this new life you all had together.

The three of you are in one of the newer apartment penthouses, a gift from High Lord Rhysand himself as a thank you for your father working away and helping create at least 40 new homes for refugees that fled from other Courts. He was kind to you, as it was to the rest of his citizens, but you knew that he was kind in general and it wasn't a front. His circle of friends was around him while he looked at the progress of the apartments, who couldn't help but stare once or twice when they would float into the area and step back as your father talked with Rhysand about the progress and new improvements.

They were all intriguing creatures, including Cassian and Azriel. There were two other females with them, one was a blond-haired High Fae who always had a massive grin on her face and her arm thrown across Cassian's shoulders and the two of them joking. The black-haired female that was also present seemed so stern and nearly frightening. You dared not to look at her for far too long, not wishing to see her stare back at you and feel some kind of wrath from her.

However, whenever Azriel was around and would visit the job sites, there seemed to be some kind of intrigue with him. He was always quiet, hands clasped behind his back in civilian clothes that were tailored to his massive black wings. The other workers never got too close to him, and perhaps he sense it too since he never dared to be near anyone else. Yet you saw it, and you could almost sense him watching you too.

The first time you spoke was when he was looking at some of the finished work in one of the apartments on the floor level. You were covered in sweat and in your work clothes, your hair in a long braid over your shoulder to keep out of your face, and your hands were calloused and almost dusted from the wood scarped and dust. Yet it was natural for you, almost like second nature as Azriel was watching your handiwork from afar. You looked over your shoulder at him, seeing him eye the kitchen area with a raised eyebrow and almost some intrigue too.

"Do you like it?" you asked, your voice floating in the room as Azriel snapped out of his thoughts and looked over at you. You faced him, head tilted to the side and a small smile on your lips as he looked a bit shocked that you were talking to him.

"It's nice," he replied, you grinning a bit bigger.

"Just nice?" You asked to ask since he seemed flushed from you addressing him. He then smiled, a soft smile that seemed to almost light up his entire face.

"I'm not for an eye for this kind of trade," He admitted, almost a bit bashfully but light none the less, "It's admiral that you do,"

"I've been taught well by my father," you hummed, dusting your hands off on your pants, "He's a good teacher. 'It's always in the details', at least that's what he says,"

"That is sound advice," Azriel agreed, then gesturing to the rest of the room with one hand, "Are you already done with this home?"

"Just about," you replied, "I think we have a few more things to wrap up before our work here is done. Do you wish to help?"

"Oh, I would only be in the way," he answered honestly, "I'm a soldier, not a builder,"

"Is one profession far greater than another?" You questioned, then found yourself a bit flustered in what you said to him. You cleared your throat, not wishing to seem so forward with him since you barely spoke to him. He almost send it too, maybe shifting a bit in his spot as you looked away briefly and cleared your throat.

"My apologies, that was not professional of me," you explained, sounding a bit flustered. The last thing you wanted to do was seem like a fool in front of him, someone who seems so stoic and grand in comparison to someone like you.

"There's no need to apologize," He reassured him, his voice was soothing to hear as you looked back over at him, up at him really since he was tall. Azriel peered down at you, with no sign of judgment or uncomfortableness. He seemed….calm, "I admire your forwardness…actually."

"Thank you," You merely replied, seeing him grin widely at you. You had no idea it was going to be the start of a friendship for the pair of you that will eventually save you later on in your life.

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

Present Day

Once you were done with your shower, you finally fired yourself off and got into a new set of clothes. That day it was a simple blue dress, knee-length with thick straps that still showed your shoulders and bare skin as you brushed out your hair. It used to be very long, almost down to your elbows, and always in a braid. But now, it was short near your jawline in its natural waves. Then cut was jagged, a punishment and a sign of your slavery to her.

To that ruler under the mountain.

You had to wonder how long it was going to take for you to fully recover from what happened to you. How many more nightmares you were willing to endure and suffer through. How many more hallucinations will you suffer through before they will eventually go away?

When will it be enough?

When you walked back to the bedroom, you noticed a small tray with a plate placed on the nightstand next to your bed, a small glass of water, and utensils on a napkin. You didn't hear them come into the room, nor did you hear them civically change your bedsheets for you while you were in the shower. But your bed was ready and made for the day, a fresh plate of food waiting for you, and it made you sigh in both relief and exhaustion.

Rhysand has made sure you were safe in his own home, telling his servants to tend to you in whatever you needed. If it wasn't for the twins who were on your beck and call, then it was Azriel. He was busier than usual as of late with the looming fear of a massive war breaking out from across the sea. The last thing you wanted to be was a burden to him since he had way too much to juggle and handle. Yet he still checked on you, first thing in the morning and then right before you fell asleep at night. You were his priority, and you knew that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

You curled up in bed, feet tucked under you as you were eating the small portion of food that was pelted for you. It was soothing a light, hitting the right spots in your stomach as you drink down your entire water. It became a habit for you to drink down that water since you never wanted to be parched in the move ever again. The plate portion was also perfected at this point since you were trying to get your stomach back to normal compared to how it was before. You only remembered the first few times you ate in Velaris after being saved. You vomited every meal you tried to keep down the first week you returned, haring Azriel fear the worst. But after meeting with Madja, Rhysand's personal Healer, she reassured Azriel and the others in the Inner Circle that you just needed time to adjust and get back to normal.

Time as an Immortal Fae seemed like nothing before. But to you, it was everything.

Once the plate was cleaned off with not an ounce of food left, and your glass was empty, you were once again tired. Fatigue was sinking into your bones and under your skin. You leaned back down onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow and your body curling against the cool and soft fresh sheets. it felt nice, it felt safe, and it felt real.

You slipped under again, going into a deep sleep.

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

150 Years Ago

There was a gentle tap at the door.

You paused in your work, going over the last piece of shame tics in your father's last apartment project. It was early evening, the cool sounds of summer coming through Velaris and the soft sounds of the nighttime activities were coming to emerge over the rives and the tops of the buildings. You could smell the alluring scents of the sea floating into the nearly done home that was so close to being done, the fresh pine in the woodwork that you helped shape and stain, and even the fresh paint from the painters that was a soothing smell for you since you were so used to it. You loved those scents, and although they were more masculine and gritty, they still reminded you of safety, of being center.

"Hello, Azriel," You said with a bright smile, seeing the Shadowsinger poke his head into the apartment from the front door. He smiled, remaining a bit timid at the door as you move your head as a gesture to go in, "Please come on in,"

"I don't wish to disrupt your work," He said to you, looking at the work in the room and looking rather large in companion to the scale of the apartment. You giggled, shaking your head.

"I'm already done for the night," You explained, gathering your papers together in a nice stack and getting your back ready, "I was about to head out and take a stroll near the river since it's such a nice night,"

"It is a lovely night," he hummed, then pausing for a brief moment before he spoke again, "Would you like me to join you?"

"Oh," You said lightly, not expecting that from him. He was always cordial with you when you two talked and mingled together, whether it was at a job site or when you were in a neutral area with Cassian or some of his other friends. They were nice and kind to you, almost seeing how Azriel would light up slightly when you walked by in your work clothes and your hair in its infamous braids. The blond female, a gorgeous Fae named Mor, was especially smitten with the notion of the Illyrian soldier watching your silhouette as you were waltzing by. You said nothing, but feeling his hazel eyes on the back of your was enough for you to think and wonder. Why would Azriel, someone who seemed so kind and his inward beauty matching his outward appearance, look at you in such a manner since you seemed so plain and so….ordinary?

Yet every time you two were around each other, you spoke like long-lost friends. He loved hearing you talk about everything and everything on your mind, never once showing he was losing interest or not liking that conversation. On the contrary, he was almost entranced with you when you talked. It was also the same way with him, you would hang on his every word when he would talk about what he liked to do and the more….sutle things that he had to blur over since he couldn't tell you all that he did for the High Lord. You understood, that his loyalties to the Rhysand were second to none. Yet you two were very open to one another, not too open to be fully exposed but open enough to consider each other friends.

But in recent years, you even had thoughts float in your mind about him. Some were gentle and sweet, almost innocent and gentle. The way he would smile at you and his chuckle that sounded like genuine joy, or the small touches he would do against your hand when he would give you one of your papers or when you would pass him an apple to share. They were subtle sparks, the flicker of warmth that hit you throughout the day. You inwardly loved it, deep down you loved it and you almost wished it was real.

That what you could have with him was real.

But then you had to think realistically. You had no real title, even as a High Fae. You weren't powerful for someone like him, who could wield shadows and darkness within his fingers and wings. He was literal power, and although you never had to see it or experience it personally, you knew he had it. With that, he could have anyone, literally anyone in his bed. You are not one to judge, but you were judging yourself and doubting what worth you would bring him. What would an Illyrian soldier want with an architect's daughter?

"I would love to," You answered, seeing his face lightly slightly from you accepting his invitation.

The night was beautiful and calm, the pair of you walking together side by side along with the cobblestone steps that went around the city. The rest of the night was alive with people, going in and out of shops, eating out on the patios of restaurants, and even some lively music from the local clubs there filling the air as you two walked in comfortable silence together. You two would walk in silence most of the time, his calming mood and aura were exactly what you needed sometimes after a long workday or in a stressful moment. He didn't have to say anything, just his presence alone was enough.

You were in it that deep with him, and it felt pathetic.

"You didn't have over plans tonight?" You asked him, rearranging the bag on your shoulder as you two were at a leisurely pace. He smiled, shaking his head as you looked over at him.

"None. I find it…odd that I don't have anything to do at the moment," He explained in a shrug, "Rhysand told me to take a break from my spying,"

"Things are still uneasy then, I take it?" You asked, trying to be timid about it since you knew he could barely tell you anything about his work and his duties with the High Lord. There was still a lingering sensation of fear in the air, you could almost taste it like the rest of the city. But there were no mass grumblings about it, no real fear that was lingering about Maybe it was thanks to Rhysand and his control, Cassian and Azriel trying to keep that fear amongst the citizens at a minimum. It was a blessing they were doing that, but you were still worried.

"It is," He replied, then giving him a kind stare, "Nothing for you to worry about though."

"I understand," You voiced, then giving him a small smile, "What you all are doing for this city, this Court, is been seen by the people here. They all appreciated it, you know,"

Azriel merely nodded, having you place your hand on his arm for the pair of you to stop. He did, looking down at your hand on his arm that moved down to touch his wrist, almost to get his attention now as his hazel eyes watched your stained yet soothing fingers. It was like you were stung by him, the literal spy of Night Court, just by a hand on his wrist.

"Ever since I came here, I always felt safe," You explained to him, seeing him look from your hands on his wrist to your eyes, seeing how truthful you were as you were staring right into his beautiful eyes, "I came from a Court that brought me nothing but fear and anguish, and I never felt that here. Deep down I know that's because of High Lord Rhysand, because of Cassian and Mor, because of Amren…and because of you,"

Azriel searched your eyes as you said this, and you were too occupied in what you were telling him to realize he was moving his wrist to lace your fingers together. You were too engrossed with what was said to even feel him almost inch a bit towards you.

"You are more valuable to the people of Velaris than you realize," You said to him calmly, giving your entire attention as you spoke that sentence to him and let him digest it from his spot right in front of you, "I find value in you, I truly do. If there's anything I wish or you to know, is that the value I have and find in you is good and true——"

He silenced with you a kiss.

That kiss was sent in every part of your body, almost like a fire that ignited and also water that soothed you. Nothing else was in your brain, nothing else was occupying it from the moment his lips touched your own and your eyes slid shut. What you felt at that moment was the same thing you felt when you saw the night sky in Velaris for the first time, seeing all of those stars scattered in the black sky and the light it brought. It made you feel so light, like the star themselves went under your skin and into your heart. You felt the fluttering sensation, the lightness taking over you and reminding you that you were alive.

It was the same way in this kiss.

You didn't think Azriel was bold enough to do this with you because of how much a gentleman he was. He was cautious being so close to you, never wanting to be in your space or make you feel some type of way without your consent. So to tell him right in front of you, one arm around your waist and the other still holding onto your hand like it would kill him if he released you, it made your heart sing. Everything in you was singing out, screaming out, that those feelings you had for him up to that point were now valid.

He pulled back slightly, still staying close to you and keeping you in his embrace. You saw how he too was affected by the kiss, how his eyes seemed a bit brighter and his breath was a bit shallower. There was no sense of remorse on his face, in his eyes, as he shy smiled at you. Perhaps you were glowing since you were glowing on the inside from that simple kiss that changed you forever.

"It's safe to say I find value in you too," He said to you softly. You leaned into him a bit more, feeling his arm around you was still keeping you close and not letting you go, "And I've been wanting to kiss you for some time if I'm going to be honest,"

"I only ever wanted you to be honest with me," You sighed to him, "I….I wanted to as well,"

He beamed then, though he saw some kind of hesitance on your face. You were hesitant, those worries and judgmental thoughts about yourself were filling your mind once again and they were telling you that this was fake, this he shouldn't be with someone like you. You were plain, nothing to notice and nothing to see on the street. But the way he was gazing at you and the simmering warmth in your gut and your soul was still evident enough for you to counter back on your doubts.

"I'm not extraordinary for someone like you," You said to him softly, trying not to sound remorseful about it negatively. However, that all changed when Azriel stared deeply into your eyes. He looked at you like you were one of the three stars that were over the mountain tops that were perched not too far away from Velaris, or even one of the fallen stars during that annual event deep in the night. Those judgments were no longer from that long glance, that once stare from him.

"You're more than extraordinary to me," He murmured to you, "You always have and you always will be. If I need to, I can show you much extraordinary you are to me if you'll let me,"

"Please," You hummed, pulling him into another kiss before you could stop yourself. He kissed you back willingly.

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

Present Day

Once again, you were awoken to arms around you and lips against your cheeks. You hummed, knowing those lips and how gentle they were against your skin. You didn't want to open your eyes just yet, no matter how warm you felt and how soothing it was to be woken in such a manner.

"Darling?" his grave tone was enough for you slowly wake up. Blinking a few times, you noticed it was now the late afternoon, the sun was slowly going back down over the mountaintops far off in the distance. Your room remained cool throughout your nap, yet there was a thin blanket over your body and shoulders. The man perched up above smiled at you, almost a hint of relief was on his face as you gazed up at him. Those hazel eyes, filled with love and devotion to you were staring at you with pureness and safety. Even after all these years, your heart fluttered as you reached up to touch his cheek.

Your mate.

"I came to check on you," he explained, searching your face lovingly as you sat up a bit and looked out the window. Seeing the setting sun had you almost grimace a bit as you rubbed your short hair from your eyes.

"I slept the whole day away…" you trailed off, Azriel leaning over to kiss your shoulder.

"Perhaps you needed the sleep," He reassured you, having you look over at him and softly smile at him, "You look well today,"

"Just well?" You asked him, not sounding coy or playful but there was still a hint of it in your tone. The way he stared at you, made you remember those lonely nights under the wrath of that queen, in the darkness and in the isolation that haunted you and made you feel like you were going to go crazy. When you had those low moments, you thought about those Hazel eyes and how they moved you, how they ignited you, and how they poured love into you.

"You look radiant, my darling," he hummed to you soundly and with no hesitation. He pulled you into his arms, then, loose enough for you to breathe yet tight enough to make sure you weren't going to be taken from him. One arm draped up your spine to touch your neck, the other around your lower waist as his head was pressed against your own. He inhaled, a long deep breath against your forehead and hair as you let him embrace you, to scent you. He did this from time to time with you, ever since you two got back together and reunited not too long ago. In his mind, he had to make sure you were truly alive and well, that you were safe in his arms, and that you weren't just a sick joke or a hallucination in his mind.

"I love you," he said as he pulled back to look at you softly in the eyes, having you grin at him as he touched the stray hairs that were coming in front of your eyes, "With all of me, I love you. When we finally have peace here, you and I will get married."

"I look forward to it, Az," You responded to him, "Nothing big or extravagant,"

"I would rather have it be the pair of us in front of a priestess," he added, though now you tilted your head at him.

"What about the others?" You asked, "Cassian and Rhysand? Mor will not let us hear the end of it if she's not there,"

Azriel playfully rolled his eyes, yet you kept your gaze on him. It was one of the main things you two had to talk and hash out when you two decided to have a mating ceremony. You had no one else there to be in attendance, just the Inner Circle who took you in as one of their own. When your parents died, those people know that you had no one else to lean on or to take care of. So you knew them as your family, your found family that loved and adored you.

"They can be there," Azriel replied then, though you giggled from his antics with you. You knew he meant well and he would have the others there too, anything to make you happy and satisfied. Everything about Azriel made you love him, and being back there in his safety made you grateful for this life you had.

"Since you're awake, why don't you freshen up? Rhysand wants you to come with me with the House of Wind to meet someone," He explained, having you raise an eyebrow at him.

"Who?" You asked.

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

3 Months Ago

It all happened so fast and suddenly. One minute you were still under the mountain, seeing a human girl defy the odds at the nightmarish queen, and the next you have been whisked away in the arms of Rhysand, back to Velaris and out of the nightmare forever.

You were watched from the darkness, amongst the others who were trapped there as the human girl went through three trials to unleash you all, including the High Lord of Spring Court. She was tough and endured, almost losing her life a few times here and there. The others saw it as a game of sorts, betting on her life like it was any other hobby. But with you, the pain you already went through the years previously as you were forced into hard labor, you were betting inwardly that she would win.

She would win and save you all.

Rhysand protected you, finding out instantly that you were stuck there as well as he. When it all started, plenty of fairies were slaughtered and butchered in front of the Queen, and she merely scoffed as the body count was piling up. Your parents were killed as well, right in front of your eyes as their throats were slit and their blood split on the floor. You watched with wide eyes, about to be killed next as one of the guards placed you on your knees in front of the red-haired queen. She glared at you, up and down as you were shivering and quaking.

"This one seems weak," She hummed, nonchalantly now as you kept your eyes down. You were counting your breaths, waiting for the blade to slice your throat and for you to die. But it never came, having you look up after several long seconds to see Rhysand there, talking to her under his breath and she looking at him like she was about to Devore him.

Because of Rhysand, your life was spared and you were sent to the labor force. You have been pulled away, your parent's blood still stuck on the floor and it tinted your knees red.

Now Rhysand had you in his arms, taking you to the townhouse and into one of the spare rooms. You were still shaking, curling into a tight ball, and whimpering from all that happened within minutes. Rhysand too was shaken up, but he was remaining so stoic as he got you in a guest room and kicked the door shut in a snap.

"We're safe now, okay?" Rhysand said to you as he got you on top of the bed, you sitting on the edge and hiding your head in your hands as you were trying not to cry in both fear and relief. You never thought you would be able to get back there in that moment, to be surrounded by light again. You couldn't hear the screams anymore, you couldn't smell the blood in your nostrils or feel the shivering sensation of death against your skin. But your mind was still fragile and almost juggled around, having it hard for you to breathe as you were still in your grubby clothes and your skin seemed paler than usual.

"We're back in Velaris, thank the Cauldron we are, okay?" He asked you again, pushing your jagged short hair from your face to have you look at him. Your long hair was chopped off and remained short, one of the many punishments that you endured there from that queen because she saw some kind of beauty in you and she wanted to take that away from you. Perhaps she wanted to be the only beauty in all of her made-up court, or maybe she was seeing you as a threat of some kind. Either way, your hair seemed like a sure sign of a new you.

There was a bang on the front door of the townhouse, almost like someone was barreling into the home in just a rush and a fast pace. Rhysand looked over at the door of the guest room, almost sensing who it was and inhaling in both relief and exhaustion. He looked back at you, watching you still hunched over and trying to catch your breath.

"I'll be right back, will you stay here?" He asked, his voice hoarse as the sounds of more people were coming in.

"RHYSAND?!" It was Cassian. You shot your head over to the door as Rhysand placed his hand on your shoulder.

"Let me talk to them and tell them what happened. Please stay here, please," he said to you, your eyes still trained on the door that would lead to the door. You wanted to see Cassian and the others, to see their faces and know that this was real and you were back with your old friends. Cassian's beaming smile and laugh, Mor's unique beauty and kindness, Armen's stoic nature and her blunt personality, and Azriel.

Oh, Azriel….

"Azriel…" You cracked out his name as Rhysand rubbed your shoulders.

"I'll get him for you, I promise you. But please, stay here and catch a breath," he said to you, seeing the light in your eyes flicker a bit when Azriel was mentioned.

"RHYSAND, WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU?!" Cassian roared again, Rhysand finally moving and was swiftly out of the door before you could stop him or say anything else. You were left alone in the room, taking in a few shallow breaths and feeling another wave of tears hitting your cheeks. It felt like you were still dreaming, waiting to wake up in the darkness and fear of that cell she locked you in. But as you were looking around, feeling the bed under your fingers and breathing in the soft smells of the flowers outside the open window, your mind was realizing that this was in fact real and you made it out.

You're alive. You survived….

You could hear loud voices and wavering tones outside the door, making you slowly get up from the bed and slowly walk over to the door. Pressing your ear to the deep red door, you tried to listen to what was being said, to hear the familiar voices that you haven’t heard in over 50 years.

"You need to tell us what happened, Rhys! We need to hear everything." Cassian sounded relieved.

"What did she do to you?" Armen, her voice filled with authority.

"Thank the Cauldron you go out in time, Rhys. We didn't know where you went or how to help you," Mor, her voice laced in relief. You couldn't help but smile in hearing these voices again, remembering all of those times having dinner with them and being out and about with them. They were a true family to you, and to think that you lost your parents under that mountain, the founds family was merely feet away from you and you wished to have them in your life again. To see how comfortable they were around each other and how they would protect one another. To hear them joke with one another and bring each other up the one needed strength. And mainly, to see them love one another wholeheartedly.

"Azriel, what happened—"

"Stop talking!" His voice echoed in your mind as your fingers were digging into the wooden door, "Rhysand, we need to hear everything that happened, word for word, now,"

You thought back to when you saw Azriel last, that fateful night you two spent together and wrapped in each other's arms. It was your anniversary, you two celebrating together with a secluded dinner at one of your favorite restaurants, then a stroll along the river banks that would lead to the pair of you in your joined room at the townhouse. You loved that night, thinking about that night over and over when you were under the mountain just to get you through the harder times and loneliness. You picture his face in your mind, illuminated from the candlelight of the dinner, or how he smiled warmly at you as you two walked together hand in hand along the waters of the riverbanks, and when Azriel was hovering over you as you two made love deep in the late night and in the quietness of the townhouse. His face, in your mind and your memory, helped you get by as the days turned to weeks, then years, and decades.

But he was literally there, on the other side of the door. Did he know you were there?

Suddenly you had a thirst, a need, to get to him. To touch him again with your fingers and lips, and to hear his voice say your name like a prayer. You gripped the door handle, turning it before you could think twice and you pushed yourself out in a heap. You were in the hallway, almost stumbling in your steps as the voices you were behind the door amplified a bit. It was coming from one of the sitting rooms to the right, you poking with your eyes as you stood still and tried to listen some more.

"I didn't come back alone," Rhysand said in a low tone, you walked done the hallway in the same direction as the voices that were hovering in the air of the townhouse. There wasn't anything heard from the others, making you pause to hear what else was going to come out.

"What are you talking about?" Azriel asked, his voice sounding uneasy. You took a few more steps.

"Az,' Rhysand said in a grave tone, and the way he said Azriel's name was enough for you to know deep down that he was already trying to give away that you were there. You could hear a pin drop, it was that quiet as you took in a shaky breath.

"Where….where is she?" Azriel sounded like he was about to cry and weep. You sighed, your heart beating so fast since you knew that he was talking about you. You walked without stopping yourself, navigating down the hallway to find the very voice that has saved you in more ways than one. You need to hear his voice in front of you, touch his skin with your fingers, and see him with your own eyes.

You needed to see him. Now.

With your feet carrying you, you not caring that you were beyond exhausted and filled with internal pain from what you went through, you were making it your mission to get to Azriel. Once you were at the end of the hallway, you made a quick turn to the right into the sitting room where all the voices were coming from. You saw them all there, your brain trying to register if this was a trick of the mind or if they were real. But they were, surrounding Rhysand with concerned looks. There was also anger, a hint of fury too. But you knew these people, you knew and grew to love them all individually. Once they saw you, in your dirty and almost completely turned clothes, they were all floored.

"Oh Cauldron," Mor said in a mournful tone, eyeing you with sadness in her eyes.

"Son of a bitch," Armen said in a threatening manner, maybe aiming that at the now deceased queen. You saw the grave look on Cassian's face, who was standing next to Rhysand and his hands were making fists at his sides. But you were trying to find the one person who you missed more than any of them. He was behind Rhysand, pushing past the High Lord to have the pair of you lock eyes with one another. No one ceased to exist in your mind, not when you were looking at the very man who you loved and loved more than reason or logic.

"Azriel," You gasped his name.

His face looked so mournful and almost laced with anger. There was no light in his eyes, not like before when you two would be together. He almost looked hardened, a shield over him along with his shadows and his wings. it was a side of him that you never thought you could see, but you knew deep down the Azriel you fell in love with was there too. Your heart was bursting from seeing him again, you wanted to be beyond happy and ecstatic that you were reunited with him.

Everything was moving in slow motion as he was rushing over to you. It felt like you were so overwhelmed with all that happened, being back in Velaris, being saved from Under the Mountain, from seeing the love of your life again. Your knees were buckling, a gasp was out of your mouth before you could stop it, and you felt yourself about to fall to the ground. Yet before you could hit the wooden floor, you felt arms around you and almost a hint of darkness from the shadows.

You knew who was holding you, and you started to cry.

Your head rested against his chest, hearing his heartbeat against your ear and his scarred but gentle hands around your shoulders and arms. You dreamt of feeling this for so long, having illusions of being held by Azriel once more and having some kind of comfort with him again. But this was real, he was real, and you were opening weeping in his embrace. You felt him hold you close as if you were once again going to be taken away from him forever. there was even a moment you thought you were never going to see him again, and that killed your heart.

"Oh my love," Azriel said in a mournful tone, almost feeling heartbreak himself. You never saw him so broken down, so vulnerable and weak, it was nothing like him at all. Yet there he was, holding you so close and intimately and weeping with you as you two were reunited once again. There were times in the darkness when you pondered if Azriel was thinking about you and missing you as much as you were missing him. He had to have, deep down you knew he was.

You two cried and embraced once another on the wooden floor, not caring about the others and the rest of the world around you. All that mattered to you was the Illyrian, the Spy Master, your true love, who was once against in your life.

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

Present Day

Your feet touched down on the balcony of the House of Wind, Azriel's arm around your waist never leaving you as the pair of you stood there on the balcony. The crisp air touching your skin made you shiver, and you were peering inside to see the huddle of people. You felt a flip in your stomach as Azriel clutched your hand.

"You ready?" He asked you, making you peer up at him now with a small smile on your lips. You could see the sense of hope on his face with you being there, seeming normal and functionally normally again.

Throughout the entire time you were recovering from what you went through Under The Mountain, Azriel was there. There was more trauma that you thought you were harboring and needing to conquer: sleepless nights with nightmares and night terrors. You vomited in the toilet almost every day, not being able to hold down food for the first four days back in Velaris. Everything needed to be built back together within yourself, not to mention not having your parents there anymore. That was the worst part of it all, knowing that they were dead and not coming back.

Yet Azriel was there every time you felt broken. He held back your hair when you were sick in the bathroom and empty your stomach. He caressed your back with his fingers as you were weeping over your deceased parents. He held your hand through every nightmare that was haunting you. When he wasn't working for Rhysand or doing his job as a Spymaster, he was with you and never showed any regret in being with you. You were grateful for him, seeing how he stared at you like you were the only soul in Velaris, or that you were some kind of wonder from the Cauldron itself. Perhaps you were, and your love for him deepened.

Your wounds were healing, slowly and evenly with small slivers of scars and scabs to be seen. it was all thanks to Azriel and how undying love and devotion to you. There was no other love that you ever wanted, ever craved, than the love you had for Azriel and Azriel alone. You two were so in since with one another before you were taken, and you felt the love evolve when you returned. All you could do was look forward, look forward with the very Illryain man who loves you beyond reason.

"Yes," You hummed back to him, feeling him press a kiss into your hair before the pair of you walked together into the House of Wind.

The End.

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

You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.

Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.

Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.

You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.

Was Rhysand High Lord yet?

If he was, how had your father died?

Had Rhysand found his mate?

Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?

In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.

You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.

Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.

“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.

Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”

Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.

A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.

Feyre was confused.

Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.

Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”

“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.

“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.

She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.

“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”

“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”

That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”

Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.

Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.

Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”

Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”

Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.

Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”

The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”

“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”

“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”

“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.

“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.

His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked.

Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”

Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

Feyre shrugged sheepishly.

Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”

Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”

Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”

Number one girl.

Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.

Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”

Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”

Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”

She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.

Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.

She’s their number one girl.

No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.

“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.

She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.

Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”

The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”

Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.

“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.

Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”

“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”

Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”

Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”

Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” She argued.

Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”

It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.

Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.

It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.

It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.

It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.

Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.

The House always listened.

Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.

In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.

The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.

The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.

The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.

A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.

You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.

Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.

A male.

Sitting, observing.

“Hello,” you greeted softly.

No answer.

“What are you doing up there?” You asked.

The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.

“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.

He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.

“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”

It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.

They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.

“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”

You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”

He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.

You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”

“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.

You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.

“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”

The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.

Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.

“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.

He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.

“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.

“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.

“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”

He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.

“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.

His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”

Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”

You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.

Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.

“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.

“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.

Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.

“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.

“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.

“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.

You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.

“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.

His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”

Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”

“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”

You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”

You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.

At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.

Not yet though.

Only when he was ready.

“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.

You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”

You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”

You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.

You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.

You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”

Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”

Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”

Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”

A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”

“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”

“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”

“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”

“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.

“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.

“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.

“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.

“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.

“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”

Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.

“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.

“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.

Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.

He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.

Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.

You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.

Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.

Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.

“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.

“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.

The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.

“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.

“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.

The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.

Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.

He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.

But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.

You had caught him, just like you said you would.

Wake. Wake. Wake.

Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.

Another day it remained the same.

A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.

You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.

Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.

The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Master. Master. Master.

She hears us. She hears us.

They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.

Was that them talking?

“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.

Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.

No.

They almost sounded like hisses.

“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.

You didn’t understand.

“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.

But who? You wondered.

It seemed they knew your thoughts too.

You. You.

Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.

You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.

Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.

How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?

He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.

Oh.

“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.

Yes. They hissed again.

“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.

“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.

You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.

They truly were yours.

Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.

“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”

Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.

Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.

But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.

Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.

He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.

He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.

He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.

It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.

Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.

When he awoke this time though, it was different.

His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.

The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?

Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.

Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.

The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.

But why?

He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.

Intruder. But where?

The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.

His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.

There it was.

A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.

He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.

Nothing.

They did not seem threatening though.

They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.

Help. His own shadows muttered.

“Help?” He questioned.

They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.

Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.

No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.

Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.

He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.

He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.

“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”

“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.

“What is it?”

Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.

Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”

Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”

“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.

“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”

“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”

“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”

Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.

“Chained,” he spoke aloud.

“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.

Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”

“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.

The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.

She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.

Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”

“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.

“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”

Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.

It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.

The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.

What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?

Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.

Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.

Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.

He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.

A woman of his kind.

The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.

He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.

Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.

Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.

Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.

One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.

He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.

It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.

He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.

Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.

Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.

“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”

He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.

She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.

Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?

It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.

His fae woman.

No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.

Yet you remained in his sight.

He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.

Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.

The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.

Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.

The dagger you had given him.

The first gift he had ever received.

He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.

Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.

He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.

And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.

Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.

He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.

You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.

Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.

Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.

You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.

Was Rhysand High Lord yet?

If he was, how had your father died?

Had Rhysand found his mate?

Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?

In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.

You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.

Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.

“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.

Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”

Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.

A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.

Feyre was confused.

Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.

Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”

“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.

“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.

She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.

“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”

“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”

That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”

Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.

Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.

Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”

Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”

Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.

Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”

The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”

“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”

“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”

“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.

“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.

His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked.

Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”

Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

Feyre shrugged sheepishly.

Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”

Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”

Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”

Number one girl.

Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.

Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”

Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”

Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”

She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.

Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.

She’s their number one girl.

No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.

“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.

She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.

Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”

The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”

Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.

“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.

Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”

“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”

Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”

Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”

Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” She argued.

Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”

It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.

Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.

It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.

It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.

It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.

Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.

The House always listened.

Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.

In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.

The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.

The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.

The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.

A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.

You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.

Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.

A male.

Sitting, observing.

“Hello,” you greeted softly.

No answer.

“What are you doing up there?” You asked.

The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.

“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.

He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.

“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”

It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.

They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.

“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”

You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”

He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.

You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”

“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.

You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.

“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”

The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.

Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.

“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.

He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.

“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.

“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.

“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”

He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.

“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.

His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”

Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”

You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.

Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.

“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.

“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.

Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.

“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.

“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.

“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.

You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.

“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.

His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”

Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”

“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”

You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”

You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.

At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.

Not yet though.

Only when he was ready.

“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.

You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”

You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”

You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.

You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.

You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”

Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”

Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”

Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”

A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”

“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”

“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”

“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”

“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.

“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.

“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.

“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.

“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.

“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”

Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.

“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.

“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.

Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.

He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.

Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.

You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.

Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.

Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.

“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.

“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.

The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.

“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.

“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.

The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.

Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.

He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.

But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.

You had caught him, just like you said you would.

Wake. Wake. Wake.

Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.

Another day it remained the same.

A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.

You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.

Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.

The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Master. Master. Master.

She hears us. She hears us.

They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.

Was that them talking?

“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.

Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.

No.

They almost sounded like hisses.

“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.

You didn’t understand.

“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.

But who? You wondered.

It seemed they knew your thoughts too.

You. You.

Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.

You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.

Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.

How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?

He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.

Oh.

“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.

Yes. They hissed again.

“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.

“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.

You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.

They truly were yours.

Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.

“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”

Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.

Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.

But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.

Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.

He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.

He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.

He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.

It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.

Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.

When he awoke this time though, it was different.

His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.

The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?

Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.

Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.

The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.

But why?

He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.

Intruder. But where?

The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.

His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.

There it was.

A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.

He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.

Nothing.

They did not seem threatening though.

They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.

Help. His own shadows muttered.

“Help?” He questioned.

They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.

Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.

No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.

Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.

He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.

He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.

“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”

“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.

“What is it?”

Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.

Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”

Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”

“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.

“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”

“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”

“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”

Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.

“Chained,” he spoke aloud.

“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.

Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”

“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.

The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.

She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.

Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”

“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.

“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”

Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.

It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.

The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.

What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?

Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.

Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.

Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.

He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.

A woman of his kind.

The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.

He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.

Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.

Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.

Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.

One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.

He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.

It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.

He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.

Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.

Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.

“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”

He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.

She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.

Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?

It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.

His fae woman.

No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.

Yet you remained in his sight.

He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.

Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.

The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.

Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.

The dagger you had given him.

The first gift he had ever received.

He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.

Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.

He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.

And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.

Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.

He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.

At one of the tables sat what remained of the fellowship, along Éowyn and Éomer, enjoying the festivities.

(Y/N) sat beside Legolas with her posture half-slouched against him in a way that he was beginning to understand meant she had consumed far too much mead. Apparently, the Rámaite Mahtar (winged warriors) did not have the alcohol tolerance of the elves.

One wing rested loosely behind Legolas’s back, occasionally twitching whenever the hall erupted too loudly. The other hung on the opposite side. Her cheeks were faintly flushed from the ale, and her hair had loosened from its braid. She was several cups beyond sober and looking entirely too pleased about it.

Legolas had already removed three drinks from her hands.

She had somehow acquired a fourth—likely from Gimli, much to Legolas’s dismay.

Down the long table where the group was seated, a handful of Rohirrim soldiers spoke in hushed tones. Unfortunately for them, Legolas’s keen elven hearing caught every word—not that they knew.

“…I’m telling you,” one of them, with deep auburn hair, whispered as he nudged his companion. “There is no way that that elf is just guarding her out of duty.”

“I mean, think about it,” another man, with dark eyes, said. “If I had a woman like that sitting beside me, I would not be sharing a single breath of air with the rest of you.”

“That elf already does not share air with the rest of us,” a third pointed out. “He glares at anyone who gets within three paces of her.”

The Rohan soldiers let their eyes drift back to Legolas and (Y/N).

The man with auburn hair spoke again, muttering into his cup. “I am simply saying…if they are not sharing a bed already, then the elf has the restraint of Eru himself.”

A snort nearly escaped the dark-eyed man. “No man looks that possessive over a woman he hasn’t fucked.”

“That is exactly my point.”

Across the table and a little ways up, Legolas sat beside (Y/N) in rigid silence, very clearly pretending not to hear a single word. Which would have been more convincing had the tips of his ears not gone noticeably pink. (Y/N), meanwhile, was drunk enough to be entirely unbothered by the world around her.

The third soldier leaned closer. “So you think they’ve—”

“Yes,” the first man interrupted immediately. “Without question.”

A pause.

“…go on then,” the other pressed, lowering his voice. “If you’re so certain, describe it properly. In detail.”

“You are asking me,” he replied carefully, “to narrate what the elf bedding his woman looks like…in detail? Absolutely not. I am not speaking those thoughts–not in detail, not in an outline, not even in a metaphor. I prefer to keep my tongue where it is.”

“Oh come on,” he insisted, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You did not see him at Isengard. He threatened to decorate the tower with Saruman’s entrails just for the few comments the wizard made.”

The dark-eyed soldier snorted, “I pity the man who tries tonight.”

The third Rohirim sighed dramatically. “Still. Lucky bastard.”

That finally earned a reaction. Legolas’s eyes lifted slowly from his drink and rested on the group of men.

The entire cluster of Rohirrim immediately straightened like boys caught stealing from the royal kitchens. The elf had heard them.

“What,” Legolas asked from his place at the table with a terrifyingly calm tone, “exactly makes me fortunate?”

Silence. Absolute silence from the soldiers. Yet, confused glances and eyebrow raises from Aragorn, Gimli, Éomer, and Éowyn, for they had not heard the conversation unfold between the men.

Then, one of them actually answered. “My lord, respectfully…” He gestured vaguely toward (Y/N), currently half-asleep against Legolas’s shoulder with her one wing draped lazily behind him. “Look at her.”

And, because drunken men clearly lack survival instincts, another tacked onto his friend’s sentence. “I mean, you survive Helm’s Deep, get carried through it by legends, and walk away with that sitting beside you like she belongs there. It’s not fair.”

Aragorn slowly pressed his fingers against his temple, already tired and wary of where this was going.

Gimli, on the other hand, looked delighted. “Fair?” the dwarf echoed. “Life is not fair. The elf just learned it comes with rewards.”

Legolas stared at the soldiers. Then slowly looked down at (Y/N). For a long moment, he said nothing at all. Then, almost idly, he reached up and adjusted the edge of her wing where it was flush against him, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Fortune implies chance,” he said. He paused, gently cupping (Y/N)’s jaw in his hand and guiding her to look up at him, his thumb brushing gently across her flushed lips—likely more to make his point than out of necessity. That possessive elven streak taking hold. “This was not chance.” Legolas finally looked back at the soldiers. “You may call it fortunate,” he added evenly, “if it helps you sleep.” He let (Y/N)’s face fall from his careful grasp. Then, with absolute finality, he finished his words: “I do not.”

Across the table, Aragorn exhaled slowly, recognizing the tone well enough to know the conversation was over—without Legolas enforcing his point with action.

As the discussion disbanded with unease, (Y/N) blinked up at him, a frown crossing her face—clearly too drunk to understand the meaning behind the events and conversation that just transpired.

Unfortunately, this was not the only incident as the night dragged on—each passing moment seemed to invite yet another lapse in judgment of Rohirrim men, as if the evening itself had grown determined to test Legolas’s patience.

Behind Legolas and (Y/N), a young Rohirrim soldier stared at the woman openly.

Not subtle. Not even remotely.

He stood with his back against the wall with his friends surrounding him. His eyes were fixated on (Y/N) like poisoned sap to a tree. The pint of ale within his grasp was sloshing slightly.

Young. Drunk. Overconfident—A fatal combination.

Aragorn watched him from his place across from the elf and Rámaite Mahtar. He was well aware of what a man with desires looked like and that….well, that was one of them. The Ranger knew that Legolas was cognizant of him too, for the elf’s jaw was tight and his form stiff. He had been tracking the man, with every one of his senses, with the same focus he usually reserved for battlefield targets—despite his back being to him.

The Rohan man’s companions only seemed to be encouraging the soldier, for they elbowed him and muttered support and reassurance between suppressed laughter.

Legolas’s ear twitched, catching the words they echoed.

To most, the elf appeared calm, but Aragorn knew better.

It wasn't long before the soldier, bolstered by entirely too much ale and the misplaced confidence of a man not fearing for his life nearly enough, approached them and leaned on the table beside (Y/N)—the opposite side of where Legolas was beside her.

“So…” he began, grinning crookedly at (Y/N). “Has anyone told you that you are the most beautiful woman in this hall, my lady?”

Legolas’s grip on his cup tightened. The nearby Rohirrim who had previously made their comments immediately went silent—their gaze fastened to the situation that was about to unfold as if it was a saddle to a horse.

Across the table, Aragorn physically closed his eyes and clenched his jaw for just a moment. This was not going to go well.

Gimli, on the other hand, grinned into his drink.

(Y/N), with a frown, blinked slowly at the man—not sure of how to respond.

The man continued, his grin and tone growing bolder. “I saw many of my comrades staring at you, and I couldn't allow them to approach you first. But can you blame them? Beautiful women are rare enough after war.” His gaze flicked briefly toward her wings. “Beautiful winged women, even more so.” His eyes then drifted to her shoulder and the sleeve that had long since slipped from its place, exposing the smallest bit of cleavage.

The air beside her began to heat in rage.

Legolas lifted his cup and took a rather large sip. He did not even turn to look at the man. “You are staring,” he said calmly, “rather disrespectfully.”

The soldier, somehow still determined to march willingly toward his own funeral, laughed. “No offense meant, elf. I was only admiring her.”

Legolas’s gaze shifted toward him.

“And I am deciding,” he replied calmly, “how much admiration I am willing to tolerate before I remove your teeth from your mouth.”

A choking sound escaped Aragorn somewhere into his cup of ale, and Gimli outright barked out a gleeful laugh. Éomer only raised his brows, and Éowyn covered her mouth with wide, shocked eyes.

Meanwhile, the Rohirrim soldier’s smile faded slightly as he attempted to recover, now realizing that he was walking on tricky ground. “Sir elf, truly, I only wished to say your female comrade is—”

“She is not my comrade.” The correction came far too quickly.

A low chuckle rumbled from Éomer as he lifted his drink. “Bold man,” he mused dryly, “trying to court an elf’s wife.”

Hearing this, what remained of the man’s grin dropped instantly.

Legolas did not correct Éomer; instead, he stood up from his place upon the bench and turned fully towards the soldier. He did not move with haste or anger. If anything, the calmness of his actions made the moment worse. Light flickered across the sharp curves of his face and the long strands of his blonde hair as he stepped toward the man with controlled precision, each movement measured.

The soldier swallowed hard.

From across the table, Aragorn exhaled hot air through his nose. This was escalating—exactly as he expected.

Legolas stopped directly before the Rohirrim, leaving only about two feet of space. Close enough to intimidate.

“You have spent the better part of this evening staring at her,” the elf said evenly.

The man opened his mouth, likely to deny it, but Legolas continued before he could speak.

“You approached her.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And then you spoke to her as though she were eager for the attention of drunken men. She is not.”

The soldier visibly paled. “My lord elf, I meant only respect—”

“No,” Legolas interrupted. “You meant desire.” The bluntness of the statement struck the table like stone falling upon rock.

Even the nearby Rohirrim had stopped pretending not to listen now—their mouths gaping and eyes wide, anticipation of how this was to unfold burning brightly in their gazes.

Legolas’s expression remained perfectly composed, but beneath that composure simmered something sharp enough to draw blood. “You looked upon her as though you were entitled to her attention merely because you survived a battle.” His gaze swept once over the man. “You are not.”

Behind Legolas, Gimli looked moments from collapsing with delight while Éomer drank openly through a grin.

“And yet,” Legolas continued, his voice steady, “You persisted.”

The soldier straightened nervously. “I did not realize—”

“That much is obvious.”

A painful silence followed.

Then, Legolas leaned slightly closer. The soldier could feel the elf’s hot breath against his face—almost as if Legolas was daring him to try. “She is under my protection,” he stated quietly. “And if you approach her again with intentions so transparent, you will discover precisely how little patience I possess tonight.”

The soldier nodded immediately. “Yes, my lord.”

Only then did Legolas step back.

The Rohirrim man retreated almost instantly into the crowd, eager to escape with his dignity still partially intact—if you could even call it that.

A low chuckle escaped Éomer as he watched the man flee. “Gods,” he muttered into his drink, “you court like a territorial wolf.”

Legolas ignored him completely and resumed his seat beside (Y/N).

Gimli snorted into his ale. “Careful, horse-lord. That sounds like poetry coming on. I don’t have enough ale in me to tolerate that.”

Éomer only grinned.

Across the table, Aragorn gave him a tired, warning look—practically begging him not to test the elf.

Éomer shrugged, entirely unbothered by Aragorn’s subtle gesture. “Wolf is wrong anyway,” Éomer said lightly, eyes still on Legolas. “Too crude.” Amused, he spoke again with a faint shake of his head. “I have been watching this elf for an hour. Dignity left the moment that girl leaned against him, and he forgot how to sit like a man instead of a drawn bowstring.”

Gimli released a deep laugh immediately.

Aragorn exhaled through his nose—half resignation, half amusement.

Éomer leaned back, thoroughly entertained now.

“And yet,” he added, grin widening as he took a sip, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so carefully lose their composure in my life.” His eyes flicked once more to Legolas. “It’s impressive.”

Legolas only glared at him.

Beside him, Gimli, openly enjoying himself, spoke. “I like this game we have played tonight,” the dwarf muttered. “We should name it: Guess When the Elf Snaps.”

The blonde elf’s sharp look transferred to his dwarven friend, his blood boiling.

Gimli only laughed, raising his cup, calling for another pint. “Ay! Get me another!”

At this (Y/N) blinked, the sleepiness drifting a bit from her demeanor. A lazy grin stretched across her face. “Me as well!”

Legolas looked at her with a frown, “(Y/N), you are drunk. You do not need another pint.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked at her empty tankard. “But it is empty. That means I need another.”

Once again, Gimli’s roaring blitheness echoed upon the hall. “Ay! She needs another pint, lad!”

Much to Legolas’s disapproval, a barmaid came to their table with multiple pints, placing one in front of (Y/N).

It was at that moment that large, hairy feet thundered down the top of the table….yes, the top of the table. Merry and Pippin stood upon the wood and began a lively tavern song.

“Hey! Ho! To the bottle I go.

To heal my heart and drown my woe!”

(Y/N) grinned up at them, clearly excited and enthralled by the chaotic cheer.

“Rain may fall and wind may blow,

But there still be many miles to go.”

It was at that moment that Pippin saw her dazzling eyes and released a gleeful cheer. He extended his hand to her and was quick to accept it. He and Merry yanked her up onto the table, looping their arms with hers. She tucked her wings back into her form. With that, the three’s arms were locked as they swung around and around, the song continuing—(Y/N) going right along with them.

“Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,

And the stream that falls from hill to plain.”

Merry’s foot swung slightly, accidentally kicking the bowl of half-eaten peanuts. They, unfortunately, went sprawling across the table—some even clattered against Legolas's chest.

The elf sighed, but opted not to ruin their fun.

“Better than rain or rippling brook...

Is a mug of beer inside this Took!”

With that, Merry and Pippin took to chugging their drinks, prompting the Rámaite Mahtar (winged warrior) to bend down and grab hers. With that, she too tilted the tankard back and downed the whole thing.

Only moments later, a second song started, and the three continued their dancing, hoots and cheers following. That is how the next hour passed, drink after drink, and dance after dance.

It only came to an end when (Y/N) lost her footing. Her perception distorted and twirled as her body fell forward, right into the arms of her lover—who luckily had noticed her body begin to tip and stood upright to catch her.

The smell of pine and honey filled her nostrils as her dizzy gaze finally settled onto Legolas’s face. “Legolas!” she started with a breathy giggle. “Will you join us?”

“I am afraid not, my starlight,” he replied gently. “I fear it may be time for you to retire.”

“Retire?” she questioned, not fully understanding.

“To sleep,” he clarified.

(Y/N) frowned, “But I want to dance again!”

“There will be more occasions for dancing, my starlight. I fear that if I do not get you to rest, you will wake up with a rather regrettable headache.”

“What is this h-headache you speak of?” she asked, her words slurring.

The elf sighed, "Unfortunately, I believe you will find out in the morrow.” With that, he placed her down, careful to steady her on her own two feet.

He then began to guide her from the hall. As the large, wooden doors closed behind them, a silence—almost eerie—settled, for the distant spill of music and laughter behind the doors was now quieted and muffled. The temperature of the air itself appeared to have dropped, for some of the windows were open and cool night air drifted in. Now that they were no longer side-by-side with drunken soldiers, the chaos faded.

(Y/N) took a deep breath in, her form drifting toward one of the windows. “It smells like…flowers. You know, the little purple ones we saw with Frodo.” She sighed, her tone somber. “I miss Frodo. And Sam.” Her gaze settled onto the elf beside her. “Do you think they are alright?” she whispered anxiously.

The elf exhaled slowly, not wanting to let his mind drift to such dark corners tonight. “I hope so, but I fear I cannot give you an answer.”

She sighed softly. She allowed her forearms to rest upon the stone of the windowsill, and her eyes settled on the night sky. After a long couple of moments, she spoke again. “This world is pretty.”

Legolas, standing beside her, smiled softly. “That it is.”

“When I was with him….with Morgoth and his servants, there was no such thing as ‘pretty.’”

Legolas glanced at her, but her attention was focused out far, as if her mind was away with the painful memories.

“Sometimes, when I think about it, it feels like…” (Y/N) paused. “Those—those images when you sleep?”

“Dreams,” he provided.

“Yes, dreams.”

Legolas turned to face her, gently stroking her cheek. “You do not ever have to return there. You can stay here.”

She looked up at him, her eyes dewy and soft. “In this pretty world?”

The concern of his lip twitched into a soft grin at her intoxicated words. “Yes, in this pretty world.”

Abruptly, a light, airy giggle left her lips—sounding like tower bells ringing in celebration. “Y-you,” she began drunkenly, “You are also pretty.”

A soft chuckle left his mouth. “You are intoxicated. Let’s get you to sleep.”

She only hummed in reply as Legolas began leading her to one of the designated rooms, lined with beds, for the guests and soldiers.

Swaying and being supported by Legolas’s arm wrapped around her waist, she spoke with a frown. “We are not going to the room I stayed in last time? Éowyn will not like that.”

Legolas raised his brow in question.

“Apparently,” she began, “women cannot share rooms with men in this town unless they are….Ah, what–what is that word? Wed! Yes, Éowyn said, unless they a-are wed.”

The elf only sighed, “I fear I do not feel comfortable leaving you in an unguarded room tonight.”

“Explain?” she inquired simply.

Legolas sucked in a deep breath, feeling unsure how to proceed with these details. She held the right to know of the violations that could come upon women by dishonorable men. “Well,” he began with uncertainty. He knew he would have to be blunt and direct, given her understanding of this world. “There are some people in this world who will intentionally harm women to settle their own desires. Some of them will try to force sex upon a woman without her consent.”

Her brows furrowed. “I do not want sex with men that are not you.”

“I know this, (Y/N), which is why I would not want to put you in a position where you are unsafe.”

“I would just kill them if they tried,” she quipped back. With that, (Y/N) stumbled over her own feet, her balance giving way beneath her from the effects of the mead. Legolas guided her upright with practiced ease, as though he had been expecting it all along—and he had.

The Prince raised his brows. “Unfortunately, I fear you are too drunk to be able to kill someone with ease.”

She snorted. “I can.”

Legolas, not wishing to even try to win this argument, did not push back. “Regardless, with the amount of eyes that were on you this evening, I would prefer you to be with me.”

She only shrugged in reply.

What Legolas did not tell her was that he had deliberately chosen not to remain in her room with her. Valar forbid, should some drunken man mistake the locked door to (Y/N)’s room for an invitation, Legolas suspected that, without Aragorn or Gimli nearby to restrain him, the encounter would end with a body.

It was not long before they arrived at the designated chamber. Some spots were already filled with snoring men, the alcohol lying claim to their night.

Legolas was quick to lay out a bedroll along the wall before settling himself against the wooden panels. (Y/N) lowered herself onto the mat beside him, resting her head in his lap. The Prince began gently stroking his fingers up and down her back in a soft rhythmic movement, and it was not long before (Y/N) was fast asleep.

As the night stretched on, drunken men of Rohan began to filter in. They were quick to select a bedroll and sleep, weary from the battle and ale.

Aragorn came in, his eyes landed on (Y/N) and Legolas. He knew the reasoning behind this. He did not have to inquire. The uncrowned king approached them and laid a mat down near them, finding comfort in the companions that he had known and traveled with for so long.

The door creaked open once more, and this time it was Gandalf who stepped through.

The sound echoed briefly through the quiet chamber before the door opened once more. Two Rohirrim soldiers entered, struggling under the weight of a dwarf they knew all too well. Gimli was thoroughly unconscious, snoring loudly enough to shake the rafters.

Not long after came Merry and Pippin, their faces flushed with drink and mischief as they stumbled into the chambers rather ungracefully.

Legolas took note of each person who entered the chamber. His watchful gaze remained calm until the Rohirrim soldier, who had approached (Y/N) earlier, stumbled through the doorway—still far too drunk for his own good.

Immediately, the elf’s expression hardened into something far less welcoming.

The soldier noticed.

The Rohirrim man’s eyes flicked first to (Y/N), sound asleep with her head resting in Legolas’s lap, then to the elf himself. The murderous glare waiting for him left little room for misunderstanding. Whatever courage the man had possessed earlier in the evening was not present now. Without a word, he moved to the farthest corner of the room, laid out his bedroll, and promptly turned his back to them before curling up for the night.

It wasn't long before Legolas too allowed his eyes to close softly, letting himself get some rest.

That quiet rest hung in the room for hours. Until a rather vast disruption—full of fear and doom.

Many gazes were snapped open as Pippin’s gurgling shrieks echoed upon the walls. His hands were wrapped around the plantir, and his entire body shook and writhed. Aragorn was quick to grab the sphere from his grasp, which only sent the Ranger into a similar state. (Y/N) was the next to do so—snatching it in an attempt to aid him.

Immediately, she too entered a trance-like state.

The voice of Sauron crept into the corners of her mind. “(Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N),” he hissed. “Now what are you doing here—out from the Hollow of Chains and the Iron Pits of Wings?”

A deep, flaming darkness swallowed her. It encased her and seeped deep into her core. Flashes of memories struck her mind. Memories filled with the smell of iron, the taste of blood, and the sound of her and her kins’ screams.

It felt like she was there again, back in the clutches of Morgoth. Broken, beaten, bloody.

She could feel the pressure of the chains that had dug into her wrists and ankles for thousands of years. She could feel the slices of blades and whips that had broken her skin. She could feel the deep fear that had encased her heart.

Then came laughter—cold, cruel, and familiar.

The image of Sauron emerged from the corners of her mind, clad in armor and flames—an image of a man she had known before, yet she had not had a name attached to it. Not until now.

“You escaped,” he mused, circling her slowly. “A remarkable feat. Morgoth himself would have found amusement in that. He probably has.” He paused. “To think that he and I spent centuries breaking your kind and yet, here you are.”

His form moved closer to her, and the image shifted again. Helms Deep. Legolas. Rohan. The Hobbits. Lothlorien. Aragorn. Gandalf. Boromir. Gimli……Again, Legolas.

Sauron’s face appeared once more, contorting with amusement. “Ah. The elf. The prince who guards you as though he can shield you from what is coming. He cannot.”

The vision twisted, showing Legolas. Legolas beaten. Legolas bloody. Legolas’s body broken and bruised. Legolas tortured. Legolas dead.

(Y/N) tried to scream and run towards him, but she was locked in those chains, and her voice was stolen. She could feel hot tears and snot running down her face, and she pulled and pulled against the iron.

“Oh, a weakness!” Sauron’s voice slithered. “We had not thought that your kind had had any at all—even with all our experimentation. If only we had known it would take merely an elf.”

The vision shifted again—Legolas hung chained from the ceiling, shirtless and covered in wounds. Sauron appeared before him with unnerving calm, and without haste drew a blade across his chest. A raw cry of pain escaped Legolas as it cut through his skin.

With that, those iron chains that held (Y/N) shattered, and she lunged forward.

“There she is—our most brutal little warrior.”

Then back in darkness she was. Spinning around, looking for him—desperately, angrily, fearfully.

"The creature Morgoth could never quite extinguish,” Sauron’s voice echoed without form. “Perhaps, I should return you to him?”

It was then that the illusion faded, for a light burst through the darkness and the vision cracked like glass.

She was back—back in Rohan, back in the sleeping chambers, back with her friends.

“(Y/N)!” Legolas called out.

She looked down at the glass ball that had rolled upon the floor, away from her.

Gandalf was quick to cover it.

She could feel the elf’s arms upon her, pulling her close to him, but her eyes were focused on Pippin.

Gandalf’s furious voice echoed through the room. “Fool of a Took!”

He rushed to the catatonic hobbit’s side and pressed a hand against his forehead. Murmuring words under his breath—likely some form of magic. Pippin jolted awake with a gasp.

The wizard immediately began questioning him with urgent intensity, receiving in return a breathless, desperate account of what he had seen.

Legolas turned (Y/N) to face him, her form flushed against his own. He grasped her face between his palms. “Are you alright, my starlight?”

She only nodded, her hands resting flat upon his chest—where the wound in the vision had been.

….

Taglist in the comments because there are too many of you (said with much love) <3

Her wrists were bound before she could form a coherent thought, rope scratching the skin raw. The only sounds were her ragged breaths and the heavy boots dragging her forward, etc step echoing off stone as if the walls themselves were closing in.

Cold. Gods, it was cold. The damp air smelled of mold and rust--of places no one came back from.

She fought to keep track of turns, to memorise the path, but every jolt and shove blurred together until time itself seemed to vanish.

A door groaned open. She was pushed inside, the floor beneath her knees wet and sticky. The blindfold didn't come off.

A voice slithered out of the dark, low and grating. "We need to get to the Shadowsinger," it said, and she could hear the rotting smirk in the words. "Seems capturing one of the Archeron sisters will do just fine."

The pieces clicked with sickening ease.

Of course. She wasn't the prize--she was the bait.

But the revelation didn't stop there--it pulled her backward, years and years, to where this all began.

Azriel had been the only one she could truly call a close friend.

From the moment the Cauldron had dragged her under, lungs burning, bones stretching, senses sharpening into something new, she’d been reborn alongside her two sisters. Elain’s sobs had been soft, Nesta’s silence sharp, but Y/N… she’d stared at her hands, her reflection, her glowing, strange eyes, and felt a thrill deep in her chest. She was immortal now. She had centuries ahead of her to do, see, and be everything she’d once thought impossible.

Being reunited with Feyre, her high lady older sister, had only added to the joy. There had been so much to catch up on, so many moments stolen by months of separation. And after the war--their war--there’d been peace. There had been laughter and dinners in Velaris, quiet mornings watching the city stir awake.

It was in those months after the fighting that she and Azriel had found friendship in each other--not in some grand moment, but through small, consistent ones. A nod across the River House dining room. A conversation on a balcony that stretched until dawn. Training sessions where he corrected her stance with the faintest touch, shadows curling lazily around her. Somewhere between the first sparring match and the first time she made him laugh--really laugh--he’d become her confidant.

For a while, she'd been happy. Truly, blindingly happy. Until her two sisters also found their mates.

It had started subtly: Nesta canceling their weekly sister sleepovers, Elain showing up late and distracted. Then came the excuses, the absences, the drifting away until those nights vanished altogether. No one suggested reinstating them Not even Feyre. No one seemed to notice their absence but her.

Y/N wouldn't lie...it hurt.

One night, she’d confided in Azriel, words spilling out in the quiet of his private balcony. She told him about her fear of never finding her mate, of always being the odd one out. That she felt invisible in her own family, the forgotten sister standing in the shadow of brighter flames.

Azriel had tried to make her laugh--murmuring something about how she was hardly alone, seeing as poor old him had gone 538 years without a mate. But when her voice broke on the next joke, he’d simply sat there with her, shadows curling close, listening as the night turned into morning.

They'd become closer after that.

That was, up until now.

Because now, all she felt was like a burden.

Because of her, her family--and especially Azriel--would be in danger. Or maybe...maybe no one would come for her at all. She was the overlooked one, the forgotten Archeron sister. The one whose absence barely made a ripple.

Y/N smiled sadly beneath the blindfold. At least being an outcast would work in her favor for once.

Azriel rolled the stiffness from his shoulders as he made his way toward the River House dining room. Another long day of hunting down leads and extracting information had left him with the familiar ache in his muscles, the metallic tang of blood still faint on his gloves. Dinner with the others wasn't exactly his idea of unwinding, but Rhys and Feyre insisted on having everyone together tonight.

He slowed without meaning to as he reached the last bend in the hallway. The sound of raised voices spilled toward him--urgent, sharp. The loudest was Feyre's. "...it's not like her- "

Then her name.

Y/N.

Azriel's pulse jumped.

He was moving before the thought fully formed, shadows coiling tighter around him as he burst into the room. Chaos met him on the other side. Feyre stood at the head of the table, eyes bright with worry, Rhys at her shoulder with a hand on her arm as if to keep her steady. Elain's voice broke from where she sat, fingers wringing in her lap.

"She promised she'd be back by the afternoon," Elain said, looking from face to face as though someone might have an answer. "It's well past sunset now--hours past--and she's still not here."

Nesta was pacing near the hearth, arms crossed, her jaw tight. Mor leaned against the wall, uncharacteristically silent, while Amren's sharp gaze cut between them all. Cassian sat forward on his chair, elbows on his knees, tension rolling off him.

"You're certain she went to the market?" Feyre pressed.

"Yes," Elain said, nodding quickly. "She told me this morning. Just to pick up a few things."

"Maybe she got lost on the way back," Rhys said, though his tone hel little conviction. "We should send someone to check- "

Azriel's voice through, cut steel-edged. "Where exactly did she say she'd be in the market?"

The room stilled. Nesta stopped pacing, turning to face him. "Near the fountain. At the far end by the spice vendors. That's her favourite place to visit."

Azriel's eyes went to Rhys. The High Lord's answering nod was all the permission he needed.

He was moving before anyone could say another word, shadows streaming after him, wings flaring in the tight hall. His mind was already spiralling into places he didn't want it to go--every sick, twisted possibility clawing to the surface.

Please be fine, Y/N. Please be fine.

he streets near the fountain were nearly empty now, lamplight spilling in golden puddles across the cobblestones. Azriel's shadows slithered ahead, searching every dark corner, every rooftop. His gaze swept over the crowd, sharp and searching--until a faint thread of scent brushed past him.

Y/N.

His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he followed it, the shadows pulling him down a narrower street. The scent grew stronger--until it stopped.

There, in the middle of the cold, damp road, lay a basket.

Her basket.

He recognized it instantly--woven with pale wood and lined with soft cream cloth, the one Elain had given her last Winter Solstice. Its contents were scattered across the stones as though dropped mid-step: a loaf of crusty bread, two small jars of honey, and a folded length of deep-blue silk that caught faint moonlight.

People had walked past it without pause, stepping over the mess. To them, it was nothing.

But to Azriel, it was everything.

He knelt beside it, the world narrowing to the sight of those familiar items strewn where she must've stood. His shadows darted out, seeking more of her trail, but came back empty. No scents but hers lingered--not a whiff of the ones who had taken her.

His stomach turned cold. They'd masked their scents. Professional. Deliberate.

Azriel's vision blurred for a moment as his jaw clenched. Slowly, carefully, he gathered the items and set them back into the basket, fingers brushing over the worn handle. His hands were steady only because he forced them to be.

In his mind, the faces of her captors--whoever they were--were already being built from shadows and rage. He would find them. He would destroy them Piece by piece.

It was certain now. She'd been taken.

Azriel straightened, the basket in his hand, and let the rage settle into something colder. Sharper.

Hold strong, Y/N.

Because he would find her.

No matter what.

She had no idea how long it had been.

Minutes, hours--it all bled together in the suffocating dark. Every second felt like an eternity, yet Y/N guessed it had only been a few hours since they'd dragged her here.

The blindfold had stayed on.

They hadn't wasted any time before the pain had began.

A blow to her ribs that stole her breath. The sharp sting of something--metal?--raking across her arm. A boot pressed cruelly into her back when she fell to her knees. Questions hurled at her in voices dripping with malice, each one sharper than the last.

“Tell us about Rhysand.”

“I don’t know anything- ”

A fist to her jaw.

“Where is the Illyrian commander? Where is Cassian?”

“I- please, I don’t- ”

A sharp twist of her hair, forcing her head back.

“What about the Shadowsinger?” A pause, a hiss in her ear. “We know you’re close. Tell us where he is.”

She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. "I don't know anything!"

The blows kept coming, punctuated by jeers that cut deeper than any strike. "Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

"You think you're important, little Archeron? You're nothing but a pretty face playing at power."

"You're right, I'm not the High Lady. Not the Lady of Death. Not even the Seer. So please, let me go!"

She begged. Gods, she begged. Tried to make them see she wasn't what they thought she was. She wasn't Feyre, the High Lady with raw, untamed power. She wasn't Nesta, forged from fire and steel, death in a woman's skin. She wasn't Elain, with visions that could alter the course of war.

She didn't even know what she was.

Whatever 'gift' the Cauldron had given her, if any, had remained silent all this time. And yet they didn't care.

"Your sisters would've fought by now," one sneered. "You? You'll break like glass."

"Maybe we should start taking pieces of you. Send them to Rhysand or Azriel one by one until they answer."

Her chest heaved under the weight of their words, the pain thrumming through every inch of her body. For the first time, she truly began to wonder if she'd make it out alive.

"They want to lure us in," Rhysand said, voice cold enough to frost the air.

Azriel set the basket down on the table. The cream lining was smudged with dirt, the blue silk stained from where it had fallen to the road. “This was hers. I found it near the market fountain. Her trail stops there—no scents but hers.” His jaw tightened. “Whoever took her masked themselves. They knew what they were doing.”

Elain’s hands flew to her mouth, a choked sob breaking loose. She shook her head over and over, whispering, “No, no, not Y/N…” The sound cut through the room like a blade. Mor was at her side in an instant, guiding her toward the door as Elain’s sobs grew ragged, the sound fading only when the door shut behind them.

Nesta’s eyes were sharp and burning, her fists clenching at her sides. Feyre stood stiff, eyes twitching in restrained fury, while Cassian cursed low and vicious under his breath. Amren leaned back in her chair, silver eyes glittering like sharpened steel.

"We don't know who has her, or where," Rhys said, scanning the room. "But if they took her in broad daylight and masked their scents, it's calculated. And if they've gone after her specifically..." His gaze flicked to Feyre.

Feyre's voice trembled, just slightly. "Poor Y/N. The Mother knows what they're doing to her right now."

Azriel's hands curled into fists before he could stop himself. The thought alone--the idea of her in pain, in fear--sent a hot, slicing fury through his chest. His shadows rippled sharply, betraying what he didn't say aloud.

"We can't waste time," he said, each word clipped. "Every second we sit here, they get further."

Rhys gave a single nod. "Agreed. Azriel, Cassian--you'll take the skies. Amren and Nesta, start running the perimeter with anyone available. Also inform Mor. Feyre and I will reach out to our contacts in the city."

Cassian was already halfway to the door. Nesta moved toward him, but her gaze lingered on Azriel. "Find her," she said. It wasn't a request.

"I will," Azriel promised, the vow low and lethal.

As the others moved into motion, his mind was already a map of possibilities--every dark corner, every smuggler's route, every enemy who might dare to try this. But under it all was one clear, unwavering thought:

Hold on, Y/N. I'm coming.

If only he'd known how hard it would be to track her.

Two whole days had passed since Y/N vanished without a trace. In all his long centuries, Azriel had never faced such a challenge as finding her. The bastards who'd taken her were professionals--silent, careful, leaving not so much as a footprint to follow.

His shadows were gone, every last one, under his orders. They were scattered across the Night Court and beyond, creeping through the other courts, combing alleys, forests, docks, tunnels.

And still, nothing.

Azriel hadn’t slept. Not truly. Every hour was spent searching--questioning informants in the slums, scouring every black market and smuggler’s den, slipping through enemy borders without permission. His patience, honed over centuries, frayed more with each dead end. Fury ate at him from the inside out, each passing moment sharpening into the same relentless thought: what if he was too late?

The others were no better. Feyre spent her hours in council and in the skies, her expression hardening more each day. Rhysand was gaunt from exhaustion, spending countless hours raking through the minds of anyone even remotely suspicious...only to find walls or emptiness.

Elain sat for hours in her garden or the quietest corners of the River House, clutching Y/N’s scarf as though it could tether her to a vision. But whatever she tried, the threads remained dark, unspooling into nothing.

Nesta had taken to constant movement: searching the city, flying with Cassian, stalking into every place that might offer a whisper of information. Cassian rarely left her side, his own worry showing in the way he watched her when she wasn’t looking.

Mor and Amren hunted leads in their own ways--Mor slipping into dangerous places where her name still carried weight, Amren leaning over maps and sending out messages through her own web of contacts.

The River House had become a place of hushed voices and quick glances, everyone bracing for news that never came.

Azriel was in Rhysand’s office with Cassian when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the shelves. Nesta stalked in, eyes bright and dangerous.

“I think I have a plan,” she said, voice low but sharp. “One that might work.”

Time had become a cruel, shapeless thing.

The interrogations didn't stop. Not once. Every few hours--though it could've been minutes or days--they came for her again. Always the same questions.

About Azriel's job.

His secrets that they were so sure he'd shared with her.

"We've been tracking you for a long time, little mouse," one whispered in her ear, the smell of alcohol and something else--something disgusting--blocking her nose. "So we know how close you've been with him. Close enough for him to share his secrets with you."

Then came other types of questions:

His missions.

Where he went when the rest of the Inner Circle didn't see him.

His every move.

She told them the truth. Over and over. I don't know. But the answer never changed their methods.

With each passing minute, the fragile thread of hope she’d been clinging to frayed thinner. At first, she’d tried to hold on--imagining Feyre’s wings blotting out the sun as she landed, Nesta’s steel gaze cutting through chains, Azriel’s shadows spilling into the room before he cut down her captors. But those images came less and less.

Now her mind wandered into darker places.

What if no one was coming?

What if they couldn’t find her?

What if she simply… disappeared?

At some point, they’d torn the blindfold from her eyes. The light in the room had been dim, but it still burned after so long in darkness. And then she’d seen them.

Three faces--if they could be called that. All warped, ugly, monstrous. Their skin looked stretched too tight, their eyes too small for their skulls. She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize anything in them except hunger.

The questions had kept coming. Her begging had stopped.

"I do not know," she murmured again, her voice a rasp. She barely flinched when the slap came, her head snapping to the side.

Her wrists and ankles were bound in heavy chains that dug into her skin, the weight pulling at her shoulders and hips. Every breath was a reminder of the bruises painting her ribs. One shoulder hung at an odd angle, dislocated from when they’d slammed her into the wall earlier.

The pain had dulled to something constant, almost background noise.

It was the anger that burned brighter.

At herself--for being careless.

At her captors--for thinking they could break her.

At life--for making her the one who always seemed easiest to take.

She swallowed, straightened as much as the chains allowed. If this was the end, they would not see her beg again.

Not now. Not ever.

"No."

"No!"

Azriel blinked, and Nesta's shocked, furious glare was met with identical expressions from Rhysand and Cassian.

"What?!" Nesta barked. "But- "

Rhys cut her off, his voice sharp. "You cannot just use the Mask to call the dead to you and command them to search for Y/N!"

"Well, why the hell not?" Nesta snapped. "The Dread Trove is mine! I can do whatever I fucking please with it, can't I?"

Rhysand let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Look...I know you're desperate to find Y/N before it's too late- "

"Watch it, Rhysand," Nesta shot back, eyes flashing.

He didn’t stop. “-we all are. But summoning the dead is extremely dangerous. I understood it during the war, but now? You can’t just summon thousands, if not millions, of dead skeletons, to one place. It’s not just about control. You’d risk catastrophic collateral damage. The dead might not stay contained. The laws of life and death aren’t forgiving.”

Cassian crossed his arms, voice low and steady, though edged with worry. “He’s right, Nesta. It’s too dangerous. The risk to everyone--even to the Night Court--is enormous.”

Azriel’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Heat pooled in his chest, sharp and relentless.

“Are you two even hearing yourselves?!” he barked, voice booming over the office. Both Nesta and the others froze mid-gesture. “Y/N IS LOST! GONE! And yet here you are, rejecting a perfectly logical plan because of what? Too many dead roaming our court?!”

He stepped forward, the shadows around him pulsing like living things. “We should be doing EVERYTHING we can to find her. Every possible path, every option! And you’re sitting here squabbling over what could happen if we take a chance? Do you even understand what’s at stake? She’s not just missing--she’s in the hands of monsters who are professionals at keeping her hidden, and we are running out of time!”

His voice dropped to a low, trembling growl, fury mingling with fear. “Do you even hear me? Do you even hear what I’m saying?!”

Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel didn’t wait. He spun on his heel, shadows curling tight around him as he stormed toward the balcony.

“You can argue all you want!” he snarled over his shoulder. “I don’t care about ‘too dangerous’! She’s all that matters right now!”

With a powerful leap, he vaulted over the balcony railing, wings unfurling and catching the wind in a rush of motion. In an instant, he was gone, streaking into the night, the city lights blurring beneath him as every ounce of his being focused on one truth: he would find her. No matter what.

The nights were endless, the city below him a blur of streets and rooftops, shadows stretching and curling with every step. He hunted tirelessly, gliding from court to court, village to village, through forests and along cliffs where smugglers and thieves might hide. The wind tore at his cloak, the stars offering no comfort. Each street corner, each dark alley, was a potential lead, and yet, every time he followed one, it dissolved into nothing.

Sleep had abandoned him. Food, water--he barely noticed. The only thing that mattered was finding her.

And with every failed attempt, every lead that came to a dead end, the anger at himself grew. He should have seen it coming. He should have been faster. How could I have let this happen? The questions clawed at him relentlessly.

Her face came unbidden to his mind--the tilt of her head when she laughed, that spark in her eyes when she’d figured something out before anyone else. The way she’d lean slightly into him during training, a silent trust he hadn’t been sure he deserved. The quiet moments at the River House, the way she had confided in him, sharing her fears and her hopes.

He remembered one night after the war, sitting on a balcony with her, her voice barely above a whisper as she told him she felt forgotten. He had laughed softly then, hiding the weight of his own solitude behind teasing words, shadows coiling around them like silent guardians. That had been a simpler time.

Now, those memories were knives in his chest, reminders of everything at stake--and everything he might fail to save.

Every whisper of movement, every trace of scent, every shadow that shifted in the corner of his vision became a possibility. He followed them all, tortured by the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was too late.

Yet he refused to stop. He couldn’t. She was out there somewhere, and he would not rest until he had her safe, until he had torn her from whatever hell she had been thrown into.

Azriel’s wings beat the cold night air, and his shadow stretched long and furious across the land. Every heartbeat, every pulse, every whispered memory of Y/N drove him onward.

No matter how long it took.

No matter what it cost.

Time blurred. Hours felt like days. She had no sense of the sun, no clue whether it was night or morning. The only constants were the pain and the voices.

The interrogations never stopped. Questions spat at her again and again--about Rhysand’s power, about Cassian’s defenses, about Azriel’s missions. What does he do when he disappears? Where does he go? Who does he kill?

Every time her answer was the same, low and rasped from exhaustion: "I don't know."

The slap would come before she could even draw her next breath. Or the punch. Or the boot to her ribs. Her body was already a map of bruises and bleeding welts. She wanted to cry, but even her tears had run dry. Instead, her silence only made them crueler.

One of them leaned close, his breath rancid as he snarled, "Useless little sister. No wonder your family barely remembers you exist." Then he turned toward his companions and sighed frustratedly. "We should've taken a more useful sister. It's been four fucking days and Azriel still isn't within our reach. Nor do we have any intel on them."

Another male, the one without his left eye, looked at Y/N in disgust and then back at him. "So...what should we do with her?"

All four heads turned towards her as their 'leader' spoke with a smirk. "We kill her and send her body back in pieces."

Her chains rattled as she shifted, her body aching from the cold stone beneath her. Every inhale was a battle, every exhale a reminder of how fragile she felt. Hope had begun to slip through her fingers like sand.

Her lips trembled, but she forced the corners upward into a bitter smile. Maybe being forgotten would work in her favor, just this once. If her family wasn’t dragged into this because of her--if Azriel wasn’t dragged into this--then perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to simply… fade away.

The thought twisted like a knife in her chest. And still, she sat there in the dark, body broken, voice hoarse, bracing herself for her death. The next reminder that she was prey, caught and waiting.

The war room was drowning in silence. Four days. Four days without a trace, without a whisper of her, and every passing hour scraped Azriel raw. His shadows hissed and clawed, restless, angry, unable to find what he needed most. He stood by the window, fists clenched so tight his knuckles burned, his gaze fixed on nothing.

And then-

A choked sound tore through the room.

"Elain?" Feyre's voice was sharp, alarmed.

Azriel turned just in time to see her collapse to her knees, a strangled cry ripping from her throat as her hands clutched at her chest. Her eyes glazed--gone white, pupils swallowed by a light that was not of this world.

"Elain!" Nesta was already there, gripping her sister's shoulders. Cassian crouched low beside her, panic flashing in his eyes.

But Rhys's face went deadly still. "No one touch her."

"She's- she's- " Feyre's words faltered as she looked at her sister.

Azriel's heart slammed against his ribs. His shadows went utterly silent, curling tight against him like they knew. A vision.

Elain's body trembled, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She muttered something no one could understand--fragmented words, broken syllables. Then her head snapped back, a cry ripping from her lips that sounded like pure agony.

Nesta shook her again, desperate. "Elain, damn it, tell us what you see!"

Azriel's chest was a cage, every inhale sharp and shallow. He forced the words out, steel and prayer entwined. "Please...let it be about Y/N."

Rhys' eyes narrowed, already reaching out with his power, steady but tense. "It has to be."

And then Elain's voice broke through the storm of fear--ragged, trembling, but clear enough to freeze the blood in Azriel's veins.

"I see her."

The room erupted, voices overlapping--Nesta demanding where, Feyre begging how, Cassian and Mor swearing--but Azriel’s vision tunneled. His heart thundered as he moved closer, every muscle taut.

“Where is she, Elain?” His voice was low, lethal, but underneath--pleading. Tell me. Give me something. Save her.

Elain’s eyes flicked toward him, though she couldn’t possibly see him. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as her lips trembled, shaping words that would seal their path.

"They're going to kill her."

Her mind was slipping. Threads of memory and hallucination weaving together until she could no longer tell which was which. Her mother’s soft humming. The way sunlight used to filter through the trees when she was small. Azriel’s unreadable hazel eyes watching her too closely. Cassian’s booming laugh. Elain’s gentle hands brushing flour from her cheek.

It all bled together, comforting and cruel, reminders of a world she wasn’t sure she belonged to anymore.

Her body had long since given up screaming at her--numbness had taken over, the ache buried so deep it was almost easier than fighting. It was a miracle she had lasted this long without food, without water. Another cruel gift of being High Fae. Endurance meant only a longer stretch of torment.

Her head lolled to the side, breath shallow, vision blurred with shadows and stars she couldn’t quite blink away. Maybe--maybe if she closed her eyes, she would see her mother again. Maybe she would be waiting. Y/N had always been her mother’s shadow, her little echo. Out of all three sisters, she was the one who had clung to her mother’s warmth the most.

At least think of nice things before it ends.

Her thoughts were severed by the cold bite of iron, the sound of chains scraping against stone as they fastened her to something solid--a boulder, jagged against her spine.

Through the haze she caught the sight of them. The males. Her captors. Standing before her now, blades glinting in the dim light. Predators circling the inevitable end.

Her chest rose once, twice, on a deep inhale that tasted like blood and metal. Slowly, she let her eyes fall shut, surrendering to the darkness. If this was her last moment, she would meet it with calm, not tears.

The scrape of boots drew nearer. The hiss of steel raised.

And then-

The first blow came. A sharp, tearing agony as the sword plunged into her lower stomach.

Her body arched against the stone with the impact, a choked sound strangled in her throat. The pain was fire, white-hot, merciless.

But she did not scream.

Not this time.

The cave was filled with screams before the soldiers even realized what had descended upon them. Shadows erupted like a living storm, snuffing out light, searing fear into every corner. And at the center of it--Azriel. His siphons flared blue, his wings slicing the air, each movement a promise of death.

He had thought, in those endless nights searching, that maybe he’d hold back when he found them. That maybe he’d just incapacitate the bastards so he could take his time later, wring every secret out of them with a blade. But then… he saw her.

Y/N.

Chained, bleeding, body too still. A sword protruding from her lower stomach, crimson staining the stone. Her eyes were half-lidded as if she had already started to drift away.

And Azriel snapped.

He didn’t fight. He slaughtered. Silent, efficient, merciless. Every male who had laid a hand on her was cut down before they could even lift a weapon. Shadows pinned one against the wall as Azriel drove Truth-Teller through his chest. Another tried to flee--his wings were torn from his body before Azriel slit his throat. Not even screams had time to form

Nesta’s fire flared cold and deadly as she ripped through two more, her blade singing with death. Cassian was a whirlwind of brute force, slamming one into the rock hard enough that bones cracked like twigs.

And then--silence.

The three of them stood amidst the carnage, blood dripping, shadows hissing low and restless around Azriel. His siphons pulsed like a heartbeat gone wild. But none of it mattered. None of it compared to the sight of Y/N, broken and barely breathing.

“Cauldron damn them,” Nesta breathed, her voice shaking with rage as she dropped to her knees beside her sister. Her hands hovered uselessly, trembling as she whispered, “What did they do to you, Y/N…”

Cassian’s eyes were burning, fists clenched, chest heaving with fury. “Monsters,” he spat. “Fucking monsters. They’ll never touch you again, I swear- ” His voice cracked.

Azriel didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving, already kneeling, already sliding trembling hands beneath Y/N’s limp body. Blood--her blood--soaked his leathers instantly, hot and suffocating, and he thought he might vomit from the sheer terror choking him.

“Stay with me,” he whispered harshly, pulling her against his chest as carefully as he could. His shadows curled around her, frantic and protective, as if they could hold her soul tethered to her body. “Y/N. Please. Stay with me.”

Her lashes fluttered weakly, her lips parting. A broken breath escaped before she whispered, barely audible, "Azriel...is that you?"

His heart stopped.

And then-

The snap.

It ripped through him like lightning, a tether locking tight around his very core. A bond. A truth. His mate.

Azriel froze, staring down at her in shock, even as her faint, disbelieving gasp echoed the same realization. His mate. His mate.

A thousand emotions warred in him a once: fury at fate for making this moment their beginning, guilt so sharp it could tear him apart, and desperate, desperate hope that she would not leave him now. Not when he had just found her.

He had never had a mate. Had never thought he would. And now--now the Cauldron had given him Y/N, only to try to rip her away on the very same day.

Her trembling hand rose weakly, brushing his chest before her lips moved again, shaping two soft, broken words.

"My mate."

And then her body went limp in his arms.

Two days.

Two entire days since they had dragged her broken, bleeding body back through the wards of Velaris. Two days since she had slipped into a deep, unmoving unconsciousness. Two days that had stretched longer than any of the centuries Azriel had endured before them.

The memory of that return still clawed at him. Feyre’s scream as she caught sight of Y/N in his arms, raw and keening, enough to shake the walls. Rhysand’s immediate roar of command, summoning every healer in the city. Elain stumbling ahead of them, pale and trembling, whispering prayers under her breath as she guided them through rooms. Mor’s sobs, her hands slick with Y/N’s blood as she tried to help stanch wounds that would not stop bleeding. Amren, uncharacteristically silent, her ancient eyes glittering like steel as she barked orders no one dared disobey.

And him, Azriel, who had refused to let anyone pry her from his arms until the healers forced him to. Who had not left her side since. Not once.

He’d braced himself for it, the words he dreaded most. Too late. Nothing we can do. She won’t wake. Every time the healers stepped out of her chamber, he expected it. Every time they sighed, every time they whispered, his heart split further, until he was sure there was nothing left to shatter.

But the words never came.

Still, the silence was its own torment. Her breathing shallow but steady. Her pulse faint but there. He should have felt hope. Instead, Azriel felt only self-loathing.

He had failed her. He had let them take her. He had spent days chasing shadows while she had been chained, beaten, stabbed. He had let himself believe that she would be safe, that he had time. Stupid. Blind. Weak. He had promised himself long ago he would never let someone in only to fail them. And now, the Cauldron had cursed him with a mate he did not deserve.

Maybe he never should have had one at all.

Azriel sat in the dim chamber, shadows curling around him like mourning veils, head in his hands. The scent of her blood still clung to his leathers, even after scrubbing until his skin was raw. It lived in his lungs, choking him, each inhale a reminder of how easily he could lose her.

And if she never woke? If she slipped away before he could ever tell her--before she could even truly know--what she was to him? His chest caved with the thought. He wouldn’t survive it. Not this.

The door burst open.

He shot to his feet instantly, siphons flaring, shadows hissing.

Mor stood in the doorway, breathless, wide-eyed. “She’s awake,” she blurted, not sparing another word before she spun and dashed down the hall.

For a heartbeat, Azriel just stared, the words refusing to register. Awake. Alive. Moving.

Then it hit.

His shadows shrieked with a sound like wind snapping through trees, and he was already moving, heart hammering so hard it hurt, thoughts a blur. Awake. She’s awake. Please, Cauldron, let it be true. Please let me not be too late. Please-

He ran, faster than he’d ever run without flight, hope so sharp it was painful, tearing through the fog of despair that had bound him for two endless days.

The room was packed. The entire Inner Circle crowded around the bed, voices hushed, faces taut with relief and fear alike. Feyre sat perched on the edge, both of Y/N's hands held tightly in hers, her High Lady composure cracked by the tears streaming freely down her face.

Azriel barely saw them. He pushed past bodies, ignoring Cassian’s hand on his shoulder, ignoring Amren’s sharp look, ignoring Elain’s soft sob. His entire world narrowed to the small, fragile figure lying beneath layers of blankets.

Her.

Y/N’s eyes were half-lidded, her skin far too thin, but they were open. Open, and finding him, and--Cauldron help him--she smiled. It was faint, pained, but it was there.

She didn’t move much; every shift made her wince. One arm was tightly bound against her side in a sling, her dislocated shoulder still healing. The bruises had not yet faded from her throat, her cheek, her temple. She looked broken. And still, she looked radiant to him. Alive.

Feyre was whispering something, voice trembling with joy and relief, but Y/N’s gaze didn’t leave his. Slowly, weakly, she slipped one hand from Feyre’s grasp, her fingers trembling with the effort. She lifted it slightly, beckoning him forward.

Azriel’s knees nearly gave out. He moved to her without thinking, sinking down at her side, so close now that he could see every flutter of her lashes, every shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Her hand brushed his jaw, then settled against his cheek. Her skin was fever-warm, her touch barely there, but it undid him.

“My mate,” she whispered, so soft it was almost a breath.

And Azriel...Azriel broke. Centuries of restraint shattered in an instant. His head bowed, his shoulders shaking as tears burned and spilled, as his hand rose to cover hers against his cheek. He didn’t care about the audience, about the Inner Circle watching in stunned silence. He didn’t care that they were seeing him unravel, seeing him feel. All he cared about was her.

He forced himself to lift his head, to meet her gaze through the blur of his tears. “No,” he choked, voice breaking. “No, not yet. Don’t- don’t accept it yet. You’re not well enough. Not like this.”

But she shook her head, slow, weak, stubborn as ever. Her lips curved faintly in a smile that was both fragile and defiant. “Please,” she breathed, voice rough with pain, “I’m… well enough.”

The bond between them snapped taut, a golden thread pulling tight, and Azriel felt it--the certainty, the recognition, the eternity. His soul locked with hers, and there was no undoing it now. Not that he would ever want to.

He pressed his forehead gently to hers, shadows curling protectively around them both. “I’ll always be by your side,” he swore, voice low, steady despite the tremor in his chest. “I’ll never leave you again. This will never happen again. Do you hear me, Y/N? Never.”

Her lashes fluttered, a tear slipping free. Her hand squeezed faintly against his cheek, and her lips curved once more.

“I hear you.”

And though her voice was faint, though her body was weak, the bond between them thrummed with strength, with promise, with the beginning of something Azriel had never dared hope for.

For the first time in his life, he let himself believe.