tina's little obssesions

The tension had returned, creeping back into the space between you like fog, thick and sour. He hadn’t pressed you again—not after last night—but the silence was heavier than anything he could have said.

You were both a sight.

Mud caked your boots and splattered your cloak, blood dried in dark patches along your sleeves and collar. Your hair was snarled, your face raw from the wind and cold. Azriel didn’t look much better—his leathers torn, shadows clinging like smoke, the lines of exhaustion etched deep into his features. His wings hung unevenly behind him, one of them visibly stiff from the cold, from strain.

You felt the eyes as soon as you crossed the threshold.

Autumn Court fae lined the inner hall, resplendent in embroidered velvets and burnished gold, their hair slicked back, their skin glowing with magic and comfort. They looked at you both like you were animals that had clawed your way out of a pit.

Azriel met every stare without flinching.

You didn’t bother meeting any.

The great doors to the throne room opened with a slow groan.

And there he was.

Eris.

Seated where Beron used to sit, sprawled across the ancient throne like it had always belonged to him. Firelight danced along the carved wood, casting shadows behind him like wings. He wore red and gold, crisp and sharp, and though his face was expressionless, his eyes gleamed with something that might have been satisfaction.

“Welcome home,” Eris said.

The words were smooth. Practiced.

And entirely devoid of warmth.

You stopped a few paces from the foot of the dais, refusing to bow. Azriel stayed at your side, silent but iron-still.

Eris looked you over like he was cataloging a corpse. Then he leaned back, draping one arm along the throne’s edge, lips curling just enough to be irritating.

“You look dreadful.”

“Charming,” you muttered.

His gaze flicked to Azriel. “And you brought a souvenir.”

You said nothing. Azriel didn’t even blink.

Eris tutted under his breath and rose slowly from the throne. “It’s a miracle you made it at all.” He made a show of glancing over your ruined clothes. “The Winter Court is especially difficult this time of year.”

You smiled, sharp and cold. “Would His Lordship be terribly offended if I washed off the blood of his own before tonight’s ball?”

That did it—he blinked. Just once. Then his head tilted, curiosity sharpening behind his eyes.

“My own?”

You folded your arms. “Unless the Autumn Court has another legion roaming its borders who happened to take a liking to blades and the color red, yes. They tried to kill us.”

A beat. Then Eris gave a breathy little laugh, like the idea amused him more than it should have.

“Us?” he echoed softly, eyes sliding back to Azriel. “As in both of you?”

Your jaw clenched.

Eris’ smile widened. “How quaint. Did the dog snarl for you? Did he bare his teeth?”

Azriel said, surprisingly cool and quiet, “They nearly gutted her.”

“And yet,” Eris murmured, gesturing lazily toward you, “she stands.”

You took a step forward. “Barely.”

His gaze dropped to the dried blood at your collarbone. “A shame. And here I thought you’d want to make a good impression.”

You laughed once, low and humorless. “Guess you’ll have to take me as I am.”

Something flickered across his face then. Not warmth. Not quite irritation. Just… a moment. And then he stepped down off the dais.

“Very well,” he said, walking past you with the arrogance of someone who knew the room would always bend around him. 

He didn’t wait for a thank you.

“Clean yourself up,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to look like a bride.”

Azriel tensed beside you. You didn’t move.

Only when the echo of Eris’ boots faded did you finally breathe again.

And gods, did you want to claw your skin off.

Even moreso, when you looked at yourself in the mirror of your private room later that evening. 

Someone else stared back.

The dress clung like smoke and fire—scarlet silk embroidered in copper thread, molded to the waist and hips, the bodice structured and cruel. Sleeves hung sheer and slit open to the elbow, baring the soft, vulnerable skin of your inner arms. Your hair had been twisted back from your face with delicate gold combs shaped like flames, leaving your throat and shoulders exposed.

You looked like a sacrifice. Like a warning.

You tugged at the side of the dress, fingers catching on the high slit that ran up your right thigh. Too high. You rethreaded the hook that had come loose—how had they known it would ride too tight there? How had they tailored this to you so precisely?

You checked everything again. Smoothed the fabric. Adjusted the combs. Fixed every strap. Lifted your chin and stared until your face blurred into something shapeless.

Then you turned away, kneeling at your travel bag just once more.

You dug beneath the worn clothes and bandages, fingers closing around the little velvet pouch you’d tucked there in secret. It was barely the size of your palm. You slipped it into your bra, close to your ribs, where the dress was boned enough to hide its shape.

It weighed almost nothing.

But gods, did it feel heavy.

The ball was in your honor—in honor of the new bride of Autumn. That was how they’d introduced you—loudly, grandly—as you were escorted in, already caged by the weight of expectation. Everyone there knew what you were to be. A trophy. A symbol. The jewel Eris had pried from the Night Court’s grip. The famed spy who helped him destroy his father. 

They all smiled at you like you were part of the spoils.

You wore that smile back. Thin and lovely.

It had only been a few hours since you’d scrubbed the dried blood off your skin. Only a few since you’d seen yourself in the mirror and flinched.

Now you found yourself in Eris’ arms, dancing for the fourth song in a row. His palm rested lightly on your waist, his other hand guiding yours, his expression almost bored. Almost.

Normally, you would have kept up easily, met his pace with your own. But after the journey through those gods-forsaken woods, after the hunger and cold and pain, your limbs felt leaden. Hollow.

You were fairly certain you’d lost a few pounds on the way.

You tilted your head just slightly and caught a glimpse of Azriel along the far wall, near one of the carved pillars. Shadowed. Watching.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off you once.

Eris’ voice cut through the music. “You’re lagging.”

“I’m exhausted,” you said quietly.

“Then stop dancing like you’re pretending not to be.”

Your gaze snapped to his.

But his expression remained smooth, court-polished. “Everyone’s watching, dear. If you faint, it’ll ruin the mystique.”

You kept your smile in place. “And gods forbid the mystique be ruined.”

“Indeed,” he said, spinning you effortlessly. “You wouldn’t want them thinking you weren’t thrilled to be here.”

“They already know I’m not.”

His amber eyes met yours again, cooler now. “You think they care? Half of them would still marry me tomorrow, even knowing what I did to my father. Most only resent that you beat them to it.”

You pulled back just slightly, enough to feel the edges of your own body again. “And I assume you’d have them think I chose you freely?”

His lips curved. 

You blinked. “No one would believe that.”

“Not yet,” he murmured. “But they’ll learn to.”

You didn’t answer.

Not even when his grip firmed on your waist and he added, almost too lightly, “Besides, you did choose me. Didn’t you?”

The next turn of the dance left your back to Azriel.

You wished it hadn’t.

When the song ended, Eris didn’t release you immediately. His hand lingered at your waist, his fingers brushing the edge of exposed skin where the back of your gown dipped scandalously low—by design, of course. A vision of temptation, of control. His little rebellion against his father’s traditions.

You stepped back before he could lean in with some too-clever comment.

“I need water,” you said, tone airy. “Or would your lordship prefer I truly faint?”

His mouth twitched, but he waved you off with a flick of his fingers. “By all means, keep the mystique alive.”

You didn’t look back as you weaved toward the banquet table, all glimmering gold and crimson. Meats. Cheeses. Goblets of wine. And there, near the edge—

A glass of water, chilled just enough to fog the sides. 

You reached for it with one hand. 

The other slipped discretely beneath your bodice—adjusting, it would seem. Straightening your dress. A small leather pouch passes easily into your palm. 

You moved like you were brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, like nothing at all. 

And when you turned from the table, water glass in hand, only one male in the room had the angle to see the faint shimmer of powder you stirred into it. The small blade dipping in to dissolve it. The metal flash in the candlelight—

And then gone again. 

You tipped the contents into a nearby plant. Returned the glass to a tray. Kept walking. 

You didn’t glance Azriel’s way.

You didn’t need to.

He’d seen.

Whether he’d stop you had been a question twisting in your gut for days. Whether he would let you go through with it—your mission, your reason for being here.

You hadn’t fully believed he would.

Not until what he said in the cave last night.

I’ll take you back if that’s what you want.

The music shifted again. Slower now. Louder. As if the whole ballroom were collectively catching its breath.

You found Eris standing at the edge of the crowd, surveying his court like a male already bored of the power he held. Amber eyes sharp, posture loose. 

He offered his hand.

You took it. 

“You didn’t faint,” he said, voice low and amused.

You arched a brow. “Disappointed?”

He led you back to the floor. You followed, every step smooth, composed. 

“I wasn’t sure how this would go, you know,” he said, steering you slowly back toward the floor. “You’ve historically been a bit… unpredictable.”

“I’m sure that’s what you enjoy most about me.”

A flicker of teeth. “One of the things.”

You moved like clockwork beside him, all elegance and poise. You carried the sharp edge beneath your ribs like a second spine—thrilling, precise. 

“I’ll admit,” he went on, tone thoughtful, “you’ve impressed me tonight.”

“Oh?”

“It’s no secret many here want you dead. This alliance—this union—they think Beron would never have allowed it. That it’s beneath Autumn, marrying into a court like yours. An insult to centuries of bloodline and pride.”

You hummed, letting your gaze drift across the sea of polished faces, all dripping with bloodline and legacy. “Well,” you murmur, fingers curling on his shoulder, “they’re about to hate me a hell of a lot more.”

He chuckled, a low sound you felt in your bones. “Good. Let them.”

Your expression didn’t change. 

But your hand slid from his shoulder to his ribs. 

And the other found your thigh. 

The blade’s already there. Already coated. 

The motion was seamless—

One clean, upward thrust beneath the ribcage. You felt the blade punch through fabric and flesh, angled just right. 

His breath faltered. His body spasmed. 

The faebane hit like a current, drowning his magic before he could even think to reach for it. His lips parted. A choked, red-laced gasp. 

“You—”

But he wasn’t dying fast enough.

The guards—already moving, shouting.

No time. 

You yanked the blade free, wet and bright, and caught a fistful of his embroidered collar in the same motion. Then you pulled him down, closer.

Your mouth brushed his ear as your blade sliced clean across his throat. 

“I told you I’d impress you.”

The sound was awful—ripping flesh, the gurgling rasp as his windpipe parted beneath the blade. Hot arterial blood burst forth in a blinding spray, drenching your chest, your arm, your face. The pressure of it made your ears ring.

The music had long since stopped. Screams tore through the ballroom, the echoes bouncing off the floors and walls every which way. Chairs scraped. Glass shattered. The shuffle of frantic footsteps mingled with the sound of retching, weeping, running. Panic surged like a tide, crashing over silks and polished marble. 

And yet you stood still—blood-drenched, blade in hand, heart thundering against your ribs. 

He gurgled, choking on his own blood, and staggered. His knees buckled. His hands scrabbled for your hips, smearing blood across your gown like paint.

You shoved him off you. “Azriel!”

Eris collapsed at your feet. Across the ballroom, blue siphons flared to life, so bright it felt like the room blinked. Eris twitched once. Twice. Then went still, a pool of blood unfurling beneath him, thick as oil.

And Azriel was moving—a flash of shadows and wings and raw, ruthless precision. 

Power surged from him like a tidal wave, siphons unleashing a violent pulse of shielding magic. A hard blue barrier slammed down around you just as a thrown dagger ricocheted off it with a metallic screech.

The blast of energy sent tables skidding, drinks shattering, chandeliers swaying on their chains. Screams rose—some terrified, some furious.

Then Azriel was in the air, winging across the room, shadows coiling and snapping at his heels like hunting dogs.

You didn’t have time to watch. You ran.

Down the slick marble stairs, blood still hot on your face, your gown. You kept low, high heels slipping slightly on the polished floor, and darted into the shadow of a columned alcove. Your heart was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. A guard caught sight of you—started toward you.

You didn’t fight fair. You never had. It wasn’t a matter of principle—just the simple truth that you weren’t built to win by the rules. 

You waited until he was close. Then threw your knife—blade hilt-over, not to kill but to distract—and when he flinched, you surged forward, snatched the broken shaft of a torch from the wall, and slammed it into the side of his head.

He crumpled.

You snatched up his sword, so heavy you had to carry it with both hands, and kept moving.

Because Eris was dead. And the war had begun.

The sword dragged with every step, the point scraping sparks across marble as you forced yourself forward. You kept your eyes on the corridor ahead—it led toward the servant stairwell, toward the woods beyond the Forest House—but your ears stayed trained on the ballroom.

On the carnage Azriel was unleashing in your wake.

You couldn’t see him. But you heard him.

The boom of a siphon-triggered shockwave. The crack of something breaking—stone, maybe. A scream cut off mid-throat. The skittering thunder of wingbeats, then a snarl, deep and guttural, almost animal.

Azriel had stopped holding back.

Boots pounded behind you—another guard.

You ducked into the shadow of a pillar just as he rounded the corner. He didn’t see you until you surged out and swung wide with the stolen blade.

It was a messy arc. No grace, no technique. But the sheer weight of the sword did the work for you. It smashed across his face with a wet crunch, and he went down like a felled tree.

Your shoulder screamed from the effort. You nearly dropped the blade—but didn’t.

You couldn’t.

More footsteps. Screaming—not all of it from soldiers. A crowd of well-dressed nobles came sprinting past, eyes wide with terror. One of them slipped in a smear of blood on the tile and fell. Another yanked her upright and dragged her along.

You left them be. Besides, even if you tried to melt into their fleeing crowd, it wouldn’t matter. You were the only one covered head to toe in blood.

You rounded a corner and nearly ran face-first into another soldier. He raised his blade—too slow. You didn’t stop running. Just threw your full weight into him, shoulder-first.

He staggered, off balance, and you drove your knee into his groin. He doubled over. You kept running.

Shouts echoed behind you. You could hear them howling for vengeance. And behind them—still—the sound of Azriel, wreaking ruin. Blades clashing. Shadows shrieking. Magic detonating like thunderclaps.

Part of you wanted to go back. Help him. But what could you offer? You were not a warrior, you were a weapon. And your job was already done.

You found the servant stairwell half by memory, half by instinct—a narrow door tucked behind a curtain. You shouldered through and stumbled onto steep stone steps slick with panic and the iron tang of fear.

Down. Down. The hilt of the stolen sword slippery in your palm. Your breathing ragged, each inhale cutting like glass.

You had never meant to be a killer. But the only way to save your court now was to start a war.

The plan was for you two to wed, but that was ages ago, before there had been any rot to begin with. You get him information, he discredits and murders his father, you wed, you both rule the Autumn Court. Eris had no way of knowing your changed intentions when he approached Rhysand with an alliance. 

You’d heard Eris had been kind when he first took the throne. You were in solitary confinement for eight years but you’d learned what’d happened soon after they let you out. He’d spoken of peace. Of reforms. He promised he’d never be his father.

But power had a way of rotting its wielder from the inside out.

He’d started small. Tightening trade routes. Stationing soldiers on once-neutral land. Rewriting laws. Then came the raids. The disappearances. The whispered names of those who never returned.

And that had been your fault. You’d put him on that throne. Which meant it had to be you who took him off of it. 

You burst out the stairwell into the cold night air, stumbling into dew-slick grass. The sounds of chaos still roared behind you, but here—out here—it was quiet enough to hear your own blood pounding in your ears.

You lifted your eyes to the sky, dropped the sword, and ran south. You didn’t need to get to the Night Court, you just had to get out of Autumn. And Spring wasn’t too far off. 

Each footfall was agony. Your lungs burned. Your legs shook. But—

You stopped. Turned. 

Smoke curled from the shattered windows. The ballroom glowed from within, pulsing with siphon-light—blue, furious and sharp. The windows were gone, blown outward as if something inside had detonated.

You stared.

Watched the magic blaze. Flash. Pause. Flash again.

Like a heartbeat.

And when the next pulse died out, when the world held still—

You cupped your hands around your mouth and screamed it with everything you had left:

“AZRIEL!”

You didn’t even finish the breath after his name before he moved.

A blur of motion, a sonic crack through the air—Azriel exploded out of the ballroom, blue siphons blazing like stars gone supernova. Wings wide, mouth a snarl, shadows streaking off him like ribbons of midnight. He flew straight through the shattered windows, glass still raining from the frame.

Straight toward you.

There was no time to react.

One second, you stood frozen at the treeline, chest heaving, the next, he was on you. 

You barely had time to stagger back before he scooped you into his arms without losing speed, body curling instinctively around yours as his wings surged with a mighty snap. Your feet left the earth, and you shot into the sky like a stone loosed from a sling.

The wind howled past. Cold bit at your face. But his arms were iron-tight around you, his heartbeat thundering against your shoulder as he climbed higher and higher, until the trees were a blur below and the Forest House a speck behind you.

Only when you were far above the canopy—wind tearing at your dress—did you speak.

You huffed the name like a confession. “Rhys…”

Azriel didn’t look down. His voice was low, breathless. “Meeting us… in Spring.”

Neither of you spoke.

Azriel didn’t ask.

You didn’t explain.

Not as he angled west and then south, cutting across the cloudline in long, powerful sweeps of his wings. Not as the Forest House disappeared beneath mist and distance. Not as the Spring Court’s emerald forests unfurled below like a sleeping beast.

You didn’t know what he was thinking. His jaw was tight, face set in shadowed stone, eyes forward like if he blinked he might look at you—and see it.

The blood still dried over your face. The memory of your dagger sliding between ribs.

So you flew in silence. Through wind and twilight, until the trees parted for a half-forgotten clearing—a hidden cove at the edge of Spring.

Azriel landed like a shadow come to ground. Didn’t set you down gently, didn’t look at you as your boots met the moss. Just turned and folded his wings tight to his back, shoulders tense as drawn bowstrings.

The sun had long set. The air was thick with crickets, distant streams, the scent of flowering things.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t offer a fire, or a word.

He paced once.

Twice.

Then stopped—faced away from you, voice low and dark and hoarse.

“You used me. Again.”

The words cut sharper than any sword. You exhaled through your nose, arms folded, eyes on the hollow between trees.

“No—I never asked for your help. Blame Rhysand.”

That made him turn. Slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his voice? Not. 

“He knew about this?”

You hesitated. Just long enough for it to hurt. 

“Not outright. But I’m sure he suspected. He had to have. He wouldn’t have actually shipped me off for a bride—certainly not against my will.” 

Azriel’s hands curled at his sides. His shadows stirred behind him, as if restless—wary. But he said nothing else for the few minutes before Rhysand appeared in a snap of shadow and darkness behind you. 

You flinched, but Azriel didn’t move—he just stilled further, like steel hardening in the forge.

The light of the moon caught in the threads of Rhysand’s jacket like starlight. He took in the two of you without expression at first. But his gaze lingered on the blood dried down your neck, on the torn shoulder of your dress, on the way you and Azriel stood apart like drawn blades.

Then, finally, Rhysand’s violet eyes met yours.

His voice was low. Not angry. Not even sharp.

“…What have you done, (y/n)?”

Not an accusation. A weariness beneath the words, faint—but present. A thread of surprise too. Like he’d gambled. And won.

You didn’t speak.

Azriel did.

“Don’t,” he said, voice like cracked obsidian. “Don’t stand there like you didn’t know.”

Rhysand blinked once. “We’ll talk—”

“No. We’re talking now.”

Azriel’s shadows flared behind him, rising like smoke in the Spring air. But Rhysand didn’t react—just crossed his arms with a too-calm expression, as if preparing for a blow.

“You knew,” Azriel said again, quieter now. Deadlier. “You knew what she was going to do.”

Rhysand’s jaw ticked. “I didn’t know. I suspected.”

Azriel stepped forward. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“You didn’t need to know when it was a suspicion.”

A beat. A breathless second where something fragile snapped inside Azriel’s chest. You felt it as surely as if he’d said it aloud.

“You didn’t trust me,” he finally said.

Rhysand’s mouth opened. Closed. “It wasn’t about trust.”

“Bullshit.” Azriel’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think I can’t keep a secret? I’ve been holding your secrets for centuries. I’ve killed for them. But this? Letting her walk into that court, into a room with Eris fucking Vanserra—with no help?”

Rhysand’s voice stayed infuriatingly calm as he assessed you. “I didn’t think there’d be a bloodbath. I didn’t ask.” He gave a shallow shrug, jaw tight. “Plausible deniability. You know how it works.”

“Plausible deniability isn’t worth shit,” he laughed, a short, humorless sound that held no mirth, “when everyone in that ballroom saw the female sent from the Night Court slit Eris Vanserra’s throat.”

Silence snapped like a cord.

Rhysand’s head snapped toward you, his composure shattered.

“You didn’t—” His voice pitched, stunned, eyebrows raised. “You killed him?”

You met his gaze, spine straight. “Yes.”

Azriel looked at you like you’d just admitted to strangling the sun. “Yes? She had faebane, she slit his throat.”

“Before dessert, too,” you muttered. “Real faux pas.”

Rhysand exhaled like he might start laughing or screaming—maybe both—but didn’t do either. “You did it publicly.”

You shrugged. “Couldn’t get him alone. The guards wouldn’t leave us. I adjusted.”

“You adjusted,” Azriel repeated, eyes wild. “You adjusted by slitting his throat?”

“I had to make sure he didn’t walk away from it.”

Rhysand swore under his breath. “Cauldron boil me—”

Azriel stalked forward, pointing a shaking finger at Rhysand. “You knew something was going to happen. You suspected—those were your words. So why not prepare? Why not warn me?”

Rhysand didn’t flinch. “Because it wasn’t your mission.”

Azriel’s jaw locked. “That’s not good enough.” His voice was low, taut. “I don’t give a damn whose mission it was. I should’ve known.”

“It wasn’t your decision to make,” Rhysand said, infuriatingly calm again. “She was capable. She succeeded.”

“She almost died halfway here,” Azriel snapped. “You weren’t there—you didn’t see what she looked like. You didn’t see her body on the ground, or how pale she was, or the fucking sword charging at her throat!”

“I didn’t need to be there to know what she risked.” Rhysand’s voice was clipped, his restraint fraying. “(Y/n) made a choice. And she carried it through.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Azriel said, voice low, dangerous. “You’re not angry she killed Eris. You’re angry I’m angry. You’re angry because it means you have to admit you didn’t plan this well enough.”

“I’m angry,” Rhysand said sharply, “because I trusted her to walk away when it got too far—and she didn’t.”

Azriel’s eyes burned. “And I’m angry because you trusted her more than me. You trusted her to walk in there alone. But not me, not with the plan, not with the truth. You didn’t trust me, Rhys.”

“I already told you, it wasn’t about—”

“It was,” Azriel bit out. “You didn’t want my opinion. You didn’t want my interference. So you kept me in the dark and didn’t even give me the chance to stop her.”

Rhysand’s nostrils flared. “I didn’t think she’d go that far.”

“Then you don’t know her at all.”

You stepped between them. “Okay, enough—we need to go. We don’t know who saw what, or how fast word will travel—”

They weren’t listening.

Breathing hard, squared off, Azriel’s chest nearly brushing Rhysand’s. You could feel it between them: the crackle of some ancient current, the magnetic pull of centuries of brotherhood bent to breaking. Their shoulders squared. Magic licked the air. Rhysand had thrown off his suit jacket, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Azriel’s leathers were half-shredded, cut open at the seams, chest rising fast. Their bodies weren’t just bracing for a fight—they wanted it.

You knew it was the absolute worst time, but—there was something shamefully erotic about the two of them posturing, chests heaving, faces tight with fury. Like two apex predators trying not to maul each other. Like dominance barely held in check.

Azriel shoved first.

A shoulder to Rhysand’s chest, a low growl in the back of his throat. He barely budged, but his smile was ice.

“Don’t do this, Az,” he warned.

Azriel did it anyway.

Fists collided—one sharp, the other brutal. Rhysand deflected the first strike, then took a second to the ribs with a grunt. He stepped back, his shoes gouging earth, and retaliated with a punch so strong, so forceful, that it sent Azriel skidding. 

But Azriel didn’t stop. He lunged, eyes wild, blades forgotten in favor of his fists. He moved like a storm unleashed: fast, vicious, all instinct and fury. He caught Rhysand with a punch to the jaw, another to the stomach—bone meeting flesh with a sickening crack. Rhysand hissed, stumbling back a step before sending a shockwave of power into Azriel’s chest that flung him backward into a tree. 

Bark splintered. Azriel coughed, staggered—then sprinted again. 

You stepped forward before you could think. “Azriel—”

He either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

They met in the center of the clearing like wolves, snarling, grappling, teeth bared. Azriel drove an elbow into Rhysand’s side. He retaliated with a headbutt to the nose. 

“You’re going to kill each other,” you snapped. 

Still nothing. 

Azriel’s shadows coiled madly around him, barely reined in. Rhysand’s eyes gleamed like stars at the edge of detonation. The fight twisted brutal—less trained strikes, more animal. Rhysand caught Azriel’s arm and spun him, slammed him to the dirt so hard the ground cracked beneath them. But Azriel rolled, lashed out with a foot, clipped Rhysand’s right knee. 

They both staggered. Bloodied, panting, wild-eyed. But Rhysand was already moving—fast as light. He caught Azriel mid-lunge, twisted, and pinned him upright with a violet shield of magic that crackled at the edges like lightning. It snapped around Azriel like a vice. 

He thrashed, snarled, wings flaring hard enough to stir a windstorm—but he couldn’t move.  

And Rhysand—he didn’t look triumphant.

He looked tired.

“Fuck you,” Azriel spat, chest heaving against the magical bind. “Fuck you, Rhys. You smug piece of shit.”

Rhysand blinked once. Slowly. “Az—”

“No! No—” Azriel twisted violently, the shield flexing around him like steel bands. “You don’t get to sit there and play reasonable while she almost fucking died!”

“But I didn’t—”

“You knew!” Azriel roared, cutting you off without a glance in your direction. “You fucking knew people wanted her dead, and you let her go anyway! You let me walk her into that place like a lamb for slaughter and you didn’t say a godsdamned word! Fucking fight me, you coward.”

“She made the choice herself.”

“Because you pushed her to it!” Azriel bellowed. “You didn’t lay a hand on her, but you lined everything up so she’d walk right into the fire for you. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Pull strings. Tip the first domino and pretend you’re innocent when it goes to shit.”

Rhysand’s jaw clenched. “That’s enough.”

Azriel spat blood into the grass. His hair had fallen into his eyes, but he didn’t bother tossing it back. Just bared his teeth in a blood-slicked smile, feral and goading.

“Come on, Rhys,” he rasped. “You’ve got me right where you want me. You wanted to pull rank, well pin me down like a fucking insect and teach me a lesson, yeah? Isn’t that what High Lords do?”

Rhysand’s power flared—sharp and sudden. The magic around Azriel shifted, receded. His body jerked in response, muscles going taut, wings flaring wide in a primal instinctive brace. 

And he launched. 

Like a shadow given form, he tore toward Rhysand with the full force of his fury. Rhysand moved to sidestep—cool, calculating—but he was faster. Or maybe just more furious. Azriel caught him around the middle and tackled him to the ground.

The impact shook the forest floor.

“No magic,” Azriel snarled, already drawing back his fist. “No tricks. Just you and me. Fucking fight.”

He barely managed to block the first punch. The second landed—cheek, jaw, something cracked. Then another. And another. Azriel didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, raining down blows like he’d been waiting centuries to throw them.

Rhysand twisted, grunted, then reversed their positions in a sudden burst of motion. Now he was on top, pinning Azriel with one knee on his sternum, arm cocked back—and he didn’t look calm anymore.

He looked furious.

“You think I didn’t want to tell you?” he snapped. “You think this was easy?”

Azriel spat blood in his face. “Oh, fuck you.”

And then they were grappling, rolling, punching, wings thrashing and tearing through underbrush and branches. Power crackled just under Rhysand’s skin, but he didn’t use it. Azriel could’ve reached for shadows, but didn’t either. No siphons, no magic—just brute strength and fury and history, crashing together like a tidal wave.

“You want to kill each other? Do it faster, we don’t have the time.”

But they didn’t even look at you.

They were locked in completely—two storms colliding. Rhysand landed a brutal blow to Azriel’s ribs; he coughed and grinned and returned one to his temple. You couldn’t tell who was winning. You couldn’t tell if winning was even the point anymore.

They were trying to hurt each other. Trying to bleed this thing out through fists and broken teeth.

And gods, it was awful.

So awful—and so hot. 

You hated yourself for thinking it, but—

The way their chests slammed together, all sweat and sinew and rage. The raw sounds of fists on flesh. Azriel’s lips split wide open, blood slick on his chin, and Rhysand’s shirt hung open, half torn, sweat glinting along the cut of his abdomen. They rolled and snarled like animals, like war made flesh, like every unsaid thing was being carved into each other’s skin. 

It was brutal. Messy. Primal. 

You shook your head, hard. Shame clawed at your throat. 

Another shout. Another crash. You screamed their names again, but they were too far gone. Another punch. A sickening crunch. Blood on both their faces—Azriel’s nose pouring, Rhysand’s eye already purpling.

You didn’t even realize there were tears rolling down your face until your voice cracked:

“Stop.”

They didn’t.

You took a step back—hands trembling, stomach churning. They rolled again, Azriel on top now, pinning Rhysand by the throat, breathing ragged, and for a terrifying moment you thought he was going to kill him.

So you screamed.

Not a word. Not a plea.

Just a raw, guttural, desperate scream—the kind that lived in bone and blood.

It cut through the clearing like a blade. 

Azriel froze. Fist raised, shaking. 

Rhysand blinked up at him—bloodied and bruised and suddenly… horribly aware. 

Azriel’s arm dropped. 

The forest was silent. 

Your breathing hitched. “You—both of you— are going to get us killed. Let’s. Go.”

Neither of them spoke.

Rhysand stared past Azriel like the last few minutes had only just caught up with him. Azriel turned away, chest still heaving, blood dripping from his mouth.

They rose slowly, movements stiff with pain and restraint.

No words. No apology. Not even a glance at each other.

Just the quiet brush of Rhysand’s blood-slicked fingers finding Azriel’s and yours—

And then the world vanished into darkness.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The hot water had gone cold long before you dragged yourself out of the bath.

Your body was clean. Your mind… less so.

You dressed slowly in one of the many guest rooms in the House of Wind, letting the silence press in like balm and punishment both. Even the stunning view of Velaris at night wasn’t enough to calm your racing thoughts.  

The cave conversation replayed first—

That fleeting moment of softness. His voice low, his eyes tired. The warmth between you that felt like a second chance. 

And then the turn. 

The sharp shift. The way his expression had iced over. The silence that followed was worse than the shouting—thick and pulsing with everything you still hadn’t said. The taste of it still lingered on your tongue. 

Then the walk to the forest house. Quiet. Tense. Wound tight.

Azriel hadn’t looked at you. Not really. There were no words for what passed between you on that path. Just the shared weight of too many missteps, too much history. 

By the time you’d reached the gates, your hands were shaking. 

And Eris.

Gods, Eris. 

You’d killed him. 

You had to. 

You would do it again. 

But there’d been no satisfaction in it. No triumph. Just the spray of his blood across your face, the way it ran hot down your arm. The way his hands had reached for you even as he fell—confused, grasping, because he thought he’d understood you. 

You hadn’t flinched or looked away, but you couldn’t stop remembering it now. Couldn’t stop feeling the moment the blade caught bone. The way the faebane had stripped the power from him like peeling skin from muscle. 

And after—

That fight.

That awful, hot, brutal fight. The kind only old friends have when the betrayal cuts bone-deep and pride won’t let them speak. You could still hear the thud of fists, see the flash of violence behind your eyes. 

You paced. You lay down. You got back up again.

Eventually, you decided on the only thing you trusted to quiet your mind tonight: a book.

Your room was dim, lit by a single faelight. You padded toward the door, bare feet silent on the wood floor—

And stopped.

You’d barely pulled the door open when you saw Azriel standing there, one fist raised mid-knock, eyes slightly wide like he hadn’t expected you to open it first. 

Azriel didn’t lower his hand immediately. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, water dripping from damp hair, and still in the hall like he didn’t know why he’d come—only that he had.

His knuckles were bruised, skin already knitting itself back together in uneven seams. A faint split still lingered at the corner of his mouth, just beginning to close. The ghost of a purpling bruise had formed beneath his eye. Faint, but visible. Gone by morning. 

“...You okay?” you asked, voice soft in the hush between you. 

His jaw flexed. “No.”

You hesitated. Then stepped aside. “Come in.”

He moved past you slowly, seven siphons replaced with a smaller one on a chain around his neck. You closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

Azriel didn’t go far. Just stopped in the center of the room, like he didn’t trust the furniture. Like sitting might be a commitment he couldn’t walk back.

The shadows didn’t follow him tonight. Or maybe they were there, just quieter, hidden. Listening.

You folded your arms, more to keep yourself together than anything else.

“Wasn’t expecting you to come,” you said eventually. 

Azriel didn’t look at you. Just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “Wasn’t sure I should.”

“Right.” You nodded slowly. “Wouldn’t want to risk doing something irrational. Like talking.”

He glanced at you then. Just barely. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what this is,” you said, sharper than you meant. “I know what it feels like. Like we’ve spent years dodging each other in rooms we were both bleeding in.”

Silence. Then: “That’s not fair.”

You laughed, low and bitter. “Yeah. Well. Neither is any of this.”

Azriel turned to face you fully. His eyes were unreadable, but his voice was quieter when he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You stared at him.

“I mean it,” he said. “You should have told me.”

“Azriel,” you said, and your voice broke a little on his name, “you don’t get to be angry at me for lying in the silence you built.”

Something in his face flinched—just once. Then it smoothed over again.

You didn’t let up.

“I asked you once, forever ago, if you’d meant to leave me in the Hewn City,” you said. “You never answered. I think I stopped expecting one. I think that was the start of all this.”

He was quiet. The only sound was the wind pressing against the windows.

“I didn’t leave you, (y/n),” he said, eventually. “Not really.”

You tilted your head. “Then what would you call it?”

He hesitated. “I thought I was protecting you.”

“By leaving me in the lion’s den with my teeth still growing in? I know I asked you to hide me, but shit, Az.”

Azriel’s mouth twisted. “You weren’t supposed to become what you did. I thought… if you stayed, you’d be forgotten. You’d be safe.”

You stared at him. “You thought.”

“I was wrong,” he said. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

He blinked.

“I wasn’t safe, Azriel. I was desperate. I was being used. I was crawling through shit to buy ten more minutes of freedom. You think because I learned how to smile while doing it, it means I was fine?”

A long pause stretched between you.

“I know you weren’t fine,” he said quietly. “I read the reports. I saw you when I went down there with Rhys. I saw the wreckage. I just didn’t… I didn’t know how to talk to you after that.”

“Then why are you here now?”

Azriel looked at you, truly looked at you, like he hadn’t allowed himself to until this very moment. His voice was quiet, raw. “Because I couldn’t stand the idea of you being alone after everything.”

You stared. 

“You seemed perfectly fine with the idea of me being alone for fifteen fucking years. First in that cell, then in the cabin. You didn’t have a problem then.”

The silence that followed was not empty.

It pulsed with all the things you’d never said. With the nights in the forest. With the scream you’d let out when he’d disappeared. With the way he’d held you like he was the one breaking.

“I’m tired,” you whispered. “Of being something everyone needs and no one wants.”

Azriel stepped closer.

“You think I don’t want you?” he said, and the words came out low and dangerous. “Do you really think that?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t have one, but because you’d learned not to speak in those silences. Because he’d left you in them, over and over, until wanting him started to feel like a fault line in your chest. 

Because he’d made it clear—for years—that whatever you were to him, it wasn't something he could name. Or keep. Or want. 

He took another step. “You’ve haunted me since the day I found you in the snow. I still hear your voice when I can’t sleep. I still see your face when I close my eyes.”

You opened your mouth—but whatever you meant to say got lost in the heat behind his eyes. In the way his jaw clenched and his throat worked as he struggled for the words: 

“I fucking hated you. For a while. Of course I did. You got our soldiers killed. You lied to all of us.”

Your throat tightened. 

His chest rose and fell once—harsh and unsteady.

“I hated you for what you did. For what it cost us. But don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t think that means I didn’t want you.”

He stepped closer. Another inch, another breath. His hands were clenched at his sides.

“Because I did. I do. I’ve wanted you every fucking day since the moment I left you in that city. Even when I told myself I didn’t. Even when I thought you didn’t deserve it—Hell, even when I didn’t.”

He was right in front of you now. Shadows curling low at his feet, flickering like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

“After everything we’ve been through—after everything I’ve watched you survive—you really think I don’t want you?”

A beat. Just long enough to burn.

“Don’t be stupid.”

You were shaking now, but you didn’t look away. “Then why didn’t you—?”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to want something I’d broken.”

The air left your lungs.

You stared at him, chest tight, hands clenched at your sides.

“I’m not broken.”

“I know.”

And when he reached out, you didn’t flinch.

His fingers brushed your cheek—just barely. Just enough to ask. Just enough to let you say no.

But you didn’t.

You leaned in.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And something in the space between you finally, finally, gave.

Azriel’s hand lingered at your jaw, warm and hesitant. Like he couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

You tilted your head just slightly into his palm.

He breathed your name like it hurt.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t with heat, or hunger.

It was soft.

Tentative.

A question asked against your mouth.

And when you answered—when you parted your lips, when your hand rose slowly to the back of his neck—it was the quietest kind of yes.

Azriel pulled back a fraction, eyes searching yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

“I’m not sure about anything,” you whispered. “Except this.”

That was enough.

He kissed you again—deeper this time, but still slow. Still careful. Like he was afraid you’d vanish again if he moved too fast.

You curled your fingers into his shirt, grounding yourself in the solid weight of him, the warmth beneath all that restraint. He exhaled shakily against your lips, his other hand sliding to your waist, anchoring you.

It should’ve been awkward. Hesitant.

But it wasn’t.

It felt inevitable.

Azriel nudged you gently backward, his movements unhurried. You let him guide you to the edge of the bed. Sat when his fingers grazed your hip. He followed you down, kneeling first—his hands at your thighs, thumbs brushing slow circles through the fabric of your pants, like even touching you was something sacred.

Your breath hitched.

“Let me take this off,” he murmured, voice fraying. “Let me see you.”

You nodded.

He undressed you like he was unwrapping something breakable. Not because he thought you were fragile—but because this was. This moment. This choice. This impossible, flickering thing between you.

Clothes pooled slowly to the floor, layers unspooled with reverence. And when his eyes swept over you, it wasn’t with lust first.

It was awe.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You reached for him then—sat up to help him out of his clothes, your hands bolder than his now. He let you, wordless as you peeled away the shirt, the sweatpants, the tension he’d been hiding behind for years.

You paused when you reached his chest—traced the faint scar that cut across his ribs.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked down at you with something raw in his expression.

“Still think you’re not allowed to want this?” you asked softly.

Azriel didn’t answer with words.

He kissed you again—urgent now, as if you’d taken the last wall he had left.

You fell back onto the bed with him over you, your bodies flush, the heat building slowly now—no longer afraid of itself. His mouth found your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone. Every kiss was a promise. Every touch a confession.

You arched into him when his fingers found your skin—skimming along your ribs, your hips, before slipping between your legs. Gentle at first. Testing. Learning.

But when you gasped—when your hands gripped his arms, your thighs parted instinctively—he exhaled hard against your throat, and everything shifted.

The gentleness didn’t vanish. It just… sharpened.

His fingers moved with more confidence now, his mouth trailing heat down your chest, your abdomen. You felt him press against your leg, hard and aching, and still he didn’t rush.

“Please,” you whispered. You weren’t even sure what you were asking for. 

Azriel looked up from where he hovered at your waist, his eyes dark and ruined and so full of everything he hadn’t said in the cave.

He came back up over you slowly—braced himself with one arm beside your head, the other hand trailing down your thigh. Your legs opened easily for him.

He dipped his head to kiss you again—slow, deep, deliberate. No hesitation now. Just the steady press of his body into yours, his tongue coaxing yours until your breath hitched and your hips lifted to meet him.

“You want more,” he said against your mouth, voice low and wrecked. “Tell me what that means.”

You swallowed. You could barely think, let alone speak.

“I don’t—Azriel—”

His hand slid up, calloused fingers grazing the inside of your thigh, teasing the edge of where you were soaked for him.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, breath hot against your skin. “Just say it.”

His fingers parted you gently, just enough for his thumb to find your clit—light at first. Barely a touch. You gasped, hips jerking toward him.

“Fuck—”

Azriel groaned softly, eyes fixed on your face. “That’s it. Don’t hide from me now.”

He circled your clit slowly—carefully—and gods, it was like he already knew your rhythm. Like his eyes and heart had memorized you years ago and his hands were only now being given permission to visit.

You cried out when he dipped one finger into you—just the tip, just enough to drag slickness back up before returning to that torturously slow circle.

You moaned, your hands finding his shoulders, gripping tight as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, slipping a finger into you. You clenched around it, gasping, and he swore under his breath. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” he whispered. “So fucking warm.” Another finger joined the first, and your spine arched—hips rocking helplessly, chasing every curl of his hand, every flick of his thumb. 

“I can’t—Az—fuck—”

“You can.” He groaned into your skin, his voice shaking now. “You’re doing so well. Look at you—look at you.”

You met his eyes, barely. They were wild. Starved. 

“Say it,” he breathed. “Say you want me.”

“I—fuck—I want you.”

“Say my name.”

“Azriel—”

“Louder.”

You said it again—cried it, this time—and he growled like he was about to break apart. His mouth crashed back onto yours, desperate and hot, his fingers curling just right inside you. 

You came hard—shattering under him, your voice breaking on his name, your body convulsing around his hand. Azriel didn’t stop. Didn’t rush. Just worked you through it, coaxing every last tremble, every last breathless sound.

Only when your legs went slack and your eyes fluttered did he finally slow, fingers slipping free. He braced himself over you, panting, his mouth hovering just above yours. 

You reached for him—shaky, greedy—and he went easily. Let you pull him into a kiss that was messier now, needier. All tongue and heat and the low, broken noises you hadn’t known he could make. 

And you could feel him, still pressed hard against you. 

“Let me,” you whispered. “Please.”

Azriel groaned like it hurt. 

“Careful,” he said, voice like a promise, “you ask like that, and I won’t last long.”

“Good,” you breathed. “Then we’ll do it again.”

He growled.

You kissed him again—open-mouthed and filthy, your tongue teasing against his, your fingers slipping between your bodies. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

“I think I do,” you murmured, as you wrapped your fingers around him. 

And gods—he was hard. Thick and flushed, the head already glistening. You held his gaze as you sat up slightly, leaned on your elbow—and spit into your hand. Slow. Deliberate.

Azriel’s eyes darkened—shadows curling tight across his shoulders as your saliva slicked your palm and wrapped around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back as you gave him a slow stroke. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grinned. “Not before you fuck me.”

That got him. 

His head dropped forward, and when he looked at you—gods, that smile. 

Slow. Crooked. Wicked. 

The kind of smile that only ever meant trouble. The kind you’d never seen on him before, but knew without question it was meant only for you. 

Your hand moved with purpose now—tight, teasing strokes from base to tip. He gritted his teeth, hips jerking into your touch, one hand gripping the sheets beside your head like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“You’re too good at that,” he rasped. “You want me to lose it already?”

“Maybe.”

He grabbed your wrist—not roughly, but firm. His eyes met yours, molten and steady.

“I need to be inside you,” he said. “Now.”

You didn’t argue. You just let go of him, lay back, and held your legs open for him—wide, welcoming.

Azriel knelt between your thighs, his body trembling with restraint. Shadows flickered low at the edges of the room now—curious, pulsing with need that wasn’t just his anymore.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Fucking perfect.”

You reached for him—but his shadows moved faster.

They slid over your eyes like silk—cool and soft, weightless but sure. You gasped, surprised, as your vision dimmed.

“Az—?”

“They won’t hurt you,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Just want you to feel. Every inch. No distractions.”

Your breath caught. The shadows pulsed once. You nodded.

“I trust you.”

And gods, the sound he made at that—like a prayer torn from the chest.

He lined himself up with one careful hand, the head of his cock nudging through your folds. He paused there, just barely pushing in.

“You’re sure?”

You nodded again, vision still cloaked in darkness, your whole body humming.

“Yes. Please, Azriel—please.”

He thrust in slowly, working himself in inch by inch. 

You cried out—back arching, walls clenching around him, your hands scrabbling at his arms.

Azriel groaned, burying his face in your neck as he bottomed out.

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven.”

You whimpered something in return—couldn’t tell what, couldn’t think past the stretch, the way he filled you completely.

And then he moved.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made your toes curl. The shadows over your eyes tightened just enough to hold—like a soft blindfold—and every sensation spiked. The drag of his cock. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his voice when he murmured:

“You take me so well. Gods, fucking beautiful.”

“I can’t—” you gasped, writhing.

“Yes, you can. You were made for this. For me.”

He angled his hips—found that spot—and your vision flared white behind the shadows.

You choked on a moan.

Azriel groaned, bracing his arms beside your head, voice strained now.

“You want it?” he asked, breath ragged. “Want me to fuck you nice and deep?”

You dragged your nails up his spine, pressed your forehead to his.

“I want you to stop holding back,” you whispered. “I can take it. I want all of you.”

Azriel went still. Like you’d said something dangerous. Something forbidden.

His mouth hovered over yours, his breath a shaky exhale. “Careful, (y/n).”

You kissed him—slow, deep, deliberate. “No. You be careful. I’m not scared of you.”

The sound he made—guttural, low—was not quite a groan. Not quite a growl. His hips bucked forward in response, driving himself deeper, and your gasp fractured between your teeth.

Above you, the shadows flickered and unraveled, pulling back from your eyes in a soft, silken sweep. The world returned in color and shape, blinding and brilliant, and there he was. 

Azriel. All of him. 

His face drawn tight with restraint. Jaw clenched. Breathing ragged. Wings stretched wide and twitching.

You traced one hand up his back—slow, reverent—and then let your fingers brush the membrane where wing met muscle.

Azriel shuddered. Visibly.

His whole body stilled above you like a pulled wire.

Your thumb stroked the edge again, featherlight.

“…Fuck,” he muttered. A whisper, almost like it escaped without permission.

You froze. “Too much?”

He shook his head. His voice was strained when he said, “No. Just—fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You smiled—slow, deliberate—and traced another line up the vulnerable underside of his wing. The tremble that ran through him was violent.

“Oh, I think I’m learning,” you said softly. “Sensitive?”

“Very.” His jaw clenched. His wings twitched again, twitchier now, one of them knocking into the headboard like he’d forgotten they were there. “You dangerous, beautiful thing…”

You laughed, delighted.

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

You touched the joint again—barely grazing the nerve-laced edge—and this time Azriel groaned, hips jerking into you.

“Stop,” he rasped.

“You want me to stop?”

“…No.”

You arched into him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other trailing another teasing stroke along his wing.

“Then say it,” you whispered. “Say what you want.”

He growled. A real one this time. Low, dangerous.

“I want you to keep touching me,” he said, voice dark and unraveling. “I want to fuck you while you ruin me.”

Gods.

The pace that followed was brutal.

He slammed into you harder now, panting raggedly, the aftershocks of your teasing still thrumming through every nerve. You kept one hand on his wing as long as you could—feeling it shiver under your touch, hearing the soft, desperate sounds he couldn’t keep back. Every time your fingers skimmed the sensitive membrane, he lost rhythm—just for a second. Just enough to let you know what it cost him to keep control.

And when you dragged your nails lightly down the edge—

Azriel broke.

He swore—loud, filthy—then drove into you so hard you saw stars. His shadows lashed around the room like smoke caught in wind, reacting to the shudder in him, the unraveling.

You felt him everywhere. In the way his cock hit deep, again and again. In the tremble of his wings bracketing your body. In the frantic press of his mouth at your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“You feel—fuck, I could stay inside you forever,” he groaned.

“Then stay,” you gasped. “Please—Az, I want to come again—I need—”

He reached between your bodies, rubbed your clit fast and tight—less precise now, more desperate. You couldn’t blame him. He was shaking.

“Give it to me,” he said, breath wrecked. “Come for me again, I need to feel it—I need—”

You shattered. No warning. No buildup. Just a white-hot wave of heat, and lightning, and his name torn from your throat as your body locked around him, your hand clutching blindly at the base of his wing, like you could anchor yourself there. 

Azriel swore—louder this time, rougher—and drove in once, twice, then came with a groan that broke into something softer, almost like a sob. His wings trembled above you. His mouth pressed to your shoulder.

And then everything stilled.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

You didn’t know how long you lay like that.

Azriel hadn’t moved—not far, at least. One arm still looped beneath your ribs, his breath slow where it dragged across your shoulder. His cock had slipped free at some point, but his body hadn’t left yours. Not really.

His wings were still up, still twitching faintly with each shift of your breath. You didn’t touch them this time.

You could feel the sweat cooling on your skin. The throb of overstretched nerves. The low ache between your thighs. But more than that, you could feel him. Heavy and warm beside you. Present in a way he hadn’t been in years.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It wasn’t comfortable either.

You turned your face toward him in the dimness. Not to look for anything. Just to see if he was still awake.

He was.

His eyes opened slowly. Unreadable. Shadowless.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

For a long while, that was enough.

Then Azriel’s fingers shifted—just slightly—where they rested near your hand. Not touching. Not quite.

You watched them move. You didn’t take his hand. You didn’t pull away either.

Eventually, you sat up.

Your legs were shaky. Your breath still uneven. But you reached for your shift, not looking at him.

Azriel said nothing. Just watched you with that same quiet, unreadable gaze.

You pulled the thin blanket back over your lap and leaned your elbows onto your knees. Not cold. Just needing a moment.

After a while, you heard the rustle of him sitting up behind you. The mattress dipped. The shadows moved.

Still, you didn’t look at him.

His voice came low. Raw.

“Was it a mistake?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Not because you didn’t know. But because the truth wasn’t simple enough to give without care.

You looked down at your hands. Flexed your fingers once.

“No,” you said. Quiet. Measured. “But it wasn’t forgiveness either.”

A long silence.

Then:

“I know.”

“And I don’t expect it to be for you, either.”

“I know.”

And that was it.

You didn’t kiss him goodnight. He didn’t ask to stay.

But when you lay back down, turning away from him, he followed. Gave you space—but not distance. The backs of his fingers brushed your spine as he settled behind you.

He didn’t reach for more.

And you didn’t ask.

But when sleep finally came, you both let it.

Not together.

But not alone either.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

<- part 1

“You’re early,” he said, setting everything down with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Trying to rig the deck before I get here?”

You shrugged. “Just wanted the good seat.”

He pulled out the chair across from you. “Rhys and Feyre running late?”

You shook your head. “Nyx has a fever. Feyre sent word earlier—he’s fussy, they’re staying in tonight.”

Cassian winced. “Shit. Poor kid.”

A pause, then a  frown. “Az won’t make it either,” he said. “Something came up. Didn’t say what, but he was half out the door already when I saw him earlier.”

You nodded slowly. “Mor left for Adriata this morning.”

He looked up at that. “Did she? Thought that was next week.”

“Apparently not.”

Cassian let out a quiet huff and sank into his chair. “And Amren told us not to wait up, so… we already know what that means.”

Your eyes drifted to the five empty chairs, the untouched glasses. The way the silence stretched its arms and made itself comfortable.

“So,” you said lightly, “just us, then.”

“Guess so.”

There was a pause. A breath. He uncorked one of the bottles.

You nudged a glass toward him. “Might as well, right?”

He poured for both of you. “You planning to let me win tonight?”

You raised a brow. “You planning to cheat again?”

Cassian gave you a slow, lazy smile. “No one’s ever proved it.”

You smiled back, but your chest felt tight. Like everything unsaid had already pulled up a chair and poured itself a drink.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The first round of cards was a disaster.

You were halfway through a hand of Five Crowns—rules long-forgotten and redrawn over time—when you realized neither of you was really trying.

Cassian squinted at his cards like they’d personally offended him. “Okay, but remind me again—are red threes wild, or just completely useless?”

“You made that rule up last time,” you said, taking a slow sip of wine. “To get out of losing.”

“Sounds like something I’d do.” His grin barely flickered before fading again.

You dropped your hand onto the table. “This is pathetic.”

“I’m just warming up.”

“You’re not even trying.”

Cassian leaned back in his chair, tilting onto the back two legs—something he only did when he was restless. “Maybe it’s more fun when everyone else is here.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again. “Yeah.”

That silence returned. Not uncomfortable—not yet—but heavy. Like the night was trying to figure out what it wanted to be.

He flicked a card across the table. It spun out, missed by a mile. “Okay. If you had to fight one of us—no powers, no wings, just hand-to-hand—who are you picking?”

You gave him a look. “That’s not a real question.”

“Sure it is.”

“I’m not fighting any of you.”

“Lame.”

You sighed. “Fine. Mor.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “Mor would wipe the floor with you.”

“Exactly. I wouldn’t even have time to regret it.”

That got a real smile out of him, warm and sudden and too brief. You held onto it a second too long before it flickered out.

You picked your cards back up. 

He refilled your glasses without asking. 

You watched the pour, the way his hands moved—steady, practiced. Familiar. You used to know them better than your own. 

Maybe you still did.

There’d been a time—just a handful of months, scattered between the chaos—when familiarity meant skin, not just proximity. It had been careful at first, clumsy sometimes. Heated always. But the line you never crossed remained untouched. No kisses. No morning afters. No pretending.

You cleared your throat. “So, how’s… what’s-her-name? The one you’ve been training with.”

Cassian stilled. Not fully. Just a hitch in motion. Barely there.

“Lira?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“She’s… fine.”

You swirled your glass slowly, watching the wine catch the light. “You’ve been seeing her a lot.”

There was no edge in your voice. Not that you could hear.

Cassian looked up, his eyes darker now. “Didn’t realize you were keeping track.”

It hit sharper than you expected. You blinked. Let out a breath that wanted to be a laugh. “I’m not. Just making conversation.”

He didn’t respond.

The quiet this time wasn’t gentle. It curled into the corners of the room and pushed inward, until the distance between you felt wider than it had all night.

You reached for another card—though you weren’t sure if the game was even still going—pretending to focus on them. The edges were soft from years of use, the corners bent like old habits. 

Cassian didn’t say anything as he reached toward the deck for his own card. You could feel him looking at you, though—could feel the weight of his attention even when you weren’t meeting his eyes.

“So,” you said, tone too light, “any big missions coming up? Or are you finally getting a week off from being Rhys’ personal blunt instrument?”

He snorted under his breath. “I think I’m due for one. But you know how it goes. Someone’s always starting something.”

You nodded, reaching for a card you didn’t need. “You ever think about not doing it? The whole flying around, yelling at people, getting stabbed thing?”

Cassian tilted his head. “You offering me a retirement plan?”

“I’d make a terrible HR rep,” you muttered. “But sure. You could come work with me. Reorganize the archive, maybe.”

He made a face. “That your idea of a soft life? Drowning in paper cuts and moldy books?”

You shrugged. “Better than bleeding out in a war camp.”

Something crossed his face then—fast, unreadable. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. You’d seen it before, but never aimed at you.

“I didn’t know it bothered you,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“When I go out.”

You blinked. “It doesn’t.”

Cassian didn’t move. “You sure?”

Your pulse ticked higher. You weren’t sure what you were answering anymore.

You set your cards down again. “You’re reading into things.”

“Am I?”

You met his gaze this time. Steady, sharp. “You think I care who you spend time with? That I’m sitting around counting days between messages or missions or—”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No. But you implied it.”

The silence thickened. This wasn’t about Lira. Not really. You weren’t even sure what it was about anymore, only that something between you had shifted, and neither of you knew how to fix it without tearing it wider.

Cassian looked at you like he wanted to say something. Like he was about to.

And then he did.

“You’re jealous.”

The words landed without drama. No accusation in his tone, just certainty. Like he was stating the weather.

You stared at him, lips parting. “I’m not.”

He laughed, once—soft, almost sad. “You are.”

“I’m not, Cass.”

“You brought her up. You never ask about who I spend time with. Not unless it’s already eating at you.” 

That flicked something deep and ugly in you. “I brought her up because you’ve been weird. Distant.”

“Right. So you’re not jealous. You’re just keeping score.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The tension stretched taut between you. Then you dropped your gaze, exhaled slow. “Forget it.”

He didn’t push again. Just reached for his glass. 

You picked up your cards.

Neither of you said anything for a while. The only sounds that kept you company were the shuffle of cards, the slow pour of wine, and nervous, too-loud sips. Time slipped by. The room grew darker, the faelights glowing low and warm. You weren’t even playing anymore—just touching the cards to feel something. 

The silence wasn’t empty. It was crowded—every glance you’d avoided, every thought you’d buried, everything unsaid pressing against the edges of the room like it wanted to break through the walls. 

You hadn’t asked about Lira because you cared about Lira. You asked because you didn’t know how to ask about him anymore—about where he went when he left like that, distant and unreadable. About why it felt like you’d been shut out of something you used to live inside. 

You didn’t know what you were to him now. What he was to you. 

The rules had been clear once. Friends. That was all. A quiet agreement, never spoken aloud, but respected. Even when it hurt. Even when it almost didn’t hold. Especially when it almost didn’t hold. 

But then came the nights you spent longer in his bed than in your own. The mornings in the training ring when he brushed your shoulder like it meant something. And you’d told yourself, over and over, that it didn’t matter. That you didn’t matter. 

“You know,” Cassian said eventually, voice quieter than before, “I almost kissed you last Solstice.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

You hadn’t expected him to speak—much less say that.

The words sank in slow. Like they’d been waiting, buried under everything else, and had finally clawed their way out.

“…Why?” you asked, voice rough.

Cassian didn’t look at you at first. He leaned back in his chair, thumb running along the rim of his glass. “You looked at me like you wanted me to.”

A pause. “And I did. Gods, I did.”

Another pause, heavier this time. “But you were pulling away. I thought if I kissed you, I’d lose you for good.”

Your pulse stuttered. The worst part was—you understood. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

“I meant,” you shifted in your seat, “why would you tell me that?”

Cassian looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes, usually grounded and sharp, softened—the usual confident edge was gone, replaced by a kind of quiet desperation that made your breath catch. “Because I’m tired of pretending none of it mattered.”

You stared at him, breath catching. Then, sharper: “Well maybe you should’ve kept pretending.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s not like it would’ve meant anything.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

He gestured toward you—vague, frustrated. “Pretend none of it mattered.”

You let out a breathy, bitter laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

“I told you—”

“Doesn’t matter.” You grabbed another card. “Anyway, it’s not like you’re the only one with… options.”

That made him pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the deck. “Just that I’ve been… seeing someone. Kind of. Talking, more like.”

Silence.

You didn’t dare look up.

Cassian’s voice was quieter now. “Who?”

You shuffled the cards, aimless. “Nobody serious.”

He waited. Then, slower: “What’s his name?”

You blinked hard. Your throat felt tight. “Does it matter?”

He didn’t respond.

You weren’t sure what made you say it. Maybe the wine. Maybe the ache. Maybe the fact that if you admitted how badly you still wanted him, something in you would split open.

So instead, you lied.

“Azriel.”

Cassian’s head lifted. His entire body went still.

Then—calm. Too calm. “Azriel.”

You nodded, eyes locked on your cards. “It’s recent.”

“Since when?”

You hesitated. “A couple weeks.”

“Does he know we—” He stopped himself. “Forget it.”

“No,” you said. “Say it.”

Cassian’s voice dropped, darker. “Does he know what we were?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “Why him?”

You met his gaze. You could see the flicker behind his eyes—hurt, maybe. Anger. Worse: understanding.

“Why not him?” you said, sharper than intended.

He let out a breath. That kind of sound people make when they’re trying not to yell.

Then: “You’re lying.”

Your heart skipped. “I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve never looked at Azriel like that.”

You lifted your chin. “Maybe you just never noticed.”

“I notice everything when it comes to you.”

You stared at each other across the table. Cards forgotten. Wine going warm. The years between you finally catching flame.

And he said it again, softer this time. “You’re lying.”

Your lip trembled. You tried to smile. “Does it make a difference?”

Cassian’s voice was low. “Yes.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“I told you,” he said quietly. “I almost kissed you last Solstice.”

Then, his voice more rough around the edges: “You have no idea how many times I didn’t. How many nights I held back because of that conversation the last time we—”

“Don’t do that. Don’t turn this on me like I’m the one making things complicated.”

“You are making things complicated.” His jaw clenched, eyes hardening. “You act like I’m the one who changed, but you’re the one who started drawing the line.”

“I had to,” you snapped. “Because you wouldn’t say anything. You never say anything.”

“How could I? Every time I got too close, you pulled back!”

“Because you were the first to act like it didn’t mean anything! Like it was just fun! Like all of it was just—” You stopped yourself short, breath catching.

Cassian’s jaw tightened. “You told me it didn’t mean anything.”

“And you believed me?”

His mouth opened. Closed. “You made it clear.”

“You didn’t even try. You let me do all the deciding. You just sat there and let it happen.”

“What the fuck was I supposed to say?” That muscle in his jaw twitched again. Then the words tore out of him—louder than he meant, like he hadn’t planned to say them at all. “That I wanted you? That I’ve always wanted you?”

You froze.

Cassian stepped closer, his voice rough now. “You set the rules. Friends. Just friends. You smiled like it didn’t completely fucking gut you, and I went along with it because I thought—gods, I thought that was better than losing you.”

Your breath caught. “You never said that.”

“I didn’t think I was allowed to.”

You met his eyes, fury and heartbreak colliding somewhere in your chest. The silence wasn’t sharp anymore. Just hollow.

Cassian looked at you like he was still trying to understand what just happened. Or maybe trying not to.

You stepped back before he could try again.

It wasn’t a dramatic exit. No slammed doors, no flying footsteps. Just space—a slow, aching retreat toward the hallway. Toward air. Distance. Anything else.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

You paused, one hand brushing the doorframe.

“Don’t walk away. Not this time.”

Your pulse was a war drum. 

“Please.”

You turned back toward him. “And why shouldn’t I?”

Cassian crossed the room like it cost him something. No armor. No grin to soften it. Just him, raw and unguarded, stopping inches from you.

“I didn’t choose her,” he said. “Or anyone else.”

You couldn’t look at him. “You didn’t choose me, either.”

He didn’t argue. Just stepped in closer, waiting for you to flinch. You didn’t.

“I tried to stay where you put me,” he murmured. “Tried to be what you needed.”

“I needed you to say something.”

“I’m saying it now.”

That was the moment. Not loud. Not grand. Just close. 

His hand lifted, hovered by your cheek—hesitating.

You leaned in before he could finish the thought.

The kiss wasn’t careful. It was never going to be. 

It was too much, and not enough, and far, far too late. It tasted like frustration and wine, like relief and grief and every almost you’d left hanging between you.

His hands found your waist, your jaw. Yours tangled in the front of his shirt. The heat of him was overwhelming—every breath, every touch, every stifled sound pressed between you. You kissed him like you’d been starving for it—because you were. And he kissed you like he’d never forgive himself for waiting this long—because he wouldn’t. 

Neither of you pulled back. Not right away. Not until the shaking in your hands started to ease, until the desperation gave way to something softer, steadier. 

When you finally did part, you were both breathing like you’d just run out of a storm.

Cassian rested his forehead to yours. “So… do we ruin everything now, or later?”

You huffed something like a laugh. “That depends. Are you staying?”

“Only if you ask.”

The tension had returned, creeping back into the space between you like fog, thick and sour. He hadn’t pressed you again—not after last night—but the silence was heavier than anything he could have said.

You were both a sight.

Mud caked your boots and splattered your cloak, blood dried in dark patches along your sleeves and collar. Your hair was snarled, your face raw from the wind and cold. Azriel didn’t look much better—his leathers torn, shadows clinging like smoke, the lines of exhaustion etched deep into his features. His wings hung unevenly behind him, one of them visibly stiff from the cold, from strain.

You felt the eyes as soon as you crossed the threshold.

Autumn Court fae lined the inner hall, resplendent in embroidered velvets and burnished gold, their hair slicked back, their skin glowing with magic and comfort. They looked at you both like you were animals that had clawed your way out of a pit.

Azriel met every stare without flinching.

You didn’t bother meeting any.

The great doors to the throne room opened with a slow groan.

And there he was.

Eris.

Seated where Beron used to sit, sprawled across the ancient throne like it had always belonged to him. Firelight danced along the carved wood, casting shadows behind him like wings. He wore red and gold, crisp and sharp, and though his face was expressionless, his eyes gleamed with something that might have been satisfaction.

“Welcome home,” Eris said.

The words were smooth. Practiced.

And entirely devoid of warmth.

You stopped a few paces from the foot of the dais, refusing to bow. Azriel stayed at your side, silent but iron-still.

Eris looked you over like he was cataloging a corpse. Then he leaned back, draping one arm along the throne’s edge, lips curling just enough to be irritating.

“You look dreadful.”

“Charming,” you muttered.

His gaze flicked to Azriel. “And you brought a souvenir.”

You said nothing. Azriel didn’t even blink.

Eris tutted under his breath and rose slowly from the throne. “It’s a miracle you made it at all.” He made a show of glancing over your ruined clothes. “The Winter Court is especially difficult this time of year.”

You smiled, sharp and cold. “Would His Lordship be terribly offended if I washed off the blood of his own before tonight’s ball?”

That did it—he blinked. Just once. Then his head tilted, curiosity sharpening behind his eyes.

“My own?”

You folded your arms. “Unless the Autumn Court has another legion roaming its borders who happened to take a liking to blades and the color red, yes. They tried to kill us.”

A beat. Then Eris gave a breathy little laugh, like the idea amused him more than it should have.

“Us?” he echoed softly, eyes sliding back to Azriel. “As in both of you?”

Your jaw clenched.

Eris’ smile widened. “How quaint. Did the dog snarl for you? Did he bare his teeth?”

Azriel said, surprisingly cool and quiet, “They nearly gutted her.”

“And yet,” Eris murmured, gesturing lazily toward you, “she stands.”

You took a step forward. “Barely.”

His gaze dropped to the dried blood at your collarbone. “A shame. And here I thought you’d want to make a good impression.”

You laughed once, low and humorless. “Guess you’ll have to take me as I am.”

Something flickered across his face then. Not warmth. Not quite irritation. Just… a moment. And then he stepped down off the dais.

“Very well,” he said, walking past you with the arrogance of someone who knew the room would always bend around him. 

He didn’t wait for a thank you.

“Clean yourself up,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to look like a bride.”

Azriel tensed beside you. You didn’t move.

Only when the echo of Eris’ boots faded did you finally breathe again.

And gods, did you want to claw your skin off.

Even moreso, when you looked at yourself in the mirror of your private room later that evening. 

Someone else stared back.

The dress clung like smoke and fire—scarlet silk embroidered in copper thread, molded to the waist and hips, the bodice structured and cruel. Sleeves hung sheer and slit open to the elbow, baring the soft, vulnerable skin of your inner arms. Your hair had been twisted back from your face with delicate gold combs shaped like flames, leaving your throat and shoulders exposed.

You looked like a sacrifice. Like a warning.

You tugged at the side of the dress, fingers catching on the high slit that ran up your right thigh. Too high. You rethreaded the hook that had come loose—how had they known it would ride too tight there? How had they tailored this to you so precisely?

You checked everything again. Smoothed the fabric. Adjusted the combs. Fixed every strap. Lifted your chin and stared until your face blurred into something shapeless.

Then you turned away, kneeling at your travel bag just once more.

You dug beneath the worn clothes and bandages, fingers closing around the little velvet pouch you’d tucked there in secret. It was barely the size of your palm. You slipped it into your bra, close to your ribs, where the dress was boned enough to hide its shape.

It weighed almost nothing.

But gods, did it feel heavy.

The ball was in your honor—in honor of the new bride of Autumn. That was how they’d introduced you—loudly, grandly—as you were escorted in, already caged by the weight of expectation. Everyone there knew what you were to be. A trophy. A symbol. The jewel Eris had pried from the Night Court’s grip. The famed spy who helped him destroy his father. 

They all smiled at you like you were part of the spoils.

You wore that smile back. Thin and lovely.

It had only been a few hours since you’d scrubbed the dried blood off your skin. Only a few since you’d seen yourself in the mirror and flinched.

Now you found yourself in Eris’ arms, dancing for the fourth song in a row. His palm rested lightly on your waist, his other hand guiding yours, his expression almost bored. Almost.

Normally, you would have kept up easily, met his pace with your own. But after the journey through those gods-forsaken woods, after the hunger and cold and pain, your limbs felt leaden. Hollow.

You were fairly certain you’d lost a few pounds on the way.

You tilted your head just slightly and caught a glimpse of Azriel along the far wall, near one of the carved pillars. Shadowed. Watching.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off you once.

Eris’ voice cut through the music. “You’re lagging.”

“I’m exhausted,” you said quietly.

“Then stop dancing like you’re pretending not to be.”

Your gaze snapped to his.

But his expression remained smooth, court-polished. “Everyone’s watching, dear. If you faint, it’ll ruin the mystique.”

You kept your smile in place. “And gods forbid the mystique be ruined.”

“Indeed,” he said, spinning you effortlessly. “You wouldn’t want them thinking you weren’t thrilled to be here.”

“They already know I’m not.”

His amber eyes met yours again, cooler now. “You think they care? Half of them would still marry me tomorrow, even knowing what I did to my father. Most only resent that you beat them to it.”

You pulled back just slightly, enough to feel the edges of your own body again. “And I assume you’d have them think I chose you freely?”

His lips curved. 

You blinked. “No one would believe that.”

“Not yet,” he murmured. “But they’ll learn to.”

You didn’t answer.

Not even when his grip firmed on your waist and he added, almost too lightly, “Besides, you did choose me. Didn’t you?”

The next turn of the dance left your back to Azriel.

You wished it hadn’t.

When the song ended, Eris didn’t release you immediately. His hand lingered at your waist, his fingers brushing the edge of exposed skin where the back of your gown dipped scandalously low—by design, of course. A vision of temptation, of control. His little rebellion against his father’s traditions.

You stepped back before he could lean in with some too-clever comment.

“I need water,” you said, tone airy. “Or would your lordship prefer I truly faint?”

His mouth twitched, but he waved you off with a flick of his fingers. “By all means, keep the mystique alive.”

You didn’t look back as you weaved toward the banquet table, all glimmering gold and crimson. Meats. Cheeses. Goblets of wine. And there, near the edge—

A glass of water, chilled just enough to fog the sides. 

You reached for it with one hand. 

The other slipped discretely beneath your bodice—adjusting, it would seem. Straightening your dress. A small leather pouch passes easily into your palm. 

You moved like you were brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, like nothing at all. 

And when you turned from the table, water glass in hand, only one male in the room had the angle to see the faint shimmer of powder you stirred into it. The small blade dipping in to dissolve it. The metal flash in the candlelight—

And then gone again. 

You tipped the contents into a nearby plant. Returned the glass to a tray. Kept walking. 

You didn’t glance Azriel’s way.

You didn’t need to.

He’d seen.

Whether he’d stop you had been a question twisting in your gut for days. Whether he would let you go through with it—your mission, your reason for being here.

You hadn’t fully believed he would.

Not until what he said in the cave last night.

I’ll take you back if that’s what you want.

The music shifted again. Slower now. Louder. As if the whole ballroom were collectively catching its breath.

You found Eris standing at the edge of the crowd, surveying his court like a male already bored of the power he held. Amber eyes sharp, posture loose. 

He offered his hand.

You took it. 

“You didn’t faint,” he said, voice low and amused.

You arched a brow. “Disappointed?”

He led you back to the floor. You followed, every step smooth, composed. 

“I wasn’t sure how this would go, you know,” he said, steering you slowly back toward the floor. “You’ve historically been a bit… unpredictable.”

“I’m sure that’s what you enjoy most about me.”

A flicker of teeth. “One of the things.”

You moved like clockwork beside him, all elegance and poise. You carried the sharp edge beneath your ribs like a second spine—thrilling, precise. 

“I’ll admit,” he went on, tone thoughtful, “you’ve impressed me tonight.”

“Oh?”

“It’s no secret many here want you dead. This alliance—this union—they think Beron would never have allowed it. That it’s beneath Autumn, marrying into a court like yours. An insult to centuries of bloodline and pride.”

You hummed, letting your gaze drift across the sea of polished faces, all dripping with bloodline and legacy. “Well,” you murmur, fingers curling on his shoulder, “they’re about to hate me a hell of a lot more.”

He chuckled, a low sound you felt in your bones. “Good. Let them.”

Your expression didn’t change. 

But your hand slid from his shoulder to his ribs. 

And the other found your thigh. 

The blade’s already there. Already coated. 

The motion was seamless—

One clean, upward thrust beneath the ribcage. You felt the blade punch through fabric and flesh, angled just right. 

His breath faltered. His body spasmed. 

The faebane hit like a current, drowning his magic before he could even think to reach for it. His lips parted. A choked, red-laced gasp. 

“You—”

But he wasn’t dying fast enough.

The guards—already moving, shouting.

No time. 

You yanked the blade free, wet and bright, and caught a fistful of his embroidered collar in the same motion. Then you pulled him down, closer.

Your mouth brushed his ear as your blade sliced clean across his throat. 

“I told you I’d impress you.”

The sound was awful—ripping flesh, the gurgling rasp as his windpipe parted beneath the blade. Hot arterial blood burst forth in a blinding spray, drenching your chest, your arm, your face. The pressure of it made your ears ring.

The music had long since stopped. Screams tore through the ballroom, the echoes bouncing off the floors and walls every which way. Chairs scraped. Glass shattered. The shuffle of frantic footsteps mingled with the sound of retching, weeping, running. Panic surged like a tide, crashing over silks and polished marble. 

And yet you stood still—blood-drenched, blade in hand, heart thundering against your ribs. 

He gurgled, choking on his own blood, and staggered. His knees buckled. His hands scrabbled for your hips, smearing blood across your gown like paint.

You shoved him off you. “Azriel!”

Eris collapsed at your feet. Across the ballroom, blue siphons flared to life, so bright it felt like the room blinked. Eris twitched once. Twice. Then went still, a pool of blood unfurling beneath him, thick as oil.

And Azriel was moving—a flash of shadows and wings and raw, ruthless precision. 

Power surged from him like a tidal wave, siphons unleashing a violent pulse of shielding magic. A hard blue barrier slammed down around you just as a thrown dagger ricocheted off it with a metallic screech.

The blast of energy sent tables skidding, drinks shattering, chandeliers swaying on their chains. Screams rose—some terrified, some furious.

Then Azriel was in the air, winging across the room, shadows coiling and snapping at his heels like hunting dogs.

You didn’t have time to watch. You ran.

Down the slick marble stairs, blood still hot on your face, your gown. You kept low, high heels slipping slightly on the polished floor, and darted into the shadow of a columned alcove. Your heart was a staccato drumbeat in your throat. A guard caught sight of you—started toward you.

You didn’t fight fair. You never had. It wasn’t a matter of principle—just the simple truth that you weren’t built to win by the rules. 

You waited until he was close. Then threw your knife—blade hilt-over, not to kill but to distract—and when he flinched, you surged forward, snatched the broken shaft of a torch from the wall, and slammed it into the side of his head.

He crumpled.

You snatched up his sword, so heavy you had to carry it with both hands, and kept moving.

Because Eris was dead. And the war had begun.

The sword dragged with every step, the point scraping sparks across marble as you forced yourself forward. You kept your eyes on the corridor ahead—it led toward the servant stairwell, toward the woods beyond the Forest House—but your ears stayed trained on the ballroom.

On the carnage Azriel was unleashing in your wake.

You couldn’t see him. But you heard him.

The boom of a siphon-triggered shockwave. The crack of something breaking—stone, maybe. A scream cut off mid-throat. The skittering thunder of wingbeats, then a snarl, deep and guttural, almost animal.

Azriel had stopped holding back.

Boots pounded behind you—another guard.

You ducked into the shadow of a pillar just as he rounded the corner. He didn’t see you until you surged out and swung wide with the stolen blade.

It was a messy arc. No grace, no technique. But the sheer weight of the sword did the work for you. It smashed across his face with a wet crunch, and he went down like a felled tree.

Your shoulder screamed from the effort. You nearly dropped the blade—but didn’t.

You couldn’t.

More footsteps. Screaming—not all of it from soldiers. A crowd of well-dressed nobles came sprinting past, eyes wide with terror. One of them slipped in a smear of blood on the tile and fell. Another yanked her upright and dragged her along.

You left them be. Besides, even if you tried to melt into their fleeing crowd, it wouldn’t matter. You were the only one covered head to toe in blood.

You rounded a corner and nearly ran face-first into another soldier. He raised his blade—too slow. You didn’t stop running. Just threw your full weight into him, shoulder-first.

He staggered, off balance, and you drove your knee into his groin. He doubled over. You kept running.

Shouts echoed behind you. You could hear them howling for vengeance. And behind them—still—the sound of Azriel, wreaking ruin. Blades clashing. Shadows shrieking. Magic detonating like thunderclaps.

Part of you wanted to go back. Help him. But what could you offer? You were not a warrior, you were a weapon. And your job was already done.

You found the servant stairwell half by memory, half by instinct—a narrow door tucked behind a curtain. You shouldered through and stumbled onto steep stone steps slick with panic and the iron tang of fear.

Down. Down. The hilt of the stolen sword slippery in your palm. Your breathing ragged, each inhale cutting like glass.

You had never meant to be a killer. But the only way to save your court now was to start a war.

The plan was for you two to wed, but that was ages ago, before there had been any rot to begin with. You get him information, he discredits and murders his father, you wed, you both rule the Autumn Court. Eris had no way of knowing your changed intentions when he approached Rhysand with an alliance. 

You’d heard Eris had been kind when he first took the throne. You were in solitary confinement for eight years but you’d learned what’d happened soon after they let you out. He’d spoken of peace. Of reforms. He promised he’d never be his father.

But power had a way of rotting its wielder from the inside out.

He’d started small. Tightening trade routes. Stationing soldiers on once-neutral land. Rewriting laws. Then came the raids. The disappearances. The whispered names of those who never returned.

And that had been your fault. You’d put him on that throne. Which meant it had to be you who took him off of it. 

You burst out the stairwell into the cold night air, stumbling into dew-slick grass. The sounds of chaos still roared behind you, but here—out here—it was quiet enough to hear your own blood pounding in your ears.

You lifted your eyes to the sky, dropped the sword, and ran south. You didn’t need to get to the Night Court, you just had to get out of Autumn. And Spring wasn’t too far off. 

Each footfall was agony. Your lungs burned. Your legs shook. But—

You stopped. Turned. 

Smoke curled from the shattered windows. The ballroom glowed from within, pulsing with siphon-light—blue, furious and sharp. The windows were gone, blown outward as if something inside had detonated.

You stared.

Watched the magic blaze. Flash. Pause. Flash again.

Like a heartbeat.

And when the next pulse died out, when the world held still—

You cupped your hands around your mouth and screamed it with everything you had left:

“AZRIEL!”

You didn’t even finish the breath after his name before he moved.

A blur of motion, a sonic crack through the air—Azriel exploded out of the ballroom, blue siphons blazing like stars gone supernova. Wings wide, mouth a snarl, shadows streaking off him like ribbons of midnight. He flew straight through the shattered windows, glass still raining from the frame.

Straight toward you.

There was no time to react.

One second, you stood frozen at the treeline, chest heaving, the next, he was on you. 

You barely had time to stagger back before he scooped you into his arms without losing speed, body curling instinctively around yours as his wings surged with a mighty snap. Your feet left the earth, and you shot into the sky like a stone loosed from a sling.

The wind howled past. Cold bit at your face. But his arms were iron-tight around you, his heartbeat thundering against your shoulder as he climbed higher and higher, until the trees were a blur below and the Forest House a speck behind you.

Only when you were far above the canopy—wind tearing at your dress—did you speak.

You huffed the name like a confession. “Rhys…”

Azriel didn’t look down. His voice was low, breathless. “Meeting us… in Spring.”

Neither of you spoke.

Azriel didn’t ask.

You didn’t explain.

Not as he angled west and then south, cutting across the cloudline in long, powerful sweeps of his wings. Not as the Forest House disappeared beneath mist and distance. Not as the Spring Court’s emerald forests unfurled below like a sleeping beast.

You didn’t know what he was thinking. His jaw was tight, face set in shadowed stone, eyes forward like if he blinked he might look at you—and see it.

The blood still dried over your face. The memory of your dagger sliding between ribs.

So you flew in silence. Through wind and twilight, until the trees parted for a half-forgotten clearing—a hidden cove at the edge of Spring.

Azriel landed like a shadow come to ground. Didn’t set you down gently, didn’t look at you as your boots met the moss. Just turned and folded his wings tight to his back, shoulders tense as drawn bowstrings.

The sun had long set. The air was thick with crickets, distant streams, the scent of flowering things.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t offer a fire, or a word.

He paced once.

Twice.

Then stopped—faced away from you, voice low and dark and hoarse.

“You used me. Again.”

The words cut sharper than any sword. You exhaled through your nose, arms folded, eyes on the hollow between trees.

“No—I never asked for your help. Blame Rhysand.”

That made him turn. Slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his voice? Not. 

“He knew about this?”

You hesitated. Just long enough for it to hurt. 

“Not outright. But I’m sure he suspected. He had to have. He wouldn’t have actually shipped me off for a bride—certainly not against my will.” 

Azriel’s hands curled at his sides. His shadows stirred behind him, as if restless—wary. But he said nothing else for the few minutes before Rhysand appeared in a snap of shadow and darkness behind you. 

You flinched, but Azriel didn’t move—he just stilled further, like steel hardening in the forge.

The light of the moon caught in the threads of Rhysand’s jacket like starlight. He took in the two of you without expression at first. But his gaze lingered on the blood dried down your neck, on the torn shoulder of your dress, on the way you and Azriel stood apart like drawn blades.

Then, finally, Rhysand’s violet eyes met yours.

His voice was low. Not angry. Not even sharp.

“…What have you done, (y/n)?”

Not an accusation. A weariness beneath the words, faint—but present. A thread of surprise too. Like he’d gambled. And won.

You didn’t speak.

Azriel did.

“Don’t,” he said, voice like cracked obsidian. “Don’t stand there like you didn’t know.”

Rhysand blinked once. “We’ll talk—”

“No. We’re talking now.”

Azriel’s shadows flared behind him, rising like smoke in the Spring air. But Rhysand didn’t react—just crossed his arms with a too-calm expression, as if preparing for a blow.

“You knew,” Azriel said again, quieter now. Deadlier. “You knew what she was going to do.”

Rhysand’s jaw ticked. “I didn’t know. I suspected.”

Azriel stepped forward. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“You didn’t need to know when it was a suspicion.”

A beat. A breathless second where something fragile snapped inside Azriel’s chest. You felt it as surely as if he’d said it aloud.

“You didn’t trust me,” he finally said.

Rhysand’s mouth opened. Closed. “It wasn’t about trust.”

“Bullshit.” Azriel’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You think I can’t keep a secret? I’ve been holding your secrets for centuries. I’ve killed for them. But this? Letting her walk into that court, into a room with Eris fucking Vanserra—with no help?”

Rhysand’s voice stayed infuriatingly calm as he assessed you. “I didn’t think there’d be a bloodbath. I didn’t ask.” He gave a shallow shrug, jaw tight. “Plausible deniability. You know how it works.”

“Plausible deniability isn’t worth shit,” he laughed, a short, humorless sound that held no mirth, “when everyone in that ballroom saw the female sent from the Night Court slit Eris Vanserra’s throat.”

Silence snapped like a cord.

Rhysand’s head snapped toward you, his composure shattered.

“You didn’t—” His voice pitched, stunned, eyebrows raised. “You killed him?”

You met his gaze, spine straight. “Yes.”

Azriel looked at you like you’d just admitted to strangling the sun. “Yes? She had faebane, she slit his throat.”

“Before dessert, too,” you muttered. “Real faux pas.”

Rhysand exhaled like he might start laughing or screaming—maybe both—but didn’t do either. “You did it publicly.”

You shrugged. “Couldn’t get him alone. The guards wouldn’t leave us. I adjusted.”

“You adjusted,” Azriel repeated, eyes wild. “You adjusted by slitting his throat?”

“I had to make sure he didn’t walk away from it.”

Rhysand swore under his breath. “Cauldron boil me—”

Azriel stalked forward, pointing a shaking finger at Rhysand. “You knew something was going to happen. You suspected—those were your words. So why not prepare? Why not warn me?”

Rhysand didn’t flinch. “Because it wasn’t your mission.”

Azriel’s jaw locked. “That’s not good enough.” His voice was low, taut. “I don’t give a damn whose mission it was. I should’ve known.”

“It wasn’t your decision to make,” Rhysand said, infuriatingly calm again. “She was capable. She succeeded.”

“She almost died halfway here,” Azriel snapped. “You weren’t there—you didn’t see what she looked like. You didn’t see her body on the ground, or how pale she was, or the fucking sword charging at her throat!”

“I didn’t need to be there to know what she risked.” Rhysand’s voice was clipped, his restraint fraying. “(Y/n) made a choice. And she carried it through.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Azriel said, voice low, dangerous. “You’re not angry she killed Eris. You’re angry I’m angry. You’re angry because it means you have to admit you didn’t plan this well enough.”

“I’m angry,” Rhysand said sharply, “because I trusted her to walk away when it got too far—and she didn’t.”

Azriel’s eyes burned. “And I’m angry because you trusted her more than me. You trusted her to walk in there alone. But not me, not with the plan, not with the truth. You didn’t trust me, Rhys.”

“I already told you, it wasn’t about—”

“It was,” Azriel bit out. “You didn’t want my opinion. You didn’t want my interference. So you kept me in the dark and didn’t even give me the chance to stop her.”

Rhysand’s nostrils flared. “I didn’t think she’d go that far.”

“Then you don’t know her at all.”

You stepped between them. “Okay, enough—we need to go. We don’t know who saw what, or how fast word will travel—”

They weren’t listening.

Breathing hard, squared off, Azriel’s chest nearly brushing Rhysand’s. You could feel it between them: the crackle of some ancient current, the magnetic pull of centuries of brotherhood bent to breaking. Their shoulders squared. Magic licked the air. Rhysand had thrown off his suit jacket, sleeves rolled up his forearms. Azriel’s leathers were half-shredded, cut open at the seams, chest rising fast. Their bodies weren’t just bracing for a fight—they wanted it.

You knew it was the absolute worst time, but—there was something shamefully erotic about the two of them posturing, chests heaving, faces tight with fury. Like two apex predators trying not to maul each other. Like dominance barely held in check.

Azriel shoved first.

A shoulder to Rhysand’s chest, a low growl in the back of his throat. He barely budged, but his smile was ice.

“Don’t do this, Az,” he warned.

Azriel did it anyway.

Fists collided—one sharp, the other brutal. Rhysand deflected the first strike, then took a second to the ribs with a grunt. He stepped back, his shoes gouging earth, and retaliated with a punch so strong, so forceful, that it sent Azriel skidding. 

But Azriel didn’t stop. He lunged, eyes wild, blades forgotten in favor of his fists. He moved like a storm unleashed: fast, vicious, all instinct and fury. He caught Rhysand with a punch to the jaw, another to the stomach—bone meeting flesh with a sickening crack. Rhysand hissed, stumbling back a step before sending a shockwave of power into Azriel’s chest that flung him backward into a tree. 

Bark splintered. Azriel coughed, staggered—then sprinted again. 

You stepped forward before you could think. “Azriel—”

He either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

They met in the center of the clearing like wolves, snarling, grappling, teeth bared. Azriel drove an elbow into Rhysand’s side. He retaliated with a headbutt to the nose. 

“You’re going to kill each other,” you snapped. 

Still nothing. 

Azriel’s shadows coiled madly around him, barely reined in. Rhysand’s eyes gleamed like stars at the edge of detonation. The fight twisted brutal—less trained strikes, more animal. Rhysand caught Azriel’s arm and spun him, slammed him to the dirt so hard the ground cracked beneath them. But Azriel rolled, lashed out with a foot, clipped Rhysand’s right knee. 

They both staggered. Bloodied, panting, wild-eyed. But Rhysand was already moving—fast as light. He caught Azriel mid-lunge, twisted, and pinned him upright with a violet shield of magic that crackled at the edges like lightning. It snapped around Azriel like a vice. 

He thrashed, snarled, wings flaring hard enough to stir a windstorm—but he couldn’t move.  

And Rhysand—he didn’t look triumphant.

He looked tired.

“Fuck you,” Azriel spat, chest heaving against the magical bind. “Fuck you, Rhys. You smug piece of shit.”

Rhysand blinked once. Slowly. “Az—”

“No! No—” Azriel twisted violently, the shield flexing around him like steel bands. “You don’t get to sit there and play reasonable while she almost fucking died!”

“But I didn’t—”

“You knew!” Azriel roared, cutting you off without a glance in your direction. “You fucking knew people wanted her dead, and you let her go anyway! You let me walk her into that place like a lamb for slaughter and you didn’t say a godsdamned word! Fucking fight me, you coward.”

“She made the choice herself.”

“Because you pushed her to it!” Azriel bellowed. “You didn’t lay a hand on her, but you lined everything up so she’d walk right into the fire for you. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Pull strings. Tip the first domino and pretend you’re innocent when it goes to shit.”

Rhysand’s jaw clenched. “That’s enough.”

Azriel spat blood into the grass. His hair had fallen into his eyes, but he didn’t bother tossing it back. Just bared his teeth in a blood-slicked smile, feral and goading.

“Come on, Rhys,” he rasped. “You’ve got me right where you want me. You wanted to pull rank, well pin me down like a fucking insect and teach me a lesson, yeah? Isn’t that what High Lords do?”

Rhysand’s power flared—sharp and sudden. The magic around Azriel shifted, receded. His body jerked in response, muscles going taut, wings flaring wide in a primal instinctive brace. 

And he launched. 

Like a shadow given form, he tore toward Rhysand with the full force of his fury. Rhysand moved to sidestep—cool, calculating—but he was faster. Or maybe just more furious. Azriel caught him around the middle and tackled him to the ground.

The impact shook the forest floor.

“No magic,” Azriel snarled, already drawing back his fist. “No tricks. Just you and me. Fucking fight.”

He barely managed to block the first punch. The second landed—cheek, jaw, something cracked. Then another. And another. Azriel didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate, raining down blows like he’d been waiting centuries to throw them.

Rhysand twisted, grunted, then reversed their positions in a sudden burst of motion. Now he was on top, pinning Azriel with one knee on his sternum, arm cocked back—and he didn’t look calm anymore.

He looked furious.

“You think I didn’t want to tell you?” he snapped. “You think this was easy?”

Azriel spat blood in his face. “Oh, fuck you.”

And then they were grappling, rolling, punching, wings thrashing and tearing through underbrush and branches. Power crackled just under Rhysand’s skin, but he didn’t use it. Azriel could’ve reached for shadows, but didn’t either. No siphons, no magic—just brute strength and fury and history, crashing together like a tidal wave.

“You want to kill each other? Do it faster, we don’t have the time.”

But they didn’t even look at you.

They were locked in completely—two storms colliding. Rhysand landed a brutal blow to Azriel’s ribs; he coughed and grinned and returned one to his temple. You couldn’t tell who was winning. You couldn’t tell if winning was even the point anymore.

They were trying to hurt each other. Trying to bleed this thing out through fists and broken teeth.

And gods, it was awful.

So awful—and so hot. 

You hated yourself for thinking it, but—

The way their chests slammed together, all sweat and sinew and rage. The raw sounds of fists on flesh. Azriel’s lips split wide open, blood slick on his chin, and Rhysand’s shirt hung open, half torn, sweat glinting along the cut of his abdomen. They rolled and snarled like animals, like war made flesh, like every unsaid thing was being carved into each other’s skin. 

It was brutal. Messy. Primal. 

You shook your head, hard. Shame clawed at your throat. 

Another shout. Another crash. You screamed their names again, but they were too far gone. Another punch. A sickening crunch. Blood on both their faces—Azriel’s nose pouring, Rhysand’s eye already purpling.

You didn’t even realize there were tears rolling down your face until your voice cracked:

“Stop.”

They didn’t.

You took a step back—hands trembling, stomach churning. They rolled again, Azriel on top now, pinning Rhysand by the throat, breathing ragged, and for a terrifying moment you thought he was going to kill him.

So you screamed.

Not a word. Not a plea.

Just a raw, guttural, desperate scream—the kind that lived in bone and blood.

It cut through the clearing like a blade. 

Azriel froze. Fist raised, shaking. 

Rhysand blinked up at him—bloodied and bruised and suddenly… horribly aware. 

Azriel’s arm dropped. 

The forest was silent. 

Your breathing hitched. “You—both of you— are going to get us killed. Let’s. Go.”

Neither of them spoke.

Rhysand stared past Azriel like the last few minutes had only just caught up with him. Azriel turned away, chest still heaving, blood dripping from his mouth.

They rose slowly, movements stiff with pain and restraint.

No words. No apology. Not even a glance at each other.

Just the quiet brush of Rhysand’s blood-slicked fingers finding Azriel’s and yours—

And then the world vanished into darkness.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The hot water had gone cold long before you dragged yourself out of the bath.

Your body was clean. Your mind… less so.

You dressed slowly in one of the many guest rooms in the House of Wind, letting the silence press in like balm and punishment both. Even the stunning view of Velaris at night wasn’t enough to calm your racing thoughts.  

The cave conversation replayed first—

That fleeting moment of softness. His voice low, his eyes tired. The warmth between you that felt like a second chance. 

And then the turn. 

The sharp shift. The way his expression had iced over. The silence that followed was worse than the shouting—thick and pulsing with everything you still hadn’t said. The taste of it still lingered on your tongue. 

Then the walk to the forest house. Quiet. Tense. Wound tight.

Azriel hadn’t looked at you. Not really. There were no words for what passed between you on that path. Just the shared weight of too many missteps, too much history. 

By the time you’d reached the gates, your hands were shaking. 

And Eris.

Gods, Eris. 

You’d killed him. 

You had to. 

You would do it again. 

But there’d been no satisfaction in it. No triumph. Just the spray of his blood across your face, the way it ran hot down your arm. The way his hands had reached for you even as he fell—confused, grasping, because he thought he’d understood you. 

You hadn’t flinched or looked away, but you couldn’t stop remembering it now. Couldn’t stop feeling the moment the blade caught bone. The way the faebane had stripped the power from him like peeling skin from muscle. 

And after—

That fight.

That awful, hot, brutal fight. The kind only old friends have when the betrayal cuts bone-deep and pride won’t let them speak. You could still hear the thud of fists, see the flash of violence behind your eyes. 

You paced. You lay down. You got back up again.

Eventually, you decided on the only thing you trusted to quiet your mind tonight: a book.

Your room was dim, lit by a single faelight. You padded toward the door, bare feet silent on the wood floor—

And stopped.

You’d barely pulled the door open when you saw Azriel standing there, one fist raised mid-knock, eyes slightly wide like he hadn’t expected you to open it first. 

Azriel didn’t lower his hand immediately. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, water dripping from damp hair, and still in the hall like he didn’t know why he’d come—only that he had.

His knuckles were bruised, skin already knitting itself back together in uneven seams. A faint split still lingered at the corner of his mouth, just beginning to close. The ghost of a purpling bruise had formed beneath his eye. Faint, but visible. Gone by morning. 

“...You okay?” you asked, voice soft in the hush between you. 

His jaw flexed. “No.”

You hesitated. Then stepped aside. “Come in.”

He moved past you slowly, seven siphons replaced with a smaller one on a chain around his neck. You closed the door behind him with a quiet click.

Azriel didn’t go far. Just stopped in the center of the room, like he didn’t trust the furniture. Like sitting might be a commitment he couldn’t walk back.

The shadows didn’t follow him tonight. Or maybe they were there, just quieter, hidden. Listening.

You folded your arms, more to keep yourself together than anything else.

“Wasn’t expecting you to come,” you said eventually. 

Azriel didn’t look at you. Just ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. “Wasn’t sure I should.”

“Right.” You nodded slowly. “Wouldn’t want to risk doing something irrational. Like talking.”

He glanced at you then. Just barely. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what this is,” you said, sharper than you meant. “I know what it feels like. Like we’ve spent years dodging each other in rooms we were both bleeding in.”

Silence. Then: “That’s not fair.”

You laughed, low and bitter. “Yeah. Well. Neither is any of this.”

Azriel turned to face you fully. His eyes were unreadable, but his voice was quieter when he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You stared at him.

“I mean it,” he said. “You should have told me.”

“Azriel,” you said, and your voice broke a little on his name, “you don’t get to be angry at me for lying in the silence you built.”

Something in his face flinched—just once. Then it smoothed over again.

You didn’t let up.

“I asked you once, forever ago, if you’d meant to leave me in the Hewn City,” you said. “You never answered. I think I stopped expecting one. I think that was the start of all this.”

He was quiet. The only sound was the wind pressing against the windows.

“I didn’t leave you, (y/n),” he said, eventually. “Not really.”

You tilted your head. “Then what would you call it?”

He hesitated. “I thought I was protecting you.”

“By leaving me in the lion’s den with my teeth still growing in? I know I asked you to hide me, but shit, Az.”

Azriel’s mouth twisted. “You weren’t supposed to become what you did. I thought… if you stayed, you’d be forgotten. You’d be safe.”

You stared at him. “You thought.”

“I was wrong,” he said. “You don’t have to say it. I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

He blinked.

“I wasn’t safe, Azriel. I was desperate. I was being used. I was crawling through shit to buy ten more minutes of freedom. You think because I learned how to smile while doing it, it means I was fine?”

A long pause stretched between you.

“I know you weren’t fine,” he said quietly. “I read the reports. I saw you when I went down there with Rhys. I saw the wreckage. I just didn’t… I didn’t know how to talk to you after that.”

“Then why are you here now?”

Azriel looked at you, truly looked at you, like he hadn’t allowed himself to until this very moment. His voice was quiet, raw. “Because I couldn’t stand the idea of you being alone after everything.”

You stared. 

“You seemed perfectly fine with the idea of me being alone for fifteen fucking years. First in that cell, then in the cabin. You didn’t have a problem then.”

The silence that followed was not empty.

It pulsed with all the things you’d never said. With the nights in the forest. With the scream you’d let out when he’d disappeared. With the way he’d held you like he was the one breaking.

“I’m tired,” you whispered. “Of being something everyone needs and no one wants.”

Azriel stepped closer.

“You think I don’t want you?” he said, and the words came out low and dangerous. “Do you really think that?”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t have one, but because you’d learned not to speak in those silences. Because he’d left you in them, over and over, until wanting him started to feel like a fault line in your chest. 

Because he’d made it clear—for years—that whatever you were to him, it wasn't something he could name. Or keep. Or want. 

He took another step. “You’ve haunted me since the day I found you in the snow. I still hear your voice when I can’t sleep. I still see your face when I close my eyes.”

You opened your mouth—but whatever you meant to say got lost in the heat behind his eyes. In the way his jaw clenched and his throat worked as he struggled for the words: 

“I fucking hated you. For a while. Of course I did. You got our soldiers killed. You lied to all of us.”

Your throat tightened. 

His chest rose and fell once—harsh and unsteady.

“I hated you for what you did. For what it cost us. But don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t think that means I didn’t want you.”

He stepped closer. Another inch, another breath. His hands were clenched at his sides.

“Because I did. I do. I’ve wanted you every fucking day since the moment I left you in that city. Even when I told myself I didn’t. Even when I thought you didn’t deserve it—Hell, even when I didn’t.”

He was right in front of you now. Shadows curling low at his feet, flickering like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

“After everything we’ve been through—after everything I’ve watched you survive—you really think I don’t want you?”

A beat. Just long enough to burn.

“Don’t be stupid.”

You were shaking now, but you didn’t look away. “Then why didn’t you—?”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to want something I’d broken.”

The air left your lungs.

You stared at him, chest tight, hands clenched at your sides.

“I’m not broken.”

“I know.”

And when he reached out, you didn’t flinch.

His fingers brushed your cheek—just barely. Just enough to ask. Just enough to let you say no.

But you didn’t.

You leaned in.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And something in the space between you finally, finally, gave.

Azriel’s hand lingered at your jaw, warm and hesitant. Like he couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

You tilted your head just slightly into his palm.

He breathed your name like it hurt.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t with heat, or hunger.

It was soft.

Tentative.

A question asked against your mouth.

And when you answered—when you parted your lips, when your hand rose slowly to the back of his neck—it was the quietest kind of yes.

Azriel pulled back a fraction, eyes searching yours.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice low and hoarse.

“I’m not sure about anything,” you whispered. “Except this.”

That was enough.

He kissed you again—deeper this time, but still slow. Still careful. Like he was afraid you’d vanish again if he moved too fast.

You curled your fingers into his shirt, grounding yourself in the solid weight of him, the warmth beneath all that restraint. He exhaled shakily against your lips, his other hand sliding to your waist, anchoring you.

It should’ve been awkward. Hesitant.

But it wasn’t.

It felt inevitable.

Azriel nudged you gently backward, his movements unhurried. You let him guide you to the edge of the bed. Sat when his fingers grazed your hip. He followed you down, kneeling first—his hands at your thighs, thumbs brushing slow circles through the fabric of your pants, like even touching you was something sacred.

Your breath hitched.

“Let me take this off,” he murmured, voice fraying. “Let me see you.”

You nodded.

He undressed you like he was unwrapping something breakable. Not because he thought you were fragile—but because this was. This moment. This choice. This impossible, flickering thing between you.

Clothes pooled slowly to the floor, layers unspooled with reverence. And when his eyes swept over you, it wasn’t with lust first.

It was awe.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You reached for him then—sat up to help him out of his clothes, your hands bolder than his now. He let you, wordless as you peeled away the shirt, the sweatpants, the tension he’d been hiding behind for years.

You paused when you reached his chest—traced the faint scar that cut across his ribs.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked down at you with something raw in his expression.

“Still think you’re not allowed to want this?” you asked softly.

Azriel didn’t answer with words.

He kissed you again—urgent now, as if you’d taken the last wall he had left.

You fell back onto the bed with him over you, your bodies flush, the heat building slowly now—no longer afraid of itself. His mouth found your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone. Every kiss was a promise. Every touch a confession.

You arched into him when his fingers found your skin—skimming along your ribs, your hips, before slipping between your legs. Gentle at first. Testing. Learning.

But when you gasped—when your hands gripped his arms, your thighs parted instinctively—he exhaled hard against your throat, and everything shifted.

The gentleness didn’t vanish. It just… sharpened.

His fingers moved with more confidence now, his mouth trailing heat down your chest, your abdomen. You felt him press against your leg, hard and aching, and still he didn’t rush.

“Please,” you whispered. You weren’t even sure what you were asking for. 

Azriel looked up from where he hovered at your waist, his eyes dark and ruined and so full of everything he hadn’t said in the cave.

He came back up over you slowly—braced himself with one arm beside your head, the other hand trailing down your thigh. Your legs opened easily for him.

He dipped his head to kiss you again—slow, deep, deliberate. No hesitation now. Just the steady press of his body into yours, his tongue coaxing yours until your breath hitched and your hips lifted to meet him.

“You want more,” he said against your mouth, voice low and wrecked. “Tell me what that means.”

You swallowed. You could barely think, let alone speak.

“I don’t—Azriel—”

His hand slid up, calloused fingers grazing the inside of your thigh, teasing the edge of where you were soaked for him.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered, breath hot against your skin. “Just say it.”

His fingers parted you gently, just enough for his thumb to find your clit—light at first. Barely a touch. You gasped, hips jerking toward him.

“Fuck—”

Azriel groaned softly, eyes fixed on your face. “That’s it. Don’t hide from me now.”

He circled your clit slowly—carefully—and gods, it was like he already knew your rhythm. Like his eyes and heart had memorized you years ago and his hands were only now being given permission to visit.

You cried out when he dipped one finger into you—just the tip, just enough to drag slickness back up before returning to that torturously slow circle.

You moaned, your hands finding his shoulders, gripping tight as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, slipping a finger into you. You clenched around it, gasping, and he swore under his breath. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” he whispered. “So fucking warm.” Another finger joined the first, and your spine arched—hips rocking helplessly, chasing every curl of his hand, every flick of his thumb. 

“I can’t—Az—fuck—”

“You can.” He groaned into your skin, his voice shaking now. “You’re doing so well. Look at you—look at you.”

You met his eyes, barely. They were wild. Starved. 

“Say it,” he breathed. “Say you want me.”

“I—fuck—I want you.”

“Say my name.”

“Azriel—”

“Louder.”

You said it again—cried it, this time—and he growled like he was about to break apart. His mouth crashed back onto yours, desperate and hot, his fingers curling just right inside you. 

You came hard—shattering under him, your voice breaking on his name, your body convulsing around his hand. Azriel didn’t stop. Didn’t rush. Just worked you through it, coaxing every last tremble, every last breathless sound.

Only when your legs went slack and your eyes fluttered did he finally slow, fingers slipping free. He braced himself over you, panting, his mouth hovering just above yours. 

You reached for him—shaky, greedy—and he went easily. Let you pull him into a kiss that was messier now, needier. All tongue and heat and the low, broken noises you hadn’t known he could make. 

And you could feel him, still pressed hard against you. 

“Let me,” you whispered. “Please.”

Azriel groaned like it hurt. 

“Careful,” he said, voice like a promise, “you ask like that, and I won’t last long.”

“Good,” you breathed. “Then we’ll do it again.”

He growled.

You kissed him again—open-mouthed and filthy, your tongue teasing against his, your fingers slipping between your bodies. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

“I think I do,” you murmured, as you wrapped your fingers around him. 

And gods—he was hard. Thick and flushed, the head already glistening. You held his gaze as you sat up slightly, leaned on your elbow—and spit into your hand. Slow. Deliberate.

Azriel’s eyes darkened—shadows curling tight across his shoulders as your saliva slicked your palm and wrapped around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back as you gave him a slow stroke. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grinned. “Not before you fuck me.”

That got him. 

His head dropped forward, and when he looked at you—gods, that smile. 

Slow. Crooked. Wicked. 

The kind of smile that only ever meant trouble. The kind you’d never seen on him before, but knew without question it was meant only for you. 

Your hand moved with purpose now—tight, teasing strokes from base to tip. He gritted his teeth, hips jerking into your touch, one hand gripping the sheets beside your head like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“You’re too good at that,” he rasped. “You want me to lose it already?”

“Maybe.”

He grabbed your wrist—not roughly, but firm. His eyes met yours, molten and steady.

“I need to be inside you,” he said. “Now.”

You didn’t argue. You just let go of him, lay back, and held your legs open for him—wide, welcoming.

Azriel knelt between your thighs, his body trembling with restraint. Shadows flickered low at the edges of the room now—curious, pulsing with need that wasn’t just his anymore.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Fucking perfect.”

You reached for him—but his shadows moved faster.

They slid over your eyes like silk—cool and soft, weightless but sure. You gasped, surprised, as your vision dimmed.

“Az—?”

“They won’t hurt you,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “Just want you to feel. Every inch. No distractions.”

Your breath caught. The shadows pulsed once. You nodded.

“I trust you.”

And gods, the sound he made at that—like a prayer torn from the chest.

He lined himself up with one careful hand, the head of his cock nudging through your folds. He paused there, just barely pushing in.

“You’re sure?”

You nodded again, vision still cloaked in darkness, your whole body humming.

“Yes. Please, Azriel—please.”

He thrust in slowly, working himself in inch by inch. 

You cried out—back arching, walls clenching around him, your hands scrabbling at his arms.

Azriel groaned, burying his face in your neck as he bottomed out.

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven.”

You whimpered something in return—couldn’t tell what, couldn’t think past the stretch, the way he filled you completely.

And then he moved.

Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made your toes curl. The shadows over your eyes tightened just enough to hold—like a soft blindfold—and every sensation spiked. The drag of his cock. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his voice when he murmured:

“You take me so well. Gods, fucking beautiful.”

“I can’t—” you gasped, writhing.

“Yes, you can. You were made for this. For me.”

He angled his hips—found that spot—and your vision flared white behind the shadows.

You choked on a moan.

Azriel groaned, bracing his arms beside your head, voice strained now.

“You want it?” he asked, breath ragged. “Want me to fuck you nice and deep?”

You dragged your nails up his spine, pressed your forehead to his.

“I want you to stop holding back,” you whispered. “I can take it. I want all of you.”

Azriel went still. Like you’d said something dangerous. Something forbidden.

His mouth hovered over yours, his breath a shaky exhale. “Careful, (y/n).”

You kissed him—slow, deep, deliberate. “No. You be careful. I’m not scared of you.”

The sound he made—guttural, low—was not quite a groan. Not quite a growl. His hips bucked forward in response, driving himself deeper, and your gasp fractured between your teeth.

Above you, the shadows flickered and unraveled, pulling back from your eyes in a soft, silken sweep. The world returned in color and shape, blinding and brilliant, and there he was. 

Azriel. All of him. 

His face drawn tight with restraint. Jaw clenched. Breathing ragged. Wings stretched wide and twitching.

You traced one hand up his back—slow, reverent—and then let your fingers brush the membrane where wing met muscle.

Azriel shuddered. Visibly.

His whole body stilled above you like a pulled wire.

Your thumb stroked the edge again, featherlight.

“…Fuck,” he muttered. A whisper, almost like it escaped without permission.

You froze. “Too much?”

He shook his head. His voice was strained when he said, “No. Just—fuck, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You smiled—slow, deliberate—and traced another line up the vulnerable underside of his wing. The tremble that ran through him was violent.

“Oh, I think I’m learning,” you said softly. “Sensitive?”

“Very.” His jaw clenched. His wings twitched again, twitchier now, one of them knocking into the headboard like he’d forgotten they were there. “You dangerous, beautiful thing…”

You laughed, delighted.

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t start.”

You touched the joint again—barely grazing the nerve-laced edge—and this time Azriel groaned, hips jerking into you.

“Stop,” he rasped.

“You want me to stop?”

“…No.”

You arched into him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other trailing another teasing stroke along his wing.

“Then say it,” you whispered. “Say what you want.”

He growled. A real one this time. Low, dangerous.

“I want you to keep touching me,” he said, voice dark and unraveling. “I want to fuck you while you ruin me.”

Gods.

The pace that followed was brutal.

He slammed into you harder now, panting raggedly, the aftershocks of your teasing still thrumming through every nerve. You kept one hand on his wing as long as you could—feeling it shiver under your touch, hearing the soft, desperate sounds he couldn’t keep back. Every time your fingers skimmed the sensitive membrane, he lost rhythm—just for a second. Just enough to let you know what it cost him to keep control.

And when you dragged your nails lightly down the edge—

Azriel broke.

He swore—loud, filthy—then drove into you so hard you saw stars. His shadows lashed around the room like smoke caught in wind, reacting to the shudder in him, the unraveling.

You felt him everywhere. In the way his cock hit deep, again and again. In the tremble of his wings bracketing your body. In the frantic press of his mouth at your jaw, your throat, your collarbone.

“You feel—fuck, I could stay inside you forever,” he groaned.

“Then stay,” you gasped. “Please—Az, I want to come again—I need—”

He reached between your bodies, rubbed your clit fast and tight—less precise now, more desperate. You couldn’t blame him. He was shaking.

“Give it to me,” he said, breath wrecked. “Come for me again, I need to feel it—I need—”

You shattered. No warning. No buildup. Just a white-hot wave of heat, and lightning, and his name torn from your throat as your body locked around him, your hand clutching blindly at the base of his wing, like you could anchor yourself there. 

Azriel swore—louder this time, rougher—and drove in once, twice, then came with a groan that broke into something softer, almost like a sob. His wings trembled above you. His mouth pressed to your shoulder.

And then everything stilled.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

You didn’t know how long you lay like that.

Azriel hadn’t moved—not far, at least. One arm still looped beneath your ribs, his breath slow where it dragged across your shoulder. His cock had slipped free at some point, but his body hadn’t left yours. Not really.

His wings were still up, still twitching faintly with each shift of your breath. You didn’t touch them this time.

You could feel the sweat cooling on your skin. The throb of overstretched nerves. The low ache between your thighs. But more than that, you could feel him. Heavy and warm beside you. Present in a way he hadn’t been in years.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable.

It wasn’t comfortable either.

You turned your face toward him in the dimness. Not to look for anything. Just to see if he was still awake.

He was.

His eyes opened slowly. Unreadable. Shadowless.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

For a long while, that was enough.

Then Azriel’s fingers shifted—just slightly—where they rested near your hand. Not touching. Not quite.

You watched them move. You didn’t take his hand. You didn’t pull away either.

Eventually, you sat up.

Your legs were shaky. Your breath still uneven. But you reached for your shift, not looking at him.

Azriel said nothing. Just watched you with that same quiet, unreadable gaze.

You pulled the thin blanket back over your lap and leaned your elbows onto your knees. Not cold. Just needing a moment.

After a while, you heard the rustle of him sitting up behind you. The mattress dipped. The shadows moved.

Still, you didn’t look at him.

His voice came low. Raw.

“Was it a mistake?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Not because you didn’t know. But because the truth wasn’t simple enough to give without care.

You looked down at your hands. Flexed your fingers once.

“No,” you said. Quiet. Measured. “But it wasn’t forgiveness either.”

A long silence.

Then:

“I know.”

“And I don’t expect it to be for you, either.”

“I know.”

And that was it.

You didn’t kiss him goodnight. He didn’t ask to stay.

But when you lay back down, turning away from him, he followed. Gave you space—but not distance. The backs of his fingers brushed your spine as he settled behind you.

He didn’t reach for more.

And you didn’t ask.

But when sleep finally came, you both let it.

Not together.

But not alone either.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

<- part 1

The formal engagement dinner was held in one of the Day Court’s lesser palaces, its golden spires catching the last light of sunset like spears. Helion had offered the venue as a gesture of neutrality—though everyone in the room knew where his loyalties leaned. Still, it was distant enough from Prythian’s eyes to serve its purpose. 

Neutral. As if anything in this room could be. 

You sat beside Eris Vanserra at the long obsidian table, a wine glass balanced delicately between your fingers. Eris’ fingers tapped the stem of his own glass in rhythm with the orchestra playing at the far end of the hall. Every movement he made was a performance: the amused tilt of his head, the lazy spread of his fingers on the table, the pointed glances he cast toward the Night Court’s High Lord. 

Rhysand sat across from you, dressed in midnight and stars, his expression unreadable. Feyre sat to his right, offering you a nod that felt too soft, too pitying. 

Cassian’s glare could have cleaved the table in two. Morrigan looked ready to break something lest she break herself. Azriel—

Azriel stood at the wall, half-shadow, half-sentry, his attention fixed anywhere but on you. His siphons glinted cold blue, and when Eris placed a hand on the back of your chair, Azriel’s eyes flicked over like a dagger drawn mid-step. 

You didn’t flinch. Not outwardly. 

“This is a rare thing,” Eris murmured near your ear. “A bridge forged from ash and bone.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t look at him. You sipped your wine instead, letting its sharpness anchor you. It tasted like Autumn: rich, biting, with the threat of fire. 

The political maneuvering was endless. Courtiers from both courts circled like hawks, each conversation another layer of performance. The betrothal was sold as a diplomatic triumph, a union to symbolize cooperation between once-hostile courts. But everyone knew what it really was: leverage. You were leverage.

You should be used to playing a role, Rhysand’s voice murmured in your mind, smooth and quiet as silk, when you stood to excuse yourself. 

You didn’t stop walking. Funny. Some people think I prefer masks.

His reply was a soft, almost regretful hum against your thoughts. But he let you go. 

The hallway beyond the dining chamber was cold, narrow, carved from the bones of the mountain itself. Your footsteps echoed. And then stopped. 

You weren’t alone. 

“That color doesn’t suit you.”

Azriel’s voice was a blade in the dark. He leaned against the wall near the archway, arms crossed. His shadows flickered like restless smoke. 

You met his gaze. “It’s tradition.”

“So is throwing yourself on the sword. Doesn’t make it noble.”

You turned away as he pushed off the wall. “Why?”

The question dropped between you like a gauntlet. You kept walking. 

He caught your arm.

His hand was calloused, scarred—burns trailing up like old ghosts. You stared at him. He didn’t let go. 

“You’re good at this,” he said. Voice low, rough. “I’ll give you that.”

You didn’t pull away. “And you’re good at pretending you didn’t help make me this way.”

His wings folded close, tense and coiled steel. “You don’t get to pin this on me.”

“Don’t I?”

“You didn’t even know who I was.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Wish I had. Would’ve saved me a hell of a lot of trouble.”

The silence stretched. 

Then, softly, you told him:

“I didn’t ask you to take me there.”

He let go of your arm. Your skin burned where his fingers had been. 

“You didn’t have to, you knew I would. You were banking on it.” He turned back toward the dining hall. 

The sound of distant music bled faintly through the stone. 

You straightened your spine, took in a breath of fresh air, and walked back into the fire. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You hadn’t always belonged to Eris Vanserra.

Once—long before the wine-dark gown, before politics turned your spine to steel and your face to glass—you had belonged to no one. Hunted, half-starved, you’d clawed your way through frostbitten hills and timeworn protections until you reached the Night Court. 

Azriel found you there. 

Not in a meadow or a clearing, not wrapped in moonlight like some storybook waif. You were curled between the roots of an old spruce tree, blood smeared down your arm, one boot missing, breathing shallow. Your lips were cracked from the cold. You flinched from the light glinting off of his siphons. 

He watched you for a long moment, unreadable. Shadows coiled around him like wary dogs, uncertain whether to snarl or protect. 

He should have left you. 

You were nothing. No scent he recognized. No Court colors. No identifying insignia, not even in the lining of your tattered cloak. Just the ragged, wild-eyed tremble of someone who had fled through hell and hadn’t yet realized they’d made it out. 

He crouched beside you, unreadable. 

Your eyes fluttered open. Glanced at the midnight sky. Then at him. And you whispered, hoarse and cracked:

“Please… Please, don’t take me back. I can’t go back. They’ll find me.”

Azriel said nothing. 

“Please.”

You reached for him. Your fingers barely touched his leathers before falling away, but it was enough. 

He didn’t know who they were. But your terror wasn’t fake. And he’d seen enough in his life to recognize when someone had been hunted. 

So instead of doing the sensible thing and alerting Rhysand, instead of dragging you to the River House, he took you somewhere else. 

To the only place no sunlight touched. 

The Hewn City was not merciful, but then again, neither were you. 

Once your wounds healed—slowly, under Azriel’s careful regulation and disapproval—you didn’t waste time asking why he’d helped you.

You didn’t ask when he would send you back. Only if.

The others living underneath that godsforsaken mountain watched you with thinly veiled hunger. Curiosity. Disdain.

But they didn’t touch you. Because the shadowsinger had brought you.

He visited irregularly, always from the shadows. Spoke in clipped sentences. Never stayed long.

But you remembered the first time you asked him a question:

“Who do they think I am?”

He didn’t answer. Not really.

“They think what you let them.”

And you—feral thing that you were—learned to adapt, to survive, to become something they wouldn’t dare touch. You sharpened your tongue, practiced stillness. Learned the power in saying nothing at all. 

You danced with courtiers and whispered truths like poison into the right ears. You clawed your way into the inner circle—not a power, not a threat, but a presence. One Keir allowed to linger in the background of his court. You played the game. 

And Azriel—he watched it happen over the years. His visits grew colder. Shorter. 

Eventually, you spoke.

Eventually, you smiled. Not kindly. Not ever.

You never told him what you were running from. But you told him what you remembered. You told him how pain nests in bone. How fear rewires the mind. How cruelty speaks in lullabies and lessons and leashes.

And he listened.

Azriel, who said almost nothing and felt far too much, who watched the world like it owed him blood—he listened to you.

Maybe that’s when it started.

Maybe that’s when everything went wrong.

Because what bloomed in that darkness wasn’t love. It was need. Mutual. Messy. Ugly.

The way he stared too long when you called him by name. The way you touched his shoulder when he turned to go. The way you both let silence stretch, like it could hold something sacred. You never kissed, never undressed, never asked. But the knowing was there.

Just not the kind that offered answers. Whether you were a loose end or a long play. A liability or a choice he still regretted making. And you never asked Azriel why he’d left you there. Maybe it was mercy. Maybe it was a mistake. 

When the supply caravans came—laden with wine and medicinal tinctures—you learned when to disappear. 

Ten minutes at most. Ten minutes in the trees before your absence became suspicious.

Your contact never told you who they worked for. You didn’t ask. You only knew what they wanted: names, movements, conversations. Details of the Night Court’s power. Of Rhysand’s visits. Of Keir’s ambitions. 

You only needed ten minutes. 

But you took eleven. 

By the time you returned, heart still hammering from the sprint through wet leaves and root-tangled earth, the caravan wagons were already groaning back through the canyon mouth, the mountain and wards closing behind them with a sound like bones grinding beneath the earth.

You froze just beyond the treeline, caked in soil and sweat, your lungs clawing for air. Too far to be seen—but close enough to know you’d been shut out. 

The Hewn City would take your absence as treason. Keir would make a spectacle of your punishment and subsequent execution. And there was no one left to cover for you. Not after what you’d just done. 

So you ran. 

Not south, not toward the border—the patrols were tighter there. You knew that from the meetings you’d sat in on. You went deeper. 

Past the wild rivers and night-blooming groves, past the reach of mapped terrain. You ran until your boots bled, until the cold sank into your marrow and every cracked branch sounded like pursuit. 

You slept in tree hollows and between boulders. You drank from puddles that tasted like rot. 

And when the shadows came, you thought they were phantoms of your own exhaustion. 

Until they weren’t. 

You woke the next morning to the smell of smoke—low and bitter, like burnt pine—and the press of a blade at your throat.

He didn’t speak, not at first.

Just knelt in front of you in the snow, his wings half-furled, the morning mist clinging to him like armor.

Azriel.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t beg.

You only looked at him and said, hoarse and raw, “It’s too late.”

Something flickered in his face—recognition, maybe. Or fury. But the knife withdrew.

You wouldn’t learn until much later that Rhysand had spoken to him in that way only he can. That Rhysand had ordered him not to touch you. That the information you’d shared had quickly gotten people killed. 

Azriel’s eyes bore into yours, and he said, low and quiet, “Get up.”

You didn’t argue.

Didn’t flinch when his shadows slithered closer, cold and damp against your skin. You only rose—slow, unsteady—and followed him in silence through the forest, their chill coiling tight around your limbs like shackles half-formed from smoke. 

The journey back took less than an hour. You’d wandered in a panic, looped in circles, maybe. Or maybe he’d known exactly where to find you all along.

The mountain loomed, silent and cavernous, its sealed threshold parting at his approach. 

You didn’t expect a warm welcome, but you also didn’t expect that.

No words. No accusations. Not even from Morrigan, who looked at you like she’d seen a ghost and then walked away.

Rhysand only looked at you once, cool and unreadable, before nodding to two guards.

“Solitary,” he said. “She doesn’t speak to anyone.”

Azriel stepped forward, grip on you tight as ever. “She killed—”

“That’s an order.”

A pause. Heavy, cutting. Azriel didn’t look at you, but the air around him felt as dark as the blade he hadn’t put down since he found you.

They locked you in the farthest cell in the lower wards. No torchlight. No contact. You weren’t even questioned.

Time frayed. Days unspooled into weeks, into months—into something that stopped mattering. 

They gave you food, barely. No one spoke. No one came—until Rhysand had. 

Not until the bruises healed. Not until your nails grew back, after splitting down to the quick. Not until your voice recovered from the croak it became through night after night spent screaming. Not until that croak became one from disuse. 

Then he appeared one night, without warning. No guards. Just him and that damned velvet darkness curling behind his shoulders. 

“Interesting,” he said, surveying your wrecked form. “I expected you to break.”

You didn’t answer. What would’ve been the point?

He stood outside the bars, hands folded behind his back like this was a court meeting, not a prison cell. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said lightly. “You’re going to tell me what you know. I’m not asking for everything. Just enough. And in return… you get out.”

Still, you said nothing.

You knew how this worked. 

“A room. Food. Warm clothes. And your life.” A smile, thin and sharp. “For now.”

Your voice was raw when you spoke. 

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“Don’t you?” Rhysand disappeared into the curling darkness, which slithered through bars of your cell. Slowly, he reappeared in front of you, crouched down on a knee. “I kept my spymaster from breaking your legs. Worse, likely, considering that your choices that night cost the lives of some good males.”

You laughed—a rasping, broken sound you hadn’t made in quite some time. “He wouldn’t.”

Rhysand only looked at you. 

And that’s when you realized that, yes, he absolutely would have. 

You’d stolen something from him. From all of them. 

“You’ll work for me,” Rhysand said. “Not openly. Not as part of the court. But I’ll call on you when I need eyes where mine can’t go.”

His gaze raked over you, assessing. 

“You’re good at slipping between cracks. I need someone no one will recognize. You’re already halfway gone.”

“And if I say no?”

Rhysand’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Then Azriel gets what he’s been waiting for these last eight years.”

Rhysand was true to his word. 

He found you a cabin tucked so deep in the mountains you sometimes wondered if even he could find it again. It sat nestled among wind-bent pines and snow-worn strone, far from any road or trail. There was no village nearby. No neighbors. Just the howl of wind across slate and the hush of drifting snow. 

You kept to yourself. Hunted, grew what little you could. Rhysand sent care packages every week—always enough food, always quietly extravagant in the details. Wine from Velaris. Salted meats. Books, when you dared to read again. New boots when your old ones began to tear. 

It should’ve felt like exile. But after the lower wards, the sounds of nature were a mercy. The solitude, once sharp and echoing, dulled into stillness. Predictable. Painless. Better than stone walls and screaming. Better than the dark. And in time, it became something close to peace. 

You didn’t speak aloud for months. Didn’t hear your name for longer. 

It was years before you were called on again. 

Not often. Not publicly. 

A coded letter. A knock at your door. A job that looked nothing like a job. Just names. Observations. A slip of information overheard in the right alley. Those were the only times you ventured into the city, Velaris, he’d called it. 

Azriel didn’t come to see you. Didn’t speak to you at the odd meeting you attended. But you felt him watching—when Rhysand spoke your name in strategy sessions, when your intel proved true, when the court called the job finished and Azriel still tracked the trail for weeks after. 

The resentment simmered. Not just for what you’d done, but for the fact that Rhysand had chosen you again. 

Rhysand trusted you with the cracks Azriel couldn’t squeeze through, though his shadows were entirely capable. 

And Azriel—Azriel—who bled and killed and fought for the court, had to listen to his brother say:

“She gets results.”

He didn’t speak to you, but once—months after your first assignment ended, after you’d ghosted through the Palace of Bone and Salt and returned with names Rhysand hadn’t even asked for—Azriel passed you in the hall.

His voice was quiet. 

“You think this makes you loyal?”

You didn’t look at him. And you didn’t answer. 

Because even now—especially now—you still don’t know what he wants from you. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The hall hummed with low conversation, the scrape of fine dresses and sharp-edged laughter weaving between sips of wine and clinking glasses. You settled back into your seat, eyes trained on the flickering candlelight, the firelight playing across the obsidian surface of the table.

Eris’ smile was slow, sharp, predatory as he caught your slight hesitation before you sat. He leaned close, voice dripping with poison and amusement.

“So, you returned,” he said, eyes flicking toward Azriel, who remained unmoving at the wall. “I was beginning to worry that another of Rhysand’s Illyrian brutes had soiled my bride-to-be yet again.” His gaze landed deliberately on Morrigan across the table, who met it with a single, elegant middle finger—graceful somehow. 

The room’s atmosphere crackled, but no one dared speak the unspoken tension aloud.

“I must admit, I’m surprised,” Eris continued, voice quieter but no less venomous. “The Night Court’s High Lord, lending you to the Autumn Court’s cause.”

Cassian’s jaw clenched, Morrigan’s fingers curled, Feyre’s eyes flickered with unease. Even Rhysand’s mask of calm showed the faintest tightness.

Eris’ smile curved cruelly. “But I’m confident you’ll adapt. The Autumn Court has its own ways of… refining wild things. Turning them into something more palatable. With enough time, even embers learn to behave.”

You caught Rhysand’s gaze across the table then—a cold, steady lock of eyes that spoke volumes in silence. No words, no commands, just the faintest warning wrapped in concern: Hold steady.

You met his eyes and held them.

Cassian’s glare shifted to Eris, then back to you, his silent fury almost tangible. Morrigan’s hand tightened on her glass, her voice cool when she finally spoke. “Funny—males always think that. Right before they learn the hard way.”

Feyre’s nod was subtle but firm. “She’s not a pawn to be moved.”

Eris’ smirk faltered for a heartbeat, but he recovered quickly. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

The music swelled, a haunting melody threading through the tension as the night stretched onward. The players in this deadly game were all here, watching, waiting.

And you were no longer invisible.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Back at the River House the next day, the afternoon light shone through the tall windows of his office. The heavy curtains had been drawn back, but the chill in the air hadn’t lessened. Your head still buzzed from last night’s poisoned words and veiled threats, but the game had only just begun.

Rhysand stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the sun’s beams reflect off the Sidra. When he finally turned to face you, his expression was firm but tinged with something like frustration. 

“They’re insistent,” he said quietly. “No flights. No winnowing. You have to walk the entire way to Autumn. It’s their condition. Their way of testing you—or breaking you.”

You didn’t say anything. You’d expected nothing less.

He gestured toward the door, and before you could ask, Azriel stepped through. His presence was a silent storm, all tightly coiled muscles and simmering resentment.

“I’m sending him with you,” Rhysand said, voice low but steady. “Azriel will escort you. Keep you safe—or keep you in line.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Azriel’s eyes met yours—sharp, cold. 

Rhysand looked back at you, just for a moment. 

“Did you neglect to tell your hound you were sending him out?”

The insult earned you a look. “It wouldn’t have happened otherwise.”

That much was true. You had to bite back a laugh at Azriel’s reaction. 

“This isn’t how any of us wanted this to go,” he continued. “But it’s how it has to be.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. 

“You leave in two weeks,” he finished.

And you did. 

When he knocked on your cabin door the morning of the trek, you were already dressed, a worn pack slung over your shoulder, supplies carefully arranged inside. Azriel stood beside him, silent and still as ever, shadows coiling faintly as his boots like restless hounds. He didn’t speak, didn’t so much as glance your way. Just waited. The moment you stepped out and took his arm, Rhysand’s magic curled around the three of you like a shadowed cloak as the world blurred and twisted beneath your feet. In a blink, the moss-soft earth and pine-thick air of your cabin vanished—replaced by a quiet stretch of open land where the sky hung in a swirl of eternal dusk, smeared with the last blues of night and the first golds of day. 

You landed silently, boots pressing into damp, moss-softened earth. Azriel’s shadow flickered beside you, his wings half-furled, muscles taut and ready. The only sounds were the distant call of night-birds and the whisper of the wind threading through ancient trees.

Rhysand exhaled softly, the sky casting lavender shadows across his face. “This is where I leave you,” he said, not without gentleness. “There are wards along the path—through Day, at least—ones keyed to Az’s magic. They’ll know you. They’ll protect you.”

You glanced between them. “And after that?”

Rhysand’s mouth quirked. “Then you’re on your own.”

You tilted your head. “Comforting.”

For a moment, none of you moved. Then Rhysand stepped forward, adjusted the strap of your pack on your shoulder with a care that surprised you. “Try not to insult anyone too important.”

“I’ll do my best,” you said dryly. 

Azriel’s eyes locked on yours, sharp as ever. There was no warmth in them—only duty, and something like disdain.

The pop of Rhysand’s departure left a vacuum behind. The silence he’d abandoned was heavy, taut as a wire. You stood still for a moment, letting it settle—letting the full weight of what lay ahead press against your ribs.

Azriel adjusted the strap of his leathers. Already turning south. Already done with this.

You followed. Of course you did.

For the first mile, there was only the sound of boots over grass, the hush of wind combing through heavy, green-drenched branches. The sun filtered in patches—honeyed and slanting, more glow than heat. He didn’t speak, didn’t look at you, didn’t so much as glance to make sure you were keeping up.

So you tried, after another stretch of silence. Tried to breach the tension, if only to feel less like a prisoner being marched to the gallows.

“You miss them yet?” you asked lightly. “Your shadows.” Only one seemed to brave the sun today, creeping along behind him like it wasn’t sure it belonged here.. 

He didn’t slow. “No.”

“They miss you.”

“They’ll survive.”

You bit your lip, eyes narrowing. “Right. Because you’re known for your warm and chatty companionship.”

He stopped.

Just—stopped, so abruptly that you nearly collided into him.

Azriel turned, and when his eyes met yours, they were razor-edged. “I’m not here to entertain you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” you shot back, heat licking your voice now. “Forgive me for trying to make this a little less miserable for the both of us.”

“I don’t care if you’re miserable.” His voice was low, steady. “I’m walking you to the Autumn Court. That’s it. That’s all.”

You stared at him. At the steel in his posture, the flatness in his tone. The calculation in every breath.

“Fine. Got it.”

He turned away again, already moving.

“And if the Mother loves me,” he said without looking back, “Eris will kill you before we make it to his gates so I don’t have to.”

It shouldn’t have surprised you—but the cruelty of it landed like a blade you’d half expected and still failed to dodge. 

You made it twenty miles that day, and your boots started to betray you. The pain had crept in slowly, like rot in damp wood, until every step throbbed with heat and raw friction. Azriel hadn’t looked back once. Not when you stumbled. Not when you bit back a wince. Not when you trailed behind, your pride dragging like a second shadow. 

By the time the sun dipped low, painting one of the many white-stoned Day Court cities in amber and rose, you’d stopped feeling your legs entirely. Just numbness and grit and the slow, cold curl of resentment in your chest. 

Azriel said nothing as he strode through the open gate. He didn’t ask for your opinion when he slipped the innkeeper a silver mark or when he took the single brass key and climbed the stairs ahead of you.

You expected him to disappear into the room and slam the door behind him, leaving you to find your own bed of hay and splinters. But instead, he opened the door. Waited. Let you step inside first.

It was a modest room, clean and plain, with sun-washed curtains and a washbasin in the corner. And one bed. Just one.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t frown. Just crossed his arms and said flatly, “I’ll go back and ask. You sleep there.” He nodded to the bed, then glanced toward the door like he already wanted to be through it. “Alone.”

“Oh, thank the Cauldron,” you muttered. “For a second, I thought you might make me sleep on the floor out of spite.”

Azriel didn’t blink. “Tempting.” Then he turned and left.

No slam. No hiss of shadows. Just the quiet click of the door.

You dug through your pack in silence, unwrapping a strip of dried meat and forcing down a few mouthfuls. It tasted like ash. Like the inside of your cheek, bitten raw

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“Absolutely not.”

“Azriel, come on–”

“Don’t–”

“It makes sense and you know it.”

“The hell I do!”

“We’d be halfway through Dawn by now!” you snapped, gesturing at the empty horizon like the open fields could argue for you. “We’ve been walking for four hours, my feet are shredded, and we’re wasting time because you’ve got some sort of martyr complex about actually walking the whole fucking way.”

His jaw clenched so tightly you heard the grind of his molars. 

“It would get me out of your hair faster.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” you bit out, stepping closer, bracing. “If we keep this pace, I’ll make it to Autumn in pieces. Only one of us is a trained soldier here, and it obviously isn’t me. So unless you want to hand me over half-dead, grow up and fly us.”

Azriel’s wings twitched behind him. A warning. His shadows snapped tighter around his shoulders, jittering like they weren’t sure if they should’ve joined him today. 

You waited, chest heaving, sweat stinging your eyes as you stared him down.

Finally, he exhaled. It was a sound scraped from stone.

“Put your bag across your front,” he said, voice low and deadly calm. “Strap it tight.”

You did, fingers fumbling with the buckle, half-expecting him to change his mind. When you looked up again, his face was unreadable. Detached. Like this wasn’t happening to him.

He stepped toward you.

Then, without a word, he scooped you into his arms—fast, efficient, like hoisting a sack of grain. His hands were careful, impersonal. One under your knees, the other braced around your back, calloused fingers and scarred skin brushing your clothes like even that contact cost him. He avoided your skin like it might burn him.

You felt the tension in him, coiled and precise. Every muscle held in check. Like carrying you required more restraint than violence ever had.

“Don’t move,” he said tightly.

You didn’t dare.

And then the world dropped out from under you.

Air roared in your ears, whipping past in cold, sharp streams as Azriel launched into the sky. His wings beat with ruthless efficiency, each stroke sending you higher, faster, away from the dirt and blistered miles.

It was silent—except for the wind. Too loud for talking. Too much movement, too many things to hold onto. You didn’t dare wrap your arms around him, so you gripped the strap of your bag instead, knuckles bone-white as you pressed back against the unyielding wall of his chest.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t glance down, didn’t speak.

You weren’t sure what hurt more: the cold or the quiet.

The view was stunning. It was always stunning—the Day Court’s golden sprawl stretching out beneath you like scattered coins, gilded trees and glinting rooftops, rivers catching the sun and throwing it back tenfold. You might’ve said something about it. Once. A lifetime ago.

You kept your eyes on the horizon, not his arms, not the steady rhythm of his breathing or the strength beneath you. Pretending it was nothing. That this was nothing. That you weren’t half-curled against someone who hated you, who had no obligation to carry your weight. 

And still he had. 

You hadn’t seen him come out of any room at the inn, hadn’t heard him come back in, hadn’t heard a word. Had he slept outside? In silence with shadows for company?

You told yourself you didn’t care. 

You told yourself a lot of things these days. 

Still, after the first hour—when your pulse had steadied and your heart had stopped mistaking his proximity for threat—you tried.

“Your shadows are probably jealous,” you said, tilting your head toward his shoulder. “They’re missing all the fun.”

It wasn’t a great joke. You hadn’t really meant it to be. Just something to fill the air between you, something that might loosen the steel in his spine.

It didn’t.

Azriel’s jaw ticked. His eyes remained locked on the horizon.

“They’ll survive.”

You swallowed the next line. Let it dissolve on your tongue.

Right. 

You didn’t say another word for the rest of the flight. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“We’re stopping?”

Azriel didn’t respond right away. He landed hard, wings flaring wide to keep from toppling as he set you down on your feet.

“We’re walking from here.”

“Why?” You adjusted your bag, breath catching as you turned in a slow circle, realizing: the terrain ahead was…wrong. The trees grew in twisting patterns, roots curling over one another like veins. The sky was still blue, but the light felt off—too gold, too late, like sunset bled in where it didn't belong. And silent. Too silent.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze sweeping the horizon. “This is The Middle. It doesn’t answer to any court. Not even Rhys.”

“So?”

“So, there are wards. Old ones. Things that twist magic, turn wings to lead if it feels like, scramble your senses if you fly too high. Winnowing’s out of the question, too. You could end up inside a tree.”

A beat passed. Then, quieter: “We fly over it, we die in it. We walk.”

“That seems excessive.”

“The Middle doesn’t care what seems excessive.” He finally looked at you then, eyes shadow-slick and unreadable. “It isn’t a forest. It’s a graveyard that hasn’t made up its mind yet.” 

You swallowed. “And we’re walking into that?”

“Unless you want to turn around.”

You held his gaze for a beat longer than you usually could. “No.”

He nodded once. “Then stay close. No firelight. No loud voices. No touching anything that doesn’t want to be touched.”

“Sounds like traveling with you.”

Azriel didn’t smile. But his shoulders loosened by a hair’s breadth.

The ground was damp beneath your boots. Not muddy, not wet—just… damp. Like the earth hadn’t dried in centuries, like the land breathed out mist and rot and kept it curled close to the ground.

The Middle didn’t look like much. Not yet. A thick belt of trees, mountains, a breeze that didn’t match the direction of the clouds. But you could feel it in your chest, like a second pulse that didn’t belong to you. A watcher. An echo. A something.

You adjusted your bag straps quietly.

Azriel walked ahead, wings tucked tight, blades visible but quiet at his sides. His steps were nearly soundless. The only real noise came from your own boots snapping thin twigs, crushing brittle pine needles.

The trees grew stranger as you went. Bark in shades you didn’t have names for. A vine that shimmered like glass. A rock shaped exactly like a skull, and not old.

Azriel murmured, almost like he couldn’t stop himself, “Middle doesn’t care what side you’re on. Doesn’t care about courts or bloodlines. You enter, you play by its rules. Or it eats you.”

You swallowed, forcing your voice low. “You’ve been through it before?”

He nodded once.

“Alone?”

A pause. Then: “That was the first mistake.”

You didn’t ask for the rest. You wouldn’t get it anyway.

The quiet stretched again. But it wasn’t awkward now. Not quite. Just careful. Measured, like even your thoughts ought to walk in single file.

Eventually, you said—more breath than sound—

“You always like this when you travel with people?”

Azriel didn’t stop walking. “I don’t usually travel with people.”

You snorted, barely. “Lucky me.”

But he did glance at you then. Brief, unreadable.

“You’re not dead yet,” he said.

You smiled, but you didn’t feel smug about it.

A wind passed through the trees, colder than it should’ve been.

Azriel slowed slightly, motioning for you to walk closer to his side.

“Stay where I can grab you,” he muttered.

You didn’t have to be told twice.

And for a moment, just one, you thought you heard something breathing beneath the roots.

You shook it off.

It was probably just—

A rustle to your left.

You stilled.

Azriel kept walking.

Then—snap. A crunch, low to the ground. Fast.

You turned your head—

—and screamed.

It launched out of the underbrush like a dart—small, fast, furred but wrong, too many teeth in the wrong places. You stumbled back just as it leapt for your throat—

Steel caught it mid-air.

Azriel’s blade punched straight through its gut, pinning it to the moss-covered tree behind you with a sickening thud.

It gave one final spasm before going still.

You were breathing hard. Chest heaving. Hands half-raised in disbelief.

Azriel didn’t look at you.

He just withdrew the blade, and the thing’s corpse hit the ground with a wet, final thunk. He shook off the blood, and wiped it on a cloth from his belt. “Don’t scream,” he said evenly.

Your voice came out shaky. “It had teeth.”

“Everything here has teeth.”

You exhaled, still rattled, and brushed yourself off. You’d fallen back after your stumble. There were pine needles stuck to your pants, a smudge of dirt on your sleeve, something on your hand. Sticky. Unidentified. Fantastic. 

And just as you stood, Azriel reached over—without ceremony, without pause—and plucked two curled leaves from your hair.

His fingers were quick, impersonal. Like swiping lint from a jacket.

Then he turned and kept walking.

“Stay close,” he said again.

Not unkind. Not sharp. Just… matter-of-fact.

You caught up with him, still glancing back at the gnarled corpse slumped against the bark.

“What was that?” you asked, trying to sound more annoyed than embarrassed. You weren’t sure it worked.

Azriel didn’t glance your way. “Spinecrawler.”

You blinked. “Spinecrawler?”

“They like damp places. Dead things. Roots. Small birds, if they’re lucky.”

“That thing went for my throat.”

Now he looked at you—just a flick of his eyes, unreadable.

“They’re territorial,” he said. “But mostly harmless. They bluff a lot.”

You stared at him, still catching your breath. “You’re saying that was a bluff.”

Azriel’s mouth quirked.

“I’ve seen people take a dagger to the ribs without making that much noise,” he said mildly.

You bristled. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

His eyes returned to the path ahead, voice dry. “Clearly.”

You let out a breath—half a huff, half a laugh. “Asshole.”

But your voice wasn’t sharp, and for the first time in days, you weren’t just tired. 

He didn’t smile, but the silence that followed the next few minutes felt easier.

Quieter, in a different way.

You were about to ask how much farther when Azriel’s head snapped up.

He stilled—completely. Like a statue dropped mid-stride.

You stopped, too, one foot half-raised. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Shadows curled off him like smoke.

“Run.”

The word was low. Sharp. Laced with command.

But you didn’t have time to obey.

A crimson-cloaked figure burst from the trees ahead—no warning, no sound. Just motion and steel and the glint of an Autumn crest burned into battered armor.

He lunged for you. Azriel was already moving. 

Steel met steel with a clash that rattled your bones. Azriel intercepted the blow mid-swing, blade sparking off blade. He shoved the attacker back with brutal force—but more were coming. 

Dozens.

Had Eris really…?

They stepped out from the trees like ghosts—nobles and guards and hardened veterans, their armor weathered, their eyes painted red. 

“They knew,” Azriel murmured, voice taut with fury. “They planned this.”

He reached for your arm. “We’re getting out—”

But two charged from behind before he could finish. You ducked instinctively—barely in time. Azriel whirled, one blade striking true, the other arm flung wide. 

Light burst forth from his palm.

It wasn’t a beam so much as a line of obliteration. 

The Autumn male behind you never screamed. The blast tore straight through him, then through the tree beyond—splintering bark, igniting rot, reducing it all to a searing smear of flame. 

Your ears rang, the males that had been closing in on you both faltered. 

Azriel didn’t hesitate. “Stay down!” he snapped, already stepping over the body to meet the next two. 

You scrambled behind a tree—useless, stupid, too slow. 

He was everywhere at once. Blades flashing, siphons flaring. A line of blue-white power burned a semicircle into the earth. One attacker caught in it crumpled with a smoking hole punched through his chest. 

You’d never seen anyone fight like this… Without restraint. 

There was something brutal about him like this—elemental.

Every movement was exact. Each strike landed with purpose, never wasted.

And the way his shadows moved with him—rising like a storm, lashing out where he could not reach fast enough—it was like watching a god descend.

Not just a warrior.

Not just a male.

Something more.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring until your eyes flicked to the next soldier—another Autumn male, burnt red cloak trailing, sword glinting. And another. And another.

Why?

You blinked hard.

Why was this happening?

You had helped Autumn. Years ago. You’d betrayed the Night Court for them. Risked your life to smuggle out intel to one of Eris’ contacts—given him the chance he needed. So why now? Why send soldiers after you like an enemy? Why—

A war cry split the air.

You spun just in time to see a male charging straight for you.

Eyes wild. Mouth twisted in rage.

His blade was raised and ready.

“For Beron!” he screamed.

… Beron?

You barely had time to gasp.

“Az—!”

The name tore from your throat as you stumbled back.

You couldn’t take your eyes off the male, couldn’t even think.

You flinched. Squeezed your eyes shut. Braced for pain. For steel.

But it didn’t come.

Instead—an arm wrapped tight around you, hauling you back.

And then the world split.

Not in light. Not in color.

In shadow.

You felt it like cold water crashing through your lungs, like being dropped into an abyss with no bottom.

But something was wrong.

This wasn’t how it had felt before. This was ripping.

Like being caught.

The grip on your waist vanished.

You landed hard—slammed into wet ground that stank of rot. And everything went dark.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He felt it the moment she slipped. 

One heartbeat she was pressed to his side—warm, solid, if a bit shaky.

The next, she was gone. 

Yanked sideways by the wards’ interference—by something other. 

“NO—”

The snarl ripped from his chest as he twisted, shadows shrieking out of him in all directions. 

But he couldn’t find her. Couldn’t feel her. 

The trees screamed with light. His siphons flared uncontrolled.

Strong hands grabbed his arm—he threw them to the ground without looking.

Where was she?

Where was she?

Azriel hit the ground hard.

Shoulder-first. Mud splashed, cold and reeking of rot and old blood. The impact jarred up his spine, but he was already moving—already pushing to his feet, scanning.

No sound. No scent.

No (y/n).

His shadows whipped out like hounds, searching. Useless.

He turned in a slow circle.

Trees—twisted and wrong, their bark slick like bone marrow.

His jaw clenched. He inhaled once—deep, steadying. Then again, sharper. Shallower.

“… (Y/n),” he said. Low. Controlled. As if quiet might anchor reality. Might make her answer.

Nothing.

He started walking.

Then striding.

Then running.

Shadow after shadow shot out like flares—searching, reporting back with nothing but silence.

He winnowed once. Twice. The magic resisted like thick oil. The third time, he nearly retched. But still—he moved. Kept moving. Branches tore at his wings. His leathers. His face.

He called out again—louder this time, but still composed. Still hoping.

“(Y/N)!”

Still no answer.

His pace broke. He stopped. Listened.

Then louder—harder—because she should’ve answered by now.

“(Y/N)!”

Still nothing.

His breath was ragged now.

He turned in place again. Something in him—the part that always found people, that always knew—was blank.

“(Y/N)!”

The cry cracked out of him like thunder.

It echoed. Nothing answered.

“Fuck!”

His fist shot toward the nearest tree, stopping inches short. He ground his teeth, the bark rough against his skin. Restraint tasted like fire, but he held back. And started running again.

Before he knew it, the sun was low, skimming orange against the horizon, bleeding rust through the trees. 

He’d looped the same stretch of forest three times. Four. He didn’t know anymore.

The woods in the Middle didn’t repeat themselves, not truly, but they liked to pretend they did. Trees where they hadn’t been. Paths where there were none. Tracks gone the moment he turned his back.

Still no trace.

No sound. No voice.

Just trees. Just silence.

His jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

He was supposed to find people.

Even when no one else could. Especially then.

So where the fuck was she?

His heart slammed harder with every step. It had been hours. Too long.

Too quiet.

The shadows whispering around him had gone feral.

They knew something was wrong. They hissed through the trees like blades, fanned wide and searching, searching—coming up empty.

And now, despite himself, despite everything—

He was planning how he’d say it.

What he’d tell Rhys.

“I lost her.”

“I lost her, I—fuck, I don’t know how—”

“No, it wasn’t on purpose, I swear it wasn’t—”

Because Rhysand would ask. 

And he couldn’t answer.

He didn’t have an answer.

Just the rising certainty that something had taken her.

That she was gone.

That it was his fault.

His chest constricted. The air burned in his lungs.

She’d called him a hound. She wasn’t wrong.

But even hounds couldn’t track ghosts.

And gods, that’s what it felt like.

Like she was gone. Not just missing—gone.

No… Not dead. He would’ve known.

Wouldn’t he?

His pace stuttered. His vision blurred.

He turned in place again, dragging a hand through his hair, panting.

Nothing.

Still—nothing.

And then—

A flash of red.

Caught on a thorn, barely fluttering in the still air.

He went utterly still.

His shadows surged ahead like an extension of his panic—rippling down the path.

Blood.

Not much. Just a few dried flecks, but it was her.

He knew it was her.

And something inside him snapped.

“(Y/N)!”

He surged forward, feet pounding against the leaf-strewn earth. The forest seemed to close in around him, thorns clawing at his skin, roots threatening to trip him, but he refused to slow. Every instinct screamed that she was near.

“(Y/N)! FUCKING SAY SOMETHING! PLEASE!”

Nothing.

He nearly tore the forest apart.

Branches slapped across his face, brambles tore at his leathers, but he didn’t feel any of it. He sprinted now, wild and unthinking, shadows streaming ahead like black fire.

Then—

Then he saw her.

Crushed low in the underbrush. Barely there. Half-buried in leaves, tangled in thorns.

Still.

Too still.

A sound tore from his chest—raw, ragged, animal—and he was on his knees before he knew he’d fallen.

She was pale—so pale. Not dead. Not dead. Please, not dead.

He pressed his fingers to her neck.

Not dead.

He touched her shoulder—shaking, adrenaline surging—then dragged her against his heaving chest, like that might steady him.

His hands fisted in her torn shirt, arms wrapped so tightly around her body it could’ve broken them both.

And then he buried his face in her hair.

Not a word.

Not a breath.

Just that.

He inhaled like he’d been drowning. Like her scent might drag him to shore.

His mouth found her temple. His nose pressed to her scalp. His grip didn’t ease.

Not even when she stirred with a weak sound—a wince, a gasp, a breath that might’ve been his name.

Still, he said nothing.

He just held on.

And she—

She didn’t push him away.

She cried.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to die alone, Azriel,” she whispered, voice thin and frayed. 

“You’re not going to die,” he said, voice rough—not detached, not controlled, but strained. Like the truth of it had to shove its way past the fear choking him. 

Her fingers twitched near his chest.

“Didn’t…” A sob cracked through her. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Shh…” He cradled her closer. “Shh, you’re okay. It’s okay. I’m here.”

His shadows curled protectively around them both, as if even they couldn’t stand the thought of losing her.

And though the forest still loomed—dark, ancient, watching—Azriel only held her tighter.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You awoke to warmth you didn’t feel. 

A thick quilt weighed down on your chest. Another was tucked tight around your legs. The mattress beneath you felt too soft to be real, and still—

Still, you were cold. 

Your body ached. Your skin felt like it didn’t quite fit right. Your mouth tasted like blood and dirt and something older. You didn’t want to think about it. 

You turned your head very slowly, every joint protesting. A dim room came into view—four walls, a low-burning hearth, a wooden chair—

Azriel. 

Slumped in it like a male who hadn’t meant to fall asleep, one wing draped awkwardly over the side, the other crammed too tight between the chair and the wall. His arms were folded across his chest, shadows curled lazily around his boots. His head tilted just enough to bare the sharp line of his throat.

He looked… peaceful.

Not serene. Not soft. But stripped of something.

That cold, impenetrable sternness he wore like armor was gone in sleep, carved away by exhaustion.

He looked—

Gods, he looked almost boyish.

You let your eyes wander. The scarred hands. The long legs splayed out in a graceless sprawl. The rise and fall of his chest. And his eyes—

They were open. 

Piercing. Alert. Fixed on you. 

You flinched so hard you nearly knocked one of the blankets off the bed. 

Azriel didn’t move.

His eyes stayed on you, unreadable in the firelight, and for a long moment the silence pressed in—so thick it felt like it might snap in two.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat.

“Where… are we?”

His voice was low, rough with sleep or something heavier. “Healing center. Small one. Winter Court.”

Winter.

You blinked, tried to sit up—and failed. Your body gave a single trembling protest before settling back into the mattress.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough that the firelight brushed the edge of his face. “You passed out. I carried you out of the Middle during the night.” A pause. “You were freezing. As soon as we hit the border, I flew.”

You stared at him. His hands, resting on his knees. The faint soot-stain along the side of his jaw.

“I had to fly low,” he murmured. “You were so cold. Shaking in your sleep.”

Another pause.

“Had to cross the mountain range.”

Your brows pulled together. “You—flew over a mountain range in Winter? Are you alright?”

His mouth twisted slightly. Not a smile. Something tired.

“I found this town on the other side. Got lucky—they have a healer. She’s the one who patched you up.”

He didn’t add how long he must’ve flown. Or how hard it must’ve been, carrying your weight, flying in the cold, his wings nearly giving out.

But it was there. In his voice. In the look he gave you.

In the way his wings still hadn’t settled.

You didn’t know what to say.

Didn’t know how to hold the weight of what he’d done.

“You flew over a mountain range,” you repeated softly. As if saying it again might make it make sense. Might ground you in the warmth of this unfamiliar bed, these too-many blankets, his unreadable stare.

Azriel only inclined his head. As if it had been nothing. And maybe for an Illyrian it was. As if he hadn't been pressing your frostbitten skin to his chest for miles of snowy sky.

You looked at him, really looked at him.

There was a tightness around his eyes he hadn’t had before. The circles beneath them were bruised-dark. His leathers were still streaked with dirt, his hands scraped, one of them bandaged at the knuckles.

“You saved my life,” you said. Voice raw. Disbelieving.

That made him shift. His eyes dropped to the floor. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“But it was like that,” you whispered. “You—”

Your throat closed.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he said quietly, firmly. Still not looking at you. “I have somewhere to get you, in case you forgot.”

Something clenched in your chest. You stared at him—at the shadows writhing slowly along his shoulders, at the set of his jaw, at the tattered edge of your cloak still half-draped on the chair.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” you admitted, because it was the only thing that felt true.

His eyes lifted to yours again, piercing and unreadable.

“You don’t have to.”

But you did.

Somewhere inside, a door had opened. Quietly, without ceremony.

And you didn’t think it would ever fully close again.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next two days were rough, a combination of flying and walking so Azriel could rest. His wings were stiff in the cold. He insisted he was fine, you insisted he shouldn’t risk tearing them. 

But you spoke all the way, as if words could hold off the chill burrowing into your bones.

The Autumn Court finally came into view when it was nearing sundown. 

The next two days were hard going.

A grueling rhythm of flying and walking, flying and walking—Azriel pushing himself until the cold stiffened his wings too much to continue, until you could see the strain in his shoulders no matter how tightly he gritted his jaw.

He claimed he was fine.

You called bullshit.

Neither of you backed down, but he let you walk beside him a little longer each time before taking to the skies again.

You kept talking. About nothing and everything. Filling the silence with rambling observations, old stories, things you weren’t sure you’d ever told anyone. Just to keep your teeth from chattering. Just to keep him present with you.

By the time the golden trees of the Autumn Court came into view, the sun was a red smear against the horizon.

You were both dragging your feet.

Azriel scanned the treeline, eyes narrowed like he was hunting ghosts. “We’re too close to the border to get a restful night’s sleep,” he muttered. “Let’s find shelter further in before it gets dark.”

The forest thickened as you moved, trees clawing overhead, the air still sharp. It wasn’t long before Azriel veered off the path entirely, leading you through thickets and brush until the terrain sloped into a narrow ravine. Half-hidden by vines and moss, there it was: a shallow cave dug into the ridge.

It wasn’t much. But it was dry. And hidden.

He checked it first, of course. Shadows sweeping the interior like a second pair of hands, silent and fast.

When he gave the all-clear, you staggered inside, teeth chattering, and sank to the ground like your legs had given up.

Azriel followed, wings hunched awkwardly to fit beneath the low stone ceiling.

“I’ll take first watch.”

But you didn’t want to sleep.

So you sat up and pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, legs stretched out in front of you, boots still caked in half-frozen mud.

Azriel settled across from you with a soft grunt, his back to the wall, one knee bent loosely. The mouth of the cave framed the forest beyond in deepening indigo. The wind outside hissed low through the trees.

You glanced over at him. “You think the cave’s full of spiders?”

His mouth twitched. “Probably.”

“Good. I was worried this was going too well.”

That earned a real smile. Brief, but warm.

For a while, there was only the rustle of wind and the distant creak of branches bowing under snow. His shadows slipped along the cave walls, slow and drowsy, curling like smoke around his shoulders.

“You ever camp out like this?” you asked eventually. “No fire. No tent. Just barely not freezing to death.”

He tipped his head back against the cool stone, throat bared, a quiet, gruff sound slipping past his lips—half sigh, half groan. “There was a stretch in the Steppes, centuries ago. I was tracking a defector. Went eleven nights without fire or light. Didn’t sleep more than ten minutes at a time.”

You winced. “Was it worth it?”

Azriel’s eyes met yours, steady. “Yeah.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense. Just tired. Heavy.

You shifted closer to the wall and tugged the blanket tighter. “I don’t know how you don’t fall asleep standing up.”

“I might,” he said. “You’ll know because I’ll fall on you.”

You huffed a laugh, your breath fogging in front of you.

He went quiet again. But this time it felt different. The stillness stretched—not companionable now, but thoughtful.

You didn’t look at him when he spoke again.

“Are you really okay with this?”

Your heart stuttered. “With what?”

He didn’t clarify. Just gave you a look that made it clear he didn’t need to.

You looked out at the woods beyond. “I don’t really have a choice.”

“You do.”

“Not one that matters.”

A pause. 

“Just say the word,” Azriel said, voice low, “I’ll take you back if that’s what you want. Right now. I’ll fly you straight to Velaris and we won’t look back.”

You blinked.

He held your gaze, steady and calm, like he wasn’t offering to burn his court’s entire future down for you. Like it was nothing.

“Even if it’s at the altar,” he said. “Even if it’s the last second. I’ll take you out of there.”

You stared at him.

Then scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t just—” You looked away, exhaling hard. “You don’t get to say that like it’s simple. Like I could just walk away and that would fix anything.”

“It would get you out,” he said quietly.

“It would start a war, Azriel.”

Azriel didn’t respond. His shadows were still.

You pressed your hands to your face, fingers digging into your temples. “You think I haven’t thought about that? About running? About saying no? What do you think I was thinking about every hour of those two weeks—after the dinner, before we left?”

“I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“No,” you dragged your hands down. “You just said you’d throw me over your shoulder mid-vow and fly me off into the fucking sunset.”

His expression didn’t waver. “If that’s what you wanted, yes.”

A laugh broke out of you—sharp and bitter. “You think you’re doing me a kindness, but it’s cruel. Don’t—don’t offer me choices I can’t afford to take.”

His jaw shifted. But he said nothing.

You looked away again, blinking hard at the cave wall. “I don’t need saving,” you muttered. “I need this to work.”

A beat of silence passed. His voice was even softer when he spoke.

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because you couldn’t trust your voice not to break.

You just stood, stiff and silent, and crossed to the far side of the cave. Curled yourself up in the thin blanket you’d managed to cram into your bag, tugging it over your shoulders like it could shield you from more than just the cold.

Azriel watched you settle, his eyes shadowed.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said again—firmer this time, like he needed you to hear it differently. Believe it.

Still, you said nothing.

“We can figure something out.”

That did it.

You sat up, fast. “No, we can’t.”

Azriel blinked, taken aback by the snap in your voice.

You weren’t looking at him, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the stone just past his boots. “There’s nothing to figure out. This is the plan. It’s happening.”

“You don’t sound like someone who’s at peace with that.”

“I don’t need to be at peace with it,” you bit out. “I just need to get through it.”

His brow furrowed, a slow crease forming between his eyes. “Why are you—?”

“I’m not anything,” you cut in, too quickly.

He fell silent, watching you now with quiet caution, like he was re-evaluating everything he thought he understood about your choices.

You shifted back under the blanket, turned toward the cave wall to put an end to the conversation.

Azriel didn’t speak again.

But you could feel it—his eyes still on you. The weight of what he wasn’t saying pressing into your spine like a question you didn’t want to answer.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

-> part 2