You would think someone who does martial arts knows how to write a training scene, but here we are. I also made some decisions about some of Reader's favorite foods; I was hungry while writing and didn't want to change it. I will not be apologizing.

Also, something random I noticed while writing this part: the Night Court doesn't seem very… nocturnal to me. I'm sure other people have said something along these lines in the past, but it does kind of bug me that everything in the Night Court happens in the day. I noticed it when I was almost done with this part and I wasn't about to rewrite it to fix it, but… will probably try to incorporate that more in future fics set in the Night Court.

Word Count: almost exactly 9K

Warnings: Reader has chronic pain (I'm trying to keep it accurate, but just in case: any medical inaccuracies are due to the fact that Reader is fae and not human and should be attributed to the biological differences between the two species), semi-unreliable narrator, feeling insecure, not as much angst, talk of pregnancies and complications during pregnancies (see previous note about medical inaccuracies, but with more fae and magic nonsense), discussions of money using a made up monetary system (just go with it, for all our sakes), Rhysand means well, sort of

Part 2 | Part 4

————

The bag felt heavy in Azriel's hand, his shadows swirling restlessly around him like they had all night. Staring at your door, he takes a deep breath, feeling like a juvenile again, working up the courage to knock on your door. He had remained outside all night, watching from the roof of the neighboring building, a spot specifically chosen so he could see through the window above your counters; he can see almost your whole apartment.

By the time he returned, you were already curled up in your bed, sobs still wracking your body, the few shadows Azriel left behind caressing your skin, trying to comfort you. He longed to go to you, to hold you in his arms and tell you it would all be okay. He wanted to be the one to comfort you, instead of his shadows, and assure you that he wasn't going anywhere. But you made your decision clear earlier, and he wasn't about to cross any of your boundaries. So, he sat and kept guard even after the lights in your apartment flickered off.

He had only left his spot when the first rays of the sun touched the horizon, sending a few more of his shadows over to you, quickly making his way to the House of the Wind. Unsurprisingly, Cassian was the only one awake; as much as he complained about sleep, he is still a soldier and the three of them spent years in Windhaven waking up before the sun, the routine a hard one to break. The general straightened, slowly looking up from the report spread out on his desk. "Az," he breathed, pushing his seat back to stand. "We are so s-"

"Y/N is coming to training this morning," Azriel interrupted, muscles taught.

Cassian stilled, studying his brother carefully. "Oh, that's–"

"Not because she wants to," Azriel continued, taking a step into the office, "but because she said she would after you pressured her. And she keeps her promises, even when she would rather do anything else."

Sucking in a breath, Cassian moved around his desk, raising his hands. "I know I messed up," he admitted, "I'm sorry, even if that wasn't my–"

"This is your second chance," Azriel growled, shadows rising around him. "You and Nesta. Don't even think about telling the others."

Azriel didn't wait for a response before making his way out of the House, brushing past a freshly awake Nesta, not acknowledging her when she calls his name.

His next stop was a local restaurant, one closer to your home, that was open for a few more hours to serve the few fae in Velaris that are up during the day. He knows your order by heart, your favorite dish, drink, and pastry. The two of you had only gone to this place twice before, with you noting it as your favorite, even if it was smaller and less fancy like places Azriel normally goes to with his family. Owned by a family who makes simple food from scratch, Azriel had come to like the place, despite his limited number of visits.

The bag is warm in his hand, the dishes carefully balanced with the drinks resting on top. The shadows curl tighter around him when he lifts his hand, the knock echoing through the small hallway.

Something tumbles on the other side of your door, a small gasp barely heard through the wood. Feet shuffle against the floor, pausing just past the door. Azriel loosens the leash on his shadows, allowing some of them to slide under the door, announcing his presence. The door unlocks a moment later, and it takes a few seconds for you to open the door as the hinges stick despite all of the lubricant Azriel's shadows had added to them the past few months.

The door only opens a crack, just enough for you to peak through. "Hi, sweetheart," he says gently, trying to smile, ignoring the thunderous beat of his heart. "Would you like some breakfast?" he asks, gesturing to the bag slightly with his head.

Even through the small crack, he can see how you keep your eyes lowered. Pursing your lips, he catches the way your nose twitches, taking in the delicious smells, and your stomach rumbles quietly in response. His shadows grumbled most of the night about how you never ate dinner, not that Az had either. His smile softens watching the flush creep up your next as you nod. It takes another minute for you to get the door all the way open so Azriel can get inside with his wings.

Azriel's breath caught when it is, finally able to fully see you. Dark bags fill the space under your red rimmed eyes. A grey shawl pulled taught around your shoulders, holes littering the fabric, over your soft green dress, the hem fraying. Hair pulled back in two braided plaits that become one swaying at your back. You are beautiful, the most beautiful fae he has ever seen.

Arms hugging yourself, you step aside, sitting on your bed just beside the door. Keeping his wings tucked in tight, Azriel ducks his head, slowly entering the small apartment. It wasn't even a proper apartment in Azriel's opinion. Just a single room with barely enough space for a bed, a chest for your belongings, the smallest table Azriel has ever seen, a small counterspace that 'counts' as a kitchen despite the barely functioning stove top and the lack of an oven and sink, and a toilet tucked in the corner. Not that the toilet works, since the building doesn't have running water; you have a jug leaning against the counter that needs to be filled at the local well a few blocks away.

Keeping his head down to not hit the ceiling, Azriel silently begins unpacking the food on the table, handing you the cup of tea.

Azriel hates this place. The building isn't far from where Nesta's old apartment once stood, but even that was infinitely better than this. He so desperately wants for you to move somewhere better, somewhere safer. With him or not, he doesn't care. He hinted at it a few times, but it wasn't long into your relationship that he noticed how insecure you were about… well, everything when it came to him. He had yet to find a good way to bring it up without you taking it the wrong way.

Carefully, Azriel hands a container with lemon rosemary chicken with roasted sweet potatoes. It wasn't a dish that Azriel typically associates with breakfast, but with the smile tugging on your lips when you take the first bite he finds he doesn't care. With no chairs in your apartment, he slowly sits down next to you on the bed, the edge of his wing brushing lightly against you. You shiver at the touch, eyes closing in a wince and you take a few breaths before opening them again. You don't pull away though, and Azriel doesn't either, even as he tenses next to you.

The shadows spill from Az after he settles, his food, a hearty wrap of eggs, potatoes, cheese, veggies, and sausage, in his lap. You chuckle lightly as they wind their way up your body, simply lifting your arms to grant them better access. Azriel smiles, watching fondly. "Let her eat," he commands softly, but he makes no effort to actually pull them back. They slow slightly, allowing you to lower your arms, but do not part from you, not that Az blames them.

You eat in silence, Azriel watching each bite from the corner of his eye, something in him easing the more you eat. It is comfortable, something you both grew used to through the months, these moments of peaceful silence. There was still a tension in the air, it had Azriel clocking every movement, every sound, every breath, but you both settle into the familiar quiet between you.

It's not long before both of you finish food, the shadows quickly whisk away the containers before encompassing you again as you take the last sips of your tea. "Thank you," you say quietly. For a moment, Az thinks you're speaking to the shadows, until your eyes catch his.

It’s the first time this morning you let yourself look at him, truly look at him, and Azriel's face warms, a smile pulling on his lips. Slowly, he reaches a hand around to settle on your waist and gently pulls you to his side. A giggle escapes your lips, a hand reaching out to steady yourself against him, your tea disappearing into the shadows. One of Azriel's wings extends around you, the tip of his wing resting near the edge of the bed. Relief floods through Azriel when you lay your head on his chest, your body melting into his as easily as breathing, tension leaving both of you. The shadows swarm over both of you, sighing contently. "Of course," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head, letting his lips linger there for a second.

He lets out a long, quiet breath, burying his nose in your hair, taking in your scent. The fear gripping his heart slowly melting away. You had let him in, let him feed you, let him touch you, and now you let yourself rest and mold into him like you belong there. And, by the gods, you do, if Azriel has anything to say about it. "Gods, I love you," he breathes.

You stiffen for just a moment, but he can feel it. Closing his eyes, Azriel kisses your hair again, soft but insistent, fingers tracing soft patterns on your side. You relax again just as quickly, pressing your head harder into his chest. "Please, don't leave," you breathe, so softly Azriel would not have heard it if not for his shadows, your voice thick with unshed tears.

Azriel's arm tightens around you slightly, keeping you tucked into him, a wave of dread crashing over him. After spending all night scared you would leave him… of course you would have the same fear. It was his family, his brother, that treated you so terribly. Not just his brother, but the High Lord who made such vile accusations against you. He mentally kicked himself for not realizing sooner, the words you said last night suddenly feeling like the twisting of a knife.

"Never," he assures you, pushing past the lump forming in his throat. The single word hangs heavy in the air, an oath wrapping around the two of you, engraving itself into Azriel's very soul. A promise not compelled by magic, but just as binding. "Not until you ask me to."

A sound escapes you, a half laugh, half sob, as your hand comes up, grabbing a handful of his shirt. Az is distantly aware of the wet patch on the fabric from your tears, but he doesn't care. He shushes you gently, continuing to trace soothing circles along your side. His free hand gently untangles yours from his chest, allowing your fingers to interweave. Placing a gentle kiss on the back of your hand, he lets them settle over his heart, still beating a bit too quickly in his chest.

Your tears subside, but neither of you move, content to just be in each other's arms for a little while longer. The world seems to fade away, Azriel barely aware of anything that's not the feeling of you in his arms, against his side, the sounds of your breath, or the shadows swirling around whispering of your every move.

"You don't have to come," Azriel whispers into your hair, opening his eyes, a part of himself hating to break the tender peace surrounding you, "if you don't want to."

You stiffen again, lifting your head slightly to turn to look at him. Azriel's breath hitches, your wide eyes still red and cheeks stained with tears, yet your beauty still takes his breath away. "I said I would," you say.

A small smile pulls on Azriel's lips, his heart tightening at the words, even if he knew you would say that. "I know, but no one will blame you if you change your mind, my love," he encourages gently. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Your brows furrow, eyes drifting down. He can see you thinking it over and a part of him prays that you will take the out, not because he doesn't want you there, but because you would have never agreed on your own. "But I said I would," you repeat in a whisper. Your eyes drift up to his, uncertainty shining through as your hand tightens around his. "Unless… I'm no longer welcome."

Azriel's heart cracks at the waver in your voice. "Of course you are welcome," he promises, his own hand tightening for just a moment. "But you don't need to worry about them. What do you want to do?"

"I–" you start, licking your lips, eyes searching Azriel's as if they would give you the answer. Azriel forces his face to remain neutral, with just a small encouraging smile, even as every part of him wants to keep you here in his arms, away from anything that could harm you or make you vaguely uncomfortable.

Slowly, you turn your face from him, settling your cheek against the wet fabric on his chest once more. You take a slow breath and Azriel can feel the resignation overtake your body as you rest against him. "I promised."

Hot tears burn behind Azriel's eyes as they flutter shut. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he nods despite the pit forming in his stomach. "Okay, my love," he breathes, leaning down and placing another soft kiss to your hair. "Okay."

—

Azriel has always been observant, the natural consequence of having shadows whispering in his ear for as long as he can remember, but he doesn't think he's been this aware before. Aware of everyone, every move they made, every whispered word. He tries to focus on the small group of Priestesses he is working with as they finish their stretches and begin to pair off to begin the first of the combinations they go over, aimed to help them get used to moving their bodies and maintaining balance. Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing to the side every few minutes, eyes catching on where you sit on the edge of the training ring.

You wrap the shawl around you tighter, arms hugging your middle tightly. He can almost feel it, the quick pace of your heart, the thoughts swirling through your head, the emotions roiling through you, inadequacy, shame, and a deep sorrow. Mostly, you keep your eyes down, or away from him as you watch the priestesses carefully.

A few times he caught your eyes flickering to where Cassian and Nesta stood on the other side of the courtyard. They only smiled when Azriel arrived with you in his arms, Nesta already talking intently with Gwen and Emerie. Az was thankful they didn't try to talk or come up to you. He wasn't sure if he can contain himself if this went badly too.

His shadows whisper of everything in the courtyard, every word, every breath, every movement of a leaf. An overwhelming amount of information Azriel had learned to shift through centuries ago. Even without them, he could feel the eyes of many of the priestesses as they watch him, smiling sweetly at him, sneaking sly glances when they thought he wasn't paying attention, and sharing quiet giggles. It was something that happens at each of these training sessions he helps with; some of the more bold would even try to flirt with him, not that he ever returned their advances, but he always thought it was harmless.

He curses himself for the thought now, their quiet laughter burning his ears, each of their too-kind smiles seem to dig him deeper into a hole of his own making. He knows you see it, can hear it all. Thank the Mother none of them had tried to come up to him today. Maybe the Priestesses can feel it too, the tension lining his muscles, the unnatural jerkiness to the shadows' movements, or perhaps they see how some of his shadows refuse to leave you, gently swirling up your back and playing with your hair. Or it might be the way he angles himself to keep you in his line of sight, the way his eyes constantly flicker to you.

Azriel tries to coach the Priestesses, but everything in him keeps drawing him back to you. You shift against the hard stone bench, shadows swarming to apply pressure on a particular point of your back, some even maneuvering their way beneath you, to act as a cushion. Azriel purses his lips, wishing he had thought to bring out a better place for you to sit other than the cold stone. The shadows hiss in his ear relaying your discomfort, the pit in Azriel's stomach only growing.

Several choice words come to mind for his brothers, for himself; all of this could have been avoided if he never brought you to that dinner. He had known, on some level, that it was a disaster in the making, but he had wanted so badly for all the people he loves to get along he had ignored it. He never wanted you to feel pressured into doing anything for him, and yet you had gone to the dinner, and was humiliated by his family. And now, even after that, you forced yourself to come to another thing you never would have agreed to on your own, an invitation you had denied initially, because it's what you thought his family wanted from you.

Maybe is something you believe he wants from you. Something inside of him twists at the thought.

"Um, Azriel… sir." Azriel's gaze snaps to one of the newer priestesses, having joined the Valkyries only a few weeks ago. Juliana smiles sweetly as she approaches, her eyes raking over Azriel. He suppresses a shiver, stomach souring under her gaze. He doesn't respond, just nods, trying to make himself relax slightly, despite the shadows continuing to whisper in his ears. "Can you please help with this move? I can't seem to get it right."

Stiffly, he nods, silently ordering his shadows away, not needing any more distractions. They skitter away, almost gladly if Azriel didn't know any better, all quickly making their way to engulf you, preening at your small smile as you watch them flock to your rigid form.

Julianna's eyes flicker, following the retreating shadows, her smile dropping for a moment when she sees their destination. A snarl builds in Azriel, he has to fight to keep it contained. Instead, he clears his throat, drawing the priestess's attention back to him, lifting an eyebrow. "Go on," he says simply, forcing his tone to remain neutral. Julianna's smile returns, gesturing for him to follow her to her partner, Mica.

Azriel keeps a respectful distance, clasping his hands behind his back, wings drawn in tight, forcing his gaze to remain on their forms and not sneaking back to you. He corrects with a low voice and gentle directions. Despite what she may think, Julianna is not subtle in her attempts to get his attention, purposefully fumbling through the moves.

Carefully, Azriel side steps Julianna's attempt to fall into him, barely catching herself from crashing into the ground. Crossing his arms, Azriel takes a controlled breath. "If you are not going to take this seriously, then I suggest taking a step back and let me focus on those who are," he says, voice struggling to remain respectful.

Julianna turns to him, dusting off her clothes. "You think I'm not?"

"Yesterday, you completed the sequence perfectly fine multiple times, and now you want me to believe you cannot keep your balance?" Azriel responds, raising his eyebrows. Distantly he is aware of how still you are, watching the exchange, and can see Mica shifting uncomfortably a few feet away.

For a moment, Julianna gapes at him before straightening, flicking her braided hair over her shoulder with a scoff. "Well, if I had known weak, helpless females are what got you going, I never would have joined," Julianna retorts.

"Juli!" Mica gasps. Around them, movement stops, turning to stare at Julianna, wide eyes flickering between her, Azriel and where you sit on the sidelines, the shadows hissing loudly as they engulf you further.

"Excuse me?" Azriel growls, taking a step towards her, hands coiling at his side. Behind him, gravel crunches and Azriel has just enough awareness to recognize Cassian and Nesta's footsteps.

Julianna rolls her eyes. "Don't deny it, we all see the way you look at her," she sneers, gesturing in your direction. "You deserve so much better. The strongest warriors need an equally strong partner. I mean, just look at the High Lord and the General. Do you really think she could be that for you? She didn't even do the basic stretches."

For a moment, the training ring was silent, Julianna's words echoing off the walls, shadows seeping through the stonework, eerily still. A snarl tears from Azriel's throat, Julianna's eyes going wide as he lunges for her. Cassian's moves quickly, stepping in front of his brother, holding him back. Azriel struggles against him, pure anger and instinct begging to be free, to tear into the being who insulted you.

Cassian curses, eyes widening on the shadows slinking their way across the floor, his grip loosening just enough to let Azriel slip free. "Move!" Cassian bellows to the priestesses, who quickly run to the walls of the training ring. Nesta grips Julianna's arm, dragging her out of the ring and out of Azriel's eyeline. Wildly, Azriel's eyes search for her, but Cassian is faster, keeping himself in Azriel's vision, arms once again reaching out to his brother. "Az, you need to calm down."

Azriel just growls, charging at Cassian. It wasn't much of a fight, the two Illyrians grappling each other on the ground. The general pins Azriel to the ground quickly; despite his rage and strength Azriel isn't thinking clearly enough for a proper fight, especially when his brother is not the cause of his ire this time. "Az," Cassian tries again, teeth gritted, blood streaming from his mouth. "Y/N doesn't need this."

At the sound of your name, the world slowly began to come back into focus. His grip on Cassian's leathers loosens, his breathing ragged. Azriel growls weakly, but takes a deep breath, forcing himself to let go of Cassian, letting his head drop to the stone ground, cursing hoarsely.

A part of him can hear Nesta's yelling. "How dare you? In what world would any of that be an appropriate thing to say?"

Julianna scoffs. "I just said what we're all thinking?"

Cassian's grip tightens on Azriel, but Az doesn't move, his eyes fluttering closed. Anger still burns in his chest, quickly overcome by a flood of guilt. Eyes snapping open, Az quickly scans the edge of the training ring, heart dropping when you are nowhere to be seen. "Y/N," he rasps, hands moving to push himself up.

Brows furrowing, Cassian follows his gaze, cursing softly. Slowly, the general moves, watching Azriel carefully as he stands. Shadows tug at Azriel's wrists, guiding him through the training ring, barely aware of the eyes on him as he stumbles forward.

"We are not going to put up with this." Nesta's voice echoes around the space, everyone else quietly watching. Azriel hears the words, but they might as well be a foreign language. "You are no longer welcome."

"What?" Julianna asks with a disbelieving breath. "You can't do that."

"Yes, I can," Nesta retorts as Azriel rounds a corner, unable to hear the rest of her reply.

Azriel's mind swam, letting his body be led by his shadows, not paying attention to where they were taking him. Some part of him is aware that Cassian stops following when he leaves the training ring, he can distantly hear his brother's voice agreeing with his mate. But none of that matters, not now. Not when you disappeared.

A hand rakes over Azriel's face, hot tears burning behind his eyes. This was all his fault. First last night, and now this. Gods, how could you want to stay with him after this? He brought you into two aspects of his life and they both reject you quickly, on no uncertain terms, making their dislike of you painfully obvious.

Or worse, you might think he doesn't want you anymore. His chest aches at the thought.

He wants to kill them, Rhysand, Julianna, everyone who speaks ill of you. He doesn't care. But he needs you; needs to see you, touch you, assure himself you are okay, needs to assure you that he's not going anywhere. His heart cracks thinking back to only an hour ago, with you wrapped in his arms and wings, and you begged him not to leave. Your voice, so quiet and uncertain, echoes in his mind.

Stumbling again, he steadies himself along the stone wall, struggling to breathe. He can't lose you; the very thought threatens to rip his heart from him. He would rather kill everyone, burn the court to the ground, before he ever lets you go. And if you leave, if that's what you truly want, he will let you go, of course, but gods, he doesn't know if he will survive.

Azriel is only vaguely aware when the tunnel the shadows led him through opens up into a vast garden, one he has not visited in centuries. The shadows hiss in his ear, but he can't make out the words over the sound of his blood rushing. They lead him through a winding path surrounded by carefully maintained trees and flowers. In the center, water flows gently from a grand fountain, and you sit on the edge, hunched over, body shaking with quiet sobs. Shadows swirl restlessly around you, desperately trying to calm you, comfort you.

A quiet breath leaves Azriel, just the sight of you sets his world right again. He breathes your name and you stiffen at the sound. Slowly, he approaches, breath still uneven as he kneels before you, the shadows quick to wrap around him, nestling you both in their soft embrace, keeping the rest of the world away. Hot tears burn Azriel's cheeks, scarred hands shaking, reaching out to grab yours. When you don't pull away, Az lets out a breath that might be a sob, bringing them up to his lips, placing a long, reverent kiss on each.

"I'm sorry, my love," he breathes into your skin. You gasp, gently pulling one hand away and Azriel grasps the one remaining tighter, not enough to hurt you, never to hurt you, but to keep it in his hands, against his lips. "I am so, so sorry."

Your body shakes, free hand sweeping through his hair. "Y- you're bleeding," you whisper through your tears. "Oh- oh, gods, you're hurt, you're–"

"I'm fine," he cuts you off softly, looking up, forcing himself to take a deep breath at the sight of your tears. He places another tender kiss to your hand, watching your eyes remain on the cut, your thumb gently rubbing his temple. "I'm fine, beloved. I promise."

You shake your head, hand dropping, your body shakes even more. He inches forwards, causing your knees to part to make room. His eyes close, content to be surrounded by you, leaning his head slightly into your hand still held by his cheek.

Azriel's brows furrow, something cold and wet pressing gently to his temple. Reluctantly, he opens his eyes, breath hitching. You hold your shawl, wetted by the fountain to his forehead, gently cleaning away the blood. "Oh, sweetheart," he whispers, one hand moving to gently hold your wrist, but he doesn't stop you. "You don't have to do that."

Your breathing stutters, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. "You're hurt because of me," you breathe, a sob almost cutting you off. "Because I am- I'm not–"

"No, please," he begs, carefully moving your hand away from his temple, his own tears returning. "Please, don't finish that sentence. Whatever you are going to say, it's not true," he insists, placing a soft, adamant kiss to the wet shawl still clutched in your hand. "You are everything, Y/N. Completely and utterly perfect. Don't believe a word they say."

Your face contorts with another sob, head shaking again. "No, no I'm not. I- I–"

Azriel surges forward, unable to hear you utter another self-deprecating thought. His lips slot between yours, soft and gentle despite his speed, one hand resting on the back of your head to keep you steady, but you can easily pull away if you want. You gasp, body stilling before a whimper escapes you, your lips slowly moving with his. He slows too, matching your pace, pouring all of his reverence and adoration into the kiss, his both hands slowly moving to cup your jaw.

He moans at the feel of your lips against his, at the taste of your tears, but beneath it something so distinctly you it makes his knees weak. You sob into the kiss and Azriel starts to pull away, but your hands grip his leathers, keeping him close, and shifting closer to him. He obliges, letting you direct him, until he's sitting on the ground, back up against the wall of the fountain, and you're straddling him, his wings wrapping lazily around you. The shadows encircle the two of you until there is nothing else, even the sounds of the fountain are muted, a few directing one of hands to rest on a specific point on your back.

It wasn't exactly what Azriel had in mind for your first kiss, having kept himself relegated to your hands and forehead before now. But it is perfect, to be completely surrounded by you, the feel of your body, your taste, your scent.

Panting, you pull back, sucking in lungfuls of air. Azriel doesn't stop, cannot stop, now that he has got a taste of you. His lips gently trail to your jaw down to the curve of your neck. You moan softly, something in Azriel warms at the sound, a smile pulling on his lips as he continues. Slowly, your body melts into him, head tilting ever so slightly to the side, resting in the hand still resting along the opposite side of your jaw.

"Oh, gods, Y/N," he moans between kisses, finding a spot on the juncture of your neck that has you gasping. "Love you so much," he breathes.

"Azriel," you whisper, burying a hand in his hair, leaning to rest your cheek against his ear as he continues to lap at your skin. "I- oh, I love you, Az."

He groans into your skin, slowly moving back up your neck, kissing the underside of your jaw. "Perfect," he mumbles, nipping gently causing your hand to tighten in his hair. "So perfect, my beloved. Never leaving you. I'm yours, always," he promises, lips slotting back between yours, your head still tipped, nearly laying on his shoulder.

"Mine," you murmur against his lips and his smiles into the kiss, his hand pressing firmer into your back. "My m–" You gasp, cutting yourself off, but it sounds different, lower than your previous ones had been. Azriel feels your face scrunch as your body stiffens against him.

Stop! The shadows scream in his ear.

Immediately, Azriel pulls back, brows furrowing. Your head drops, resting your forehead against his shoulder, taking long, slow, measured breaths.

"Y/N?" Azriel asks, panic rising in his chest. The shadows swarm closer, moving Azriel's hand from your back to your waist, and the other from your cheek to the back of your head. They cluster around you, softly massaging along your spine and neck. "Sweetheart, what's wrong? Did I hurt you?"

You don't respond slowly relaxing back into his arms, letting out a soft whimper. "I'm sorry," you breathe softly.

"Sh, sh," he hushes, gently pressing a kiss on your head. "You have nothing to be sorry about," he assures you softly. "Are you hurt? Do we need to get Madja?"

Taking a deep breath, you shake your head, just barely but enough. He nods, laying his cheek on your head. "What do you need, my love?"

Your breath stutters, arms slowly encircling his neck. "Just you," you admit quietly.

Warmth floods through Azriel's chest, the hand on your waist tightens gently. "I'm not going anywhere."

The shadows continue to gently swirl across your body. They force Azriel to let go for a moment, and Az has half a mind to growl at his own shadows. Cautiously, they move your legs, until you are sitting sideways across Azriel's lap, your head resting against his shoulder. You whimper again as they move you, Azriel's heart twists, brows furrowing in confusion. You said you aren't hurt, but it sounds like you are in pain. Still, he only whispers quiet assurances in your hair as the shadows settle you back into his lap.

The shadows move his hands again, one resting on your hip, the other wrapping around your middle. Gently, they hiss. Azriel glances at them, frowning. One of your hands rest on Azriel's chest, above his heart, flexing against his leathers as you melt back into him, the pained look on your face softening.

Azriel doesn't know how long the two of you sit there, the shadows constantly hover over you. He continues to whisper gently into your hair, even after your breathing has evened out, exhaustion over taking you.

Reluctantly, the shadows disperse after you fall asleep, slowly returning to hide in the plants. Azriel keeps his wings gently wrapped around you, a soft warmth radiating from the membrane. He tries interrogating his shadows, to learn more about what happened, why you suddenly tensed and looked like you were in pain, but they remain quiet, whispering of other, inconsequential things instead.

Quiet voices float on the wind and Azriel tenses, even if the House of the Wind is one of the safest places in Velaris, it was the very people who have access who hurt you.

"–know this place existed," Nesta's voice drifts in, awe filling her voice. Azriel relaxes slightly, even as his wings wrap tighter around the two of them.

Cassian chuckles lightly, but tension lingers in his tone. "We haven't come back here in a long time. It was Rhys's mother's private garden. There must be some sort of magic taking care of it."

It is only a moment later when the two of them come into view, Nesta's arms wrap around herself, eyes drifting across the trees and plants, Cassian walks in step with her, a gentle hand resting in the small of her back. Cassian sees Azriel first, shoulders relaxing slightly, his face softening. "There you are," he sighs, relief clear in his voice.

Nesta's gaze snaps to Azriel, letting out a quiet breath. "Is Y/N okay?" she asks, softly.

Azriel scans the two of them, and the surrounding gardens, some part of him waiting for a threat to emerge. After a brief moment, Azriel unfurls one of his wings, letting them see your sleeping form, his other wing acting as a blanket. "Don't wake her," he demands quietly. "She didn't sleep well last night."

They both nod, Nesta leaning into Cassian a bit more. "Understandable," she says, glancing up at her mate. "We were hoping to apologize, for… well, for everything. And maybe speak with her a bit more."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Azriel says, fighting to keep the growl out of his voice. "Not today, at least."

"Of course," Cassian responds quickly, a small smile pulling on his lips. "We don't want to pressure her."

They stand in awkward silence for a bit, Azriel's gaze returning to you, your brows furrowing slightly, your body shaking with a deep shuddering breath. Azriel kisses your forehead, barely a brush, and your features smooth again.

"We are sorry," Nesta whispers, watching Azriel, but his eyes never leave you. "For last night, for… for Juliana. I never thought one of the priestesses would say something so cruel."

Azriel doesn't answer, jaw clenching, one hand gently rubbing your arm. His eyes drift up, watching the shadows of the leaves blowing in the wind, loosening his arms when you shift slightly.

"She's gone," Cassian says gently, Azriel's gaze snapping to him. "Julianna."

"Well, she's still in the library, not much we can do about that," Nesta clarifies with a nod, "but she's no longer welcome with the Valkyries or at training. And Gwen made sure Clotho was informed of what happened."

"W-what?" your voice is hoarse, head lifting slightly, eyes still dazed from sleep.

Azriel shifts, hands rubbing circles on your arm and hip. "Hey," he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss on your hair. "We didn't mean to wake you." Some of the shadows curl around you, weaving in your hair and between your fingers, before moving to swirl along your back and your neck.

Shakily, you push yourself off of Azriel, just enough for you to move and sit next to him, his wing reluctantly getting out of your way. Azriel misses your warmth and the weight of you against him the moment you leave, he gently entwines one of your hands with his, the need to touch you still humming beneath his skin. "You- you didn't have to do that," you say, pulling your knees up to your chest. "Not for me. I- if she wanted to- to train, you don't need to…" your voice trails off.

Nesta takes a careful step forward, away from Cassian. "If anything, we did it for her safety," she admits with a soft chuckle, glancing over to Azriel. Your gaze flickers to him for a moment, eyes wide. "Besides, like Cassian tried to say last night—"she shoots her mate a playful glare"—being Valkyrie is about helping each other to become stronger, in whatever way most suites them, whether that's training to be a warrior or… well, anything else. If she cannot respect that, then she has no place there. Simple as that."

Your brows furrow. "But–"

"It's the consequence of her actions and her words," Cassian tries gently, "not yours."

Azriel watches you intently as your gaze darts between Cassian and Nesta, your lips pursed, before you nod. Not because you agree with them, Az knows, but because you know they will not change their minds.

Nesta smiles gently, glancing back at Cassian for a moment. "We, um. We actually wanted to ask you a question, if that's okay."

Azriel can feel you stiffen, your hand tightening around his. Even now, with you sitting next to him, he can feel the exhaustion pulling on your mind, and the fear running down your spine at that simple request. "You don't have to answer," Cassian explains, stepping up to his mate, hand returning to her back. "We're just curious, that's all."

Your eyes flicker between them, brows furrowing. Azriel brings your entwined hand up to his lips, kissing the back of your hand softly. "You can say no," he offers gently, casting a glare towards his friends, who just nod in response.

Still, your gaze rakes over them slowly, noting Nesta's arms around her front and Cassian's gentle hand on her back, the shifting of both their feet. "Oh," you breathe, sitting up a bit straighter. Azriel's gaze returns to you, your body relaxing slightly as you smile. "Okay, what's the question?"

"How-" Nesta starts, chuckling nervously, "How do you know so much about Illyrian pregnancies?"

A growl rumbles in Azriel's throat, but you laugh softly, nodding. The sound stops him short, head turning towards you, brows narrowing. "Oh, that," you say, letting your legs stretch out slightly in front of you. "Um, so… when the previous High Lord met his mate, he immediately hired a midwife from Velaris to care for her during her future pregnancies."

Cassian eyes widen. "Priya," he says quickly. You nod slowly, smiling softly. "I remember her, she was around for Selene's birth."

Az nods too, licking his lips. "Yes. Rhys tried to contact her when they first learned of Feyre's pregnancy, but he couldn’t find her."

"She died," you say simply, voice lowering slightly. "During the attor attack." Cassian hums thoughtfully. "But when she was first hired by the former High Lord, he sent her to live in one of the Illyrian camps for almost a year to learn from the midwives there," you explain softly. "And when she was done, he had her spend a few months in each court, I think a little longer in Dawn, to learn from midwives who work with different types of magic. He even sent her to travel the continent for almost a year to learn some techniques that aren't known to Prythian. It was about five years in total, I think. According to Pryia, the High Lord didn't even think about having an heir until she had returned, ensuring that his mate would have the best care possible for her pregnancies."

You pause for a moment, swallowing thickly. "She was bound by a pretty strict bargain to never discuss details of the former Lady of Night's pregnancies, but she was able to teach her students everything she learned in her travels. I studied under her for almost four decades and since the High Lord… um, that is Lord Rhysand, is half-Illyrian, she made sure that her students were aware of the anatomy of Illyrian births. Especially after the complications of the former Lady of Night's pregnancies."

Cassian's brows furrow again, matching Azriel's. "I don't remember Nyssa having any complications during her pregnancy with Selene," Cass mutters.

You shrug. "That's all I know. The bargain Priya was bound with… it remained intact after the Lord Laris' death according to her. That was all she was able to tell anyone."

You blink a few times, leaning into Azriel's shoulder slightly, eyes drooping. "I have her journals though. She left them with me before her death. She made it sound like they have all the information about the Lady Nyssa's pregnancies."

Azriel frowns, studying you carefully. "She wasn't able to tell anyone because of the bargain, but she left you her journals?" he asks gently.

Your eyes widen slightly, color draining from your face, eyes flickering between Azriel, Cassian, and Nesta. "Yes, um… she- she knew that I- that if she left the journals with me, they would never be read. Not- not by me at least. Since you are Nyssa's family, or… um, family adjacent, I don’t see why you can't have them."

Nesta nods eagerly. "If you don't mind, I would love to read them. I can give them back once I'm done."

You smile softly. "No need. Priya taught me all the practical lessons that could possibly be in there. I don't need to know the personal details." Azriel smiles fondly at you, squeezing your hand slightly in his.

Cassian and Nesta share a glance, the shadows whispering of the nervousness flowing through them, as if Azriel couldn't see their shifting hands and the uptick in their breathing. "We have one more question to ask of you," Cassian begins slowly. Azriel stiffens, gaze hardening as he turns to them. "And, of course, you can refuse," he prefaces.

"You see," Nesta begins, eyes shifting to her mate. "Well, we… I mean, the reason we are asking… uh–"

You smile softly as Nesta stammers, inclining your head slightly. "Congratulations," you say quietly. Azriel's eyes narrow at you, before rounding to Nesta and Cassian again, eyes widening in understanding.

Nesta gapes at you for a moment, Cassian staring wide eyed before laughing lightly. Nesta chuckles breathily. "Is it that obvious?"

Slowly, you shake your head. "Only to someone who does this for a living," you admit softly.

Azriel smiles widely, watching his brother and friend carefully. "You will be amazing parents," he says gently.

Nesta leans more fully into Cassian, both of them smiling widely. "Thank you," she breathes out, nodding to Azriel. "Both of you. But the reason we're asking is, um…"

"We want to hire you," Cassian finishes for his mate.

Azriel brows furrow slightly, but his smile widens, glancing over to you. Your smile faulters slightly, mouth opening as you sit up straight again but, for a moment no sound comes out. "You- really?" you breathe.

Nesta nods. "Of course," she insists. "How much do you normally charge?"

"Oh, um…" your gaze flickers to Azriel. "Well, I- it's, um, about 5 copper marks per appointment."

Azriel's smile fades, head tilting slightly. In the corner of his eye, he can see Cassian and Nesta exchange a look, brows furrowed. "What?" he asks.

Azriel hears your heartbeat pick up, blood draining from your face. "If-if that's too much, I am always willing to negotiate," you respond quickly, voice wavering.

"No, love. That's not what I meant," he starts, wetting his lips.

"We just," Nesta cuts in, forcing a smile on her face, "thought it would be more. That seems much too low for you to make a living."

Heat rushes to your cheeks, head ducking slightly. "It's what I've always charged," you explain softly. "I never want someone to be without care because they couldn't afford it."

Azriel smiles sadly, letting go of your hand, to wrap around your shoulders. Drawing you into him, he places a long reverent kiss on your head. His chest stirs, with love and adoration for your caring and selflessness, but something twists right next to it, thinking of your apartment, of your threadbare clothes, of the times you eat far too quickly.

"Okay," Nesta says softly, eyes locked on her mate before turning back to you. "Well, we would love to hire you. Only if you are willing."

You lean into Azriel's warmth, offering them a tight, controlled smile. "Of course. It would be an honor." The line seems a bit too rehearsed for Azriel, but he doesn't argue.

Nesta lets out a sigh, smiling brightly. "Thank you!" she says, pulling away from Cassian. "Do you mind if we step away for a bit. I have a few questions not for…" she pauses, gaze flickering to Cassian and Azriel, "wondering ears," she settles on.

Chuckling breathily, you nod, the shadows and Azriel helping you to stand. Nesta quickly links her arm in yours leading you deeper into the garden, despite neither of you knowing where you are going.

Cassian comes up to Azriel, gently putting a hand on his shoulder as they watch the two females walk off. "Thank you," Azriel says softly, "for doing this for her."

Cassian's hand tightens on Azriel's shoulder, turning to look at him with furrowed brows. "We're not doing this for Y/N," he says simply. "Nes and I talked about it last night. She showed more knowledge of Illyrian reproduction off the top of her head than Madja had after months of researching for Feyre," he explains. "Nes has an Illyrian womb, so we need someone who knows exactly what that means and how that would affect the pregnancy."

Cassian pauses, turning to his brother, face hard as stone. "We asked her because we think it's what's best for Nesta and the baby. Who she is to you played no part in that decision."

Azriel studies Cassian for a long moment, his wings twitching against his back. Before he can think, Azriel reaches out, pulling Cassian into a tight embrace. Cass stills for a moment, before his arms encircle Azriel just as tightly. "Thank you," Azriel says again, "for everything."

"Always," Cassian responds, pulling back with a smile. "And we are going to be paying her more than 5 coppers an appointment. You don't even need to ask." A knot in Azriel's chest loosens.

———

"Do you mind if we sit?" you ask Nesta quietly, as you pass by a bench. The two of you have been walking through the gardens for about a half hour. The eldest Archeron had explained her true bargain with the Cauldron during the young princeling's birth, which resulted in a change to her reproductive system, before asking the myriad of questions every first-time mother asks. Your back aches, knees beginning to wobble beneath you; after your hard day yesterday, lack of sleep, and the amount of crying over the past day or so, your body was ready to collapse.

"Oh, sure," Nesta agrees readily, gently steering you to the bench.

You smile softly, eyes roaming over the various flowers before you, many of which you never would have thought could grow happily side-by-side. "You know, you don't need to ask me all of your questions today. We can set up a proper appointment where I will have my supplies. That will probably help ease your mind a lot."

Nesta offers you a tired smile, nodding. "I know," she sighs. "It's just… after Feyre's pregnancy. I think we are all going to be on edge."

"That is completely normal," you assure her. "Obviously, I cannot speak to human standards. But let me assure you, complications like the one your sister had are extremely rare for fae. Complications, in general, are rare, and, more often than not, both mother and child make a full recovery given enough time." Nesta purse her lips, but nods.

You turn towards her slightly. "My turn to ask a question. Have you already been looked over by a healer?"

"Yes, by Madja. About a week ago," she answers. You nod, biting the inside of your lip gently. Madja will not be pleased that the Lady of Death will be going to someone else for her pregnancy, but you'll cross that bridge later. "She didn't see anything to be concerned about, according to her. But she said it is still too early to see if there are wings."

Again, you nod, pursing your lips. "Well, that's good to hear," you say with a smile. "But for my peace of mind, would you be okay if I did a check during that appointment?"

"Yes, please," Nesta says, nodding eagerly. "I would have asked you if you hadn't offered."

Chuckling lightly, you reach out, grasping Nesta's hands. "It's okay to be nervous. All mothers are, no matter if it's their first pregnancy or their tenth. Even more so in your case, after the High Lady's. But, for now, enjoy it. Let me worry about those things, and you focus on these moments with your mate. Because in a few short months, everything is going to change. Even if it's for the better, it has been known to knock the wind out of people."

Laughing softly, Nesta nods, a hand moving to rest over her stomach. She looks over at you, smiling softly. "I see why Azriel loves you," she says simply. Your smile faulters, brows furrowing. "You're kind and caring to a fault, just like him," she explains gently. "You offer a peace the rest of us could never hope to bring him."

A lump forms in your throat, eyes darting to the path in front of you as you pull your hands back. "I- I don't know about that."

Nesta hums, leaning back on the bench, eyes closing as the mid-day sun warms her skin. "But Azriel does," she insists gently. "He was about ready to burn Rhys alive last night."

Eyes widening, your gaze snaps to hers. "What?"

She nods, smiling despite herself. "After you both left, he came back and tore Rhys a new one. I don't think Azriel has ever pushed back against him before, not like that at least. Rhys didn't know what to do with himself after Azriel left again." She chuckles lightly.

Your mouth opens, eyes blinking rapidly. "I- I didn't ask him to do that."

"You didn't have to," Nesta says head turning to look at you. "That male will burn the world down to keep you warm if you ask."

The bond pulls in your chest, rough and jagged, begging to be acknowledged. Your eyes close, taking a deep breath, coaxing the festering bond back into dormancy. The bond had soared in you earlier, when Azriel kissed you. It was the first time the bond didn't radiate any pain, even if your muscles had raged against you during the kiss. It tore through you now, crying out to be known.

"Why me?" you ask, barely a breath.

Nesta's brows furrow, leaning forwards, this time taking your hand in hers. "Because it's you," she answers, certainty ringing through her words. "And that is enough."

You shake your head softly, vaguely aware of the shadows emerging from the plants around you. Their presence has become so normal the past few months, twining around your limbs and fingers, playing with your hair, you barely notice them at first. Gently, they whisper against your skin, as if trying to convince you of Nesta's words. But it doesn't make sense, not truly. You have never been enough before, not to your parents, or friends, or other romantic partners. Especially not after they found out. How could you be enough now?

"Come on," Nesta urges, gently pulling you off the bench, leading you back the way you came. "We should find our way back to the males before they send a search party after us."

————

Thank you so much for reading!

Super quick little outline for the next few parts if you're curious: Part 4 will be a more private conversation with Az and Rhys wanting to talk more with Reader; Part 5 is the reveals (very chaotic, very fun😉); Part 6 is (supposed to be) a fluffy epilogue. About half of part 4 is written already, and was supposed to be in part three, but it got to be too long and I didn't want to keep you guys waiting for too much longer. No promises on when it will come out though, but hopefully it won't be as long as it has been

Taglist: (It's a bit longer now, so if any don't work, please let me know)

Her apartment is too still. Too heavy. Not the kind of warm and comforting silence that once greeted him after missions, but something colder—uneasy, sharp. A silence that tastes like ash on his tongue. His shadows, usually content to lounge around her apartment, are restless. They know before he dares to. They whisper against his skin, low, frantic hisses that almost make him shiver. Too late, too late, too late.

He tries to ignore them, tries to cling to the ritual that had always carried him here after a hard day—her scent, the warmth of her fire, and the knowledge that, no matter how much blood coated his hands, she always let him in. Always.

“Hey.” The word scrapes out of his throat, softer than he intended, too fragile for the weight pressing on his chest. It drops into the silence of her apartment like a stone into deep water, and the ripples don’t reach her. She doesn’t turn. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Once, her shoulders would have softened at the sound of his voice. Now, they only tighten, her arms folded around herself, her spine rigid. His shadows recoil, and he hears the murmur spread. She’s closing you out. It almost feels like they’re mocking him with the information.

The silence stretches. Not tense, not sharp, just heavy—familiar. He shifts his weight, the floorboard beneath him groaning, his boots scuffing against her rug. The sound feels intrusive, out of place in the sanctuary he once believed this space to be.

“You weren’t at the clinic today,” he says carefully, tentative, as if pressing too hard might shatter her completely. But his words feel empty—a pitiful bridge to cross the distance yawning between them. His shadows press close, suffocating, strangling him with anticipation.

“You used the window.”

Her tone is flat, unbothered, but the accusation strikes deep. Her voice cuts sharper than any blade he’s wielded. He flinches, jaw tightening. His shadows hiss, accusing him—coward, secret, shame. He doesn’t answer. He’s repeated those words thousands of times. Reminded himself that windows were for secrets, for shame. That they should never have been for her. But every time he tried to speak, to tell her the truth—about how he truly felt—his fear would choke him alive, and he was nothing but that boy locked in the dungeons with burnt bloody hands again.

He pauses, his throat dry, a lone shadow wrapping around his throat—a mirror of how his guilt was choking him alive. “You didn’t answer the door.”

“I know.”

The silence grows thick, aching. The hearth crackles, casting light that flickers across her form, but she doesn’t move. His shadows stay utterly still, as though awaiting a blow.

Part of him almost wishes she’d stay silent long enough to drive him away. He tells himself to leave, to turn before he makes it worse. But his feet stay rooted. He can’t—not yet.

Her scent reaches him before his next step, wrapping around him like smoke, a storm of memories he can’t escape. He halts in front of the sofa, staring down at his boots, knowing she feels his presence even if she won’t acknowledge it.

“I’m tired, Azriel.”

The sound of his full name spears through him. Not Az. Not the name she used to whisper in laughter, in the soft darkness of her bedroom. Azriel. Cold. Formal. Distant. A chasm opens at his feet. His jaw clenches, one hand half-rising to rake through his hair before falling uselessly to his side. His shadows curl uneasily at his ankles, restless, uneasy, like they know they’re bracing for a fall.

“I’m sorry I just thought—I mean, your lights were on—” His voice stumbles, and his words die, limp in his throat. He stops, staring at her, searching for anything in her expression, any softness. He can’t find any. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

The sentence feels weak, pathetic even as he spoke it. His shadows hiss at him again. Coward.

The words hang between them like smoke. He waits—hopes—for her to look at him, to stop him, to say something. Anything. But she only stares at the fire, her silence louder than a scream. 

Slowly, deliberately, he turns toward the door. Each step feels like dragging himself through tar. His shadows coil tight, hissing at him, coward, say it now, or lose her forever. 

His hand hovers on the doorknob, his chest tight with the hope she’ll call him back. He wants her to call him back. Gods, he’s begging for it in silence.

“Don’t.”

The single word slices the air like a blade. His shadows jolt upright, startled. His wings perk up as relief surges through his chest, wild and aching.

He looks back at her, his heart hammering. “You want me to stay?” 

His voice is barely a whisper, desperate, trembling.

“Don’t come back.”

The words punch through his ribs, brutal and final. He stills, his hand locked around the doorknob, knuckles white. His shadows collapse at his feet, silenced. The words root into his chest, hollowing him. He’s spent his whole life mastering silence, secrecy, pain—but nothing has ever terrified him like the permanence in her voice. Like being loved fully. Like losing it now.

The fire crackles behind her, the only witness to his undoing.

“You don’t mean that.”

The words rasp out of him before he can stop them. His wings twitch tight behind him, panic coursing through every nerve. His shadows writhe around his boots, clawing at the floor, some trying to drag him toward her, others yanking him back. He didn’t know which was worse—touching her and breaking her further, or letting her walk away forever. 

“You don’t mean that,” he repeats, softer this time, like speaking it might make it true.

Her laugh—quiet, bitter—splinters the room. Splinters him.

“I do.”

He sways on his feet. His shadows surge forwards, restless, stretching toward her, only to recoil when she flinches at their touch. The rejection hits harder than steel. They coil low around his boots, ashamed.

“Don’t. Just—don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“You’re tired. It’s been a long day—”

“Azriel, this isn’t about today.”

Her voice cracks. His entire body locks at the sound. His shadows lash violently, as if struck by lightning. She’s crying—and it’s his fault. Always his fault. 

One lone shadow—a small ribbon of night—curls at her feet discreetly. Protecting her from him. The betrayal burns, but he can’t find it within himself to be angry. It was only doing what he had never been able to; openly caring for her.

“It’s about every night you come only to forget. When your shadows get too heavy, when Mor’s name echoes in the marrow of your bones and her silence hollows out your chest. I’m the only thing that quieted that ache, and you made me think that mattered.”

Each syllable cuts deeper than steel. He staggers as if they’ve struck him physically. His shadows shriek in his ears, furious and condemning. User. Coward. You broke her.

“I want more than this, Azriel. I want to be more than a body you come to when the world outside is too heavy for you to hold. I want to be more than the arms you fall into when hers were never open for you.”

His lips part. Nothing comes. He feels the truth of her words like poison in his veins. His fingers flex helplessly. His shadows cinch tight around his wrists, shackling him. Even they won’t let him touch her now.

“You matter, Y/n. Gods, of course you matter.” His shadows whisper a truth he hasn’t let himself hear. She’s your everything.

Her rebuttal cuts clean.

“Do I? When’s the last time you stayed past sunrise? When’s the last time you asked me how my day went? Gods, when’s the last time we just talked? Have you noticed we never do anything anymore? You show up when it’s dark, we have sex, and then, when you think I’m asleep, you slip out before the sun can catch you. If I matter so much, why did I have to keep a drawer full of your apologies to remind myself that I did?”

Her words are knives, and each one hits because he knows them, because he’s replayed those mornings a thousand times—standing at her threshold, watching her breathe, and still choosing the door. Coward. Always a coward.

“I want something real. Not borrowed. Not broken. Someone I don’t have to beg for. I deserve better. I can’t be your band-aid, I can’t patch up the hollow Mor left behind. Not anymore.”

He flinches, because he knows she’s right. He’s told himself he deserves better every night he’s left her bed. 

“That’s not fair,” he breathes, his voice trembling. “You think this doesn’t hurt me too?”

“I think you don’t know what hurt means if you think you can keep showing up like this without expecting something to break inside me every time.” 

Her eyes are flames.

“I care about you.” 

“Not enough. Never enough. You care just enough to keep me close, but never enough to stay.”

Her words gut him. His wings sag, his shadows coil flat to the ground, defeated. 

“I can’t stay. Not the way you want me to. Not because you’re not worth it, but because I don’t know how.” The words taste like lies, because the truth—the unbearable truth—is he’s wanted to, every godsdamned night. He’s pictured her in daylight, laughter on her lips, her hand in his. But wanting her in the daylight feels like wanting to breathe in the middle of the sea: impossible, suicidal. Staying means being seen. And he doesn’t know how to survive that.  

His shadows recoil from him, disgusted.

“And I can’t keep being convenient,” she whispers. “I can’t keep setting myself on fire just to keep you warm, when you never even look back to see what you’ve burned down.”

Azriel’s face twists, rage and grief clawing at him, indistinguishable. His shadows writhe, thrashing helplessly at his sides.

“I can change. I will. I just- just give me time.”

Her eyes soften. For a heartbeat, he lets himself hope. But her words crush it.

“You’ve had years. I waited. I made excuses. I begged the stars—your stars—to carve me into something worthy of you. I told myself if I stayed long enough, if I gave enough of myself, you’d see me.” 

Something in him breaks with a sound he can’t contain at the idea that she had begged his gods to make her worthy. His breath came ragged, his hand rising helplessly before his shadows shackled it tight, holding him back. As if even they knew his touch was poison to her now.

“I do,” he blurts, voice cracking. “Gods, I do—” 

He reaches for her, despite knowing he shouldn’t, because he’s never been good at letting go anyways. His shadows like chains around his wrists, restraining him, like they know his touch will break her. 

“No, Azriel. You’ve never seen me, not really. You see the comfort, the warmth, the silence. But you never see me. I don’t think you ever really knew me. I’ve never been more than the one patching you up, physically or more. You say you can’t get attached. That you’re not ready. That you’re broken. And I swallowed every excuse like it was love, because admitting the truth meant admitting I didn’t matter.”

Her words hit like hammer blows. His shadows shrink away from her, curling low, ashamed. He wants to argue, to protest, to tell her about the way her laugh carried him through missions, the way her hands steadied the cracks in his chest. He’s known her—in pieces, in shadows, in the quiet ways he never learned to name. But the words never reach his lips.

“I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t know how to—”

“Then why didn’t you let me go?”

His lips part. Nothing comes. His shadows whisper it for him. Selfish. Afraid. Too late.

“I gave you time, Azriel, so much time. But you never changed. You just wanted the comfort I brought.”

Her smile is small. Shattered. He staggers, his wings dragging low.

“I do want you. Please, I can’t lose you.” His voice shakes. He steps closer, shadows writhing, chaining his wrists. “I thought if I kept you at arm’s length I wouldn’t fall, but I did. Gods I did, I’ve been falling for years, I just couldn’t see it.”

He’s unraveling. His shadows thrash, shrieking in his ears. One brushes her ankle, begging. 

Her gaze hardens.

“You aren’t in love with me Azriel, you’re in love with the way I make you feel—safe. And I deserve to be loved for all of me. Not just the parts that make your pain easier to bear.”

His hand drops. His shadows coil tighter, a noose around his neck.

“Please, love, I…I couldn’t let myself. I was scared, scared to fuck up. Scared to lose you.”

Her head tilts, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You never had me to lose. Not really.”

He flinches, not in anger but grief. His wings sag fully now, his shadows whimper low.

“Please, tell me what I can do,” he begs, desperation raw in his voice. “I’ll do anything, just don’t shut me out.”

“Az,” she says softly.

The name—his name—lands like mercy. Hope claws its way into his chest. His shadows lift, whispering frantically, she still sees you, she still sees you.

The bond snaps.

It doesn’t settle, doesn’t hum softly like others had described. No. It detonates inside him—searing, violent. Lightning tears his soul apart and stitches it to hers in the same breath. He staggers back as raw magic lashes through every single one of his nerves, clutching his chest as pain dances through his ribs. His wings flare wide, trembling. His shadows shriek, feral, a cacophony in his head, keening a single word: mate.

But she keeps moving. Moving away from him.

“I can’t do this anymore, please.”

“No,” he whispers, strangled. “No—no, please. Not now. Please.”

He rubs his chest, as though he can calm the bond’s violent thrashing, but it only burns hotter with every step she takes away from him. His shadows crawl desperately toward her ankles, begging her to stay, but recoil when she flinches.

This is the thing he’s run from, the thing he swore he couldn’t survive—love that ties, claws, demands. And it’s here. Irrevocable. And she doesn’t feel it.

The Cauldron tied him to her—but left her free.

He can’t breathe. His chest feels carved open, hollowed out. His shadows whimper like wounded creatures, curling low to the ground.

“I love you,” he breathes, broken. “I love you, and I was too much of a coward to say it before but gods I swear to you—I do. I didn’t let myself admit it because I thought love made you weak, and I couldn’t afford to be—but you make me want to be. You make me want everything I was afraid of.”

He steps toward her, voice desperate. “I’ll stay. Every morning. And I’ll come through the front door, like a man who has nothing to hide. And I’ll hold your hand in public. Let everyone know you’re mine.”

Another step. His hands cradle her face, trembling. “Azriel—”

“I’ll stop hiding,” he says, desperate now. “I’ll fight for this—for you. Just… please. Don’t walk away. Not now. Not when I finally see you.”

But she turns her face away. His hands fall. His shadows sob.

“I can’t, Azriel. Not when I’ve spent so long loving someone who didn’t want me. I gave you everything I had. I broke myself apart and used the pieces to heal you. I have nothing left to give. Not now. Maybe never.” His shadows swarm at her feet, begging her to give their master one last chance. “Go home Azriel, please…” 

“Please.” 

Her final whisper isn’t to him. It’s to the shadows. Please.

And they obey.

The door creaks open, dark tendrils pulling it wide. His own shadows betray him, giving her freedom when he cannot. A betrayal, yes—but also mercy. 

She pauses on the stairs. Her voice is soft, final. “Goodbye, Azriel.”

He doesn’t stop them. He doesn’t stop her. Because the bond might have claimed her as his, but she never would.

The door creaks wider as she makes it up the stairs, shadows curling around its edges like fingers prying him away from her. He resists for a heartbeat—he can’t leave her, not like this—but his own magic betrays him. His shadows shove at his shoulders, insistent, merciless.

Out. Out. Out.

They herd him through the threshold, the wooden frame scraping against his wings as though punishing him for daring to stay. The door slams behind him, the final sound of her absence.

He wants to fight them, to claw his way back inside, to beg until she believes him. But fear roots him—fear that staying will only make her walk further away, fear that loving her fully will destroy them both. Fear has always been the loudest voice. And now it’s the only one left.

The bond is a wildfire in his chest, searing, tearing, clawing at every vein. He staggers down her porch steps before his knees give way. His shadows collapse with him, writhing across the stone, keening their fury in a chorus of whispers that echo inside his skull:

You broke her. You lost her. You ruined her. Mate. Mate. Mate.

Azriel presses a trembling hand to his sternum, as if he could hold the bond in, as if sheer will might soothe the agony. But it only burns hotter, a merciless tether pulling tight, demanding what she’ll never give.

He bows forward, wings sagging, and sobs rip through him before he can stop them. His shadows gather like mourners, circling him, rocking with his shaking body. Some lash at him, angry, others curl close, trying to hold together what can’t be mended.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there—minutes, hours. The sky begins to pale, shadows stretching thin as dawn approaches. His throat is raw, his chest burning, but still he can’t move.

And then—he hears it.

Through the walls, through the distance: her heartbeat.

Steady. Gentle. Asleep.

He closes his eyes and strains his ears to hear it, focusing on that rhythm, letting it anchor him. He matches his ragged breathing to it, in and out, until the panic in his chest ebbs just enough to keep him alive. His shadows still too, rocking softly in time with the sound, clinging to the one piece of her they can reach.

As the sun rises, spilling gold across his broken face, he makes his vow, the bond thrashing in his chest. “I’ll do anything. Anything to win her back.”

The shadows hum low, dark agreement, sealing it like an oath.

He stood near the edge of the great reception hall, one shoulder resting against a pale marble column as the diplomatic gathering unfolded around him. Music drifted softly through the room—harp strings plucked in gentle rhythm, accompanied by the distant trill of a flute. The sound wove easily through the quiet murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.

Diplomats moved through the hall in flowing colors—robes of saffron and ivory, green edged in gold thread, burnished copper silks that shimmered when their wearers turned beneath the lights. Scholars clustered in animated debate near floating stacks of ancient tomes, gesturing excitedly as enchanted pages turned themselves. Servants glided between guests carrying trays of wine and golden fruit, their movements practiced and nearly silent.

The air smelled faintly of citrus, honeyed wine, and sun-warmed stone.

Cassian was already deep into conversation across the room, holding court with a group of Day Court officers who seemed equally delighted and horrified by whatever story he was recounting. His hands moved dramatically as he spoke, reenacting some particularly impressive maneuver while the officers leaned closer, grinning.

Cass, when given an audience, possessed all the subtlety of a fireworks display.

Azriel watched one of the officers nearly spill his wine when Cassian demonstrated a particularly enthusiastic “mid-air disarm,” and resisted the urge to rub his temples. Some things, apparently, never changed.

Mor drifted through the reception like a streak of red silk, her gown vivid against the gold-washed hall as she moved easily between clusters of guests. A glass of wine rested lightly in her hand while she spoke with a pair of courtiers walking beside her, her laughter warm and bright as she traded remarks with them and greeted others they passed.

Closer to the center of the hall, Rhys stood beside Feyre in conversation with Helion and Theron. The High Lord of Day seemed perfectly at home amid the glow of his own court, sunlight bending toward him wherever he moved. Feyre listened attentively, her hand resting lightly against Rhys’s arm as Helion spoke animatedly about some recent scholarly discovery, the High Lord of Dawn standing with them in quiet, composed attention.

Amren, unsurprisingly, looked bored. She stood slightly apart from the shifting conversations, a glass of wine in hand as her sharp gaze drifted over the hall. Guests gave her a wide berth as they passed, their glances cautious and brief.

Azriel let the room settle around him. It was habit more than conscious effort now. Every entrance and exit. Every guard position. Every unfamiliar face. The subtle shifts in tone when someone spoke a little too quickly or laughed a little too loudly.

His shadows drifted lazily along the floor beside him, whispering secrets in a language only he understood. Nothing seemed out of place. And yet his attention kept drifting.

Toward her.

She stood near one of the great windows overlooking the distant glow of the city below, the final threads of sunset catching in the glass behind her. The fading light filtered through the hall in warm amber, touched by Helion’s magic, gilding the marble, the gold, and the edges of her figure where she stood.

The gown she wore caught the light of the hall beautifully.

It flowed around her in layers of soft, airy fabric that shifted with every subtle movement she made, catching the light like drifting sunlight through autumn leaves. The colors were unmistakably Autumn at first glance—burnished copper, deep amber, muted gold—but softened somehow, as if time and distance had gentled their fire. 

The bodice was fitted and intricate, stitched with delicate patterns that shimmered when she turned beneath the chandeliers, tiny gems catching the light like scattered sparks. 

And the neckline—Cauldron help him.

The cut of the gown dipped sharply, a deep V that framed the elegant line of her collarbones before falling further still, the amber fabric gathering only where it absolutely had to. The warm light of this court seemed determined to linger there, catching against the delicate chain resting against her skin, the small dark pendant nestled just above where the fabric finally drew together.

Azriel’s gaze dropped before he could stop it. Just for a moment. But long enough to notice and then dragged it away immediately.

It wasn’t the sort of gown one expected from a diplomat. It was something else entirely. Something that would have looked perfectly at home on the daughter of a High Lord.

Which, technically, she was. Even if Beron would sooner choke on his own crown than publicly acknowledge it.

The thought slid in before Azriel could stop it.

It would not have looked out of place in Velaris. She would look devastating in Night Court black. Silk instead of amber. Moonlight instead of Helion’s endless sunlight. That same neckline cut into dark fabric, the faint glow of Velaris lanterns catching the curve of h—

Azriel stilled. Why in the Gods-damned Cauldron was he imagining that?

He exhaled slowly through his nose and forced his attention downward instead. The skirts of the gown fell in graceful pleats that brushed the marble floor, the fabric so light it seemed to breathe with her as she moved.

Flowers were embroidered there at the hem of the gown. Subtle ones, woven into the lowest folds of fabric where most people would never bother to look. Small blossoms stitched in muted pinks and soft reds, their shapes delicate but unmistakable.

His shadows stirred faintly along the floor.

Just like Lucien, his sister never wore anything by accident. She carried her history with her the same way she carried a blade—openly, deliberately, daring anyone to question it.

Autumn in the colors, Spring at the hem and Day in the effortless sunlight of it all.

A quiet declaration of exactly where she had been—and exactly who she was now. Most people in the room likely saw only a beautiful dress. Azriel saw a political statement. Which, he suspected, had been the point.

Her hair had been left mostly loose, falling over her shoulders in soft waves that caught the warm light the same way Autumn leaves caught the sun just before they fell. A few small braids had been woven back from her temples—practical more than decorative, the sort of detail someone might add when they expected a long evening and had no interest in fussing with it later.

He found himself wondering what it would feel like beneath his hands. And a thought came unbidden: his hand at the back of her head, fingers buried in that hair, gripping, as he tilted her face exactly where he wanted it. The imagined weight of it sliding through his fingers, catching against the roughness of his scarred skin.

The image struck with a jolt of heat that had no business existing—and it lingered far longer than it should have.

The look suited her.

A narrow band of burnished metal circled one wrist—more weapon than ornament if Azriel had to guess—and the dagger she favored rested at her hip, the hilt partially concealed beneath the fall of the skirts but unmistakable to anyone who knew where to look.

Which he did.

And across the room, a Summer Court diplomat wasn’t even pretending to be subtle about looking either. 

Cianan.

Azriel recognized him immediately.

The Summer emissary leaned lazily against one of the marble columns, a glass of wine hanging loosely from his fingers as his attention remained fixed on her. His gaze lingered openly as she shifted her weight, the appreciative curve of his mouth making Azriel’s shadows stir faintly along the marble floor.

The male looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Cianan had the sort of careless charm Summer Court diplomats were infamous for—sun-warmed arrogance wrapped in an easy smile, the kind that made people underestimate how deliberate every glance actually was. 

Bold, he thought. To be that confident with so little to offer.

And at the moment, that deliberate glance was aimed squarely at the neckline of her gown. Azriel’s fingers flexed once at his side before he stilled them.

Ridiculous. It was a dress. People looked at dresses.

The instinct that curled low in his chest when those glances lingered too long was immediate and unpleasant, something older and far less reasonable than the careful control Azriel usually kept over himself.

Across the room, the male said something to the diplomat beside him, his eyes never quite leaving her as he did.

Azriel’s jaw tightened.

Not my problem, he reminded himself.

And yet one of his shadows slipped quietly across the marble floor, curling through the crowd to linger near the Summer emissary while Azriel forced his own gaze elsewhere.

Movement near the window drew his attention again.

Lucien approached her from the side of the hall, weaving easily through the clusters of diplomats with the same effortless grace that came from centuries of navigating courts far more dangerous than this one. His copper hair caught the warm glow of the fae lights as he stepped beside her, leaning in to murmur something near her ear.

She noticed him immediately. Her posture shifted just slightly, the corner of her mouth tilting as she listened, the words too quiet for anyone else to hear over the music and conversation.

Azriel watched her lift her glass, taking a slow sip before replying under her breath, her eyes flicking briefly back toward the scholars she had been entertaining as though their conversation had never been interrupted.

Standing beside one another, the resemblance between them became unmistakable. Not in their features—Lucien’s sharper, hers softer—but in the quiet confidence beneath their charm. The same careful watchfulness hidden behind easy smiles. Together they had the sort of presence that drew attention without asking for it.

Lucien said something else then—something that made her roll her eyes before nudging his arm lightly with her elbow.

Azriel looked away. 

He dragged his gaze away for a moment, forcing his attention back to the rest of the hall—the diplomats, the servants, the shifting currents of conversation. There were at least four separate negotiations happening within his line of sight alone. Plenty to occupy his attention. Plenty more useful than watching her speak with her brother.

It lasted all of three seconds. 

When his gaze inevitably drifted toward her again, he realized something had changed. 

She was no longer focused on Lucien.

Her attention had shifted outward, her eyes moving slowly through the room, lingering just long enough on faces, conversations, entrances, exits. Watching the crowd just like he was.

Azriel felt the moment her gaze landed on him. Her smile did not falter as her eyes slid over him, up and down, slow and unhurried. His shadows stirred instantly, whispering against his ears with sudden interest, like a pack of hounds scenting something worth chasing. He ignored them. (Or tried to.)

Her gaze met his again, steady and entirely unapologetic. For a heartbeat neither of them looked away. Then she lifted her glass slightly in his direction in a lazy, mocking salute.

Azriel did not return the gesture.

Her mouth curved just a fraction more.

Infuriating female.

She said something to the small group she had been speaking with, and they nodded eagerly before drifting away toward another cluster of guests.

And then she began crossing the room.

Azriel straightened slightly from the column, wings shifting almost imperceptibly behind him as she approached. He rolled one shoulder in a quiet stretch before sliding his hands into the pockets of his pants.

Toward him.

The sounds of the reception continued around them but his attention narrowed until the rest of the hall faded into little more than distant noise.

Step by step she closed the distance between them. Several guests turned their heads as she passed, drawn as much by the confidence in her stride as the dress itself. A few conversations faltered entirely as she moved through the room.

She didn’t acknowledge them.

Her focus remained forward.

On him.

When she reached him, she didn’t stop. She passed close enough that the faint scent of citrus and warm spice brushed his senses, and instinct urged him to lean closer, to draw the scent in properly, to follow it as she moved past him. His shadows stirred sharply along his shoulders, whispering with sudden, eager interest as the scent drifted between them and then lingered in the air where she had been.

Her voice was quiet when she spoke, pitched just low enough for him alone.

“Try not to start any diplomatic incidents tonight, Shadow Boy,” she murmured smoothly. “Helion likes his receptions peaceful.”

Azriel’s mouth tilted despite himself. “Try not to poison anyone, Copper,” he replied just as quietly. “I hear Autumn has experience with that.”

She didn’t stop walking but he saw it. The smallest tightening through her shoulders. Barely there. Anyone else might have missed it.

She glanced back at him over her shoulder. Bright orange eyes, sharp as flame.

“You really should try new material,” she said lightly. “It’s getting predictable.”

Then she turned back toward the center of the room, already slipping into conversation with another cluster of diplomats as if the exchange had never happened.

Azriel watched her go.

She was going to be the death of his patience.

His shadows whispered restlessly along the floor, reluctant to let her disappear entirely into the crowd. With a quiet breath, Azriel forced his attention away from her and let his gaze sweep the hall again, falling back into the steady rhythm of observation that had been second nature to him for centuries.

Something about the evening suddenly felt… off.

The reception still moved with the same easy rhythm it had held all evening. Music drifted through the high hall, the soft notes of a harp weaving through low conversation and the occasional ripple of laughter. Servants moved gracefully between clusters of diplomats, offering trays of wine and fruit beneath the warm golden light of their High Lord’s magic.

Everything appeared exactly as it should.

And yet the unease remained.

Azriel had learned long ago not to ignore that feeling. His shadows stirred faintly along the marble floor, brushing the edges of conversations, curling near pillars and archways as if searching for something their master had not yet seen.

The shadowsinger stepped a little further into the room, letting the crowd close around him as his gaze moved methodically from face to face, door to window, guard to guest. The rhythm of the reception remained steady, conversations flowing as easily as before.

Whatever had caught his instincts hadn’t shown itself yet.

But it was there.

On his periphery, he could see her engaged in conversation with the small group of diplomats she had joined earlier. The only addition was the Peregryn captain Kallon, who now stood beside her with his feathered wings folded neatly behind him. His posture held the quiet alertness of a seasoned warrior even as he listened.

She appeared just as relaxed as she had all evening.

But something about her attention had shifted.

Azriel could easily recognize when she was merely present and when she was actually paying attention.

To anyone else, she would have looked fully engaged. Her smile stayed in place, her nods timed to the conversation, but her eyes slid away from the speakers and started moving through the room in a slow, deliberate arc. Slipping past the guests and settling briefly on a servant approaching through the crowd with a tray of wine.

Azriel’s gaze followed the same line without quite knowing why.

The servant appeared unremarkable at first glance. Just another attendant weaving carefully through the reception with a wide tray balanced between his hands, the glasses of honeyed wine glowing amber beneath the chandelier light as he approached the group of High Lords near the center of the hall.

Normal. Perfectly normal.

Still, Azriel felt the familiar prickling at the back of his neck, the small, unwelcome tug of something out of place. His shadows shifted along the marble in quiet agreement, darker whispers at his shoulders nudging him to watch the same spot.

She set her glass down, answered Kallon with one measured sentence with a polite expression, and then let her gaze flick back to the servant as if compelled. The movement was small and practised, but the look that crossed her face wasn’t casual anymore. One of the diplomats was still speaking when she cut herself free with an apology and stepped away from the group.

Azriel’s attention followed her immediately.

She began crossing the room. Not quickly nor urgently, but with a deliberate purpose that made Azriel straighten slightly where he stood.

She moved between the clusters of guests with practiced ease. Several guests turned to greet her as she went, but she acknowledged them only with brief smiles that never slowed her stride.

What did you notice, little ember?

Azriel moved at once, stepping a little farther into the room so the crowd closed around him and his view narrowed to the people and the path between them. Something about the way she’d watched the servant had set him on edge, and he intended to find out why.

Across the hall, the servant had nearly reached Helion when she moved. Her hand came down on the tray with a single hard strike; crystal exploded across the marble and glasses shattered in a spray of amber. The sound cut through the reception like a thrown stone. For a heartbeat everyone froze.

The servant reacted before the crowd could, a dagger flashing from his sleeve as he tried to finish what the broken tray had started and she met him without hesitation. Steel rang as her blade appeared, catching the strike meant for her ribs and twisting the assassin off balance. He lunged again immediately, abandoning the pretense entirely now that the room had erupted into alarm.

Guests stumbled backward. The music died abruptly as the musicians recoiled from the sudden violence.

She drove her shoulder into the assassin’s chest, sending him crashing against a nearby table hard enough to crack the glass.

Azriel was already moving as shadows surged outward from him as he crossed the floor in three long strides, the familiar pull of combat sharpening every instinct in his body. Cassian was moving too somewhere behind him, his barked command cutting through the rising panic as Day Court guards surged toward the disturbance.

The assassin recovered quickly, faster than most. He twisted beneath her grip and drove forward again with brutal force, forcing her back a step as their blades locked together.

His first step closed the gap to her because, whatever rational list of priorities his head might give later, his body answered only to the person already standing in the center of the violence. His wings opened wider as he reached her, one snapping outward between her and the assassin as he stepped into the fight. The dark span cut across the space like a living shield while his shadows slammed into the attacker and hurled the male hard against the marble.

In the chaos that followed—shouting voices, scattered glass, guests scrambling away—another movement caught Azriel’s attention. A second servant had stepped forward from the crowd, too calm amid the panic, his approach deliberate in a way that didn’t belong.

Azriel realized the danger a fraction too late.

The male’s sleeve shifted. Steel flashed as the assassin drove the blade forward, angling it toward the vulnerable space at his back.

He twisted instinctively, wings flaring slightly with the motion as his shadows snapped backward toward the new attacker. But his attention was still divided between the first assassin being restrained and the chaos spreading through the hall, and the strike was already descending when she moved.

She had shifted wide during the struggle with the first assassin, circling through the confusion. She stepped into the path of the second blade and the sound of steel on steel cracked between them. Her dagger caught the strike meant for him, the force of the impact jolting through her arm. She didn’t give the assassin time to recover. Pivoting inside his guard, she dragged her blade across his throat in one brutal motion.

The male collapsed almost immediately, blood spreading darkly across the marble as he hit the floor.

For a moment the hall stood stunned in the aftermath. Only the slow drip of spilled wine across the marble broke the stillness. Azriel’s wings slowly folded back against his spine as the chaos settled around them.

Helion stepped forward, sunlight magic flickering along his hand as he crouched beside the shattered glass and the dark wine spreading across the marble. The golden glow brushed the liquid for only a moment before vanishing.

When he rose again, the warmth had drained from his expression.

“Poison,” he said quietly. The word rippled through the hall. “Fast acting,” he added, glancing at the other High Lords. “And designed to kill quickly.”

Azriel barely heard him because he was looking at her.

She stood only a few steps away now, breathing steadily despite the fight. One bare arm was streaked with a thin line of blood where the assassin’s blade had grazed her, the cut shallow but bright against her skin. The crimson slipped slowly toward her wrist.

She didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she simply didn’t care. What unsettled Azriel far more was the realization settling slowly into place. She had seen the danger first, across a crowded diplomatic hall while he had been too busy watching her. And when the second assassin struck—

She had moved without hesitation straight into the path of the blade meant for him.

Helion’s golden gaze swept across the shattered tray, the dark amber wine spread across the marble floor and the body of the dead attacker lying motionless before settling on the remaining assassin now forced to his knees. Day Court guards held the male tightly while another pair moved through the crowd, ushering the remaining guests toward the far side of the hall.

The easy warmth of the reception had vanished completely and in its place settled something colder and controlled. Helion straightened, sunlight magic flickering faintly around his hands before fading again as he turned toward the guards.

“Take him,” he said calmly.

No one mistook the steel beneath the quiet command. The captains moved immediately, hauling the struggling assassin to his feet and dragging him toward the side doors. The hall still murmured with shock when Lucien noticed the blood a heartbeat later.

His head snapped toward her as she stood a few paces away from the center of the disturbance now, her dagger still loose in her hand as if the fight had barely registered. He crossed the distance to her in two strides, his mechanical eye whirring faintly as it flicked over the wound.

Helion’s gaze followed a moment later.

The High Lord’s eyes flicked briefly over the cut, sunlight catching faintly in his expression before he seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say.

She dismissed them both with a small shake of her head, already turning back toward the guards escorting the assassin as though the injury were hardly worth notice. With unhurried precision, she wiped the edge of her dagger against a fallen strip of tablecloth before sliding the blade smoothly back into the sheath at her hip.

Around them, the hall was slowly beginning to breathe again. Guests who had retreated to the edges of the room now spoke in low, shaken murmurs. A few of Helion’s attendants moved carefully across the marble to gather the broken glass while guards repositioned themselves along the walls, their earlier ease replaced by sharp vigilance. The body of the second assassin had already been dragged away, leaving only a dark smear on the stone where he had fallen.

The music had not resumed.

Azriel remained where he stood, wings half-folded at his back, the dark span still slightly flared from the fight. His shadows had settled again along the floor, though they shifted restlessly from time to time, as if unwilling to fully release the tension that still clung to their master.

Lucien was still beside her, speaking low and close as if attempting to convince her to sit down long enough for someone to actually look at the cut along her arm. She listened for all of two seconds before dismissing him with a brief roll of her eyes and a flick of her wrist before she brushed past him, clearly uninterested in further fussing.

The streak of blood still traced its way toward her wrist. She hadn’t bothered to clean it.

“Holy Gods,” Cassian muttered under his breath somewhere to Azriel’s right, dragging a hand through his hair as he looked down at the broken tray and the dark smear on the marble. “That escalated quickly.” His wings shifted restlessly behind him, the dark span flexing once before he forced them to fold tighter along his back. A pair of nearby courtiers quickly adjusted their positions to avoid brushing the sensitive membranes. Cassian noticed and scowled faintly, angling his shoulders away from them.

Mor drifted closer. She had clearly seen the entire exchange and looked far more entertained than alarmed. Her gaze slid past the scattered glass, past the guards restoring order, and landed directly on the female across the hall.

Her red-painted lips curved slowly.

“Well, hello,” Mor purred, tone warm with open appreciation as she watched her friend sheath the dagger. “I always did enjoy watching her work.”

The words carried just enough playful admiration to be unmistakably intentional. Mor didn’t even bother hiding the glance she slid toward Azriel a heartbeat later.

“Efficient,” she added lightly. “And very sexy.”

Feyre stood beside Rhysand, her attention still on the space where the fight had broken out. The shattered glass had mostly been cleared now, attendants moving with careful efficiency while a pair of guards scrubbed at the last dark traces left on the polished marble. Her brows drew together slightly as she watched the quiet, controlled aftermath settle over the hall.

“The poison was meant for all three of them,” she said quietly, mostly to Rhys. “Helion, you, and Thesan were standing close enough to reach the same tray. Whoever planned it expected the entire thing to be over before anyone realized what had happened.”

Amren had appeared beside them. Her silver eyes slid from the broken glass to the faint discoloration still staining the stone, clicking her tongue softly.

“Sloppy,” she said.

Whether she meant the poison, the attempt, or the fact that it had failed so publicly was unclear to Azriel.

She folded her arms, inspecting her nails briefly before her eyes slid back to the room.

“If you’re going to attempt an assassination, at least have the decency to make it interesting.” she added dryly.

Rhysand stood with one hand resting at the small of Feyre’s back, his violet gaze moving thoughtfully across the hall before finally settling, inevitably, on the shadowsinger.

He followed the direction of Azriel’s attention without comment.

His gaze lingered on the female across the room for a moment before drifting back again. A quiet sort of understanding flickered in his expression.

“Well,” Rhys said mildly after a moment, his tone deceptively casual, “that was certainly an eventful reception.”

Azriel didn’t bother responding. His gaze drifted past Rhys, settling once more on the far side of the hall.

She now stood speaking briefly with one of Helion’s captains, her posture as composed as if the entire incident had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. One hand rested loosely at her side, the other gesturing lightly as she answered whatever the captain had asked.

Rhys’s gaze shifted between them once more. Then the High Lord’s mouth curved faintly.

“Strange,” he said thoughtfully, “for someone you claim to be a high risk…” Rhys tilted his head slightly, the ghost of amusement flickering behind his eyes. “She seems remarkably invested in keeping you alive, brother.”

Cassian let out a laugh while Mor’s smile widened just a fraction.

Feyre leaned slightly into Rhys’s side, her eyes flicking between Azriel and the female across the hall. “You could be a big boy and go thank her, Az.” She suggested mildly. 

Azriel tore his gaze from the far side of the room long enough to shoot her a flat, thoroughly unimpressed look. She only lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, the corner of her mouth betraying the smile she tried to hide. “Just a thought.”

Cassian’s grin only widened at Azriel’s glare, pleased as a dog with a new toy. He clapped a heavier hand on his shoulder and gave it a mock squeeze. “Oh, give him time,” he said, loud enough for the small circle to hear. “Az is still processing. The terrifying, untrustworthy female he’s been warning us about for centuries just saved his ass. That’s a lot for his brooding little heart to handle.”

Azriel’s wings shifted faintly behind him.

“Cassian,” he said flatly.

“What?” Cassian spread his hands innocently. “I’m just saying.”

Azriel ignored him.

“I do adore a female who can handle a blade,” Mor chimed, voice light and teasing. Then her eyes slid back to Azriel. “Don’t you?”

Azriel didn’t need to answer. His jaw tightened slightly and his wings flexed once behind him before settling again, the movement subtle enough that most of the room wouldn’t notice.

Mor did. 

Her smile widened.

Cassian watched him for another moment, grin sharpening as his gaze also followed Azriel’s line of sight back across the hall.

Then he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. 

“So when are you going to admit that you sooo want to fuck Firecracker over there, hmm, brother?” Cassian murmured, tipping his head in her direction.

“Pig,” Amren and Mor said in unison.

Cassian straightened with exaggerated offense, throwing his hands up.

“Oh, c’mon!” he protested, gesturing loosely between Azriel and the far side of the hall. “You saw the way he moved. You saw the way she moved. I can’t be the only one thinking it.”

Mor rolled her eyes, though her smile lingered.

Amren just looked faintly disgusted.

Cassian leaned closer again, lowering his voice but not enough to hide the smug delight in it.

“You’re into her,” he sing-songed.

“Cassian,” Azriel said quietly.

Cassian’s grin widened. “Oh, you definitely are.”

Azriel’s eyes slid to him, slow and cool. “Do you want to keep your teeth?” he asked, tone dry. Cass' grin faltered into a mock-sulky pout, hands raised in surrender. 

Feyre rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her mouth.

Mor’s smile turned a shade more wicked. “You should hurry,” she said lightly. “Before someone else thanks her first.”

Something in Azriel’s expression went very still.

His gaze snapped back across the hall before he could stop it, instinct pulling his attention to where she stood beside Helion’s captain. The male had angled closer as he spoke, his head bent slightly toward hers to be heard over the murmurs of the room.

The shadows around him thickened, and for a heartbeat the faint gleam of his siphons burned through the fabric of his jacket like distant cobalt embers.

Mother save whoever thinks they have the right to t—

The sound of her soft laugh carried faintly through the room and his shadows stirred again, drifting a fraction in that direction before he pulled them back.

Fuck.

He exhaled slowly.

Cassian’s brows lifted.

“Well,” he murmured, glancing down at the shadows pooling restlessly around Azriel’s boots, “that’s new.”

Mor snorted quietly.

Rhys, who had watched the entire exchange with mild interest, only huffed a quiet laugh before his attention shifted toward Helion, who was approaching with Thesan in tow. 

“Your reception seems to have attracted interesting company tonight.”

Helion sighed faintly.

“Yes,” he said. “Unfortunately.”

“Whoever orchestrated this chose their moment carefully,” the Dawn Court High Lord said quietly. “Three High Lords in one room is not an opportunity that presents itself often.”

Rhys hummed in agreement.

Feyre’s attention returned briefly to the marble where the poisoned wine had been spilled before she joined the discussion, asking a quiet question about the compound Helion had identified. Cassian leaned in as well, his earlier amusement giving way to curiosity as he muttered something about the captured assassin still being alive long enough to talk.

Amren, naturally, inserted herself into the conversation with cool efficiency, offering a few pointed suggestions about how quickly the prisoner might start speaking if the proper pressure were applied.

The discussion shifted easily among them, Azriel, however, had already tuned most of it out.

The words blurred together into distant noise.

Mor lingered beside him for a moment longer, her knowing smile still tugging at the corner of her mouth as she followed his gaze across the hall. Then, with one last amused glance at him, she drifted away to join the others.

Azriel remained where he stood.

His mind kept circling back to one singular thought:

She risked her life to protect him.

It settled into his mind with uncomfortable weight.

His attention drifted again toward the far side of the room. But the place where she had been standing was empty.

The captain she had been speaking with remained there, now deep in conversation with one of the guards, but she herself had vanished somewhere into the shifting clusters of guests.

Sneaky little ember. 

Azriel’s shadows stirred.

One of them slipped away from the marble floor, gliding along the edge of the room before returning a moment later with a soft whisper against his senses.

Gone.

The shadow curled briefly around his wrist in quiet insistence.

Follow, they seemed to whisper in his ear. Follow.

Azriel’s gaze flicked once toward the tall archway leading out of the reception hall.

Behind him, the others were still occupied with the High Lords of Day and Dawn.

Good.

Azriel let the rest of the room fade into background noise as he winnowed into shadows, reappearing in the corridor beyond the reception hall.

The corridor was quieter, fae lights casting a gentle golden glow along the marble passage.

She hadn’t gone far. Azriel could already sense her presence just beyond the bend in the corridor. And as he turned the corner—

He found her there.