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backupasccountt · 4 months ago

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kitty cat azriel x f!reader

main masterlist - azriel masterlist

summary: meow meow meow

warnings: fluffiest fluff🥹

w/c: 1.6k

enjoy! 🐈

"i kinda want to adopt a kitty." you say out of nowhere. cassian, who was blatantly talking about some new illyrian techniques, immediately shuts up.

"woah, why? you know im allergic to those things." he says brushing off his shoulders some invisible hair, always with his theatrical behavior. you roll your eyes, faking annoyance. "dont talk like this!"

"like what?" he asks confused. your little shopping walk near to an end as you take the street that will lead you to your house.

"you're talking about kitties as they were things. like, bad things." you explain, pointing an accusatory finger at him. he shrugs his shoulders.

"look at you," he chuckles, some dimples appear on his cheeks, visible through his beard. "acting like my opinion would change yours."

you smirk, an idea popping into your mind like a blinding light that you cant ignore. "you know what? you're so right."

"told ya." he winks. "so, what now? are we going to buy a cat?" he stops walking, waiting for your answer. you dont even think twice.

minutes later, you're in front of a pet shelter. "stupid me. i would have thought id die in a battle as a warrior. turns out im gonna die because of some stupid beasts." you ignore him, deeply offended by his little comment. instead, you look at him with a glare. "what? im stating the truth!" he shrugs his shoulders once again.

the little place is cosy and filled with cute pets. as soon as you open the door, a little bell informs the owner of your presence. cassian decided to stay outside, fearing an imminent death. you find it incredibly ironic, the general of the Night Court forces, an Illyrian warrior, scared of some cute little pets.

it doesnt take you long. with the help of the sweet owner, who turns out to be a old lady, you immediately find what you were looking for. as soon as you saw her, a lovely little cat sleeping in her kennel, you knew you had to give her a home.

"found it?" cassian is on your side the moment you step out of the shelter. a smile brightens your features. "yeppy!" you exclaim, excited and incredibly proud of your choice. the little cat rests on your arms umbothered, occasionally purring when you give her some soft caresses under her neck. "isnt she just so adorable?" you squeal.

cassian looks at you, then at the animal between your arms, then at you again, a look of disgust on his face. "whatever." he says. you roll your eyes at him, this time not faking annoyance. "you're so boring." you protest. "i dont wanna see you for at least a week."

"goodbye to you too, y/n." he laughs, waving with his hand as you enter your home. "and good luck with Az."

telling your mate you adopted a cat will be a funny mission. you know he wouldnt actually be mad, but you like to play with him too much. and he, unfortunately, likes when you play with him too much.

"azzie, how mad would you be?" you're laying together on the bed, the morning sun enters the room, kissing with warmth your skin.

"depends, love. what have you done this time?" he murmurs against the skin of your neck, his face hidden in your collarbone.

"wait, why do you always assume i did something?" you complain, putting some space to look at your mate straight into his pretty hazel eyes, a dramatic look on your face.

he smirks, a relaxed yet sleepy expression painting his face into the most beautiful shade of happiness. you can only believe you reflect the same emotions on your skin. "hmm, well, then tell me what would make me mad."

he shifts, trying to reposition himself closer just like moments ago. "let's suppose i feel alone when you work." you start.

maybe the choice of words wasnt the best one, since the look on your mate's face when you said that was pure horror. "i dont mean that!"

"dont ever do that again, please, love." he whispers, pressing a kiss on your naked shoulder. you always loved moments like this, slow and full of love and softness. its a shame, really, that you have to admit this little thing to azriel. "okay, azzie." you say, placing a sweet peck on his lips.

"go ahead, then." he encourages you. you smile trying to hide the fact that you're nervous, but of course azriel can feel it. "love, are we still supposing?"

you look at him in the eyes, biting your lip. "no, i guess you were right. i did something."

"its okay." he reassures. a scarred hand gently caresses your face. "just tell me. wont be mad, i promise." his words are muffled by your own skin.

"i was feeling alone, as i said." he nods and the gesture gives you time to take a deep breath. "i know its always been you and i..."

you can literally feel his heart skip a bit, and you almost laugh. "y/n... you said-"

you force yourself to fake guilt. its true, you did something, not as horrendous as bringing a third to your lovely relationship, but this doesnt mean you cant play a little with your mate. "i know, im sorry."

this time its his turn to put some space between you two, the pure look of betrayal makes your heart clench. it doesnt last long, tho. his face quickly changes in something more raw, rage fills his eyes.

"azzie..." you try to explain.

"how can you lay on this bed?" his voice is deep, cold. you know what he's trying to do - shutting down all the emotions, playing the spymaster role. "how can you-"

"azriel." you try again. he shakes his head, moving until your bodies no longer touch. it leaves you cold, and guilt fills you head.

"i... i need a moment." he explain, even tho he doesnt owe you anything. your hearts clenches in your chest.

"let me explain." he looks at you while he gets up to find some clothes. you dont let your gaze wonder on his perfect sculpted body, instead, you hold the eye contact. "its not what you think."

"its not what i think? and what should i think?" his words are red with rage, filled with venom. "you were feeling alone, and-" at this point, you cant hold a little giggle. "oh, you're laughing, now?"

"my love, you completely misunderstood!" his forehead wrinkles with confusion. he opens his mouth, ready to speak and probably ask for a further explanation, but you dont let him.

you get up, uncaring of the state you are, naked and vulnerable, and quickly disappear behind the door of your room. you appear seconds later, a nightie covering your body and your hands hidden behind your back. "little friend." its all you say.

"y/n, you better-" you show him what you're hiding, and he stops in the middle of the sentence. you can see how quickly his expression changes, you can feel every emotion he's feeling.

the first look is surprise, then confusion, then an adorable smile adorns his pretty face, lightening his eyes with joy. "love, i thought-" a laugh interrupts him, contagious to the point you let out a little giggle too.

"surprise!" you smile, bringing the little animal to your chest, cuddling it with little caresses between its ears.

his eyes soften, watching the scene with adoration. he walks until he stands right in front of you. "a cat?" he asks, he raises his hand tentatively and let him cuddle the little pet too.

you look at him through your lashes, putting on the sweetest and most innocent expression ever. "i was feeling alone..." he rolls his eyes jokingly.

"i hate you." he teases. you tease him back, a smile adorning both your faces. "nuh-uh. i know you love me, azzie." he chuckles, placing a naive kiss on your lips.

you carefully pass the cat to him. "so you're not mad?" he shakes his head. you watch as he caresses the cat's fur with his fingertips, the touch so soft its barely there. you swear you fall in love with this man more and more every day.

"do you already have a name?" he asks, but his eyes are still concentrated on the little creature he is holding. its so small that one of his hands is enough to cover it all. "no. all i know is that its a she. but isnt she so cute?" you squeal, hugging the both of them, careful not to squeeze the kitty.

"shes purring!" azriel realizes, he looks at you like a little kid that just got the present he wanted for so long. gods, you really love this man.

"she already loves you, azzie. look, she is also sleeping."

"and?" he asks. you answer as its the most obvious thing in the whole Prythian. "means she trusts you!" you press a kiss on his cheek, then a little kiss on the top of her little head, feeling the vibrations of the purr on your lips.

you stay silent for a bit, just enjoying the little moment and the new member of your family. its azriel who breaks the silence first. "kitty."

"what?" you ask confused.

"we could name her kitty. 'cause she's a kitty, you know." you giggle.

you repeat the name, tasting the sound on your lips. "kitty cat." you say almost like a proud mother. "i like it."

hope you enjoyed♡

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backupasccountt · 5 months ago

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Obsessed with perv Lucien and reader! Can you do a part 2 of what happens after?

sorry this took so long:( part 1

perv!lucien who gets hard again when you look up at him with those pretty innocent eyes. its so wrong. so wrong that he feels this way. but he cant help it. you're face scrunches in a shocked expression when you notice the white liquid covering your chest. your cheeks flush when you realize you're revealing your breasts to your bestfriend.

perv!lucien has to hold back. you're covered in his cum. you just woken up and the first thing you saw was his cock, and you're worried about being naked? you're a precious little treat and lucien wants to devour you whole.

perv!lucien quickly puts his cock in his pants, taking advantage of the fact that you're whole attention is on the shame you feel. "im so sorry, my top probably moved during my sleep..." he bits his tongue to stop a moan. arent you perfect?

perv!lucien grabs your hand and stop your movements. only now you seem to realise whats really happening. you stare at him in disbelief, your eyes glossy and lips parted in pure shock. "dont cover..." he gets even closer, kneeling between your legs. his other hand caress your thigh gently.

perv!lucien who swears under his breath as you use a finger to collect his semen. "whats... whats-" your voice trembles. he use a finger to silence you. you're heart beats so fast that he's worried you might faint. "do you trust me?" all you can do is nod. the hand on your thigh slowly moves closer and closer to your most private part. you whisper his name, a note of panic in your tone, but he just presses the finger against your lips harder. he puts his hand under your shorts, a shiver crosses your entire body as he takes the little slip yuore wearing and pulls it, pinching you with the elastic. a gasp leaves your lips and he smirks like a fox. you dont know how to feel.

perv!lucien who completely removes his hand, leaving youre skin cold. he has to. he has to, otherwise he wont stop. you didnt do anything. you just woke up, put the way you were looking at him... eyes full of questions and trust and admiration and wonder. for now, thats enough for him. more than he had in the last years. you have to rest now, because tomorrow will be a long, long day.

main masterlist

#perv!lucien

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backupasccountt · 5 months ago

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backupasccountt · 5 months ago

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this is so motivating! i want to be the skinniest girl ever... now look at the pictures and choose who do you want to be babe! you chose the skinny girl? and you're eating dinner...? 😂

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backupasccountt · 5 months ago

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⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ what to do instead of binging ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

-count to 10 and take big breaths. you really want that? imagine how would it feel after - the guilt, the shame...

-RUIN. THE. FOOD. you open the cabinet and grab a bag of chips? open them and put water on them, or something like that.

-go for a walk instead. or work out.

-watch movies ans tv shows that talk about EDs! actually they keep me so motivated and give tips!!

-same with youtube, tumblr, twitter or any social that talk about EDs. i scroll through some thinspo here and that reminds me my goal!

-this might sound controversial, but allow yourself to satisfy your cravings once a week. you're craving pizza? you can have just a slice on a saturday night.

-find a hobby that takes lot of time. painting, reading,... they're great cause you also burn some calories while doing it!

-ice baths!!!! life saviours, and they burn lots of calories so great to prevent a binge, but also super great after!

-cigarettes! i combine going on a walk with smoking a cig and it works! also if i smoke too much i get dizzy and it suppresses my urge to eat/binge

will keep this updated <3

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backupasccountt · 5 months ago

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this is so motivating! i want to be the skinniest girl ever... now look at the pictures and choose who do you want to be babe! you chose the skinny girl? and you're eating dinner...? 😂

68 notes · View notes

backupasccountt · 6 months ago

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Snow

main masterlist - kallias masterlist

summary: You loved each other, Suspended on a thread, Of snow.

warnings: death, happy but also not very happy ending

w/c: 4k

a/n: this fic is basically "snow" by maxence fermine

enjoy! 🤍

Your son decided to return to visit his now elderly father, who had retired to the top of a mountain.

At dawn he left the palace. Saying goodbye to his friends and his mate, he made his way north.

It was a journey to the sun of his heart. The purity of the world and of the light offered themselves to his gaze.

As he walked with slow steps along the road he felt a pure and shimmering joy. He was free and happy. He carried with him as his only baggage the gold of faith and his love for his father.

But what was to come happened. Wanting to love the snow of his Court too much, he forgot to fear it. And it almost devoured him with its love.

While crossing a mountain, he lost himself and his luggage in a terrible snowstorm. He fell prey to the fury of the elements and barely managed to save himself through makeshift shelter.

Your son found shelter under the overhang of a cliff, sheltered from the wind, and there, shivering with cold, at the end of his strength, alone in the thick of darkness, alone in the depths of the snow, alone in the vertigo of his loneliness, alone in his silence, where he could have died a hundred times of cold, hunger, fatigue, disappointment and exhaustion, he survived.

He survived because what he saw that night, that thing, that extraordinary thing that came from afar, that sublime and beautiful thing was the most beautiful and sublime image he had ever been allowed to see in his entire life. And that image he could never forget again.

That thing so beautiful was you. When your son crouched beneath the rocky overhang, you were there before his eyes. You looked as fragile as a dream. Remained forever a young female, clothed only in a light white robe despite the great cold. You were dead. And you were resting under a meter of ice.

You were not really resting. You were dead. But your coffin was as transparent as crystal. Your son immediately felt connected to you, a total stranger.

For him it was not like standing in front of a dead body. Yours was not an ordinary death. You were a wonderful presence.

First of all, you were wearing only a light robe. What were you doing, dressed like that, under three feet of ice? This was the first question that came to his mind. But he could not find an answer.

Where were you from? How long had you been a prisoner of that transparent, perennial trap? And, come to think of it, were you real?

You, the young female trapped under the ice, seemed to him as fragile and tender as a dream. The radiance of your golden hair responded like a flashlight flame. You clearly did not belong to his Court. Your eyelids, though closed, allowed the icy blue of your eyes to shine through, as if the wear and tear of the ice had diaphanoused the tenuous skin that protected your gaze. Your face was as white as snow.

He looked at you in silence, silently wondering why he felt so much affection for you.

He thought you were a dream.

It seemed to him that your image was being softly shaped by the geometry of his dreams. But in fact your vision was not the result of a hallucination at all. You stood there, under the ice, three feet from your son, and he loved you dearly.

He stayed all evening filling his eyes with you. And he did not tire of it for a single moment. There he was, motionless despite the cold, contemplating what he had never hoped to dream of.

For him, that night, time stood still.

Who were you? And why were you in that place?

He did not know.

But he knew one thing, one thing only, sad and beautiful: your face asleep under the ice would never die.

At first light of day, your son planted a cross in the precise place where he had made your gruesome discovery. And he resumed the path in search of his father.

He could never have forgotten you. Your face haunted him all the way.

He went through the whole Court, and one morning he came to the door of father's dwelling. A servant opened it for him.

He stepped aside with a bow, letting him in. He waited for Kallias in a cozy parlor, comforted by the warmth coming from the fireplace.

When the male entered the room he embraced him.

"I have missed you." Said your mate to your son. He responded with equal sentiment.

One evening he asked Kallias, "What was my mother like?" He stopped breathing for a brief moment. He had never asked anything about you.

"I would never have seen the light if it hadn't been for her."

"What was she like?" He insisted.

"Love is the most difficult art. And writing, dancing, composing, painting, even running a Court are the same thing as loving. Funambulisms. The difficult thing is to advance without falling. I, in the end fell because of my love for her. But art saved me from despair and death. It's a long story, I think it would bore you."

"No." He begged him. "Please tell it to me!"

Kallias took a deep breath. "It goes back to when I was still young, a mere heir, just like you."

Your son pleaded him again to continue, and in the face of such insistence, he plunged into memories.

"It all began by magic. One day near the Solstice, as I was returning from a fight, I fell in love with your mother. She was a very different female from any I had ever known. At that time, Amarantha had just set foot in Prythian. I had participated in a very violent battle that had ended in a brilliant, beautiful and unpredictable victory. So I was returning as a winner. Triumphant but wounded. A soldier had disemboweled a male in front of me, I still had the senses of that scene: the taste of mud and blood everywhere in my mouth, the enemy soldiers rushing at him, that hostile face furrowed with hatred. The male had lunged at me, ready to stab me. Then I had felt something push me away, and then nothing but a bloody body from which the guts hung. But at the time it was an honor, the joys of war. One had to die or come back wounded.

I could never forget the sight of that body slumped on the ground. Then I fainted. They took me for dead. I stayed there all night under the lifeless body. The next morning someone heard my groans. They lifted the body and discovered my horrified face, the face of the heir. They treated me, and for several days I continued to deliriate. After a week, there was still horror in my eyes.

My father-your grandfather-came to me to congratulate me, and I was proud, but with a pride nonetheless clouded by the pain of what I had experienced.

Finally, when I had recovered my strength, I took the road back. I did not want to fight anymore, and not so much because of the wounds inflicted on me - since the beginning of Amarantha's tyranny I had been wounded six times - but because of the sheer disgust I felt towards war. I, the very one, the heir to the Winter Court, who had pledged my allegiance to our armies, realized that I no longer had any desire to kill.

I therefore left the army and set out on foot for home. And it was there, on the way back, that the miracle was accomplished.

Crippled by the cold, at the end of my strength, with the horror of war still in my eyes, alone in the thick of the darkness and tragedy I had just experienced alone in the abyss of winter, alone with the vertigo of loneliness, alone in my silence, where I could have died a hundred times of cold, hunger, fatigue, disappointment and exhaustion, I survived.

I survived because what I saw that day, that thing, that extraordinary thing that came from a distant place, sent by Mother to compensate for the horror of the male slumped on the ground, that sublime and beautiful thing was the most sublime and beautiful image I had ever been allowed to see in my entire life. And that image I could never forget again.

The image was that of a young female balancing on a tightrope, a young female as light as a bird, a funambulist who was performing with the grace of a squirrel above a silvery river. She was very high in the sky. More than walking the tightrope she floated through the air as if by magic. I watched her glide suavely into the blue up there, standing in front of her invisible wire, barbell in her hands, one would have called her an angel.

I slowly approached the river, and the beauty of the young female captivated me. It was the first time I had seen a Fae from another Continent. She seemed to be flying. Intrigued, I advanced further. She was now perfectly above me.

A dense crowd had gathered on the shore to witness the strange apparition. I approached an old man and, still looking at her, asked him, "Who is she?"

The old man, without even looking at me, replied with a tremor in his voice, "She is a funambulist. Or a bird lost in the air."

She was a funambulist, and her life followed a single line. Straight.

She was from another continent. Her name was Y/n. They had nicknamed her Snow, because she had delicate features and ice-colored eyes. And also because when she darted through the air she seemed as light as a snowflake.

This is how she had begun. One day, while still a child, her path had crossed that of a traveling circus. Flabbergasted, she had discovered the possibility of daydreaming. Heedless of the dangers, she had decided to make it her own career. She had started with a tightrope stretched a few inches off the ground. Then, little by little, she had gone higher and higher both in height and in the mastery of her art. And so she had become the first female funambulist in the Winter Court. Up on the tightrope, she had never come down again.

My Y/n had become a funambulist for the sake of balance. She, whose life unfolded like a winding thread, littered with twists and turns that intertwined and dissolved the sinuosities of fate and the insipidness of existence, excelled in the subtle and insidious art of making evolutions on a tightrope.

She never felt more at ease than when she walked the wire a thousand feet above the ground. Straight ahead. Without ever deviating a single millimeter from her course.

It was her destiny.

To advance step by step.

From one end of life to the other.

Her prowess had conquered all the squares of my Court.

At nineteen, my Snow had already traveled more than a hundred kilometers on her tightrope, often risking her life. She had stretched her tightrope between the two towers of my palace and had balanced several hours above the rope, like an Esmeralda made of wind, snow, and silence.

Then she had repeated her feats in every building I owned, each time defying the laws of balance.

She was no mere funambulist. She proceeded through the air as if by magic.

Looking at her so far up there, her body standing upright in the sky like a white flame and her hair caressed by the wind, one would have called her the snow goddess. For in reality the hardest thing for her was not keeping her balance, or even mastering fear, much less walking that endless tightrope, on that thread of music interspersed with dazzling vertigo. The hardest thing, when she advanced into the light of the world, was not to turn into a snowflake.

By now they were claiming her from every corner of the Court of Winter. So she went and crossed with her rope into the Summer Court. Then, almost without realizing it, she made it all the way to the Court of Dawn, where I traveled only to be enraptured watching her. Never before had a performer from one Court performed in another, not in such period.

And I looked at her and already loved her. In my eyes, your mother seemed at once poetry, painting, calligraphy, dance and music. She was Snow and represented all the beauty of art.

When the beautiful stranger had finished the number on the tightrope and had returned to earth, I could not restrain my desire to approach her. I stepped forward and, in doing so, discovered the fineness of her features, the design of her mouth, the line of her eyebrows, and knew instantly that never again would I forget that face. I looked into her eyes, and in turn Snow squared me. There was no need for words. She smiled at me, and in that smile I lost my soul.

I knelt down, and said, "You are what I have been looking for. You are my mate."

Snow, on the other hand, was not looking for anyone. But my gesture seemed to her of such beauty that she delighted in it. And she married me.

The first years were happy. A happy event came to strengthen our bond. You.

You possess your mother's diaphanous beauty and my white hair. Our life was one of peace and silence. Gradually Snow settled more and more into my Court. Sometimes she felt homesick for her land, but she never complained about it.

What she missed most of all was her craft as a funambulist.

One night she dreamed of flying.

The next day, waking up, she thought about the dream again. Then she thought no more about it. The Solstice came, then passed. You grew in the ecstasy of light. Snow was happy. In one hand she held my love and in the other her own heart, which she offered to you. And that fragile barbell served to keep her balanced on the thread of happiness.

But one day the balance of that balance wheel became so fragile that it broke. One day the affection lavished on her by her loved ones was no longer enough to make her happy. She cruelly missed the life in the air. She thirsted again for vertigo, for thrills, for conquest. She thought only of becoming a funambulist again.

She asked permission to arrange one last performance. She wanted to stretch a rope from one mountain to another in the heart of our mountains.

Surely I estimated that desire insane, deeming the idea of endangering his life senseless, but, as a true mate, I bowed and agreed.

I had two of the best ropes come from the Autumn Court: one was short and thin, the other much thicker and five hundred yards long. Then I sent two servants to fasten the longer cable between the two highest peaks of the mountains.

Y/n slipped the barbell out of its case, put on her ballerina shoes, and, stretching the smaller cable in the garden, practiced for hours over tiny mountains of snow and a miniature ocean on which chunks of ice floated.

I did not tire of watching her. My mate was an unrivaled funambulist.

On that wire she was so happy, so beautiful, so ethereal, that every day I thanked Mother for giving her to me. Her hair was fluttering. She had a clear gaze. And she was walking on air.

The performance was set for the first days of the New Year. A crowd gathered from all over Prythian to witness your mother's feats.

When Snow placed her feet on the cable, the crowd rumbled. Up there, so high it made one dizzy just looking at her, she looked like a tiny white dot in space, a snowflake in the immensity of the sky. Armed with her barbell, for more than an hour and a half Snow performed high above the ground, slowly approaching the opposite side of the mountain. Below, I held my breath. One false step and it was certain death.

But she, perfectly mastering her art, advanced inexorably. Step by step. Blow after blow. Silence after silence. From vertigo to vertigo. She never stumbled.

It was the thread, which broke. Surely badly secured, the cable broke loose from the rock and plunged my mate and barbell into a fall of almost a thousand feet.

Those who saw her disappear there, in the heart of our mountains, took her for a bird falling from the sky.

Her body, surely fallen into a crevasse, was never found again. Snow had become snow and slept in the bed of her whiteness.

I never recovered from the loss of my wife. My two clumsy servants were dismissed without any other form of revenge on my part. A few days later it turned out that they had killed themselves by throwing themselves off a cliff. I felt neither joy nor sorrow.

I saw only one thing: my pain. I knew only one thing: that never again would I find the woman I had loved. Never again would I see Snow again. Never again would I see beauty again. Back I was in my home, now devoid of any joy, I threw off the robes of the High Lord. I promised myself that I would devote myself to your education and art. To absolute art.

So it was that I became, for love of a woman, a poet, musician, calligrapher, dancer. And painter. Because painting was clearly the most faithful link between the lost face and absolute art, the surest means of finding Snow again. And so in that art I excelled.

I got the equipment from a paint merchant - a wooden easel, silk brushes, a palette, an endless amount of colors -, had a small hut built in the garden and locked myself in it. I spent long years there, painting my mate whom I would never see again except in dreams.

However, I was never satisfied with one's work.

Her paintings, though splendid, seemed to me too colorful, too little resemblance. To reproduce Snow accurately I would have to make a completely white, virgin, purified painting. How to paint whiteness? My Y/n portraits were all beautiful, but there were none that resembled Snow.

I kept perfecting my art, day after day, night after night, never getting tired. Then I began to feel old. You, already united in a bond and grown up, went to live far away.

I found myself alone in front of the canvas. I would wear out my eyesight by dint of contemplating the image of my beautiful disappearance.

And one day, because of that incessant work, I became almost blind. And it was that very day, from the abyss of my grief, I painted the whitest and most beautiful of all her portraits.

There. Here the story ends. I never forgot your mother, just as I never ceased to revere and dipimg her. Even when I sank into myself. Especially when I sunk into myself. From the deepest blackness, I painted whiteness, discovered purity. Then I discovered that true light and true colors are always intrisically linked to the beauty of the soul.

Starting from the face of my beloved, I cultivated absolute art. Starting from the total absence of light I took hold of it and its nuances."

Kallias fell silent. Your son was seized with dizziness. He looked at his father and said, "I know where my mother is. I met her on my way here. She is dead, but it is as if she is still alive. She lives in a glass coffin. She is so beautiful that I stayed a whole night contemplating her." As he spoke he had a look lost in the void, his eyes still veiled by the breath of the dream. The story had been long and throbbing. Returning to the real world was difficult.

Your beloved merely smiled at the young man and nodded his approval. But it was clear he did not believe him. "How do you know? No one knows where she is. You don't even know what your mother's face looks like."

"The mountain digested her and returned her body. She is there, under the ice, a meter from the surface. She is there, in her glass coffin, untouched, as beautiful as when you met her. I swear I know where she is. I saw her by accident, coming here. Her face impressed me so much that I stayed beside her all night. I planted a cross at the site of her ice tomb. If you wish, I can lead you to her."

Kallias realized that he was speaking the truth, and he could not hold back a tear.

"I knew that one day she would send me a messenger. But I did not know that this messenger would come so late in my life. And what's more, my son." Then he turned to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "And to say that since she died every day I have tried to find her again in painting, in music, in poetry, the snow beauty of her face. And to say that now her face is within my sight. And to say that I will not be able to see her."

The next day your son asked your mate, "Have you thought about my proposal? When do you wish me to take you before my mother's grave?"

Kallias sighed, then replied in a sad voice, "My son. This trip would be useless. I know you speak the truth, but what good would it do for an old man like me, now almost blind, to find the grave of a dead woman? Where she is, my bride is at peace. May her isolation be respected for eternity." Then he took his leave and disappeared into his room.

A month passed. Your son dared not speak of you in the presence of your husband. Besides, Kallias himself seemed to avoid the subject.

Every day, his father would simply say hello before breakfast. Then he would remain invisible for the rest of the day, and during dinner he would remain silent.

But then, one morning, standing on the bank of a river, your mate said to him, "Tomorrow we're going to find Snow."

They left at dawn. Your son walked ahead, and Kallias followed him, orienting himself with the sound of his footsteps.

Whenever the young male offered his hand to help him over some steeper or treacherous passage, your beloved refused it and punctually overcame the obstacle without need of help.

At night they slept in villages on mats spread out on the ground. When, upon entering a village, Kallias introduced himself and announced his presence, the doors opened in front of him as if by magic. Your son was amazed ti how deeply everyone seemed to respect and admire his father. And he understood how fortunate he was to still have him beside him.

Not everyone gets to meet divinities while still alive.

The journey was long, unceasingly white. White as the silence that accompanied them. White as the snow that covered the valleys.

Finally, one morning, the first mountain peaks appeared. Their road began to climb toward the sky and its purity.

They were the hardest hours.

His father began to show signs of fatigue. But he pretended not to, since they were no longer far behind. The journey was coming to an end.

When he saw the cross, your son trembled with emotion.

"Father!" He shouted. "I found it!" He rushed under the rock, there where, on a stormy night, he had discovered the grave of you, his mother, and had a cry of surprise.

"What is it?" Kallias asked impaneled. "Has snow disappeared forever in the heart of the mountain? Has there been an avalanche?"

"No." Said your son. "Far from it. It is as if the Mother has understood our appeal and foreseen our coming. Y/n is there. But her body is even closer than last time. She is barely two or three centimeters from the veil of ice. I can almost touch her."

You were there. You, a creature so beautiful, so bare, as fragile as a dream. You were dead, yet you seemed alive. You were resting under the ice. And soon you would emerge from your grave. Your body so delicate and your skin so diaphanous made you look even more fragile.

Your son threw himself on all fours and scratched the ice with his fingernails. Finally your face appeared. He took your husband's hand and placed it on your face.

"Do you feel her face? Her skin?" Your beloved's hand caressed your cheek. He had become completely blind. But he did not need his eyes to recognize the lines of your face. You were so well preserved that the simple pressure of his palm on your eyelids was enough for him: "It's really her. It's my Snow. You did not lie to me." He fell to his knees before you and wept his hot tears on your icy face, having found again his mate.

Kallias never descended from the mountain. He lay down on the ice, next to you, his greatest love, and closed his eyes.

Your son tried to dissuade him by telling him that to stay there was madness, but his father replied in a calm voice, "Leave me alone. I have found my place. For eternity."

Then he fell asleep beside your intact body. He died letting himself be overcome by the whiteness of the world. He was happy. At the height of your heart.

You loved each other

Suspended on a thread

Of snow.

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backupasccountt · 6 months ago

Text

a court of shadows and darkness

main masterlist - azriel masterlist - previous

chapter six

summary: Selaene, Rhysand's sister, Azriel's mate runs away after the High Lord of Spring tries to kill her.

warnings: none

enjoy! 🖤

When the Fae's bare feet touch the ground, when her bare arms come in contact with the frigid winter air, Selaene is not worried.

But when she allows herself to open her eyes again, eager to see that world she has waited so long for, a scream of pain tears through her lungs. She has never experienced anything like it: such pain in her eyes that she thinks they are on fire.

Her fingers apply pressure, desperate to relieve such intense burning, and the passerby who helped her lays his hands on her face in a vain attempt to get her own fingers out of her own eyes. Tears flowed freely down her reddened cheeks from the stinging air.

She has been so stupid, so greedy in wanting to savor light and freedom and colors again, that she has forgotten that her eyes are not used to it. Now she will be lucky if she is not blind.

"Take it easy... take it easy." The male offers her comforting words, but he doesn't know what to do. Maybe he should call his mate and tell her that a little girl has appeared randomly after he winnowed in the border village. But the young fae is screaming and crying and he doesn't know why, and at the moment contacting his beloved on the other side of his Court is out of the question.

He is so focused on removing her hands from her eyes, which press so hard that she seems to want to gouge them out herself, that he doesn't notices she is dressed only in an old nightgown. Bloodstained and torn. The male sighs and takes off his coat, offering it to her.

He helps her up, puts the head around her shoulders and uses the hood to cover her eyes. Selaene on the other hand does nothing to go along with the movements, but she does not object either.

The stabbing pain has reduced to occasional twinges, and she realizes only later that she is now standing and her body no longer shakes from the cold, her teeth having stopped chattering.

Whoever the male is, he is kind, she thinks. He could have left her there, or worse. Instead he is helping her, even giving her his hood to cover her eyes.

Kallias, the High Lord of the Winter Court lets out a big sigh and defeated, takes the female's arm. Even today he will not be able to visit the village, it is as if fate did it on purpose.

One moment they are at the borders, the next they are in a noisy place, and even though she doesn't see them, she hears a lot of people circling around them offering help.

Selaene wants to yell at whoever he is, to say they had to stay there, in the exact spot he passed and get her sister, but she keeps quiet.

She lets the Fae's arm guide her to a room that smells of rosemary and sage. Only now, little by little, is her body getting used to the world again. Except for her eyes, which she keeps tightly shut in fear of opening them and seeing... nothing. She is afraid that she has gone blind.

"Tyna, can you call Vivi?" The male's voice is authoritative. She wants to explain that there is no need for them to do anything, that she would just like them to call her brother and mate.

A twinge in her heart makes her gasp. Azriel. She searches inside her, retraces that bond that has become dry and dead, and reaches the end of her companion, only to find... a wall. She can't reach out to him, to make that wonderful thing that connects them flourish again, because now... it is Azriel who is not there.The man must have noticed the change in the Fae's mood, because he turns to her.

"Who are you? How did you end up with me?"

"I was-I was stuck in the UnderWorld."Selaene does not even try to put up a fight. All this time she has never thought about the possibility that Azriel was...

"What?" He asks and does not mask surprise, but the female does not answer.

"Are you part of the Night Court?" The fae nods in assent from under her hood. "Are you injured?"

"No."

A female suddenly enters the room. "Kal. What happened?"

"She appeared totally at random when I winnoweed, says she got stuck in the UnderWorld and now--her eyes, I don't know, Viv."

There is a long pause between the two, and Selaene has to suppress the urge to peek. She focuses on how she feels, rather. Besides the smell of spices, she can sense the two Fae and suspects they are companions. "All right. I'll go get Mor, then."

Selaene has no idea who the mentioned female is, but she does not open her mouth. She hears light footsteps moving away until they disappear. The male remains in the room with her. "Okay. I leave you in the hands of Tyna, our healer. And my mate has gone to call for help in your Court. Can you tell me your name?"

Selaene hesitates. "I am Selaene."

The male emits a sound of surprise that leaves the Fae quite puzzled, seeming to hurry away without so much as a word. After a couple of minutes, light pattering can be heard in the room on the floor.

"Hi. I'm Tyna and I'll help you see. How long were you in the absence of light?" A soft, warm voice envelops her, and she feels cuddled by the female who is taking care of her.

"I ... I don't know. More than four centuries."

"And as soon as you came back, did you open your eyes?" Selaene nods. "You stupid, stupid girl. " She says and her face appears under the hood, she feels her warm breath against his.

"Come on, try to open one eye, slowly. Don't hold them tight, or you'll hurt yourself." Selaene follows her instructions, and when she finally opens one eye she meets the face of a female with chubby cheeks and ice-colored eyes.

"There you are." She says softly, "now close it and open the other, ever so slowly."

Once she ascertains that the young girl has not blinded herself, the healer invites her to keep her eyes open under the hood as she fetches her a small piece of black cloth.

"What is it?" asks Selaene passing the small square between her fingertips. Tyna takes her by the arm and helps her up, leading her to the nearest window.

"Put it in front of your eyes and look out, we will use a thinner cloth each time."

The young female positions herself in front of the window and holds the cloth in front of her eyes with one hand, while she removes the hood from her head with the other.

"Does it hurt, honey?" Selaene shakes her head and a smile spreads across her face as she catches a glimpse of snowy mountains outside the window.

They remind her of the Illyrian steppes. Her wings twitch involuntarily. How she has missed flying, how she misses home.

Tyna passes her other types of cloth, all gradually finer and less dark, until finally she declares that her eyes are apposite and she can look out without the help of anything.

"Maybe don't look straight into the sun, but there's not much here anyway." The comment warms her heart, somehow. When was the last time she looked into the face of another person?

"I would like to go back to my home."

"Don't worry, stay here. Our Lady has gone to call the Third-in-Command of the Night Court. She will take you home." The Fae nods and watches the female figure as she leaves the room.

Now that she finds herself alone and can see, she studies her surroundings. Around her are various dried herbs, and she is probably in Tyna's study. There is a mirror near the sink, and she decides to observe herself after almost five hundred years. She approaches slowly keeping her gaze down, and after a long breath and resting her hands on the pottery for support, Selaene looks straight into her eyes. She is smug with her reflection: she is exactly as she was all those years ago. She was never vain, but she knew she was a beautiful female, and Azriel did not fail to repeat this to her every day, making her blush. Her eyes are still bright purple, and her hair is still black and shiny, just as long as it was. The mirror is too small to mirror her wings in full, but it was one of the few things she had bothered to do in the UnderWorld: the exercises Cassian made her do to keep her wing and back muscles in training. The only thing that has changed is her complexion, once honey-colored, now turned a ghostly hue.

Voices in the distance distract her from her thoughts, and she hurries back to sit on the small cot as before. "Oh, there you are." The white-haired female greets her, the same as before. She must be the one who called the blond-haired Fae to her side. Could it be her Mor?

In her scent she recognizes some familiar trace, but she could not trace it back to anything or anyone in particular.

Mor watches her in surprise, a distressed expression aging her face as she seems to be having a silent conversation with the white-haired female. Selaene does not like this. Is she a Daemati too? She tries to check her mental shields, but cannot remember how. The Fae eventually leaves after a brief embrace with the blonde.

"Is your name Selaene?" A question asked in such a hopeful tone, if she is really Mor, then she is the Third in Command of the High Lord of the Night Court. Which is... her brother.

"Are you Mor?" The blonde seems annoyed by her question and the fact that she did not answer, but then she smiles.

"You look just as I imagined you." She says, and her eyes glaze over. Selaene hasn't allowed herself to cry yet, and she won't allow herself to until she knows her family is okay, but Mor is giving her more hope in these minutes than in most of her life.

"Let's go home, Selaene." She tells her after clearing her throat, her voice cracked. She holds out a hand and the young girl studies it before taking it between her own.

"Shall we go to Velaris?" Mor smiles at her, but does not answer. The young woman's heart could burst with joy at any moment. The blonde's grip tightens on her hand, and in the blink of an eye, the two find themselves at the gates of Velaris. "Welcome home, Selaena."

Only now, only after setting foot in her city, in her home, does the fae allow herself to cry. She does not cry as she expected: her tears are silent and of pure wonder. Mor squeezes her hand one more time before bringing it back along her own sides. "Come on, let's walk to the River House."

They walk silently, the blonde not wanting to disturb Selaene. Not when there is such wonder, such happiness in her gaze. She is just as she expected, a copy of her cousin. Gods, she was her cousin.

"Selaene. We haven't introduced ourselves." She tells her after they stopped at a stall and bought her a typical treat-the Fae did not ask for it, but Mor saw how her pupils dilated at such a delicacy, "I am Mor. And I am your cousin. And your brother's cousin."

At her words Selaene's heart gave a little sinking. "Is he-he is here? Is he okay?"

"He doesn't know you're here, we're going to see him." She cannot stop the tears even if she wanted to. Mor hands her food, but she is not hungry. She can't even remember the taste of the food, can't remember the last thing she ate or when.

"I want to go to him right away." Mor chuckles and makes her way through the crowd. "They're all there, honey. We were having dinner."

It takes ten minutes on foot. Ten terrible minutes in which Selaene's heart does nothing but beat, beat, beat. Louder and louder.

"Here we are."

As soon as they enter the front door, the smell of Rhysand, a female and something else fills her nostrils, and she smiles at the familiarity she had forgotten.

She hears his voice, their voices. She hears the clatter of cutlery and the laughter of a family.

Mor enters first, but the room freezes at the new, well, not new, found smell. Rhysand, her brother, oh gods, her brother gets up to see who is hiding behind his cousin.

And when their gazes meet...

tags: @helo1281917

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backupasccountt · 6 months ago

Text

the Assassin

main masterlist - eris masterlist

summary: you're the Night Court Assassin and you were ordered to kill Eris Vanserra.

warnings: none

w/c: 2.5k

"Rhysand, I think it's a bad idea. We must not mix personal business with court business." His jaw twitches, his eyes burn into your skin.

"Sounds to me like you're the one doing it, is there any reason stopping you from killing Eris?" The calm, controlled tone makes you want to slap him. He may be your High Lord, but he is just so stupid sometimes. You've been in his office for a good half hour trying to make him understand that Beron's heir is the only current ally you have in the Autumn Court, and that he cannot be swayed by events that happened five hundred years ago when Eris was still a child.

"Rhysand. I already told you, you cannot order me to kill your only ally. He may be an asshole, but he has always shown himself loyal." You raise your voice in annoyance, standing up with a snap, your hands resting on his desk. He seems to assess the situation, then offers you a charming smile, the kind he uses to convince people. It doesn't work with you; you know his techniques too well.

"It is your High Lord who commands you, not Rhysand." You roll your eyes and leave the room without saying a word. You've always hated it when he says that.

You love Rhysand, you love the Night Court and the Inner Circle, you really do. They are your family, and you would give your life for them, you would kill for them, but sometimes you feel like instead of brains they have salt. Of course you're going to try every possible way not to kill Eris, and you don't care much about lying to Rhysand. You seem to be the only one who understands that if it were ever discovered that it was the Night Court a war would begin, and that Beron's heir is the only chance they have of alliance with the Autumn Court. Without him there would be no relationship. Eris may be an asshole, but he is an educated male and he knows that it is not convenient for him to betray you in any way. So why is it you who have to betray him?

It will be harder than expected to fake Eris's death and you do not know if you will succeed. A few hours later, after saying goodbye to everyone, you find yourself in a forest in the Autumn Court with a bag and nothing else. The autumnal air makes you shiver, and you wonder why you didn't bring a coat. You arrive at the nearest village and stay there until you have studied the male's movements thoroughly, then take action. Although you do not share the same opinion as Rhysand, you are glad to be back on the mission. It's been months since you took part in one, and you missed it, especially the part where you can get some time away from home without too many excuses. You see little houses in the distance, and you sigh with relief. You just want a hot meal and a bed to rest; your plan can start tomorrow.

You use the light hood to hide your face, but in all these centuries you have always managed to keep your identity a secret, no one knows who the Night Court Assassin is, they probably don't even know you are part of it. As soon as you rest your head on the pillow, your eyes close.

You inevitably find yourself in front of Beron's palace, hidden in the branches of the shrubs, and you stand still and watch. You hope Eris will come out soon, but you are not sure at this point-it is already late afternoon. You know he is forced out and cannot transmute directly inside his palace, so he has to be inside.

"Damn." You mutter under your breath, the air is getting cold again, and a shiver shakes your back. You weren't prepared for all this cold.

Footsteps from behind shake you out of your little misery, and you turn sharply to find yourself facing the Heir of the Autumn Court.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He looks at you with a sly grin on his face, and you want to beat him until he is disfigured, but he is your ally. Nonetheless, you clasp your hand over the small dagger given to you by Amren, filled with embedded rubies.

"What do we have here?" He says moving closer and closer. You assume a fighting stance, making him laugh. His laughter runs through you in a shiver. It must be the cold, you think. "The Assassin of the Night Court. Rhysand sent you to kill me." His mask of coldness does not fade but you can see his eyes, for a brief moment, shine in a different, disappointed light. You gloss over how Eris knows your identity, leaving the subject for later.

"Yes. Rhysand sent me to kill you, but I will not take part in this." You put the dagger back in its case after realizing he will not harm you, under the his watchful gaze. His eyes squint slightly, his eyebrows arched. "Are you surprised?" You ask him chuckling. As much as you disagree with Rhysand's choice, you also know that from Eris it would be foolish not to expect such a thing. Your High Lord is an unpredictable male who is so incredibly full of himself that he thinks he can afford such strategic moves.

"Why?" He asks you harshly, his jaw clenched and his eyes unhappy. Maybe, given his reaction, he really did trust Rhysand.

While you would like to explain your plan to him, at the same time you don't know if you can put your entire trust in him. Eventually your rational side prevails, and you decide to remain vague. You will not reveal the weaknesses of your Court, that is, Rhysand's stupidity, to -yes, an ally- but to a member of another Court. Especially since his father is still alive. "I do not know. I just follow orders."

"Liar." His mocking tone mixed with his smirk make you bring a hand back to the dagger, its presence under your fingertips a comforting chill. Yes, he's definitely an asshole, though.

"I'm not- you know what, forget it." You say as you roll your eyes. You move to get past him, but he grabs your wrist, blocking you before you can. You're so close that you feel his breath warm your face, and in a way you're grateful: you haven't felt your nose in a while now. His eyes settle on yours and you swear you can see flames burning inside.

"You don't go anywhere without first telling me what your intentions are." The tone is cold, so at odds with the warmth emanating from his body. You don't look away and keep your gaze on him, your chin high and proud. If he thinks he's intimidating you, he's a fool. You have certainly not been appointed the Assassin of the Night Court at random.

"I go where I please. When I please." You answer just as coldly, your jaw tight and your eyes bloodshot.

"Until proven otherwise you are in my Court, Assassin." Until proven otherwise you have enough evidence to have him sentenced to death for treason by his Court. But you decide to keep quiet. Your lips are clamped in a hard line, your body tense partly from the cold, partly because you are annoyed. When he realizes you won't give him the satisfaction of a pointless bickering, he lets go of your wrist and steps back. You almost want to complain about being denied his warmth, but you call yourself stupid for such a thought. Eris is a charming male, but you must remain professional. And he is an prick, you mentally remind yourself.

"And when your High Lord notices that you have not completed your assignment, what will he do to you?" The question leaves you speechless for moments. No, not his question, but his voice. His tone almost ... worried. You imagine it's because his body has deserted him from the adrenaline of the moment, and now questions must be filling his mind. It has happened before with your past victims, but there was never time to converse with them. You always killed them first, you realize.

"So?" He insists, but you don't honestly know what to answer. It never occurred to you to disregard orders. You have always killed anyone without much question, always indifferent. In the end, blood is blood, no matter whose. It will always be red and warm, won't it? You shrug your shoulders. Eris arches his eyebrows, his gaze studies your figure.

"I don't know. I never happen to object." You admit.

"Why do you oppose, then? Kill me." The tone is sarcastic, but it still leaves you stunned. There is some kind of internal struggle in your mind, something you don't understand. His questions strike deeper and you just don't understand why, since they are not that personal.

"No..." You whisper, and stand amazed at yourself. Your tone is feeble, like a wounded fawn. What the hell? You cough a couple of times, embarrassed.

"I don't think it's appropriate. You're the only ally of the Autumn Court that my Court possesses. I can't kill you." Eris does not respond. You take a moment to observe him, not to observe his unmistakable beauty, but to observe just...him. The cuticles around his nails are reddened, the now-dried blood staining them red. One hand is so clenched around the sword at his side that his knuckles have turned white, his gaze is nervous, and you notice how he looks around as if expecting someone to jump out at any moment.

"Then leave, and don't come back. You have to say these things to your little friend, not to me." And while before it was really him who blocked you, now he seems the first to want to leave. You try to reach out a hand as he takes the first step, but he reacts badly to the contact: he pulls it away annoyed, his lips rippling in a disgusted grin. It shouldn't displease you, but it does.

"He won't listen to me, Eris." You hope he reads between the lines. Stay, we have so much to talk about. But he shakes his head, and leaves you alone in the middle of the now-darkened forest, the only thing you're left with is the distant sound of the leaves rattling when he steps on them.

The truth is that you have no plan. For the first time in your long life you admit to yourself that you have no idea how to proceed. This is exactly because you do not cover the role of Azriel: you are not capable of mixing strategy and plans and all these things at your job. You kill, kill, kill. That's the only thing you can do flawlessly. So now that you are faced with such a situation you are even scared.

You lie in bed for hours, the sun now clearing the sky, and you decide to get up. What would be the point of staying in bed and doing nothing? You opt for a coffee at some old inn in the small village, hoping you'll wake up. And awaken some ideas with you. The only conclusion you have come to tonight is that you have little time.

There are several possibilities, and all of them include having to act now to prevent them. Starting right with Eris. You have to seek him out and talk to him again, before he gets to Rhysand and before he kicks you out of his Court. At least there is no chance of him running to his father, you think relieved.

Four cups of pure caffeine later, you walk through the woods again, the usual cold breeze giving you goose bumps. You stand on a tree branch, your legs dangling and your back resting lazily against the trunk. The Autumn Court may be cold, but it is wonderful. The bright colors are able to cheer up your tattered mood from yesterday's night and meeting, and distract you from the cold. It is a different beauty from what you are used to: Velaris is boisterous, always full of life, and full of construction. As beautiful as it is, you think this is more so. It is calmer, more natural, more intimate. There are no big cities, but small self-sufficient villages, nature prevails over buildings.

You spend the whole day on the branch. You have lunch with an apple that you cut with your dagger, some cheese and bread. You have dinner with dried meat and a dessert you picked up at the inn this morning. You wait for Eris to return, or at least for there to be any movement at the palace. But nothing.

The radio silence lasts longer than necessary. At this point you think it's some kind of torture the redhead is subjecting you to. Every day you sit in your tree, eat apples and typical cheeses that you buy in the morning in the village, and do nothing. Eris never goes out. You begin to think there is another entrance that you are not aware of, and since you have nothing to do now, you decide to retrace the wall that protects the palace. You had already walked it on the first day, finding no other exits or open entrances, but you might as well try again.

The outcome, however, is the same: nothing at all. You are almost tempted to break in yourself and rush past the door to its rooms, but you hold back.

When you return the next day, you already know how it will turn out. And as professional as you are in your work, you decide not to be today and take a break. You step away from your observation zone and wander among the enchanting places in the Autumn Court. The break stretches longer than expected, but the forest seems to call your name every morning when you arrive at your tree. Something inside you urges you to keep going and going, keep wandering and exploring new places, and it never leaves you disappointed: each time you find breathtaking scenery, the mission forgotten and turned into more of a vacation than anything else. You know that sooner or later Rhysand will ask for updates, but it's not a problem you're asking yourself now, just as you're walking down a small path that looks like it hasn't been walked for long, curious where it will take you.

You've never gone this far before, and you're not quite sure where you are. The air is getting colder and wetter, chills run through your body, but you can't give up now, you're too curious where it leads. Hours later, having finished your humble dinner of bread and sausage, your feet beg for mercy, but you don't stop.

The moon is high in the sky when you glimpse a small cottage in the distance. You would think it is uninhabited were it not for the smoke coming from the chimney. The closer you get, the more you catch a glimpse of its details. It is not as shabby as you thought, in fact, it looks lovely, and you almost plan to ask for shelter for the night. Your heart starts beating faster, and that little voice that first commanded you a week ago to explore the Court seems to scream and spur you on and on and on.

You listen to it, and when you arrive in front of the porch it doesn't stop. The wood creaks under your boots, your feet now frozen. You stretch your neck to see inside through the windows, but they are covered by curtains and the only thing you notice is a faint reddish light probably coming from the path. You rub your hands together, blowing on them. The little voice rises, come in, it says, come in, come in. And once again you listen to it.

You reach out a hand to knock, but the door opens before your knuckles even touch the fine wood.

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