fr0stf4ll

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 9

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6.5k

Trigger warning; mention of clipping

notes; Hello everyone I hope that you are doing well because I am sooooo tired lol. I just started work and pffiu. Whatever with my life, this chapter as a good background drop on y/n maybe some of you expected it some not. Either way I hope that you will enjoy it because it was so much fun writting it. Well see you soon, don't hesitate to comment and bye bye !

Links; part 8

The days since your last encounter with Azriel passed in a blur of activity. The clinic had demanded all your attention, leaving little room for personal thoughts or reflection. But in the quiet moments—when your hands stilled for just a second or your gaze wandered—it crept back.

You sighed heavily, glancing down at the travel bag you were packing for the trip to the Dawn Court. The preparations were nearly done, though your nerves remained. Traveling with Azriel added a layer of tension you weren’t ready to face, but the anticipation of reuniting with the healers of the other courts eased some of that discomfort.

You allowed yourself a small smile, remembering them—your friends, your mentors, the peers who had shaped your path in ways large and small. Each had left a mark on your journey, offering guidance, laughter, or challenges that helped mold you into the healer you had become. Many of them were like family, and the thought of seeing their familiar faces again brought warmth to your chest.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention, breaking you out of your reverie. A group of the clinic’s healers had gathered to see you off, their expressions a mix of fondness and determination.

“You’ve got everything under control, right?” you asked, your tone light but tinged with concern.

One of them, Elira, rolled her eyes playfully. “Yes, Y/N. For the hundredth time, we’ve got it. The clinic won’t fall apart while you’re gone.”

Another healer chimed in with a grin. “We’ll follow your instructions to the letter. You deserve a few days to focus on something else for once.”

Their reassurances made you smile, though the lingering worry didn’t completely fade. Still, you trusted them. They were skilled, dedicated, and fully capable of handling whatever came their way.

“Alright,” you said, shouldering your bag. “I’m counting on you all. If anything major comes up, send a message immediately.”

Elira gave a mock salute. “Understood, Commander.”

You laughed softly, exchanging a few more words before stepping outside. The crisp air hit your face, clearing your mind as you took a moment to steady yourself. The trip ahead wasn’t just about the meeting—it was about proving that you could handle the weight of this new role. And, perhaps, figuring out how to navigate the bond with Azriel without letting it overshadow everything else.

Standing at the entrance of Velaris, you adjusted the strap of your travel bag on your shoulder, your gaze scanning the skies. The morning air was crisp, with the faintest warmth of sunlight creeping over the horizon. You were early, as always, but waiting in anticipation left you feeling restless.

A flurry of wings caught your attention, and there he was—Azriel, descending gracefully from the sky. His shadows swirled faintly around him, dispersing as his boots touched the ground. He straightened, meeting your gaze with a polite nod.

“Good morning,” you greeted him, your voice steady despite the awkwardness that lingered between you.

“Morning,” he replied, his tone measured, though there was something in his expression—hesitation, maybe? “We should leave as soon as possible if we don’t want to arrive late.”

You nodded quickly. “Of course. Lead the way.”

Azriel stepped closer, his face calm but all business. “First, we’ll winnow to the border of the Dawn Court. Once we cross it, we’ll fly to the capital.���

The mention of flying made your heart skip a beat. You hesitated, glancing at him briefly before voicing your concern. “Flying... Are you sure? I mean, I don’t want it to be too much for you, carrying me.”

He tilted his head slightly, his hazel eyes calm but insistent. “It won’t be. Trust me, Y/N.”

His reassurance didn’t completely settle your nerves, but you nodded regardless. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

Azriel stepped closer, reaching out a hand. “Ready?”

You placed your hand in his, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through you. His grip was firm yet careful, and before you could dwell on the flutter in your chest, shadows enveloped you. The world spun for a moment, and when it stilled, you were standing at the border of the Dawn Court.

The air here was warmer, carrying the scent of blooming flowers and dew-soaked grass. It was a stark contrast to the cool, crisp air of Velaris. The scenery stretched wide and golden, with rolling hills and distant, gleaming spires that marked the capital’s direction.

Azriel turned to you, his expression unreadable. “Ready for the next part?”

You nodded, but your breath caught slightly when he stepped closer. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you, one arm beneath your knees and the other across your back, lifting you effortlessly.

The proximity was overwhelming. You could feel the warmth of his chest through his clothing, the steady strength in his arms. Every rational thought seemed to vanish, replaced by the hammering of your heart.

“Hold on,” he instructed, his voice calm but with an undertone of something softer. You looped your arms around his neck hesitantly, trying not to focus on how close you were.

With a powerful beat of his wings, you were airborne. The wind rushed past, cool and invigorating, as the ground fell away beneath you. The sky stretched wide and endless, painted with hues of orange and gold from the rising sun. The land below was breathtaking—patches of farmland, rivers winding like silver ribbons, and forests blanketed in mist.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the wind.

Azriel glanced down at you briefly, a flicker of something—perhaps a smile—crossing his lips. “It is.”

Despite the tension in your chest, you couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty around you. For a moment, the awkwardness and your internal conflict faded, replaced by the simple awe of the journey. The world seemed peaceful from up here, a far cry from the responsibilities and burdens that waited below.

The journey to the Dawn Court felt like both an eternity and a fleeting moment. As Azriel’s arms held you securely, you tried to focus on the scenery—the rolling hills, dense forests, and shimmering rivers below. But no matter how hard you concentrated, you couldn’t fully tune out the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat against your ear.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been carried like this. Cassian and others had flown you on various occasions, but this time felt different. Perhaps it was because Azriel’s hold was firm yet careful, or because the bond you were trying so hard to ignore pulsed faintly, reminding you of its existence with every beat of his heart. You clenched your jaw and willed yourself to stay focused. This was a professional trip, nothing more.

Azriel didn’t speak, his silence a double-edged sword. It meant you didn’t have to engage in awkward conversation, but it also left you alone with your thoughts—a dangerous thing when you were trying not to acknowledge how close you were. The wind rushed around you, cool and biting, and you leaned slightly into his warmth despite yourself.

Hours passed in that silence, the scenery changing gradually as the Dawn Court came into view. The closer you got, the more the tension in your body grew, not from nerves about the meeting, but from the sheer effort it took to keep your mind from wandering.

Finally, the grand spires of the Dawn Court’s palace appeared on the horizon, their pale stone glowing softly in the golden light of the setting sun. Relief flooded you at the sight, and the moment Azriel landed and released you, it felt as though you were finally able to breathe after holding it in for far too long.

You stepped away from him, smoothing down your clothes and casting a quick glance at the palace ahead. It was every bit as grand as you remembered, and the familiar sight brought a small smile to your lips. For a moment, the tension from the journey eased, replaced by nostalgia for the times you’d spent here in years past.

“Let's go?” Azriel asked, his voice steady but laced with a hint of curiosity as he watched you take in the view.

You nodded, brushing a strand of hair back from your face. “Let’s go. We’re already late as it is.”

The spires of the Dawn Court’s palace gleamed in the evening light, their pale stone catching the last golden rays of the sun. The grandeur of the palace was undeniable, with its wide marble steps leading to intricately carved doors and lush gardens brimming with fragrant blooms. As you and Azriel approached, a familiar figure emerged to greet you.

Your old teacher, Healer Talyen, stood at the top of the steps, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly before softening into a smile. “Y/N,” she called, her voice carrying a warmth you hadn’t realized you missed. “And I presume this is your escort?” Her gaze flicked to Azriel, who inclined his head politely.

“Talyen,” you greeted, your voice light despite the lingering tension from the long journey. “It’s good to see you again. I’m sorry we’re arriving so late—there were some... delays.”

“No need for apologies,” Talyen assured you, gesturing for you both to ascend the steps. “The important thing is that you’ve arrived safely. Though next time, perhaps a bit more haste.” She gave you a pointed look that was softened by the faint twitch of amusement at her lips.

Two servants stepped forward, bowing slightly before offering to take your belongings. You handed them your travel bag, murmuring a quick thanks, while Azriel only released his pack after a moment of hesitation, his sharp gaze scanning the surroundings.

“We’ve prepared everything for your stay,” Talyen continued as you reached her. “The High Lord sends his regrets for not greeting you personally, but he’ll see you in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll ensure you’re settled.”

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, glancing at Azriel, who remained quiet but vigilant. “This is Azriel, by the way. He’s here to ensure I don’t get into too much trouble.”

“An impossible task, I’m sure,” Talyen quipped, her tone dry but affectionate. Azriel’s lips twitched in what might have been a smirk, though his usual stoic demeanor didn’t falter.

She led you both into the palace, where the grandeur continued—polished floors, high ceilings adorned with delicate murals, and soft lighting that bathed everything in a warm glow. The servants trailed behind, their footsteps barely audible as they carried your things.

Eventually, Talyen paused at a hallway branching off into a quieter wing. She gestured to one of the doors. “Y/N, this will be your room. I hope you find it comfortable.”

You stepped forward, nodding your thanks before turning to Azriel. To your surprise, he moved to follow you inside, but one of the servants stepped forward, her expression polite but firm.

“Sir,” she said, bowing slightly, “your quarters are in the guest wing. Allow me to escort you.”

Azriel’s brows drew together in a brief frown, his confusion clear. “I’d prefer to stay close to the person I’m escorting.”

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his attention. “It’s alright,” you said softly, offering a reassuring smile. “We’ll see each other tomorrow. There’s no need to worry.”

His hazel eyes searched yours for a moment, as though weighing the validity of your reassurance. Finally, he nodded, though the furrow in his brow didn’t completely smooth. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to send for me.”

“I’ll be fine,” you promised, your tone firm but kind. “Get some rest. I’m sure you’ll need it for tomorrow.”

Azriel hesitated for a moment longer before allowing the servant to lead him away. You watched him go, his wings shifting slightly as he walked, before turning back to Talyen, who was watching the exchange with a curious gleam in her eyes.

“Still as protective as ever, I see,” she remarked dryly, before pushing open the door to your room. “Come. Let’s get you settled.”

The morning sun poured through the tall windows of your room, bathing the grand space in a warm, golden light. You were seated on one of the cushioned chairs by the small reading nook, going over your notes for the meeting. The room itself was a masterpiece of elegance and comfort. A canopy bed with silken drapes dominated one side, while intricately carved furniture in soft pastels and gold accents filled the rest of the space. The walls were painted in delicate shades of cream and blush, adorned with murals depicting serene landscapes. A fireplace in the corner crackled softly, adding a gentle warmth to the crisp morning air.

The balcony doors stood ajar, letting in a faint breeze that carried the floral scent of the palace gardens. Potted plants lined the corners of the room, their leaves vibrant and full of life, making the space feel alive, almost as if it breathed with you. The familiarity of it all brought a quiet comfort—you had lived here for years during your time at the Dawn Court, and every corner of the room held a memory.

A soft knock on the door interrupted your focus. Setting your notes aside, you stood and opened it to find Azriel standing there, his expression neutral but his gaze curious as he glanced past you into the room.

“You have time?” he asked.

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in. His sharp eyes scanned the room as he walked in, taking in the sheer grandeur of it all. He turned to you, his brow raising slightly. “Even my room at the House of Wind isn’t this good.”

A faint smile tugged at your lips. “This was the room I stayed in when I worked here. They always keep it for me when I visit.”

Azriel’s gaze lingered on the fireplace, the plush seating, and the gilded detailing on the walls. “It’s... impressive. Feels lived in.”

“It probably does,” you admitted, sitting back down and motioning for him to take a seat. “I spent years here. It’s strange how easily it feels like stepping back into an old life.”

Azriel hummed in response, his shadows curling faintly around his shoulders as he sat in one of the chairs. “So,” he began, leaning forward slightly, “you said each head healer will be here. I assume you’ve worked with all of them before?”

You nodded, rifling through your notes. “Yes. Some trained me, some I’ve trained. Others, I’ve collaborated with on projects. Each court has its unique challenges, but we’ve built a good network over the years.” You went on to explain the specifics—who the healers were, their areas of expertise, and the dynamics between them. Azriel asked a few pointed questions, his sharp mind clearly piecing together the broader implications of what you shared.

When the conversation wrapped up, the two of you left the room and made your way to the meeting hall. The corridors of the palace were grand yet serene, the marble floors reflecting the soft light streaming in from the high arched windows. Your steps echoed faintly as you approached the double doors of the meeting room.

The meeting room was already abuzz with quiet conversation as you and Azriel stepped through the tall doors. The moment your presence was noticed, the chatter paused, and heads turned toward you. A wide smile broke across the face of Veras, the healer from the Winter Court, his imposing figure softened by the warmth in his icy-blue eyes. He stood and crossed the room to greet you, his snow-white braids swinging slightly as he moved.

"Y/N! You haven’t changed a bit," he said, his voice booming with delight. He clasped your hand in both of his, the chill of his skin familiar but oddly comforting. "It’s been far too long."

“Veras,” you replied with a smile, squeezing his hand. “Still as loud as ever, I see. And just as punctual.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “I couldn’t miss the chance to see you try to herd this lot again.”

Behind him, a slender figure with sun-kissed skin and a radiant smile approached. Farah, the healer of the Day Court, held out her hands to you. “Y/N, my dear. It’s been years,” she said warmly, her golden hair shimmering like spun sunlight.

“Farah,” you greeted, embracing her briefly. “I’ve missed our talks. I hope you’ve brought more stories to share.”

Farah’s laughter was as bright as her court’s eternal sunshine. “Always.”

Azriel lingered near the doorway, his sharp gaze taking in the room’s dynamics as you moved from one familiar face to the next.

From the Autumn Court, Rordan stood, his fiery-red hair and piercing amber eyes as striking as ever. He was more reserved than the others, but his nod of acknowledgment carried a quiet respect. “Y/N,” he said, his deep voice measured. “Your presence here is a relief. The state of things has been... precarious.”

“It’s good to see you, Rordan,” you replied, your tone equally steady. “We’ll address everything soon.”

As you moved to greet the last person present, Azriel’s attention sharpened. A graceful woman with rich brown skin and hazel eyes that gleamed with intelligence stepped forward. Dressed in elegant light blue robes adorned with intricate ocean patterns, she radiated a quiet strength.

“Amara,” you said with a warm smile, reaching for her hands. “It’s been far too long.”

“It truly has,” Amara, the healer from the Summer Court, replied. Her voice was calm and soothing, carrying an authority that matched yours. “Though I must admit, I wasn’t sure you’d want to speak to anyone from Summer after all this time.”

You chuckled softly. “That was a lifetime ago. And besides, it’s hard to hold a grudge against someone who’s such a dedicated healer.”

Amara’s lips twitched in amusement. “Dedicated, yes. Though some might say stubborn.”

Azriel lingered by the doorway, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. Then, a cheerful voice cut through the pleasant hum of conversation.

“Y/N!”

The exuberant call startled Azriel, and his hand instinctively went to Truth-Teller’s hilt, his shadows coiling protectively.

Azriel, observing from the doorway, was struck by her resemblance to what could only be described as a blend of Tamlin, a dwarf, and an overly excited child.

“Y/N!” she called again, weaving her way through the gathered healers with surprising speed. Her voice was bright, but not overly dramatic. When she reached you, she threw her arms around you in a firm, friendly hug.

“You’ve been avoiding us, haven’t you?” she asked, pulling back to fix you with a mock-stern look.

You laughed lightly. “I wouldn’t say avoiding. Just… busy Lila.”

“Busy, huh? That’s what they all say,” she replied with a knowing grin. “Well, you’re here now, so we’ll take it.”

Her attention flicked briefly to Azriel, who stood quietly near the door, his shadows swirling faintly around him. “And who’s this?” she asked, tilting her head curiously.

“This is Azriel,” you introduced, gesturing toward him. “Spymaster of the Night Court.”

Lila’s eyes widened slightly, her curiosity piqued. “A spymaster? That’s certainly a first for one of our meetings. Welcome,” she said to Azriel, her tone warm and sincere.

Azriel inclined his head politely, his expression neutral. “Thank you.”

Lila turned back to you, her grin returning. “Well, you’ve brought interesting company this time, Y/N. I hope he’s ready for all the endless discussions.”

“He’s here for the diplomatic part,” you replied with a smirk. “Not the gossips.”

Amara, from the Summer Court, who had been standing nearby, chimed in with a soft laugh. “Lila, don’t scare the poor man off before we even start.”

“Who, me?” Lila said, feigning innocence before rolling her eyes dramatically. “Fine, fine. I’ll behave. For now.”

Amara studied him for a moment before offering a small smile. “I hope the Night Court knows how lucky they are to have her.”

“We do,” Azriel replied smoothly, his shadows curling faintly around him.

As you exchanged pleasantries, Azriel’s sharp ears caught snippets of your conversation. He noted how each healer seemed genuinely pleased to see you, their respect for you clear in their words and body language. It was a side of you he hadn’t fully seen before—a leader among peers, effortlessly commanding attention and admiration.

With that, you moved to your seat at the head of the table, the others following suit. The atmosphere shifted as everyone settled in, their expressions turning serious. The warmth of reunions gave way to the gravity of the matters at hand.

The meeting had officially begun.

The long, oval table in the center of the room surrounded by Prythian’s head healers. Scrolls, notebooks, and maps were spread across its surface, a testament to the immense preparation that had gone into this gathering. You stood at the head of the table, your presence commanding yet approachable, as you guided the room with a steady hand.

“We all know why we’re here,” you began, your tone firm but inviting. “The rising tensions across Prythian demand that we not only adapt but collaborate more closely than ever. This meeting isn’t just about exchanging updates—it’s about finding solutions together.”

Azriel, leaning against the wall near the door, observed the scene intently. Unlike the high lords’ meetings, where every word was a potential weapon, this room felt alive with trust and purpose.

You scanned the faces around the table, meeting each pair of eyes with quiet assurance. “Let’s start with updates from each court,” you said, your quill poised to take notes. “Veras, if you don’t mind going first.”

The Winter Court healer, Veras, nodded and began. “This winter has been particularly harsh, unusually harsh. Hard to say why but we have never in the history of the court been confronted to this type of intense weather. Frostbite cases have increased dramatically, and our healers are stretched thin. Supplies, particularly warming salves, are running low.”

“Veras,” interjected Taylen the dawn healer, his tone thoughtful, “We have been working with Y/N on a modified salve recipe that combines herbs from the Day and Spring Courts. It’s more potent and lasts longer. We’ll ensure the instructions are sent to you, and if you need additional supplies, Y/N should be able to arrange a shipment from the Night Court’s stores.”

Veras smiled warmly, his icy-blue eyes glinting with gratitude. “That would make a world of difference. Thank you.”

You turned your attention to Rordan from the Autumn Court. “Rordan, what’s the situation at the borders?”

Rordan leaned forward, his amber eyes sharp. “Refugees continue to flood into Autumn’s territory, and the strain on our resources is significant. Infections are becoming more common in overcrowded areas. Beron’s influence and desisions are making things hard to deal with, we are short staffed since the war and the epidemic of the last century still lingers on us.”

“I’ve anticipated this,” you said, nodding. “I’ve set up a preliminary exchange network to direct supplies where they’re most needed. Amara from the Summer Court has agreed to prioritize shipments for border regions.”

Amara, seated nearby, nodded in agreement. “That’s correct. We’ll ensure the process runs smoothly.”

Rordan inclined his head. “Thank you. That will help.”

You shifted the focus to Farah of the Day Court. “Farah, any updates on the research you mentioned during our last correspondence?”

Farah smiled brightly, her sun-kissed skin glowing. “We’ve developed a new stamina-boosting salve that’s been highly effective in our soldiers. I’d like to propose expanding our research exchange.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” you replied. “If you could share your findings with the group, we’ll incorporate them into training programs across the courts.”

Farah’s smile widened. “Consider it done.”

You continued to guide the discussion, ensuring that each healer had the opportunity to share their concerns and contribute to the solutions being crafted. When Lila from the Spring Court enthusiastically interjected with an offer to assist with refugee care, you smoothly incorporated her suggestion into the larger plan, balancing her energy with the room’s more reserved members.

Azriel watched as you moved seamlessly through the conversation, posing pointed questions, weighing options, and ensuring that every voice was heard. There was a rhythm to your leadership—a balance of authority and collaboration that drew the best out of everyone at the table.

He sat quietly at the edge of the room, observing the meeting unfold with a mix of fascination and quiet disbelief. The contrast between this gathering of healers and the high lords' meetings was staggering. Where the high lords were often burdened by tension, suspicion, and ego, here, there was trust, cooperation, and a sense of mutual respect that seemed almost surreal.

You led the conversation with ease, seamlessly guiding the flow of ideas and ensuring that everyone had a chance to contribute. Questions were posed with precision, decisions discussed openly, and even disagreements were handled with an air of professionalism and care. Azriel noted the dynamic—it wasn’t that you commanded the room with dominance; rather, you drew the best out of everyone present. It was deeply impressive.

One of the guards from the Winter Court caught Azriel’s eye. The male had also been present at the last high lord meeting, and his expression mirrored Azriel’s thoughts: surprise and admiration at how smoothly everything was running.

Amidst the deliberations, Azriel felt the familiar tug of Rhysand’s presence in his mind. The High Lord’s voice, calm but probing, reached him. How are things going? Are you both all right? How’s the meeting?

Azriel’s eyes flicked briefly toward you before answering. We’re fine. The meeting is... He hesitated, glancing again at the harmony in the room. It’s going better than expected. Almost too well.

Rhysand chuckled in response. Maybe I should have Y/N lead the next high lords’ meeting. Might go smoother.

A faint smile tugged at Azriel’s lips, but it was fleeting. He could feel Rhysand trying to bridge the tension between them again, a faint note of apology threading through their mental link.

Azriel, Rhysand began, his tone softer now. I—

Not now, Azriel cut him off, his tone firm as he closed his mind once more. This isn’t the moment.

The tension lingered, but Azriel pushed it aside, refocusing on the room before him. After a while, you called for a much-needed break, allowing the healers to step away and recharge. Azriel followed you as you moved toward the refreshments, the quiet clinking of glasses punctuating the subdued conversations around the room.

As you poured yourself a drink, he approached, his curiosity finally breaking through his usual restraint. “You seem to know all of them well,” he said, his voice low but tinged with genuine interest. “How did that come about?”

You glanced at him, a small smile forming as you gestured for him to take a drink as well. “It’s a long story,” you replied, leaning lightly against the counter. “But I’ve been in this role for a long time, even if not officially. I kind of always knew that at some point in my life I would take Madja’s place in the night court and I’ve been helping her for centuries with this.”

Azriel waited patiently, sensing that you were gathering your thoughts. Finally, you began to explain.

“The healers from the Dawn Court, Winter Court, and Summer Court trained me when I was younger,” you said. “They were the first courts I visited when I left the Night Court. I was still learning, eager to take in everything I could. They saw potential in me, but they also taught me discipline and perspective.”

Your gaze drifted across the room to the healer from the Spring Court, who was animatedly discussing something with her counterparts. “The healers from the Autumn, Day, and Spring Courts, on the other hand, were trained by me at some point. Lila is the youngest here, but I’ve never seen someone as motivated and talented as her. She’s incredible, really.”

Azriel took a sip of his drink, processing your words. “And the difference between this group and the High Lords?”

You met his gaze, your expression thoughtful. “The difference,” you began slowly, “is that while the High Lords and we both aim to take care of our courts, we’ve accepted that sometimes, you need help from others. And we didn’t inherit these positions. None of us are here because we were ‘meant’ to be. We fought for our places, proved we deserved them.”

Your eyes scanned the room, a quiet pride evident in your voice as you continued. “We come from different backgrounds. Some of us started with nothing; others faced challenges you couldn’t imagine. But we earned our roles. That shared struggle builds trust. It creates a foundation that the high lords—despite their power—sometimes lack.”

Azriel studied you for a long moment, the weight of your words settling over him. There was no arrogance in your tone, no superiority—only honesty and conviction. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the truth in what you’d said.

The meeting had resumed with renewed energy after the break, and the hours slipped by as plans were solidified, discussions wrapped up, and solutions were agreed upon. Azriel, still leaning near the doorway, noted the seamless way you handled even the most challenging topics, your leadership shining through in every word and gesture.

As the meeting reached its conclusion, the grand doors to the hall opened, and a new presence filled the room. All eyes turned toward the High Lord of the Dawn Court himself, Thesan, who entered with a graceful stride and a warm smile.

“Apologies for the intrusion,” Thesan said, his golden robes shimmering under the light. “I thought I might take a moment to greet everyone.”

The room murmured its welcome, but Thesan’s attention quickly shifted to you. His smile widened, and without hesitation, he crossed the room to greet you with a hug, his hand lingering briefly on your back as he stepped away.

“Y/N,” he said warmly. “It’s been far too long.”

You smiled, the ease and familiarity in your expression matching his. “It has, Thesan. I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to drop in.”

“For you? Always,” he replied smoothly, his tone laced with a genuine affection that felt... intimate.

Azriel’s sharp gaze flicked between the two of you, his shadows curling faintly around his shoulders. He couldn’t name the sensation curling in his chest—it wasn’t jealousy, exactly, but the sight of Thesan’s hand resting on your back, his tone so effortlessly warm, made something in Azriel tighten. He gripped the hilt of Truth-Teller at his side, though he didn’t draw it, the cool leather grounding him.

Thesan turned to Azriel then, his expression polite but curious. “Spymaster of the Night Court,” he said, extending a hand. “It’s an honor.”

Azriel shook his hand, his grip firm. “High Lord,” he acknowledged, his voice neutral, though his shadows betrayed the flicker of unease still swirling within him.

Thesan’s attention returned to you. “We’ll talk more later, Y/N. But for now, I’ll leave you all to your work.”

He gave you one last smile before departing, leaving a faint hum of energy in his wake. As Thesan left, his golden robes sweeping elegantly behind him, Azriel’s shadows seemed to grow darker around him. He couldn’t explain the irritation bubbling beneath the surface, but watching Thesan’s easy rapport with you—his hand lingering on your back, the casual way he spoke to you—left an uncomfortable knot in Azriel’s chest. 

The day continued with a final wrap-up of the meeting, logistics being finalized, and farewells exchanged among the healers. Azriel stayed close by, observing quietly as you navigated the post-meeting conversations with ease. 

The group began to disperse, each healer carrying their scrolls and notes with an air of purpose. You turned to Azriel, who had been watching the proceedings with a mix of admiration and curiosity. The weight of the day’s discussions lingered, but there was a certain calm in the room now, a sense of accomplishment.

Before stepping toward your room, you paused and glanced at Azriel. “You’ve never been to the Dawn Court capital, have you?”

Azriel shook his head, his shadows curling faintly around him. “No. My work rarely brings me here.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Well, you’re in for a treat. The last rays of the sun are about to set over the city, and the view is stunning. Afterward, we could take a stroll through the streets. The city comes alive at night, and there are some places worth seeing.”

Azriel tilted his head slightly, considering your offer. “Are you sure you have the energy for this? You’ve been running the meeting all day.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be fine. Besides, a little fresh air will do us both some good. Meet me at the entrance of the palace in fifteen minutes?”

He nodded, the corners of his mouth curving into a subtle smile. “I’ll be there.”

With that, you headed toward your quarters to freshen up, your mind already wandering to the peaceful streets and glowing lanterns that awaited. The thought of seeing the city you once knew so well, with someone new by your side, felt oddly comforting.

Azriel leaned against the marble column near the entrance of the palace, his shadows swirling faintly around him as he waited for you. The last rays of the sun cast a warm glow over the gilded tiles and intricate carvings of the Dawn Court palace, a serene contrast to the conversation he couldn’t help but overhear.

Two healers, young and seemingly unaware of his presence, were chatting in hushed voices that carried just enough for him to hear.

“Yes, she’s the head healer of the Night Court now,” one of them said with a sly laugh. “Do you think she’s going to screw this High Lord too? Maybe Thesan wasn’t enough.”

The other snickered, lowering her voice but not enough. “I heard she even turned him down when he proposed. Can you believe that? The audacity.”

“Right?” the first added. “I mean, she was a total mess when she arrived here. Thesan’s generosity only goes so far, but it seems like she took full advantage of him.”

Azriel’s chest tightened. The male you had spoken about in your story—that had been Thesan. But it wasn’t just that revelation that struck him; it was the way they spoke about you, as though your strength and success were something to diminish.

And then, the second one dropped her voice further, but not enough to escape his sharp hearing. “Do you know why she was a mess? She’s half Illyrian, you know. Heard her wings were clipped before she came here. Left for dead in the snow after... It’s a miracle she’s still alive.”

Azriel’s shadows recoiled and then tightened around him like a second skin as he processed what he had just heard. His jaw clenched, and his hand twitched toward Truth-Teller’s hilt, his instincts screaming at him to intervene, to protect, even though the situation had already spiraled into a storm of its own. His eyes flicked to you as you approached, your posture radiating calm authority, though the smirk tugging at your lips told him you were about to unleash a verbal strike that would cut deeper than any blade.

“Was it a miracle?” you asked, your voice carrying an icy undertone that made even Azriel’s shadows still.

The two healers turned toward you, their faces draining of color as recognition hit them. Azriel noticed the way your eyes glinted, not with fury, but with something far more dangerous—control. You weren’t reacting; you were calculating.

The healers exchanged panicked glances, their mouths opening and closing like fish out of water. One of them, a slender female with auburn hair, mustered what little defiance she could and stammered, “We’re not under your command.”

Your smirk widened ever so slightly, a calculated tilt of your head accentuating the sharpness in your gaze. “No,” you said, your voice smooth as silk but no less lethal, “but you are under the command of Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court. A High Lord who values discretion, professionalism, and respect—qualities you seem to lack.”

Azriel noticed the faint twitch in the corner of your mouth as you paused, letting the weight of your words sink in. The two healers visibly shrank under your gaze, their earlier bravado crumbling.

You took a deliberate step closer, your voice dropping into something quieter but far more menacing. “Gossiping about a patient’s private life in the palace, of all places, is not only unprofessional but also disgraceful.”

The auburn-haired healer looked like she might collapse under the weight of your words, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. The other, a taller male, attempted to speak, but his voice cracked before he could form a coherent response.

Without giving them a chance to recover, you added, your smirk returning, “And while you’re correct that you don’t answer to me, I’d be very curious to hear how Thesan might respond if I were to inform him of this little... lapse in judgment.”

Azriel almost laughed at the way the two healers stiffened, their defiance extinguished. Instead, he stepped slightly closer to you, his shadows curling protectively at his feet, silently reinforcing your authority.

Then, with the same sardonic ease, you added, “Considering I fucked Thesan so well, I’m fairly certain he’d follow my orders without hesitation.”

Azriel blinked, taken aback by your brazenness. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his face neutral, though his shadows flickered as if sharing in his surprise. The two healers were stunned into silence, their wide-eyed expressions frozen as though they’d been caught in a trap.

You turned sharply on your heel, leaving no room for rebuttal, and said firmly, “Let’s go, Azriel.”

He followed immediately, his steps measured, but his mind raced as he replayed the scene. The ease with which you had dismantled the situation, the confidence laced with just the right amount of menace—it left him both impressed and slightly awed. Yet, beneath it all, he couldn’t shake the ache of what he’d overheard.

As you walked, he caught your profile in the fading light. The smirk had softened into something quieter, almost reflective. Azriel’s own emotions churned, a tangled mix of anger on your behalf and admiration for how you had handled yourself. He didn’t speak, not yet, but the urge to say something—to acknowledge your strength or offer some form of comfort—gnawed at him.

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[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 8

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 6k

Trigger warning; //

notes; Yooo, hope that everyone is doing well ! New chapter and with a bunch of interactions (finally...) hihi. This weekend I'm trying to write as much as I can because I'm starting my apprenticeship on monday and knowing myself the only thing I will be able to do at home is sleep duh. Btw I'm supper happy to read you guys's comments on the last post I hope that you liked the previous parts. Well see you all soon. bisous bisous <333

Link; Part 7 or Part 9

Breathing deeply, you sank into the worn chair at your desk, a rare moment of stillness washing over you. The clinic was quiet for now, the hum of activity replaced by the distant murmur of Velaris’ Solstice celebrations. For the first time in weeks, you felt the weight on your shoulders ease, even if just slightly.

Earlier in the evening, as the streets had begun to fill with laughter and light, Elira had paused at the door before leaving for her own celebrations. She had lingered, shifting her weight nervously before finally speaking.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay tonight?” she had asked, her voice tinged with worry. “I don’t mind helping, even if it’s just for a while.”

You’d given her a soft smile, appreciating the concern in her wide eyes. “Elira, it’s Solstice. Go enjoy it. I can manage things here,” you’d reassured her, though you knew she wasn’t entirely convinced.

“But if you need anything—anything at all,” she pressed, her tone firm despite the slight tremble in her voice, “just send for me. I’ll come straight back.”

You’d chuckled lightly, resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine. The cases tonight are likely to be minor—besides, you deserve to celebrate.”

Her smile had been hesitant, but she’d finally nodded, squeezing your hand briefly before stepping out into the bustling streets. Watching her go, you’d felt a pang of affection for the younger healer. She was learning quickly, but more than that, she cared.

Now, hours later, the streets of Velaris glimmered with festive charm. Strings of lights adorned every shop and home, and bursts of laughter echoed through the crisp winter air. The celebration’s warmth was palpable, even from the confines of the clinic. It was a stark contrast to the sterile quiet inside, where you had just finished stitching up a young boy who’d split his palm open while playing too close to a sharp edge. He’d been brave, though, and you’d sent him off with a small packet of sweets you kept for such occasions.

You exhaled and picked up your mug of coffee, savoring the warmth that spread through your hands. The clinic remained calm, as you had hoped, with only minor injuries coming through—nothing unexpected for a night like this.

The files on your desk called to you, and you opened the leather-bound notebook where you’d been outlining the major questions for the Dawn meeting. The room was quiet except for the scratch of your quill and the occasional distant crackle of laughter from the streets outside. The moonlight streaming through the window painted everything in a soft glow, and for a moment, the work felt less heavy, almost meditative.

After jotting down the last of your thoughts on the meeting agenda, you turned to the stack of parchment Madja had left for you before her retirement. The pages were filled with detailed notes on injuries and conditions she had encountered during her centuries of practice. Among them was a folder marked with the priestesses’ seal, its edges worn from years of handling.

Curiosity tugged at you as you flipped it open, revealing notes on rare conditions and ancient healing methods that had once been housed exclusively in the library. Some of the practices were ones you’d only heard of in passing, their descriptions invoking both fascination and a sense of awe for the healers who had come before you.

You made a mental note to consult with the priestesses in the coming weeks. Their knowledge would be invaluable for refining some of the techniques you were considering introducing to the clinic and possibly even the broader healing network across Prythian.

With a soft sigh, you leaned back in your chair, gazing at the notes scattered before you. It was moments like these that reminded you why you had chosen this path, despite its challenges. Healing wasn’t just about mending wounds or curing illnesses—it was about preserving hope, ensuring that even in the darkest times, there was light to guide people forward.

You took another sip of your coffee, letting the warmth settle in your chest. There was still so much to do, but for now, the night was calm, and that was enough.

The faint sound of the door creaking open pulled you from your thoughts, the familiar weight of responsibility snapping back into place. Setting down your mug, you rose quickly, your heart skipping at the possibility of an emergency. You moved through the clinic’s quiet halls, your steps soft yet purposeful, and turned the corner into the reception area.

The sight that greeted you stopped you in your tracks. Azriel stood just inside the doorway, his tall frame illuminated by the dim lanterns still lit for the night. His wings were tucked tightly against his back, and though he tried to maintain his usual calm demeanor, something about him seemed... off. His shadows swirled slower than usual, as if sensing his hesitation.

“Azriel?” you asked softly, concern

The night air was biting as Azriel soared through the skies above Velaris, his mind a whirlwind of emotions he couldn’t quite sort. He had nearly kissed Elain. Nearly. But the space between them had been filled with too much doubt, too much tension, and then Rhys had found him.

And his High Lord had been merciless.

"If you need a woman so badly, Azriel, then go to a brothel. Don’t ruin someone’s life just because you can’t control yourself."

The words echoed in his head, each syllable sharper than the winds cutting through his skin. He knew Rhys was furious—and Rhys wasn’t wrong—but that didn’t soften the sting. He had left, unable to bear another moment of the suffocating tension in the House of Wind. Flying aimlessly, he let the cool air whip around him, carrying him away from his thoughts.

But the wind had a mind of its own, or so it seemed. It brought him to the clinic. His landing was quiet, deliberate, and before he could think better of it, he had pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The sight of you, moving purposefully through the quiet clinic, tugged at something deep inside him. When you spotted him, your expression shifted instantly from focus to concern.

“Azriel?” Your voice was soft, laced with genuine worry. “Are you alright? What are you doing here?”

He froze, his usual composure crumbling under the weight of your gaze. He tried to find the words, but they escaped him. All he could manage was a faint, “I’m fine.”

But you weren’t convinced. He could see the worry etched in your expression as you stepped closer, studying him as though he might fall apart at any moment. Before he could say anything else, you motioned toward one of the chairs in the small waiting area.

“Sit,” you said gently, your tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll make you something.”

He obeyed, sinking into the chair as though the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. He watched as you moved with practiced ease, preparing an infusion of herbs. The warmth of the cup pressed into his hands moments later was soothing in a way he hadn’t expected.

“It’s a mix of herbs,” you explained, your voice steady and reassuring. “Nothing fancy, just something to help calm you down.”

He nodded, taking a small sip. The warmth spread through him, dulling the edge of his frayed nerves.

“I need to check on a patient,” you said softly, already moving toward one of the rooms. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Azriel watched as you disappeared down the hallway, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He stared into the cup in his hands, the steam curling upward like shadows of his own making. He didn’t know why he had come here, to you, of all people. But now that he was here, he felt... grounded.

In the patient’s room, you checked on the man with Greyscale. He was still asleep, his condition stable, much to your relief. You took a moment to breathe, steadying yourself. You hadn’t expected Azriel to show up tonight, of all nights, and his presence was unsettling in a way you couldn’t quite define. Not unwelcome, but certainly unexpected.

When you returned to the waiting area, he was still there, lost in thought. You settled into the seat next to him, picking up the files you’d been working on earlier. The silence between you was comfortable, a shared quiet that didn’t demand anything from either of you. Gradually, you felt him relax, the tension easing from his posture.

Azriel broke the silence first, his voice low. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m doing here?”

You didn’t look up from your papers. “The clinic isn’t just for people who are bleeding or on the edge of death,” you said calmly. “It’s also for people who need a moment for themselves, or someone to listen. I’m not here to force anything.” You reached out, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. A faint shiver coursed through you at the contact, but you ignored it. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here. If you don’t, that’s fine too. No pressure.” You ended with a soft wink, your tone light but sincere.

He stared at you, a faint trace of disbelief in his eyes. Rarely had he felt this peaceful around anyone. There was something about you—your presence, your calm, the quiet way you offered him solace without demanding anything in return. It was as though the chaos inside him stilled when he was near you.

For the first time in what felt like ages, Azriel let himself lean back in the chair, his grip on the cup loosening as the warmth seeped into his skin. Quiet, but profound, the moment stretched between you, offering him the calm he hadn’t realized he so desperately needed.

Azriel’s voice broke through the quiet, hesitant at first but gaining strength as he began to speak. He told you what had happened at the dinner, the almost-kiss with Elain, and Rhysand’s harsh words that had followed. As he spoke, his shadows swirled subtly around him, betraying the tension he still held onto.

You listened, your expression calm and steady, though the compassion in your eyes was unmistakable. You didn’t interrupt or react too strongly, simply letting him unravel his thoughts. When he finally stopped, his gaze drifted to you, waiting for... something. A reaction, perhaps, or judgment.

“What do you think?” he asked quietly, his voice tinged with something you hadn’t expected—uncertainty.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do I think?” you echoed softly, setting the papers in your lap aside. “I think...” You trailed off, studying him for a moment before speaking again, carefully choosing your words. “I think what Rhysand said was wrong. Definitely wrong.”

Azriel’s head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing as if he couldn’t quite believe your words.

You continued, your tone steady but kind. “You’re no such male as he implied. I might not know everything about your life, but from what I’ve seen—and the brief moments we’ve shared—you’re worthy of so much more than what you’ve been made to feel tonight.”

His shadows stilled for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

You shifted slightly, leaning forward just enough to hold his gaze more directly. “As for Rhysand,” you added, your voice softer now, “I don’t think he meant to hurt you. People say mean things when they’re angry. That doesn’t make it right, but it also doesn’t mean he truly believes what he said. Sometimes emotions get the better of us, and we lash out.”

Azriel stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was a faint glimmer of something in his eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or relief.

“Let it go for a moment,” you suggested, your tone gentle but firm. “Not forever, just... for now. Give yourself time to process, to breathe. Don’t let it weigh you down.”

He was quiet for a long time, staring down at the cup of now-cooling infusion in his hands. Finally, he nodded, almost imperceptibly, as though he was only just allowing himself to consider your words.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low but sincere.

You offered him a small, reassuring smile. “No need to thank me. Just... don’t be too hard on yourself, Azriel. You deserve better than that.”

For the first time that night, he let out a slow, deep breath, as if some of the weight he carried had finally begun to lift.

Azriel stared into his cup, your words still echoing in his mind. The way you spoke—calm, measured, but full of unwavering certainty—was unlike anything he was used to. He hadn’t expected such kindness, nor had he realized how much he’d needed to hear those words: that he was worthy, that he wasn’t defined by the anger and disappointment he carried.

The silence between you stretched on, but it wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that allowed thoughts to settle, emotions to ease. You had returned to your work, glancing at the papers spread across your lap while he tried to untangle the mess inside his head.

After a moment, he glanced up, catching sight of the faint lines of fatigue etched into your face. You were clearly exhausted, but you didn’t let it show—not fully, at least. There was strength in the way you carried yourself, a resilience that both impressed and unnerved him.

Azriel finally broke the silence, his voice low. “What about Elain?”

You froze for just a heartbeat, your hand hovering over the edge of a page before lowering it to your lap. There was no judgment in your gaze when you turned to look at him, but he could see the hesitation there, the careful consideration before you answered.

“Don’t get mad at me,” you began, your voice steady but cautious, “but this is just my opinion.”

Azriel’s shadows curled tighter, though he gave no outward reaction. He waited, letting you gather your thoughts.

He didn’t say anything, his expression unreadable, so you continued. “After I left the Night Court, I was in the Dawn Court for a while. I wasn’t doing well at the time, but I eventually started dating a male there. Things were great for a while—he helped me a lot, pulled me out of a dark place.” You paused, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you remembered those early days. “After about six years of dating, he proposed.”

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up, his surprise evident. “And?”

“I said no,” you replied simply, earning a look of shock that quickly morphed into confusion. “A few months before, one of my friends came to me and told me they had discovered he was their mate.”

Azriel’s expression hardened, a mix of anger and disbelief flashing across his face. “So you left the person you loved because they had a mate? Even when you knew you were together first?”

“Yes,” you said, meeting his incredulous gaze. “Even though I loved him. I didn’t want to be stuck in one court—I knew I wanted to travel, to see more of the world. And more importantly, I knew that his mate would bring him feelings and a love that I could never give him. No matter how much he cared for me, a mating bond is... something else.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his shadows curling tighter around him. “Did you regret your choice?”

You took a deep breath, your voice steady but heavy with the weight of honesty. “It was hard. Don’t think for a second that it was a choice I took lightly. When I left, I didn’t explain why. It wasn’t my place to tell him he had a mate. Maybe that makes me a bitch—I don’t know. But I left, and two years later, I was invited to their mating ceremony.”

Azriel’s eyes widened slightly at your words, but he didn’t interrupt.

“We talked about it afterward,” you added. “And while it wasn’t easy, we’ve remained close friends to this day. I don’t regret my choice, because I knew it was the right thing to do—for him, for his mate, and for me.”

Azriel’s expression darkened, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “I’m tired of suffering and listening to what everyone tells me to do,” he said, his voice low but sharp. “Why should I have to keep making the hard choices? Why does it always have to be me?”

You frowned, leaning forward slightly. “You asked for my opinion, Azriel,” you said firmly. “If you don’t like it, that’s not my fault. But I’ve been in your position. I made the hard choice because I knew it was what needed to be done.”

"My whole life i’ve tried to put people’s needs above mine, it felt natural. But now I… I don’t fucking know.” He took a short breath. “I’m so, so tired of everyone judging the single things I tried to do for me. And maybe for you leaving your male was what you thought was right but… she doesn’t love him, she doesn’t want their bond or whatever it is. Rhysand has Feyre, Cassian has Nesta, why did I didn’t get to have Elain…” He was looking at you with a sort of rage deep inside his eyes. 

You swalloed hardly and not a word could go out of your mouth. Before any other word could be spoken, the sound of the clinic door opening interrupted the tense atmosphere. Both of you turned to see a family entering—a couple with a small child cradled in their arms. The child’s cheeks were flushed with fever, their body trembling slightly as they clung to their parent.

“Please,” the mother said, her voice trembling with worry, “Our child has a high fever. Can you help?”

You stood immediately, your own exhaustion forgotten in the face of their need. “Of course,” you said, your voice calm and reassuring. Turning to Azriel, you gave him a brief, pointed look. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”

Without waiting for a response, you moved to the family, already assessing the child’s condition as you led them to an examination room. Azriel watched you go, his shadows swirling around him in agitation. For a moment, he considered leaving—but something held him there, tethered to the clinic and the healer who had just challenged everything he thought he knew.

You gestured for Azriel to head upstairs, your voice steady but kind. “Go to my apartment, it’s just up there. I’ll join you after I’m done.”

Azriel hesitated for a moment, as if debating whether to argue, but then he let out a long sigh and nodded. Without another word, he turned and made his way up the narrow staircase.

Once inside your apartment, the tension that had gripped him earlier didn’t loosen. Instead, it seemed to settle in deeper, coiling in his chest. He was mad—at the situation, at Rhysand, at himself. Most of all, he was furious with how he had reacted to you. You’d shared something deeply personal, offered him insight from your own life, and what had he done? Snapped at you like a petulant child.

Azriel dragged a hand down his face, his shadows swirling restlessly around him as he tried to push the regret aside. He knew he’d handled the conversation poorly, but the weight of everything—Elain, Rhysand, his own insecurities—had left him unraveling at the seams.

The soft rustling of feathers broke through his thoughts. Azriel looked up and found Ydle perched on the back of a chair, staring at him with what could only be described as birdlike curiosity.

The golden eagle tilted its head, its sharp eyes narrowing slightly as if assessing this stranger in its space. Azriel’s shadows, ever mischievous, reached out tentatively toward the bird, curling around its feet and wings. Ydle, not one to back down from a challenge, hopped off the chair and began chasing the shadows, snapping at them playfully.

For the first time that evening, Azriel cracked a small smile. The sight of the majestic bird hopping around your apartment like an oversized chick was ridiculous, and yet, strangely comforting. He let the shadows dance just out of Ydle’s reach, amused by the way the bird flapped its wings in mock frustration.

After a few minutes, Ydle seemed to tire of the game, retreating to its perch with a soft trill of satisfaction. Azriel sank into your couch, the faint remnants of his smile fading as his thoughts returned to the mess of emotions swirling inside him. His gaze wandered around the room, taking in the small touches that spoke of your presence—the neat stack of books on the side table, the soft blanket draped over the arm of the couch, the faint scent of herbs lingering in the air.

Despite himself, Azriel felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. This space felt like you: steady, warm, and unyieldingly resilient. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply exist there, surrounded by the essence of someone who, even in the face of his frustration and anger, had shown him nothing but patience and understanding.

But the regret remained. He had lashed out when all you had tried to do was help, and now, sitting in your apartment with nothing but his thoughts for company, he knew he owed you an apology.

Azriel leaned back against the couch, his shadows curling around him like a protective cocoon. He could hear your voice downstairs, soft and measured as you reassured the worried family who had come into the clinic. He didn’t know how he would find the words to make things right, but he knew one thing for certain: he would try. You deserved that much, and more.

For now, though, he waited, letting the quiet of your space soothe the storm within him.

The clinic had finally quieted after a small rush of patients, leaving you feeling worn and drained. It had been an exhausting night, but your mind lingered on the thought of Azriel waiting upstairs. After ensuring everything was in order, you climbed the stairs to your apartment, unsure of what to expect.

As you entered, the sight before you stopped you in your tracks. Azriel was fast asleep on your couch, his head resting lightly on the armrest, one hand draped over his stomach. His usually tense features were softened by sleep, the faintest crease between his brows still lingering as though even in dreams, the weight of his burdens followed him.

For a moment, you just stood there, taking in the sight of the infamous Spymaster in such an unguarded state. It was strange, almost disarming, to see him like this. You grabbed a thick blanket from the armchair and quietly approached, draping it gently over him. He barely stirred as you did so, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly under your breath.

“Surprising for a spymaster,” you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

Your gaze lingered on him, and an ache spread through your chest. He looked peaceful now, but you knew the turmoil he carried—the confusion and pain that had led him here tonight. And there, in his slumber, he still wore the invisible chains of everything weighing him down: Elain, Rhysand, and perhaps even the bond you knew existed between you.

No matter how hard you tried to ignore it, Azriel had a way of reminding you of its presence. Of him. Always there, always visible, but just out of reach. Attached to someone else in a way that made your heart twist painfully, even as you told yourself it wasn’t your place to feel that way.

Movement caught your eye, pulling your focus to the side of the room. Ydle, your loyal bird, was curled up near Azriel’s feet, his feathers tangling gently with the spymaster’s shadows. The sight made you smile, a flicker of warmth in the midst of your stormy thoughts. Trusting shadows and a loyal bird, both at ease in each other’s company—it was oddly poetic.

You straightened, glancing toward the window. The faint glow of dawn was beginning to peek through the curtains, painting the room in soft hues of gold and pink. The quiet serenity of the moment wrapped around you, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself sink into it.

But there was work to do. Always work to do.

With a quiet sigh, you turned and left the apartment, careful not to disturb Azriel or Ydle. The clinic was bathed in the soft light of morning as you descended the stairs, the hum of Velaris beginning to stir outside. It was a new day, and despite your fatigue, you were ready to face it.

Azriel’s eyes opened slowly, the soft morning light filtering into the room causing him to squint. His body felt stiff, his wings sore from being crammed into the corner of your couch. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the surroundings, and realized where he was. The scent of herbs and warmth of your apartment grounded him.

His gaze landed on you, standing on the small balcony with your back to him, overlooking Velaris. The sunlight framed you in a golden halo, your relaxed posture a stark contrast to the tension he often saw in others. You turned, catching the movement out of the corner of your eye, and smiled warmly at him.

“Hello, sleeping beauty,” you teased, your voice light with humor. “Sorry, I don’t think my couch is made for wings.”

Azriel let out a soft huff of amusement, rolling his shoulders to loosen the ache. “I noticed,” he murmured, his voice still rough from sleep.

You crossed the room and handed him a cup of tea, the steam curling lazily upward. “Here,” you said, your tone gentler now. “This will help with the soreness.”

He accepted it, wrapping his hands around the warm cup as he muttered a quiet, “Thank you.”

You gestured toward a small table in the corner of the room where an assortment of pastries and fruits had been laid out. “One of my healers dropped these off earlier,” you explained. “Feel free to eat something. I didn’t prepare it, so it doesn’t count as me playing host.”

Azriel’s lips quirked into a small, reluctant smile. “Noted,” he replied, his shadows curling faintly around him, still sluggish from his rest.

You leaned lightly against the edge of the couch, watching as he took a cautious sip of the tea. The quiet between you was comfortable, the sounds of the waking city below filtering in through the open balcony door. For a moment, it felt as though the weight of the world beyond your walls had lifted, leaving only this shared stillness.

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the steaming tea in his hands as if it held the words he was struggling to say. After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice low and hesitant. “About last night… I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You were only trying to help, and I—” He stopped, his jaw tightening as he searched for the right words. “I took my frustration out on you. It wasn’t fair.”

You shook your head lightly, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “Azriel, don’t worry about it,” you said, your tone calm but kind. “You were on edge. We all say things we don’t mean when emotions run high. I didn’t take it personally.”

His wings shifted slightly, the leather rustling as he sat up straighter. “But you should have,” he said firmly, meeting your eyes now. “You didn’t deserve that. You were sharing something deeply personal, and I threw it back in your face. That’s not... that’s not who I want to be.”

You tilted your head, considering him for a moment before replying. “Azriel, I understand where it came from. You’re carrying a lot—more than most can even imagine. And honestly, I think you’ve been holding it all in for too long.”

His shadows rippled faintly, curling around his chair before settling again. He let out a soft sigh, his gaze distant. “That’s no excuse. I shouldn’t let what’s going on with... everything affect how I treat others—especially you. You’ve been nothing but kind and honest with me.”

You crossed your arms lightly, leaning against the couch. “I’m not saying it’s an excuse,” you admitted. “But it is an explanation. You’re human—or, well, as close as any of us can get,” you added with a small smirk, earning a faint chuckle from him. “And you’re allowed to feel overwhelmed, frustrated, even angry. But you need to learn how to let it out in a healthier way.”

Azriel’s eyes searched yours, as if weighing your words carefully. “I’ve spent so long keeping everything bottled up,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “Sometimes it feels like if I let one thing out, everything will come pouring out, and I won’t be able to stop it.”

You nodded slowly, your expression softening. “I get that,” you said. “Believe me, I do. But carrying all of that alone will only weigh you down more. It’s okay to let people in, Azriel. To lean on them when you need to.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, the shadows around him flickering faintly. “I don’t even know where to start.”

You smiled gently, placing a hand on the back of his chair. “Start with the small things,” you suggested. “Like this—being honest, talking it out. It doesn’t have to be perfect, and it doesn’t have to happen all at once.”

Azriel looked at you, his expression softer now, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice sincere. “For listening. For not giving up on me, even when I make it hard.”

You straightened, brushing off his gratitude with a light shrug. “I’m a healer,” you said simply. “Fixing people—even the stubborn ones��is kind of my job.”

A small smile tugged at his lips, and for the first time that morning, the shadows around him seemed less restless. “You’re not just a healer,” he said softly, almost to himself. “You’re... more than that.”

The way he said it, the weight of his words, left you momentarily speechless. But instead of lingering on it, you returned his smile and gestured toward the breakfast spread. “Well, let’s see if you can be fixed with some food. Go on—eat something. You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

Azriel chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You’re relentless.”

“And you’re lucky I am,” you shot back, moving toward your desk to give him a moment to collect himself.

You went back downstairs, leaving Azriel upstairs to gather his thoughts while you prepared to welcome the healers who had arrived to replace you. The moment they stepped inside, you greeted them warmly, exchanging a few pleasantries and updating them on the clinic’s current status. The little chitchat helped ease the weight of the long night, and their presence brought a sense of relief—knowing that the clinic was in capable hands for the rest of the day.

In the meantime, Azriel came down the stairs, his steps slow but purposeful. He paused briefly, his gaze meeting yours. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low but sincere. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and made his way out of the clinic, his wings tucked close to his body.

Once the door closed behind him, you let out a quiet sigh, the exhaustion from the long night finally catching up with you. With the clinic in safe hands, you allowed yourself the rare luxury of retreating upstairs. The moment your head hit the pillow, sleep claimed you, pulling you into the deep rest you so desperately needed.

Azriel made his way back to the House of Wind as dawn broke over Velaris. He hadn’t joined Rhysand and the others for their annual day away from the city—something he never missed. But after last night, the idea of spending the day in their company felt... unbearable.

He arrived at the grand estate, its imposing yet familiar presence looming against the soft hues of the rising sun. The place was silent, save for the faint whistle of the mountain wind. Either the others were still asleep, or they had already left. The solitude suited him just fine.

Still clad in the attire he’d worn for Starfall—a tailored dark jacket with intricate silver embroidery and a deep teal shirt beneath—Azriel felt out of place. His clothes spoke of celebration, but his heart carried only turmoil. The silence of the House of Wind wrapped around him as he stepped inside, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floors.

He made his way straight to his chambers, his steps slow and heavy. The elegant finery he wore felt stifling now, a stark contrast to the state of his mind. Once inside his room, he closed the door with a soft click, the quiet cocooning him further. He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair, and unbuttoned his shirt with quick, impatient fingers. The fabric fell away, revealing scars and tension etched into his skin. Changing into something simpler—a loose tunic and comfortable trousers—he felt a fraction lighter.

Azriel let himself collapse onto the bed, lying flat with his wings spread out behind him. His mind raced, replaying the events of the previous night: Elain, the almost-kiss, Rhysand’s harsh words, and then... you. The memory of you calmly standing in your clinic, handling everything with a quiet grace that both impressed and unsettled him, lingered in his thoughts.

He hadn’t even known why he’d ended up at the clinic, but the moment he saw your concerned expression, a part of him had felt... anchored. And yet, he’d acted like a fool, lashing out when all you’d done was listen. Now, as the early light filtered through his curtains, he couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of regret.

A knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts. He frowned, reluctant to face anyone just yet, but forced himself to his feet. When he opened the door, he was met with Rhysand’s unmistakable presence.

“What do you want?” Azriel’s tone was flat, his face impassive.

Rhysand hesitated for a moment, his expression unusually somber. “Brother,” he said quietly, “I came to apologize for last night.”

Azriel leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed. “It doesn’t matter, High Lord,” he replied, his voice cold and sharp. “I should have just listened to you.”

Rhysand flinched at the use of his title, the regret in his violet eyes deepening. “Azriel, don’t do this. I didn’t mean what I said.”

Azriel scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter smirk. “Didn’t you? You seemed pretty certain when you said it.”

Rhysand sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I was angry, Az. That doesn’t make it right, but—”

“No, it doesn’t,” Azriel cut him off, his tone icy. “But it doesn’t change anything either.”

For a moment, Rhysand looked like he might argue, but then he seemed to deflate slightly. “Where did you go last night?”

“Does it matter to you where I went?” Azriel asked, his voice low and dangerous. “Maybe I went to a brothel, like you suggested. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Rhysand’s eyes widened, guilt flashing across his face. “Azriel, I—”

“Save it,” Azriel said, stepping back into his room. “Go enjoy your little day away, Rhys. But leave me out of it.”

With that, he closed the door firmly, the sound echoing in the quiet hall. He leaned back against the wood, exhaling a shaky breath. For the first time in a long while, Azriel allowed himself to admit how deeply his emotions had unraveled.

He moved back to the bed, collapsing onto the mattress with a weary sigh. His thoughts drifted back to you—your steady presence, your unwavering calm. For a moment, he let himself cling to the memory, wishing he could hold onto that fleeting sense of peace.

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◦˚~ ANIMATED MOON & STARS DIVIDERS ~˚◦

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 7

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 7k

Trigger warning; //

notes; Back again haha! In this chapter, you might actually start to understand how much of a workaholic Y/N is. I'm excited for the solstice and the dawn trip (hope you guys are too <3). Well, see you soon! Take care and enjoy <3

Link; Part 6 or Part 8

----

The cold wind of the Illyrian mountains howled against the stone walls of the healer’s quarters, but you barely noticed as you worked, your focus entirely on the pile of scrolls, notes, and herbs spread across your desk. You had been in Illyria for a couple of days now, assisting the local healers with particularly challenging cases and offering guidance where it was needed most. Despite the simplicity of the space, your room was filled with a quiet energy, a testament to the tireless work done within its walls.

Your quill scratched against parchment as you wrote out instructions for one of the Illyrian healers who had sent a message earlier that morning. They had asked about a new technique for treating frostbite—a common issue during the harsh winters in the mountains. You had spent hours referencing old texts and comparing notes from your own experiences, finally coming up with a method that combined traditional herbal salves with a warming spell you’d learned during your time in the Dawn Court.

Just as you finished sealing the parchment with a simple wax stamp, there was a knock at the door. It opened to reveal a young Illyrian healer, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Healer Y/N,” the girl began, her voice tinged with nervousness. “I—I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve had another incident at one of the northern camps. A training accident. They’ve requested your advice.”

You stood, your boots clicking softly against the stone floor as you crossed the room. Placing a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder, you said, “No need to apologize. Let’s hear the details.”

The healer explained the situation as you quickly gathered your supplies. A young warrior had fallen during flight training, resulting in a severe dislocation of his wing joint. The healers at the camp had managed to stabilize him, but they were unsure how to proceed with the delicate process of resetting the joint without causing permanent damage.

“Send them this,” you said, handing the girl a scroll you’d prepared weeks ago for just such an occasion. “It details the exact steps for resetting a wing joint. Remind them to use the salve we’ve been distributing to numb the area first. And tell them to send word immediately if there are any complications.”

The girl nodded, clutching the scroll tightly before hurrying off into the cold. You watched her go, a small smile playing on your lips despite the exhaustion tugging at your bones. The Illyrian healers were young and inexperienced, but they were eager to learn, and that gave you hope.

Returning to your desk, your attention shifted to a small, intricately folded note that had arrived earlier in the day. The bird carrying it had been one you recognized immediately—a sleek, golden creature from the Dawn Court. Unfolding the note, you read the familiar handwriting of your old master, Healer Talyen. 

Y/N, 

Preparations for the upcoming meeting are underway. 

I trust you are faring well in your new role. The tensions in the world weigh heavily on us all, and I fear this gathering will bring more questions than answers. Still, it is necessary. I look forward to hearing your insights, as always. Let us hope this meeting will guide us toward solutions, not further discord. 

Yours in healing,

Talyen 

You sighed, folding the note carefully and setting it aside. The meeting of the head healers was only weeks away, and though you had been preparing for it diligently, the weight of its significance was not lost on you. The healers would be discussing not only advancements in their craft but also the rising tensions across Prythian—tensions that threatened to spill into outright conflict if not addressed. The responsibility of representing the Night Court was a heavy one, but you had never shied away from a challenge.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of yet another messenger, this time your own bird, Ydle, sleek and golden, hailing from Velaris. Unfolding the note, you read the familiar handwriting of Elira, one of the healers at the Velaris clinic.

Y/N,

We have a critical case on our hands—a rare form of Greyscale has developed in one of our patients. Preparations for the operation are underway, but we need your expertise to supervise. The procedure is scheduled for tomorrow. Please make haste.

Elira

There was no time to waste. After gathering most of your belongings, you prepared to return to Velaris. But before leaving, you knew you needed to address the Illyrian healers. Calling them together, you spent the next hour explaining the different measures to take in your absence, detailing protocols for various emergencies and ensuring they understood the importance of keeping thorough records of any developments.

As you finished outlining the final points, Devlon, the warlord of Windhaven, entered the room. His imposing presence was hard to ignore, and his sharp gaze scanned the gathered healers before settling on you.

“Still as bossy as ever, I see,” Devlon remarked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tone was meant to provoke, but you were not in the mood for his games.

Fixing him with a steely glare, you replied, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Devlon, but every healer in this court is under my command—not yours. So unless you’ve suddenly developed a talent for healing, I suggest you deal with your own business and let me do mine.”

The room fell silent, the tension palpable as your words hung in the air. Devlon’s smirk faltered, and though he said nothing further, the message was clear: you would not tolerate interference.

With that, you dismissed the healers and made your final preparations. The journey to Velaris awaited, and the clinic needed you now more than ever. Stepping out into the cold mountain air, you took a deep breath, centering yourself for the tasks ahead. 

You summoned your strength, focusing on the urgency awaiting you in Velaris. It wasn’t the first time you had left Illyria in a hurry, but something about this case weighed heavier. Perhaps it was the rarity of the Greyscale affliction, or perhaps it was the sheer responsibility placed upon your shoulders now that you had taken Madja’s place. Either way, the icy winds of the mountain pushed you forward as you winowed back to the city.

Arriving at the Velaris clinic in the quiet hours of the night, you immediately felt the bustling energy within. The faint glow of lanterns lit the hallways, casting long shadows against the walls. Despite the hour, the staff moved with precision, their steps purposeful. Elira met you at the entrance, her expression a mix of relief and urgency.

“Y/N, thank the Mother you’re here,” she said, gripping your arm as if to anchor herself. “The patient is stable, but the situation is precarious. His vitals are erratic, and the infection is spreading faster than we anticipated. We’ve done all we can to prepare for the operation, but…” She trailed off, clearly overwhelmed.

“Take me to him,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the adrenaline beginning to course through you.

Elira led you through the clinic, her hurried footsteps echoing against the polished floors. She briefed you on the patient’s status as you walked. A young male, mid-thirties, with no prior health issues, had developed a peculiar strain of Greyscale that seemed to target not just the skin but also the underlying tissue. The infection had started on his forearm and was now creeping toward his shoulder. If left unchecked, it could spread to his chest, putting his life in immediate danger.

“We’ve kept him isolated,” Elira continued, her voice tight with worry. “The room has been thoroughly sanitized, and only the most experienced healers have been allowed in. We didn’t want to risk contamination or worsening his condition.”

Nodding, you absorbed every detail. By the time you reached the patient’s room, your mind was already calculating the next steps. Pushing open the door, you were met with a grim sight. The man lay on a sterile cot, his arm wrapped in tightly woven bandages that barely concealed the mottled, grayish hue of his skin. His breathing was shallow, his face pale and glistening with sweat.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, your hands glowing faintly as you prepared to assess the extent of the damage. You would need precision, focus, and every ounce of your skill to save him.

But first, you needed a moment to prepare yourself mentally. You turned to Elira. “I’ll need the detailed records of his condition and the herbs prepared for the salve. Have everything brought to my apartment upstairs. I’ll be back shortly.”

Elira nodded, her confidence seemingly bolstered by your presence. As you made your way upstairs to your quarters, you felt the weight of the night settling over you. There would be no rest until this life was out of danger. But as always, you would rise to the challenge—because in this realm, healing was not just a duty, but a promise you had made long ago.

The rest of the night was a blur of meticulous preparation. You reviewed every note, re-checked the herbs, salves, and tools, and consulted ancient texts for anything you might have overlooked. Greyscale spreading internally was an anomaly, something you had never encountered before. The thought gnawed at you as the hours stretched on, but you pushed the worry aside. Dawn was approaching, and with it, the operation that would demand every ounce of your focus.

As the first light of the sun kissed the horizon, you and your team began. The patient had been sedated; the concoction you used was strong enough to keep him under without compromising his vitals. You moved quickly but carefully, beginning the painstaking process of removing the infected tissue.

Layer by layer, you worked, your hands steady even as the sight before you grew grimmer. The infection had spread deeper than you had anticipated, weaving through muscle and sinew like a parasitic vine. Every cut revealed more of the sickly gray tissue that needed to be excised, every moment reminding you of the high stakes of this operation. It was a battle against time, one that felt agonizingly slow yet required precision that couldn’t be rushed.

Hours passed. Your team worked in silence, their breaths shallow, their movements deliberate. The clinic’s usual hum of activity had dimmed to a quiet stillness, as if the entire building held its breath for your success.

You were midway through a particularly challenging section near the patient’s shoulder when one of the younger healers approached you, her voice hesitant. “Healer Y/N, someone is here asking for you.”

Your grip on the scalpel tightened slightly, but you didn’t lift your gaze from your work. “Who is it?” you asked curtly, your focus never wavering.

“The Shadow Singer,” she replied, a hint of nervousness in her tone.

Your heart skipped a beat, though you immediately cursed yourself for the reaction. What was Azriel doing here? You didn’t have time to think about him or the chaos his presence seemed to stir in you. “Unless it’s life or death, tell him to come back later. I’m busy.”

The healer nodded and retreated, leaving you to return to the grueling task before you. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as you continued cutting away the infection, applying salves and cleansing the exposed tissue as you went. Your back ached, your hands began to tremble from the strain, but you didn’t stop.

And then, you heard it: the soft but unmistakable sound of boots returning, followed by a second pair. Your jaw tightened, and without turning, you addressed the presence lingering just outside the room’s perimeter. “Azriel,” you said sharply, your tone edged with frustration. “What is it? And what could possibly be so important that it can’t wait?”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him standing near the doorway, his shadows curling faintly around him like an ever-present cloak. He didn’t step closer, respecting the sanctity of the operating space, but his voice was steady as he answered. “The general meeting has been pushed forward. It’s happening tomorrow instead of after the Dawn Court trip. Rhys needs you to finalize the financial proposal for the healer expansion plan.”

Your hands paused for the briefest moment before resuming their careful work. “Is that all?” you asked, your voice calm but clipped.

“Yes.”

“Then tell Rhys it will be ready.” You didn’t bother turning around, your attention fully on your patient. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a life to save.”

Azriel lingered for a moment longer, his shadows whispering around him as if reluctant to leave. But when he realized you wouldn’t offer more, he gave a curt nod, murmured something to the person who had accompanied him, and left.

You exhaled slowly, forcing your focus back to the task at hand. Whatever the meeting entailed, it would have to wait. For now, this was your battlefield, and you wouldn’t leave it until victory was certain.

The operation was reaching its most perilous stage. You had already spent hours meticulously excising the infected tissue, your hands steady despite the ache setting into your muscles. But now, you were working dangerously close to the patient’s heart. Every movement had to be exact, every cut deliberate, every application of salve perfectly measured. The slightest error could be fatal.

As you worked, time seemed to warp. Each time you pulled back a layer of skin or exposed the infected tissue near the delicate structures of the heart, it felt as though the world held its breath. The sound of your team’s soft murmurs, the clink of tools, even your own heartbeat faded into the background. It was just you, the patient, and the infection you were battling.

You swallowed hard, your focus razor-sharp. The infection had crept dangerously close to the heart, tendrils of the diseased tissue threatening the lifeblood of the body. Using a combination of precise cuts and a steady infusion of healing salve, you carefully removed the last pieces of infection. Sweat beaded on your forehead, and your breath came shallow, but you didn’t falter.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you secured the final section. The tissue was clean, the heart safe, the infection vanquished. The team around you let out a collective sigh of relief, and you allowed yourself a brief moment to close your eyes and inhale deeply. But the battle wasn’t entirely over. The patient would need close observation and care in the coming days to ensure no residual effects.

You stepped back from the operating table, your hands trembling slightly. “He’ll need monitoring,” you instructed the healers around you, your voice hoarse from hours of concentration. “Keep his temperature steady, and ensure he gets a nutrient tonic every four hours. Notify me immediately if there are any changes.”

The healers nodded, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and respect. You had done it. For now, the patient was safe.

As you peeled off your gloves and left the operating room, the adrenaline began to wear off, leaving you feeling as though your legs might give out at any moment. Your body screamed for rest, every muscle aching with fatigue. The thought of your bed—soft, warm, and inviting—was the only thing keeping you upright.

But, of course, the universe had other plans.

Just as you were about to leave the clinic, a younger healer approached you, clutching a large stack of papers bound together with twine. “Healer Y/N,” she began, looking both apologetic and slightly amused. “These just arrived from Madja. She said they were urgent.”

You blinked, your brain struggling to process her words through the haze of exhaustion. “Madja?” you echoed, your voice flat.

The healer nodded and handed you the stack. On top of the papers was a note in Madja’s neat, precise handwriting:

Dearest Y/N,

I trust this finds you well, though likely exhausted. These are the pending cases and research notes that require your attention. You’re more than capable of handling it, but don’t forget to breathe. You’re doing wonderfully, my dear.

With pride and love,

Madja

You stared at the note for a long moment, the sentiment warm and genuine—but utterly unhelpful in your current state. “That bitch,” you muttered under your breath, though the words lacked any real venom. It wasn’t anger you felt, just the bone-deep weariness of someone who had been running on fumes for far too long.

The healer stifled a laugh, and you gave her a half-hearted glare before turning toward the clinic’s staircase. Sleep had been within your grasp, so tantalizingly close, and now it felt like a distant dream. The weight of the stack in your arms was a physical reminder of the responsibility you carried now. You had always been a hard worker, but this—this was different. The stakes were higher, the expectations greater, and the room for error nonexistent.

As you trudged up the stairs to your quarters, you couldn’t help but long for a simpler time when the only thing on your mind was a single patient, not the fate of entire clinics, courts, and armies. But you pushed the thought aside. This was the life you had chosen—the life you were meant to lead.

For now, you allowed yourself one small indulgence: collapsing face-first onto your bed, the stack of papers forgotten on your desk for a precious few moments of peace. Even if the rest wouldn’t last long, you would take what you could get.

—

The sharp ring of your alarm shattered what little peace your sleep had offered. Groaning softly, you rolled over, willing yourself to ignore the incessant sound. But the meeting wouldn’t wait, and neither would the work you still had to finish. With a resigned sigh, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed at your eyes, the exhaustion from the previous days still weighing heavily on your shoulders. It was pretty much the same rhythm since you had taken Madja’s place but still you would need more time to be fully used to it.

Bless the Mother that the topics for the healer’s portion of the meeting were ones you had already prepared extensively for. You had been working on these plans for weeks now—financial overviews, resource allocations, and contingency strategies. At least you wouldn’t have to start from scratch.

After throwing on a soft, loose-knit sweater and some comfortable pants, you made your way to the small kitchenette. The rich scent of coffee filled the air as you prepared a steaming cup, its warmth a small comfort against the chill of the early morning. You grabbed a piece of toast, slathered it with a bit of jam, and headed toward the balcony.

Opening the door to the crisp winter air, you immediately regretted your decision. The cold bit at your skin, and your breath fogged in front of you, but the sharpness of the air helped shake the lingering haze of sleep from your mind. Standing there for just a moment, coffee in one hand and toast in the other, you took in the quiet of the morning. Velaris was still, the streets below dusted with a fresh layer of snow that sparkled faintly under the rising sun. The city had a magic of its own, even in moments like this.

The cold quickly seeped through your cozy outfit, and with a shiver, you retreated back inside, shutting the balcony door behind you. The moment had done its job, though—you were awake now, ready to tackle the day.

You set your coffee down on the desk and started sorting through the stack of papers from the night before. Your quill scratched against parchment as you finalized the last details, double-checking your figures and refining your notes. The financial overview was straightforward enough, outlining the current state of healer resources across the courts. Plans for improved training and resource distribution were already drawn up, and now you added the final touches to your strategy for the upcoming year.

Hours blurred together as you worked, pausing only to sip your coffee or glance out the window for a fleeting distraction. The cold air had invigorated you, but the work demanded every ounce of your focus. By the time you finished, the sun was higher in the sky, casting a pale light over the city. The documents sat neatly stacked on your desk, ready for the meeting ahead.

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing at the stiffness in your neck. There was still so much to do, but at least you had cleared this particular hurdle. The meeting would be demanding, no doubt, but for now, you allowed yourself a moment of satisfaction. You were prepared.

As you prepared for the meeting, you chose an outfit that balanced practicality with elegance. Your wide-legged black pants were adorned with a subtle sprinkling of golden star details, shimmering faintly in the light. The fabric was soft yet structured, allowing for ease of movement while still appearing polished.

Your top was a dark teal masterpiece with a high neckline that exuded understated sophistication. The long, flowing sleeves added a graceful touch, billowing slightly as you moved. The bodice of the top was fitted, hugging your form just enough to highlight your figure without sacrificing comfort. The smooth texture of the fabric caught the light, giving it a faint sheen that complemented the gold accents on your pants.

Over it all, you wore a long, thick coat to ward off the winter chill. The coat was a deep charcoal gray, its woolen material lined with plush fur at the collar and cuffs. It hung elegantly around you, the hem brushing against your ankles as you walked. The coat’s design was simple but timeless, a perfect addition to your ensemble and a practical barrier against the icy winds of Velaris.

The morning passed in a blur of preparation. After ensuring every document was meticulously organized and packed into your satchel, you took one last look at your reflection in the mirror. Satisfied, you grabbed your satchel and made your way downstairs just as Cassian arrived to pick you up.

The sound of his boots echoed as he stepped into the clinic’s entryway, his usual grin already plastered across his face. "Ready, Y/N?" he asked, his voice tinged with that familiar playful tone.

You gave him a pointed look as you tightened the strap of your satchel. "If you fly too fast and make me lose a single page of my work, Cassian, I will make sure you regret it."

His grin widened, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. "Oh, is that a threat? You’re starting to sound like Nesta."

“Consider it a promise,” you quipped, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a faint smirk. Cassian laughed again, motioning for you to step closer so he could scoop you up.

Despite his teasing, his grip was secure as he took to the skies. The cold wind whipped around you as Velaris stretched out below, its rooftops dusted with snow. The flight was smooth, though Cassian’s occasional playful dips had you clutching your satchel tightly.

When you landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, Cassian set you down with ease. "See? Not a single page out of place," he said with mock pride.

"Yet," you muttered, smoothing your outfit and adjusting the strap of your satchel. The familiar scent of the House of Wind surrounded you as you stepped inside, the crisp winter air left behind.

As you walked through the halls toward the meeting room, Cassian’s tone shifted, his earlier humor giving way to concern. "How were your days in Windhaven?" he asked, his gaze steady as he glanced down at you.

You hesitated for a moment, adjusting the satchel on your shoulder. "Busy," you admitted. "The healers there are trying their best, but there’s a lot of work to do. Some of them are very inexperienced. It’s a steep learning curve, especially with the conditions they’re working in."

Cassian nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. "And you? You seemed… tired last time I saw you. I mean, more than usual."

The unexpected sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You glanced at him, surprised by the genuine concern in his expression. "I’m fine," you said after a moment, your tone softer. "It’s just a lot to juggle. But that’s why I’m here, right? To make things better."

He gave you a small, approving nod. "Well, if anyone can handle it, it’s you. But don’t forget to take care of yourself too, Y/N."

The warmth in his words lingered as you reached the doors of the meeting room. Taking a steadying breath, you straightened your shoulders and prepared to step inside. This was what you had been working toward, and you intended to see it through.

The meeting room was quiet as you and Cassian stepped in, the last to arrive. The others were already seated around the polished table: Rhysand at the head, Feyre beside him, Azriel sitting silently to his left, and Amren directly across from him. Their presence, the weight of being the Court’s leaders, filled the room with a palpable authority that made you pause for a moment. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before moving to your seat.

Cassian offered a light-hearted comment under his breath, but you were too focused to respond. Sliding into your chair, you arranged the documents and notes you’d brought with you, ensuring everything was within reach.

The meeting began with Cassian and Azriel reporting on their respective updates. Cassian delved into the progression of training regimens for Illyrian recruits, discussing efforts to implement more modern strategies despite ongoing resistance from the warlords. Azriel followed, his calm voice outlining intelligence gathered from his network of spies. He detailed movements from Koshiev’s suspected allies and the growing ripple of unease in neighboring territories. Their reports were thorough, efficient, and sobering.

And then it was your turn.

All eyes turned toward you as Rhysand gave you a small nod. You adjusted your papers, though you hardly needed them—you knew your material inside out. Sitting straighter, you began, your voice steady and professional.

“Thank you. As you all know, the healer network within the Night Court has been my primary focus over the past months, particularly in Illyria. After assessing the state of resources and infrastructure, I’ve developed several plans to address the gaps we currently face. First and foremost, I’ve identified key areas where resource exchanges with other courts or territories could benefit us significantly.”

You glanced briefly at Rhysand, noting his attentive expression. “For example, the Dawn Court has an overabundance of specific medicinal herbs that thrive in their climate but are difficult to cultivate here. Conversely, we have access to materials like Illyrian iron, which is rare outside the mountains and could serve as a valuable bargaining tool. Initial outreach has already begun, and I’ve drafted a tentative agreement proposal for review.”

You unfolded a detailed map, laying it out on the table. The map showed trade routes and key locations where resources could be obtained or exchanged. “Here, here, and here,” you said, pointing to the marked spots, “are regions where we could establish beneficial partnerships. I’ve already made initial contact with representatives from these areas and received promising responses. The next step would be finalizing the terms and ensuring transport logistics are accounted for.”

As you spoke, the room grew quieter, a testament to how closely they were listening. You continued without hesitation.

“Beyond external exchanges, I’ve worked on improving the efficiency of our internal supply chain. For instance, in Illyria, I’ve identified several bottlenecks that delay the distribution of vital healing supplies. I’ve proposed solutions to streamline these processes, including localized storage facilities and quicker transport methods between camps.”

You paused to let the information sink in before shifting to a more personal update. “During my recent trip to Windhaven, I worked closely with their healers. They’re skilled, but they lack resources and modern training. I’ve started drafting a plan to integrate some of our Velaris healers into rotations within the Illyrian camps. This would provide hands-on experience for both parties and improve the overall standard of care.”

Amren, leaning back in her chair, raised a brow. “You’ve been busy,” she remarked, her tone dry but laced with a hint of approval.

“I don’t believe in doing things halfway,” you replied, offering her a faint smile. “There’s still much to do, and the situation is constantly evolving. I intend to return to Illyria soon to solidify the plans I’ve set in motion, but my focus remains on creating a system that works seamlessly—whether I’m present or not.”

Feyre looked at you with something akin to awe. “It’s incredible how much you’ve accomplished in such a short time,” she said warmly. “And the level of detail in these plans… it’s exactly what we need.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes studied you for a moment before he spoke. “Your thoroughness is appreciated. These are not small tasks, and the scope of what you’ve already achieved is impressive. But tell me—do you feel confident this can be sustained in the long term?”

You met his gaze, unwavering. “Yes, I do. It’s not about quick fixes; it’s about building a foundation that will last. That means training more healers, establishing reliable trade partnerships, and ensuring every system we put in place is adaptable to changing circumstances.”

Azriel, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. “The Illyrian warlords don’t take well to outsiders imposing change. How have they responded to your involvement?”

You smirked faintly. “With skepticism, of course. But they’re beginning to see the results. Devlon himself has grudgingly admitted that the changes are working, though he’ll never say it outright. Actions speak louder than words, and I intend to keep proving them wrong.”

A quiet chuckle rippled around the table at your comment, and even Azriel’s lips twitched upward slightly. The meeting continued with questions and discussions about your plans, but the overall sentiment was clear: they were impressed. By the time the conversation moved to other topics, you felt a small sense of accomplishment. There was still much to do, but for now, you had their trust—and their support.

As the discussion shifted, the focus turned toward the borders of Prythian. Cassian began outlining the latest updates, detailing concerns about the tenuous balance along the edges of the Spring and Autumn Courts. His expression was serious, the tension in his voice evident as he explained how strained the relationships had become in recent months.

“The Spring Court has been quiet,” he said, glancing around the table. “Too quiet. We know Tamlin’s been trying to rebuild, but it’s hard to tell what kind of leader he’s becoming. And Autumn... well, let’s just say Beron’s court is a perpetual mess.”

Azriel added, his voice calm but laced with an edge of concern, “The situation in Autumn is as unstable as ever. Beron’s sons are still vying for power, and it’s causing fractures within the court. Lucien has been keeping us informed where he can, but even he has his limits.”

The conversation grew heavier as the implications of these reports settled over the group. Feyre frowned, her brow furrowed in thought. “Tamlin’s silence worries me. After everything that happened, I don’t know if he’s capable of rebuilding in a way that brings stability to his court—or even to himself.”

You listened intently, taking in their concerns. When a natural pause came, you cleared your throat softly, drawing their attention. “If I may,” you began, your voice calm but resolute. “I think Tamlin’s situation isn’t as hopeless as it might seem. The last time I spoke with the healer of the Spring Court—one of my former students—she gave me some insight into how things are progressing there.”

Everyone leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued. “Go on,” Rhysand prompted, his violet eyes focused on you.

“At the start, things were as dire as you’ve described,” you said. “She mentioned that Tamlin was wandering his lands in his beast form for months, completely disconnected from his court. It was chaos. His people were scattered, his court nearly in ruins. But...” You hesitated briefly before continuing. “It seems he’s made some changes recently. From what she told me, the Spring Court is stabilizing. Slowly, but noticeably.”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed slightly, her skepticism clear. “Tamlin’s... changing? How?”

“According to her,” you explained, “he’s begun focusing on the people rather than himself. He’s rebuilding villages, replanting forests, and actively seeking to restore what was lost during the war. It’s a stark contrast to the isolation he imposed before. She said he’s been kinder, more deliberate in his actions. It’s been months since he’s shifted into his beast form. He’s even opened the borders slightly, allowing for trade and aid.”

Rhysand leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “That’s... unexpected. I thought Tamlin would continue down the path of self-destruction.”

You shrugged lightly. “Perhaps he reached a breaking point and realized he needed to change. Or perhaps he finally listened to the people who remained loyal to him. Whatever the reason, it seems to be working—for now.”

Cassian folded his arms, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “And what about Autumn? Do you have any insight there?”

You shook your head. “Unfortunately, my connections to the healers there are limited. The last I heard, they’re overwhelmed with injuries and illnesses caused by the internal strife. Beron’s rule is as oppressive as ever, and the constant infighting among his sons doesn’t help. It’s a court teetering on the edge of collapse, but without strong leadership, it’ll only spiral further.”

Azriel’s shadows shifted slightly, a subtle sign of his unease. “If Autumn falls, it could destabilize the entire region. The ripple effects would reach every court.”

“It’s something to monitor closely,” Rhysand agreed. He turned back to you, his expression one of cautious optimism. “Thank you for sharing what you’ve learned. Your connections with the healers of other courts are proving invaluable.”

You inclined your head in acknowledgment. “It’s what we do. Healers talk—we share insights, concerns, and stories. Sometimes, it’s the smallest details that provide the clearest picture.”

Feyre smiled faintly, though her worry for Tamlin remained evident. “It’s good to know that things in Spring might be improving, even if it’s slow. Maybe Tamlin really is trying to move forward.”

The room settled into a contemplative silence as everyone absorbed the information. While the challenges ahead remained daunting, the small glimmer of progress in the Spring Court offered a shred of hope that perhaps change was possible, even in the most unlikely places.

As the meeting began to draw to a close, Rhysand shifted his attention to you, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Y/N,” he began, his tone measured, “in five days, you’ll be heading to the Dawn Court for the healer’s meeting.”

You inclined your head slightly, already expecting this topic to arise. “Yes, I’ve been preparing for it. Most of the groundwork has already been laid, so I’m confident things are on track.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Being the lead for this meeting is no small task, especially considering the current tensions across Prythian. This gathering will likely involve more than discussions about healing techniques.”

You nodded, understanding the underlying weight of his words. “I’ve already worked on plans for resource exchanges and outlined measures to address cross-court needs. I’ll finalize those details in the coming days and ensure everything is in order.”

Rhysand’s lips quirked in approval. “I have no doubt you’ll be more than prepared.”

Before the topic could shift, Rhys turned his gaze toward Azriel. “That said, I’d like Azriel to accompany you to the Dawn Court.”

The statement caught you off guard, and you blinked, momentarily stunned. “That won’t be necessary,” you said, keeping your voice as steady as possible. “I spent years in the Dawn Court. I know the territory, the people. I’ve built relationships with their healers and leadership. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Rhysand’s eyes softened, but his tone was firm. “This isn’t about your ability, Y/N. It’s about the broader situation. With tensions rising, I’d rather not take any chances. Azriel’s presence is precautionary.”

You frowned slightly, frustration flickering beneath the surface. “Rhys, I appreciate the concern, but I’m more than capable of handling myself. The Dawn Court isn’t hostile territory.”

“It’s not up for debate,” Rhysand said gently but decisively, cutting off further protest. “Azriel will accompany you. This is as much about optics as it is about safety. The world is watching, and having one of my most trusted with you is non-negotiable.”

Azriel, seated silently across from you, inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression remained inscrutable. You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to nod despite the tightness in your chest. “Very well,” you said finally, your voice calm even if your thoughts churned beneath the surface.

“Thank you,” Rhysand said, his gaze meeting yours with quiet understanding before shifting to the rest of the room. “With that, I believe we’re finished here.”

As the meeting concluded and everyone began to rise, Feyre approached you, her expression warm and welcoming. “Y/N,” she said, her voice gentle, “I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow is the Solstice celebration. You’re more than welcome to join us at the townhouse. It’ll be a relaxed evening with good food, music, and company. It would be lovely to have you there.”

You hesitated for a moment, adjusting the papers in your hands. The offer was genuine, and the warmth in her tone made it hard to refuse. But the weight of your responsibilities loomed in your mind. “Thank you, Feyre,” you said sincerely. “It’s a kind invitation, and I truly appreciate it. But with the meeting in the Dawn Court in just a few days, I have so much to finalize. Plus, I’m handling the clinic alone tomorrow night. I gave the rest of the healers time off to spend the Solstice with their families, and I can’t call them back on such short notice.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across her features. “Y/N, you’ve been working tirelessly. Taking one evening to rest and celebrate wouldn’t undo your progress.”

You gave her a faint smile, shaking your head gently. “Perhaps, but the work isn’t going to do itself. And the clinic needs to be open for those who might need care tomorrow night. Besides, this meeting is too important to risk being unprepared. It’s not just about me—it’s about representing the Night Court.”

Feyre sighed, clearly disappointed but understanding. “I had hoped we could convince you to take a break.”

Your gaze softened as you reached into your satchel and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. “Even if I can’t make it tomorrow, I wanted to give you this. I know it’s bad luck to celebrate early, but consider it an early birthday gift.”

Feyre blinked in surprise as you handed her the package. “You didn’t have to—” she began, but you cut her off with a small shake of your head.

“It’s nothing extravagant, just a salve I’ve been working on. It’s excellent for healing soreness, bruises, or just general aches. I thought you might find it useful, especially with Nyx keeping you on your toes.”

Her eyes brightened as she unwrapped the gift, a smile spreading across her face. “This is wonderful, Y/N. Thank you.”

You nodded, your smile genuine this time. “I truly hope you enjoy tomorrow. Maybe next year, I’ll be able to join you. For now, though, I’ll have to focus on my duties.”

Feyre reached out, giving your hand a small squeeze. “And when this meeting is over, we’ll have to find time to see you again—hopefully under less stressful circumstances.”

“I’d like that,” you said softly, the warmth in her gesture easing some of the tension that had built throughout the day. With a final nod, you excused yourself, stepping away from the meeting room and back into the rhythm of preparation for the days ahead.

—

Azriel’s POV

As the door clicked shut behind Y/N, the room fell into a moment of reflective silence. Azriel’s eyes followed the path she had just taken, his mind still lingering on her composure during the meeting. She’d been precise, efficient, and utterly unflinching in her delivery—a stark contrast to the overwhelming workload she seemed to be carrying alone.

Amren, who had remained quiet through much of the meeting, leaned forward and picked up one of the documents Y/N had left on the table. She scanned the contents, her sharp silver eyes narrowing slightly. “Look at this,” she said, her tone even but tinged with intrigue. “These aren’t just good ideas; they’re well-researched, meticulously planned, and already in motion. She’s brokered deals with some of the best suppliers in Prythian and beyond—at prices better than I’ve ever seen.”

Cassian whistled low, leaning over her shoulder to glance at the papers. “She’s been here, what, a few months? And she’s already pulling this off? She’s got connections everywhere. The Dawn Court, the Illyrian camps, even some spots in the mortal lands. It’s... impressive.”

Amren nodded slowly, flipping to another page. “It’s not just impressive—it’s unprecedented. She hasn’t just taken over Madja’s work; she’s expanded it. Madja ran the Night Court’s healing efforts masterfully, but Y/N is managing that and fostering collaborations with other courts and territories. She’s operating on a level where the pressure isn’t just from us—it’s from everyone. Every healer, every kingdom, every place that knows her name has high hopes for what she can achieve.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes gleamed with quiet understanding as he leaned back in his chair. “She’s an amazing healer,” he said, his voice calm yet laced with respect. “But she’s also a force in her own right. The weight she’s carrying isn’t just heavy—it’s enormous.”

Azriel said nothing, but his mind churned with thoughts. He had seen the intensity in her during the meeting, the unrelenting focus in her eyes. It wasn’t just that she was competent—she carried the weight of her responsibilities with a quiet, unyielding strength that was impossible to ignore.

Rhysand turned his gaze to Azriel, pulling him from his thoughts. “Az,” he began, his tone more casual now. “I appreciate you agreeing to accompany her to the Dawn Court, especially on such short notice. I know this wasn’t planned.”

Azriel inclined his head slightly. “It’s fine,” he replied. “And honestly, it’s better to have someone going with her. The Dawn Court might be peaceful, but she’s carrying a lot right now. She shouldn’t have to handle everything alone.”

Rhysand studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “I agree. She’s more than capable, but even the strongest among us need support.”

Cassian smirked, breaking the serious moment. “Support? You mean someone to carry her stack of files?”

Azriel shot him a dry look but didn’t rise to the bait. His thoughts drifted back to the sheer amount of effort Y/N had put into her preparations. It wasn’t just the work itself that impressed him—it was the way she seemed to carry it all, as if failure wasn’t even a consideration.

Amren’s voice cut through the moment. “Just make sure she doesn’t burn herself out,” she said bluntly, closing the file she’d been examining. “The world needs her at her best—not pushing herself into an early grave.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, but her words settled heavily in his mind. As the conversation shifted, he found himself quietly resolved to ensure that Y/N wasn’t alone in the tasks ahead—not just in the Dawn Court, but wherever her path led.

The memory of Y/N in the operating room lingered in Azriel’s mind, vivid and unshakable. He had watched her, bathed in the sterile glow of moonlight, working with unwavering precision to save a life. The gap between them felt stark in those moments—she was someone who healed, who saved lives, while he was someone who ended them, a hand of darkness in service of his court.

Even now, as he sat in the quiet aftermath of the meeting, her image remained. The way she moved, commanding the room without force, her hands steady despite the chaos around her. There was no doubt that Y/N was brilliant in her craft, but Azriel couldn’t dismiss the lingering doubts Elain had planted. She hadn’t specified why she felt uneasy about Y/N, but the implication that it could be tied to a vision gnawed at him. Elain’s foresight, as rare and erratic as it was, wasn’t something he could simply ignore.

I’ll keep an eye on her, Azriel resolved silently. Her loyalty, her brilliance—it didn’t mean she was above scrutiny. Too much was at stake for him to let his guard down, no matter how impressive she was.

When the others finally left the meeting room, Rhysand lingered behind, and Azriel knew what was coming before a word was spoken. Rhys turned to him, his violet eyes steady.

“Azriel,” Rhys began, his tone laced with the kind of weariness that only came with navigating family matters, “about tomorrow. With Lucien coming—”

Azriel cut him off sharply, rising from his chair in one fluid motion. “You don’t have to remind me every time we speak, High Lord.” The title rolled off his tongue with biting sarcasm, his shadows curling faintly around his frame as his irritation flared. “I know my role, and I’ll play it. As you wish.”

Rhysand’s expression flickered, surprise giving way to something softer—understanding, perhaps, though it did little to soothe Azriel’s temper. “Az,” he began again, his voice gentler this time, “I’m not trying to—”

But Azriel shook his head, unwilling to entertain any further discussion. “It’s fine,” he said curtly, though the tension in his voice betrayed his words. “You’ve made your expectations clear.”

Without waiting for a response, Azriel turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his shadows pooling behind him like a trailing cloak. He needed air, space to think, to untangle the mess of emotions that Rhysand’s reminder had dredged up.

Tomorrow would come, and with it, all the complications Lucien’s presence would bring. But for now, Azriel let himself sink into the quiet comfort of the night, the stars above a distant reminder of a world that moved on, no matter the burdens he carried.

----

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[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 6

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 9k (long ass chapter lol)

Trigger warning; //

notes; Hello my loves <3 HAPPY NEW YEAR woohooo!!! Sorry for not posting these last few days, but they’ve been looong with all the celebrations. Plus, I had to travel back to my place, and it took forever. So today, you’ll not only get part 6, but also part 7 ;) (it should be up in the next few minutes). This chapter was actually pretty hard for me to write because I had doubts about where to take the story or if I should give more or fewer clues about Y/N’s background. Either way, don’t hesitate to comment because even if I don’t reply to all of you, I definitely read them, and I loveeee getting those notifications. Well, see you in a few minutes for part 7 lol <3

Link; Part 5 or Part 7

----

Late afternoon shadows stretched across Velaris as you and Cassian stepped off the bridge leading into the quieter district near the clinic. Both of you were weary—three days in Illyria had taxed your energy, even if the journey home was less fraught than the work you’d done in the camps. Your cloak felt heavier than usual, boots scuffing softly on the cobblestones as you approached the modest building that housed the clinic’s entrance and your apartment above it.

Cassian’s shoulders slumped a little, wings drooping as he glanced at you. “We made it,” he said, voice carrying a note of relief. “Another successful adventure survived.” His smile was a bit lopsided, but genuine.

You managed a small chuckle, rolling your stiff shoulders. “A success, I hope,” you answered quietly. “At least some of them seemed open to new methods.”

He nodded, raking a hand through his hair. “They’ll never admit it, but they’ll use what you taught them. You left an impression, Y/N.”

The simple honesty in his tone warmed you. The clinic door beckoned, safety and rest just inside. You paused at the threshold, turning to face him. “Thank you for coming with me,” you said softly. “I know you had other duties, but I’m grateful you lent your presence—and, frankly, your muscle—to ensure no one gave me too hard a time.”

Cassian shrugged, easy humor returning for a moment. “Any excuse to keep the Illyrians in line.” He sobered a fraction, studying you with quiet sincerity. “I’m glad I could help.”

A silence fell, not uncomfortable but weighted with the fatigue of the journey. At length, Cassian cleared his throat, as if remembering something. “Oh, right,” he said, seeming almost amused by whatever he’d forgotten. “Before I go—Rhys asked me to pass along an invitation. He’d like you to join him, Feyre, and a few others for dinner tomorrow night at their townhouse in Velaris. It’s a sort of… well, I guess a welcome dinner now that you’re truly back in the Night Court.”

Your eyes widened in surprise and a spark of gratitude lit behind them. “Dinner?” you repeated, a bit taken aback. “That’s… an honor. I—” You hesitated, a hundred questions floating to your mind. You weren’t sure what one normally did when invited to the High Lord’s home for a meal. “Should I bring anything?” you asked, half-wondering if a gift or some rare herbs might be customary.

Cassian’s grin turned playful. “Bring yourself,” he said simply. “That’s all they’ll want. Trust me, Rhys and Feyre don’t stand on ceremony with friends. Consider it an evening to relax, maybe talk about what’s next.” His gaze flicked over the clinic’s door, then back to you, voice softening. “You deserve a good meal and a bit of comfort after the work you’ve done.”

Touched by his words, you nodded. “All right,” you agreed. “I’ll be there.”

“Perfect.” He exhaled, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Now, I’d better let you rest. I think we’ve both earned a good night’s sleep.”

A small laugh escaped you. “Absolutely,” you said, resting a hand on the door’s latch. “Sleep well, Cassian.”

He gave you a salute that was half-mocking, half-genuine, wings fluttering as he turned away and headed down the street. You watched him go for a moment, then slipped inside the clinic, fatigue tugging at your limbs. Tomorrow, you would face the High Lord’s table, and perhaps some quieter conversations that might shape the next phase of your return.

For now, rest called, and you followed it gratefully up the stairs to your apartment, thoughts drifting between memories of Illyria’s harsh mountains and the warm promise of dinner among unlikely allies.

Back inside the familiar confines of the clinic, you paused just inside the door, drawing in the scents of linen and dried herbs that always lingered in the halls. Your joints ached a bit from the journey, but routine called, and you answered it. Before heading upstairs to your apartment, you moved through the quiet corridors to the records room. A low lamp flickered there, its glow soft against the shelves.

You ran your fingertips along the ledgers, pulling out the records from the past three days. Your eyes skimmed the entries, scanning notes that Elira and the other healers had left. No major emergencies, you read with relief—only a few minor wounds, a mild fever, the usual aches and pains. The neat handwriting confirmed that Elira had continued training the younger healers as planned. She’d even left a brief note: All went well. The younger ones are picking up the new bandaging technique quickly.

A small smile touched your lips. Good. Progress, even in your absence.

Satisfied that the clinic had fared well without you, you tucked the ledger back into place and turned toward the stairs. The promise of rest beckoned, and you ascended quietly, passing familiar sconces that flickered in the gentle air currents. Upstairs, your apartment welcomed you with its calm silence. You shrugged off your cloak, letting it fall over a chair, and considered the state of your legs and back. A warm bath—yes, that would be perfect.

You crossed to the small bathroom, lighting a few candles along the way. The soft glow gilded the tiled walls and the simple, claw-footed tub. Setting the faucet, you allowed steaming water to pour in, scenting it with a bit of lavender oil you kept for moments like these. As the tub filled and steam rose, you breathed deeply, letting the tension roll off your shoulders.

So much had happened—Illyria, the uncertain dynamics in the Night Court’s inner circle, and tomorrow, a dinner invitation from the High Lord himself. But for now, here, in this private sanctuary, you could let all that fade. Stripping out of your travel-stained clothes, you sank into the bath, the warm water cradling your tired muscles. The quiet of the evening settled over you, and the lavender-soaked steam eased the lingering edges of worry.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges and discoveries. Tonight, you granted yourself peace.

—————

When evening arrived, you found yourself walking through Velaris’s softly lit streets, a bundle of carefully chosen flowers nestled in the crook of your arm. You’d spent much of the day working at the clinic as usual, but your mind had drifted often to the upcoming dinner. Now, wearing a simple but neat outfit—something presentable without being ostentatious—you followed the directions Cassian had given you, making your way toward the High Lord and High Lady’s townhouse.

Your heart fluttered with a mix of anticipation and nerves. It wasn’t as if you were heading into battle, but meeting them on such personal terms, in their private home, was a new threshold. You hadn’t seen Azriel since returning from Illyria, and though he might be present, you tried not to focus on that too much. This evening wasn’t about your confused feelings or the golden thread that tugged quietly at your awareness. It was about respect, camaraderie, and, hopefully, laughter over good food.

Rounding a corner, you came upon the district where the townhouse stood. The soft glow of streetlamps illuminated quiet lanes, and music drifted faintly from some distant party. Ahead, you spotted the house described to you—a graceful building of warm-colored stone and gently sloping roofs. It was large enough to accommodate their inner circle and guests, yet it didn’t loom or flaunt opulence. Instead, it exuded a gentle, welcoming aura.

Plants climbed trellises along the exterior, flowering vines weaving patterns around balconies and window frames. You caught the scent of night-blooming jasmine mingling with roses and citrus blossoms, an elegant tapestry of nature’s perfume draped over the home. It felt alive, this house—a place nurtured by caring hands. A place of growth and warmth.

Approaching the door, you paused to straighten your posture and smooth your clothes. The flowers you carried were modest and cheerful—nothing exotic or rare, just a vibrant mix of blooms from a local florist. You’d considered bringing wine, but after a moment’s reflection, you realized that whatever bottle you could afford would be outshone by the contents of their likely well-stocked cellar. Flowers, though, offered color, scent, and sincerity. That, you hoped, would be appreciated.

Exhaling slowly, you stepped forward, footfalls muffled by the ivy-softened walkway. The door’s brass knocker gleamed in the lamplight. You raised your free hand and knocked gently, heart fluttering once more. Perhaps it was silly to be nervous. You’d healed impossible wounds, steered conversations with stubborn Lords, and confronted your own uncertainties. You could handle a dinner invitation.

As you waited for someone to answer, you let your gaze drift along the eaves and sills. Lanterns dangled from hooks, their glass panels casting soft patterns of light and shadow across the entryway. Everything felt harmonious and attentive to detail—a reflection, perhaps, of the people who lived inside.

In a moment, you would be ushered in, welcomed as a friend or colleague rather than a mere visitor. The thought steadied you. The flowers shifted in your arms, and their gentle fragrance rose to meet you, a reminder that some gestures spoke volumes without words.

You were here, and you would face whatever the evening brought with an open heart.

The door swung open to reveal Feyre, her hair tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders, a gentle smile illuminating her features. She wore something elegant but not showy, a simple gown that played up her natural grace. When she saw you, her eyes lit even brighter, and she reached out, enfolding you in a warm, unexpected hug. It eased a little of the tension that had coiled in your chest.

“You’re here,” she said, voice calm and welcoming. “We’re so glad you could come.”

You offered her the bouquet, a mix of vivid blooms you’d chosen with care. Her eyes widened slightly, delighted. “They’re beautiful—thank you. I know a perfect spot for these.” She stepped back, holding the flowers with a careful tenderness, as if the gift mattered more than you’d dared hope.

She ushered you inside, and you slipped off your coat. Though it hadn’t snowed that day, a crisp chill still lingered in Velaris’s winter air, and the townhouse’s warmth wrapped around you like a soft cloak. Feyre guided you through a well-lit hallway into the living room, where conversation and laughter wove a gentle tapestry over the hush of the evening.

Rhysand rose from an armchair near the hearth to greet you, his violet eyes reflecting the lamplight. “Welcome,” he said, voice smooth and sincere. “Please, make yourself at home. You’ve already met Cassian and Azriel, but allow me to introduce the rest.”

Your gaze swept over the room. Cassian stood near the mantel, a glass of wine in hand, and as you glanced at him, he offered a lazy grin. Azriel was positioned a bit to the side, one arm resting along the back of a sofa. His bandages were gone, leaving faint lines of healing scars hidden beneath well-tailored clothing. He inclined his head softly when your eyes met, acknowledging your presence without fuss.

Seated near Azriel was a stunning blonde female—radiant and poised. Her beauty caught your attention immediately. Feyre noticed your look and added with a smile, “This is Mor—Morrigan. She’s family.”

Mor raised her glass in greeting, her hazel eyes warm with easy camaraderie. “Nice to finally meet you,” she said, voice touched with a hint of laughter, as if you’d arrived just in time for something pleasant.

Another figure caught your eye next: a smaller female, perched on the arm of a chair. Her silver eyes were sharp, ancient somehow, set into a refined face and framed by dark hair. This, you guessed, must be Amren. Your heart gave a small jolt of surprise—she was the one you’d heard described as powerful and formidable, yet she merely gave you a faint nod, assessing and cool, but not impolite.

Near Cassian stood another woman, her posture elegant, her features bearing a clear familial resemblance to Feyre. This must be Nesta—Feyre’s sister, the one who you’d heard was mated to Cassian. Her gaze was direct, but not hostile; perhaps curious, as if measuring who you were and why you’d been invited into their circle. You offered her a respectful smile, and she inclined her head in a subtle, regal manner.

The atmosphere was cordial, tinted with curiosity and acceptance. The fire crackled softly behind you, the scent of rich food and spices drifting in from another room. Feyre gestured to a free chair and you sat, the others resuming their conversations, weaving you naturally into their midst.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Azriel shift slightly, watching the interplay of introductions. Morrigan turned to say something to him, drawing his attention away and giving you a moment to breathe, to take in that you were truly here, part of this intimate gathering.

“Dinner will be ready soon,” Feyre said, settling beside Rhysand, who’d gently clasped her hand. “Until then, relax. We’ve all been looking forward to getting to know you better.”

With those words and the warmth in the room, you felt some of your lingering tension melt away. You were among allies, in a house so beautifully tended, with plants climbing the windows and laughter in the air. It was easy, in that moment, to let yourself belong just a little more to this court you were slowly making home.

As you settled into a free chair near the hearth, the soft hum of conversation enveloped you. The group arranged themselves in a loose circle of armchairs and sofas, each face illuminated by the gentle firelight and the glow of simple lanterns placed around the room. Feyre had taken a seat beside Rhysand, her hand resting comfortably on his arm, while Cassian lounged near Nesta and Azriel, who remained quietly attentive. Mor perched gracefully on a low ottoman, crossing her long legs with casual elegance, and Amren claimed a small armchair as if it were a throne, her silver eyes keen but not hostile.

Feyre, ever the thoughtful hostess, spoke first. “You’ve just returned from Illyria, haven’t you?” Her voice was warm, genuine curiosity shining through. “Cassian told us a bit about your work there. How did it go?”

You drew a steady breath, aware of more eyes turning your way. “It was… challenging,” you admitted with a half-smile. “The healers were skilled but set in their ways. I managed to introduce a few new techniques. Some were skeptical, but I think a few caught on.”

Cassian gave a snort from his spot by the mantel. “Some of them were more than skeptical. Let’s say they were resistant until they saw the results.” His grin flashed, clearly proud of how you’d handled the situation.

Mor tilted her head, golden curls slipping over one shoulder. “Resistance is standard there,” she said, amused. “I’m impressed you made progress so quickly. Usually, it takes a century or two to change an Illyrian’s mind about anything.”

A ripple of light laughter flowed through the room. Even Nesta’s lips curved slightly, though her gaze remained measured. “They can be stubborn,” Nesta agreed quietly. “But if you got them to listen, you’ve accomplished a minor miracle.”

Azriel’s gaze flicked to you then, calm and thoughtful. “Any particular technique you introduced that might stand out for them?” he asked softly, voice barely above the crackle of the fire. There was interest, maybe respect, underlying the question.

You smoothed a hand over your knee, considering. “I combined some Dawn Court infusion methods with local herbs to create salves that heal burns and cuts faster. Also taught them how to more efficiently close a wound using layered bandaging, so it breathes and doesn’t trap infection.” Your shoulders relaxed as you spoke, talking shop easing the tension in your chest. “It’s subtle changes that matter over time.”

Rhysand inclined his head. “Subtle changes often pave the way for greater shifts. Even if they don’t appreciate it now, they’ll notice the difference when their warriors recover more swiftly.”

Amren’s silver eyes narrowed with interest. “You sound like someone who doesn’t fear digging into traditions,” she commented. “I suppose traveling the continents taught you that?”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Exactly,” you said. “Every place I visited had a different approach to healing. By the time I returned, I carried a blend of knowledge. Challenging ingrained habits is never easy, but I believe if we show results, people adapt.”

As the conversation in the living room flowed around you, your attention drifted to Azriel, who’d been listening quietly while the others exchanged stories. Under the soft glow of the lamps, he seemed more at ease than the last time you’d seen him—no bandages, no pained tension in his posture. But you knew better than to assume all was perfect.

Leaning forward slightly, you caught his eye. “Azriel,” you began, your voice low enough that the others, caught up in their chatter, wouldn’t be distracted. “How are your injuries feeling now?”

He blinked, as if brought out of private thoughts. The edge of his mouth curved in a faint but genuine smile. “Much better,” he replied softly, voice smooth and controlled. “Your treatments worked wonders.”

A small surge of satisfaction warmed you. “I’m glad. I worried about scarring, especially on the wings, but it seems my methods held.”

Azriel inclined his head, shadows shifting imperceptibly at his shoulders. “They did. I owe you more gratitude than I can put into words.”

You waved a hand dismissively, though not unkindly. “No need for grand thanks. It’s what I do.” After a brief moment, you continued, “If you find yourself running low on ointment or salve—anything for lingering aches—you’re welcome to stop by the clinic. I’ll make sure you have what you need.”

His eyes flickered slightly, a hint of something unreadable passing there. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, voice still gentle. “Though I think it’s my turn to follow the rules this time. I won’t risk mixing anything that’s not from your hands.”

A quiet huff of amusement escaped you. “Good,” you said, pleased to note even the faintest humor there. “I’d prefer no more surprise remedies.”

He almost smiled fully at that, and you found yourself relieved—relieved that he’d healed, relieved that you could speak amicably, and relieved that, even amidst lingering complexities, you could offer him help without awkwardness.

Rhysand leaned forward slightly, his attention shifting fully to you. “Your skill with Illyrian wings is… notable,” he said, voice calm and curious. “It’s not often we see someone outside these mountains who can treat wing injuries with such precision. Where did you learn that?”

You swallowed, noticing how everyone’s gaze had angled your way. Azriel’s dark eyes were steady, Cassian’s brows lifted with mild interest, and Mor sipped her wine, listening quietly. “I owe much to Madja,” you said with a small shrug, trying to sound offhanded. “In my youth, under her tutelage, I spent time observing healings of various kinds. When I traveled to the Dawn Court, I worked extensively with peregryns. Between the two experiences, I pieced together techniques that transfer well.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, and you sensed approval rather than suspicion. Feyre offered a gentle smile, as if pleased to understand more about your background. Azriel only gave the faintest tilt of his head, acknowledging your explanation.

Before anyone could delve deeper, the door opened softly, and you all turned. Elain stepped into the room, cradling a small bundle in her arms. The atmosphere shifted; the hush that followed her appearance was softer, lighter. She carried a baby—a tiny figure swaddled in soft linens. At the sight of you, Elain’s eyes went wide, a brief flicker of something like panic crossing her face. She managed a stiff, silent nod in your direction, acknowledging your presence.

She crossed the floor and carefully handed the baby to Feyre before moving to sit next to Azriel. The subtle tension that flared in the air didn’t go unnoticed by you. Seeing her choose a seat near Azriel struck a chord, stirring a quiet ache in your chest. The memory of misunderstandings and the complexities of their relationship hovered in your mind.

Feyre, noticing the moment, turned toward you with a warm, bright smile and the infant cradled securely in her arms. “This is Nyx,” she said softly, pride and love coloring every syllable. She stepped closer, letting you see the baby’s tiny, delicate features, the soft tufts of dark hair. “Our son.”

Your heart softened at the sight, and you drew a careful breath. “He’s beautiful,” you murmured, the tension easing slightly at the simple purity of this introduction. “Congratulations.”

Feyre’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you,” she said, rocking Nyx gently. After a moment, she glanced toward Elain and then back to you. “I should also introduce you to my sister, Elain. But I believe you’ve already met?”

Your eyes darted to Elain, who offered another small, tense smile. “Yes,” you confirmed quietly. “We’ve met.” The memory of the morning with Azriel’s injury still flickered in the back of your mind. Elain’s panic that day, her attempt to help gone wrong.

The baby cooed softly, wriggling a tiny arm free from the swaddle, and Feyre adjusted him tenderly. The simple, gentle act redirected your focus to something simpler and kinder. In that moment, held in Feyre’s arms, Nyx represented a softness and hope that contrasted sharply against the intricate bonds and tensions that wove this inner circle together.

You lifted your gaze, meeting Elain’s eyes briefly. She looked away, cheeks coloring faintly, before focusing on Azriel and the room’s gentle chatter. A hush of understanding passed—whatever had happened before still lingered, unspoken and unresolved, but for tonight, perhaps it could remain beneath the surface, overshadowed by the presence of family and the simple joy of a new life in their midst.

You blinked, noting the tiny, budding wings peeking out from Nyx’s swaddle. It took a moment for the sight to register—Feyre and Rhysand’s child had wings. The world narrowed briefly to that small detail, a realization that sent a pulse of concern through your chest. Memories stirred of the quiet horrors you’d learned about: how some winged births could end tragically if the mother’s body wasn’t prepared.

“Oh,” you said softly, voice hushed. “He has wings.” The words escaped before you could smooth your tone. You turned your gaze to Feyre, eyes wide with a hint of shock. “Are—are you all right?” you asked, concern lacing your voice. You knew how risky such births could be, how many mothers—non-winged mothers—lost their lives or their children. The knowledge spilled out in your startled tone, too raw and honest.

As soon as the question left your lips, you caught yourself. This was personal, deeply so, and it might not be your place to ask. A flush warmed your cheeks, and you cleared your throat softly. “I’m sorry,” you murmured quickly, lowering your eyes. “That was intrusive. I didn’t mean—”

Feyre’s smile was gentle, understanding. She shifted Nyx slightly, rocking him in a way that spoke of deep maternal comfort. “It’s all right,” she said quietly, voice kind and steady. “I know it can be dangerous. It was. But I’m fine now—truly.”

She exhaled softly, sharing a glance with Rhysand who offered a reassuring nod. “We had a lot of support, the best healers, and… let’s just say there were extraordinary circumstances that helped.” Feyre’s tone carried quiet resilience, as if acknowledging a trial endured and overcome.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Relief and admiration washed over you. “I’m glad,” you said simply, heartfelt. The image of the tiny, safe baby cradled in Feyre’s arms, half winged and wholly loved, took the sting out of your earlier alarm.

Nyx stirred, letting out a small, contented noise, as if confirming that all was indeed well. And so, in that moment, you allowed yourself to trust in their strength and the healing they had found—together, in this extraordinary court.

The dining table was set with care and elegance, an array of dishes spread like a tapestry of flavors and colors. Feyre had returned after settling Nyx down for the night, and now she sat beside Rhysand, her eyes brighter, freer, as though a weight had lifted from her shoulders. You were seated between Amren and Mor, with Azriel directly across from you. The air hummed with conversation, the gentle clink of silverware, and the faint glow of faelight sconces casting a warm gleam over crystal and china.

The food was beyond anything you’d tasted in recent memory—roasted vegetables drizzled with spiced oils, tender meats seasoned to perfection, a fresh salad of night-blooming flowers and herbs that tasted of moonlit gardens. Between bites, you couldn’t help small hums of appreciation. Mor grinned at your delighted expression, whispering that Feyre and Rhys knew how to choose their cooks wisely. Amren, on your left, merely arched an eyebrow, as if such quality was the norm in this household.

Across the table, Rhysand and Feyre spoke quietly with Azriel about the latest developments with Koshiev’s faction. They didn’t hide the topic, but neither did they elaborate on grim details unnecessarily. Still, the tension was palpable.

Cassian, seated beside Nesta, seemed to pick up on the unease radiating from her. He leaned closer, murmuring something low that drew a reluctant smirk from her lips—a rare crack in her otherwise steely demeanor.

The conversation shifted, soft murmurs filling the dining room as everyone seemed to settle into their own thoughts. But your gaze lingered, drawn to the quiet interactions between Azriel and Elain.

They weren’t doing anything outright inappropriate, of course. Yet the way Azriel leaned slightly toward her, his shadows curling faintly around her seat as though they couldn’t help themselves—it was subtle, but unmistakable. And Elain, for all her delicate, quiet nature, didn’t seem to shy away from him. If anything, the small glances she cast in his direction, the way her hand lingered near his on the table, spoke volumes.

Something was going on between those two. That much you were sure of.

But didn’t she have a mate?

The thought gnawed at you. From what you’d learned during your short time with this group, the bond between mates was supposed to be unbreakable, undeniable. A rare gift—or curse, depending on how one saw it. Yet here was Elain, sitting close to Azriel, her mate nowhere to be found.

You couldn’t help but recall the low, tense conversation you’d overheard between Rhysand and Azriel days ago. Their voices had been hushed, but you’d caught enough to piece together fragments. It had been about Elain, about Azriel’s feelings for her—and about how complicated the whole situation was.

Even tonight, the tension was palpable. Rhysand and Feyre avoided looking too long in Azriel and Elain’s direction, as if their mere proximity might ignite something. Cassian’s joviality had dimmed slightly, and even Mor seemed unusually reserved.

You shifted in your seat, the unease settling in your chest like a stone. Whatever was unfolding here felt like a precarious balancing act, one wrong move away from shattering entirely.

It wasn’t jealousy, you told yourself firmly—because at the end of the day, you barely knew him. Whatever flicker of connection you’d felt when you first crossed paths with Azriel had been just that: a flicker.

Still, you couldn’t entirely ignore the truth you’d kept to yourself. That he was your mate.

You hadn’t planned to speak of it, not now, perhaps not ever. What would be the point? He didn’t seem to know, and you weren’t about to disrupt the fragile balance of this group—or his life—by bringing it up.

But watching him now, seeing the way his gaze softened for Elain, the way his shadows seemed drawn to her as if they couldn’t help themselves... it unsettled you.

You reached for your glass of wine, your fingers tightening slightly around the stem. It wasn’t your place to interfere, nor did you want to. And yet, the sight stirred something uncomfortable in you—an ache you couldn’t quite place, an unease that whispered of things better left buried.

For now, you resolved, you would tread carefully. Whatever this was, it wasn’t your story to tell.

As the conversation ebbed and flowed, you caught snippets of Mor and Feyre discussing the upcoming Solstice celebrations. Their voices carried a mix of excitement and warmth, and even those not directly involved in the planning seemed to lean in slightly, drawn by the festive air.

“Everything’s nearly set,” Mor said with a grin, her golden eyes glimmering. “But I still think we need more lights. You can never have too many.”

Feyre laughed softly, shaking her head. “We’re already bordering on blinding half the Sidra with what we’ve got planned.”

“Exactly,” Mor countered. “Bordering. Not quite there yet.”

The exchange drew a small chuckle from the others, and soon the table was animated with chatter about the Solstice—decorations, food, gifts, the music for the evening. You found yourself listening quietly, a faint smile on your lips as their excitement filled the room.

Then Cassian turned to you, curiosity lighting his hazel eyes. “What about you, Y/N? What are you planning for the Solstice?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Working,” you said simply, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

Cassian stared at you, his expression shifting from surprised to faintly unimpressed. “You’re working?” he repeated, as though the concept was completely foreign to him.

You shrugged, taking a sip of your wine. “I gave the night and the day after to the other healers,” you explained matter-of-factly. “They have families to spend it with.”

His blunt stare didn’t waver. “And you don’t?”

The question hung in the air for a beat too long. You didn’t flinch, though. Instead, you gave him a small, wry smile. “Not in the traditional sense,” you replied. “I’ve spent most of my life on the road. Holidays are just... nights like any other to me.”

Mor frowned slightly, her lips parting as though she wanted to say something, but Feyre beat her to it. “You could spend it with us,” she offered warmly, her eyes soft and kind. “If you’re free after your shift, of course.”

You hesitated, glancing around the table at the faces watching you. “That’s kind of you,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. “I’ll see how the night goes, but I wouldn’t count on me. Those nights tend to be pretty busy.”

Cassian still didn’t look entirely pleased, but he let the topic drop, turning to Azriel to mutter something under his breath. Across from you, Feyre and Mor resumed their discussion about the preparations, but you noticed the glances they shot your way from time to time.

The Solstice was supposed to be a time of joy, of togetherness. And yet, for you, it had always been a reminder of the distances you’d kept—between yourself and others, between your past and your present. Maybe this year would be different. But you weren’t ready to hope for that just yet.

Nesta, her tone gentle yet curious, asked, “Don’t you have family here in Velaris? Since it’s where you’re from?”

Cassian’s head turned sharply to her, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. He looked like he was about to respond, but you stopped him with a soft smile, silently telling him it was okay.

“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice steady but quieter now, the words laced with a faint melancholy. “My parents passed away when I was still a child. And... it wasn’t exactly a union their families approved of. My father was a High Fae, and my mother was Illyrian.”

The table fell silent, the weight of your admission settling over the group.

Feyre’s expression softened, her brows knitting together as if piecing together what your childhood must have been like. Even Amren’s usually sharp gaze seemed to flicker with a faint glimmer of understanding.

Rhysand leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, his voice low and thoughtful. “A High Fae and an Illyrian,” he mused, his violet eyes locking onto yours with a knowing look. “That couldn’t have been easy for them—or for you.”

You nodded, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. “It wasn’t. My mother’s family saw her as a traitor for leaving the war-camps. And my father’s family... well, let’s just say they weren’t thrilled about him choosing someone they considered beneath him. They tried to make it work, but the rejection on both sides was... hard.”

Rhysand’s lips curved into a faint, understanding smile tinged with something more—perhaps a trace of his own memories. “My parents were mates,” he said softly. “But even that bond didn’t shield my mother from what she endured because she was Illyrian. My father’s court viewed her as an outsider, no matter that she was his equal in every way.”

You glanced at him, surprised by his willingness to share the parallel. A small, genuine smile tugged at your lips. “Then I suppose you understand better than most.”

He inclined his head. “More than you might think. My mother bore the burdens of being Illyrian with grace, but I saw the way it chipped away at her. The way others refused to see her worth simply because of where she came from.”

The room was quiet for a beat longer, the group absorbing the weight of your shared experiences.

“Did they stay in Velaris?” Nesta asked gently, her voice curious but kind.

“They tried,” you said, your voice softening even more. “Velaris was my mother’s dream. She wanted a place where their love could thrive without the judgment of others. But it wasn’t that simple. My father’s family refused to acknowledge me, and my mother’s kin wanted nothing to do with either of us. They both passed when I was young, so... it’s just been me for a long time.”

Cassian shifted, his hand tightening briefly around his glass. He didn’t say anything, but the tension in his body told you all you needed to know—he hated the thought of you enduring that kind of isolation.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre said quietly, her voice warm with empathy.

You offered her a small smile, the sting of the memory softened by time. “It’s all right. I’ve built my life on my own terms since then. And Velaris... it’s still home.”

Rhysand nodded, his gaze steady. “Velaris is the City of Starlight. But it’s also a sanctuary for those who need it. And no matter what, you’ll always have a place here.”

The sincerity in his words caught you off guard, and for a moment, all you could do was nod, your chest tightening with a mix of gratitude and something you couldn’t quite name.

The laughter faded into a comfortable hum, and Rhysand glanced at you again, his tone turning slightly more serious. “Speaking of important matters, are the preparations for your trip to the Dawn Court coming along?”

You nodded, resting your hands on the edge of the table. “It’s going well,” you said. “I’m not rushing, though. The meeting isn’t for a few weeks, so there’s time to finalize everything.”

Azriel, who had been quietly observing, narrowed his eyes slightly. “What meeting?”

You met his gaze evenly. “The head healers of all the courts are gathering to discuss the rising tensions in the world. It’s not something we do often—every ten or twenty years, if that. But given everything that’s been happening lately, it was decided that now’s the time to meet.”

Feyre leaned forward, her brows knitting together in curiosity. “Even though you’ve only recently taken over from Madja, isn’t that going to be... challenging for you?”

Her question was genuine, not unkind, and you offered her a soft smile. “Not as much as you might think,” you replied. “I already know all of them. Either they trained me, or I’ve trained them at some point.”

Cassian let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Well, look at you. The prodigy of Prythian’s healers.”

You rolled your eyes at his teasing, though the corners of your mouth twitched in amusement. “Hardly. It’s more about connections and trust. It’s easier to work with people when you’ve already built a rapport.”

“True enough,” Rhysand said, his voice thoughtful. “But there’s still a lot of weight in those meetings. Decisions made there could affect countless lives.”

You nodded, meeting his gaze. “I’m aware. That’s why it’s important we all come together now. We have to be prepared for what might come next, no matter where it starts.”

Cassian broke the tension with a grin. “Still betting it’ll be less of a disaster than a High Lords’ meeting?”

Laughter rippled around the table again, and you shrugged with a playful smirk. “I’d say so. We’re less inclined to argue over who’s the most powerful and more focused on practical solutions.”

“Speak for yourself,” Amren muttered dryly. “I’d argue just for fun.”

The table erupted into laughter, the light-heartedness returning as the conversation shifted to lighter topics once more.

Dinner naturally came to an end, and the group shifted to the living room. The atmosphere turned even more relaxed as the evening stretched on. Cups of tea were passed around for some, while others nursed glasses of wine or stronger spirits. The crackle of the fire in the hearth added a cozy backdrop to the low hum of conversation and occasional laughter.

You found yourself sinking into a plush armchair, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of tea. The soft glow of the firelight played across the room, highlighting the easy camaraderie between everyone. This wasn’t just a group of warriors and leaders—they were a family. Even in their teasing, you could sense the unshakable bonds that connected them, forged by shared history and unwavering loyalty.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to relax, taking in the sight of them. Feyre and Rhysand were curled up together on a loveseat, Cassian sprawled across a large sofa with Mor perched at the other end, her laughter ringing out as he recounted some likely exaggerated tale. Nesta sat nearby, a book in hand, though her attention occasionally drifted to the conversation.

But as your gaze wandered, you noticed something—or rather, someone—missing. Neither Elain nor Azriel was present. The realization sent a small, unwanted pang through your chest, one you quickly buried. Whatever their reasons for leaving, it wasn’t your concern. It couldn’t be.

When your tea was finished, you placed the empty cup delicately on the table before rising to your feet. “Thank you for the lovely evening,” you said, your voice soft but sincere. “But I should head back. There’s still some work I need to wrap up before the night’s over.”

Cassian glanced up from his drink, his grin playful as always. “You’re leaving already? And here I thought Azriel was the workaholic around here, but you might actually be worse.”

His words, though light-hearted, made something twist in your stomach. You tried to brush it off, but then he glanced around the room and added, “Speaking of which... where is Az? Slacking off for once?”

“Leave it, Cassian,” Rhysand interjected smoothly. His voice was calm, but the sharpness in his violet gaze betrayed a flicker of curiosity—or perhaps understanding—as his eyes darted to you. He didn’t press the issue, but the weight of his brief look lingered all the same.

Feyre stood and approached you, her steps fluid and graceful. She wrapped you in a warm hug, her arms firm but gentle. “Thank you for coming,” she said softly. “It was nice having you here. We’ll have to do this again soon.”

You returned the embrace, her kindness settling some of the unease lingering in your chest. “I’d like that,” you replied sincerely, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Cassian’s voice broke through the moment as Feyre stepped back. “You know, if you’re working this late, you might actually give Az a run for his money,” he teased. Then, with a mock thoughtful look, he added, “Though I guess he’s not here to defend his title. Convenient.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Maybe he’s finally taking a well-deserved break,” you said, keeping your tone light as you glanced toward the door.

Rhysand’s gaze followed yours, but he said nothing. The slight quirk of his lips suggested he’d noticed something, but whatever it was, he chose to keep it to himself—for now.

With a final round of goodnights, you stepped out into the cool night air. They were a family, and while you didn’t quite feel like part of it yet, the warmth they’d shown you was undeniable.

As you walked through the quiet streets of Velaris, the crisp night air nipping at your skin, your gaze lifted instinctively to the sky. The stars above were breathtaking—countless pinpricks of light scattered across an endless expanse of velvet black. They seemed so serene, so untouched by the weight of the world below. For a moment, you let yourself be lost in their beauty, your steps slowing as if the universe itself was urging you to pause.

You didn’t notice the tears until a cold droplet slid down your cheek, and then another. Startled, you reached up to brush your fingers against your face, finding your skin wet. Confusion prickled at the edges of your thoughts as you stared at the small drops clinging to your fingertips. You weren’t sad. At least, you didn’t think you were. The evening had been lovely—warm and full of laughter. Yet here you were, crying under the stars.

A hollow ache settled in your chest as you continued walking, the faint echo of your footsteps the only sound in the stillness. You barely knew Azriel. That thought circled your mind like an unrelenting shadow. For all the moments you’d spent stealing glances at him, observing the way he carried himself with quiet strength and grace, there was still so much you didn’t know. So much you might never know.

And then there was the bond. The invisible thread you could feel humming at the edge of your awareness, a constant reminder of something greater, something unasked for. You’d kept it to yourself, not because of secrecy, but because the mere thought of saying it aloud made your stomach twist with apprehension. It wasn’t fair—not to him, not to you.

Forcing a bond on him, on anyone, was the last thing you wanted. Azriel deserved the freedom to choose, the freedom to love without the weight of a bond dictating his path. But even as you told yourself that, a cruel voice in your mind whispered that the bond wasn’t something he would celebrate—not with you as his mate.

What did you have to offer him? Compared to Elain’s gentle beauty and kindness, you felt like a storm—chaotic and unyielding. You’d spent centuries honing your skills, fighting battles, making sacrifices. Vulnerability wasn’t something you knew how to share.

A sharp breath escaped you, your hands curling into fists as your pace quickened. The tears came faster now, silent but persistent, blurring the cobblestones underfoot. It wasn’t sadness, you told yourself again. It was confusion, frustration, maybe even fear.

You weren’t sure when the walls you’d built around yourself had started to crack, but tonight, surrounded by the warmth of the Inner Circle, you’d felt something shift. It wasn’t just about Azriel. It was about family, connection, belonging—things you’d never let yourself hope for, let alone believe you could have.

But as much as you’d enjoyed the night, as much as you’d appreciated their kindness, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider looking in. They cared for each other deeply, their bonds unbreakable. And you? You were just passing through, a healer with a tangled past and an uncertain future.

The stars blurred as fresh tears welled up, and you stopped in your tracks, tilting your head back to let the cool night air soothe your burning cheeks. You didn’t know what you were crying for—what you were mourning. Maybe it was for the family you’d lost long ago, or the life you might have had if things had been different. Maybe it was for the bond you hadn’t asked for but couldn’t ignore.

Or maybe, it was for the fragile hope buried deep within you—the hope that one day, you might find a place where you truly belonged.

——

Azriel’s POV

Azriel exhaled a quiet breath as he stepped into the crisp night air, the faint sounds of the dinner fading behind him. The garden of the townhouse was peaceful, blanketed in a soft glow from the moon above. Elain walked beside him, her delicate frame tucked into a thick coat, her hands gripping the fabric tightly against the chill.

The silence stretched between them, comfortable at first. But as they wandered further down the winding paths, Elain drew closer, her arm brushing his. He glanced at her briefly, noticing the faint pink on her cheeks—not from the cold, but something else.

It was when they reached the edge of the garden, where the view of Velaris spread wide and glittering below, that she finally spoke.

"Azriel," she said softly, her voice hesitant.

He turned to face her, noting the awkward expression on her face, the way her hands twisted nervously in front of her. “What is it?” he asked, his tone calm, though a flicker of concern stirred in his chest.

Elain hesitated, her gaze darting away before meeting his again. “Are you sure...we can trust Y/N?”

Azriel blinked, her question catching him off guard. Of all the things he’d anticipated her saying, this hadn’t been one of them. “Why wouldn’t we?” he asked, frowning slightly.

Elain’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s just...the way she talks, the way she carries herself. There’s something...off about her.”

Azriel tilted his head, studying her closely. He hadn’t missed Y/N’s sharp tongue during the meeting at the House of Wind, but her words had been purposeful, her actions deliberate. If Elain was referring to that, it didn’t make sense for her to hold it against Y/N.

“She was doing her job,” Azriel said carefully, keeping his tone neutral. “If this is about what happened at the House of Wind—”

“It’s not just that,” Elain interrupted, her voice rising slightly before softening again. She looked at him with wide, almost pleading eyes. “You don’t realize the way she spoke to me. The way she...looked at me. It was—” She broke off, shaking her head.

Azriel’s frown deepened. He couldn’t recall Y/N being anything but professional, but Elain’s tone suggested she felt otherwise. Still, he wasn’t one to jump to conclusions without evidence.

“Elain,” he said gently, “what exactly are you saying? Is there something specific that’s made you doubt her?”

She hesitated again, her gaze dropping to the ground. Then, after a moment, she said, “I just...feel like she’s hiding something. A lot of things. And it’s not just her past—it’s her power, Azriel. It’s unsettling. What if she’s here for something else? What if she’s working for Koschei?To attack us from the inside?”

Her voice grew more frantic as she spoke, her words tumbling over one another in a rush of worry.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, though he kept his expression calm. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. “Elain,” he said firmly, his voice a quiet anchor. “You’re overthinking this.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, uncertainty flickering there.

“She’s not here to harm anyone,” Azriel continued. “If she were, we would’ve seen signs by now. And even if there were any truth to your fears, I’m keeping a close eye on her.”

Elain’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt as he added, “Nothing bad will happen while I’m around. I won’t allow it.”

For a moment, Elain simply looked at him, her expression softening at his words. She nodded slowly, though the tension in her shoulders didn’t completely ease.

“I trust you, Azriel,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel gave her a faint nod, his gaze steady. But as they turned to head back toward the townhouse, a shadow of doubt lingered in his mind—not about Y/N, but about the seeds of mistrust Elain had tried to plant.

Elain bid Azriel a soft goodnight, her steps retreating up the stairs until they faded entirely. Azriel lingered in the quiet of the garden for a moment longer, the chill of the night seeping into his skin as he let his mind turn over her words. Doubt, no matter how unwarranted, was a dangerous thing to sow.

Pushing the thoughts aside, he made his way back to the living room. Feyre, Mor, and Nesta were nowhere to be seen, their laughter and conversations long gone. Only Rhysand and Cassian remained, seated comfortably with drinks in hand.

“There he is,” Cassian said with a smirk, raising his glass. “Thought you’d vanished into the shadows for good this time.”

Azriel ignored the jab, heading straight for the sideboard. He poured himself a generous glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight, and crossed the room to join them. He lowered himself into one of the armchairs, cradling the glass in his hand before taking a long sip.

“You missed the part where we solved all the world’s problems,” Cassian quipped, but there was a lightness to his tone.

Azriel shot him a look but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turned to Rhysand, his expression thoughtful. “Did you know about Y/N being half Illyrian and half High Fae?”

Rhysand raised a brow, leaning back in his seat. “Madja mentioned it to me when I first spoke with her about Y/N, but beyond that, no. Y/N hasn’t shared much about her personal life—at least not with me.”

Azriel frowned slightly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “She’s been...secretive.”

“That’s not surprising,” Rhysand said, his voice calm. “She’s lived a long life, Azriel. People who’ve endured as much as she likely has aren’t quick to share their scars.”

Cassian shrugged, setting his empty glass on the table with a faint clink. “It’s not uncommon, though, is it? Half Illyrians without wings? The camps might not like to talk about it, but it happens more often than they’d admit.”

Azriel’s shadows curled faintly around his shoulders, his gaze distant. “It’s not just that. She’s...different. There’s a weight to her that’s hard to ignore.”

Rhysand regarded him carefully, his violet eyes sharp. “What are you trying to say, Az?”

Azriel hesitated, the words forming slowly. “She doesn’t seem like someone who’s just here to replace Madja or take up the work of healing. There’s more to her, something she’s not saying.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully. “She’s a healer, yes, but she’s also a warrior. And from what I’ve gathered, she’s someone who’s fiercely loyal to those she chooses to protect. That doesn’t mean she owes us every detail of her life.”

Cassian leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “It’s not like we’ve shared all our dirty laundry with her either. Hell, Az, you’ve been watching her like a hawk since she got here, and she hasn’t so much as flinched. If she were hiding something dangerous, don’t you think she’d have slipped up by now?”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his shadows whispering quietly in his ears. He took another sip of whiskey, letting the burn settle in his throat.

“I’m not saying she’s a threat,” he said finally. “But there’s something...unsettling about not knowing where she stands. Especially now, with everything happening in Prythian.”

Rhysand sighed, his expression softening. “You’re not wrong to be cautious, Az. But until she gives us a reason to doubt her, we owe her the benefit of the doubt. She’s earned that much through her work alone.”

“Relax, brother,” Cassian said with a chuckle. “Not everyone is out to stab us in the back. Besides, if she wanted to, she’s had plenty of chances.”

The conversation lulled, the crackling of the fire filling the silence. Azriel leaned back in his chair, the whiskey warming him from the inside out. Despite Cassian’s teasing and Rhysand’s reassurances, the unease in his chest didn’t fully fade.

He’d keep watching. Just in case.

Rhysand shifted in his seat, his sharp gaze settling on Azriel. His expression was calm, but there was a note of seriousness in his voice as he spoke. “Maybe it’s time for you to look elsewhere, brother. To seek someone who could truly bring you peace.”

Azriel sighed heavily, the sound filled with equal parts exhaustion and frustration. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, staring into it as if the whiskey held answers he couldn’t find.

Cassian, never one to miss an opportunity, smirked. “You know, Az, Rhys might actually have a point for once. The world won’t end if you let yourself—”

Azriel’s sharp glare cut him off, but it was Rhysand who pressed on, his tone gentle but firm. “Listen, brother, I’m not here to tell you how to live your life or whom to care for. But Lucien is coming back to Velaris for the Solstice, and I don’t want you to—”

Azriel’s head snapped up, and his voice was cold and clipped as he interrupted. “You didn’t have to invite him.”

Rhysand’s brows rose slightly, but his voice remained steady. “He is her mate, Azriel. Whether we like it or not, that bond exists. Ignoring it won’t make it disappear.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his shadows curling more protectively around him. “I’m well aware of that, Rhys. But you didn’t need to bring him here. Solstice is for family.”

Cassian leaned forward slightly, holding up a hand as if to diffuse the tension. “Alright, let’s all take a deep breath. It’s been a long day, and we don’t need to—”

“I don’t need your advice,” Azriel snapped, cutting him off as well. His voice was calm but laced with a quiet, simmering anger. He stood, setting his glass down with more force than necessary. “I’m grown enough to make my own decisions, and I don’t need either of you meddling in my personal life.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes followed Azriel carefully, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. But he didn’t press further, simply nodding once.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath, “Well, that went well.”

Azriel didn’t respond, his shadows coiling around him as he turned and left the room. He felt their eyes on him as he walked away, but he didn’t look back.

As he stepped into the cool night air, the weight of their words still lingered. His chest felt tight, his thoughts a tangled mess of anger, guilt, and something he couldn’t quite name. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. Or maybe he did, and that was the problem.

----

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[fr0stf4ll]

Do you happen to have an Ao3 where you post your works?

Hey ! I actually do.

Here is the link : https://archiveofourown.org/users/frost_fall/works

You have all of my works there and I uploaded the link on my tumblr masterlist !

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 5

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; //

notes; Hey ! Happy celebrations for everyone <3 I'm back with the part 5 of the story, you guys are getting more elements about the story here hihi. Hope that you will enjoy it ! See you soon <3

Link; Part 4 or Part 6

---

The day after you had stabilized Azriel, you returned to the House of Wind to check on his injuries. Morning light filtered through wide windows as you stepped into the corridors, the faint scent of fresh linen lingering in the air. You carried your satchel of supplies—new dressings, salves, and a mild tonic—tucked under one arm. The tension you felt in your chest, the awareness of that golden bond, still hummed quietly under your skin.

When you eased open the door to Azriel’s room, you found him not only awake, but sitting propped against a nest of pillows. He turned his head at your arrival, and his hazel eyes, calm yet quietly guarded, focused on you. You froze for a fraction of a second, expecting something—recognition, some sign that he sensed what you had felt so vividly the night before. The mating bond. But Azriel’s gaze was polite, curious, nothing more than what you’d expect from a warrior thanking a healer.

“Good morning,” he said, voice low and even. His wings were carefully arranged, bandages neat and secure from your previous efforts. “I owe you my life, I think.” The corner of his mouth tipped upward slightly, a cautious attempt at a smile. “Thank you.”

Your heart twisted. You managed a professional nod, stepping closer to the bed. “It’s my duty,” you replied, your voice steady despite the pang in your chest. “How do you feel?”

He shifted a little, wincing but not complaining. “Better,” he answered, meeting your gaze without any flicker of that deeper connection you had feared or hoped for. Just calm gratitude and a warrior’s patience. “The pain is manageable.”

You swallowed, extending a gentle hand to adjust a pillow behind him and check the bandage on his shoulder. Your fingers brushed his skin lightly. Nothing. No spark, no sign that he felt what you did. He gave a small nod of thanks, as though you were any other healer administering care.

The golden thread inside you felt taut and delicate, as if one wrong breath could snap it. But what good was a thread if only one person felt its pull? You busied yourself with routine tasks: applying fresh salve, examining the healing tears in his wings, ensuring there were no signs of infection. He watched quietly, occasionally letting out a soft hiss of discomfort, but never more than that.

Every so often, you dared glance into his eyes again, searching for something—some warmth or spark that might betray an awareness of the bond. But you found nothing beyond polite interest and a soldier’s resilience. To him, you were a stranger who had saved his life, a skilled hand rather than a destined partner.

When you finished, you stepped back and forced a calm, reassuring smile. “Everything seems to be on track,” you said, keeping your tone measured and pleasant. “I’ll prepare a mild tonic to help with any lingering ache. If you rest and follow instructions, you’ll recover smoothly.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You have my thanks,” he said simply. “And my respect.”

With that, you gathered your supplies and turned toward the door, heart heavier and more uncertain than before. You paused on the threshold, glancing back once over your shoulder. Azriel was settling back into the pillows, eyes drifting to the window, lost in his own thoughts—thoughts that, evidently, didn’t involve the bond you carried alone.

You left his room as you had entered: a healer, no more, no less. The golden bond within you lay silent and unacknowledged, a secret you would shoulder alone.

Days blurred into a quiet routine: morning rounds at the clinic, afternoons spent reviewing herbal stocks and training junior healers, and, scattered between these duties, several trips to the House of Wind. Each visit found you in Azriel’s room, applying new salves and checking that his injuries were knitting properly. He was a cooperative patient—patient enough, at least. He didn’t complain, though you sensed his restlessness. He asked questions about healing techniques, listened politely to your instructions, and always offered a sincere “thank you” after you were done.

In these encounters, the tension of that first night lingered only as a ghost of memory. He seemed comfortable enough with your presence. Once or twice, you thought you caught something in his gaze—curiosity, or a particular warmth—but you brushed it off. Your priority remained his recovery, not your tangled emotions or that elusive bond you had discovered.

But not all your visits were so calm. One afternoon, just after you’d finished changing the dressings on his wings, voices rose outside his door. You stepped into the corridor with your empty bowl of used bandages, intending to fetch fresh ones, when you heard the unmistakable sound of Rhysand’s voice—low, measured, but threaded with tension.

Azriel responded, quieter but sharper. You hesitated near the threshold, uncertain if you should intervene or give them privacy. Yet their words drifted through the partially open door, and you caught enough to understand what was happening.

“I’m not asking for permission,” Azriel said, voice tight. “I know what I’m doing, Rhys.”

Rhysand’s tone cooled noticeably. “This isn’t about your skill or independence. It’s about what’s best for everyone. You heard Y/N’s orders—no more unauthorized interference. Azriel, you nearly died. We can’t afford another risk.”

A pause, then Azriel’s voice, lower now, a note of frustration vibrating through it. “I’m not talking about the healer’s instructions. I’m talking about Elain.”

Your chest tightened at the name. So they were arguing about her. About his relationship to her. You swallowed, fingers tightening around the bowl as if it were an anchor in unfamiliar waters.

Rhysand sighed, weariness and a hint of annoyance seeping in. “You know the stance we agreed upon. Elain’s presence here complicated matters. She’s not a healer, and we can’t have her risking your life by trying something ill-advised. It’s best if she stays at the townhouse until you’re fully recovered.”

Azriel’s response was quieter, but no less charged. “I know she didn’t mean harm. She cared, and that caring led her astray. I’m not defending her action, but I want a chance to speak with her. This—this distance you’re enforcing feels like punishment.”

Rhysand’s answer came measured, each word precise. “Call it what you like. Her action nearly cost your life. Let Y/N do her job without interference. Once you’re healed, we can revisit the matter.”

A tense silence followed. You should have turned and left, but your feet seemed rooted in place. At length, Azriel spoke again, voice subdued yet firm: “I won’t forget this, Rhys. I know you mean well, but I have a say in who sees me and when. We’ll talk about this again.”

The tension crackled, and you took that as your cue. Quietly, you stepped away, heading off to get fresh supplies. By the time you returned, Rhysand was gone, and Azriel sat brooding by the window, wings carefully draped over the edge of the chair. He met your eyes and offered a faint, polite nod, as if nothing had happened.

But the atmosphere had changed. You redid a bandage and Azriel thanked you, his voice level, though a crease lingered between his brows. It wasn’t your place to ask about the dispute, and he didn’t volunteer information. Yet the words you’d overheard thrummed in your mind—the High Lord’s firm stance, Azriel’s quiet defiance. And, unspoken between them, Elain’s name, heavy with meaning.

You left that day more aware than ever that Azriel’s recovery wasn’t just about healing flesh and bone. There were deeper wounds, quieter tensions to navigate, and you found yourself caught at the edges of relationships and loyalties you barely understood.

At the week’s end, you returned to Azriel’s room for what would be your last scheduled visit. The afternoon light slanted in gently, highlighting the subtle improvements in his condition. His wings, once in tatters, now bore only faint scars slowly fading beneath well-applied salves. He was no longer propped up by a fortress of pillows, simply leaning back against a few cushions. His color was better, his breathing steady and even.

You approached with your medical bag, a familiar ritual by now. He watched your every move, though more relaxed than before. After a brief examination—checking the suppleness of his healing wing membranes, testing the resilience of muscle and skin—you nodded, satisfied.

“I think you’re in the clear,” you said, voice warm but professional. “Your wounds have healed nicely. You’re allowed to walk around the House of Wind again, as much as you like. Just…” You arched a brow, fixing him with a pointed look. “Please wait a few more days before attempting any training. Give your body time to adjust.”

Azriel inclined his head, his eyes thoughtful. “I’ll try,” he said, a hint of wry humor in his tone. “I’m not particularly good at staying idle, but I’ll manage.” There was a pause as he studied you, folding his hands loosely in his lap. “How are things at the clinic? It must be a lot of work, reacquainting yourself with everything after so long.”

You took a moment to consider your answer, recalling the busy days, the endless patient logs, the younger healers who looked to you for guidance. “It’s busy, yes,” you admitted, shoulders rising in a small shrug. “But well. The transition has gone smoother than I expected. Madja’s presence helped me settle in quickly. I’ve met most of the healers by now. They’re competent and kind.”

Azriel nodded, as if glad to hear it. “I’m relieved. I know Madja cared deeply about who would take her place. She made the right choice.”

Your heart tightened slightly at the praise, but you managed a small, genuine smile. “I hope so. I’m doing my best.”

A brief silence fell. You cleared your throat, deciding it was time to share your upcoming plans. “I should mention—I’ll be leaving tonight. I have to travel to Winghaven for a few days. So if you have any issues you will have to wait a few days or got to the clinic directly.”

At that, Azriel’s gaze sharpened. “Winghaven?” His brow furrowed. “Alone?”

The note of concern in his voice was unmistakable. Though he’d never demanded details of your comings and goings before, you could sense genuine worry now. Perhaps it was the memory of his own recent injuries, or simply the protective streak you sensed running through him and his circle.

“No, not alone,” you assured him, waving a hand lightly. “Cassian will be accompanying me. I’ll be there for just three days—no more. I’m to inspect the healers in the Illyrian camps, starting with Winghaven, and see what improvements can be made.”

Azriel’s shoulders eased a fraction at the mention of Cassian. “Good,” he said quietly. “Cassian knows the terrain and the people well. He’ll keep an eye out.”

You offered a small laugh, though it carried traces of earnest relief. “I’m counting on that. I’m prepared for skepticism, but at least I won’t be going in blind.”

Azriel regarded you steadily for a moment. The silence felt strangely comfortable, his eyes holding yours but revealing nothing that would add to your confusion. Finally, he nodded. “Then I wish you a safe journey. If anyone can bring them new wisdom, it’s you.”

You inclined your head in thanks, feeling the odd weight of unspoken things settle between you. You gathered your bag, stepping back and preparing to leave. “Rest well,” you said softly, voice gentling with sincere care. “I’ll see you when I return—if you haven’t taken flight before then.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I’ll be here, doing as you ordered, healer.”

You departed with that quiet exchange lingering in your mind, the simple comfort of knowing he’d be on the mend as you embarked on your own task. The golden thread that you carried alone remained silent in your chest, and you tried not to linger on it. For now, purpose called you to Winghaven, and he had recovery and patience ahead. It was enough.

———

Those three days in Illyria were challenging, to say the least. You’d arrived with Cassian after a lengthy journey through mountain passes and windblown valleys, the chill air biting at your cheeks. Your first night was spent in Rhysand’s mother’s old cottage—an unexpected sanctuary tucked into the rugged landscape. The walls hummed softly with old memories, but provided a safe place to rest before the real work began the next morning.

You settled in as dusk wrapped the world in quiet shadows. Cassian had started a small fire in the hearth, coaxing warmth into the modest room. You sat across from him, knees folded beneath you on a low cushion. He offered you a cup of something hot and spiced, the scent of cinnamon and cloves wafting between you. Outside, the wind sighed against the wooden shutters, a distant chorus of wolves or perhaps just the moan of the breeze in the pines.

The conversation drifted naturally toward personal matters. Perhaps it was the calm crackle of the fire or the sense of isolation out here that made it easier to speak of things long unspoken.

“So,” Cassian began, leaning forward on his elbows, his tone gentle but curious, “you’ve traveled a great deal. Dawn Court healers, crossing seas for rare herbs… I’ve heard bits and pieces, but never your own version.”

You fiddled with the rim of your cup, gaze flicking to the flames. “I suppose you’d like to know why I left the Night Court in the first place,” you said, voice low.

He dipped his chin. “If you don’t mind sharing. I know you trained under Madja for a time. But then… you disappeared for centuries.”

You exhaled, the memory tugging gently at your heart. “I was a child during the first war,” you began, words careful. “I saw enough pain and loss in those early years to shape my entire understanding of healing. Madja took me under her wing afterward, teaching me for more than fifty years—an eternity to a child, but a mere blink to her. She was patient, strict when necessary, and always kind. But besides her…” You paused, searching for the right words. “I had no attachments. My parents, my kin—lost to war or scattered.”

Cassian nodded, respectful silence encouraging you onward.

“After those decades, I met a renowned healer from the Dawn Court—someone who saw a spark in me. He said I had a gift worth honing further than what the Night Court alone could offer. At first, I resisted. This was my home, wasn’t it?” You gave a hollow laugh. “But I felt… stuck, I suppose. Prythian was changing, and we were all rebuilding from ash and smoke. Yet I wanted to see more of the world, learn techniques from healers who knew magics and herbs I’d never even dreamed of.”

Cassian’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “So you left for experience.”

You nodded. “Exactly. The Night Court has always been a place of shadows and hidden strengths, and I love it for that. But I craved something more—new visions, new methods. Dawn Court healers taught me how to harness starlight in potions. In the Summer Court, I learned to treat venomous wounds from creatures that lurk in coral reefs. Across the seas, I found healing arts that rely on sound vibrations rather than herbs. Every place offered something unique, something that layered onto my understanding of healing until I could weave it all together.”

Cassian tilted his head, a small, admiring smile curving his mouth. “No wonder you could do what you did for Az,” he said softly. “You brought back a piece of every land to save him.”

You swallowed, touched by his words. “I hope so. Returning… it wasn’t part of my plan. But Madja asked, and I couldn’t refuse her. Besides, maybe I’ve gathered enough threads now to weave something truly worthwhile here at home. Maybe I won’t feel stuck this time.”

Cassian’s gaze drifted over the small room—old furniture, worn curtains, the echoes of a past High Lady who once dwelled here. “You left a home that felt too small,” he said, “and came back with a world’s worth of knowledge. You’re changing the Night Court already, I can tell.”

His sincerity warmed you almost as much as the fire. “It might be too soon to say it but I trully wish that I will be able to help” 

Outside, the night howled softly, and beyond that, Winghaven waited—skeptical healers, reluctant warriors, a land that would test your resolve. But for tonight, here in this cottage, you had honesty and understanding. Cassian, it seemed, respected your journey, and in turn, you respected the loyalty and openness he offered.

You sipped your hot drink, and Cassian spoke of Illyria’s challenges: old traditions that died hard, camp leaders who would eye you suspiciously. You listened, grateful for the insight and glad for the company. Three days in Winghaven would be short, but intense. At least you would not face it ignorant or alone. And when you returned to Velaris, you’d do so with fresh perspective, your choices affirmed by the understanding gleaned here tonight.

The teacup in your hands had grown lukewarm. Outside, the night was dark and silent, and within the old cottage’s modest walls, you and Cassian had settled into a gentle rhythm of conversation. You had shared bits of your life, your wanderings, and the layers of healing knowledge you carried. He, in turn, had given you insight into the Illyrian camps, the challenges you’d face in Winghaven.

But your mind, restless even after the day’s trials, drifted to the quiet tension you’d sensed in the House of Wind—particularly around Elain and Azriel. You remembered Rhysand’s firm stance, Azriel’s simmering frustration, and Elain’s tearful regret. Maybe it was none of your business. In fact, you knew it probably wasn’t. Yet the curiosity gnawed at you.

Swallowing your reservations, you glanced at Cassian, who sat across from you, relaxed yet ever watchful. He had answered your questions willingly so far. Would he answer this one? You took a breath and ventured, “Cassian, can I ask you something more personal?”

He raised an eyebrow, curious but not wary. “You can ask,” he allowed, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. “I can’t promise I’ll answer.”

You tried a faint smile. “Fair enough.” You hesitated only a moment before plunging ahead. “The Archeron sisters—they’re all closely linked to the High Lord and High Lady, yes? I’ve met Feyre, of course. But I’ve heard of Nesta, Elain… They seem important to this court. Could you… tell me a bit about them?”

Cassian’s expression changed subtly, as though he were sorting through what he could say. He took a sip from his mug, gaze drifting to the fire before coming back to meet your eyes. “Important might be an understatement,” he said quietly. “Feyre, as you know, is our High Lady. She and Rhys… well, they hold this court together in ways I never thought possible.”

You nodded, encouraging him without words to continue.

“There are three Archeron sisters in total,” Cassian went on, choosing each word with care. “Feyre, Nesta, and Elain. Each of them is very different. Feyre’s heart is this court’s beacon, always thinking of others, guiding us with compassion. Nesta… she’s complicated. Strong-willed, fierce, often prickly. She’s fought her own battles, overcome demons both inside and out. And Elain—” He paused, a subtle tension passing over his face. “Elain is gentle. Kind. She sees the good in everyone, wants to help.”

You swallowed, recalling Elain’s well-meaning but disastrous attempt to help Azriel. “I see. They must have deep bonds with you all.”

Cassian’s grin was wry, as if acknowledging a private joke. “Deep bonds indeed. They’re not just important to the court, they’re part of us—Rhys’s family, our family. We’d do anything for them.”

You considered his words. The Archeron sisters each had distinct roles and personalities. Feyre the High Lady, Nesta the warrior spirit (if what you gleaned from rumors was true), and Elain the gentle heart. “It sounds like they’ve all been through a lot,” you said softly.

“You have no idea,” Cassian replied, voice quieter. “War, transformations, personal struggles—those three have endured trials that would break many.”

Your gaze lowered, understanding dawning. Whatever had happened to them, it had forged unbreakable bonds not only with each other but also with these Illyrian warriors and the High Lord. You remembered Elain’s desperation at Azriel’s bedside, that fierce concern that led her astray. Perhaps it made sense now—she was a nurturer, wanting to help but lacking the knowledge. Her role within this tight-knit circle might explain why she was so devastated by her mistake.

You raised your eyes again, meeting Cassian’s gaze. “I see,” you said quietly. “I suppose they mean as much to each other as they mean to you all.”

He nodded, his stance relaxing again. “They’re family. And in this court, family isn’t just blood—it’s chosen. Earned. The Archerons earned their place in all our hearts, scars and all.”

As Cassian spoke, you saw a certain softness enter his gaze, especially when he spoke of Nesta. He lingered over her name, voice turning fond and respectful in a way that stood out. You took a careful sip of your cooling tea, weighing whether to pry further. Finally, you couldn’t help it: his tone when mentioning Nesta was unmistakable.

He caught your curious glance and let out a low, rueful laugh. “I suppose there’s no hiding it. Nesta is my mate,” he admitted, voice quiet but steady. The corners of his mouth curved into a small, proud smile. “It took us a while to find our footing, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Your thoughts spun for a moment, and you had to swallow a surprised breath. Feyre and Rhysand were mates, you’d learned that quickly enough. Now Nesta and Cassian. A fleeting, wry thought crossed your mind: three Archeron sisters, three Illyrian warriors, three mates? Was it so neatly arranged?

Cassian’s gaze sharpened slightly, as if reading your thoughts. He raised a hand, palm outward, as though to forestall your assumptions. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, tone turning wry. “Three brothers for three sisters. But it’s not that simple.”

You blinked, surprised that he’d guessed your train of thought. He set down his mug and sighed. “Elain already has a mate—Lucien.” He paused, letting the weight of that name settle in the small room. You hadn’t met Lucien yet, but you’d heard whispers of a fox-eyed male with keen wit and wandering loyalties. “That bond was forged during the war, under extraordinary circumstances. Yet Elain’s relationship with Azriel…” He trailed off, choosing his next words carefully.

Your brow furrowed, curiosity piqued. “I gather it’s complicated?”

Cassian gave a solemn nod. “Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said. “Elain’s mate is Lucien, but her feelings—her choices—don’t neatly follow the bond’s dictates. And Az… Az and Elain have a certain understanding, a closeness that’s never found a clear label. It’s delicate, messy. Not something any of us can force or resolve easily.”

Your heart twisted with new understanding. Elain’s tearful face by Azriel’s bedside, her desperate attempt to help him, made sense in a different light now. She was caught between a mate-bond she couldn’t ignore and feelings for another. The tension you’d sensed back in the House of Wind, the argument between Azriel and Rhysand, the High Lord’s firm stance—this was part of that tangled knot of loyalties and love.

You leaned back in your chair, fingers tightening around the mug. “That’s… a lot to untangle,” you said softly, marveling at the complexity of the lives you’d stepped into upon returning to the Night Court. “I suppose healing hearts is even harder than healing wounds.”

Cassian’s smile was gentler now, his eyes reflecting a sad sort of understanding. “You have no idea,” he murmured. “But we make do. We try our best, all of us.”

And so you sat there, in Rhysand’s mother’s old cottage, the fire crackling softly. The weight of destiny, bonds, and unspoken wishes pressed in around you. Three days in Winghaven would be challenging enough, but these people’s lives—filled with bonds that sometimes knotted rather than wove together—reminded you that not all healing could be done with herbs and salves. Sometimes, it was about patience, understanding, and the acceptance that not every wound could be closed neatly.

You said nothing more about it, not now. You’d carry this knowledge silently, weaving it into your understanding of the court and the people who had become part of your new world.

Over the following days in Winghaven, your schedule unfolded with steady precision. You’d arrived with a clear plan: assess the camp’s existing healer teams, identify gaps in their knowledge and supplies, and demonstrate a few techniques that might broaden their capabilities. With Cassian hovering protectively in the background, you were able to move through each task smoothly, guiding younger healers and checking on several patients who had been awaiting more advanced care.

On the first morning, you stood under a makeshift awning behind the camp’s central barracks, watching as a trio of Illyrian healers prepared poultices from dried herbs. They worked diligently, but with a certain mechanical repetition that hinted at a narrow scope of training. You introduced yourself, explaining that you were here at the High Lord’s request to advise and improve methods. One of them, a middle-aged healer named Serain, looked at you with polite skepticism.

“Been doing it this way for decades,” she said, packing a poultice into a cloth bundle. “We know how to close a wound and set a bone. What more do we need?”

You offered a measured smile, crouching beside them. “Closing wounds and setting bones are vital, yes. But have you tried using crushed frost-lily petals for inflammation, or incorporating a mild healing spell to halt bleeding before you stitch?”

They exchanged glances, intrigue sparking behind their guarded eyes. By mid-afternoon, they were asking quiet questions: what if they added a teaspoon of powdered ash-root to their salve for deeper burns? How did you stabilize a patient’s temperature overnight in the harsh winters? Slowly, their skepticism turned to curiosity, and by the end of the day, they were taking notes on your suggestions.

Between these lessons, you wandered the camp with Cassian shadowing you, stopping to speak with patients recuperating in cramped tents. One young Illyrian warrior, wing bandaged awkwardly against his side, stared at you warily when you entered.

“You’re from Velaris?” he asked, voice thick with bitterness. “What do you lot know about Illyrian injuries?”

You met his glare steadily. “A wing is a wing,” you replied, voice calm. “Tendons, membranes, blood vessels—it’s anatomy. If you allow me, I can show you a gentler binding technique that will let it breathe and heal faster.”

He snorted, but Cassian cleared his throat meaningfully, and the warrior grudgingly allowed it. By the time you finished adjusting his bandage, he flexed his wing gingerly and looked surprised by the improvement. “Huh,” he murmured, grudging respect coloring his tone. “Thank you.”

“Sometimes small changes make a big difference,” you said, standing and dusting off your hands. “No matter where I’m from.”

On the second day, you found yourself face-to-face with Delvon, the camp’s leader. You’d been warned about him by Cassian the night before, but mere words didn’t prepare you for the man’s presence. He strutted toward you as you emerged from a storage hut, his dark eyes narrowed and jaw set, wings mantling behind him as if to emphasize his status.

“So, you’re the ‘expert’ the High Lord sent,” Delvon said, voice dripping with sarcastic disdain. He looked you over as if assessing livestock, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Come to tell us how to heal our own warriors, have you?”

You inclined your head slightly, forcing a polite smile. “I’m here to offer knowledge that may help your people recover faster and better. If you wish to view it as an intrusion, that’s your choice.”

He snorted, stepping closer, invading your personal space. “We’ve managed for generations without Velaris meddling. Next you’ll be telling us how to fight our battles.”

You stood your ground, lifting your chin. “I’m not here to discuss your battle tactics, only to ensure your injured don’t suffer more than necessary.”

Delvon’s lip curled in a sneer. “All that fancy technique and gentle touches—waste of time if they can’t get back to the battlefield. But do as you will, we can ignore it if it’s useless.” With that, he stormed off, wings flaring as if to punctuate his dismissal.

Cassian appeared at your shoulder, having watched from a distance. He rolled his eyes. “That went about as well as expected,” he murmured dryly.

You sighed, tension easing at his words. “At least I know why everyone despises him,” you replied under your breath. “He’s impossible.”

“Delvon’s a relic,” Cassian said, voice low. “A time will come when leaders like him are replaced. Until then, just focus on those who listen.”

And so you did. Despite Delvon’s hostility, you spent your third and final day in Winghaven conducting a brief demonstration for a handful of healers who’d shown genuine interest. You guided them through mixing a new salve that combined Illyrian herbs with a Dawn Court technique of magically infusing warmth into the mixture. A few nodded in quiet approval, clearly seeing the salve’s potential.

When dusk fell on your last evening in Winghaven, you looked over the camp from the edge of a plateau, Cassian beside you. The wind tugged at your hair, carrying the scents of pine and distant snow.

“You made some progress,” Cassian observed.

You let a small, wry smile slip onto your lips. “Some, yes. Enough to plant seeds of change, I hope.”

He laid a comforting hand on your shoulder. “It’s all we can do. Now, let’s head back. Velaris awaits.”

With a final glance at the camp, you turned away, a pocketful of new experiences and a touch more understanding of the Illyrian people weighting your steps. Change might be slow, but you had played your part, and tomorrow, you would return home with new lessons learned.

----

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[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 4

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

Trigger warning; Blood, pain, injuries.

notes; Hello everyone! I'm super exited on how this story is going to turn (and let me be honest it's probably going to be long, at least longer than the Forger of starlight for those who read it). Still I hope that you are going to enjoy this chapter ! Don't hesitate to comment <3 See you soon !

Link; Part 3 or Part 5

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The next morning’s light cast a pale glow through the clinic’s windows, the faint scent of antiseptics and dried herbs greeting you as you unlatched the doors. You tried to steady your breathing, tried to keep your mind on the tasks at hand rather than on the unsettling knowledge lodged behind your ribs. A mate—Azriel was your mate. Even thinking the word sent your pulse skittering.

One of the healers—a younger fae named Elira, with cropped auburn hair and warm brown eyes—stepped inside just as you finished propping the doors open. She paused, studying your face with a hint of concern. “Morning, Y/N. Are you all right? You look… tired,” she said gently, pulling her shawl tighter over her shoulders. The morning still carried a chill, and you realized you’d barely felt it through the fog in your head.

You mustered a weary smile. “I’m fine,” you lied, voice quiet. The words felt brittle, and you suspected Elira might sense the untruth. But you couldn’t burden her with the chaos pounding in your skull. “It was a long night. Emergencies.”

Elira nodded, sympathy softening her expression. “Did something serious happen?”

“Serious enough,” you answered vaguely. “I managed it, but… I’m still recovering.” You forced your shoulders to square, as though you could physically straighten your resolve. “Do we have the morning’s patient lists ready?”

Elira didn’t press further—perhaps sensing you weren’t ready to talk. She offered a tentative smile and said, “I’ll sort the files. You should rest, even if just for a few minutes.” There was kindness in her voice, a gentle understanding that you were carrying more than you cared to say.

Rest. The suggestion sounded laughable. There was no rest in sight, not with the secret you held, not with Azriel’s bandages and salves waiting for you at the House of Wind. But you nodded anyway, grateful for Elira’s compassion. “Thank you, but I need to tend to something first,” you managed, grateful that she didn’t look offended. Instead, she nodded and moved toward the record room, leaving you to your own thoughts.

For a moment, you lingered by the door, one hand still on the frame. The clinic hummed softly as healers arrived, exchanging greetings, setting up their stations. Usually, this hum would soothe you, give you purpose. Today, it only reminded you that you were somewhere you once felt safe—somewhere you now felt oddly displaced.

You inhaled, drawing in the scent of herbs and polished wood. It was time to go back. Time to face Azriel again, to apply the ointment and ensure his recovery progressed smoothly. Your heart fluttered with a mixture of dread and longing. How would you act in his presence now? Would he sense the shift in your energy, even unconscious as he was?

Stepping out into the crisp morning, you let the door close gently behind you. The sound of the city waking up drifted through the streets—vendors setting out their wares, the faint laughter of children, distant footfalls of those heading to their day’s work. You pulled your cloak tighter, the weight of your responsibilities and secrets pressing against your shoulders.

With determined strides, you set off toward the House of Wind, each step both too quick and not quick enough. You wanted to get this over with, to fulfill your duties, to reassure yourself that he was alive and healing—and yet every pace brought you closer to him, and to the golden bond you didn’t know how to handle.

In the rising daylight, Velaris shimmered with quiet beauty. Its peace mocked your turmoil, but you kept walking, forging ahead, praying the trembling in your chest would ease before you reached the High Lord’s halls and the wounded spymaster waiting within.

With quiet steps, you entered Azriel’s room at the House of Wind. The morning light streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the space in pale gold. You had your supplies in hand—a jar of ointment and fresh bandages, carefully prepared in the clinic’s familiar hush. Your heart gave a nervous flutter at the thought of approaching him again, but duty called, and you pushed forward, easing the door open with a soft creak.

At first, you saw only Azriel’s still form, cocooned in blankets, his wings carefully arranged to avoid pressure on his healing injuries. His dark hair fell over his forehead, his lashes resting against his cheeks. He looked peaceful, his pain soothed by rest and the remedies you’d applied before dawn.

But then your gaze caught movement. Someone else was here—a young woman seated by his bedside, her head bowed slightly as if in prayer or silent plea. She had delicate features, long brown hair cascading around her shoulders. A gentle profile that, when she turned, revealed a face not unlike Feyre’s—similar bone structure, the same warm eyes, though softer in hue.

Your footsteps faltered. Your mind flashed with questions: Who was she? Why was she here? Azriel was asleep, unaware of your arrival. You swallowed hard, feeling the tension coil in your stomach. The golden thread of the bond still lingered in your mind, making the sight of this unknown woman’s hand resting lightly on Azriel’s arm feel like a knife twisting in your chest.

As you approached, the woman looked up, startled yet hopeful. You noticed the worry etched on her face, a sorrow and concern that spoke of care and affection. Without hesitation, she stood, moving gracefully toward you.

She offered a trembling smile, eyes bright with tears unshed. “You must be the healer,” she said, voice quiet and earnest. “I’m Elain. Elain Archeron.” Her gaze flickered to Azriel’s sleeping form, then back to you. “Feyre’s sister,” she added gently, as though knowing her connection might reassure you.

Elain reached for your arms in a gesture of gratitude and relief. Her touch was soft, tentative, but sincere. “Thank you,” she said, and her voice caught. “Thank you for saving him. I-I’ve only just heard what happened. If not for you, he might have…” She trailed off, unable or unwilling to complete the grim thought.

Your heart twisted at her obvious worry, and despite the turmoil inside you, you forced yourself to remain composed. She was worried for Azriel, nothing more. Any sting of jealousy or fear you felt was misplaced, you told yourself. You were here to help, to heal. That was all.

“I’m glad I could be there,” you managed, voice quiet. Your eyes drifted to Azriel’s face, the rise and fall of his chest steady and sure. “He’s stable now, and with proper care, he’ll recover.”

Elain’s grip tightened slightly on your arms, as if finding comfort in your words. “He means so much to all of us,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “We were afraid—” Another half-spoken fear cut short. She swallowed, releasing your arms and folding her hands together. “I won’t keep you from your work.”

You nodded, steeling yourself, and moved closer to the bedside. The world narrowed down to the tasks at hand: checking Azriel’s bandages, applying ointment, ensuring his wounds were clean and healing as intended. Behind you, Elain hovered, her presence a soft reminder that you were not the only one who cared about this man’s survival.

The ache in your chest remained, but you channeled it into precise, gentle care, grateful that Azriel slept on, oblivious for now to all the unspoken emotions filling the room.

As you carefully lifted Azriel’s wing to apply fresh ointment along the fragile membranes, the door opened. Looking up, you expected perhaps Feyre or Cassian, but it was Rhysand who stepped quietly inside. He halted at the sight of Elain, surprise flickering across his features. She stiffened, then dropped her gaze and slipped past him without a word, leaving the room as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Her sudden departure hung in the silence, unanswered questions lingering in the space she vacated.

You remained focused on your work, smoothing the ointment gently and checking for any sign of infection. When you were done, you lowered Azriel’s wing back onto the soft padding you’d arranged. He stirred slightly, but remained in a healing sleep. The faint hiss of his steady breathing was the only sound until Rhysand approached, stopping a respectful distance away.

“How is he?” the High Lord asked, voice low. His violet eyes held concern and relief in equal measure—he clearly trusted you, but he needed reassurance. You wondered if it was strange for him to stand here, watching you care for one of his closest friends, after seeing how you worked miracles with moonlight just hours before.

You inclined your head, wiping your hands on a clean cloth. “His vitals are stable. The bleeding has ceased, the stitches and salves are holding up. He will heal, but it’s going to take time.” You glanced at the bandages, ensuring everything was in order. “For the next two or three weeks, he should be extremely careful. Any strain could reopen those wounds, especially where the wings are concerned. If he follows instructions, he should make a full recovery.”

Rhysand exhaled quietly, tension easing from his posture. “Thank you,” he said simply, yet the depth of gratitude in that single phrase was undeniable. He stepped closer, examining Azriel’s peaceful face, the neat wrappings. “I know you’ve done more than what could be expected.”

You offered a faint, professional smile. “He responded well to the treatments. I’ll check on him regularly. With proper rest and caution, he’ll be back on his feet soon.” You paused, hesitant, then added, “He might chafe at the restrictions. I trust you and the others can help ensure he doesn’t push himself too hard.”

A hint of wry amusement touched Rhysand’s lips. “Oh, that will be a battle,” he said, a spark of humor in his tone. “Azriel’s not exactly fond of lying in bed. But we’ll manage.”

As you turned away to rinse the cloth and reorganize your supplies, the High Lord lingered, watching over his friend. The hush in the room was gentler now, as if the worst of the night’s nightmares had passed. In the corridor outside, you heard distant murmurs—life carrying on in the House of Wind, even as Azriel slept through his healing pains.

In a few hours, you’d return with more salves, check the stitching again, monitor his temperature. The routine would help ground you, a steady path forward as you navigated your new role and the unsettling bond you’d discovered the night before. For now, Azriel’s safe and stable state was a small victory, one you both needed.

After you finished tending to Azriel and making certain he was resting comfortably, Rhysand gently guided you from the room. In silence, you followed him through the House of Wind, eventually arriving at his office. It was a spacious chamber lined with shelves full of books and maps, and a large window offered a breathtaking view of Velaris and the mountains beyond.

He gestured for you to sit in a chair opposite his desk and took his own seat with a measured elegance. You settled into the soft cushions, mind still churning with the events of the night before and the morning that followed. Rhysand allowed a brief moment of silence, his violet eyes studying you with calm interest. You appreciated the courtesy he afforded you—allowing you to compose yourself, if only for a breath.

“There is some business we need to discuss,” he began quietly, resting his forearms on the desk’s smooth surface. “Specifically, Illyria.”

Your heart sank a fraction, remembering the plight of the Illyrian females. The clipping of their wings, a barbaric tradition meant to keep them grounded, powerless, had long stained the culture of the mountain camps. Anyone who’d lived in the Night Court knew about it—knew the cruelty it entailed. It made your stomach knot, the injustice of it all. But Rhysand’s gaze was steady, his tone matter-of-fact. He didn’t need to explain the tradition or its brutality to you. You already knew.

He continued, “We’ve made strides in changing policies and punishing those who practice clipping, but traditions die hard. There’s a deep-seated reluctance in some of the camps to embrace new methods, to trust outside help. And while we can enforce laws, people need more than punishment—they need healing. Not just in body, but in mind and culture.”

You nodded slowly, understanding the layers to his request. Illyria was a complex knot of pride, pain, and ingrained habits. Simply banning clipping hadn’t eradicated it overnight. Change would require education, trust, and time. As a healer, you might wield some influence. Heal their wounds, show them better ways, and perhaps, over time, their hearts could soften.

“You’re aware of the situation,” Rhysand acknowledged, reading your thoughtful silence. “I know you’ve only recently returned and you have your hands full with Azriel’s recovery and the transition of your role. Still, I must ask: would you be willing, sometime in the coming week, to travel to Winghaven? Begin there. Examine their current medical facilities—or lack thereof—and train some of their healers. Introduce new methods. Show them what can be done, especially for those who’ve suffered under these old customs.”

You caught his eyes, the sincerity and gravity in them. This wasn’t a small favor. It was a step in a long journey of reform. “I know Winghaven,” you said quietly. “They have rudimentary healers, but nothing on par with Velaris. The conditions are… difficult.”

Rhysand inclined his head. “Indeed. Start there, build rapport, and then move on to the other camps in the following weeks. A thorough evaluation, some training sessions, maybe even demonstrations of advanced healing techniques. Whatever you think might help them trust and adopt new methods.”

Your pulse fluttered, considering what this meant. You’d travel again, but within the Night Court’s borders this time, extending the reach of your healing and knowledge to places that desperately needed it. It was daunting, but also a chance to enact real change. Madja had chosen you not just to heal wounds, but to heal a culture’s mindset if possible. This could be the first step in doing just that.

“I can do it,” you answered softly, your voice firming as you spoke. “I’ll need a day or two to prepare. I should bring some portable tools, samples of herbs, and notes to leave behind. And I’ll finish stabilizing Azriel’s condition, make sure everything here is organized before I leave.”

A hint of relief, and perhaps admiration, touched Rhysand’s features. “Thank you,” he said. “I won’t pretend this will be easy. You may face skepticism, even hostility. But we’ve set certain laws in place—call on them if you must. Cassian, in particular, is familiar with Winghaven and can advise you on how to approach certain leaders.”

At the mention of Cassian, you nodded again, making a mental note to consult him. His insight could help navigate the subtle power dynamics and stubborn pride of Illyrian warriors.

You exhaled slowly, embracing the weight of your new mission. Healing was never just about wounds. It was about hearts, minds, and cultures. It was about offering better ways to live, even to those who resisted. You’d do what you could, and hopefully, over time, your efforts would take root.

“I’ll do everything in my power to make a difference,” you promised, voice steady despite the uncertainty that loomed ahead.

Rhysand’s smile was small but genuine, a touch of warmth breaking through the High Lord’s composed demeanor. “That’s all anyone can ask.”

The hush of the office fractured abruptly by muffled commotion from down the hall. Your conversation with Rhysand froze mid-sentence, both of you snapping your heads toward the door. There was a look in his violet eyes—concern and a steeled readiness—that mirrored your own. In a heartbeat, you rose from your chair, following him at a brisk pace down the corridor.

The sounds led you back to Azriel’s room. The door stood ajar, and you entered to find Elain near the bed, wringing her hands, her face stricken with alarm. Azriel lay on the mattress, his breathing ragged, his skin flushing and mottled as if reacting violently to something.

Elain’s voice quavered, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she pleaded, voice trembling. “He seemed uncomfortable, in pain, and I just thought—my salve… I didn’t know—”

Your heart pounded with a hot surge of anger. This was exactly why you insisted on careful protocols and avoiding any unapproved treatments. “What were you thinking?” you snapped, too concerned to temper your tone. “Applying something else without knowing its properties? Mixing plants can cause severe reactions!” Your voice cracked through the tension in the room, startling her.

Elain’s lower lip trembled as she retreated a step. She looked horrified and remorseful, but you had no time for comforting her now. Azriel jerked under the covers, his wings twitching fitfully. You needed to move fast.

“Get out,” you ordered, pointing to the door. Your command was clipped, professional, but unyielding. Elain let out a small sob and stumbled back, leaving the room in a blur of skirts and regret.

Azriel’s breath came in short, pained pants, his eyes half-lidded. You tossed your head toward Rhysand. “I need you to hold him down,” you said urgently, dropping to your knees beside the bed and flinging open your medical kit. “If he thrashes, he’ll make it worse. I must flush this foreign salve from his system.”

Rhysand stepped forward without hesitation. His presence, calm and contained, would help keep Azriel still. With a nod, he took position near Azriel’s shoulders, pressing down firmly but gently, careful not to aggravate existing wounds. Az let out a ragged moan, wings scraping restlessly against the blankets.

Your hands moved quickly, selecting herbs and tools you’d never intended to use twice in one day. You measured doses with exacting care, mentally reviewing which compounds countered which toxins, which would draw out the harmful concoction Elain had unwittingly introduced. The scent of your preparations soon filled the air—bitter, pungent, but necessary.

Biting your lip, you applied a cleansing solution around the affected areas, your fingertips deft and gentle despite your racing pulse. Rhysand’s voice was quiet, murmuring something soothing to Azriel, trying to keep him calm. Your own heart ached to see him like this, so vulnerable and in pain, especially after what he had already endured. But you banished the ache and focused on your role as healer.

The minutes stretched thin. You worked methodically, using a special wash to neutralize the reaction, applying cool compresses to reduce inflammation. Outside the room, you could still sense Elain’s presence in the hall, her quiet weeping. You pushed that distraction aside, refusing to look anywhere but Azriel’s face and the wounds you tended.

“Stay with me, Azriel,” you whispered as you worked, your tone softer now, though he might not be lucid enough to understand. “I’ve got you.”

Behind you, Rhysand’s gaze bore into your back, silent trust and support emanating from him. He kept his hold steady, ensuring Azriel didn’t thrash off the mattress and disrupt the delicate mending you were attempting.

Slowly, the color in Azriel’s cheeks began to normalize, the flush fading as the compounds took hold. His breathing, labored and strained, began to even out, shallow gasps replaced by steadier inhalations. It would take time, more careful applications, but you could see the signs of the countermeasures working.

It wasn’t over yet, but you’d gained precious ground. You adjusted your grip on another vial, heart pounding with renewed determination. You wouldn’t let him slip away, not now, not after everything.

“Hold him just a moment longer,” you said to Rhysand, voice steady once more. “I’m almost done.”

Once you were certain Azriel’s condition had stabilized, you stepped out of the room, still breathing heavily from the tension of your work. You found Elain in the corridor, lingering where you’d left her. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tear tracks staining her cheeks, her posture slumped with remorse. But right now, you were too furious, too rattled by the near catastrophe, to offer comfort.

You closed the distance between you and her in quick strides, the echo of your footsteps making her flinch. “What were you thinking?” you demanded, voice low and tight. “You are no healer, Elain. You had no right—no right—to apply anything without my approval.”

“I-I was just trying to help,” Elain stammered, voice quavering. Her hands twisted in her skirts, knuckles turning white. “He looked like he was in pain, and I had this salve that’s helped me before—”

“Stop,” you cut in sharply, and she recoiled as if struck. “This isn’t about your intentions. It’s about what could have happened. I’ve seen lives lost because someone thought they knew better than the professionals. A bad mix of herbs, a plant reacting poorly with other treatments—and a patient dies. You could have killed him.”

Tears welled again in her eyes, her breath coming in shaky gasps. “I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

You tightened your jaw, fighting to keep your emotions from spilling over into cruelty. “I don’t care who you are to him, or what you think you can do. Right now, Azriel is my patient. My priority is saving his life, not sparing your feelings. And if you ever pull a stunt like that again…” Your voice trailed off ominously, anger vibrating in your throat.

“Elain,” came a quiet voice from behind you. Rhysand’s hand settled gently on your shoulder, the subtle pressure a reminder that you’d made your point. You breathed in slowly through your nose, attempting to calm the fire in your blood.

Elain looked at Rhysand as if searching for reprieve, but found little. His face was composed, yet stern. “It’s best you return to the townhouse,” he said calmly. “We cannot afford any more risks to Azriel’s recovery. Until he’s better—fully better—I’m afraid you’re not allowed in the House of Wind.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it, shoulders slumping further. With a trembling nod, Elain turned away, tears still glistening on her cheeks. She moved off down the corridor, footsteps fading into silence.

You let out a shaky breath, shoulders still tight with residual fury and fear. Rhysand’s hand remained on your shoulder a moment longer, a silent token of understanding. When he removed it, you stood there, heart pounding, your mind already shifting back to Azriel’s condition. He was stable for now, but you would have to keep a closer eye on him than ever.

No more unnecessary risks. No more interference. Not while his life hung in the balance and your responsibility, as his healer, demanded unwavering vigilance.

———

Back at the clinic, the familiar hum of voices and quiet steps on wooden floors welcomed you like a gentle embrace. You’d returned not long ago, having decided you wouldn’t check on Azriel again until the next day. He was stable, and after the emotional whirlwind of the morning, you needed to focus on your other duties, regain your footing in the place that felt most under your control.

The other healers had noticed your tension, though none had dared comment openly. But as dusk settled, while sorting through jars of herbs in the storage room, you found yourself beside Elira—the same young healer who had noticed your fatigue earlier. She had a careful way about her, kind but never intrusive, and you appreciated her steady presence.

She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, tightening the string around a bundle of dried leaves. “Everything all right?” she asked softly, as if testing the waters. “You seem… troubled.”

You exhaled slowly, considering how much to share. “There was an incident,” you admitted, voice low. “I had to step in this morning to save someone who was already on the mend.” You paused, picking through lavender stems. “Let’s just say someone interfered with the treatment, and it nearly cost him dearly.”

Elira’s eyebrows rose. “That sounds serious. Did they mean harm?”

You shook your head, remembering Elain’s tearful face. “No, I think she meant well. But intentions aren’t enough. She mixed treatments without understanding the consequences.” The words tasted bitter, like you were defending your anger yet again. You looked at Elira more directly. “I might have been harsh, but… there was a real risk.”

Elira nodded slowly, a knowing sympathy in her gaze. “It’s never easy when outsiders meddle. Most don’t realize how delicate the balance is, or how small a mistake can undo hours of careful work.”

You busied yourself with organizing a stack of bandages. “What’s harder is… I’m curious about who she was to him. The patient, I mean.” The admission made you feel exposed, but you pressed on. “I know she’s related to the High Lady—her sister, Elain. But what about her relationship to him?” You pursed your lips, scanning Elira’s face for any sign of judgment. “I can’t help it,” you added softly, as if apologizing for your curiosity. “I saw the way she looked at him, how worried she was. It… made me wonder.”

Elira seemed thoughtful. “I’ve only heard rumors,” she said carefully. “He’s one of the High Lord’s closest advisors, part of that inner circle. They’re all very… intertwined. Friends, allies, perhaps more sometimes. Elain is well-known as someone gentle, kind, a bit shy. She’s close to all of them, I think. There’s talk that Azriel and Elain… share a bond, but nothing confirmed.” She shrugged lightly. “You know how rumors are.”

You nodded, your stomach twisting. A bond. The word reverberated in your mind, tangling with your own secret discovery. Could it be that you weren’t the only one feeling something unexpected? Or perhaps Elira had it wrong, and it was merely idle gossip. Regardless, your heartbeat fluttered nervously at the thought.

“I’m not one for gossip,” you said evenly. “I just… I need to understand the dynamics so I can navigate these situations better in the future.”

Elira gave you a small smile. “Don’t fret too much. Relationships in that inner circle are complicated, from what I’ve gathered. All you need to focus on is healing and doing what you do best. The rest will fall into place, or so I’ve learned over the years. Fate has a way of showing us truths when we’re ready.”

You pressed the bandages into a neat stack, forcing a steady breath. “You’re right. I shouldn’t get tangled in their personal affairs.” But even as you spoke the words, you knew the tangled knot in your chest was not so easily undone. If a bond truly existed—be it gossip or reality—you’d have to face it in your own way, in your own time.

For now, you settled for the comfort of the clinic’s routine, and the quiet solidarity of another healer who understood that sometimes, wanting answers was part of the human—fae—condition. You’d return to Azriel the next day, as promised, focusing on his recovery and ignoring, for a few hours more, the silent questions that thrummed under your skin.

Night had fully fallen, and the hush that blanketed Velaris seemed deeper than usual. In your small apartment above the clinic, a lamp cast a gentle glow over the modest furnishings. You sat curled on your couch, cradled under a thick cover, a warm cup of tea balanced on your knee and a book open in your other hand. The scent of chamomile and honey rose with the steam, comforting and mild.

A soft, muffled tap came from the window. You paused your reading, glancing up just in time to see Ydil—the eagle who’d followed you through countless journeys—perched on the sill. His feathers ruffled slightly in the night breeze, and his keen eyes shone with recognition. Without hesitation, you set the book aside and rose to open the window. The chill of the winter air nipped at your cheeks as Ydil hopped inside, letting out a small, happy sound—a rough, throaty chirr of delight.

You closed the window with care, sealing out the cold. Ydil nudged at you with his head, as if in greeting, his beak gently tapping your arm. The affection was unmistakable, and a tender smile curved your lips. “Hello, old friend,” you murmured quietly, stroking the smooth feathers along his neck. He had traveled with you through distant courts and unknown lands, watching over you as you honed your healing craft, bearing witness to triumphs and losses. Now, here he was, comforting you in this new chapter of your life.

You settled back onto the couch, rearranging the cover so that it would fall partly over your lap and leave room for Ydil. He hopped closer, tucking himself beside you with a small flutter of wings, drawn to your warmth and the promise of quiet companionship. The lamp’s glow highlighted the subtle patterns in his feathers, the soft shine in his dark eyes. He was safe here, as were you.

Reclaiming your mug, you took a slow sip of tea, the sweet warmth settling in your chest. The book rested on your lap, its pages waiting patiently for your attention. But for a moment, you just breathed, listening to Ydil’s faint rustle as he positioned himself more comfortably, feeling the soft weight of the blanket, and smelling the gentle floral notes of your tea.

Outside, the night carried on in hushed whispers. The starlight and the faint hum of distant laughter from the city below reminded you that life went on, despite all your questions and uncertainties. You would face them—tomorrow, the next day, whenever fate demanded. For now, you had this peaceful moment: a warm couch, a loyal companion, a cup of tea, and the quiet promise that you weren’t alone, not tonight.

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. One moment you were reading, the gentle rustling of Ydil’s feathers at your side, the soft lamplight glowing over the pages of your book; the next, your eyelids grew too heavy, and your mind drifted into a gentle haze. The mug in your hand grew tepid, and the words on the page blurred. By the time your book slipped from your grasp and settled lightly against your lap, you were already lost in quiet slumber.

Ydil noticed immediately. With a soft, rustling sound, he slipped out from under the cover. The eagle cocked his head, studying your face as though ensuring you were truly at peace. You looked so tired—no wonder you had succumbed so easily after the long, restless night before.

He hopped lightly onto the arm of the couch, where the lamp rested on a small side table. Balancing his weight with delicate precision, Ydil stretched out and pressed the lamp’s switch with his beak. The soft glow vanished, leaving only the faint silver gleam of moonlight filtering through the window. In that gentle darkness, the world felt hushed, a cocoon of calm around you both.

Carefully, the eagle tugged at the blanket’s edge with his beak. Bit by bit, he pulled it higher until it covered your shoulders, ensuring you would remain warm against the night’s chill. Satisfied, he settled himself beside you again, his head turning as if listening to your steady breathing.

Ydil tucked his wings close, sharing the silence and stillness. Outside, Velaris slept, stars glittering softly in the winter sky. Inside, the quiet companionship of bird and healer spun a fragile moment of comfort—no demands, no urgent calls to duty, no doubts hovering at the edge of your mind. Just rest, and the gentle presence of an old friend looking after you in the deep hush of the night.

----

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[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 3

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

Trigger warning; Blood, pain, injuries.

notes; Hello everyone! Thank you so much for the comments on the previous parts. I'm so happy that you’re enjoying this story (because I personally am, lol). Don't hesitate to give feedback, as I'm trying to improve overall! I have uploaded all of my stories on AO3 if any of you are more comfortable reading on the other platform. Also, my requests are open if any of you are interested. It's vacation time for me, so I have more time these days. <3 See you soon and enjoy part 3!

Link; Part 2 or Part 4

-----

Weeks had turned into a comfortable rhythm, each day drawing you deeper into the heart of your new responsibilities. Winter’s chill still lingered outside, but within the clinic’s halls, warmth and purpose filled the air. Madja had constructed a careful routine—mornings spent reviewing patient logs, afternoons dedicated to meeting the healers who operated throughout Velaris and beyond, and late afternoons or early evenings tending to those who required care. You found yourself adjusting more easily than you’d anticipated, the constant hum of healing magic and quiet conversation making the place feel more like home with each passing day.

Your old room at the hostel now felt like a distant memory. Within a week of settling in, Madja gently insisted that you take the apartment above the small clinic—originally her own workspace and resting spot. At first, you hesitated, still feeling like an outsider who had just returned, but Madja’s firm yet kind encouragement made it clear that this was part of the transition. Now, the apartment’s modest rooms welcomed you each evening: a simple bed with a soft quilt, a desk cluttered with your notes and sketches, and shelves lined with medical texts and herb guides. There was a small window overlooking the Sidra, and sometimes at dusk you’d watch the lamplight glitter on the water, heart at ease.

Costa, your horse, had been entrusted to a capable ostler in Velaris—an Illyrian female who handled the animal with gentle expertise. Knowing Costa was well-fed and groomed, free to stretch his legs in a stable yard not far from the city’s edge, soothed the restless part of your mind. You missed riding, missed the quiet hours of travel with Costa’s steady hooves on unknown roads, but for now you needed to be here, grounded and ready to step fully into Madja’s role.

You’d met most of the healers who had worked under Madja’s guidance—some younger than you, bright-eyed and eager, others older, with steady hands and calm smiles. They greeted you politely, some with curiosity and others with measured caution, as if trying to understand what this new change meant for them. Madja still hovered at your shoulder during these introductions, offering subtle nudges of reassurance. Gradually, you learned their names, their specializations, their quirks. You discovered who excelled at mending broken bones, who shone at delicate surgeries, who possessed the gentlest bedside manner for frightened children. Each person became a piece of a larger tapestry, one you would soon be charged with overseeing.

In between these professional duties, you’d also been summoned to meet with the High Lady, Feyre, on several occasions. These meetings were less formal than you expected—Feyre seemed determined to put you at ease. She asked thoughtful questions about your travels, your impressions of the healing wards, and the ways you might improve the system Madja had built. Often, Rhysand or one of the other Inner Circle members would be present—Cassian slouching in a chair with that easy grin, Azriel standing quietly near a window, shadows at his shoulders. The High Lord listened intently, violet eyes calm, while Feyre nodded, her hand sometimes resting lightly atop a stack of parchment filled with notes.

They all gave the impression of patient confidence. They trusted Madja’s choice, and by extension, they trusted you. That trust both comforted and weighed on you. You were determined not to disappoint them, not to squander the opportunity to shape Velaris’s healing corps into something more agile, more prepared. If war truly loomed on the horizon—whispers still lingering in the court’s quieter corners—then every ounce of skill and knowledge you possessed would be needed.

Evenings found you often at your desk, reviewing patient charts by lamplight. Sometimes Madja would join you, a mug of herbal tea in hand, and together you’d discuss strategy and staffing. At other times you’d work alone, jotting down improvements to the triage system or ways to store emergency supplies more efficiently. The silence of the small apartment felt companionable rather than lonely. You were home, after all these years, in a place that recognized your abilities and gave them purpose.

One morning you awoke early, pushing open the window to let in a crisp breeze. The scent of bread baking somewhere below drifted up, and you smiled. Outside, Velaris shimmered under pale winter sunlight. The city no longer felt quite so strange or distant. You were beginning to know its streets again, to navigate its corners without hesitation. In the stillness, before the day’s demands rose up to greet you, you allowed yourself a small, private moment of contentment.

You had found your footing, a rhythm that matched Madja’s measured guidance with your own growing confidence. Soon enough, Madja would step back fully, leaving you to guide these healers through whatever trials awaited. The thought no longer filled you with anxiety, but with a quiet resolve. You were ready—or at least you would be, by the time Madja’s gentle presence receded from your daily life.

For now, you cherished these weeks of transition: the gentle hum of voices in the clinic halls, the scent of fresh bread and simmering broths, the steady beat of your heart as you prepared to carry on the legacy of a healer who’d believed in you from the start.

———

It was late—well past the hour when the clinic’s final lamp should have been dimmed. Yet, there you were, hunched over a desk scattered with patient files, sketches, and half-finished notes on new salves. Outside, snow whispered against the windowpanes, muffling the night sounds of Velaris. The quiet calm of your small workspace was broken abruptly by a fierce pounding at the clinic doors.

You startled, heart lurching into your throat. Who would come at this time? Without hesitation, you rose and hurried down the corridor, slippers slapping softly against the floor. Approaching the door, you called, “Who is it?” But another series of urgent knocks answered you first.

Flinging it open, you found Cassian standing there, breathing hard, eyes wide with panic and urgency. He said nothing at first, just grabbed at your arm as if to anchor himself. The wild look in his gaze told you something was terribly wrong. Already, you could feel the adrenaline surging, steeling your nerves.

“I need you,” he managed, voice tight and rough. “It’s Azriel.”

You didn’t waste a second—no words of reassurance, no questions. Instead, you spun on your heel, darting back into the clinic’s supply room. Your hands moved with practiced speed, snatching up a medical bag and stuffing in gauze, vials of herbs, antiseptic solutions, and needles for suturing. You threw in a few carefully sealed packs of medicinal leaves, even a small jar of pain-relief tonic. Whatever you might need, because you didn’t know what awaited you.

“Come,” Cassian urged, voice raw. He led you out into the cold night, scarcely giving you time to close the door behind you. Before you knew it, he had scooped you up in a practiced motion and launched into the air. The sudden whoosh of icy wind shocked your lungs, but you clutched your bag tighter, keeping your head low and trusting Cassian’s strong arms and powerful wings to carry you safely. The moonlit panorama of Velaris rushed beneath, a blur of snowy rooftops and dim, golden lights.

Within moments, the House of Wind’s silhouette rose against the starry sky. Cassian landed hard, not bothering with a gentle approach. He half-dragged you inside, footsteps echoing down silent corridors. You found yourself nearly running at his side, alarm thudding in your chest. You followed him through winding halls, the hush of the night fractured by his ragged breathing and the frantic scuff of boots on stone.

He burst into the living area and there, on the massive table that usually served as a gathering place for the Inner Circle’s quiet talks or strategic meetings, lay Azriel. One glance at him and your stomach clenched: his wings—those powerful, graceful wings—looked shredded, raw gashes marring the membranes, blood staining the wood beneath him. Deep cuts scored his arms, his chest. He was breathing, but it was shallow and uneven, face drawn tight with pain.

Rhysand and Feyre hovered nearby, their eyes filled with worry. The High Lord’s jaw was clenched, hands fisted by his sides as if struggling to maintain composure. Feyre’s face was pale, knuckles white where she gripped the table’s edge. Neither dared approach the wounds, knowing to leave it to you.

You didn’t hesitate. “Clear some space,” you ordered, voice firm. Your professionalism took over, pushing aside the horror and fear. You dropped your bag on a nearby chair and quickly rolled up your sleeves.

Azriel’s half-lidded eyes flicked toward you, recognition and relief mingling with agony. His teeth were clenched hard enough to crack. You met his gaze steadily, letting him see that you were here and you would help. Cassian took a shaky breath and stepped back, giving you room.

“Tell me what happened later,” you said sharply to anyone listening, as your fingers deftly opened your medical kit. “For now, we stabilize him.”

A hush fell. The High Lord and High Lady stepped back, trusting you implicitly. Azriel’s shallow breathing and the soft drip of blood became the only sounds. You placed a hand gently near one of the deep cuts, already planning how to close the wounds, which salves to apply first, how to handle the delicate membranes of those damaged wings.

“Azriel,” you said softly, your voice calm and sure, “I need you to hold on. I’m here now.”

He gave an almost imperceptible nod, and you began working, every movement precise and determined. This was what you had trained for, traveled for, returned home for—moments like this, where skill and resolve would mend what cruelty had torn.

“Azriel, drink this,” you said firmly, pressing a small vial to his lips. He tried to turn his head away, but Rhysand and Cassian held him steady, their expressions grim. With a trembling swallow, Azriel took the tonic, his face contorting as the bitter taste hit his tongue. The mixture would dull the pain, buy you precious minutes to work.

You spared no time waiting for the tonic to take full effect. Turning abruptly, you called out to Feyre, voice steady and certain despite the chaos. “Open the windows and doors—all of them,” you ordered.

A flicker of confusion passed over everyone present. Feyre hesitated, eyes darting from you to Rhys, who gave a subtle nod. Then she darted across the living room, unlatching windows, throwing open doors. The chill of the night air swept in, carrying scents of snow and starlight. The House of Wind sat high above Velaris, offering nothing but open sky and a tapestry of stars. The moon hung low and bright, and its silver light spilled across the table, across Azriel’s bloodied form.

Cassian’s grip tightened on Azriel’s arm as the spymaster struggled feebly. Azriel let out a ragged hiss of pain, trying to curl in on himself. You reached out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, meeting his gaze with steady determination. “Hold him still,” you directed, and Rhysand and Cassian complied, pinning him just firmly enough to keep him from thrashing as you worked.

The sudden openness, the influx of night air and celestial glow, began to make sense. You lifted your hands above Azriel’s body, fingers spread, eyes focused. The moonlight brightened, as if drawn closer by your intent. It pooled onto the table, over his torn wings and deep gashes, shimmering faintly. With careful, precise motions of your hands and a calm, centering breath, you guided that gentle lunar glow.

A thin thread of silvery radiance wound down from the sky, through the open spaces, into your hands. It took on a living quality—like a liquid beam of starlight. Guided by your focus and your will, it slipped into the wounds that needed attention most urgently. You could feel the damage through the magic, each ragged edge of flesh and shredded membrane translating into a sensation of raw, quivering energy beneath your palms.

Your eyes narrowed as you directed the moonlit thread along the worst injuries first—carving a path from torn wing membranes to a deep slash near Azriel’s ribs. Under that gentle illumination, blood flow began to slow, tissues knitting just enough to prevent him from bleeding out. His breathing, ragged moments before, evened fractionally, each breath less desperate than the last.

Everyone watched in stunned silence. Rhysand’s eyes, wide with a combination of shock and relief, met yours briefly as you worked. Cassian’s knuckles were white where he gripped Azriel’s shoulder, but he dared not speak. Feyre stood by the open window, the night breeze stirring her hair, eyes reflecting amazement as she realized what you had done.

You had brought the very light of the cosmos into your healing—the moon and stars aiding your skill. Focused entirely on Azriel, you guided that pale, silvery essence along lacerations, coaxing flesh to mend, halting the most life-threatening bleeding. Each moment counted, each movement of your hand coaxed more life back into him, steadied his pulse, strengthened the tenuous hold he had on consciousness.

And so, amid the hush of the night and the quiet gasps of onlookers, you let that quiet moonlight flow from your fingertips. If any doubts remained about why Madja trusted you, why you had returned at this critical time, they dissolved into silver luminescence and slow, steady healing.

“Turn him over,” you instructed, your voice steady despite the rapid pace of your heart. You had stabilized Azriel enough that he was no longer on the brink of collapse, but if he couldn’t use his wings, he might never fly again—an unthinkable loss for an Illyrian warrior. Rhysand and Cassian exchanged a glance, then moved together, careful and deliberate, rolling Azriel onto his stomach.

Your breath misted in the chill air drifting from the open windows, but you barely noticed it. All your senses were focused on the damage stretched before you. His wings—those proud, powerful wings—were torn and ragged, membranes frayed, the framework bruised and bleeding. Gently placing your palm near a particularly deep tear, you summoned the silvery light again, coaxing it along the rips and gashes. The quiet hush of the room pressed in, everyone mesmerized by the shimmering moonlight threading through your fingertips into Azriel’s wounds.

Bit by bit, you restored what had been brutally disrupted. You couldn’t make it perfect, not instantly, but you could ensure that he would heal, that flight would remain possible. Rhysand and Cassian kept him still, muscles taut with the effort of not jarring his injuries. Feyre stood watchful by the open window, letting in the night’s gentle glow. Her features were tense but hopeful.

When you had done all you could, you nodded once, giving them permission to turn Azriel back onto his back. His breathing was steadier now, his expression more tranquil. The moonlight’s touch lingered over the last of the cuts on his chest and arms. Methodically, you sealed them, coaxing bleeding vessels to close, torn muscle to knit. The worst damage handled, you eased back, allowing the faint star-born thread of light to dissolve, the connection with the celestial glow fading as you willed it so.

Azriel’s lashes fluttered, a quiet groan escaping him. His eyes opened briefly—heavy-lidded, hazy with pain and exhaustion. In that fleeting moment, your gaze locked with his. Something passed between you then—something warm, startling, and utterly unexpected. In the hush, as if the world had paused, you felt a golden thread snap taut between your hearts. Your breath caught, shock flaring through your veins. You knew the stories, the descriptions passed in hushed whispers: the feeling of a bond, a mate. And here it was, sparking in a place of blood and moonlight, in the eyes of a wounded warrior who had nearly died under your hands.

Your heart hammered in your chest. Azriel’s eyes drifted shut, too weak to question what he’d seen in your startled expression, and he slipped into a healing sleep. But you stood there, rattled. Him—your mate. How could this be?

Rhysand’s voice broke the silence, cool and concerned. “Y/N? Is he all right?” He must have seen the shock in your eyes, the subtle tremor in your posture.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to regain composure. The weight of that discovery pressed down on you, but you could not falter now. Azriel needed rest, treatment, not confusion. “Yes,” you managed, your voice calmer than you felt. “He’s stabilized. We need to bring him to his room, clean the wounds properly, and apply salves. The stitches and light will hold, but he’ll need careful monitoring.”

Cassian and Rhysand relaxed visibly at your words. Feyre approached, the night breeze stirring her hair. She considered you with quiet sympathy, not fully understanding your reaction but trusting you nonetheless.

“Very well,” Rhysand said, relief tempered by careful pragmatism. “We’ll move him now. Show us what you need.”

You nodded, forcing a small, reassuring smile. Inside, your heart still thundered, grappling with this new reality. Azriel—your mate. There would be time later to make sense of it, to examine the golden thread that had just woven your fates together. For now, you steadied your trembling hands, prepared your supplies, and focused on the healer’s work still ahead.

With Azriel finally settled into his bed, the soft glow of faelight illuminating the room, you stepped back and surveyed your work. Now that he was washed free of grime and old blood, you had been able to apply the final ointments and bandages, each touch carefully measured. He was stable now, breathing steadily. But every time your fingertips brushed his skin—no matter how clinically—it felt wrong, as if you were crossing some invisible boundary. A patient, nothing more, you reminded yourself sternly. Yet the memory of that golden thread you’d sensed earlier lingered, unsettling your calm.

Rhysand and Cassian stood quietly by, the heavy pieces of Azriel’s armor piled in a corner, their expressions grim and distant. Feyre lingered near the doorway, arms folded, her face etched with concern. At last, with Azriel’s wounds tended and his feverish warmth easing under your skilled hands, you turned away from the bed and walked out of the room. The door clicked softly behind you, sealing the sleeping spymaster safely inside.

In the hallway, Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian were waiting. The tension was nearly palpable, a silent acknowledgment of the danger that had brought Azriel to this dire state. You drew a steadying breath, mind still whirling with the revelation of a mate bond—one you could not, would not, address now. Instead, you focused on the immediate concern: understanding what had happened, what threat had caused such injury.

“So,” you said softly, meeting their eyes in turn. “What actually happened to him?”

The three shared a look—one that you, even as an outsider to their inner circle, could interpret as worry and anger mingled. Rhysand stepped forward, his posture poised, voice low. “Koshiev’s menace grows,” he began, each syllable measured. “We’ve been hearing whispers: new alliances forming, old enemies sharpening their blades. Azriel was gathering intelligence, trying to confirm rumors we’d caught in the shadows.”

Feyre’s gaze lowered, her jaw tightening. “He found what he was looking for, it seems. Reports suggest he managed to spy on someone—one of Koshiev’s allies or agents. But the enemy must have suspected something. They lured him in, set a trap, and ambushed him before he could escape.”

Cassian’s wings rustled restlessly. He crossed his arms over his chest again, scowling. “He was alone,” he growled. “We couldn’t send a whole team without risking alerting them, and now we see the price of that risk.” There was a note of self-reproach in his voice, frustration that they hadn’t prevented Azriel’s misfortune.

Rhysand inclined his head, the blue of his eyes darkening with resolve. “We still don’t know the full extent of their network, but this attack proves they’re bolder than we thought—and dangerously organized. It’s another sign that the threat Koshiev poses is not distant or hypothetical. It’s here, inching closer to our borders, to our people.”

You absorbed this quietly. The room felt colder, as if the open window had let not just fresh air in, but the weight of the coming storm. So that was it: Azriel’s blood on your hands because he’d tried to protect these lands from a greater horror lurking in the shadows. Your jaw tightened; you knew now more than ever that Madja’s warning of a future conflict wasn’t idle.

Feyre cleared her throat, drawing your attention. “Your swift action saved him,” she said softly, gratitude flickering in her eyes. “Without you… I don’t like to think what might have happened.”

Cassian nodded, grim acceptance in his stance. “We owe you a great deal,” he added, quieter than usual.

Rhysand’s face was serene but serious. “You’ve proved yourself beyond measure tonight,” he said. “Though I regret that such a test came at all.”

You inclined your head, acknowledging their thanks without lingering on it. There would be time for gratitude later. For now, what mattered was that Azriel lived, and that you knew—however unexpectedly—the depth of your new responsibilities. A mate, a looming war, a court depending on your skill and leadership. The path forward would not be simple, but you’d chosen to return to the Night Court for this reason: to heal, to help, to protect. Even if your own heart trembled at what fate had just revealed.

“I’ll prepare more medicine and check on him through the night,” you said at last, voice steady. “We’ll keep him stable, and with rest and care, he’ll recover. As for what comes next… we’ll be ready.”

Your words hung in the hush that followed, a quiet vow that all of you, together, would face whatever darkness Koshiev and his allies chose to bring.

Back in the living room, the tension that had filled the air began to dissipate as Azriel’s rescue shifted into a task of careful aftercare. The others lingered quietly while you settled yourself at a low table, spreading out your supplies. You’d taken a pouch from your bag, emptying it of tools, salves, and ground herbs that would form the next ointment for Azriel’s wounds. With measured concentration, you started mixing ingredients, mortar and pestle working in a rhythmic hush.

Feyre moved closer, her presence calm and unobtrusive. She knelt beside you, watching your hands as they skillfully combined powders and oils. Her gaze trailed to your face, and when you met her eyes, there was genuine admiration there. “What you did back there,” she said softly, voice laced with honest wonder. “That was… remarkable. I’ve never seen healing like that before.”

As if summoned by her words, Rhysand approached, standing behind Feyre, arms lightly folded. “I must agree,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “We’ve had healers here for ages, but none who channel the stars, the moon, or the sun into their craft. The way you drew that moonlight… it defied expectation.”

You inhaled slowly, organizing your thoughts before answering. It was natural that they’d be curious—this was your secret, your gift. “I can heal using the power of the celestial bodies,” you explained, keeping your voice low and measured. “The moon, the stars, the sun—they lend me their energy. When I open the spaces around us, letting their light spill in, I can coax that light into wounds, encourage flesh to knit and blood to still.”

You paused, stirring the ointment gently. The mixture took on a faint floral scent, the herbs reacting perfectly to the warm oil. Feyre’s eyes widened slightly at your explanation, her lips parting as she tried to imagine the scope of such power.

“Does it work every time?” Rhysand asked, tilting his head. The question was not accusatory, merely curious. He understood power and its limits as well as anyone.

You offered a small, wry smile. “So long as the sun, moon, and stars exist, I can tap into that energy. But it’s not effortless. It costs me a great deal of strength to channel their light in that way. Healing major injuries like Azriel’s wings or deep lacerations drains me quickly.” You pressed the pestle harder, grinding a stubborn clump of dried leaf into powder. “I must be careful not to overreach. Exhausting myself completely would help no one.”

Feyre nodded slowly, as if turning the idea over in her mind. “It’s a rare gift,” she said, voice full of understanding. “I’m sure Madja knew what she was doing when she asked you to return.”

A hum of agreement escaped you. “She trained me to harness it in more subtle forms, originally. But my travels—my time in other lands—taught me to focus it more precisely, to use it in dire circumstances.” You allowed yourself a brief glance back toward the corridor where Azriel lay resting. “Tonight was certainly dire.”

Rhysand’s expression softened, and he exchanged a meaningful look with Feyre. “We’re grateful you were here,” the High Lord said quietly. “Not just to save Azriel, but to show us what this court’s healers might achieve under your guidance.”

Your chest tightened, a mixture of pride and responsibility blooming there. “We’ll need all the strength we can gather,” you replied. “If Koshiev’s threat is as real as you’ve warned, I can’t afford to hold back.”

Your words lingered, and for a moment, all of you silently acknowledged the uncertain future—a world where any advantage might tip the scales. In the stillness, you returned your attention to the ointment, gently scooping a bit up to examine its consistency. Perfect, you decided, and let your shoulders relax a fraction.

“I’ll come back in a few hours to apply this to Azriel,” you said quietly. “I need to return to the clinic—dawn is approaching, and I must be there when the other healers arrive. He should remain stable for now, but if anything changes, please bring word to me immediately.”

———

When you returned to the clinic, the world seemed to tilt sideways. The door shut behind you with a soft click, muffling the distant hum of Velaris just awakening to dawn. Inside, the quiet halls that had always felt comforting and safe were now suffocating. A hollow ache pulsed in your chest, and before you could even set down your bag, you sank to the floor, knees hitting the hardwood with a dull thud.

Your heart thundered in your ears. He was your mate—Azriel, the spymaster you had saved in a frantic blur of blood and moonlight. The knowledge pressed down on you with unbearable weight. You wanted to cry, to scream, to lash out at the absurd cruelty of fate. You wanted to vomit, as if emptying your stomach might purge the confusion from your veins. You wanted to slap yourself, to break free from this overwhelming tangle of emotions.

How had this happened? You’d returned to the Night Court to take up Madja’s mantle, to heal and guide, not to be shackled by some golden bond you’d never asked for. You’d only wanted to help him, just as you would have helped anyone bleeding out on that table. Yet in that single, unexpected glance, the world had changed—his fate entwining silently, irrevocably with yours.

A sob lodged in your throat. You pressed trembling fingers against your eyes, as if darkness and pressure could hold back the tears. Every thought spun wildly: you were a healer, not some love-struck fool, not someone who had time or space for this destiny you never sought. But a mate. A mate was no small thing, no bond easily ignored.

Your breathing came in ragged gasps. You had just promised Rhysand and Feyre that you would return, that you would apply the ointment to Azriel’s wounds in a few hours. By then, he would be more stable, perhaps even conscious. Would he sense the bond too? Would he look at you differently? Or would he remain blissfully unaware, leaving you alone in this torment?

Your shoulders shook with silent tears. You drew in a shuddering breath, trying to reason with yourself: you were strong, capable, trained to face agony and death. Yet this… this you had not trained for. The golden thread bound you to a future you had never planned.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours—time lost meaning as you knelt on the clinic floor, trapped in your own swirling thoughts. Eventually, your tears slowed, leaving you hollow and raw. Outside, the city stirred. Healers would soon be arriving, expecting you to open the doors, to lead them through another day of caring for the ill and injured.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself upright. You would bury this secret for now, lock it away until you found the words or the courage to face it. Azriel was alive because of you. Your duty was to keep him healthy, to keep everyone healthy. The matter of mateship—of love, destiny, or whatever name this bond took—would have to wait.

Steadying yourself, you rose, wiped the tears from your cheeks, and breathed deeply. No matter the chaos in your mind, the clinic needed you. You would open these doors again, greet the other healers, and carry on. Somehow, you would find a way to reconcile the golden thread strung between your heart and Azriel’s. But not now. Not yet.

For now, you would endure.

----

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[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 2

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

notes; hello hello, thank you so much for all of your comments on the last part. I'm so happy that you guys want to read more of the new fan fiction. Here is the part 2, please don't hesitate to comment or to ask to be on the tag list. Bisous bisous

link for part 1 or part 3

---

Early morning light painted Velaris in gentle pastels, the snowy streets glowing beneath a sky that hinted at a clear day ahead. The hostel’s front step creaked softly as you left, having already arranged to keep your horse and belongings there for a few more nights. With your cloak drawn tight against the crisp winter air, you stepped onto the cobblestone path, the familiar scent of the Sidra mingling with the freshness of newly fallen snow.

You knew the way well enough, even after centuries away: to reach Madja’s quarters, you had to skirt the edge of a quiet residential district, pass through a small courtyard where a fountain tinkled with ice-rimmed water, and turn down a short lane lined with lanterns and blossoming plants enchanted to survive the cold. Before heading straight there, though, you caught a whiff of something enticing—fresh pastries, warm bread, the sugary hint of glazed treats.

Following your nose, you discovered a small bakery tucked between a tailor’s shop and a candle-maker’s stall. Its sign hung overhead, carved wood depicting a loaf of bread and a swirl of steam. The door, painted a soft teal, stood slightly ajar, letting out the heavenly aroma. Inside, rows of sweet rolls, tarts, and delicate pastries awaited. You remembered how Madja always had a fondness for morning pastries—she used to claim that a little sweetness helped start the day on a kinder note.

Stepping inside, you selected a variety of treats: sugar-dusted pastries, flaky croissants, and small fruit-filled buns that gleamed with syrup. Alongside them, you chose a crusty loaf and a few savory rolls for balance. Wrapping them carefully in parchment, the bakery’s clerk smiled warmly, admiring your thoughtfulness. You paid without hesitation, a slight grin touching your lips at the idea of surprising Madja with these morsels of delight.

With your package of pastries cradled in one arm, you pushed open the door and stepped back onto the street. Distracted by the lingering taste of sweetness in the air and the memory of Madja’s grateful smile, you didn’t notice the tall figure coming around the corner until it was too late.

Your shoulder collided with something solid—very solid—and you stumbled a step, clutching the pastries protectively to keep them from spilling. Looking up, you saw a broad chest encased in fighting leathers and, as your gaze traveled upward, a pair of strong, dark wings folded neatly behind his back. His face was turned toward you now, brows lifted in mild surprise. He was tall, toweringly so, with an air of alert strength that suggested he rarely found himself caught off-guard.

“Pardon me,” you said quickly, voice low and genuinely apologetic. You stepped aside, adjusting your hold on the parchment bundle. The last thing you wanted was to cause a scene or lose these treasured pastries to the snowy ground.

For a heartbeat, you noted the faint surprise in his eyes—he’d expected perhaps a greeting or a challenge—but you had no time for curiosities now. You had a meeting to attend and pastries to deliver. Without waiting for his reply, you nodded, a brief dip of the head, and continued on your way.

The sounds of the city moved around you: distant laughter, the whisper of wings overhead, and the muffled crunch of your boots in the snow. You cast one last curious glance over your shoulder, the winged male already merging into the morning bustle of Velaris. Then you pressed forward, heart light with anticipation. Soon, you would be face-to-face with Madja again, and this time, you came bearing both sweets and your renewed commitment to the healing art she had first taught you.

You had barely raised your knuckles to knock on the old wooden door of Madja’s office when it swung open with a gentle creak. Standing just inside was your old mentor, her silvered hair braided neatly, the familiar warmth in her eyes gleaming even brighter than you remembered. Before you could utter a word, she stepped forward and wrapped you in a gentle, enveloping hug.

The scent of herbal poultices and clean linens—scents forever associated with her—filled your senses as you leaned into the embrace. For a moment, all the centuries and miles you’d traveled fell away, leaving only the memory of countless afternoons spent under her watchful guidance, the hush of the healing rooms, and the soft murmur of her patient instructions.

“My dear child,” Madja said, her voice trembling slightly with joy, “it feels like a lifetime since I last saw you.” She held you at arm’s length, scanning you from head to toe. “Look at you, so grown, so poised. It’s hard to believe you were once that quiet apprentice peeking around doorways, curious about every tincture and suture.”

You smiled, a surge of tenderness filling your chest. “It’s been too long, Madja. I’ve been… everywhere, I think.” You lifted the carefully bundled pastries and bread you’d carried all this way. “I know how fond you are of sweet treats in the morning, so I made a stop on my way here.”

Madja’s eyes lit up at the mention of food, the lines at their corners deepening with delight. “You remembered my weakness!” she teased, ushering you inside and closing the door with a gentle push. Her office had changed little: jars and vials lined shelves, each meticulously labeled; scrolls of medical diagrams were rolled and tied with ribbons; a comfortable armchair waited near a small, round table. A thickly woven rug covered the floor, and a window let in gentle winter daylight, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air.

As you set the pastries on the table, Madja peered at them with undisguised pleasure. “Oh, look at these,” she breathed, selecting a delicate fruit-filled bun to inspect before taking a small bite. The way her face brightened was like sunshine on fresh snow—pure and sincere. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. Not just the pastries,” she added quickly, laughing, “but you, my dear. Knowing you would return gave me such comfort these last months as I considered my retirement.”

Her words stirred something soft inside you, a gentle ache of gratitude and affection. “You knew I’d come back,” you said quietly, resting your hand on her arm. “I never forgot your lessons. Everywhere I went—Summer Court, Dawn Court, even across the sea—I carried your voice in my memory. It guided my hands, reminded me of compassion and patience in the face of suffering.”

Madja smiled, the emotion shining in her gaze. “Oh, child. That means more to me than all these treats combined. And trust me,” she said, biting into a sugar-dusted pastry, “that’s saying something.”

You both laughed softly, the sound rising and falling in the small, familiar space. Outside, the city hummed with life, and the snow continued to lend a quiet hush to the streets. But here, in this moment, you and Madja were safe in the past made present—teacher and student reunited, ready to pass the torch and write the next chapter of healing in the Night Court.

“Come,” Madja said, beckoning you to sit. “Eat with me, and tell me of your travels. Then we’ll speak of what must be done next. We have so much to catch up on, my dear. So very much.”

Time slipped by like melting snow beneath a warming sun. One conversation bled into another, memories overlapping with new tales as you and Madja shared a quiet feast of words and understanding. Seated by her small, round table, you sampled the pastries you’d brought and she sipped a mild herbal tea, letting it cool on her tongue as she listened with rapt attention.

You spoke of the Summer Court’s lush jungles and how their healers used exotic flowers to treat fevers. You described the Dawn Court’s libraries, where you learned surgical techniques from scrolls older than the High Lords themselves. You detailed the human realms and distant continents, where you discovered remedies made from plants that grew only under strange red suns. And, with a hint of satisfaction, you recounted the new healing methods you developed—mixing herbs in precise measures, using controlled spells to mend bone and flesh faster, more cleanly than ever before. Every word you offered up was met with pride in Madja’s eyes, as if the knowledge you’d gathered were the rarest jewels.

She questioned you about your power, the subtle magic that allowed you to sense illness and pain with startling accuracy. You admitted it had grown stronger with practice: now you could slow a hemorrhage with a whisper or soothe a maddened mind with careful, empathic focus. Through it all, Madja smiled quietly, nodding now and then, her delight and approval like gentle applause in the hush of her office.

Eventually, though, the mood shifted, and the laughter died down into a more somber tone. With a careful breath, you ventured into more painful territory. “I heard about the last war with Hybern,” you said softly, your gaze drifting to the distant window where a smudge of pale sky marked the passing of morning into afternoon. “I should have come back sooner, but I was too far—lost in the deep continent. By the time I got the news, it was already over. I… I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help.”

Madja’s expression grew gentle, understanding etched into every line. “It was a hard time for all of us, child. Many who lived through it bear scars not only of the flesh, but of the heart and soul. The war was brutal, and there were moments when all seemed lost. But we survived—at great cost, yes, but survived nonetheless.” She reached over, placing her hand over yours. “You cannot blame yourself. The world is vast, and news travels slowly. You followed your path and gained what we now need.”

You met her eyes, searching them for certainty. “And now you say… a greater danger looms?”

Her shoulders rose in a slight shrug, but her eyes hardened with quiet resolve. “Yes. Rumors stir—more than rumors, in fact. Whispers of powerful forces converging, alliances hidden in shadow. The next conflict may surpass anything we have ever witnessed. The time will come when Prythian, and perhaps the world, will need every skilled hand, every healer who can do more than close wounds. They will need a leader who can guide healers and armies alike, someone who understands not just medicine, but people. Someone who’s traveled far and wide, who knows how to adapt and improvise.”

Your heart squeezed gently in your chest, understanding dawning like the slow rising of a sun behind storm clouds. “That’s why you’re retiring,” you said, voice hushed. “Because you can’t help as you wish anymore, and you believe I can.”

Madja nodded, eyes shining with conviction. “I’ve given my centuries to this court, to its people. But my hands grow stiff, and my eyesight dims. I know my limits, my dear. And I know your capabilities—greater, more flexible, better suited for what is coming. I trust you to take up my mantle and lead in ways I no longer can.”

A hush settled between you, broken only by the distant murmurs of Velaris and the faint crackle of a log shifting in the hearth. You saw in Madja’s face not only the mentor who guided your shaky first steps, but a visionary who understood when to pass on her legacy.

You bowed your head, acknowledging the weight of this new responsibility. “I will do my best,” you said softly, resolve steadied by her faith.

Madja’s smile returned, quieter but no less sincere. “I know you will, my child. It’s time for the student to stand at the helm. And this city, this court, will need you more than ever before.”

——

Azriel’s POV

“It’s really happening,” Cassian said, disbelief coloring his tone. “Madja’s actually retiring.”

Azriel stood near the window, wings folded neatly behind him, his dark gaze drifting between the three others in the room: Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian. They had gathered in a private meeting chamber with a broad table at its center. Beyond the glass, Velaris shimmered under the soft winter light, a gentle hush settling over the streets below.

Feyre leaned against a chair, her voice quiet and steady. “We knew this day would come. She’s served this court for centuries—long before any of us held these positions.” There was a reverence in her tone, as if recognizing that an era was ending.

Rhysand, standing beside her, tapped a folded piece of parchment against his palm. “Madja sent a message this morning,” he said, his voice level. “She wanted us to know that her replacement has arrived in Velaris.”

Cassian crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Already here?” he repeated, frowning slightly. He didn’t sound angry, just unsettled by the rapidity of this change. It wasn’t that any of them doubted Madja’s judgment; rather, it was strange to think of someone else stepping into her role so swiftly.

Feyre shifted her weight, curiosity and concern mingling in her eyes. “Do we have a name? Any details?” She glanced first at Rhysand, then at Azriel, as if seeking confirmation that all would be well.

Rhysand’s violet gaze dipped to the parchment. He unfolded it and scanned the lines. “Her name is Y/N,” he said. “She left centuries ago to travel the courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders, expanding her healing knowledge. Madja describes her as someone she raised after the first war with Hybern—an orphan of that conflict. She took the girl under her wing, trained her, and now says she’s more skilled than ever.”

Azriel remained silent, his shadows stirring subtly at his shoulders. If Madja trusted this Y/N to succeed her, to guide the healers of the Night Court, then that spoke volumes. He could sense the unease mingled with acceptance in the room. Changes like this did not come often, but when they did, they tended to carry immense significance.

Cassian exhaled, one hand lifting to rub at his neck. “If Madja believes in her, we should give her a chance. Still, it’s hard to imagine anyone filling Madja’s shoes.”

Azriel caught Rhysand’s faint smile, a subtle tilt of the High Lord’s lips. “We’ll arrange a meeting today,” Rhysand said, setting the note aside. “We need her expertise, especially if the rumors we’ve been hearing prove true. If a greater conflict is brewing, we’ll require a healer who can lead effectively and adapt quickly. Madja wouldn’t hand us just anyone.”

Feyre nodded, the tension in her posture easing slightly. “Then we should welcome her properly,” she said softly. Azriel noted the determination in her eyes—Feyre had always been good at making newcomers feel at ease.

Cassian grunted in agreement, leaning back as if resigned. “Fine. Let’s meet her.” He didn’t sound hostile, simply accepting that times were changing again, as they so often did.

Azriel finally moved from his spot near the window, stepping closer to the table. Outside, the snow-dusted city remained unaware of their deliberations. This Y/N must be formidable, if Madja thought her worthy of such a mantle. He exchanged a glance with Rhysand, who gave a faint nod, understanding passing silently between them.

They would meet her soon, and then they would know if Madja’s faith was well-placed. Azriel let the thought settle in his mind like a quiet promise: a new ally, a new guardian of life and health amidst all the uncertainties of a changing world.

Later that afternoon, standing in one of the House of Wind’s halls, Azriel and the others awaited the arrival of Madja and her chosen successor. The space was quiet, warmed by braziers that chased away the winter chill lingering outside. Feyre stood to Rhysand’s right, her posture poised and welcoming. Cassian hovered nearby, arms crossed but relaxed, appearing more curious than wary now. Azriel took his place slightly behind Rhysand, shadows flickering softly around his shoulders, keen eyes focused on the grand doors.

He heard them before he saw them—the soft padding of footsteps, the gentle murmur of Madja’s voice as she guided her protégé. Azriel noted a subtle change in his companions: Rhysand and Feyre straightened a fraction, their gazes sharpening, while Cassian let out a quiet breath. The old healer’s arrival was expected, but who accompanied her was still an unknown that drew all their attention.

The door opened smoothly, revealing Madja first. She moved at a calm pace, the lines of age and wisdom etched into her face. At her side was a taller figure Azriel instantly recognized. He stiffened, remembering the morning’s brief collision. He’d caught only a glimpse of her then—enough to register her beauty, but not the details. Now, with the bright lamplight and open space, he could take in every nuance.

Y/N was indeed a High Fae, Azriel guessed, based on the gentle taper of her ears and the timeless look in her eyes. She stood tall, her posture neither arrogant nor meek, just quietly assured. Long hair, light brown and lustrous, fell behind her back, with small curls at the ends that softened the lines of her figure. She’d tucked the strands behind her ears, revealing a face that mixed elegance with warmth. Her eyes were a deep, rich blue—Azriel thought of midnight skies reflected on calm waters—steady and clear as she surveyed the room.

A soft smile curved her lips, genuine rather than practiced. He recalled how quickly she’d left him this morning, offering only a brief apology. Now, seeing her fully, he understood why his memory had clung to that brief encounter. Hers was a beauty that felt natural, not forced—grace in the set of her shoulders, kindness in the soft curve of her mouth.

Madja stepped forward, inclining her head to Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, and Azriel. Her companion followed, a respectful dip of her chin acknowledging their status. Azriel watched as Y/N’s gaze flicked over each of them—first Rhys and Feyre, her eyes brightening with recognition of their roles, then Cassian, and finally coming to rest on him. For a heartbeat, their eyes met, and he could have sworn he saw a hint of amusement there, as if she, too, recalled that small mishap by the bakery.

He did not look away. He simply acknowledged her presence with a subtle nod, shadows stilling around him, curious and contemplative.

Madja offered a small smile of encouragement to Y/N as Rhysand and Feyre stepped forward. The High Lord’s posture was relaxed yet attentive, violet eyes reflecting quiet curiosity, while Feyre’s calm warmth radiated outward, creating a welcoming atmosphere. Cassian, still a step behind, nodded in greeting, arms loosely at his sides now. Azriel watched it all unfold, shadows settling into a content hush around him.

Rhysand’s voice was smooth and cordial as he broke the silence. “Madja, thank you for coming. We received your message,” he said, inclining his head to the old healer. “And this must be Y/N, your chosen successor?”

Madja nodded, gently touching Y/N’s elbow in a familiar, reassuring gesture. “Indeed. As I explained, Y/N has returned from her travels—more skilled and knowledgeable than ever. I believe she will serve the Night Court well, especially with what may lie ahead.”

Feyre’s gaze shifted to Y/N, her expression warm. “Welcome home,” she offered simply, the sincerity in her tone unmistakable. “We’ve heard much about you—and I’m sure we’ll have plenty of questions.”

Y/N’s smile deepened, the tension of meeting these influential figures easing a fraction. “It’s an honor to be here,” she replied, voice carrying a steady calm. “I’m grateful Madja trusted me enough to call me back. I hope to prove worthy of that trust.”

Cassian snorted lightly, not unkindly. “If Madja trusts you, that’s already a high recommendation. The rest, I think, will fall into place soon enough.”

Madja tilted her head in gentle agreement. “We will not rush this transition,” the older healer said, her tone practical and kind. “I’m not disappearing tomorrow. For the coming weeks—perhaps months—Y/N and I will work side by side. She will get to know our healers, understand their rhythms, and learn the intricacies of how our wards are organized. By the time I step back fully, she will have found her footing and earned the confidence of every healer under this roof.”

Azriel quietly observed Y/N’s reaction to these words. There was no flash of panic, no tension coiling in her shoulders. Instead, just a measured acceptance, as though she’d been preparing for this for a long time.

Y/N nodded, turning her gaze to Madja briefly, then to Rhysand and Feyre. “I appreciate this gradual approach. It will give me a chance to reacquaint myself with the Night Court’s traditions. I’ve learned much elsewhere, but integrating it here—especially if a war is on the horizon—requires care.”

Her mention of looming conflict stirred something in the air. Azriel noticed how Rhysand’s jaw tightened just so. Feyre’s eyes flickered with a hint of steel beneath their kindness. Cassian’s grin faded slightly, replaced by a sober light in his hazel eyes.

Rhysand offered Y/N a small, approving nod. “Caution is wise. We will likely rely on your skills, your counsel, and your ability to coordinate healers in the field if trouble does come knocking.”

Feyre chimed in softly, “We’ve seen how vital good healers are, not only for soldiers but for civilians, for stabilizing morale. Your presence isn’t just medical; it’s strategic.”

Y/N’s lashes lowered briefly, acknowledging the weight of these words. “I understand,” she said, a calmness threading through her voice. “Healing is more than closing wounds—it’s about maintaining hope, ensuring that fear doesn’t consume everyone. I’ll do my best to uphold that.”

Madja’s smile warmed the room. “You see why I chose her,” she said quietly, pride evident in every syllable.

Azriel inclined his head at Y/N, a quiet gesture of respect. She seemed to notice, meeting his gaze for a fraction before turning back to Rhysand and Feyre. He thought back to their brief encounter that morning—the quick collision, the apology, her hasty departure. Already that memory seemed distant, replaced by the impression of a calm, capable presence who might very well become an anchor in the uncertain times ahead.

“Well,” Rhysand said, after a moment, “I suppose all that remains is to officially welcome you into this role. Y/N, you have our full support. In the coming days, we can introduce you to the healers, and you can start making your own assessments.” He paused, a faint tilt to his smile. “And, of course, do not hesitate to call on any of us if you need assistance.”

Cassian smirked softly. “Just don’t ask me to bandage anyone’s wounds—I’m all thumbs with that,” he teased, the tension in the room easing into something lighter.

Feyre rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Ignore him. He’s quite good at following orders when it counts.”

Y/N let out a gentle laugh, and even Azriel’s lips curved slightly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting but enough to notice. The wind seemed to ease outside the windows, the hush of snow falling quietly on Velaris’s spires. Within the House of Wind’s halls, the new healer had been welcomed, the path of her mentorship and eventual succession laid out clearly.

Madja’s eyes shone with satisfaction. “Then it’s settled. We’ll begin tomorrow morning. Y/N, I’ll show you around the wards, let you meet a few of the lead healers.” She glanced at Rhysand and Feyre, and then at Cassian and Azriel. “The rest will follow naturally.”

Azriel considered the moment: transitions were often fraught with uncertainty, but here, in the presence of trust and openness, they felt manageable. He said nothing more, content to stand by and watch as a new cornerstone of the Night Court’s strength stepped quietly into place.

----

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[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 1

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

notes; Yo everyone, I'm back with another fanfiction featuring our lovely Shadow Singer. Hope you all like it <3 Just a small reminder: English isn’t my first language, so I’ve tried my best. Enjoy the first chapter!

Part 2

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The dusk sky draped the House of Wind in soft shades of lavender and rose, its tall windows open to the gentle, jasmine-scented breeze of Velaris below. Rhysand’s office, spacious but not ostentatious, offered a panoramic view of the starlit city, where lanterns were beginning to glow and laughter drifted upward like a distant, cheerful hum. The high shelves, carved of dark wood, were lined with neat rows of books and rolled charts, their parchment edges softened by centuries of use. A low-burning lamp cast warm light over a desk scattered with papers, quills, and a half-filled inkpot.

Madja stood near the window with Rhys, both of them watching as wings and shadows moved quietly through the city’s streets below. The old healer’s posture was poised despite her age; her long, silver-streaked hair was bound in a simple braid. Time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth—soft marks of the centuries she’d spent mending flesh and bone, soothing pain, and whispering encouragement into the darkest hours of countless lives.

Rhysand kept his gaze on the vista beyond the glass, arms folded casually, the glow of faelight catching in his violet eyes. He knew Madja had come here for something particular. She wasn’t one to linger unnecessarily, nor did she shy from speaking her mind. The hush in the room was comfortable, respectful of the weight of the moment.

Madja cleared her throat softly, her voice as calm and steady as it had been through all the emergencies and late-night visits to the healing rooms. “Rhysand,” she began, her tone gentle yet determined, “I need to speak with you about a matter of some importance to me.”

Rhys turned his head slightly, giving her his full attention. “Of course,” he said, voice low and reassuring. “What’s on your mind?”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, as though considering each word carefully. “I’ve served this court for a very long time. Longer than many remember—tending to soldiers, midwives, children, courtiers, High Lords and Ladies alike.” Her gaze drifted toward the city lights, as if recalling memories that danced among those glowing streets. “It’s been my honor and my purpose.”

Rhysand inclined his head, respect and gratitude shining in his eyes. “We owe you more than can ever be repaid, Madja. Your skill, your kindness... You’ve saved so many of us in ways we cannot count.”

She offered a small, affectionate smile. “I know my role has mattered. But Rhys,” she paused, and the name alone carried a lifetime of familiarity that few could claim with him, “I find that my hands are not as steady as they once were. My eyes grow weary by candlelight. My back aches after hours bent over the injured.”

A slight breeze stirred the curtains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers drifted in, a gentle reminder of how time moved ever forward. Rhysand said nothing yet, allowing her the space to say what she must.

Madja continued softly, “I believe it’s time for me to step back. To retire from my duties as the court’s primary healer.” She turned to face him fully, shoulders squared, but her gaze kind and open. “I’ve trained many capable healers over the years. The work will continue. The Night Court does not lack for talent or compassion.”

Rhysand exhaled quietly, pressing his lips into a thoughtful line. The notion of Madja not being there—her swift and sure presence absent from their healing wards—seemed strange. She had always been a constant, a quiet pillar in the court’s foundation. But he would not deny her what she deserved.

“Are you certain?” he asked gently, voice low enough that it felt like they were confiding secrets rather than discussing court affairs. “If you wish fewer hours, or only to train the younger healers, we can arrange that.”

Madja shook her head, a decisive yet kind gesture. “No, Rhys. I’ve thought this through. I’m old, my friend. Old, even by our standards.” A hint of dry humor touched her tone. “My future lies in rest, in tending a garden rather than wounded flesh. I wish to spend whatever years remain in quiet peace, perhaps in a small cottage overlooking a meadow or stream.”

In the quiet that followed, Rhysand reached out to gently clasp her hand, the gesture sincere. “We’ll ensure you have all you need. A place of comfort, security—whatever you desire. And know that you will always be welcome in these halls, never forgotten.”

Madja squeezed his hand, gratitude and affection shining in her eyes. “I expected nothing less. You have all grown into fine leaders, fine friends. It eases my heart to know I leave the court in good hands.”

Rhysand released Madja’s hand gently, taking in her decision with thoughtful acceptance. The room felt quieter, a hush that allowed them both to measure the weight of this change. He crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk, considering how best to carry out her retirement. There would need to be someone to fill her role—someone skilled, empathetic, and unshakably capable of handling whatever the Night Court might face.

“Have you thought about who might take your place?” Rhys asked softly, meeting her steady gaze. “I can’t imagine you leaving us without a successor in mind.”

A hint of pride lit Madja’s eyes, a spark of confidence in the future she was preparing to leave behind. “Of course I have. You know me better than that, Rhys. I would never abandon my post without ensuring someone could step into it seamlessly.”

Rhys inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he had expected nothing less. “And who have you chosen?”

Madja’s grip on the windowsill tightened slightly, not in apprehension, but in anticipation of sharing something long-cherished. “I have someone perfect in mind. A child of the Night Court—an orphan of the first war against Hybern, in fact. I took her under my wing when she was very young, taught her the basics of healing and care.”

Rhysand’s brows rose, curiosity piqued. He could not recall all the children Madja had trained personally, centuries and centuries blending faces and names into a kind tapestry of service. “Who might this be?”

“Y/N,” Madja said, voice warm with fondness. “You may remember her. She was quiet but determined, always studying late into the night, always asking how to ease pain more efficiently or mend a broken bone with fewer scars. A true healer’s heart.” She paused, letting the memory breathe life into the silence. “A few centuries ago, she left the Night Court to travel among the other courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders—visiting unknown continents, I believe. All to deepen her knowledge and hone her healing skills.”

Rhysand searched his memories, vague images surfacing: a young, focused individual hovering near Madja’s side, attentive as a student could be. He had been too busy with rebuilding and healing wounds on a much larger scale then, but he remembered the name faintly, the glimpses of a dedicated figure slipping through the halls.

Madja continued, “I reached out to her a few months ago, requested her return. I told her of my plans, that I would soon step down and that I wanted her to take my place. She agreed. She should be arriving any day now, if my calculations are correct.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips together. “So Y/N will take on your mantle,” he said quietly, more to himself than Madja. “If you trust her, then I will welcome her home with open arms. I know the court will benefit from such devotion and training.”

Madja’s smile deepened, an affectionate and proud curve of her lips. “She will do well, Rhys. She’s grown into a capable healer—perhaps even more skilled than I. She brings with her new techniques and knowledge from lands we can barely imagine. It is only fitting that someone so dedicated should stand where I once stood.”

Outside, the city’s laughter and murmurs drifted into the room. Rhysand and Madja stood in quiet agreement. As one chapter closed gently, another prepared to open. The Night Court, always at the crossroads of past and future, would soon meet the one who would continue its legacy of healing and mercy.

————

The winter air carried a quiet hush as you approached the gates of Velaris. The land slumbered under a light blanket of snow, crystals glittering like tiny fallen stars beneath the moonlight. It had been centuries since you’d last seen this city, and now each lantern-lit arch, each faint silhouette of distant rooftops, stirred memories long tucked away. The cold breeze nipped at your cheeks, but you were well-prepared: a heavy, fur-lined cape draped over your shoulders, its generous folds keeping out the chill. Beneath it, your traveling garb—leather boots crusted with frost, worn gloves, and trousers meant for long rides—hinted at the countless roads you had trodden in your self-imposed exile.

Your horse’s breath plumed in the crisp air, its dark coat standing out starkly against the snowy ground. Every hoof-fall was muffled by that thin layer of powder, giving the night an even gentler hush. Above you, the eagle circled again, a lone sentinel under a sky brushed with starlight and the faint glow of a crescent moon. It cried softly, its voice echoing in the stillness, as if announcing your return.

Velaris—once the place of your youth, where you learned the first steps of healing under Madja’s patient eye—felt both familiar and strange. You had wandered distant courts, continents with different climates and creatures, honing your craft and expanding your knowledge. Yet here, now, the curve of a familiar street corner, the warm glow of lamplight on old stone, tugged at your heart. It was nostalgia mingled with quiet apprehension, the weight of centuries settling gently on your shoulders. Back then, you had left as a young apprentice, uncertain and hungry for wisdom. Tonight, you returned as a seasoned healer, with secrets and skills gleaned from every corner of Prythian and beyond.

At the gate, a couple of sentries wrapped in thick cloaks watched your approach. The lanterns beside them radiated a comforting warmth against the frosty night. They noted your horse’s slow pace, your cape embroidered subtly with practical patterns, the saddlebags heavy with bandages, tonics, and texts. They glanced upward at the eagle, curious, but found no threat in this silent dance of traveler and guardian.

One guard stepped forward, voice muted yet carried easily through the still air. “Late traveler,” he said, respectful but cautious, “state your name and purpose.”

You drew the reins gently, bringing the horse to a stop, your dark mount stamping once on the snowy ground. A faint smile touched your lips as you pushed back your hood, exposing features sharpened by experience, softened by understanding. Even now, the cold flushed your cheeks slightly, and a strand of white hair slipped free, catching the moonlight.

“I am Y/N,” you said, your voice steady and warm, echoing with an old familiarity. “A healer returning to the Night Court. I believe I am expected.”

The guards exchanged a glance—this name carried weight, a quiet rumor of a healer summoned home by Madja herself. They stepped aside, allowing you entry, no further questions needed. Beyond them lay Velaris, blanketed softly in winter’s hush. You remembered it bustling with life in greener times, but even now, beneath the snow and distant laughter, you felt the city’s heart welcoming you home.

With a gentle press of your heel, you urged your horse onward. The eagle’s shadow passed over the gate, and then it soared above the rooftops, perhaps to find its own perch. A familiar scent drifted through the crisp night air—something like cinnamon and distant hearth fires. You took it in, remembering quiet evenings of study and healing in warm, lamplit rooms.

You had left as a student, eager and uncertain. You returned a master of your craft, ready to shoulder the responsibilities your old mentor had chosen for you. The quiet crunch of hooves in snow was the only sound as you entered Velaris, a place you had not seen in a hundred lifetimes, yet still knew in your bones.

As soon as you passed through the gates, you swung your leg over the horse’s side and dismounted with a practiced ease. The animal, sensing your familiarity, snorted softly, its breath making small clouds in the winter air. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you took the saddle in hand, leading your horse forward at a leisurely pace. A few onlookers spared curious glances—travelers weren’t uncommon in Velaris, but your arrival at this late hour and in these quiet conditions drew subdued interest.

You let your gaze drift, taking in the sights around you. Velaris had always been a jewel among cities, but under the moon and dusting of snow, it gleamed with a serene kind of splendor. Buildings of carved stone and elegant wood bore soft, golden lights that spilled onto cobblestone streets. The scent of fresh bread and distant hearth fires mingled with the crispness of winter. You noted subtle changes—new sculptures in gardens, fresh murals adorning certain walls, the hum of gentle magic woven into everyday corners. It had grown even lovelier with time.

You had heard the tales, even far away on foreign shores: the once-hidden city revealed to the world, the ferocious attack it had endured, and the grand victory that followed. Rumors traveled quickly among healers and traders, and from what you gathered, Velaris had suffered but risen stronger, its spirit unbroken. The idea that your old home, once so secretive, had been thrust onto the world stage still left an odd taste in your mouth. You’d never imagined such an outcome all those centuries ago.

And Rhysand—when you’d left, he’d only just ascended as High Lord after his father’s passing. You remembered him as calm, shrewd, haunted by new responsibilities thrust upon him too young. Now, you’d learned that he had reigned through wars and alliances, reshaping the Night Court into something more open, more formidable. Most astonishing of all was the whisper that a High Lady stood beside him, equal in power and rank. Such a thing had been unthinkable in the old days, when tradition and suspicion ruled the courts.

You ran a hand along the horse’s neck, both reassuring it and steadying yourself. Time had flowed like a great river, carving new courses in this land you once knew. The Night Court wasn’t just shadows and silence anymore—if anything, it hummed with a brighter, more inclusive magic.

A small smile tugged at your lips, though touched by nostalgia. You wondered if you would still recognize old acquaintances, if any remained. Madja, of course, you would know. She was the reason you had returned. But what about the healers who trained alongside you, or the courtiers who once sought your help for quiet fevers and twisted ankles?

Your breath fogged in the cold as you carried your saddle and led the horse onward into the velvety night of Velaris. In that soft hush, surrounded by lamplight and murmuring streets, you acknowledged what had been and what now was. A thousand changes had come to pass while you walked distant roads, yet here you were again—a piece of the past stepping into the present, ready to adapt and serve once more.

With a gentle tug on the reins, you guided your horse through Velaris’ winding streets until you reached a small inn known for accommodating travelers with mounts. The sign outside bore simple script and a painted image of a horse’s head, letting you know this was a place that catered to riders who needed both rest and a safe spot for their companions. A narrow stable area hugged one side of the building, the wooden stalls visible through an open arch, and the soft whicker of other horses drifted out into the cold night.

You tied your horse securely at a hitching post near the stable entrance, giving it a few soft strokes along its neck and murmuring quiet words of reassurance. The inn’s lights glowed warmly through its windows, promising respite from the chill outside. Carrying only what you needed for the night—your saddle and a small bag slung over your shoulder—you stepped up onto the worn threshold.

Inside, the inn’s atmosphere enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The interior was modest yet inviting, with low ceilings supported by dark wooden beams that lent the space a cozy, intimate feel. A large hearth crackled at one end, its firelight dancing across the polished floorboards and simple, sturdy tables. The scent of mulled wine and hearty stew drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of old wood and woolen fabrics. A few patrons sat scattered around, some nursing tankards, others finishing quiet meals, their murmured conversations melding into a pleasant hum.

Lamps hung at intervals along the walls, their warm glow illuminating the simple artwork—landscapes of rolling hills and starry skies, scenes that might be familiar to travelers who came and went. A rack near the door held thick cloaks and traveling staffs, and straw mats by the hearth encouraged weary wanderers to warm their feet by the flames.

Approaching the small counter near the fire, you found a stout figure in an apron waiting, brows lifting slightly at your approach. The innkeeper—a middle-aged fae with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture—took in your travel-worn attire and the faint smell of stable hay clinging to your clothes without judgment.

“I need a room for the night,” you said, voice low but clear. You placed a few coins on the counter, enough to cover lodging and a decent meal. “And a safe place for my horse,” you added, gesturing out the door with a tilt of your head.

The innkeeper nodded, pocketing the coins and scribbling a note in a ledger. “You’ve chosen the right place, traveler. We’ve a stable hand on duty tonight, and plenty of hay and water for your mount. I’ll have your belongings sent up to your room—top of the stairs, second door on the right. Will you be needing dinner?”

The gentle crackle of the hearth made you realize how hungry you were. “Yes, please. Something hot.” The tension of your long journey began to ease as you spoke. Soon, you would have a warm meal and a quiet room, a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the days to come in Velaris.

The innkeeper nodded again. “We’ll have stew and bread ready for you in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

You thanked them quietly and made your way toward a table near the fire. Settling down, you let the warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the snow continued to fall lightly, dusting the night-silenced streets. Inside, the inn’s modest comfort wrapped around you, a gentle reminder that, for all the changes beyond these walls, solace could still be found in simple things: a crackling fire, a hot meal, and a secure place to rest.

You thanked the inn’s attendant who brought your things upstairs—your saddle and bag neatly placed in one corner, your personal items laid out on a small bench. As soon as the door closed, you set about making yourself comfortable. The tiny room was modest but cozy: a single bed with a thick quilt, a wooden chest for your belongings, and a narrow door that led to a private washroom. The lamp on the bedside table glowed softly, illuminating rough-hewn beams overhead and the simple woven rug underfoot.

The bath you drew was warm and fragrant, a rare luxury after so many months on the road. You sighed as the hot water embraced your tired muscles, steam rising to blur the edges of the lamplight. Every ache and tension slipped away, replaced by a gentle calm. You lingered there longer than you intended, letting the warmth and quiet stillness soothe the raw edges of your journey.

Eventually, you stepped out, drying off with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Pulling on more comfortable clothes—soft trousers, a loose tunic, and thick socks—you immediately felt lighter, more at ease. Settling into the single chair at the small desk, you opened your sketchbook. The pages bore neat sketches of rare herbs, diagrams of organs and nerve clusters, annotations in your own careful handwriting describing remedies learned in distant courts. You added a few more notes now, clarifying a technique you’d picked up in the Winter Court for combating frostbite injuries—how their healers used crushed frost lily petals to reduce swelling.

You’d barely finished jotting down a final sentence when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Crossing the tiny space in a few strides, you opened it to find the innkeeper’s assistant holding a tray. The rich aroma of stew—savory and warm—wafted into your room. You offered a quiet thanks, voice hushed as if not to disturb the hush of the night. The assistant nodded politely and retreated, footsteps receding down the hallway.

Placing the tray on a small round table by the window, you pulled up the chair. The stew steamed before you—thick and hearty, with chunks of root vegetables, tender meat, and herbs that reminded you of home. Next to it was a small loaf of crusty bread and a pat of butter, already soft enough to spread easily.

As you dipped your spoon and brought the first mouthful to your lips, the flavors bloomed across your tongue—rich, comforting, and exactly what you needed. Your gaze drifted past the rim of the bowl to the window. Beyond the glass, the Sidra River shimmered softly under starlight. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the night, catching in the glow of distant lanterns. Across the water, the Rainbow—Velaris’s famed artistic district—was lit with gentle hues, colors blending seamlessly into the darkness.

The scene was a masterpiece of tranquility: the star-flecked sky, the quiet city, the snow falling softly as if trying not to wake the world. You savored another spoonful of stew and leaned back, allowing the moment to settle around you. Here you were, in a city you’d left centuries ago, come home to take up a mantle left by your old mentor. So much had changed and yet this moment—warm meal, quiet window, gentle snow—reminded you why you returned. Comfort, safety, purpose, and memory woven together in a tapestry of starlit peace.

You finished the last of your meal, wiped the bowl clean with a piece of bread, and gently pushed the tray aside. The steady warmth of the stew had settled in your stomach, making your limbs feel pleasantly heavy. Outside, the snow continued its quiet descent, dusting the rooftops and the narrow streets with sparkling powder. The lamplight in your room seemed softer now, the hush of the winter night wrapping around you like a familiar old cloak.

Rising from the small chair, you crossed the room and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table. Only moonlight and the reflection from the snow-blanketed city remained, sending faint silver shapes dancing along the floorboards. You slipped beneath the quilt, the scent of wool and lavender drifting from the linens. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, a gentle cradle after so many hard beds and forest floors.

Your thoughts drifted naturally to the meeting you’d have the next day. Madja’s voice echoed faintly in your memory—her gentle, steady guidance so many years ago. Tomorrow, you would see her again, no longer as a wide-eyed apprentice, but as a seasoned healer returning to take up her mantle. The idea hummed softly through your mind, a mixture of anticipation and a quiet, nervous pride.

The distant murmur of Velaris lulled you: the soft creak of settling beams, the whisper of the Sidra’s current, the faint call of a night bird. Within moments, the fatigue of long travel and the comfort of a true bed smoothed away the edges of wakefulness. Your eyelids grew heavy and closed, shutting out the gentle glow of stars and snow.

Wrapped in warmth and memory, you drifted into sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would begin a new chapter—one you were finally ready to embrace.

---

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[fr0stf4ll]

Forge of Starlight

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the heart of Velaris, a skilled blacksmith's quiet life is turned upside down when unexpected bonds begin to form with the enigmatic Spymaster of the Night Court. As she navigates the challenges of her craft and the complexities of newfound relationships, she discovers that love and loyalty may be the strongest forces of all in a world where darkness often lingers just beyond the light.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

Part 16

Epilogue

[fr0stf4ll]

A proper girls’ night

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; You and Azriel have been mates for some time now, and between managing the males, training, missions, raising a child, and fulfilling duties as High Lady, you haven’t had the chance to enjoy a proper girls' night with your closest friends. But tonight is supposed to be all about you and the girls—or is it? ;)

word count ; 7.2k

warning; SMUT ;p, alcohol, drunk sex

notes; Yoo everyone, here I am again for a one shot. I'm not the best for smut so I hope that you will enjoy it. I got the idea of this story after a small party with some of my best friends so I hope that you will like it ! With love <3333

---

I was lounging on my plush couch, admiring the final touches I’d added to make this apartment truly feel like home. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the Sidra, and soft, warm lights created a comforting ambiance. This place was everything I’d hoped for—a fresh start, a new chapter.

I had just finished arranging the last decorative pillow when a knock echoed through the apartment. I grinned, already knowing who it was.

“Come in!” I called out.

The door swung open to reveal Feyre, Nesta, and Mor. Feyre carried not just one, but two bottles of wine, Nesta had a stack of board games tucked under her arm, and Mor, of course, arrived with an enormous grin and—was that three bottles of spirits?

“Are we throwing a party, or did I miss something?” I laughed, taking in the sheer amount of alcohol they had brought with them.

Mor dropped the bottles on the counter with a flourish. “What? It’s not every day we christen a new apartment, Y/N! We needed to make sure we had enough… well, more than enough.”

Nesta smirked, adding, “You know how things go with us. We start with wine, then move on to something stronger. And just in case, I thought we’d better bring a little extra.”

“A little extra?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow as I counted the bottles. “This looks like enough to keep us going for a week.”

Feyre chuckled, setting the wine down. “Consider it insurance. We’re not leaving until we’ve had a proper girls’ night.”

Mor waved a hand dismissively. “No boys, no responsibilities, and a whole lot of alcohol. That’s what tonight is about. We’re here to have fun, relax, and forget about everything else.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as I started pulling out glasses. “Well, if that’s the case, then let’s get started.”

The girls settled in, each finding a spot on the couch or one of the oversized chairs. Mor was already opening one of the wine bottles, filling up our glasses generously.

“We’ve spent too many nights at Rita’s,” Nesta said, her tone teasing but sincere. “It’s nice to just relax here for a change.”

Feyre nodded in agreement, raising her glass. “Especially with the company. I could get used to this.”

Mor clinked her glass against Feyre’s. “Here’s to our host, for letting us invade her beautiful new home. And for not skimping on the drinks.”

“I didn’t realize I had a choice,” I teased, holding up my glass before taking a sip. The wine was rich and full-bodied, the perfect start to what promised to be a wild night.

“Tonight is all about us,” Mor declared, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned back in her seat. “No boys, no distractions, just us girls and more alcohol than we know what to do with.”

“Agreed,” Nesta said, holding up one of the board games. “Let’s start with something easy. Then we can see where the night takes us.”

The night was still young, and the four of us had already settled comfortably into my new apartment. The alcohol was flowing freely—perhaps a bit too freely—and the conversation had naturally turned to gossip. It was inevitable when we got together, especially after a few glasses of wine.

We were sprawled out on the couch and chairs, each of us with a drink in hand. The warmth from the alcohol had already loosened our tongues, and the atmosphere was buzzing with the excitement of shared secrets.

Mor, never one to hold back, was the first to dive in. “Alright, ladies, I’ve got some tea. And I’m not talking about that herbal nonsense.” She leaned in, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Did you hear about the sparring match Cassian had the other day with Devlon?”

That got everyone’s attention. “No,” Nesta said, her eyes narrowing. “What happened?”

Mor grinned, clearly enjoying the anticipation. “So, apparently, Devlon thought it would be a good idea to challenge Cassian in front of all the Illyrians—like, really make a show of it. Cassian, being Cassian, accepted, but he didn’t just beat him. He absolutely humiliated him. We’re talking flat on his back, wings pinned, can’t even move. And to top it all off, Cassian just stood up, dusted himself off, and said, ‘Next time, try harder.’”

Nesta snorted, trying to hide her amusement. “Serves him right. Devlon’s been asking for it.”

Feyre nodded, her eyes wide with delight. “I wish I could have seen that.”

“Oh, but it gets better,” Mor continued, her grin widening. “Devlon’s been walking around the camp like a wounded animal ever since. The other Illyrians are having a field day with it. They’ve even started calling him ‘the Fallen Commander’ behind his back.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Cassian really knows how to make an impression.”

“Not as much of an impression as Rhys made when he was caught singing in the bath the other day,” Mor added, her tone dripping with amusement.

Feyre blinked, caught off guard. “Wait, what?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mor said, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “I happened to be passing by when I heard it. He was belting out some old Prythian ballad—badly, might I add—and I swear, for a second, I thought a cat was dying.”

Nesta burst out laughing. “Please tell me you have some sort of recording.”

“I wish!” Mor exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “But trust me, the image is seared into my memory forever. The High Lord of the Night Court, all serious and stoic by day, and an absolute disaster in the bathroom.”

Feyre groaned, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips. “I’m never letting him live that down.”

“And then there’s Azriel,” Mor said, shifting her attention to me with a wicked grin. “I’m surprised he hasn’t broken anything with those late-night visits to your place.”

I blushed instantly, caught off guard. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” Mor teased, her eyes glinting with amusement. “We all know that shadowy lover of yours can’t keep his hands off you. I mean, with the way you’ve been glowing lately, it’s not hard to figure out why.”

“Azriel doesn’t talk much,” Nesta added, smirking, “but I bet he more than makes up for it in other areas.”

Feyre was giggling, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Spill, Y/N! We need to know—does he really keep the shadows around, or does he prefer a more hands-on approach?”

My face was burning by now, but the alcohol had loosened my tongue enough that I couldn’t help but join in. “Let’s just say, the shadows aren’t the only thing that’s always… active.”

That sent Mor into peals of laughter, nearly spilling her drink as she doubled over. “Oh, I knew it! Azriel’s got that dark, broody exterior, but underneath… he’s a beast, isn’t he?”

I could only laugh in response, covering my face with my hands. “I’m not saying anything else!”

“Come on,” Nesta urged, leaning in. “We won’t tell a soul. Just a little more.”

I peeked out from behind my hands, giving them a sly grin. “Let’s just say, he’s very… thorough.”

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Mor cheered, holding her glass up for a toast. “To thorough lovers and late-night visits that leave you glowing!”

We all clinked our glasses together, the laughter bubbling up again. The night was filled with stories that grew more outrageous with each passing drink. Feyre even confessed to sneaking up on Rhys one morning with a bucket of cold water, just to get back at him for something he’d done weeks earlier.

“I’ll never forget the look on his face,” she giggled, eyes bright with mischief. “He didn’t speak to me for half the day—until he figured out how to get me back.”

“Did he manage to one-up you?” I asked, curious.

“Oh, he tried,” Feyre replied, a smirk playing on her lips. “But he should have known better than to start a prank war with me. I’m still two steps ahead.”

“You two are impossible,” Mor said, shaking her head but unable to hide her amusement. “But what about Cassian? Does he know about all of this?”

“Cassian,” Nesta said, still grinning, “is too busy preening in front of the mirror these days. He’s been obsessed with perfecting his ‘battle-ready’ look. You wouldn’t believe how much time he spends adjusting his armor to make sure it’s just the right amount of ‘ruggedly handsome.’”

Feyre rolled her eyes, but there was a fondness in her voice. “Typical. He’s worse than a peacock.”

“Speaking of peacocks,” Mor added, leaning in again, “I heard that Tarquin’s been parading around the Summer Court with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Apparently, he thinks it makes him look ‘mysterious and approachable.’”

Feyre snorted. “More like ridiculous.”

As the conversation began to wind down, Mor suddenly jumped to her feet, a wild look in her eyes. “Alright, ladies,” she declared, “enough sitting around. It’s time to take this party up a notch.”

The night had taken a turn, a wild, exhilarating turn. What started as a simple girls' night had quickly evolved into something far more chaotic and, quite frankly, downright ridiculous. The ridiculous part might have had something to do with the copious amounts of alcohol, but that was beside the point.

It all began after the third bottle of wine was emptied, and Mor, in her infinite wisdom, declared that the night was far too young to end with just drinking and talking. The suggestion to turn the apartment into our very own private club was made, and, well, it didn’t take much convincing.

I don’t know where Mor had pulled it from—whether it was some hidden magic or just her unrelenting spirit—but somehow, my apartment transformed. Soft lights gave way to pulsating club lights, shifting in colors that matched the beat of the music that now blasted through the room. The furniture was pushed aside, making space for what had effectively become a dance floor.

“I didn’t even know you had this in you,” Feyre shouted over the music, her eyes wide with delight as she took in the scene.

“Neither did I!” I shouted back, laughing as I twirled around in the flashing lights. The wine had long since turned my limbs to jelly, and I felt lighter, freer than I had in a long time.

Nesta, who had been initially reluctant, was now completely immersed, her usually stoic expression replaced with a flushed grin as she sipped from yet another drink. “I’m not even sure what’s happening anymore,” she admitted, before bursting into laughter at the absurdity of it all.

Mor, of course, was in her element. She had Feyre by the hand, pulling her onto the makeshift dance floor. “Come on, Feyre! Show us those moves!”

Feyre, not one to back down from a challenge, joined in with gusto, the two of them dancing wildly, their laughter filling the room. It was infectious, and soon, we were all moving to the beat, lost in the moment.

The alcohol flowed freely, and it wasn’t long before we were all well beyond tipsy. Nesta, usually the most reserved of us, was now draped over the couch, clutching her drink and singing along to the music—though the words were more slurred than sung. Mor had taken it upon herself to DJ, switching between tracks with the enthusiasm of someone who was enjoying every second of the chaos she had created.

As for me, I was somewhere in the middle of it all, dancing with Feyre and Mor one minute, then flopping down next to Nesta the next, my head spinning in the best possible way.

“This was the best idea ever,” I declared, holding up my drink in a toast to… well, everything. The lights, the music, the ridiculousness of it all.

“I told you!” Mor shot back, barely managing to avoid spilling her drink as she twirled around. “This is what girls’ night is all about!”

Feyre, who had given up on dancing in favor of lounging on the couch with Nesta, nodded vigorously. “We should do this every week.”

“Yes!” Nesta agreed, raising her glass—though she missed her mouth when she tried to take a sip, spilling a bit of her drink on herself. She didn’t seem to mind, though. “Every week!”

We all dissolved into laughter, the kind that made your stomach ache and tears stream down your face. It was a night of pure, unfiltered joy, the kind of night that reminded me just how lucky I was to have these incredible women in my life.

At some point—who knows when—the music was turned up even louder, and we all found ourselves back on the dance floor, moving in a way that was far more about having fun than it was about looking good. Not that any of us cared. This was our night, and we were going to make the most of it.

As the night wore on and the drinks continued to flow, the line between reality and whatever madness we had created blurred even further. The lights, the music, the alcohol—it all mixed together in a haze of color and sound, until it felt like we were in another world entirely, a world where nothing mattered but the here and now.

At some point, Mor pulled out a bottle of something stronger—something that definitely wasn’t wine—and poured shots for everyone. We downed them without hesitation, the burn in our throats a reminder that we were alive, that we were here, that this night would be one we’d never forget.

And it was. By the time we finally collapsed in a heap on the floor, the world spinning around us, I knew that this was a night I’d look back on and smile. We were drunk, we were ridiculous, and it was perfect.

As we lay there, catching our breath and trying to stop the room from spinning, Feyre turned to me, her eyes heavy with exhaustion and alcohol. “You know,” she said, her voice soft, “this was exactly what we needed.”

I smiled, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “Yeah,” I agreed, my voice barely a whisper. “Me too.”

Tonight was one for the books.

The night had taken a wild, exhilarating turn. What started as a simple girls' night had quickly evolved into something far more chaotic and, quite frankly, downright ridiculous. The alcohol was flowing freely, and the atmosphere was buzzing with energy as the room transformed into our very own private club.

But just when I thought the night couldn’t get any crazier, Mor clapped her hands together, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Alright, ladies, let’s up the stakes. Who’s up for a game of ‘Never Have I Ever’?”

Feyre groaned, though her eyes were gleaming with mischief. “Oh gods, this is going to get dangerous.”

“Exactly,” Mor said, grabbing a fresh bottle of something strong and pouring shots for everyone. “We’re already half-gone, so let’s see who can survive this round.”

Nesta eyed the shot glass suspiciously but took it anyway. “Fine, but let’s keep it reasonable.”

“Reasonable?” Mor scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “Where’s the fun in that?”

With everyone armed with a shot glass, we settled onto the floor, forming a loose circle. Mor, as the instigator, went first. She smirked, lifting her glass. “Never have I ever… kissed someone with the intention of getting free drinks.”

Feyre immediately took a sip, as did Mor, who winked at me. “What can I say? Sometimes, charm gets you a long way.”

"When the person buying your drinks is Rhysand, it doesn't count Feyre" I said laughing at her.

Nesta, surprisingly, didn’t drink, but she gave a small smile. “I prefer to pay my own way, thank you very much.”

Next, it was Feyre’s turn. She narrowed her eyes in mock concentration before grinning. “Never have I ever… gotten out of trouble by flirting.”

Mor and I immediately took our shots, causing Feyre to raise an eyebrow. “Come on, you two, spill.”

Mor grinned, clearly eager to share. “Alright, so there was this one time in the Summer Court… I was supposed to be at a formal dinner, but I got a little sidetracked with a rather charming advisor. We were caught by one of the palace guards, and let’s just say, I had to turn on the charm full blast to avoid a very awkward conversation with Tarquin.”

Feyre shook her head, laughing. “Only you, Mor.”

I couldn’t help but join in. “For me, it was during a mission. I needed to get past a rather stubborn gatekeeper who wasn’t interested in letting me through. A little flirting and a lot of batting my eyelashes later, and suddenly I was the most important person on his list. I got what I needed, and he never even knew what hit him.”

Nesta looked at me with a smirk. “I’m surprised Az didn’t handle that for you.”

“Oh, he would’ve,” I admitted with a laugh. “But sometimes, a girl’s got to do things her own way.”

Feyre shook her head, still smiling. “Rhys would’ve been so jealous.”

“Please,” Mor scoffed, “Rhys would have encouraged it.”

Nesta chuckled, lifting her glass. “Alright, next one. Never have I ever… sent a dirty thought to your partner to see their reaction.”

Feyre and Nesta immediately took their shots, while Mor and I exchanged surprised looks, our glasses untouched.

Feyre’s cheeks flushed as she laughed. “I did it to Rhys once during a meeting—he nearly choked on his drink. I thought I was being subtle, but apparently, his reaction was… noticeable. I think I almost caused a diplomatic incident.”

Mor burst out laughing, her eyes wide. “Oh, I would’ve paid to see that.”

Nesta, surprisingly, offered her own story, her voice more subdued but with a hint of amusement. “I sent Cassian a… vivid thought while he was training the Illyrians. He dropped his sword mid-swing and nearly took out an entire row of recruits. They didn’t know what happened, but Cassian spent the rest of the day giving me death glares.”

The room erupted into laughter, the image of Cassian flustered and distracted by Nesta’s thoughts too much to handle.

“Well, I’ve never done it,” I said, still giggling. “But now I’m tempted. I wonder how a certain shadow singer would react.”

“Knowing you, Y/N” Feyre said with a grin, “he would probably drop everything he is doing to go join you.”

“Oh, definitely” I agreed, taking a sip of my drink anyway. “But let’s keep going, shall we?”

The game continued, the questions growing bolder, the shots more frequent, and the laughter louder. By the time we were on the tenth or eleventh round, there was no turning back.

“Alright, my turn,” Nesta said, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Never have I ever… had someone walk in on me during sex.”

Mor and Feyre both took a sip, while I hesitated before taking mine. “Let’s just say, it was awkward,” I said with a cringe, though I couldn’t help but laugh at the memory.

Mor, however, was not about to let it go. “Oh, no, no. You can’t just drop a bomb like that and not give us details. Who walked in?”

I smirked, taking another sip of my drink for courage. “Rhys. And let’s just say, I’ve never seen him retreat from a room so fast.”

That sent Mor into peals of laughter, nearly spilling her drink as she doubled over. “Oh, I can just picture it! Poor Rhys, walking in on you two… I bet Az didn’t even bat an eyelash.”

Nesta snickered, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “And I’m sure Azriel was just as composed as ever, right? Or did he actually look guilty for once?”

I rolled my eyes, unable to keep the grin off my face. “Let’s just say, Azriel wasn’t too happy about the interruption. But once Rhys was out of the room… he made sure to make up for lost time.”

Feyre choked on her drink, laughing as she wiped her mouth. “I bet he did! Azriel’s got that silent intensity… but I’m sure he can be anything but quiet when he wants to be.”

“He’s very… intense, in more ways than one.”

Mor grinned wickedly, holding her glass up for a toast. “To very intense lovers who know how to get the job done—and then some!”

The night had taken on a life of its own, with the alcohol flowing and inhibitions flying out the window. We were deep into the game of "Never Have I Ever," and it seemed like nothing was off-limits at this point.

Feyre, clearly feeling the effects of the drinks, leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “Alright, ladies, last one from me. Never have I ever… tried the ‘Moonlit Arch’ position.”

There was a pause as the question hung in the air. Mor immediately downed her shot, as did Feyre. Nesta hesitated, then took hers as well. Meanwhile, I just sat there, my glass untouched, staring at them with a raised eyebrow.

“Wait… what?” I asked, feeling completely out of the loop. “What’s the ‘Moonlit Arch’? Are you sure you didn’t made that up ?”

Feyre’s grin widened as she set down her glass. “Oh, sweetie, you’ve been missing out. How do I explain this?”

Before I could protest, Feyre had jumped up from her spot, a bit unsteady but determined. She sauntered over to me, her eyes gleaming with tipsy mischief. “It’s easier to show than tell.”

The next thing you knew, Feyre was pushing me back onto the ground, her hands on your shoulders. “Relax, this is educational,” she teased, as she gently pushed me down and straddled my lap.

“Feyre, what are you—” You began, but was cut off as she leaned down, bringing her lips close to your ear.

“It’s all about the angle,” Feyre whispered, her breath warm against your ear. “You lie back, just like this…”

She gently guided me into position, her hands on my shoulders as she demonstrated. Before you knew it, Nesta was there too, her eyes gleaming with the same mischief as she grabbed Feyre’s hands and placed them on either side of your face.

“It’s all about guiding the energy,” Nesta murmured, her voice low and sultry. “Make sure your partner knows exactly where to focus.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, though it was tinged with nervousness and the absurdity of the situation. “You’re both insane.”

“Insanely helpful,” Mor chimed in, a grin spreading across her face as she sauntered over. She took Feyre’s hands and moved them down to my chest, giving a light squeeze. “And don’t forget about the importance of… other areas.”

“Mor!” You gasped, my face burning as you tried to squirm away, but the alcohol had made me sluggish, and the three of them had me pinned in place.

“It’s all in good fun,” Feyre said with a laugh, her eyes twinkling as she gently patted my cheek. “Now, the trick is to—”

—

It was nearly dawn, and the soft light of morning was beginning to creep through the windows of the townhouse. One by one, the guys emerged from their rooms, each of them groggy and slightly disoriented, but with a nagging feeling in the back of their minds.

Rhysand was the first to step into the hallway, his brow furrowed in concern. “Is it just me, or is something off?” he muttered to himself.

Cassian’s door creaked open next, and he stuck his head out, his hair a wild mess. “Where the hell are they?”

Azriel appeared a moment later, his eyes shadowed with worry. “They’re not answering,” he said quietly, though his voice was tinged with concern.

The three of them exchanged glances, the same thought running through their minds: their mates weren’t back yet, and none of them had responded to the bond.

Cassian scratched his head, still half-asleep. “You think they’re okay? Maybe they… got distracted?”

“Distracted?” Rhys repeated, raising an eyebrow. “By what, exactly?”

Azriel sighed, trying to remain calm. “It’s just a girls’ night. They’re probably just… having fun.”

Cassian leaned against the wall, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, but still… it’s nearly morning. Shouldn’t they be back by now?”

Rhys glanced toward the window, watching as the sky began to lighten. “They should be. I can’t get through to Feyre.”

“Same with Nesta,” Cassian added, his worry finally starting to show.

Azriel’s expression darkened slightly as he nodded. “And Y/N’s just giving off this… contented feeling. But nothing else.”

The three males stood in silence for a moment, the unease growing between them. Finally, Cassian huffed and pushed off the wall. “Alright, that’s it. We’re going to check on them.”

Azriel hesitated, glancing between the other two. “You’re all overreacting. They’re perfectly capable of taking care of themselves.”

“Sure they are,” Cassian agreed, a glint of concern in his eyes. “But aren’t you just a little curious about what they’re up to?”

Azriel hesitated, glancing out the window at the faint light of dawn creeping over the horizon. “Maybe… a little.”

Rhys grinned, clapping Azriel on the back. “Then let���s go. If nothing else, we can make sure they get home safe.”

The three of them headed out, taking to the skies with ease. It wasn’t long before they spotted your apartment building, and as they landed on the rooftop across the street, they were greeted with an unexpected sight.

Bright, colorful lights were flashing from your windows, pulsing in time with the faint thrum of music that could be heard even from outside. It looked more like a nightclub than a place where anyone would be getting a decent night’s sleep.

Cassian stared at the windows, his mouth slightly agape. “What the hell…?”

Rhys raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. “I didn’t know Y/N had a nightclub setup in her apartment.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. “She doesn’t. Or at least, she didn’t.”

Cassian shook his head, his concern deepening. “Come on, just a peek. I’ve got to see what kind of chaos they’ve created.”

They descended to your apartment door, and as they approached, the music grew louder, the flashing lights spilling out from under the doorframe, casting strange, colorful shadows in the hallway.

Rhys knocked, but there was no response. He knocked again, louder this time, but the only sound was the thumping music and muffled voices from inside.

Cassian glanced at the others, a serious expression on his face. “You sure they’re alive in there?”

The three of them exchanged worried looks, and before anyone could suggest otherwise, Cassian stepped forward, bracing his shoulder against the door. “Alright, let’s find out.”

With a firm push, they forced the door open—and were immediately greeted by the sight of complete and utter chaos.

The apartment was a mess, with bottles and snacks strewn everywhere. But what caught their attention was the scene in the living room: Mor and Nesta were on the floor, laughing uncontrollably, while Feyre was perched on top of you on the ground, pinning you down and demonstrating something with far too much enthusiasm.

Mor had one hand on your chest, playfully squeezing your breast, while Nesta’s hands were on either side of your face, her touch light but clearly part of the explanation Feyre was giving.

The moment the door flew open, all four of you turned your heads in perfect synchronization, staring at the doorway with wide, startled eyes.

The guys froze in the entrance, their faces a mix of shock and utter confusion. It was as if they had just walked into another world, one they couldn’t quite make sense of.

Feyre, still on top of you, blinked in surprise, her hands frozen in place. Mor and Nesta, still in their positions, were too drunk to even try to move, their eyes fixed on the three males standing in the doorway.

For a long moment, there was complete silence, the only sound the faint thrum of the music and the distant hum of the lights.

“What the hell…?” Cassian finally managed to mutter, his voice laced with disbelief.

Rhys, his usually calm demeanor shattered, shook his head slowly. “I think we interrupted something… very strange.”

Azriel, for his part, could only stare, his mind trying to process the chaotic scene in front of him. “Should we… come back later?”

The sudden absurdity of the situation hit you all at once, and you burst into laughter, the alcohol-fueled hysteria too strong to resist. Feyre, still on top of you, collapsed onto your chest, shaking with laughter, while Mor and Nesta lost it completely, both of them rolling on the floor as they tried to catch their breath.

The guys, however, remained rooted in place, their expressions still a mix of shock and confusion as they watched the four of you dissolve into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

Cassian was the first to recover, though his voice was still laced with disbelief. “What in the world is going on here?”

Feyre, still laughing, finally managed to roll off you, her face flushed as she wiped at her eyes. “I guess we got a little carried away.”

“A little?” Rhys echoed, his voice flat as he glanced around the room. “This place looks like a warzone.”

Mor, still struggling to sit up, waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, please. We were just having fun!”

Azriel, who had finally managed to close his mouth, walked over to you, his eyes scanning your face for any signs of distress. “Let’s get you home.”

You looked up at him, your smile turning into a confused frown. “But this is my home, Az.”

Feyre, catching your words, let out a snort before dissolving into another fit of laughter. Before long, you were both on the floor, laughing so hard that you could barely breathe, the absurdity of the entire situation hitting you all at once.

Mor, still perched on the floor, threw her head back and screamed with laughter. “This was better than every night at Rita’s I’ve ever had in my life!”

Nesta, who was trying her best to stay composed, finally gave in, collapsing onto the floor beside Mor as the two of them giggled uncontrollably.

The guys, still standing in the doorway, could only watch as the four of you descended into a drunken, giggling mess, their shock slowly giving way to resignation.

Rhys sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Cassian, finally managing a grin, shook his head. “We’re going to have to carry them out of here, aren’t we?”

Azriel, who had gently lifted you to your feet again, just nodded, his concern still evident. “Probably. But at least they had fun.”

---

The chaos of the night had finally started to wind down. Mor and Nesta, still giggling, were being helped out by Rhys and Cassian, who looked more than ready to get everyone home and into bed. But you, still tipsy and more than a little giggly, had managed to cling onto Azriel.

He lifted you effortlessly into his arms, your face nestled against his neck, legs wrapped tightly around his torso. The cool night air hit your skin as he carried you out of the apartment, but you barely noticed, too focused on the warmth of his body and the comforting scent of him surrounding you.

Azriel walked steadily, his wings twitching slightly with every step. You could feel the muscles in his back flex as he held you close, his grip firm yet gentle. Despite how drunk you were, a playful smile tugged at your lips as your breath fanned across his neck.

“You know,” you murmured, your voice low and teasing, “you’re really strong… and warm. Like, really warm.”

Azriel’s chuckle rumbled through his chest, the sound sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. “Good to know,” he replied, his voice taking on a huskier edge. “Are you comfortable?”

You nodded, snuggling closer to him, your breath warm against his neck. “Mmhmm. This is nice. I could stay like this forever.”

He smiled, adjusting his hold on you slightly as he continued walking. “I wouldn’t mind that either. But we should get you home. You had quite the night.”

You sighed, closing your eyes as you rested your head against him. “Yeah… tonight was fun. I think we broke the apartment, though. Sorry about that.”

Azriel shook his head, his smile growing. “Don’t worry about it. It’s your place—you can do whatever you want. And it’s nothing a little cleaning won’t fix.”

There was a brief pause before you giggled, the sound light and airy. “Do you think… do you think Rhys was mad? I didn’t mean to make a mess.”

Azriel’s lips brushed against your temple in a soft kiss. “No, I don’t think he was mad. Maybe a little surprised, but that’s all. He knows you were just having fun.”

You hummed in response, your fingers idly tracing patterns on the back of his neck. “Good. I wouldn’t want to get in trouble… But you know what’s funny?”

“What’s that?” he asked, his tone indulgent as he continued walking.

“I kept thinking,” you whispered, your voice a little more serious now, “that I was so happy tonight… because you weren’t just my mate, but also my best friend.”

Azriel’s heart swelled at your words, and he tightened his grip on you slightly. “I’m happy to hear that,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re my best friend too, you know. I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

You smiled against his neck, feeling a wave of affection wash over you. “You’re so sweet, Az. The best.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and warm. “I’m just being honest. Now let’s get you home, so you can get some rest. You’ve had a long night.”

“Mmhmm. This is very comfortable. I think I’m enjoying this a little too much.”

Azriel’s grip on you tightened slightly, and you could feel the tension in his muscles as he tried to maintain control. “Is that so?”

“Mmm,” you hummed, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his neck. “I’ve always liked being this close to you… feeling you.”

He sucked in a breath, the sound a mixture of surprise and desire. “You’re drunk,” he reminded you gently, though there was a strain in his voice as if he was trying to convince himself more than you.

“Maybe,” you admitted, your lips brushing against his skin as you spoke. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”

Azriel’s steps faltered as you reached the townhouse, his heart hammering in his chest. You could feel the way his pulse quickened under your touch, and it only made you more bold. “And what is it you want?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

You smiled against his neck, your teeth grazing his skin ever so lightly. “I want you, Az. Always.”

His breath hitched as he carried you inside, the familiar darkness of the townhouse wrapping around you both. Without a word, he started toward his bedroom, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

He pushed the door open with his foot and crossed the threshold, finally setting you down on the edge of his bed. But before he could step back, you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him down to you, your lips crashing against his in a fierce, hungry kiss.

Azriel groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips, pulling you closer as you leaned back onto the bed, dragging him down with you. His wings flared out behind him, twitching as your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan again.

He pulled back slightly, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he looked down at you, your face flushed, eyes dark with desire. “Are you sure?” he asked, his voice thick with need.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him down to you as your hands slid under his shirt, feeling the hard planes of his chest. “I’m sure,” you whispered against his lips, your voice a sultry invitation.

That was all the encouragement he needed. Azriel’s lips crashed back onto yours, his hands roaming over your body with a possessive hunger. You could feel the heat of his skin against yours as he tore at your clothes, desperate to feel you, to have you.

His hands slid up under your shirt, fingers brushing over your bare skin, sending sparks of pleasure through your body. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he kissed his way down your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

He paused at the hem of your shirt, his eyes dark with desire as he looked up at you. You nodded, and he pulled the fabric over your head, tossing it aside before his mouth descended on your chest, his tongue tracing a path down to your breasts.

You gasped as his lips closed around your nipple, his hand sliding down to the waistband of your pants. With a quick tug, he had them off, leaving you bare beneath him. Azriel’s eyes raked over your body, taking in every curve, every inch of skin as if he were memorizing you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice reverent as his hands slid down your sides, his lips following the path of his hands.

You reached for him, pulling him back up to you, needing to feel his skin against yours. “I need you,” you whispered, your voice breathless with anticipation.

Azriel shuddered at your words, his lips capturing yours in another searing kiss as he positioned himself above you. He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze searching yours for any sign of doubt, but all he found was desire, love, and a deep, unyielding trust.

With a soft groan, he slid into you, the sensation drawing a gasp from both of you as your bodies finally connected, fitting together perfectly. He moved slowly at first, savoring the feeling of being with you like this, but it wasn’t long before the tension between you became too much to bear.

You moved together, each thrust deepening the connection between you, your moans and gasps filling the room as the pleasure built to a fever pitch. Azriel’s hands roamed over your body, his touch sending shivers of pleasure down your spine as he whispered your name like a prayer.

As you neared the edge, you tightened your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer as you felt the wave of pleasure crashing over you. Azriel followed soon after, his movements becoming erratic as he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he reached his climax.

For a moment, the world stood still, the only sound the ragged breaths of you and Azriel as you held each other close. Then, slowly, the tension ebbed away, leaving you both in a state of blissful exhaustion.

As you both lay there, catching your breath and basking in the afterglow, a soft giggle escaped your lips. Azriel, still holding you close, raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his voice low and affectionate.

You shifted slightly, a playful glint in your eyes as you rolled over, pushing him onto his back. Azriel let out a surprised laugh, his hands instinctively moving to rest on your hips as you straddled him, your hair falling around your face in a soft curtain.

“What do you have in mind, love?” he asked, his voice filled with a mix of curiosity and desire.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Something the girls showed me earlier…”

Azriel’s eyes darkened with intrigue as you began to move your hips in a slow, teasing rhythm, your hands sliding up his chest. He sucked in a breath, his fingers digging into your thighs as he tried to hold on to the last remnants of his control.

“Is that so?” he murmured, his voice rough with anticipation.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, your lips trailing soft kisses down his jawline as you continued to move against him, the friction sending shivers of pleasure through both of you.

Azriel’s hands roamed over your body, his touch growing more desperate as you began to pick up the pace, your hips rolling in a way that had him groaning your name.

“Y/N…” he rasped, his eyes locked onto yours as you took control, guiding him deeper inside you with each movement.

You bit your lip, a mischievous smile playing on your lips as you leaned down to kiss him, your tongue teasing his as your movements became more intense. Azriel’s grip on your hips tightened, his wings flaring out behind him as he struggled to keep up with the pleasure you were giving him.

“What did those girls teach you?” he managed to say between gasps, his voice filled with both awe and amusement.

You just grinned, moving your hips in a way that had him arching off the bed, a deep groan escaping his lips. “Just a little something they thought you might enjoy.”

Azriel’s eyes fluttered closed, his head falling back against the pillow as he surrendered to the sensations you were giving him. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured, though the smile on his face told you he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You chuckled, leaning down to kiss him deeply as you pushed both of you closer to the edge. “Then let’s make it worth it.”

With that, you moved even faster, your bodies moving in perfect sync as the pleasure built to a crescendo. The room was filled with the sound of your moans and gasps, the intensity of the moment taking you both higher and higher until finally, you both shattered together, the waves of pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave.

As you collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing heavily, Azriel wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you both came down from the high.

“That was…” Azriel began, his voice trailing off as he tried to find the words.

“Amazing?” you offered, your voice still breathless as you snuggled against him.

“Amazing,” he agreed, his lips brushing against your forehead in a tender kiss. “But also… unexpected.”

You giggled, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “Just trying to keep things interesting.”

Azriel smiled, his hands sliding up and down your back in a soothing motion. “You definitely succeeded. But now, I think it’s time for some sleep.”

You nodded, feeling the exhaustion starting to catch up with you. “Yeah… sleep sounds good.”

With a contented sigh, you let your eyes drift closed, still wrapped in Azriel’s warm embrace. And as you drifted off to sleep, a satisfied smile on your lips, you knew that no matter what surprises the night brought, you and Azriel would always find a way to enjoy them together.

---

don't hesitate to comment, I read them ;)

[fr0stf4ll]

Flavours of Prythian

Coming from that request

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; Y/N, a talented restaurateur’s life is turned upside down when she forms an unexpected bond with Azriel, the mysterious Spymaster of the Night Court. Befriending Elain, who confides in her about a male she’s trying to win over, she eagerly helps her new friend — only to discover the male is none other than Azriel. When the bond between her and Azriel snaps at first touch, she’s torn between loyalty to Elain and the undeniable connection she shares with the shadowy warrior.

word count ; 7.8k

warning; //

notes; Yoo everyone, here is my first one shot ! Thank you again for the request<333 Should I do a more general taglist so that you guys can be permanently on it. Enjoy it, see you <3

---

Prythian was a land of many wonders, from the towering peaks of the Illyrian mountains to the lush, rolling hills of the Spring Court. But for you, the true magic of the land was found in its kitchens, markets, and the rich flavors that each court had to offer.

You had always been drawn to the culinary arts, even as a child. Your curiosity led you to travel across the courts, tasting the distinct dishes of each region, learning from the most skilled chefs, and uncovering the hidden culinary gems that most would overlook. You spent years journeying from the Day Court, where spices danced like sunlight on the tongue, to the Winter Court, where hearty stews and warm bread were a staple against the biting cold. In the Night Court, you discovered the delicate balance of flavors that mirrored the starlit skies above, and in the Summer Court, you indulged in the rich, vibrant tastes that seemed to capture the very essence of the sun-drenched beaches.

Your travels weren’t just about satisfying your own cravings; they were a quest to bring the best of Prythian’s diverse cuisines to others. And so, you did the impossible—you opened a series of restaurants, each one in a different court, each one a testament to the culinary traditions you had learned and made your own. Your establishments became a haven for those seeking not only a good meal but an experience, a journey through Prythian’s tastes and textures without ever leaving their seat.

Your flagship restaurant, nestled in the heart of Velaris, was particularly special. It was here, in the City of Starlight, that you combined the flavors of all the courts into a menu that was as varied and enchanting as Prythian itself. Word quickly spread of the remarkable dishes served within, and soon, it wasn’t just the citizens of Velaris who came to dine—High Fae from every court sought out your creations.

One such evening, as you oversaw the final preparations for the dinner service, the door to your restaurant swung open, and in walked a familiar face—Elain Archeron. Elain had been wandering through Velaris, taking in the beauty of the city, when the warm, inviting aroma from your restaurant had drawn her in.

Elain was known for her gentle nature, her love of gardening, and her keen eye for beauty in all things. But tonight, she was here for something different—a new experience, a chance to explore another form of beauty through the culinary delights that had been whispered about throughout the city.

As Elain took her seat near a window overlooking the Sidra, she immediately felt at ease. There was a sense of comfort and warmth in the restaurant, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself walking over to greet her. She looked up with a warm smile, her eyes bright with curiosity and a touch of shyness.

“Welcome,” you said, your own smile reflecting her warmth. “I’m Y/N, the owner and chef here. It’s a pleasure to have you.”

Elain’s smile widened, and she nodded appreciatively. “I’ve heard so much about this place, I just had to come see for myself. The aromas alone are worth the visit.”

You chuckled, feeling an instant connection with her. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ll make sure the food lives up to the expectations.”

As the evening went on, you found yourself returning to Elain’s table more than once, the conversation flowing easily between the two of you. You talked about your travels, the different courts you had visited, and the inspiration behind some of the dishes on the menu. Elain, in turn, shared stories of her own—of her love for gardening, the peace she found in the quiet moments spent among the flowers, and her growing appreciation for the little joys in life, like a perfectly prepared meal.

There was something comforting in the way you both connected, as if you had known each other for much longer than just one evening. By the time dessert arrived—a delicate pastry inspired by the flavors of the Summer Court—you and Elain were chatting like old friends, the conversation punctuated by shared laughter and the occasional appreciative hum as she tasted each new dish.

As the night drew to a close, Elain hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I’d love to come back,” she said, her voice soft but sincere. “Maybe we could do this again sometime?”

You smiled, genuinely pleased by the idea. “I’d like that. You’re welcome anytime, Elain.”

Elain quickly became a regular fixture at your restaurant, her visits growing more frequent as the two of you bonded over shared stories, laughter, and the occasional glass of wine. It wasn’t long before your casual conversations began to take on a more personal tone, with Elain confiding in you about her life, her hopes, and her dreams.

One evening, after the dinner rush had died down and the restaurant had settled into a peaceful hum, Elain arrived with a particular glint in her eye. You noticed it the moment she walked in, her steps lighter, her smile brighter. She took her usual seat by the window, and you didn’t waste any time joining her, a knowing smile on your face.

“Alright, Elain,” you said, sitting down across from her. “You’re glowing tonight. What’s going on?”

Elain blushed, her hands fluttering nervously in her lap. “It’s nothing, really… Well, maybe it’s something. I don’t know.”

You leaned in closer, eyes wide with curiosity. “Come on, you can’t just leave me hanging like that. Spill!”

She bit her lip, hesitating for a moment before finally giving in. “There’s… this male,” she began, her voice soft but filled with excitement. “I’ve been trying to get his attention for a while now, and I think… I think it might actually be working.”

You couldn’t help but squeal in delight, clapping your hands together. “Elain! This is amazing! Tell me everything—who is he? How did it start? What’s he like?”

Elain giggled at your enthusiasm, her own excitement bubbling to the surface as she began to share the details. “He’s… well, he’s different. Reserved, I guess you could say. But there’s something about him that just draws me in. He’s kind, in his own way, and he has this quiet strength that I really admire.”

You listened intently, hanging on her every word as she described this mysterious male who had captured her attention. It was clear that she was smitten, and you couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement for her.

“So, what’s the plan?” you asked, your mind already racing with ideas. “How are you going to win him over?”

Elain smiled shyly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. “Well, I thought… maybe I could start by cooking for him. You know, something simple but special. He loves good food, and I think it might help him see… well, see me.”

You practically jumped out of your seat with excitement. “Elain, that’s perfect! And you’re in the right place—I can help you with recipes, tips, anything you need. We’ll make sure this meal is unforgettable.”

Her eyes lit up with gratitude. “Really? You’d help me?”

“Of course!” you replied, beaming. “This is what friends are for. And besides, I love a good love story. We’ll make sure he can’t resist you after this.”

From that moment on, the two of you were inseparable. Elain would visit the restaurant every few days, sometimes to try out a new dish, other times just to chat and share the latest developments in her budding romance. The more she talked about this male, the more you could see how deeply she cared for him, and it made you all the more determined to help her succeed.

You spent hours in the kitchen together, experimenting with different ingredients and techniques, crafting meals that were not only delicious but also filled with meaning. Elain would watch you work, her eyes wide with admiration as you explained the significance of each spice, each flavor, and how it could be used to convey emotion.

“There’s a language in food,” you told her one afternoon as you kneaded dough for a loaf of bread. “Every dish tells a story. When you cook for someone, you’re sharing a part of yourself with them. It’s intimate, in a way.”

Elain nodded thoughtfully, her hands busy chopping herbs for the soup you were preparing. “I never thought of it like that, but it makes sense. I want him to know how I feel, even if I can’t always find the words.”

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection for your friend. “Then we’ll make sure every bite he takes is filled with love.”

As the days turned into weeks, Elain’s visits became a highlight of your day. She would burst through the door, her eyes sparkling as she recounted her latest interactions with the male who had stolen her heart. You would listen with rapt attention, offering advice and encouragement, celebrating every small victory and reassuring her during moments of doubt.

“He loved the soup,” she told you one evening, her cheeks flushed with happiness. “He said it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. And I think… I think he’s starting to notice me.”

You grinned, feeling a surge of pride. “I told you, Elain. No one can resist good food, especially when it’s made with love.”

She laughed, her joy infectious. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Y/N. You’ve helped me so much.”

You waved off her gratitude with a smile. “Nonsense. You’re the one doing all the hard work. I’m just here to cheer you on.”

But the truth was, you had come to care deeply for Elain and her happiness. It wasn’t just about the food anymore—it was about seeing your friend find the love and connection she so deserved. And as she continued to come back, sharing her hopes and dreams, you couldn’t help but feel that you had found something special too.

Your friendship with Elain had become a source of joy and fulfillment, a reminder that sometimes, the most meaningful connections were forged in the simplest of moments—over a shared meal, a quiet conversation, or a burst of laughter that echoed through the night.

And so, as the seasons changed and the nights grew longer, you continued to help Elain in her quest to win over this mysterious male, knowing that whatever the outcome, you had found a true friend in her. A friend who had come into your life unexpectedly, but who had quickly become an irreplaceable part of it.

Weeks had passed since you and Elain had first started crafting meals together, each one a carefully planned step in her quest to win over the male who had captivated her heart. Every visit, every dish, brought a new story, a new glimmer of hope in her eyes. You were genuinely happy for her, thrilled to see her so full of life and excitement. So, when she asked if she could bring him to your restaurant for dinner, you couldn’t have been more supportive.

“Of course, Elain!” you’d said, flashing her an encouraging smile. “I’ll make sure everything is perfect. It’ll be a night he won’t forget.”

You’d spent the entire day preparing, selecting only the finest ingredients and crafting a menu that would showcase the very best of what your restaurant had to offer. You wanted this night to be special for her—special for them. You had no idea how special it would become, for reasons you never could have imagined.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city of Velaris in a warm, golden glow, Elain arrived at the restaurant with a male by her side. You couldn’t quite make out his features at first, but the way she clung to his arm, her eyes bright with anticipation, told you all you needed to know. This was the one.

As they stepped into the softly lit dining room, you finally got a good look at him—Azriel, the shadowsinger of the Night Court. You had heard of him, of course, through whispers and stories, but nothing could have prepared you for the moment your eyes met his.

Elain beamed as she introduced the two of you, her voice filled with warmth and pride. “Azriel, this is Y/N, the wonderful chef I’ve been telling you about. And Y/N, this is Azriel.”

He extended his hand to you, his expression polite, reserved. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice deep and smooth.

You reached out, intending to greet him with the same friendly courtesy you offered all your patrons. But the moment your hand touched his, something shifted in the air—a sudden, overwhelming rush of heat and energy that took your breath away. The bond snapped into place with such force that it nearly knocked you off your feet.

For a split second, the world around you faded, and all you could feel was the pull, the undeniable connection that tethered your soul to his. His eyes widened in shock, and you knew he felt it too—the bond, the realization that fate had just entwined your lives in a way neither of you had expected.

But as quickly as the bond formed, reality came crashing back down. Elain was standing there, her eyes full of hope, completely unaware of the storm that had just erupted inside you. She had no idea that the male she was so clearly infatuated with, the one she had been working so hard to win over, was now bound to you in a way that went beyond anything you could have ever imagined.

Panic surged through you. How could this happen? How could you possibly accept this bond when it would mean shattering the friendship you had built with Elain, when it would mean taking away the one thing she wanted so desperately?

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

With a forced smile, you quickly withdrew your hand from Azriel’s grasp, the warmth of the bond lingering like a phantom touch. “It’s nice to meet you too,” you managed to say, though your voice sounded hollow even to your own ears.

Azriel’s gaze lingered on you, confusion and something deeper flickering in his hazel eyes. But you couldn’t let yourself look too long, couldn’t let yourself feel what was brewing inside you. Not when Elain was standing right there, her happiness hanging in the balance.

“Please, take a seat,” you said, stepping back and motioning toward the table you had specially prepared for them. “I’ll make sure everything is perfect.”

Elain smiled, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart, and took her seat. Azriel hesitated for just a moment before following suit, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, the unspoken questions hanging in the air between you, but you didn’t dare meet his eyes again. You couldn’t.

As the evening went on, you did your best to stay professional, to act as if nothing had changed. You brought out dish after dish, each one more exquisite than the last, all while ignoring the fire burning in your chest. Every time Azriel tried to catch your eye, every time he tried to speak to you, you found a reason to turn away, to focus on something—anything—else.

Elain chattered on, completely unaware of the tension building between you and Azriel. She complimented the food, praised your skills, and even mentioned how much Azriel seemed to be enjoying himself. And through it all, you kept up the facade, kept pretending as if the bond snapping into place hadn't turned your entire world upside down.

But it was getting harder. With every glance Azriel sent your way, with every quiet question he tried to ask you in passing, it felt like the invisible thread between you was pulling tighter, demanding to be acknowledged. Yet, you refused to give in.

As the night dragged on, the tension between you and Azriel grew unbearable. He could sense it—you knew he could—but Elain remained blissfully unaware, happily recounting the gossip from the latest happenings in Velaris, smiling every time she caught Azriel glancing her way.

Azriel's eyes kept drifting back to you. Not once, not twice, but every time you approached the table, as if he couldn’t stop himself. You could feel the weight of his gaze burning into you, the way his expression darkened each time you brushed past him without so much as a word. He knew you were avoiding him, and he didn’t like it.

When you brought out the final dish—an indulgent dessert meant to close the evening on a sweet note—Elain excused herself to step outside for a moment, leaving you alone with Azriel for the first time since the bond snapped.

You could feel his presence before you even turned around, the quiet intensity of his gaze. And as you set the plate down in front of him, you knew you couldn’t avoid this confrontation any longer.

“Y/N.” His voice was low, barely more than a murmur, but the way he said your name sent a shiver down your spine. “We need to talk.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes firmly fixed on the table in front of you. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you said, your voice cold and distant, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions raging inside you.

Azriel leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower. “Don’t lie to me. You felt it too.”

The bond. He didn’t have to say the word for you to know what he meant. It was a truth that hung in the air between you, undeniable and impossible to ignore. And yet, you had to. You had to protect Elain, to protect your friendship, no matter the cost.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lied, your heart aching with the effort it took to deny the pull you felt toward him.

Azriel’s expression darkened, his hand curling into a fist on the table. “Don’t do this, Y/N. Don’t shut me out.”

But you couldn’t let him in. If you let him in, if you allowed yourself to even consider what the bond meant, you would be betraying Elain in the worst way possible. How could you even think about being with him when she had spent weeks confiding in you, trusting you with her feelings for him?

“No, Azriel.” You stepped back, your voice firmer this time. “I can’t.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “Why? Because of Elain?”

You winced at the mention of her name, the weight of guilt pressing heavily on your chest. “She cares about you. A lot.”

Azriel's expression softened, understanding dawning in his eyes. “Y/N, it’s not like that between Elain and me.”

But you shook your head, refusing to let yourself believe it. “It doesn’t matter. She’s my friend. I can’t—I won’t—do this to her.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you was thick with tension, a storm of emotions swirling just beneath the surface. Azriel opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, the sound of the door opening broke the silence.

Elain re-entered the dining room, a bright smile on her face as she made her way back to the table. “Sorry about that,” she said cheerfully, oblivious to the charged atmosphere between you and Azriel. “What did I miss?”

You forced a smile, masking the turmoil raging inside you. “Nothing,” you lied, your voice steady even though your heart was breaking. “Just making sure everything’s perfect.”

Elain beamed, clearly pleased with how the evening had gone. “It really has been perfect, Y/N. Thank you so much for everything.”

Azriel’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he finally looked away, the tension in his jaw clear as he nodded in agreement. “Yes… thank you.”

You nodded once, offering them both a stiff smile before excusing yourself from the room, your chest tightening with every step you took away from them.

As you retreated to the quiet of the kitchen, your hands bracing against the counter, the reality of what had just happened began to sink in. The bond had snapped. Azriel was your mate. And yet, you couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept it.

You had promised yourself you’d never hurt Elain. And if shutting down every advance Azriel made, if pushing away the one person the Cauldron had chosen for you was the only way to keep that promise, then that’s exactly what you would do.

Even if it tore you apart.

Back in the kitchen, you leaned heavily against the counter, your hands gripping the cold marble surface as you tried to regain your composure. The bond had snapped, and with it, any sense of stability you had managed to hold onto throughout the evening. The world felt off-kilter, like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering on the brink.

One of your sous chefs, a sharp-eyed female who had worked with you since the restaurant’s inception, noticed your pallor. She set down the pan she was holding and approached you, concern evident in her eyes.

“Y/N,” she began cautiously, her voice gentle but probing, “are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You forced a nod, though you knew your expression wasn’t convincing. “I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice was shaky and unsteady.

She frowned, clearly not buying your response. Her eyes scanned your face, taking in the unusual paleness of your skin, the way your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the counter. “You don’t look fine. Do you need to sit down? Maybe get some air?”

You shook your head, trying to brush off her concern, but the weight of the bond pressed down on you, making it hard to breathe. “No, I’ll be okay. It’s just… been a long night.”

She hesitated, still studying you closely, before glancing around the bustling kitchen. “But, Y/N,” she continued, her tone turning more inquisitive, “it’s strange. You always insist on preparing Miss Elain’s meals yourself, especially when she’s bringing a guest. But tonight, you didn’t even touch the preparation. You left it all to us.”

You froze at her words, the reality of what had happened sinking in even deeper. She was right—normally, you would have insisted on handling every detail of Elain’s meal, wanting to ensure that everything was perfect for your friend. But tonight, when it mattered most, you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to do it.

The truth was, the moment you realized Elain was bringing someone special, you couldn’t bring yourself to touch the ingredients. You had let the staff handle everything because deep down, some part of you knew something was about to change—something you weren’t ready to face.

“I…” you started, but the words caught in your throat. You swallowed hard, trying to find some semblance of an explanation. “I just thought… maybe it was time to let you all handle it. You’re more than capable.”

She tilted her head slightly, her frown deepening as she searched your eyes. “Are you sure that’s all it is?”

You nodded again, more firmly this time, even though the lie tasted bitter on your tongue. “Yes, I’m sure. I trust all of you with the kitchen. You don’t need me hovering over every detail.”

She didn’t seem entirely convinced, but she didn’t press the issue further. Instead, she offered a small, supportive smile. “Well, if you ever need a break, don’t hesitate to step out. We’ve got things under control here.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I appreciate it.”

With a final nod, she returned to her station, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the crushing weight of the bond you were trying so desperately to ignore.

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment as you tried to push away the overwhelming emotions swirling inside you. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake the image of Azriel’s eyes, the way they had widened in shock and recognition when the bond snapped into place. You couldn’t forget the warmth of his hand in yours, the way the world had seemed to narrow down to just the two of you in that fleeting, life-altering moment.

But Elain… you couldn’t do this to Elain. You couldn’t shatter her hopes, her dreams, just because of a bond you had never asked for. So, you did the only thing you could—you steeled yourself, pushed down the emotions threatening to break free, and vowed to keep your distance from Azriel, no matter how much it hurt.

You would be there for Elain, just as you always had been. You would help her win over the male she had been trying so hard to impress, even if it meant denying your own heart in the process.

Because that’s what friends did. They put each other first, no matter the cost.

And as you stood there in the kitchen, surrounded by the comforting sounds of sizzling pans and clinking utensils, you made a silent promise to yourself: you would protect Elain’s happiness, even if it meant sacrificing your own.

—

Azriel sat in the sitting room of the townhouse, surrounded by the familiar faces of the inner circle, yet he felt completely out of place. The evening had been an unexpected whirlwind of emotions, leaving him reeling from the bond that had snapped so suddenly and without warning. He had come here to find solace, to clear his mind, but every thought seemed to spiral back to you—the way you had looked at him, the way you had recoiled after the bond had formed during dinner at your restaurant.

He couldn’t understand it. How could something so significant be brushed aside so easily? He had tried to reach out to you, to understand what was happening, but you had shut him down, leaving him to grapple with the weight of the bond on his own.

The others were chatting around him, the sound of their laughter and conversation filling the room, but it all felt distant, muffled. Azriel’s mind was too clouded to focus on anything they were saying. He was trapped in a loop, replaying the moment over and over in his head—the spark, the connection, the way your eyes had widened in recognition before you quickly masked it.

He was so lost in thought that he almost missed it when Rhysand mentioned your name.

“You know, Y/N’s restaurant is one of the best in Velaris,” Rhys was saying, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. “Feyre and I went there a few nights ago, and it was nothing short of incredible.”

Feyre nodded enthusiastically, her eyes lighting up at the memory. “The food was amazing. Every dish was like a work of art. She really has a talent, doesn’t she?”

Mor, who was lounging on one of the couches, joined in with a grin. “That’s not even the half of it. Y/N’s got restaurants all over Prythian—one in each court, if you can believe it. She’s become a bit of a legend in the culinary world.”

Azriel’s heart sank further as they continued to praise you, each word driving the knife deeper into his chest. It wasn’t that he disagreed with them—he knew you were remarkable, talented, someone to be admired. But right now, every mention of your name was like salt in a wound that was already festering.

Cassian, who had been listening with a smirk on his face, finally spoke up, his tone playful. “Sounds like Az here missed out on one hell of a meal tonight. Maybe he’ll have to go back and get a taste of what everyone’s raving about.”

Azriel tensed, the comment hitting far too close to home. He knew Cassian was just joking, but the implication—the reminder of what had happened tonight—was too much to bear. Without a word, he pushed himself up from his chair, his movements abrupt enough to draw everyone’s attention.

“Az?” Feyre called out, concern lacing her voice as she watched him head for the door. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t trust himself to respond. Instead, he muttered something about needing some air and quickly left the room, the weight of their gazes heavy on his back as he made his escape.

As the door closed behind him, an uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Everyone exchanged glances, clearly taken aback by Azriel’s sudden departure.

“What’s gotten into him?” Rhysand wondered aloud, his brows furrowed in confusion.

Cassian, never one to let an opportunity for humor pass by, snorted and shook his head. “Probably just realized he’s been a brooding mess all night and couldn’t handle the idea of someone actually having a good time.”

Mor chuckled, though there was a trace of worry in her eyes. “Or maybe he just can’t handle the fact that Y/N’s cooking is so damn good, it knocked him off his game.”

Rhysand sighed, glancing toward the door Azriel had just walked through. “He’s been off since he got back tonight. Maybe something happened.”

Feyre bit her lip, her expression softening. “I hope he’s alright. He seemed… different.”

Cassian, ever the optimist, leaned back in his chair with a lazy grin. “He’ll be fine. Az is tougher than all of us combined. He just needs some time to brood in his room, and he’ll be back to his grumpy self in no time.”

The group shared a few more laughs at Azriel’s expense, but the concern in their eyes never fully faded. They all knew Azriel well enough to understand that when he withdrew like this, it meant something was seriously bothering him.

Azriel’s footsteps were heavy as he made his way to his room, the quiet of the hallway amplifying the thoughts swirling in his mind. As soon as he entered, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it, closing his eyes as he tried to block out the noise, the chaos of emotions inside him.

He couldn’t shake the feeling of your hand in his, the way the bond had snapped into place like it had always been there, waiting. The connection was undeniable, and yet… you had denied it. Denied him.

Why? The question gnawed at him, refusing to let him rest. He had seen the recognition in your eyes, the brief moment when you had felt it too. But then, you had shut down, shut him out as if the bond meant nothing.

It was more than just confusing—it was painful. Azriel had spent centuries in the shadows, watching from the sidelines as his friends found their mates, found love. He had accepted his place, accepted that perhaps it wasn’t meant for him. And then, in the span of a heartbeat, everything had changed. You had changed it.

And now… now he was left in this strange limbo, caught between the undeniable pull of the bond and the walls you had erected between you.

Azriel’s fists clenched at his sides as he fought the urge to storm back to your restaurant, to demand answers, to make you acknowledge what had happened. But he knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t force you to accept the bond, couldn’t force you to feel something you clearly weren’t ready to face.

With a frustrated sigh, Azriel pushed off the door and crossed the room, heading to the window that overlooked Velaris. The city was peaceful, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight, but his mind was anything but. He rested his forehead against the cool glass, his eyes scanning the distant lights of the city below.

“Why?” he whispered into the empty room, his voice tinged with a desperation he rarely allowed himself to feel. “Why won’t you let me in?”

But the night offered no answers, only the quiet whisper of the wind as it brushed against the windowpane.

—

The next day passed in a blur. You threw yourself into your work, letting the familiar rhythm of chopping, stirring, and plating distract you from the turmoil brewing inside. The restaurant had been busy, as always, with customers filling every table, their laughter and chatter echoing through the dining room. But despite the bustle, you couldn’t shake the heavy weight in your chest—the bond that you were trying so desperately to ignore.

When the last customer had left, you sent your staff home, insisting that you would handle the closing on your own. You needed the time alone, needed to clear your head without the distraction of others around. As the front door clicked shut behind the last of your employees, you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

The kitchen was quiet now, save for the soft sound of the knife in your hand as you prepped ingredients for the next day. The rhythmic motion of slicing through vegetables was soothing, almost meditative. But as you worked, you couldn’t help but feel the tension still coiled tight in your chest.

You were focused on the task at hand, chopping carrots with practiced precision, when a voice cut through the silence, making you freeze in place.

“I bet you could be good with a sword with how you work that knife,” came the familiar, deep voice, tinged with a hint of amusement. “Personally, I wouldn’t want to be those carrots.”

Your hand stilled mid-slice, the knife hovering just above the cutting board. You knew that voice all too well—Azriel.

Slowly, you turned to face him, finding him standing just inside the doorway to the kitchen, his expression guarded but his eyes full of determination. He had changed out of his usual leathers, dressed instead in a simple tunic and trousers, but there was no mistaking the intensity in his gaze.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension from the previous night hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. You could feel the bond thrumming faintly between you, a constant reminder of the connection you were trying so hard to deny.

But you knew why he was here. You had been avoiding him all day, refusing to even think about the conversation you knew was coming. But now, with the restaurant empty and the two of you alone, there was no escaping it.

You set the knife down on the counter, wiping your hands on a nearby towel as you steeled yourself for what was about to happen.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm as you faced Azriel. The tension in the room was almost palpable, the weight of unspoken words hanging heavy between you. You had been dreading this conversation, but there was no avoiding it now.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” you said, your voice firm, though you could hear the tremor in it. “We can’t do this, Azriel.”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing in his eyes. “Why not? Y/N, you felt it too. The bond—it snapped into place. We can’t just ignore that.”

You shook your head, your heart aching at the look on his face. “I’m not ignoring it. But I can’t—I won’t act on it. Not when Elain… Not when she’s been trying so hard to win you over.”

Azriel’s eyes widened in realization, and he took a step closer to you, his expression softening as he reached out. “Y/N, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. Elain wasn’t trying to win me over… not in the way you think.”

You hesitated, frowning as you tried to make sense of his words. “What do you mean? She’s been telling me everything, Azriel. How she’s been trying to get your attention, how much she cares about you… I can’t do that to her. I won’t be the one to hurt her like that.”

Azriel sighed, running a hand through his dark hair, clearly frustrated but determined to set things right. “Y/N, you don’t have the full story. Elain… she’s not interested in me like that. She’s been trying to make Lucien jealous.”

You blinked, taken aback by his words. “Lucien? But… he’s her mate. Why would she do that?”

Azriel nodded, his expression softening as he saw the confusion in your eyes. “Yes, he’s her mate. But they’ve been going through a rough patch lately. Lucien’s duties as emissary for the Night Court have kept him away, and Elain’s been feeling… neglected. She thought that by spending time with me, by pretending there was something more between us, she could get a reaction out of him. It was never about me, Y/N. It was always about Lucien.”

You felt your heart drop as the realization hit you. “So, you were just helping her as a friend?”

Azriel nodded again, his gaze steady as he took a step closer to you. “Exactly. I was only doing this to help her. I never had feelings for her in that way, and she knows that. We were just… playing a part to get Lucien’s attention.”

You swallowed hard, the pieces of the puzzle starting to fall into place. “She didn’t tell me any of this.”

“She probably didn’t want to worry you,” Azriel said gently. “Or maybe she wasn’t ready to admit it to herself. But I promise you, Y/N, there’s nothing between Elain and me. There never was. She’s still trying to figure things out with Lucien, and I was just trying to help her.”

You looked away, your mind racing to process everything Azriel was telling you. You had been so sure, so convinced that you were protecting Elain by shutting Azriel out. But now, with this new information, everything felt uncertain, like the ground had shifted beneath your feet.

“Azriel, I…” you started, but the words caught in your throat. You didn’t know what to say, how to respond. You had built up walls around your heart, walls meant to protect both you and Elain from the pain of betrayal. But now those walls were crumbling, leaving you vulnerable and confused.

Azriel took another step closer, his voice gentle as he spoke. “Y/N, please. Don’t shut me out. Let’s talk about this—really talk. Give me a chance to show you that this bond isn’t something to be feared. It’s something that could be… everything.”

You stood there, trying to process everything Azriel had just told you. The confusion, the guilt, the realization that you had misunderstood everything—it all came crashing down at once. You looked away from Azriel, your gaze dropping to the floor as you struggled to make sense of it all.

“Okay,” you finally muttered, more to yourself than to him. “Now I actually feel like a dumbass.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you cringed internally. But when you glanced back up at Azriel, you found him staring at you with wide eyes for a moment—before a warm, rich laugh escaped him. It was a sound you hadn’t expected, a sound that cut through the tension and made your own lips twitch into a reluctant smile.

Azriel shook his head, still chuckling softly. “You’re not a dumbass, Y/N. Just… someone who cares a lot about her friend.”

You let out a shaky breath, your shoulders relaxing slightly as the weight of the misunderstanding began to lift. But even with the air between you lightened, you couldn’t shake the lingering worry, the uncertainty of what this all meant.

“I just… I don’t know you that well,” you admitted, your voice quieter now, more hesitant. “And this bond… it’s a lot to take in. I was so worried about Elain’s feelings that I didn’t even stop to think about how I felt. About how to navigate this.”

Azriel’s expression softened further, and he took a careful step closer, making sure not to crowd you. “I understand. The bond is… overwhelming, especially when it comes out of nowhere. And I know we don’t know each other well yet, but that’s something we can work on. We don’t have to rush into anything, Y/N. We can take this one step at a time, if that’s what you need.”

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze fully for the first time since the bond had snapped. There was no pressure in his eyes, no demand—just a quiet patience that made your heart ache with a strange mix of relief and something else, something warmer.

“But… what if this doesn’t work?” you asked, your voice small, the fear you had been trying to suppress finally finding its way out. “What if I can’t be what you need?”

Azriel’s eyes softened even more, and he shook his head gently. “Y/N, you don’t have to be anything but yourself. The bond doesn’t demand perfection—it’s just a connection, a starting point. We figure the rest out together.”

You swallowed, feeling the sincerity in his words. The fear was still there, gnawing at the edges of your mind, but it was tempered now by something else—a tentative hope that maybe, just maybe, this could work.

“Okay,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but Azriel caught it nonetheless.

He smiled softly, his wings shifting slightly as if in relief. “Okay,” he echoed. “One step at a time.”

For a moment, you both stood there in the quiet of the kitchen, the bond humming faintly between you. It wasn’t perfect, and it wasn’t without its complications, but it was something. And for the first time since the bond had snapped, you felt like maybe you could handle this—together.

Azriel extended his hand, not as a demand, but as an offer. “How about we start with something simple? A walk, maybe? Just to talk, get to know each other.”

You hesitated for a moment, the anxiety still lingering, but then you nodded slowly, reaching out to take his hand. His grip was warm, reassuring, and as his fingers closed around yours, you felt a little of that fear ease away.

“Yeah,” you agreed, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “A walk sounds good.”

And as you both stepped out of the kitchen, hand in hand, you couldn’t help but feel that maybe—just maybe—this was the beginning of something worth taking a chance on.

[fr0stf4ll]

Forge of Starlight - Epilogue - A New Dawn

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the heart of Velaris, a skilled blacksmith's quiet life is turned upside down when unexpected bonds begin to form with the enigmatic Spymaster of the Night Court. As she navigates the challenges of her craft and the complexities of newfound relationships, she discovers that love and loyalty may be the strongest forces of all in a world where darkness often lingers just beyond the light.

word count ; 4.1k

warning; mentions of death, fight.

notes; Hey so here is the last chapter of the story, i hope that you enjoyed it. It was something very new to me to write such story but i'm happy that some of you stayed until the end. I'm working on some one shots for the moment, much lighter than this story, my requests are also open for those who have ideas. See you soon and thank you again <333

here is the link for part 16

---

The first rays of morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow across the room. You stirred in the warmth of your bed, the familiar scent of home wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. As you slowly blinked your eyes open, the first thing you saw was Azriel, lying beside you, his gaze already on you, filled with love and warmth.

“Hello, my love,” he whispered, his voice soft and tender as he reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face.

A smile spread across your lips as you leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand on your cheek grounding you in the present, in this moment that was filled with peace and contentment. You reached out, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him close as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Good morning,” you murmured against his skin, your voice still thick with sleep but laced with happiness. You hugged him tighter, savoring the feeling of his strong arms wrapping around you in return, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go.

These were the moments you cherished most—the quiet, peaceful mornings where it was just the two of you, wrapped up in each other, the world outside nothing more than a distant memory. It was a far cry from the life you had once lived, filled with turmoil and pain, but now… now, there was only love, only happiness.

After a few moments, you pulled back slightly to look at him, your eyes tracing the familiar lines of his face. There was a softness in his gaze, a quiet joy that made your heart swell with love.

“I still can’t believe this is our life,” you whispered, your fingers gently brushing over his cheek. “That we’re here, together, after everything…”

Azriel’s smile deepened, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you close for a gentle, lingering kiss. “It’s our life, Y/N. Our home. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.”

You glanced around the room, taking in the space that had become your sanctuary, your haven. The apartment was different from the one you had once shared with Alex, the one filled with so many memories—both good and painful. This was a new place, a new beginning. The walls were painted a soft, calming shade, and the furniture was a mix of both your tastes—modern pieces blended with rustic touches that gave the space warmth and character.

It was your home, yours and Azriel’s, and every corner of it reflected the life you were building together.

The decision to move had been difficult, but ultimately necessary. You had wanted a fresh start, a place that wasn’t haunted by the ghosts of your past, a place where you and Azriel could build something new, something that was just yours. And here, in this apartment in the heart of Velaris, you had found that.

“Are you happy?” Azriel asked, his voice gentle as he searched your eyes, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You nodded, a smile spreading across your lips as you leaned into his touch. “I am. More than I ever thought I could be.”

Azriel’s eyes softened, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead, holding you close. “Good. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

You sighed contentedly, resting your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “And you? Are you happy?”

He chuckled softly, his hand gently stroking your hair. “How could I not be? I have everything I’ve ever wanted, right here with you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the peace of the moment wash over you. Two years had passed since that fateful night in the forest, since you had reclaimed your power and your life. So much had changed since then, but through it all, Azriel had been by your side, your constant, your anchor.

Becoming the emissary of the Night Court had been a natural progression. You had always been skilled in diplomacy, in navigating the complex web of relationships between the courts. And now, you used those skills to strengthen the Night Court’s position, to forge new alliances and maintain old ones. It was a role that suited you, that gave you purpose.

But even though you had taken on this new role, you hadn’t completely left behind the forge. Blacksmithing was still a part of you, a part of your soul. Now, it was more of a hobby, something you did when you needed to clear your mind or when inspiration struck. You had set up a small workshop in the apartment, where you would spend hours tinkering with new designs, creating weapons that were as much art as they were instruments of war.

It was a balance that brought you peace, a way to honor your past while embracing your future.

As you lay there in Azriel’s arms, you couldn’t help but think about how far you had come, how much you had grown. The pain of the past would always be a part of you, but it no longer defined you. You had found a way to move forward, to build a life filled with love and happiness.

Azriel shifted slightly, his hand tilting your chin up so that you were looking into his eyes. “What are you thinking about?”

You smiled softly, your hand coming up to rest over his heart. “Just… everything. How lucky I am. How grateful I am to have you.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing over your lips before he leaned in to kiss you, slow and sweet. “I’m the lucky one,” he murmured against your lips.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “We’re both lucky, then.”

He pulled you closer, holding you tight as if he never wanted to let go. And in that moment, you knew that this was where you were meant to be—right here, in Azriel’s arms, in the home you had built together.

And no matter what the future held, you knew that you would face it together, with love, with strength, and with the unbreakable bond that had brought you both to this moment.

As the morning light grew brighter, you felt a sense of peace settle over you, a quiet contentment that filled your heart. This was your life now, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

The day passed peacefully, a gentle rhythm of tasks and small moments of joy that filled your new home with warmth. As evening approached, the anticipation of gathering with the Inner Circle brought a sense of excitement. The bond you had with Azriel’s family—the family you had become a part of—was stronger than ever. Tonight was just one of those nights where you could all come together, relax, and enjoy each other's company.

You dressed in something simple yet elegant, a deep blue dress that complemented the rich tones of Azriel’s favorite color. He smiled approvingly when he saw you, his eyes lingering with a mix of admiration and love. “You look stunning,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“Thank you,” you replied, returning the affection with a gentle smile. “And you look as dashing as ever.”

Azriel, in his usual dark attire that fit him perfectly, offered you his arm, and together, you made your way through the winding streets of Velaris to the townhouse where the rest of the Inner Circle awaited. The stars were just beginning to appear in the sky, twinkling above like a promise of the good night ahead.

When you arrived, the townhouse was already filled with the familiar sounds of laughter and conversation. The scent of delicious food wafted through the air, mingling with the warmth and comfort that always radiated from this place.

As you stepped inside, you were immediately greeted by Cassian’s booming voice. “There they are! Took you two long enough.”

You laughed, shaking your head as Cassian pulled you into a bear hug. “Good to see you too, Cassian,” you teased, patting his back before he released you.

Mor was next, her smile bright as she took your hands, squeezing them affectionately. “You look radiant, Y/N. I’m so glad you’re here. You have to tell me everything, how was the Summer Court, you have been there for two whole weeks. ”

“Of course haha. It’s good to be here,” you replied, returning her smile. Mor’s warmth and friendship had been a constant source of comfort over the years, and you cherished her for it.

Amren, ever the enigma, nodded to you from her place near the fireplace, her sharp gaze softened just enough to convey her approval. You nodded back, grateful for the bond you had formed with her—a bond built on mutual respect and understanding.

Rhysand was the last to greet you, his expression filled with genuine affection as he embraced you. “Welcome, Y/N. It’s not the same without you here.”

“Thank you, Rhys,” you replied, feeling the warmth of his words settle in your heart.

The dinner that followed was filled with laughter, stories, and the easy camaraderie that had come to define your time with the Inner Circle. The food was delicious, as always, and the wine flowed freely as the conversation moved from topic to topic.

At one point, Cassian leaned back in his chair, a mischievous grin on his face. “So, Y/N, how’s the emissary life treating you? Got any juicy tales of court intrigue to share?”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s been interesting, to say the least. But I think you’ll have to wait for the next Night Court council meeting for the really juicy details.”

Cassian groaned, pretending to be disappointed. “You’re no fun.”

Mor, sitting beside him, elbowed him playfully. “Leave her alone, Cass. She’s already done enough, wrangling all those high lords and their egos.”

“I’m sure Y/N has some good stories,” Rhysand chimed in, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “After all, she’s met some rather interesting characters over the years.”

You rolled your eyes good-naturedly. “Oh, there have been a few. But I think the best story is how I managed to survive the chaos of this lot.”

Azriel squeezed your hand under the table, his smile softening as he looked at you. “You’ve done more than survive. You’ve thrived.”

The conversation flowed effortlessly, touching on everything from the latest news in Prythian to the more personal, day-to-day happenings in Velaris. There was an ease to it, a sense of belonging that made you feel truly at home.

As the evening wore on, the group moved to the sitting room, where more wine was poured and the fire crackled warmly in the hearth. You found yourself nestled on the couch beside Azriel, his arm draped comfortably around your shoulders.

Rhysand raised his glass, his gaze sweeping over the room. “To family,” he said, his voice filled with warmth and sincerity. “To the bonds we share, and to the future we’re building together.”

Everyone raised their glasses in a toast, echoing his words. “To family.”

You sipped your wine, feeling the truth of those words resonate deep within you. This was your family now—these incredible, powerful, and loving people who had welcomed you into their lives and hearts. And as you sat there, surrounded by laughter and warmth, you knew that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

The night eventually wound down, and one by one, the members of the Inner Circle began to make their way home. Cassian and Mor were the first to leave, Cassian pulling you into another hug and whispering a teasing remark about not working too hard. Mor kissed your cheek, promising to visit you soon for some “much-needed girl time.”

Amren nodded to you as she departed, a rare but genuine smile playing on her lips. Rhysand was the last to see you off, his hand resting on your shoulder as he looked into your eyes.

“You’ve come a long way, Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice filled with pride. “We’re lucky to have you with us.”

You smiled, feeling a lump in your throat as you nodded. “I’m lucky to have all of you.”

With that, you and Azriel made your way back to your apartment, the night air cool and refreshing as you walked through the quiet streets of Velaris. The city was bathed in moonlight, the stars twinkling above like a promise of all the good things still to come.

When you finally reached your home, you paused at the door, turning to look at Azriel. His expression was soft, filled with the same love and affection you had seen that morning.

“Ready to call it a night?” he asked, his voice low and gentle.

You smiled, feeling a sense of peace settle over you as you nodded. “Yes, let’s go home.”

—

The cemetery was quiet, the air filled with the faint scent of blooming flowers as spring finally began to take hold of the land. You walked slowly along the path, the familiar weight of the past pressing lightly on your shoulders. It had been a long time since you’d visited this place—too long, and the guilt of it lingered in your chest.

As you approached Alex’s grave, a sense of peace washed over you. The headstone was simple, yet elegant, adorned with a few weathered tokens left by you and others over the years. You knelt down, reaching out to gently brush away a few stray leaves that had settled on the stone.

“Hi, Alex,” you whispered, your voice soft as the memories flooded back. “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I visited. Life has been… well, it’s been busy.”

You sat down, crossing your legs beneath you as you let the silence stretch between you and the grave. It felt good to be here, to talk to him, even if he couldn’t answer.

“I’ve been working as an emissary for the Night Court,” you began, a small smile playing on your lips. “It’s been challenging, but I think I’m making a difference. I’ve visited nearly every court, negotiating, building relationships. I even went back to the Day Court recently. Helion still hasn’t given up on trying to recruit me, by the way.”

You chuckled softly, imagining how Alex would have laughed at that.

“The shop… it’s closed now. I still do some blacksmithing, but it’s more of a hobby than anything else. I think you’d understand why I needed to step away from it, why it was important to start fresh. Azriel and I have a new apartment in Velaris—our home. It’s a place where we can build something new, something just for us.”

You paused, your fingers idly tracing the grooves in the stone. “I miss you, Alex. I think about you all the time. There’s so much I wish you could have seen, so much I wish we could have done together. But I hope… I hope you’re at peace.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of all that had been left unsaid. You felt a lump form in your throat, but you swallowed it down, determined to keep your voice steady.

“I love you,” you whispered, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I always will.”

As you sat there in the quiet, you felt a gentle touch on your elbow. You turned to see Azriel standing beside you, his expression soft and understanding. “It’s time to go,” he said gently, his voice filled with warmth. “We have dinner tonight, with everyone.”

You nodded, giving the grave one last lingering look. “I’ll be back soon, Alex,” you promised. “And I’ll bring you more stories.”

As you stood up, your eyes caught sight of something near the base of the headstone—a small, delicate flower, its petals a brilliant shade of blue, the same color as the flames of your power. It hadn’t been there before, and its sudden appearance felt like a sign, a gentle reminder that life goes on, that new beginnings are always possible, even after the coldest winters.

You smiled, a sense of calm settling over you as you took Azriel’s hand, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. Together, you turned and walked away from the grave, leaving behind the past but carrying its memory with you.

As you left the cemetery, the sky above was clear, the stars beginning to twinkle as evening approached. The world felt alive, vibrant, full of promise. And as you and Azriel made your way to the townhouse, ready to join your family for dinner, you knew that you were exactly where you were meant to be—moving forward, with love, with hope, and with the strength of those who had come before you.

The small blue flower by Alex’s grave swayed gently in the breeze, a symbol of the new life that spring had brought, a life that you would continue to cherish and honor, now and always.

---

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[fr0stf4ll]

Forge of Starlight - Part 16

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the heart of Velaris, a skilled blacksmith's quiet life is turned upside down when unexpected bonds begin to form with the enigmatic Spymaster of the Night Court. As she navigates the challenges of her craft and the complexities of newfound relationships, she discovers that love and loyalty may be the strongest forces of all in a world where darkness often lingers just beyond the light.

word count ; 4.1k

warning; mentions of death, fight.

notes; Helloooo, so last chapter until the epilogue :((( Honestly I never thought that people would actually enjoy whatever i could write but thank you guys so much for being here until the end of this story. I'm leaving you here to enjoy this part, see you soon for the epilogue, bisous bisous <333

here is the link for part 15 or epilogue

---

The sun was beginning to set on your last day in the Day Court, casting a warm golden light over the palace as you prepared to leave. The negotiations had been a success, and the alliance between the Night and Day Courts was now firmly in place. As you made your way through the opulent halls of Helion’s palace, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. This trip had been more than just a diplomatic mission; it had been a personal victory, a step forward in the new life you were building.

Before you could reach the exit, however, Helion himself appeared, his usual charming smile in place as he approached you.

“Y/N,” he greeted, his voice smooth as silk. “I see you’re about to depart. I wanted to catch you before you left.”

You smiled warmly at the High Lord, appreciating his hospitality and the successful outcome of your negotiations. “Thank you for everything, Helion. It’s been a productive and enjoyable visit.”

He chuckled, a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned in slightly. “I’m glad to hear it. And, of course, I must remind you that my previous offer still stands. There’s always a place for you here, as more than just an emissary.”

The mischievous tone in his voice was unmistakable, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly, shaking your head in amusement. Helion had made a similar proposition the last time you were here—an invitation to join his court as one of his partners, an offer that was as flattering as it was surprising.

“Helion,” you replied with a smile, “as tempting as your offer might be, I’m afraid I must decline once again. My place is in the Night Court.”

Helion’s grin widened, but there was no real disappointment in his eyes—only a fondness that spoke of genuine respect. “I had to try, didn’t I? But I suppose Azriel would have my head if I pursued it any further.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “He might indeed.”

With a final smile and a nod of farewell, you turned to leave the palace. As you made your way out, Azriel was waiting for you, his wings tucked neatly behind him, his expression curious.

“What was that about?” he asked as the two of you began walking toward the edge of the palace grounds, where you would take flight back to the Night Court.

You hesitated for a moment, wondering how to phrase it without making it awkward. Finally, you decided to be straightforward. “Helion… made an offer the last time I was here. He asked if I wanted to live in the Day Court and become one of his, um, partners.”

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. “He did?”

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yes, he did. But I turned him down, obviously. My place is with you, Azriel, in the Night Court.”

A faint flush of possessiveness crossed Azriel’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a more relaxed expression as he nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. Helion may be charming, but he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

You laughed softly, feeling the warmth of his words. The two of you took to the skies shortly after, Azriel’s strong wings carrying you both high above the Day Court, the landscape below shrinking as you gained altitude.

As you flew, the air grew cooler, and the sun dipped lower on the horizon. The journey was peaceful at first, the two of you flying side by side in comfortable silence. But as you neared the border between the Day and Night Courts, Azriel suggested taking a brief rest.

You landed in a small clearing, surrounded by tall trees and the distant sound of running water. The silence of the forest was a stark contrast to the opulence of Helion’s palace, but it was a welcome change. You both sat down on a fallen log, catching your breath and enjoying the quiet.

But the peace was shattered in an instant.

A sudden rustle in the trees caught your attention, and before you could react, an arrow whizzed through the air, narrowly missing your shoulder. You jerked back, adrenaline surging through you as Azriel’s wings flared protectively, his shadows immediately coiling around you.

“Get down!” Azriel barked, his voice sharp with command.

You dropped to the ground, your heart pounding as you scanned the trees for the source of the attack. Azriel was already moving, his shadows spreading out like tendrils, searching for the assailant. But the next arrow that came was aimed directly at Azriel, and he barely dodged it in time, the tip grazing his arm.

The sight of blood on Azriel’s skin sent a wave of fury through you. And then, you saw him—the figure emerging from the shadows of the trees, his bow drawn, his face twisted in a sneer that made your blood run cold.

It was him. The man who had killed Alex. The man who had shattered your world.

Recognition hit you like a physical blow, and the memories you had tried so hard to bury came rushing back—Alex’s lifeless body, the blood, the helplessness you had felt in that moment. But now, there was something else—a burning rage that ignited in your chest, fueling your resolve.

Azriel’s gaze snapped to you, his eyes filled with concern as he saw the recognition in your expression. “Y/N…?”

“He’s the one,” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. “He’s the one who killed Alex.”

Azriel’s expression hardened instantly, his shadows curling around him like living armor. “Stay behind me,” he commanded, his voice cold and sharp.

But you couldn’t just stand there and watch. You had trained for years, honed your skills, and even without your powers, you were a force to be reckoned with. Ignoring his command, you drew your own blade, the familiar weight comforting in your hand.

The man who had killed Alex stepped forward from the shadows, his sneer growing as he saw the defiance in your eyes. He was taller and broader than you remembered, his presence exuding malice. His eyes flicked to Azriel, then back to you, a cruel smile spreading across his face.

“So, the little blacksmith thinks she can take me on?” His voice dripped with contempt. “You were nothing then, and you’re nothing now.”

Rage flared in your chest, but you forced yourself to stay calm, to focus. “You took everything from me,” you said, your voice steady. “I won’t let you do it again.”

He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

Without warning, he lunged at you, his blade flashing in the dim light. You moved quickly, sidestepping his attack and bringing your own blade up to meet his. The clash of metal rang out through the clearing as your weapons collided, sparks flying.

Azriel was at your side in an instant, his own sword a blur as he parried an attack from another assailant. The two of you fought back to back, a seamless dance of steel and shadows as you defended each other. Despite the chaos, there was a strange rhythm to your movements, a sense of unity that made you stronger together.

But the man wasn’t finished. He pressed forward, his attacks relentless, each strike aimed to kill. You blocked, parried, and countered, your movements fluid but desperate. He was strong, stronger than you had anticipated, and each blow he landed sent a shockwave through your arms.

“Is this all you’ve got?” he taunted, his blade coming dangerously close to your throat.

You gritted your teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

He snarled, his next attack a vicious swing that you barely managed to deflect. The force of it sent you stumbling back, your feet skidding on the forest floor. He saw his opening and lunged, his blade aimed straight for your heart.

But Azriel was faster. With a powerful beat of his wings, he knocked the man off balance, his sword slashing across his arm. The man cried out in pain, his attack faltering as blood spilled from the wound.

“You’re not alone,” Azriel said, his voice a low growl as he stood protectively in front of you. His shadows twisted and coiled around him, ready to strike at any moment.

But the man’s eyes glinted with something dark, something malicious. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, twisted dagger—its blade dark and dripping with a substance that made your blood run cold.

“Let’s see how you handle this,” he hissed, and with a swift motion, he hurled the dagger straight at you.

Time seemed to slow. You saw the dagger flying through the air, its deadly tip aimed directly at you. But before you could react, before you could even raise your blade to deflect it, Azriel was there.

With a burst of speed, he threw himself in front of you, his wings wrapping around you in a protective cocoon. The dagger struck him, the poisoned blade sinking deep into his side. Azriel gasped, the pain evident in his eyes, but he didn’t falter. He held you close, shielding you from further harm.

“Azriel!” you cried out, your voice filled with panic as you felt his grip tighten around you.

“I’m fine,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, though you could see the pain etched on his face.

But the man wasn’t done. He lunged forward, his sword raised to finish the job. You knew you couldn’t let him win—not after everything he had taken from you. With a surge of adrenaline, you broke free from Azriel’s protective embrace, your blade flashing as you met the man’s attack head-on.

The clash of metal echoed through the clearing as you fought with everything you had. The man’s strength was overwhelming, but you were driven by something more powerful—a need for justice, for vengeance, for closure. You fought with precision, every move calculated, every strike purposeful.

But then, with a sudden, brutal twist, the man disarmed you, sending your blade flying from your hand. He smiled, cruel and victorious, as he raised his sword to strike you down.

In that split second, everything seemed to slow. You saw the blade descending toward you, and you knew you couldn’t avoid it. But just as the sword was about to connect, something inside you shifted. The pain, the loss, the anger—all of it erupted into a single, overwhelming force.

Blue flames exploded from your body, engulfing the man in a wave of fire. He screamed, his sword clattering to the ground as he stumbled back, the flames consuming him. You felt the power surging through you, uncontrolled, untamed, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was finally being brought to justice.

Azriel, struggling to stay on his feet, watched in awe as the flames roared around you. Even in his weakened state, he could see that this was something different—something more than just the return of your powers.

But then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the flames flickered and died, leaving you standing there, gasping for breath. The man was gone, reduced to ash by the sheer force of your power.

You collapsed to your knees, the exhaustion hitting you like a tidal wave. Azriel was at your side in an instant, despite his own injuries, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you close.

“It’s over,” he whispered, his voice shaking with relief. “It’s finally over.”

But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. The weight of what had just happened, of what you had just done, was too much to bear. You buried your face in Azriel’s chest, letting the tears fall as he held you close, his wings encircling you protectively.

For a long time, neither of you moved. You just stayed there, holding onto each other as the night deepened around you, the stars above bearing silent witness to the end of your long and painful journey.

And as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, you knew that you were no longer the same person you had been when this journey began. You were stronger, more powerful, and ready to face whatever came next—together.

For now, though, you were safe. You were together. And that was enough.

The night was still and quiet, the fire you and Azriel had set crackling softly as you both slept under the canopy of stars. But something stirred deep within you, pulling you from the comfort of sleep, from the warmth of Azriel’s arms. You woke with a start, a strange sensation fluttering in your chest—an echo of the past, of a time when you were just a child, lost and frightened in the woods, when a light fell from the sky and changed everything.

The feeling was overwhelming, almost like a call, and you couldn’t ignore it. Slowly, you slipped out from under Azriel’s arm, careful not to wake him as you stood and made your way into the forest. The trees seemed to part for you, the path ahead illuminated by the soft glow of starlight filtering through the branches above. There was something different about the night, something almost magical. The stars, usually fixed in their places, appeared to be moving, guiding you toward something—toward someone.

Azriel stirred behind you, waking as he felt your absence. He sat up, his eyes searching for you in the darkness, his voice low and filled with concern. “Y/N? Where are you going?”

But you didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your focus was entirely on the pull that was leading you deeper into the forest, a pull that felt familiar and yet strange, like a forgotten memory resurfacing after so many years. You moved forward, your feet carrying you with a purpose you didn’t fully understand but couldn’t resist.

Azriel got up and followed you, his shadows wrapping around him protectively as he trailed behind, his gaze fixed on your form moving through the trees. He didn’t call out to you again, sensing that whatever was happening was beyond his understanding, something deeply personal, something you needed to face on your own. But he was there, watching over you, ready to step in if you needed him.

The stars above continued to shift, forming patterns in the sky that seemed to guide you toward a clearing up ahead. And then you saw it—a soft, glowing light, just as you remembered it from that night so long ago. The same light that had once fallen from the sky, that had sought you out, asking for your help when you were just a scared child.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you approached it, your breath catching in your throat as the light grew brighter, more defined. You reached out a hand, trembling as your fingers brushed against the glowing form. And as you did, the light began to shift, to change, taking on a form that made your breath catch in your throat.

It was the form of a boy—no longer the small, curious light, but the figure of Alex. The sight of him, so familiar and yet so different, made your heart ache with a longing you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel since the day he died.

“Alex…” you whispered, your voice breaking as you took a step closer, your hand reaching out toward him.

The figure smiled softly, a look of deep affection in his eyes. “I never wanted to leave you, Nana.”

The sound of his voice, that old nickname, was enough to make tears well up in your eyes. You took another step, your fingers brushing against his cheek, but there was no warmth, only the soft glow of the light that had taken his shape.

“I tried to fight it,” Alex continued, his voice tinged with regret. “I didn’t want to leave your side, but… it was time. It was time for me to go, but I couldn’t leave without helping you one last time.”

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. “What do you mean, Alex?”

He looked down, as if gathering his thoughts, before meeting your gaze again. “I knew you needed your powers back. I knew you needed to face the man who took everything from you, from us. I couldn’t fight him on my own, but I could lead him to you, to where you would find the strength to defeat him, to reclaim what was yours.”

The tears spilled over, and you reached out, as if you could hold him, as if you could bring him back to life with your touch. “I didn’t want to lose you,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, Alex… I’m so sorry…”

He shook his head, his expression softening with a sad smile. “Don’t be sorry, Nana. You gave me everything. You were my family, my home. I never wanted to leave you, but… it was time. And I’m glad I could see you one last time.”

You felt a sob rise in your throat, but you forced it down, not wanting to waste a single moment of this fleeting encounter. “I miss you so much,” you choked out, your hand still hovering near his face, wishing you could feel the warmth of his skin one last time.

“I know,” Alex replied, his voice gentle. “But you’re not alone, Nana. You have a new family now, people who love you, who will protect you. And you have Azriel. He’ll take care of you.”

At the mention of Azriel, you glanced over your shoulder, finding him standing just at the edge of the clearing, his expression unreadable as he watched the exchange. His presence was a comfort, a reminder that even in this surreal moment, you weren’t alone.

Alex’s figure began to flicker, the light growing fainter as he spoke again. “I’m proud of you, Nana. You’ve become everything I knew you could be. And now, it’s time for me to go. But I’ll always be with you… in here.” He placed a hand over your heart, a gesture you couldn’t feel, but the meaning was clear.

You nodded, tears streaming down your face as you whispered, “I love you, Alex.”

He smiled one last time, a look of peace in his eyes. “I love you too, Nana.”

And with that, the light that had taken his form began to fade, growing dimmer until it was nothing more than a soft glow in the air, and then… it was gone.

You stood there, staring at the empty space where he had been, your heart aching with both sorrow and a strange sense of closure. The forest was silent again, the stars above returning to their usual places in the sky, as if the moment had never happened.

But it had happened, and it had changed something deep within you.

Azriel stepped forward, his footsteps soft as he approached you. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask for an explanation. Instead, he simply wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace. You buried your face in his chest, the tears finally spilling over as you let yourself grieve, let yourself feel the loss and the love and the bittersweet relief that Alex was at peace.

Azriel held you close, his presence steady and reassuring as you cried, his hands soothing as they ran through your hair. He didn’t ask for details, didn’t press you for answers. He simply let you feel, let you mourn, and when the tears finally slowed, he whispered softly, “I’m here, Y/N. I’m here.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, your voice shaky but resolute. “I know… and I’m so grateful for that.”

Azriel wiped away a stray tear with his thumb, his gaze filled with a deep, unwavering love. “You’re not alone, and you never will be. I promise.”

With a final glance at the spot where Alex had stood, you took a deep breath, finding strength in Azriel’s words, in his embrace. You knew that the pain would always be there, a scar on your heart, but you also knew that you had the strength to move forward, to carry on.

As you rested in Azriel's arms, finding solace in his warmth, something unexpected began to happen. Your hair, which had been dampened by the night’s dew and your tears, suddenly lifted, as if caught in an invisible breeze. You both froze, eyes wide with surprise as small, ethereal flames—blue and flickering like the softest candlelight—began to emerge from your skin, dancing along your arms and shoulders.

The blue fire, your fire, was back.

Azriel looked down at you, awe and concern mingling in his expression. “Y/N… your powers…”

You nodded, barely able to believe it yourself. You had felt this once before, long ago when you were just a child, when that mysterious light had first found you and changed your life. And now, after everything you had lost and regained, the power was returning, the flames of the phoenix rekindling within you.

The realization hit you like a wave, bringing with it a sense of clarity and purpose. You knew what this meant, knew what needed to happen next.

Without a word, you reached out and grabbed Azriel’s hand, your grip firm yet gentle. “Let’s go,” you whispered, your voice filled with quiet determination. “Let’s fly together.”

Azriel looked at you, confusion flickering in his eyes, but there was also trust—complete and unwavering trust. He nodded, his wings flexing in readiness, though he still didn’t fully understand what was happening.

But then, as if in response to your unspoken command, the blue flames on your body flared brighter, spreading out from your back in a sudden, powerful surge. They formed into wings—majestic, blazing wings of blue fire that extended behind you, their glow illuminating the dark forest around you. They were the wings of the phoenix, a symbol of rebirth, of power reclaimed.

Azriel’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the transformation, the sight of you standing there, your flames burning bright, filling him with a mixture of awe and pride. You weren’t just Y/N anymore—you were something more, something incredible.

With a powerful beat of your flaming wings, you lifted off the ground, rising into the night sky. Azriel followed instantly, his powerful Illyrian wings carrying him up to meet you, his shadows swirling around him protectively. The two of you soared higher and higher, leaving the forest below, until you were both surrounded by nothing but the endless night and the stars that watched over you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You simply flew, side by side, your flames and his shadows mingling in the cool air. The world below seemed distant, the troubles and sorrows that had weighed you down now far behind. Up here, it was just the two of you, free and unburdened.

Azriel looked over at you, his eyes softening as he took in the sight of you in your full power, your flames glowing with an ethereal beauty that took his breath away. “You’re… incredible,” he murmured, his voice filled with genuine admiration and love.

You turned to him, a soft smile playing on your lips as you reached out, your hand finding his in the darkness. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Az.”

He squeezed your hand, his touch grounding you even as you soared through the sky. “You’ve always had this power, Y/N. I’m just glad I get to see you embrace it.”

You smiled at him, feeling a warmth that went beyond the fire burning in your veins. The bond between you thrummed with a quiet, deep connection, a love that was stronger than any magic.

The two of you flew together, circling through the sky, your wings creating trails of fire and shadow that intertwined, dancing across the stars. It was a moment of pure freedom, a release from all the pain and hardship you had endured. Up here, in the night sky, with Azriel by your side, you felt truly alive, truly yourself.

After a while, you slowed, hovering in the air as you looked out over the horizon. The stars seemed to shine brighter, their light reflecting off the blue flames of your wings. You turned to Azriel, your heart full, your voice soft as you spoke.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your eyes locked with his. “For everything.”

Azriel smiled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he held your hand. “I’m with you, always. No matter what.”

With a final, powerful beat of your wings, you soared higher, Azriel right beside you, your hearts beating in unison as you flew together into the night, leaving the past behind and embracing the future that awaited you both.

The night was yours, and as you flew together, flames and shadows intertwined, you knew that whatever came next, you would face it together.

---

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