mahalachives

[mahalachives]

Part 2: The Night We Met

Azriel x Reader | Romance, Angst Azriel finally meets his mate. Only to realize you exist only in his dreams. Each night with you feels achingly real, until one touch snaps the mating bond into place. When he wakes with only your scent and fading clues, he knows one thing: he’ll tear the world apart to find you. Part 1

The House of Wind had never felt so much like a cage.

Three days had passed since Azriel woke with the mating bond blazing in his chest, and he hadn't been still for longer than five minutes at a time. His shadows writhed constantly now, agitated and seeking, whispering fragments that made no sense.

White stone, lavender fields, dying light, hurry hurry hurry.

"You look like hell," Cassian observed from the doorway.

Azriel didn't look up from the map spread across his desk, covered in marks and crossed-out locations. Red ink bled across mortal territories like wounds. "I'm fine."

"Right. And I'm a delicate flower." Cassian stepped inside, noting the clothes scattered on the floor, the unmade bed, the way Azriel's hands trembled as he traced routes through the mortal lands. "When's the last time you slept? Actually slept?"

"I sleep." Azriel's voice was rough from disuse.

"Having visions doesn't count as rest, brother."

Azriel's head snapped up, hazel eyes blazing. "They're not visions."

The rawness in his voice made Cassian take a step back. In five centuries of friendship, he'd seen Azriel angry, cold, even broken. But he'd never seen him desperate.

"Az," Cassian said carefully. "What's going on?"

Before Azriel could answer, his shadows suddenly coalesced into a tight spiral. He doubled over as the mating bond flared with such intensity it stole his breath. Somewhere—somewhere—his mate was in pain.

"Fuck," he gasped, white-knuckled against his desk.

Cassian was beside him instantly. "Azriel, what—"

"Get Rhys. Now."

"A mating bond," Rhysand said slowly, violet eyes studying Azriel with careful intensity. "Through dreams."

They gathered in Rhys's study—Azriel rigid in his chair, Cassian hovering by the window, Feyre perched on the arm of Rhys's chair. The High Lord had probed gently at Azriel's mental shields, and even that light touch had been enough to feel the bond's golden fire.

"It's real," Azriel said for the third time. "She's real. And she's dying."

"Dream-bonds are theoretical at best," Rhys said carefully. "The few documented cases—"

"I don't care about documentation." Azriel's shadows began to writhe more violently, responding to his agitation. "I can smell her on my skin. My shadows reach for her even when I'm awake. The bond is there, Rhys. You felt it yourself."

"I felt something," Rhys agreed. "But bonds don't typically form with humans, and they certainly don't form across planes of existence."

"She's not typical." Azriel's voice quieted, and something tender crept into his expression. "She can touch my shadows. They play with her like they're pets." He looked up, and Feyre's heart clenched at the desperation in his eyes. "She taught me to make flower crowns."

The simple statement hung in the air. Azriel, who hadn't allowed himself simple pleasures in centuries, making flower crowns with a dying girl in his dreams.

"What do you need?" Feyre asked softly.

Rhys shot her a warning look, but she ignored it. She knew what it was like to feel a bond snap into place, knew the desperate need to reach your mate, to protect them.

"Information," Azriel said immediately. "Access to the mortal healers' records. Permission to cross court boundaries without diplomatic protocol." His shadows curled around his wrists like shackles. "And time. I need time."

"Az," Cassian said gently. "Even if she is real, if she's dying—"

"Then I'll find a way to save her." The words carried such fierce conviction that no one dared argue.

Rhys studied his brother's face—the hollow cheeks, the way his hands clenched into fists, the barely leashed violence in his posture. This was Azriel stripped to his most essential self: a creature built for hunting, for finding what was lost.

"You have three weeks," he said finally. "After that, you come home and we reassess."

"I'll need longer—"

"Three weeks, Azriel." Rhys's voice carried the weight of a High Lord's command. "If the bond is real, if she exists, you'll find her. You always find what you're hunting for."

Always, Azriel thought grimly. But what if this time was different? What if this time he was already too late?

The dreams were becoming his salvation and his torment.

Each night, you looked paler, more translucent, but for those precious hours, you were his.

Completely, utterly his. And he was falling apart trying to hold onto you.

"You look tired," you observed during what might have been the tenth shared dream, or the hundredth. Time had no meaning in this place between sleep and waking, where golden light filtered through ancient oak leaves and the air always smelled of lavender and something uniquely you.

"I am tired," he admitted, settling beside you on the blanket you'd somehow conjured in their clearing. In the waking world, he'd been searching for six days. Six days of false hope and crushing disappointment. But here, here you were warm and whole and reaching for him.

"Come here," you murmured, opening your arms.

He went without hesitation, something in his chest unclenching as you pulled him down to rest his head in your lap. Your fingers found his hair, threading through the dark strands with a tenderness that made his throat tight.

"You carry too much," you said softly, and he could hear the frown in your voice. "Even in dreams, you can't let go."

He wanted to tell you that he couldn't let go because you were fading, because each night brought less of you to hold. Instead, he turned his face into your stomach, breathing in your scent like a drowning man gulping air.

"Tell me about your day," you said, the same request you made every night. As if his daily search for you was just ordinary work, as if this was simply a lover's reunion at day's end.

So he did, editing out the desperation, the way his hands shook when leads went cold. He told you about flying over the mortal lands, about villages tucked into valleys, about the way morning mist clung to rivers.

Safe things. Beautiful things.

Your fingers never stopped moving in his hair, occasionally trailing down to trace the shell of his ear, the line of his jaw. Touch-starved as he was, each caress sent heat racing through his veins.

"I missed you," he said against your skin, the words muffled but honest. "Every second I'm awake, I miss you."

"I'm right here," you said, but your voice sounded farther away than it should have. "I'm always here."

He lifted his head to look at you, taking in the soft curve of your mouth, the way your eyes seemed to hold starlight.

You were beautiful—heartbreakingly so—and you were his in a way that defied logic or reason.

"Kiss me," he said, the words torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

You smiled, that slow, sweet smile that undid him completely, and leaned down to press your lips to his. The kiss was soft at first, gentle, but when he made a low sound of need, you deepened it, your tongue sliding against his in a way that made him forget everything but this—you, warm and alive and wanting him.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard.

"I’ll find you," he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "I'm going to find you, and I'm going to save you."

Something flickered across your face—confusion, maybe, or fear. "Save me from what?"

The question hit him like ice water. "You're sick," he said carefully. "In the waking world, you're dying, and I'm trying to—"

"I don't feel sick," you interrupted, your brow furrowing. "I feel... tired sometimes. Like I'm forgetting something important. But not sick."

He cupped your face in his hands, memorizing every detail. "Promise me something," he said urgently. "Promise me you'll fight. Whatever is happening to you out there, promise me you won't give up."

"I don't understand," you said, but you leaned into his touch anyway, nuzzling into his palm like a cat seeking warmth.

"Promise me," he repeated, and there was something broken in his voice that made you nod.

"I promise," you whispered. "I promise I'll fight."

He kissed you again, desperate and claiming, pouring all his love and fear and desperation into the contact. You responded with equal fervor, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer until there was no space between you.

You curled against his side then, your head on his chest, one leg tangled between his. His shadows, which had been agitated all day, finally settled, wrapping around you both like a dark, protective cocoon. Your fingers traced idle patterns over his heart, and he caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to press soft kisses to your knuckles.

"I wish I could stay here forever," you murmured against his skin. "Just like this."

"So do I," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "So do I."

But even as he held you, he could feel you beginning to fade, your edges growing translucent in the golden light. He tightened his grip, trying to anchor you somehow, but you slipped through his fingers like morning mist.

"I have to go," you said sleepily, though you made no move to leave his arms.

"Not yet," he said, desperation creeping into his voice. "Please, not yet."

"I'm sorry," you whispered, and then you were gone, leaving him alone in the empty clearing with nothing but the memory of your warmth and the taste of your kiss on his lips.

He woke to cold dawn light streaming through his tent, the mating bond a dull ache in his chest, and the terrible knowledge that he was running out of time.

"The Shadow Lord looks ready to murder someone," Mor observed, watching Azriel interrogate a healer in one of the mortal villages.

They'd been at this for twelve days. Twelve days of flying from village to village, of Azriel questioning anyone who might have information about dying girls, of following his shadows as they searched for a scent that seemed to exist only in his memory.

The healer—a middle-aged woman with kind eyes that had turned fearful—trembled under Azriel's stare. His shadows coiled around him like living smoke, and his voice carried the promise of violence barely held in check.

"Think carefully," Azriel said, leaning forward. "A young woman. Sick for months. Dreams of places that don't exist. Has anyone mentioned—"

"Please," the healer whispered. "I've told you everything I know. There was a girl in Rosehall, but she died last week. And the merchant's daughter in Millbrook, but her illness is consumption, not—"

Azriel's shadows surged forward, and the woman flinched back.

"He might actually kill someone," Cassian muttered. "We should probably intervene before—"

"No." Rhys's voice came from behind them. They turned to see him approaching, his face grim. "Let him work. He's gotten more information in twelve days than our spies have gathered in months."

It was true. Azriel's intensity had a way of making people very eager to be helpful. Fear, it turned out, was an excellent motivator.

"Any luck?" Mor asked.

"Three possibilities," Rhys said. "A girl in Rosehall who was having prophetic dreams before slipping into a coma—but she died two days ago. A healer's daughter two villages north who's been wasting away from some unknown illness. And..." He paused, watching as Azriel's shadows suddenly stilled, as if listening to something none of them could hear. "A girl near the mortal queens' territory who's been asking about shadow-touched magic."

"Shadow-touched?" Cassian straightened. "That's not exactly common knowledge in mortal lands."

"No," Rhys agreed. "It's not."

They watched as Azriel finished with the healer, his shadows coiling around him like a dark crown. When he turned toward them, his face was carved from stone, but his eyes—his eyes burned with something that might have been hope.

"The girl near Rosehall is dead," he said flatly. "The healer's daughter has bone-rot, not the wasting sickness." His shadows began to stream in a specific direction, like a compass needle finding true north. "But there's a third option. A girl who's been asking about dream magic and shadow-touched fae. She's been sick for months, having dreams about places that don't exist."

"Where?" Cassian asked, though he could see the answer in the way Azriel's entire being seemed to orient toward something distant.

"Near Thornfield. In a cottage by the white cliffs." Azriel's voice was steady, but Cassian caught the tremor underneath. "She's there. I can feel it."

For the first time in nearly two weeks, the mating bond felt strong enough to follow.

The girl was already cold when they found her.

Azriel stood in the doorway of the modest cottage, staring at the still form beneath a patchwork quilt. She looked peaceful, younger in death than she probably had in life.

But she wasn't you. The bond lay silent in his chest, cold as winter stone.

The mother—red-eyed and hollow-cheeked—wrung her hands behind him. "She passed in her sleep," the woman whispered. "Just... slipped away."

His shadows recoiled from the body as if burned.

Wrong, they seemed to whisper. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

"Not you," he breathed, and turned away.

He was airborne before the woman could speak again, wings cutting through gray morning sky. Below him, Cassian called his name, but Azriel didn't slow. Couldn't slow.

The bond pulled him east, toward the sea cliffs, toward white stone and dying light.

That night, you flickered in and out of focus like candlelight in a draft.

"You look sad," you observed, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. Your fingers felt insubstantial, more memory than flesh.

"I found a girl today," he said, catching your hand and pressing it firmly to his cheek. "I thought... I hoped it might be you."

"But I'm right here," you said, confused.

"The real you," he clarified gently. "Your body. Where you are when you're not dreaming."

You tilted your head, and the gesture was so familiar, so perfectly you, that it made his chest ache. "I don't understand. This feels real to me."

It felt real to him too. More real than the waking world, where everything was sharp edges and bitter disappointment. Here, in this place between dreams, you were warm and whole and his. Here, the bond sang true and bright.

But here wasn't enough. Not when he could feel you slipping away a little more each night.

"Tell me about the shadows," you murmured against his throat, just as you had every night for the past week.

So he did. He told you how they'd first come to him in that dark cellar, how they'd wrapped around him like living things seeking comfort. He told you how they danced for you in the dreams, how they seemed more alive when you were near.

He told you everything, storing each moment like a treasure against the growing certainty that soon there would be nothing left to hold.

The daughter was wasting away, but her eyes were clear and lucid when they met his. Brown eyes, not the color he'd memorized from his dreams. No recognition. No pull from the bond.

"Bone-rot," her father said grimly. "Been eating at her for months. Nothing I can do now but make her comfortable."

Azriel's shadows curled inward like wounded animals. He'd been so sure, had felt something tugging him here, but the bond remained silent. Dead.

Another false lead. Another failure.

He thanked the healer and walked away, his steps mechanical. Behind him, he heard Cassian making their excuses, offering gold for their time, but the words seemed to come from very far away.

Cassian found him hours later, sitting motionless on a rooftop overlooking the village. His brother settled beside him with careful grace, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to avoid crowding.

"Az," Cassian said gently. "When did you last eat?"

"I'll eat when I find her."

"And if you don't? If you die of exhaustion before—"

"I'll find her." The words were mechanical, hollow. "I have to."

Cassian studied his brother's profile—the hollow cheeks, the way his hands trembled against his knees, the shadows that writhed restlessly around him like caged things. In all their centuries together, he'd never seen Azriel like this. Even during the worst missions, even when torture had broken his body, Azriel had maintained that core of steel that made him the Spymaster.

This was different. This was unraveling.

"What if she's not—"

"She's real." Azriel's voice cracked like a whip. "Don't."

The single word carried enough warning to silence even Cassian. They sat in silence as the sun set, painting the sky the color of old blood. Finally, Cassian spoke again.

"What's she like? In the dreams?"

Azriel was quiet for so long that Cassian thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than Cassian had heard it in decades.

"She laughs," Azriel said. "Real laughter, not the polite kind you hear at court. She makes flower crowns and tells me stories about her grandmother's garden. She's not afraid of my shadows—she treats them like pets, lets them wind around her fingers." He paused, swallowing hard. "She sees me. Not the Spymaster, not the shadowsinger. Just... me."

"And she's forgetting?"

"More each night." Azriel's hands clenched into fists. "Last night she couldn't remember my name. Tonight..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"We'll find her, Az."

"Will we?" The question held all of Azriel's fears, all his desperate hope. "What if I'm too late? What if she's already—"

"She's not." Cassian's voice was firm, certain. "She's fighting. The bond wouldn't be this strong if she wasn't."

But even as he said it, Cassian wondered if he was lying. The bond had been growing weaker, hadn't it? More fragile each day?

The cottage near Thornwood sat in a clearing ringed by ancient oaks, and for a moment—just a moment—Azriel thought he'd found his dream made real. As he approached, the mating bond flared brighter than it had in days, and his shadows surged forward like hounds on a scent.

This is it, he thought, landing hard in the overgrown garden. She's here.

The bond was singing now, a golden rope pulling him toward the cottage door. His shadows raced ahead of him, and he could almost smell lavender on the wind.

A girl emerged from the cottage—young, pale, with the wasted look of chronic illness. But when she saw him, she didn't run toward him with recognition. She stumbled backward, eyes wide with terror.

"Please," she gasped. "I don't know anything. I just heard the stories—"

The bond went silent. Cold. Dead.

The devastating disappointment hit him like a physical blow. Not you. Not you again. How many more false leads? How many more dying girls who weren't his mate?

"Stories?" His voice was barely human.

"About the dream-sick girl," she stammered. "The one who asks about shadow-touched magic, who dreams of places that don't exist. But she's not here—she lives east, near the white cliffs. Everyone knows about her."

White cliffs. His shadows had been whispering those words for weeks, and he'd assumed they meant white stone buildings or walls. But cliffs—cliffs by the sea.

Hope blazed to life again, fierce and desperate.

"The white cliffs," he repeated.

"By the sea," the girl whispered. "Where the old watchtower stands. They say she's been sick for months, getting worse. The healers don't know what's wrong with her—she just wastes away, like she's fading from the world." She met his eyes, and something in his expression made her add urgently, "If you're looking for her, you should hurry."

The mating bond suddenly flared to life, a golden thread of fire that pointed east like a compass needle. His shadows streamed in the same direction, eager and urgent.

White stone. Not buildings—cliffs. The white cliffs by the sea, where dying light would paint them gold each evening.

"How far?" he demanded.

"Two days' ride," the girl said, shrinking back from the intensity in his voice. "Maybe less if you... if you fly."

Azriel was already spreading his wings.

He launched into the night sky, cutting through darkness toward the distant sea. Behind him, his brothers called his name, but he didn't look back. Couldn't look back.

For the first time in nineteen days, the mating bond sang with certainty.

"Three weeks, Azriel." Rhysand's voice cut through the dawn air as Azriel prepared to leave camp. "That was the deal."

Azriel didn't look up from checking his daggers, ensuring his siphons were functioning. Making final preparations for what he knew would be his last chance. "The deal's changed."

"I could order you back."

Azriel finally met his brother's violet eyes, and Rhysand took an involuntary step back at what he saw there. Not the controlled Spymaster, not even the desperate male from weeks past. This was something else entirely—something wild and dangerous and barely leashed.

"You could try," Azriel said quietly.

The threat hung unspoken but clear. Rhysand was powerful, arguably one of the most powerful High Lords in Prythian's history. But Azriel was desperate. And desperate creatures were the most dangerous of all.

"If you're wrong about this," Rhysand said carefully, "if she doesn't exist—"

"Then I'll die looking for her." Azriel's shadows coiled around him like armor. "But I'm not wrong, Rhys. The bond is pointing east, stronger than it's ever been. She's at the white cliffs. And she's running out of time."

He could feel it in his bones, in the way the bond flickered like a candle in a hurricane. Whatever was killing you was winning. He had hours, maybe less.

"The Inner Circle—"

"Will survive without me," Azriel cut him off. "They always have."

"Azriel." Rhys's voice softened, became the voice of a brother rather than a High Lord. "What if you find her and she's already gone? What if you're too late?"

Azriel was quiet for a long moment, his shadows settling around him like a dark cloak. When he spoke, his voice was steady, resolved.

"Then at least I'll know I tried. At least I'll know I didn't give up on her." He looked at Rhys, and for a moment, his mask slipped entirely. "I can't live with myself if I don't try, Rhys. She's out there, she's dying, and she's mine. How could I live with myself if I didn't exhaust every possibility?"

The raw honesty in his voice—the complete vulnerability—made Rhys's chest tighten. This wasn't about duty or mission success. This was about love. About a bond so deep that severing it might destroy Azriel entirely.

"Go," Rhys said finally. "Find her."

Azriel nodded curtly and spread his wings.

"Az," Cassian called from behind them. "Let us come with you."

"No." Azriel didn't turn around. "This is mine to do."

"You don't have to face this alone, brother."

Azriel paused at that, his shoulders tensing. "I've been alone for five centuries," he said quietly. "I can handle a few more hours."

He launched himself into the sky, leaving his brothers standing in the camp below. The mating bond pulled at him like a golden rope, leading him toward the distant sea cliffs where morning mist clung to white stone.

As he flew, his shadows whispered constantly now: hurry, hurry, dying light, almost gone, hurry. The bond grew stronger with each mile, but also more fragile, like spun glass ready to shatter.

Somewhere ahead, past leagues of countryside and forest, past villages and rivers and rolling hills, you were waiting.

You were dying.

But you were real.

And Azriel would find you, even if it killed him.

The sun climbed higher as he flew east, his shadows streaming behind him like a comet's tail, the mating bond burning bright and true in his chest—a beacon guiding him home.

Azriel collapsed beneath an ancient oak as darkness fell, his wings trembling from exhaustion. He'd been flying for nearly two days straight, the mating bond pulling him relentlessly eastward. The white cliffs were close now—he could taste salt on the wind, feel the pull growing stronger with each league.

But his body had reached its limits. Even shadowsingers needed rest.

His shadows curled around him protectively as sleep claimed him, and for the first time in days, he let himself hope. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would find you.

The dream-clearing materialized around him, but something was wrong. The golden light that usually filtered through the oak leaves was dim, flickering like a dying flame. And you—

You were crying.

Azriel's heart clenched as he took in your appearance. You were more translucent than ever, your edges blurred like watercolors in rain. Tears tracked down your cheeks as you sat beneath the oak tree, your knees drawn up to your chest.

"What's wrong?" he asked, crossing to you immediately. His shadows reached for you instinctively, wrapping around your shoulders like a dark embrace. "Why are you crying?"

You looked up at him, and the devastation in your eyes nearly brought him to his knees. "You have to go back," you said, your voice raw with desperation. "Please, Azriel. Turn around. Go home to your family."

"What?" He knelt beside you, reaching for your face with trembling hands. His fingers found the warmth of your skin, real and solid despite everything. "No. I'm so close—I can feel you. The bond is stronger than it's ever been."

"Please," you begged, gripping his wrists. "I'm begging you. Just go home. Go back to Rhys and Cassian and—"

"Never." The word came out fierce, desperate. "I can't. I won't leave you."

Your face crumpled. "You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." His hazel eyes searched yours, wild with need. "Tell me why you want me to abandon you when you're dying."

"No." You pushed against his chest, tears streaming. "No, you have so much light already. Your brothers, your family, your purpose—"

"I can't be happy without you." He pulled you against him, his voice breaking. "Don't you understand? You're everything. You're the only light I've ever had."

"None of it matters without you."

"It has to matter!" You were shouting now, desperate and furious. "It has to be enough!"

"Why?" He gripped your shoulders, his own voice rising. "Why are you so determined to push me away? Why won't you let me save you?"

"Because you can't!" The scream tore from your throat, raw and broken. "You can't save me, and you're going to destroy yourself trying!"

"I don't care!" His shadows exploded outward, responding to his desperation. "I'd rather die trying than live without you!"

"Well, I care!" You shoved him hard, your face twisted with grief and rage. "I care that you're killing yourself! I care that you're abandoning everyone who loves you for someone who—"

You cut yourself off, pressing your hands to your mouth.

"Someone who what?" His voice was deadly quiet.

You shook your head, backing away from him. "Go home, Azriel. Please. I'm begging you."

"No." He stalked toward you, his entire being focused on you with predatory intensity. "I'm going to find you. Tomorrow. I'm going to reach those cliffs and I'm going to save you."

"You stubborn, impossible male!" Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. "Why won't you listen to me?"

"Because I love you," he said simply, reaching for you again. "Because you're mine and I'm yours, and I would tear apart the world before I gave up on you."

You let him pull you close this time, sobbing against his chest. "I love you too," you whispered. "I love you so much it's killing me."

"Then why—"

"Because love means letting go sometimes." You pulled back to look at him, your hands framing his face. "Sometimes it means choosing what's best for the person you love, even when it destroys you."

"No." His voice was broken, desperate. "That's not love. Love is fighting. Love is never giving up."

"Oh, my shadow-singer." You traced the lines of his face like you were memorizing them. "My beautiful, stubborn, impossible male. You have such a good heart."

"Don't talk like you're saying goodbye." His grip on you tightened. "This isn't goodbye."

"Azriel—"

"No." He kissed you then, desperate and claiming, pouring all his love and determination into the contact. "I'm going to find you. Do you hear me? I'm going to find you and save you and we're going to have forever."

You kissed him back with equal desperation, your fingers tangling in his hair. "I wish we could," you whispered against his lips. "I wish—"

The dream began to fade at the edges, reality creeping in. Azriel pulled you tighter against him, trying to anchor you somehow.

"Promise me you'll fight," he commanded, his voice rough with emotion. "Whatever's happening out there, promise me you'll hold on until I reach you."

Your face crumpled with fresh grief. "Azriel—"

"Promise me." His grip on you was desperate, almost painful. "Say the words."

You stared at him for a long moment, love and anguish warring in your eyes. Finally, you whispered, "I promise I'll try."

"Not try. Promise me you'll fight. Promise me you won't give up."

The lie came easily, born of love. "I promise," you said, even as you felt yourself beginning to fade. "I promise I'll fight."

He kissed you one last time, fierce and claiming. "I love you. I'm coming for you."

"I love you too," you whispered, and then you were gone.

Azriel woke to pale dawn light filtering through the oak leaves above him, his cheeks wet with tears and the mating bond burning like fire in his chest. Your pleas echoed in his mind, but he pushed them aside as he spread his wings.

The white cliffs were only hours away. Whatever you were afraid of, whatever had made you beg him to turn back—none of it would stop him.

His shadows streamed behind him as he launched into the morning sky, racing toward his mate with single-minded determination. Behind him, your desperate words followed on the wind: Go home, go home, go home.

But Azriel had never been good at following orders when it came to the people he loved.

The white cliffs rose from the sea like ancient guardians, their limestone faces catching the afternoon sun. Azriel's shadows surged ahead of him as he crested the final hill, eager and electric with anticipation. The mating bond sang in his chest, stronger than it had ever been—a golden rope pulling him toward a small cottage nestled in the clifftop meadow.

This was it. This was where you lived.

The cottage was exactly as his shadows had whispered: white stone walls, a thatched roof, lavender growing wild in the garden. On such a cool day, smoke should have been rising from the chimney.

But the air was still.

Too still.

Azriel circled overhead once more, wings catching the salt breeze. His shadows whispered unease, coiling tighter around his shoulders—behavior he'd learned to read over centuries of missions. They only acted this way around death.

No. Not possible.

The garden below looked abandoned. From this height, he could see the lavender had turned brown at the edges, petals scattered by weeks of wind. The same lavender scent that had haunted his dreams, now withered.

He landed hard among the brittle stems, the sound too loud in the unnatural quiet. His shadows recoiled from the cottage door like they'd been burned, forming anxious spirals around his wings.

"Sweetheart?" The endearment slipped out—a word he'd whispered in dreams but never spoken aloud. "I'm here. I found you."

No answer.

The door stood ajar. Not forced—simply open, as if you'd stepped outside for air and never returned. His spymaster instincts catalogued details automatically: no signs of struggle, no blood, no indication of violence. But his shadows kept hissing warnings he didn't want to understand.

The bond is weaker. Why is it weaker?

Each step toward the threshold felt like walking through water. The rational part of his mind—the part trained for five centuries to assess and adapt—whispered truths he refused to hear. His shadows' behavior. The dead garden. The too-quiet cottage.

The smell hit him as he crossed the threshold. Not violence or fear, but something worse in its gentleness. Decay. Natural. Peaceful.

Wrong.

The cottage was pristine except for dust coating every surface. No overturned furniture. No signs of struggle. Just... absence. And through the open bedroom doorway, a small form beneath white sheets.

She's sleeping. That's all. Just sleeping.

His feet carried him forward without conscious thought, each footfall echoing in the silence. The bond in his chest flickered like a candle in wind.

You lay in the bed as if you'd simply decided to rest. Your face peaceful, unmarked by pain or fear. For one desperate moment, Azriel's mind conjured explanations.

Sick, not dead. Unconscious. Under some spell he could break with true love's kiss like the human fairy tales.

But his shadows knew better. They circled the bed in a wide perimeter, keening softly.

"Wake up," he whispered, reaching toward your face before stopping. His hand trembled inches from your skin. "Please. I'm here now. I found you."

The stillness of your chest. The waxy quality of your skin. The way the bond that had sung so strongly now felt like an echo chamber.

Dead. She's dead.

The thought hit him like a physical blow. His knees buckled, catching himself against the bedframe with white knuckles.

How long? Days? Weeks?

His spymaster training kicked in against his will. Body temperature. Decomposition. The state of the garden outside. You'd been gone for at least two weeks.

While he'd been dreaming of you every night.

The dreams. Understanding crashed over him like a cold wave. She was already dead. The dreams were... what? Her spirit? Her soul trying to reach me?

In every dream, you'd grown more translucent. More desperate to send him away. Begging him to go home, to forget you, to stay safe in Velaris.

"Don't come for me, Azriel. Please. Just go home."

You'd known. Somehow, you'd known you were already gone and had been trying to spare him this moment. Even in death, your first instinct had been to protect him from pain.

The mating bond gave one last, desperate flutter—and snapped.

The severing was unlike any pain he'd ever endured. Not the sharp agony of a blade or the burning of fire, but something fundamental being torn from his very essence. Azriel doubled over, a sound ripping from his chest that belonged more to a wounded animal than a warrior. It felt like losing a limb he'd never known he possessed, like having his soul carved out with molten metal.

When the initial wave subsided, something worse took its place. Emptiness. A gaping void where the golden thread had hummed with promise and possibility.

She died alone.

His hands shook as he finally reached out to touch your face. Your skin was cold as winter stone, but there was peace in your expression. No fear. No pain. You'd simply... stopped.

I would have protected her. I would have loved her. I would have been worthy of her.

But he'd been too late. Again.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice breaking on the words. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I tried to get here faster. I dreamed of you every night and I thought—I thought I had time."

The cruel irony wasn't lost on him. Five hundred years of perfect timing. Every mission, every extraction, every kill—he'd built his reputation on being exactly where he needed to be, when he needed to be there. The Night Court's spymaster who never missed his mark.

Except when it mattered most.

Rhysand felt the wrongness before they reached the cottage. Through the mental link all three brothers shared, Azriel's presence wasn't fractured or wounded—it was absent. Like reaching for something that had never been there.

He's not responding to any of our calls, Rhys told Cassian as they flew through storm clouds toward the coastal cliffs. Something's happened.

How long since he checked in? Cassian's mental voice was tight with worry.

Four days. He was following intelligence about his mate.

The word hung heavy between them. They'd all heard stories of what finding a dead mate could do to a male. The lucky ones went quietly mad. The unlucky ones took half the continent with them.

But this felt different. Worse.

If she's dead...

Then we help him through it, Rhys replied, though uncertainty colored his mental voice. Whatever state we find him in.

They saw the cottage before they smelled it—shadows writhing around the structure in patterns that defied wind or natural light. Azriel's power, but leashed so tightly it seemed mechanical. Like watching clockwork move.

The scent hit them as they landed in the overgrown garden. Death, but old. Peaceful. And underneath it, the complete absence of Azriel's usual emotional signature.

He's alive, Rhys confirmed, carefully probing the mental link. But there's... nothing there. Not shields, not withdrawal. It's like probing an empty room.

They found him in the bedroom, exactly as he'd been for three days. Sitting in perfect stillness beside a bed where a small female lay in peaceful repose. He didn't react when they entered—didn't even acknowledge their presence. His shadows circled him and the female in precise, emotionless patterns.

The cottage told its own story. Dust on everything except the path between the chair and the door. A kitchen with opened containers of food that hadn't been touched. Water basins that had been refilled multiple times.

He'd been caring for your body. Keeping vigil.

"Az?" Cassian called softly.

No response. Azriel stared at the female's face with perfect stillness. His hazel eyes held no pain, no emptiness—just complete and utter void. Like looking at a doll's glass eyes.

Brother, Rhys tried through their mental link.

The connection was there, but led nowhere. Not blocked or protected—simply vacant.

Cassian stepped closer, boots creaking on old floorboards. Still no reaction. "Azriel."

Finally, slowly, Azriel's gaze shifted to them. His face remained perfectly neutral, but something flickered behind his eyes—not recognition, just the automatic cataloging of new variables in his environment.

He said nothing. Just looked at them with those empty eyes and waited. Not for comfort or help or conversation.

He simply... waited.

"We came to find you," Cassian said, his voice gentler than either of them had heard in decades.

Azriel blinked once. Slow. Deliberate. Then turned back to stare at the female. The movement was perfectly controlled, devoid of any human warmth or urgency.

This isn't grief, Cassian realized with horror. This is complete emotional shutdown.

His mind is... Rhys searched for words. Not broken. Not retreated. Gone. Like he's burned out every emotional pathway he had rather than feel what happened here.

The silence stretched. Azriel's breathing was perfectly measured, his shadows the only movement in the room as they continued their mechanical circles.

"She's beautiful," Cassian offered quietly, hoping for any reaction.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.

"What happened, brother?" Rhys asked aloud.

For a long moment, nothing. Then Azriel spoke, his voice completely flat and emotionless.

"Dead for weeks. Bond snapped three days ago."

That was all. No pain in the recitation, no hint that these facts held any meaning for him personally. He might have been reporting the weather.

Rhys carefully extended his mental touch, assessing his brother's state. What he found made his chest tight with fear. Not madness—madness would have been preferable. This was the complete absence of feeling, so thorough it was like touching a void shaped like his brother.

"What do you need?" Cassian asked, though he doubted the question had any meaning for Azriel now.

Azriel turned those empty eyes on him again. "She deserves better than this," he said. "She deserves to be laid to rest properly. With honor."

He spoke of you with perfect detachment, as if discussing a stranger's funeral arrangements.

"She doesn't have any family," Azriel continued. "No one to mourn her. No one to remember her."

The words that should have been devastating were delivered with complete neutrality. He understood intellectually that these were tragic circumstances, but they held no emotional weight for him.

Cassian crouched beside his brother's chair, careful not to disturb the mechanical circle of shadows. "Then we'll make sure she's honored. All of us."

Rhys nodded, though his heart was breaking. "We'll take her to Velaris. Give her a proper funeral."

"The House of Wind has a garden," Cassian added. "Peaceful. Overlooking the city."

Azriel's shadows pulsed once—not with emotion, but with programmed response. A reflex, nothing more.

"I can't carry her," Azriel whispered.

Not an admission of pain or weakness. Simply a statement of current limitations.

"We'll carry her," Cassian said, though he felt like he was speaking to an automaton wearing his brother's face.

"She was alone when she died because I failed to arrive in time," Azriel noted without inflection.

Rhys and Cassian exchanged a look of pure terror. This wasn't their brother anymore.

He'd saved himself from drowning in grief by cutting out his ability to feel anything at all.

And unlike madness, this wasn't something they could heal.

This was a choice. And Azriel had chosen to become nothing rather than face what losing his mate truly meant.

But even nothing had its limits.

Azriel's body finally surrendered what his mind had refused to acknowledge. The three days without sleep, without food, without moving from that chair—combined with the trauma of the severed bond—caught up to him all at once.

His vision blurred mid-sentence as he gave Rhys coordinates for the cottage's location. The world tilted sideways, and then he was falling, his brothers' voices fading as darkness claimed him.

For the first time in days, Azriel felt something.

Relief.

The meadow stretched endlessly under starlight, exactly as it had been in all those other dreams. The same wildflowers, the same gentle breeze, the same sense of peace that had called to him night after night.

But you weren't there.

Azriel stood in the center of the meadow, his shadows coiling anxiously around him as he turned in slow circles.

"Sweetheart?" His voice cracked on the endearment. "I know you're here. You have to be here."

Nothing. Just wind through the grass and the distant sound of waves against cliffs.

He began to run, crashing through the wildflowers with desperate urgency. "Please!" His voice echoed strangely in the dream-space. "I found you! I came for you, just like you wanted!"

But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.

You had never wanted him to come. In every dream, you'd begged him to stay away, to go home, to be safe. And he'd ignored you, driven by his own selfish need to find his mate.

The realization hit him like a physical blow, and he sank to his knees among the wildflowers, his wings folding tight against his back—a gesture of submission he hadn't made since childhood.

"Mother," he whispered, his voice breaking on the word. His scarred hands shook as he pressed them to his chest, over his heart. "Please. I know I'm not... I know I've done terrible things. My hands are stained with blood, my soul is probably damned, but she was innocent. She was pure and kind and—" His breath hitched as he doubled over, forehead nearly touching the grass. "She didn't deserve to die alone and afraid."

Tears tracked down his cheeks as he pressed his palms flat to the dream-earth, his wings trembling with the effort of holding himself upright. "I've served faithfully for five hundred years. I've been your sword in the darkness, your silent protector." His voice cracked as he bent lower, shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs. "I never complained, never asked for mercy when others received it freely. But I'm begging you now."

He collapsed forward completely, his forehead pressed to the earth in complete submission, his wings spread wide and dragging in the grass. "Please, just let me save her. Let me take her place. Let me—"

Silence.

The meadow remained empty, untouched by divine intervention or mercy. No gentle voice offering comfort. No sign that his centuries of devotion meant anything at all.

Something inside him snapped.

"NOTHING?" He surged to his feet, tears streaming down his face as grief transformed into something darker, more dangerous. "I bare my fucking soul to you and you give me NOTHING?"

"WHERE WERE YOU?" he roared at the empty sky, his shadows exploding outward in violent tendrils. Wildflowers withered black beneath their touch. "Where were you when she was dying alone? Where were you when I was locked in the dungeon as a child? Where were you during five centuries of war and blood and death?"

His voice cracked, raw with centuries of suppressed fury. "I never asked for anything. I took the beatings. I killed on command. And the one thing—the only thing—I ever wanted for myself... you let slip away!"

He collapsed to his knees among the ruined flowers, his carefully constructed emotional barriers finally shattering completely. "She was MINE!" The word tore from his throat like a battle cry. "My mate, my other half, and you let her die before I could even hold her hand!"

The meadow went silent. Even his shadows trembled now—not violent anymore, but grieving, like children who had lost their mother.

"What kind of Mother lets her children suffer like this?" His voice broke to a whisper. "What kind of divine plan requires me to lose everything that ever mattered?"

Azriel's fists slammed into the dream-earth, his shadows writhing around him like living things in pain. "I just wanted to love someone." The confession scraped from his throat. "I just wanted someone to love me back. After everything I've endured, was that too fucking much?"

He doubled over, forehead pressing into the grass as sobs wracked his frame. Five hundred years of stored pain poured out of him—every beating from his father and brothers, every mission that had cost him pieces of his soul, every night he'd lain awake wondering if he was even capable of being loved.

"Please," he begged, no longer caring about pride or strength. "Please, just let me see her. Let me tell her I'm sorry. Let me tell her I would have loved her with everything I had left."

The meadow shimmered. Around his knees, the blackened wildflowers began to bloom again—soft purple and white, touched with silver starlight.

The air changed. Not empty anymore, but filled with a presence so familiar his shadows stilled instantly.

"Azriel."

He looked up through his tears to find you kneeling beside him, translucent but there—more real than anything had ever been. Your face was wet with tears that mirrored his own.

"My love," you whispered, reaching out to cup his cheek. Your touch was like starlight made solid. "My beautiful, broken love."

"You're here," he breathed, afraid to move, afraid you'd disappear. "You're really here."

"I've been trying to reach you," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "But your pain was so loud, I couldn't break through. Until now."

Azriel pulled you against him, and somehow—impossibly—you were solid in his arms. You clung to each other in that dreamscape meadow, both of you crying with relief and grief and love that transcended death itself.

"I'm so sorry I left you," you sobbed against his chest. "I didn't want to go. I fought it, but my body just... gave up."

"Don't apologize." His voice was fierce despite his tears, protective even here. "Never apologize. You tried to protect me even after you were gone."

You pulled back to look at him, your hands framing his scarred face with infinite tenderness. "Tell me," you whispered. "Tell me about the life we would have had."

The question broke something loose in his chest. "Velaris," he said, his voice cracking. "The House of Wind. You would have loved the library—all those books, the priestesses would have adored you."

"What else?" Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, catching his tears.

"Breakfasts I'd burn, gardens you'd fill with jasmine, laughter softening every ruined meal." The words tumbled out, desperate and raw. "Flying at sunset over the Sidra. You fearless in my arms, wind in your hair."

His shadows wound around both of you, gentle as silk. "Children," he whispered. "Little ones with your eyes. Teaching them to fly, watching you sing them to sleep. I would have been so gentle with them. So different from my own father."

"You would have been perfect," you said fiercely. "And I would have helped you heal. All those scars on your hands, on your heart—I would have kissed every one until you believed you deserved love."

"We would have had centuries." His forehead pressed to yours. "I would have memorized every expression, every hum while you garden, how you take your tea."

"With honey," you said, smiling through your tears. "Two spoons, and I always drink it too fast and burn my tongue."

"I would have kissed it better."

You both laughed—broken, watery sounds that held infinite tenderness.

"Reading by the fire. Dancing in our kitchen to no music at all. Mornings when we didn't have to be anywhere." His voice grew softer, more reverent. "I would have worshipped you until you were breathless and perfect and mine."

"I would have traced your tattoos," you murmured. "Every shadow-mark. Made you tell me the stories behind your scars until you stopped being ashamed of them."

"This isn't the end, Azriel." Your voice grew stronger, more certain. "Souls like ours don't just disappear. We're connected by something deeper than one lifetime."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because love this strong doesn't die." You pressed your forehead to his. "Promise me you'll keep living. Promise me you'll keep your heart open. When I come back—and I will come back—I want to find you still capable of all that love you just described."

"I promise," he whispered. "I'll wait for you. However long it takes."

"I love you, Azriel." The words he'd never gotten to hear in life. "In this life and whatever comes next."

"I love you too." His voice broke completely. "I love you so much it feels like dying and being born at the same time."

As the dream began to fade, you smiled one last time. "Find the jasmine, my love. When you smell jasmine, know that I'm thinking of you. And know that somewhere, in some other life, we're getting that forever."

He woke in the House of Wind's healing room, Madja fussing over his dehydrated form.

He lived. Not thrived—that would take time he wasn't sure he had. But he kept his promise. He completed his missions, protected his family, and kept his heart carefully guarded but not completely closed.

And when jasmine drifted through the summer air, he would close his eyes and see the meadow—endless, starlit, waiting.

One Hundred Years Later

The Dawn Court's summer solstice festival blazed around Azriel like a living thing—music and laughter spilling from every corner, fae dancing in the streets with crowns of golden flowers. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, his mission clear: gather intelligence on the Dawn Court's new trade agreements, then return to Velaris before sunrise.

He'd kept his promise to you, more or less. He lived. He breathed. He served his court with the same lethal efficiency he always had. The jasmine Rhys had planted bloomed every summer in the garden where your body rested, and Azriel visited when the pain became too sharp to carry alone.

But he didn't hope anymore. Hope was a luxury he'd learned to live without.

The crowd pressed closer as the festival reached its peak, and Azriel slipped between bodies with practiced ease, his shadows mapping exits and cataloging faces. Just another mission. Just another—

The scent hit him like a blade between the ribs.

Jasmine.

But not just jasmine. Your jasmine—that exact combination of night-blooming flowers and something indefinably sweet that had haunted his dreams for a century.

This wasn't possible. He was hallucinating. The mission stress, the lack of sleep, the anniversary of your death approaching—his mind was finally cracking.

His shadows went wild, writhing around him in recognition, reaching toward something he couldn't see yet. They remembered too, and shadows didn't lie. Shadows didn't dream.

His hands shook as cold dread and desperate hope warred in his chest. He couldn't survive losing you again. Not even in his imagination.

Around him, the festival continued, but the music seemed to fade to a distant hum. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, so loud he was certain the entire Dawn Court could hear it. Each breath came short and sharp, like he'd been running for miles. The air itself felt thick, charged, electric.

Then the lights began to flicker.

Not the festival lanterns—something else. Something that shouldn't exist. Tiny orbs of soft, silvery light appeared in the air, identical to the ones from your shared dream. They pulsed in rhythm with his erratic heartbeat, forming a path through the crowd.

His shadows strained toward them like plants reaching for sunlight, and Azriel's knees nearly gave out.

Dreams didn't leave evidence. Dreams didn't create light.

With trembling hands, he reached toward one of the orbs. It pulsed warmly against his scarred fingertip before drifting further along the path, exactly as it had in the meadow where he'd found you a century ago.

Terror and hope warred in his chest as he followed the impossible path. What if this was real and he ruined it? What if it wasn't real and following it finally broke him? Each step felt like walking to his execution.

The crowd thinned as he moved, the music fading to nothing. The lights led him past vendor stalls and dancing couples, past fountains carved with Dawn Court suns, until finally they guided him to a small overlook where the plaza met the rolling hills beyond.

The meadow spread before him—moonlit, dotted with wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. It was smaller than the one in his dreams, more contained, but the scent of jasmine grew stronger here, and those impossible lights danced over the grass like fallen stars.

There, standing at the stone railing with your back to him, was you.

You wore a gown the color of sunrise—silk that seemed to glow in the moonlight. Your hair caught the light like spun gold, and when you shifted, the jasmine scent that clung to your skin made his chest ache with recognition.

High Fae. Dawn Court nobility, from the way you held yourself. But even from behind, even in this new form, he knew.

His shadows reached for you before he could stop them, stretching across the space like desperate fingers.

It was the way you tilted your head—exactly as you used to when you were thinking—that shattered his last doubt.

This was real. You were real.

You must have sensed him—or perhaps the way his shadows reached toward you like starved, desperate things—because you slowly turned.

When your eyes met his, the air left his lungs entirely.

The mating bond didn't just snap—it exploded back into place. Golden thread blazing between your souls, molten and fierce and so brilliant it lit up every dark corner of his being. The force of it drove him to his knees on the stone, his wings flaring wide as a century of numbness shattered like glass.

But what destroyed him completely wasn't the bond.

It was your smile.

Soft. Knowing. Secret.

Like you'd been waiting for him to find you, like you'd orchestrated every step that led him here. In your eyes was the weight of memory—dreams shared across lifetimes, promises kept in meadows that existed between sleeping and waking.

Find the jasmine, my love.

The lights around you pulsed once more before fading, leaving only moonlight and wildflowers and the golden thread singing between your souls.

And in that smile, he knew—death was just another door you'd walked through to find your way back to him.

Author’s Note:

Okay so 😬 The Night We Met was supposed to be a one-shot. ONE. A tragic lil ✨emotional grenade✨ to ruin your evening and then I’d move on with my life.

But nooo, y’all showed up in my inbox like: “👀 Part 2 when??” “🥺 Please??” “😈 Make Azriel suffer more.” And I-weak, soft, bond-sick fool that I am, caved.

So here’s Part 2: aka me violently shaking Azriel like a grief snow globe. Hope your tears are salty and delicious.

And just so we’re clear: there was never supposed to be a Part 3. ❌ (…unless 👀👀)

Taglist:

@slut4acotar @cherryinsalemverse @lunajay33 @sunshine-and-midnight-rain @masbt1218 @kksbookstuff @annamariereads16 @historygeekqueen @littleblackcatinwonderland @mich0731 @problemfinder @lemonabouttodrop @dreaming-softly-in-the-night @randomdumsblog @whyucloudingmymind @dormantzzzs @firefly-forest @blackgirlmagicforever @sophieliz @asiriusmistake

[mahalachives]

Between Two Fires - Version 2

Hello everyone,

So apparently, y’all want Between Two Fires to be longer (same, honestly). The original 10-chapter cap had me sprinting like I was being chased by Beron himself, and in the process, I cut out a lot of moments that deserved more love.

Which is why I’m doing an extended edition (Version 2) over on AO3! Starting from Chapter 7, we’re taking the scenic route this time, more banter, more angst, more healing, more “Azriel staring at the wall like it personally offended him.”

Fair warning: the ending may be different than the one here (reader beware, chaos ahead 👀). But this version will definitely give us the extra softness and growth the first run missed.

Anyway! Enough rambling. Here’s a little snippet to tide you over ✨

"You're not her," he said, and there was wonder in his voice now, terrible understanding. "You're not the female who tried to burn my wings. You're someone else wearing her face."

"Stop." The word came out as a sob, and suddenly you weren't the composed healer anymore.

You were a scared human girl trapped in a nightmare, facing down a predator who saw too much.

"I rejected her," Azriel said softly, his shadows reaching toward you despite his rigid control. "I rejected a mating bond with someone who no longer exists. But you... whoever you are... the bond recognizes you. It knows you."

"You don't know anything," you said, but tears were sliding down your cheeks now, hot and fast. "You humiliated me in front of everyone. You looked at me like I was trash and said you wanted nothing to do with me. Do you have any idea what that felt like?"

The vulnerability in your voice seemed to break something in his composure. His shadows surged forward before he could stop them, reaching for you with desperate hunger.

"I know," he said, and his voice was rough with emotion. "I know, and I'm sorry. I would take it back if I could."

"But you can't." You wiped at your tears angrily, hating that he was seeing you like this. "You can't take back standing in front of both our courts and rejecting me like I was poison. You can't take back the way you looked at me—like I was something disgusting you'd scraped off your boot."

"I was afraid." The admission came out raw, unguarded. "I looked at the bond and I knew it would destroy me. I knew I would never be the same."

"So you destroyed me instead," you said quietly.

AO3

Taglist:

@circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

[mahalachives]

Part 1: The Night We Met

Azriel x Reader | Romance, Angst Azriel finally meets his mate. Only to realize you exist only in his dreams. Each night with you feels achingly real, until one touch snaps the mating bond into place. When he wakes with only your scent and fading clues, he knows one thing: he’ll tear the world apart to find you. Part 2

Azriel had not dreamed in over two centuries.

Sleep, when it came at all, brought only blessed darkness. A temporary reprieve from constant vigilance.

Dreams were a luxury he'd abandoned long ago, along with hope and the foolish notion that somewhere in this vast world, someone might be meant for him.

So when he found himself standing in a moonlit clearing he'd never seen before, surrounded by ancient oaks humming with old magic, his first instinct was to reach for Truth-Teller.

The blade wasn't there.

Neither were his leathers.

Instead, he wore simple black clothing, and his shadows swirled around him with restless energy, reaching toward something he couldn't yet see.

That's when you stepped into the clearing.

The breath left his lungs in a rush.

Beautiful. The word felt inadequate for what stood before him.

You were ethereal in the moonlight, all flowing hair and luminous skin that seemed to glow from within. Your bow was held with easy confidence, but it was your face that undid him completely. Delicate features arranged in perfect harmony, eyes that sparkled with mischief, lips that looked made for kissing.

You were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. In five centuries of existence, through courts filled with fae females of legendary beauty, nothing had prepared him for you.

When you saw him, you didn't scream or run. Instead, you tilted your head and said, "Well. You're definitely not a deer."

"No," he managed, voice rougher than usual. "I'm not."

You studied him with those captivating eyes, not assessing him as a threat but with genuine curiosity. "This is a dream, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Thank the gods," you breathed, lowering your bow completely. "I was starting to think I'd finally cracked and gone completely mad."

Despite five centuries of training that screamed at him to maintain distance, Azriel found his mouth curving upward. There was something infectiously warm about your presence.

"And why would you think that?"

"Because I've been having the strangest dreams lately," you said, gesturing animatedly. "Places that don't exist, magic that feels real enough to taste. And now there's you, looking like some dark god of war who wandered out of a fairy tale." You paused, color blooming across your cheeks. "I mean, not that you look like... I didn't mean to..."

The stammering was adorable. When was the last time anyone had blushed because of something they'd said to him?

"You're not afraid," he observed.

"Should I be?" You settled onto a moss-covered log, then immediately stood back up. "Actually, wait. That looked more elegant in my head."

You sat again, more carefully this time, but somehow managed to catch your braid on a low branch. As you untangled yourself with muttered curses, Azriel felt something unprecedented happen. He wanted to genuinely smile.

"It's a dream," you continued once you'd freed yourself. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"You could be a nightmare," he pointed out, moving closer despite every instinct.

"Could be." Your smile was warm, inviting. "Are you?"

His shadows crept closer despite his attempts to call them back.

"I don't know," he admitted.

You patted the space beside you with such casual invitation that he found himself sitting before he'd consciously decided to. His shadows immediately betrayed him, reaching toward you.

"Oh," you breathed, extending a hand toward the wisps of darkness. "They're beautiful."

Beautiful. Applied to parts of him others had only called terrifying.

"They're dangerous," he said quickly.

"So are thunderstorms," you replied, letting one curl around your wrist like a bracelet. "Doesn't make them any less gorgeous."

The shadow settled against your skin as if it belonged there. His shadows didn't behave this way. They didn't seek out strangers, didn't show interest in anyone outside his small circle of family.

"That's impossible," he murmured.

"Good impossible or bad impossible?"

The question made him look at you, really look. You were smiling at the darkness surrounding him as if it had given you some precious gift.

"I don't know," he said again.

"What's your name?" you asked.

Names had power. Names created connections.

But this was a dream, and you were looking at him like he was someone worth knowing.

"Azriel."

"Azriel." You repeated it carefully, and something about the way you said his name made his shadows pulse with satisfaction. "I'm—"

"Don't," he said quickly. "Don't tell me your name. Not yet."

You tilted your head curiously. "Why not?"

He couldn't explain the sudden certainty that knowing your name would make this too real, too dangerous. That it would cement something he wasn't ready to face.

"What do you do, Azriel? When you're not appearing in strange dreams looking like every maiden's fantasy?"

The casual compliment hit him like a physical blow. Every maiden's fantasy. You thought he was...

"I serve my High Lord," he managed. "I gather information."

You nodded as if he'd told you he tended gardens. "Sounds important. Lonely, though."

The observation hit close to home. "It can be."

"When's the last time you did something just for yourself?"

The question made him blink. "What do you mean?"

"Fun. Enjoyment. You know, that thing people do when they're not being brooding warriors of darkness?" You tilted your head, studying him with perceptive eyes. "You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, don't you? Everyone's safety, everyone's secrets. When do you get to just... exist?"

No one had ever asked him that. No one had ever looked at him and seen the burden he carried, the way he'd made himself into a weapon at the cost of his own happiness.

"I don't think I know how," he admitted quietly.

Your face lit up with something fierce and determined. "Then I'll have to teach you. Starting with the revolutionary concept of having absolutely no agenda whatsoever."

Despite himself, Azriel found himself smiling.

The dreams became his obsession.

Every night, he counted hours until he could see you again. You appeared like clockwork in that moonlit clearing, always with some new lesson in "having fun."

You taught him to skip stones across the stream, laughing when his attempts sent rocks plunging with military precision.

"You're thinking too hard," you said, demonstrating with a smooth motion. Then you immediately tripped over your own feet and nearly tumbled into the stream.

"Graceful," he observed, steadying you.

"Shut up," you muttered, grinning. "I'm a woman of many talents. Coordination just isn't one of them."

Watching you laugh at your own clumsiness, seeing starlight catch in your hair and make your eyes sparkle, Azriel felt something shift in his chest. Something warm and golden and terrifyingly precious.

You convinced him to weave flower crowns, your nimble fingers creating delicate circlets while his fumbled with stems.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered when you insisted he wear the crown.

"This is fun," you corrected, reaching up to adjust the flowers in his hair. "There's a difference."

Your fingers brushed his forehead as you worked. You were close enough that he could smell your sweet scent, count the freckles scattered across your nose like stars.

"There," you said, stepping back to admire your work. "Now you look like a proper fairy prince instead of a terrifying shadow lord."

"I am a terrifying shadow lord," he protested weakly.

"Not in here," you said simply. "In here, you're just Azriel. And Azriel looks very handsome in flower crowns."

The casual compliment made his shadows flutter with something like preening.

His shadows seemed to enjoy the flower petals, playing with them instead of their usual vigilant hovering. You watched with delight, occasionally reaching out to let them wind around your fingers.

"They really like you," he observed.

"I really like them too," you replied. "They're like curious little pets."

"They're extensions of my will," he said automatically. "They don't have personalities."

You shot him a look that clearly said you thought he was an idiot. "Right. And I suppose they investigate my hair because you will them to?"

He followed your gaze and realized several shadows had wound through your hair, seeming to enjoy the silky texture. He hadn't commanded that.

"That's not normal," he said.

"Maybe normal is overrated," you shrugged.

One night, you lay side by side in soft grass, pointing out constellations. The casual intimacy of it, your shoulder pressed against his, your hand occasionally brushing his arm as you gestured, was driving him slowly mad.

"There," you whispered when a star fell, catching his scarred hand and pointing it toward the light. "Make a wish."

The feel of your skin against his scars sent electricity through him. You didn't flinch, didn't pull away from the evidence of his past. Instead, your thumb traced over one of the worst scars with such tenderness it made his breath catch.

"What did you wish for?" you asked softly.

He turned his head to study your profile, noting how moonlight caught on your lips.

For the first time in centuries, he wasn't cataloguing exits or potential threats. He was simply here. Present.

Memorizing the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the small smile playing at your lips, the way your braid had come undone and spilled across the grass like silk.

When had he stopped being the shadowsinger and started being just Azriel?

"Can't tell you, or it won't come true," he said quietly.

But he could tell you.

He'd wished for this to be real, for you to be real, for some impossible way to keep you. He'd wished to always feel this strange peace that seemed to settle in his bones whenever you looked at him.

The space between you seemed to crackle with tension. He wanted to kiss you, had wanted to since that first night, but something held him back. Some instinct that this was precious, fragile, not to be rushed.

Instead, he traced the curve of your cheek with one finger, marveling when you leaned into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

"This doesn't feel like a dream," you murmured, your breath ghosting across his palm.

"No," he agreed, voice rougher than intended. "It doesn't."

It was on the night you attempted to teach him to whittle that everything changed.

"It's supposed to be relaxing," you said, demonstrating with a piece of wood and a small knife. "Meditative."

Azriel watched your hands move with practiced ease, creating delicate curls of wood. "I don't think I'm built for relaxation."

"Everyone's built for relaxation. You just have to find the right kind." You handed him the knife and a fresh piece of wood, your fingers brushing his wrist as you did. The contact sent sparks up his arm. "Try it."

He took the tools, hyperaware of every point where your skin had touched his, the lingering warmth like a brand.

"What am I supposed to make?"

"Whatever wants to emerge," you said with that dreamy smile he'd grown to love. You shifted closer, your knee bumping against his thigh as you settled beside him. "Sometimes the wood tells you."

"The wood tells you," he repeated dryly, trying to ignore the heat radiating from where you touched him.

"Mock me all you want, but—oh!"

You'd been gesturing enthusiastically when your elbow knocked into his wing. The unexpected contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him. Wings were sensitive, intimate, and his sharp intake of breath made you freeze.

"I'm sorry," you said quickly, but your hand had landed on his forearm to steady yourself, fingers pressing against his skin. "I didn't mean to—are you hurt?"

"No," he managed, voice strained. The dual sensation of your touch on his wing and arm was making his head spin. "Wings are just... sensitive."

Understanding dawned in your eyes, followed by something that looked like hunger disguised as curiosity. "Sensitive how?"

The innocent question, delivered in that slightly breathless tone, made heat pool low in his belly.

"Sorry," you said again, but you weren't moving away. If anything, you'd leaned closer, your fascinated gaze tracking over the membranous expanse. "I just—they're beautiful. Can I...?"

You reached out tentatively, stopping just short of touching. The anticipation was exquisite torture.

"Yes," he breathed.

Your fingertips brushed the edge of his wing, feather-light, and Azriel bit back a groan. The sensation was overwhelming, part pleasure, part pain, entirely consuming.

"Like that?" you asked softly, voice gone husky.

He could only nod, not trusting his voice. You grew bolder, trailing your fingers along the sensitive membrane, and he felt his carefully constructed control beginning to fracture.

"You're trembling," you observed, wonder in your voice.

"You're touching my wings," he said roughly. "It's... intense."

"Good intense?"

Before he could answer, you leaned closer to examine the intricate patterns, your breath ghosting across his skin.

Your free hand came up to steady yourself against his chest, palm flat over his racing heart. The innocent curiosity in your expression, combined with the intimacy of touching him like this, made him feel like he was coming apart at the seams.

That's when you stumbled.

Your foot caught on something and you pitched forward. Instinct had him catching you before you could fall, his arms coming around you as his wings flared instinctively to shield you both from harm.

Time crystallized.

You were pressed against his chest, your hands fisted in his shirt, face tilted up toward his. Moonlight streamed through your disheveled hair, turning it to liquid silver, and when you looked up at him with those bright, beautiful eyes, pupils dilated, lips parted in surprise, something ancient and primal roared to life in his chest.

The mating bond didn't just snap into place.

It erupted.

The world exploded into sensation and color and rightness so overwhelming it drove him to his knees. Golden threads of light blazed between your souls, weaving together everything he was with everything you were until he couldn't tell where he ended and you began. Five centuries of emptiness, of believing himself unworthy of love, of carefully controlled loneliness, all of it shattered in an instant.

Mate. Mine. Forever.

The words weren't thoughts so much as truths written into the fabric of reality itself. His shadows went wild, streaming around you both in a protective cocoon, some part of him desperate to shield this moment from anything that might disturb it.

Distantly, he was aware that he'd pulled you both down onto the grass, that he was cradling you against him like you might disappear, that his hands were shaking with the force of restraining himself from claiming your mouth, your body, your soul.

"Azriel?" Your voice seemed to come from underwater. "What's happening?"

He tried to speak and found he couldn't. The bond was singing in his blood, demanding he tell you what you were to him, demanding he make you understand that you belonged to him now, that he would burn the world down before letting anything harm you.

But you were human. You didn't know what this meant, what had just changed between you. To you, this was still just a dream.

To him, you had just become his entire reason for existing.

"I..." He tried to form words, but his voice came out raw, broken. "You're..."

"What?" you whispered, reaching up to cup his face. Your thumb traced his cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "What's wrong?"

Wrong? Nothing was wrong.

Everything was perfect and terrifying and he was drowning in the need to kiss you, to taste you, to bury himself so deep in your soul that you'd never question who you belonged to.

"Mine," he breathed, the word torn from somewhere primal and possessive. "You're mine."

Before he could stop himself, before sanity could intervene, he crushed his mouth to yours.

You made a soft sound of surprise that turned into something hungrier when he deepened the kiss, his control finally snapping entirely.

You tasted like starlight and forever, like every good thing he'd never dared hope for. The bond blazed brighter with each touch of your tongue against his, each breathless gasp you gave when he traced the curve of your lower lip.

When he finally pulled back, lungs burning, hands fisted in your hair to keep you close, you stared up at him with dazed wonder.

"That felt..." you started, voice dreamy and confused.

"Real," he finished roughly. "It felt real because it is real."

You went very still in his arms, and when you looked at him again, there was something heartbreaking in your expression.

"Azriel," you said gently, "this isn't real."

The words hit him like a physical blow. "What?"

"This is just a dream." Your voice was soft, patient, like you were explaining something to a child. "A beautiful dream, but still just a dream. And I'm—" You took a shaky breath. "I'm dying. In the real world. I've been sick for months, and the healers can't do anything more for me."

"No." The word tore from his throat. "No, you don't understand. You're my mate. This bond between us, it's real. I can feel it."

You reached up to cup his face, and he could see tears gathering in your eyes. "I know you feel it. I feel it too. But that doesn't make it real."

"It is real," he said desperately. "You have to believe me. I'm going to find you, I'm going to save you."

"You can't save me from a dream," you whispered. "And you can't save me from dying."

"This isn't a dream," he insisted, but even as he spoke, he could feel the world beginning to fracture around them. "You're real. We're real."

"I'm dying, Azriel." The words were gentle but final. "My body is failing, and my mind is creating this beautiful fantasy because it's easier than facing the truth. You're everything I've ever wanted, everything I've ever dreamed of, but you're not real."

"I am real," he said, panic rising in his chest as the dream continued to dissolve. "Please, you have to believe me. I exist, I'm coming for you, just hold on."

But you were already fading, becoming translucent around the edges.

"This is just a dream," you said again, and this time there was peace in your voice. Acceptance. "A beautiful, impossible dream."

"No," he breathed, reaching for you as you slipped away. "Please, just tell me where you are. Tell me your name, tell me something I can use to find you."

But the last thing he saw before everything went dark was your sad, sweet smile, and the last words you spoke echoed in the silence:

"It's just a dream. Just a dream."

Azriel woke with a roar that shook the foundations of the House of Wind.

The mating bond blazed in his chest like a dying star, gold and molten and desperate. Your phantom scent still clung to his skin, jasmine and starlight and something fading, like flowers pressed between the pages of a book.

His mate was dying, and he had no idea how to find you.

His shadows writhed around him, agitated and hungry, still reaching for the ghost of your touch. They whispered of dreams and dying girls, of bonds that burned across impossible distances, and Azriel felt something cold and determined settle in his chest.

You thought he was just a dream. You thought none of it was real.

But the mating bond didn't lie. And neither did the way his shadows had responded to you, the way they'd played in your hair like they belonged there.

Somewhere in the mortal lands, his mate was dying, convinced that the love she'd found was nothing more than her mind's final gift to itself.

Azriel rose from his bed, shadows streaming around him like liquid night, and began to plan.

He would find you.

Author’s Note:

Slowly crawling my way out of writer’s block, and this little dreamscape romance with Azriel was the spark I needed. Hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it. ✨

[mahalachives]

Thank you all for the support and sweet messages! Y’all are the real MVPs, even though I’ve been MIA thanks to school and work tag-teaming me. I see all your kindness and love. it’s like a warm hug for my brain. Slowly crawling out of writer’s block one chaotic sentence at a time, so bear with me as I attempt to adult and write simultaneously! 📝✨

[mahalachives]

okay i’ve never done one of these before and i’m praying i don’t screw it up and that you can understand it 🙏😭😭

but the way you wrote between two fires is amazing oh my god!! it had me giggling and kicking my feet, crying my eyeballs out hugging my cat and whispering to myself like i was crazy and just awestruck most of the time bc how did you come up with this?!?? like the bit where azriel said “because some moments are worth an eternity of loss” holy crap i was crying AND giggling bc of how cute and sad it was at the same time 😭 genuinely a fic has never made me feel so many emotions in the best way possible like the way fire lady’s relationship with eris also changed and developed was crazy bc it was happening but wasn’t in ur face happening which is like whoah and then LUCIEN came in and that was WHOAH the entire thing was so good 😭 i genuinely didn’t want it to end so i put off reading the last chapter all of 2 hours because i was too excited to continue reading it 😭😭 ahh this has turned out to be so long i’m so sorry and i do not know how to end one of these so i’m super sorry ab that too 😭😭

Oh my gosh, first of all, you absolutely nailed this! No screwing up in sight, I promise! 😭🙏 You have me grinning like an idiot over here because your message is the sweetest, funniest thing I’ve read all day. 🥹❤️

The fact that Between Two Fires had you giggling, crying, and whispering sweet nothings to your cat? I’m taking that as the highest compliment ever. And you noticed that line about eternity and loss? Cue me blushing like Azriel when someone flirts with him. It means so much that it hit you like that! 🥲

The way you described Lucien’s "WHOAH" entrance made me actually laugh out loud because, SAME. He’s just that guy. I’m so glad you enjoyed how Fire Lady’s relationship with Eris evolved subtly because I really wanted it to feel organic without stealing the spotlight.

Also, putting off the last chapter for TWO WHOLE HOURS because you didn’t want it to end? I’m going to cry into my coffee; that’s the most flattering thing ever! 🥹 Thank you for sending this. I’m keeping it forever. You’re amazing. ❤️

[mahalachives]

BTF - Dust, Drama, and Domesticity

Note: This is a bonus one-shot for Between Two Fires. To fully enjoy and understand this piece, I highly recommend reading Between Two Fires first—it’s the emotional groundwork for everything that follows. Trust me, it’ll all make sense after!

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: romcom, humor

Summary: Months into cabin life, you decide to start a memory box to capture the highlights of your unconventional love story. Inside, you tuck a dried flower from the garden, a ribbon from your first Autumn Court dress, and, for a dramatic flourish, a tiny vial of ashes from the Winter Court nobles you obliterated.

Nothing says romance quite like organized arson souvenirs.

Main Story: Between Two Fires - Masterlist

"We should make a memory box," you said one morning, curled against Azriel's chest as sunlight streamed through the east-facing windows of your cabin.

His scarred fingers continued their lazy path through your hair. "A what?"

"A memory box. Like a time capsule, but one we can open whenever we want." You propped yourself up on an elbow, excitement bubbling through you. "It's something humans do. We collect meaningful items that tell our story, then keep them in a special container."

Azriel's shadows swirled with interest, reaching toward you before retreating. At first, his expression remained neutral—that carefully cultivated mask of indifference he'd perfected over centuries. But as you continued speaking, a subtle shift occurred—his eyes softened, his head tilted slightly, and his shadows began forming gentle, curious patterns.

"What purpose does it serve?" he asked, ever practical despite the growing interest evident in his posture.

"It preserves moments that matter," you explained, tracing a finger along his collarbone. "In my human life, my grandmother had one. On special occasions, she'd open this worn cedar box and tell stories about each treasure inside."

You closed your eyes, memory washing over you. "I remember the weight of my grandfather's war medal in my small palm—cold and heavy with history. The yellowed lace of her wedding handkerchief felt so delicate I was afraid my breath might tear it. The tiny leather shoes from my father's first steps, cracked with age but still holding the shape of feet that would one day carry him to war." Your voice softened. "It made history feel... touchable."

When you opened your eyes, Azriel was watching you with an expression you'd only seen a handful of times—open wonder, unguarded and raw.

"A physical record of memory," he said thoughtfully, his shadows settling into a gentle, rhythmic pattern. "Something to anchor the past to the present." A moment's hesitation, then: "We could pass it to our children someday."

The casual mention of children—something that had once been just a dream whispered in darkness—now felt wonderfully possible. A future stretching before you, no longer theoretical but tangible. Your breath caught, and for a moment, the golden bond between you pulsed with shared emotion.

"Exactly," you whispered, running your fingers along the leathery membrane of his wing where it draped protectively over your legs. The texture, both soft and strong, still fascinated you after all this time. "Special things. Meaningful things."

Three days later, he presented you with a box he'd carved himself. Not just any box—a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Dark, polished wood with flame patterns etched along the edges, each one representing a chapter of your shared history. Copper hinges that caught the light like tiny embers. Most stunning were the barely visible shadows carved into the wood itself—protective symbols only visible when light struck at certain angles, his own magic embedded in the grain.

"Open it," he urged, his shadows betraying his anticipation by dancing excitedly around his shoulders.

Inside, nestled on a bed of midnight-blue velvet—the exact shade of the shadows that had first caressed your cheek—he'd already placed the first item: a dried flower from your garden, the first bloom after your return from the human world.

"It's beautiful," you whispered, carefully touching the delicate petals.

"The beginning of our new chapter," he said simply, but the emotion in his voice revealed how deeply this project had already taken root in his heart.

Over the following months, the collection grew. Each addition came with a story, a moment preserved:

A ribbon from your first Autumn Court dress after returning, stitched with golden thread that still caught the light even decades later.

A scrap of parchment where he'd written.

Year 68: I felt the bond flicker today. Stronger, then gone. Is she thinking of me across worlds?

The ink had faded slightly, but the hope contained in those words remained undimmed.

The cork from the bottle of wine you'd shared the night you'd finally told him everything about your human life—every detail, every fear, every triumph. How he'd listened until dawn, his shadows a comforting blanket around you both.

One crisp autumn afternoon, you appeared in the doorway of his workshop where he crafted new shelves, your expression suspiciously innocent as you cradled something in your palm.

"I found the perfect addition," you announced, holding up a small glass vial. Gray powder filled the tiny container, sealed with an ornate stopper shaped like a perfect crystalline snowflake that caught the light in fractal patterns.

Azriel set down his tools, wiping dust from his scarred hands as he approached. His shadows reached the vial before he did, curling around it with curious tendrils. When he took it, you noticed how carefully he handled it, turning it with reverence in his calloused fingers.

"What is this?" he asked, studying the fine gray powder.

"Ashes," you said cheerfully, your tone deliberately casual. "From the Winter Court nobles I incinerated."

The vial slipped from his fingers as if it had suddenly transformed into a venomous serpent. Only his shadowsinger reflexes allowed him to catch it before it shattered on the workshop floor. His expression shifted from curiosity to horror so quickly you had to bite your cheek to keep from laughing.

"You kept their ashes?" His voice jumped an octave higher than you'd ever heard from the usually composed male. His wings flared defensively, the leathery membrane suddenly taut as a drum.

"Just a pinch!" you said defensively, fighting to maintain your serious expression. "I asked Eris to collect some. It felt significant. You know, closure and all that."

"Closure," he repeated faintly. His shadows writhed in agitation, pulling tight against his body like frightened children seeking protection. "You kept a souvenir of people you killed."

"Executed," you corrected primly, placing a hand on your hip. "Legally. As High Lady. For crimes against me and my court."

His shadows pulled even tighter, practically disappearing into his skin. The membrane of his wings trembled visibly, and you watched a muscle tic in his jaw—the most flustered you'd seen him since that first night you'd returned.

"That's..." He struggled for words, his composure completely shattered. His eyes darted between you and the vial as if trying to reconcile the woman he loved with this macabre keepsake. "That's not..."

"Not what?" you prompted innocently.

"Normal," he finally managed, staring at the vial as if expecting the ashes to reconstitute into vengeful spirits at any moment. "My love—"

"Says the male who collects people's secrets for a living," you countered, crossing your arms. "Who has interrogation techniques that made even Rhysand squeamish."

"I don't bottle them as keepsakes!" His wings snapped fully extended, nearly knocking over a shelf of tools. "I don't display them in our home!"

"Well, you should," you sniffed, warming to your performance. "It's very satisfying. Look how pretty the container is! The snowflake is a nice touch, don't you think? Symbolic."

As if summoned by the rising tension, Ember and Sizzle materialized with twin pops of flame, your loyal companions hopping excitedly between you. They squeaked in what sounded suspiciously like approval, having developed a disturbing fondness for fire-related vengeance stories over the years.

"I'm not putting actual remains in our memory box," Azriel said firmly, setting the vial on his workbench with the delicacy one might use for nitroglycerin. His shadows formed a protective barrier around it, as if to quarantine a disease. "That's... macabre. Disturbing. Wrong."

"Fine," you conceded with an exaggerated sigh worthy of a slighted courtier. "I'll just keep it on my nightstand then. It will look lovely next to the candles."

His face went so pale you could almost see through it to the wall behind. The great assassin of the Night Court, terrified by a tiny bottle of dust. "You will not."

"My side of the bed, my decorative choices," you insisted, raising your chin defiantly.

"They're remains!" His voice cracked on the last word.

"Exactly," you corrected with pedantic precision. "And technically, they're just carbon now. Very purified. Almost artistic, really. I could have them made into a lovely paperweight."

His shadows formed agitated question marks above his head, something you'd only seen happen when he was truly and completely flustered. "That doesn't make it better!"

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. "What if I had them made into jewelry instead? A nice pendant? Oh! Or tiny flecks in a pair of earrings that catch the light when I move? Very Winter Court aesthetic, which would be deliciously ironic."

The look of absolute horror on the shadowsinger's face—the most feared assassin in Prythian's history—was so comical that you couldn't maintain your straight face any longer. Your composure cracked, and you dissolved into uncontrollable giggles.

"I'm joking! Mother above, your face!" You doubled over laughing as understanding slowly dawned on him. "The great Shadowsinger, terrified of a tiny bottle of dust! You've faced down armies without flinching, but this—" you gestured to the vial, "—this breaks you?"

Realization transformed his expression from horror to indignation. His shadows flattened against his skin, almost pouting. His wings folded back with an affronted snap.

"You're not putting that in our memory box," he stated, voice clipped with wounded dignity.

"No," you agreed, wiping tears of laughter from your eyes. "It's just sand from the foundation of our cabin. I colored it with ash from the fireplace and had Eris enchant the bottle with that snowflake stopper. I wanted to see your reaction."

His relief was so palpable you could practically taste it, his shoulders dropping as his shadows cautiously extended again. "You're terrible."

"Your face though!" You mimicked his expression of horror, exaggerating the wide eyes and dropped jaw. "I've seen you interrogate the worst criminals in Prythian without blinking, but this—" you gestured to the vial, fresh laughter bubbling up, "—this is what breaks the mighty shadowsinger."

Just as his expression softened into reluctant amusement, you added innocently: "The real ashes are in that cookie jar shaped like a rabbit."

Azriel's eyes darted to the kitchen before narrowing at your renewed laughter. You didn't miss how his shadows secretly slipped toward the kitchen to check, only to return with confirmation that the jar indeed contained only cookies.

He took a predatory step toward you, shadows stretching menacingly. His wings flared fully as he lunged for you, shadows racing ahead to tickle your sides. "Come here, you menace."

You shrieked with laughter, darting around the corner with Azriel in hot pursuit. Ember and Sizzle bounced after you both, their excitement causing tiny flames to erupt in their wake. A curtain caught fire as you raced past, but Azriel's shadows extinguished it without him breaking stride, his focus entirely on capturing you.

The chase led through the kitchen (where you knocked over a bowl of fruit), past the living room (where you leapt over the sofa with surprising agility), and finally ended in the bedroom when he caught you around the waist, his wings creating a leathery cocoon around you both as you fell onto the bed.

"Gotcha," he growled, pinning your hands above your head. His wings arched possessively over you both, blocking out the world.

"So you have," you replied, slightly breathless from running and laughing. "What now, shadowsinger?"

His eyes darkened as he leaned closer, shadows caressing your cheeks with surprising tenderness. "Now I extract my revenge."

Author’s Note:

This oneshot was brought to you by too much caffeine, not enough sleep, and Azriel refusing to let me live my life in peace. Also, I think the shadow bunny is plotting against me. Proceed with caution. 🐇✨

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[mahalachives]

Part 9: Shadows and Secrets

Azriel x f!reader

Genre: fated mates, rom-com, crack humor, eventual angst, eventual smut

Summary: Azriel never expected to finally meet his mate and to be… this.

A walking disaster with a talent for tripping over air, an uncanny ability to charm even the grumpiest Illyrian, and a knack for throwing herself headfirst into situations that require his immediate intervention.

She is warmth where he is shadow, laughter where he is silence. And worst of all? She makes him smile without trying.

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

The dream always began the same way.

A small wooden cabin, nestled deep in a forest far from any court. The perpetual scent of pine and moss, the constant drip of rain on the roof.

Isolation that seemed to stretch forever in all directions.

In the dream, you were a child again, no more than six or seven. Your small hands worked methodically, stoking the hearth fire as winter winds howled outside. You prepared a simple stew in a dented pot, the steam rising in lazy spirals.

She lay on her bed, your mother, staring at the ceiling, as she had for days. Her once vibrant eyes hollow, her cheeks sunken. This wasn't illness.

This was something deeper, a wound in her spirit that never seemed to heal.

"Mother," your child self whispered, "I made dinner."

No response. Just that vacant stare, tears occasionally sliding down her temples to disappear into her hair.

You placed the wooden bowl beside her bed, knowing it would remain untouched. Just as yesterday's had. And the day before that.

"I'll leave it here," you said, your small voice almost swallowed by the emptiness of the cabin. "For when you're hungry."

Loneliness wrapped around you like a physical cloak, heavy and suffocating.

Through the window, you watched snowflakes dance in the darkness, deepening your isolation. No one would travel these woods in such weather. No one would find your cabin.

No one would find you.

Then came the voices, whispers that seemed to seep from the very walls of the cabin. Words you couldn't quite make out, meanings that skittered away when you tried to focus on them.

Strange images flashed. Your reflection in the window glass, eyes shimmering with an odd light. Your mother suddenly sitting up, panic lending her strength where grief had stolen it, grabbing your shoulders with desperate hands.

Words you couldn't remember upon waking, a promise you didn't understand.

You jolted awake, a gasp catching in your throat, but the sound was muffled against warm skin and solid muscle.

Disoriented, you blinked in the pre dawn darkness, momentarily confused by the weight across your waist, the unfamiliar heat surrounding you. Then recognition settled in, along with immediate comfort.

Azriel.

His arm was draped possessively around your middle, his chest pressed against your back, his wings partially unfurled to cocoon you both in living shadow and warmth. His breathing was deep and even, fanning against your neck in a rhythm that normally would have lulled you back to sleep.

But the dream lingered, its ghostly fingers still clutching at your mind.

You shifted carefully, not wanting to wake him, but of course he sensed the change instantly. Azriel had spent centuries honing his awareness, training his body to register the slightest disturbance even in sleep.

"What is it?" His voice was rough with sleep, yet quiet in the darkness. The arm around your waist tightened slightly, instinctively protective.

"Nothing," you whispered back, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just a strange dream."

You felt him shift behind you, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at your face.

Though the room was dark, you knew he could see you perfectly. Those Illyrian senses missed nothing, especially not the rapid flutter of your pulse, the lingering tension in your body.

"The same one?" he asked softly.

You nodded, though you couldn't remember telling him about the dreams before. Maybe he'd sensed them, felt the disturbance through the mating bond that connected you.

With gentle insistence, he turned you in his arms until you faced him. In the darkness, his hazel eyes seemed to glow faintly, catching what little light filtered through the curtains. His shadows stirred around him, coiling closer as if sensing your distress.

"Tell me," he urged, one scarred hand coming up to brush hair from your face.

You hesitated, trying to grasp the dream details that were already fading.

"I was a child, in a cabin somewhere... with my mother, I think. She was sad... or sick. I don't know." You shook your head, frustrated by the fragments slipping away. "It felt so real, but now it's just... pieces."

Azriel's expression shifted, the neutral mask giving way to something sharper, more alert. His shadows suddenly swirled more actively, stretching toward you in agitated patterns. One brushed against your cheek, surprisingly cool against your skin.

"This is the third night," he said, his voice no longer sleep-rough but precise, calculating. "The same dream, becoming clearer each time."

You blinked, surprised by his intensity. "It's just a dream, Az."

"Is it?" His gaze remained fixed on yours, searching.

You tried for levity. "Maybe I'm just stressed about Gregory's upcoming scale polishing appointment. Fish parenting is serious business."

Your joke fell flat against Azriel's unwavering concern. His shadows whispered to him, coiling around his ears before stretching out again to touch your hair, your wrists, the pendant at your throat.

"We need to see Rhys," he said suddenly, already sitting up. "Now."

"What?" You stared at him, bewildered. "Now, as in right now? It's not even dawn!"

"Now." The word was firm, brooking no argument.

"Azriel." You sat up, clutching the blanket to your chest. "It's the middle of the night. We can't just burst into the High Lord's bedroom because I had a weird dream about a sad mother and a pot of stew. That's not how normal people behave."

"You're not normal people," he said, already pulling on his fighting leathers with swift, economical movements. "You're my mate. And something's happening to you."

"Yes, it's called sleep deprivation," you protested. "Caused by a certain shadowsinger waking me up at an ungodly hour to discuss my dreams with his boss."

Azriel paused in buckling one of his many knives to his thigh.

Despite your exasperation, you couldn't help admiring the sight of him, half-dressed and serious.

The man could make paranoia look attractive.

"The cabin," he said quietly. "Did it have a blue door? With a carving of a crescent moon?"

Your heart stuttered. You hadn't mentioned that detail, had you? "How did you..."

"Rhys has been searching for a cabin matching that description for weeks," Azriel said, returning to his weapons with renewed urgency. "Ever since the night of the River House party, when he first recognized you."

"Recognized me?" You felt like you were missing several crucial pieces of a puzzle. "I've only met Rhys a handful of times since I started at the Archives."

Azriel's gaze met yours, something ancient and knowing in his eyes. "No," he said gently. "You met him long before that. You just don't remember."

A chill ran through you. "That's... that's not possible."

"Isn't it?" He crossed back to the bed, kneeling before you, taking your hands in his scarred ones. "The voices that no one else hears. The dreams that feel like memories. The way my shadows sought you out from the moment we met, like they recognized something in you that I couldn't yet see."

Your mouth went dry. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he replied, squeezing your hands gently, "that you need to talk to Rhys. Tonight."

"Can I at least put on clothes first?" you asked weakly, grasping at the last shreds of normalcy. "Or should I meet the High Lord of the Night Court in my nightgown? I hear that's the fashion these days."

A smile flickered across Azriel's face, there and gone in an instant. "Clothes would be advisable."

"Well, thank the Mother for small mercies." You slid from the bed, moving to your wardrobe. "But if Rhysand is sleeping, I'm blaming you entirely. I'll tell him you forced me to come, driven by some mad spymaster conspiracy theory about my entirely ordinary bad dreams."

Azriel watched you with that penetrating gaze of his. "You're deflecting."

"I'm coping," you corrected, pulling out a simple dress. "Some of us manage fear with humor rather than an arsenal of pointy objects."

His expression softened. "I would take all your fear if I could."

The simple sincerity in his voice melted your resistance. You sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "Fine. We'll go see Rhys. But I want it on record that this is ridiculous, and I'm only agreeing because you look very convincing with all those knives."

Azriel's lips curved in a barely-there smile. "Noted."

Ten minutes later, dressed and marginally more awake, you found yourself gathered in Azriel's arms as he prepared to fly you to the River House. His wings spread wide, magnificent even in the dim light of your bedroom.

"For the record," you mumbled against his chest, "if he's is annoyed at being woken up for dream interpretation, I'm throwing you under the carriage."

"He won't be," Azriel said with absolute certainty. "He's been waiting for this."

"For what?"

Azriel's arms tightened around you as he moved to the window. "For you to remember."

As his powerful wings caught the night air and lifted you both into the star-strewn sky, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were flying toward something that would change everything. That the dream wasn't just a dream, but a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice whispered.

You promised. No magic. No matter what you see or hear.

But whose voice it was, you couldn't remember.

The flight to the River House was mercifully brief.

Dawn was still nothing more than a promise on the horizon when Azriel landed on a wide balcony with practiced silence, setting you gently on your feet.

You'd expected darkness, servants scrambling to attend unexpected visitors, perhaps even an annoyed High Lord in sleeping attire.

Instead, warm light spilled from the open balcony doors. Rhysand stood waiting, fully dressed in elegant black, a glass of amber liquid in one hand.

As if he'd been expecting you. As if he'd been waiting.

"Right on time," he said, violet eyes gleaming in the low light. His gaze swept over you, assessing, before settling on Azriel. "The dreams have started."

Not a question. A statement of fact.

Your mouth fell open. "How did you—"

"Let's talk inside," Rhys interrupted smoothly, stepping back to allow you entrance. "Feyre has prepared tea."

Your steps faltered. "Feyre's awake too?" You shot Azriel an accusatory look. "Is everyone in the Night Court up at this unholy hour discussing my sleeping habits?"

"Not everyone," Rhys replied with a hint of amusement. "Just those who need to be."

The High Lord's study was unexpectedly cozy, with a fire crackling in the hearth and comfortable seating arranged around it. Feyre rose from an armchair as you entered, her expression kind but tinged with something that looked disconcertingly like concern.

"Please, sit," she said, gesturing to a plush sofa. "You look like you've had a rough night."

"Apparently it's about to get rougher," you muttered, but did as suggested. Azriel settled beside you, close enough that his wing brushed your back in a gesture of silent support.

Rhys remained standing, leaning against the mantelpiece with casual grace that didn't quite mask the intensity of his focus. "Tell me about the dream."

Under that violet gaze, you suddenly felt self-conscious. "It's nothing special. Just a cabin in the woods. A sad mother. Some voices." You shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and failing miserably. "Probably just my subconscious processing Archives stress or something."

"The cabin had a blue door," Rhys said softly. "With a crescent moon carved into it."

Your heart stuttered. "How do you—"

"You were small," he continued, eyes never leaving your face. "No more than six or seven. Your mother was... unwell. Not physically, but inside. She wouldn't eat. Wouldn't speak except to warn you about something. To make you promise."

The room tilted alarmingly. You gripped the sofa cushion to steady yourself, feeling Azriel's hand press reassuringly against your lower back.

"That's... that's impossible," you whispered. "How could you know the details of my dream?"

"Because it's not just a dream." Rhys pushed away from the mantelpiece, moving to sit across from you. His expression softened, a surprising gentleness entering his voice. "It's a memory. One that was taken from you."

"Taken?" Your voice sounded strange to your own ears. "By who?"

Rhys and Feyre exchanged a look laden with meaning. Then Rhys sighed, seeming to make a decision.

"By my father," he said simply. "The previous High Lord of the Night Court."

The words landed like physical blows. You stared at him, unable to process what he was saying. "I've never met your father. He died centuries ago."

"Yes." Rhys leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. "But you knew him before that. When you were a child."

"That's not possible." You shook your head vehemently. "I grew up in a small village near the Day Court border. My mother was a seamstress. I only moved to Velaris a few years ago."

"Those aren't your memories," Feyre said gently. "They're fabrications, planted to replace what was taken."

You let out a shaky laugh, looking between them. "This is insane. Why would anyone bother tampering with a random child's memories?"

"Because you weren't random," Rhys said, his voice dropping lower, carrying a somberness that made your heart ache. "You were his secret, yes. A pawn, perhaps. But you were also—" His breath hitched. "—something he kept hidden, even from us."

The room went utterly silent. You could hear the crackling of the fire, the soft rush of Azriel's wings as they shifted. You could feel his tension beside you, the protective coil of his shadows around your wrists.

"No," you said flatly. "That's not... no. My father was a Day Court soldier who died before I was born. My mother showed me his portrait."

"Did she?" Rhys asked softly. "Can you remember his face?"

You opened your mouth to reply, to describe the portrait you'd seen a thousand times... and found nothing. No clear image. Just a vague impression of a uniform, a faceless figure, a story told so often it had become truth.

"This is ridiculous," you insisted, though uncertainty crept into your voice. "Why would you even think that I... that he..."

Rhys's expression turned solemn. "Because I remember you."

His hand trembled slightly as he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small carved star, its edges smooth from years of wear. It glinted in the firelight, a relic from a past neither of you could have foreseen. "This…" His voice cracked. "You gave this to me, when you called me brother."

A chill skittered down your spine. Something about the star in his palm tugged at your mind, a faint thread of recognition.

"You were brought to the Court Under the Mountain when you were about six. Your mother had been my father's mistress for years, but kept you hidden until then. One night, I found you on a balcony, watching the stars."

Feyre made a small sound, halfway between sympathy and wonder. Azriel remained silent beside you, but his hand found yours, fingers intertwining with quiet strength.

As the memories churned within you, Azriel's shadowed presence at your side became a delicate balance.

He was there—always there—but his restraint burned through him, a visible tension in his jaw. He wanted to reach out, to wrap you in his arms, but he was waiting for you, respecting the distance you needed. His shadows, once so familiar and comforting, now seemed like an extension of his anxiety, curling tight at his sides as if waiting for you to allow them closer.

"After that night, you disappeared," Rhys said. "Both you and your mother. My father forbade anyone from speaking of you. When I asked, he... punished me. And then he removed the memory entirely."

"But it returned," Feyre added, her gaze compassionate. "After all these years. When he saw you at the River House party, something clicked. A memory that had been altered but not completely destroyed."

You swallowed hard, trying to process what they were saying. "So you're claiming that I'm... what? Your half-sister? The illegitimate child of the previous High Lord?"

"Yes," Rhys said simply. "And I believe my father altered your memories before sending you away. Created a false past for you and your mother. To keep you hidden, perhaps as insurance, or perhaps out of some twisted form of protection."

"The dream is your true memory fighting to surface," Feyre explained. "The cabin was real. Your mother's depression was real. And the voices..."

"The voices were your power," Rhys finished. "A power I've never seen before in any daemati. Even in our bloodline."

Your head spun.

It was too much, too fantastical.

And yet... and yet it would explain the whispers in the Archives. The strange sense of recognition you'd felt toward Rhys from your first meeting. The way Azriel's shadows had always seemed to know you, reaching for you even before he consciously recognized the mating bond.

"What do you mean, a power you've never seen before?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Rhys leaned forward, intensity radiating from him. "I'm considered one of the most powerful daemati in Prythian's history. But your abilities, even when untrained and trapped behind whatever shield my father put in your mind... they're extraordinary. You don't just hear thoughts. You hear voices across realms. You hear the dead."

"That's not possible," you whispered, but even as you said it, fragments of memory flickered at the edges of your consciousness. Whispers in the dark. Secrets no living soul should know. The endless solitude of that cabin, broken only by voices that shouldn't exist.

"My father placed a shield in your mind," Rhys continued. "But I don't know why. What he was hiding. What he feared." His violet eyes locked with yours. "I want to help you uncover it. To remember who you truly are."

As he spoke about your mother, about the cabin, something shifted in your mind. Like a key turning in a rusty lock, a door creaking open to reveal horrors long hidden.

The image of her body—a stillness that didn't make sense to your young mind—kept cutting through your vision like a broken film reel.

Blood, you thought. It clung to your skin, soaked into your small hands, but the details weren't clear. You only knew the terror, the screaming. The whispers of someone else… someone cold… someone waiting for you to be strong.

Your mother.

Not sitting up in bed, not warning you about using power.

Her body. Still. Cold. Lifeless.

Blood. So much blood. On the floor. On your tiny hands. On your nightdress.

Your child self, screaming. Sobbing. Alone with a corpse in the wilderness.

And a voice, familiar yet chilling. "She was weak. But you, little one... you will be strong."

The memory slammed into you with physical force. You jerked back, a strangled sound escaping your throat. Azriel's arm immediately went around you, his shadows flaring protectively, but you barely felt it through the surge of panic.

"She's dead," you gasped, the words torn from some deep, wounded place inside you. "My mother. She's dead. In the cabin. I found her."

Rhys straightened, alarm flashing across his features. "What do you remember?"

But the memories were coming too fast now, a torrent of images and sensations breaking through the crumbling dam in your mind. Your mother's body.

The isolation. The terror.

You tried to shove it down, to rebuild the walls that had protected you for so long.

This couldn't be real. This couldn't be your life.

Your mother died peacefully. Your father was a hero. You were normal. Ordinary. Safe.

But the truth clawed its way out, ripping through the carefully constructed lies, leaving you raw and exposed.

The air stilled, thick with tension as your power surged, a wave of energy too raw and untamed to control. The fire sputtered and died in the hearth, the once steady flames now nothing more than flickering embers that reflected in Rhysand's wide, shocked eyes. The tea service shattered, its delicate porcelain scattering in a rain of broken shards that echoed through the silence, the sound as jarring as the chaos inside you.

"Stay away from me," you said, surging to your feet, backing away from them all. Your chest heaved with panicked breaths. "All of you. Stay back."

Azriel's shadows, once a comforting presence, writhed beneath his skin, the invisible tendrils curling tighter around you, though the proximity of his presence did little to ease the tempest inside you. His eyes darkened with his own helplessness, his usual calm shattered by the storm of emotions sweeping over you.

"You're safe," Azriel began, rising slowly, hands outstretched in a non-threatening gesture. "No one here will hurt you."

But you weren't seeing him anymore. You were seeing a cabin in the woods. A small child covered in blood. A High Lord with darkness writhing at his command, reaching for you, into you, twisting something in your mind until the world went black.

"Don't touch me!" The words burst from you in a wave of power that rippled through the room, knocking over furniture, extinguishing the fire, shattering the tea service.

Feyre gasped. Rhys moved in front of her instinctively, though his expression wasn't fear but shock.

And Azriel... Azriel stood perfectly still, watching you with those ancient eyes, shadows writhing around him but never approaching you.

"I need to go," you said, backing toward the balcony doors. "I need... I can't..."

"Let me take you home," Azriel said quietly. "Please. I won't touch you if you don't want me to. I won't speak. Just let me make sure you get home safely."

The raw concern in his voice penetrated your panic. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw not the threat your fragmented memories had conjured but your mate.

Your protector.

The one who had woken in the night to your distress and brought you here out of worry, not malice.

"Az," you whispered, voice breaking on his name.

He took a careful step toward you. "I'm here."

"I don't know what's happening to me."

"I know," he said softly. "But we'll figure it out. Together."

You looked past him to Rhys and Feyre, who remained where they were, making no move to approach. The shock on their faces had been replaced by deep concern.

"I didn't mean to..." you gestured weakly at the destruction around you.

"It's nothing," Rhys assured you, his voice gentle in a way you'd never heard before. "Just furniture. What matters is you."

And in that moment, despite the terror and confusion, despite the horror of the memories surfacing in your mind, you felt something unexpected.

Belonging.

"I want to go home," you said finally, your voice small.

"Then that's where we'll go," Azriel promised, moving to your side but still not touching you without permission. "May I?"

You nodded, and he carefully wrapped an arm around your waist, gathering you close as his wings spread in preparation for flight.

"We'll talk when you're ready," Rhys said from behind you. "No pressure. No timeline. This is your journey, on your terms."

You didn't respond, couldn't find words through the storm in your mind. But as Azriel lifted you into the dawn-brightening sky, as Velaris spread below you in all its awakening beauty, you clutched the carved star Rhys had pressed into your palm and wondered what other horrors waited behind the walls in your mind.

The apartment felt both sanctuary and prison.

For three days now, you'd barely left your bedroom, the walls both shield and cage. Gregory's bowl sat on your nightstand, his silent companionship the only interaction you could bear.

Even then, sometimes his innocent bubbling felt like accusation—why are you hiding?

Outside your door, life persisted.

The quiet conversations, ceramic against wood as meals appeared and disappeared, untouched. The soft rustle of wings as Azriel moved through your apartment—a constant, patient sentinel.

He hadn't tried to force his way in. Hadn't sent his shadows slithering under the crack to spy.

He simply... waited.

Like the mountain waits for spring after winter's grip—inevitable, unrushing, certain.

Your latest nightmare had left your body hollowed, sheets damp with cold sweat that smelled of fear.

The memories—were they even memories?—grew sharper each night, glass edges cutting deeper. Mother's body. Blood pooling black in the moonlight. The silence after screaming that stretched into forever.

Who am I, if not who I believed? The question echoed, unanswered, a stone dropped into a bottomless well.

A soft knock pulled you from the spiral, gentle but unmistakable.

"There's food," Azriel's voice came through the wood, his deep timbre neither demanding nor pitying. Just stating fact. "And tea. When you're ready."

You didn't answer. Hadn't in days. But something in you ached at his voice—steady as the North Star while you drowned in shifting seas.

"Lira stopped by," he continued, as though conversing through doors was perfectly natural. "She brought more books from the Archives. Said they might help distract you."

Your chest tightened. Lira. Sweet, fierce Lira who knew nothing of your true heritage but had still shown up, bearing gifts and stubborn concern.

"Is she still sick?" she'd asked earlier, her voice carrying through the door.

"Something like that," Azriel had replied, the evasion smooth as silk.

You'd pressed your ear to the door then, desperate for that connection to normal life—if it had ever been yours at all.

"Well, tell her Gregory misses his mother," Lira had said, false lightness straining her words. "And that Mor is threatening to organize a rescue mission if she doesn't emerge soon."

The thought of Mor charging in, all golden fury and determination, had almost—almost—made you smile.

Another knock, firmer this time.

"You should eat," Azriel said.

Not an order but a reminder that your body still existed, still needed care, regardless of the crisis consuming your mind.

The whisper of fabric as he shifted outside—a sound so faint only Illyrian hearing could detect it. His shadows moved too, their presence palpable even through the door, like cool fingertips brushing the wood between you.

"This will pass," his voice came again, softer now, intimate as a shared secret. "Nothing lasts forever. Not even this darkness."

The words carried something rare for Azriel—naked emotion, unguarded by his usual careful reserve.

"How can you know that?" you whispered, unsure if he could hear.

A pause. Then, "Because I see you, even when you can't see yourself."

The simplicity of it burned your eyes with unshed tears.

For days, you'd been terrified of the power that had exploded in Rhys's study, of hurting those you loved. Yet Azriel's voice held no fear, only bedrock certainty.

"I'm afraid," you admitted, pressing your forehead against the door. "Of what I might do. What I might become."

"I know," he said, and you sensed him move closer, his presence a weight against the other side. "But whatever you face, you don't have to face it alone."

His shadows seeped through the thin crack beneath the door, not invading but reaching—cool tendrils of night that carried his silent promise.

"Some nights," he continued, voice dropping to a rumble that vibrated through the wood, "when darkness feels absolute, I remember that dawn has never once failed to come. Not once in five hundred years."

Gregory bubbled in his bowl, a mundane counterpoint to Azriel's poetry.

"What if I hurt someone?" The fear that had kept you locked away. "What if I can't control it?"

"Then we learn control together," he answered without hesitation, the words carrying a thread of steel. "No one expects you to master this alone."

You closed your eyes, his words settling into the hairline fractures of your fear like healing rain into parched earth.

"The others have been asking about you," Azriel said after a moment. "Mor. Cassian. Even Amren, in her way."

"Amren?" The surprise pulled your voice higher. "Truly?"

"She said—and I quote—'Tell the girl to stop wallowing and come learn what she can do.'" A hint of wry amusement colored his tone. "I believe that's her version of concern."

Tiny, ancient Amren, with her quicksilver eyes and merciless pragmatism, worried about you. The thought unfurled warmth in your chest—this strange, cobbled family refusing to abandon you, even now.

"Rhys hasn't pushed," Azriel continued. "He understands better than most what it means to discover truths about yourself that change everything. But he's there, when you're ready."

When, not if. The distinction wasn't lost on you.

"I don't know if I'll ever be ready," you confessed.

"You will be," he said, conviction running through his words like iron. "And until then, I'll be right here. Not moving."

His shadows pulsed beneath the door, physical manifestations of his oath, curling up like ribbons of midnight. One shadow reached toward your bare foot, pausing as if asking permission.

You stared at it—this living darkness that could pierce any barrier yet respected your boundaries enough to wait, to ask.

Slowly, you lowered your hand, allowing the shadow to brush your fingertips. The sensation was cool but not cold, silk against skin, a touch more intimate than any physical contact.

"Az," you whispered, his name breaking on your lips.

"I'm here," he answered immediately, voice taut with restrained emotion.

Your fingers found the door handle, hesitated, then began to turn it.

And then they came.

Whispers.

Not one, but dozens. Hundreds.

A cacophony of voices like brittle bones breaking, like water over burial stones, like the final stuttering exhale of the dying. They surrounded you, filled the room, pressed against your skin from all sides.

"Little listener," they hissed, words overlapping, discordant as broken instruments. "Little one with the gift and the curse."

Your hand froze on the doorknob, lungs seizing mid-breath.

"The shadowsinger cannot protect you," another voice rasped, this one colder, closer, the sound of it like frost forming on your spine. "His shadows are nothing compared to us. We exist in the space between heartbeats. In the darkness behind your eyes."

"His throat would open so easily," whispered one that sounded like a child, the innocence in the tone making the words obscene. "Wet and warm and red. We remember red. We miss red."

Terror crashed through you, limbs locking rigid as ice spread through your veins.

"His wings would snap like frozen branches," offered another, the voice wet with anticipation. "We could guide your hands. We could sing the song of breaking bones together."

"Stop," you breathed, the word barely audible. "Please stop."

The voices laughed—a sound like maggots writhing in rotting flesh.

"She thinks she commands us!" they mocked, voices layering over each other in horrible harmony. "Little daemati, little Night Court foundling. You don't command the dead. You are our doorway. Our puppet. Our hands in the world of flesh."

A sob caught in your throat, your fingers slipping from the doorknob as you backed away. The voices followed, clinging to you like grave mold, their phantom touch raising gooseflesh across your body.

"What's wrong?" Azriel called, alarm sharpening his voice. "Are you alright?"

You couldn't answer. Couldn't form words as the voices pressed closer, their whispers filling your ears, your mind, crowding out thought.

"Tell him," they urged, vicious excitement in their chorus. "Tell him we're here. Tell him we can see the exact moment his heart will stop beating."

"Tell him we're coming for him through you."

The doorknob rattled. "I'm coming in," Azriel commanded, all patience evaporated in the face of your distress.

A sharp crack split the air—wood splintering, metal snapping—and the door swung open, lock destroyed by Illyrian strength.

Azriel stood in the doorway, wings flared wide, shadows roiling around him like storm clouds. His eyes, usually so controlled, burned with fierce concern as they found you huddled against the far wall.

"Don't," you gasped, pressing back as if you could melt into the plaster. "Please. Go away."

"Too late," the voices crooned, crawling over each other in gleeful anticipation. "Too late, too late, too late..."

He didn't leave. But he didn't approach either.

Instead, he lowered himself to the floor, a careful distance away, movements slow and deliberate as if approaching a wounded animal. His wings tucked tight, though his shadows continued their agitated dance.

"I'm not leaving," he said quietly, each word a stone foundation. "Not now. Not ever."

The voices hissed—some in frustration, others in what sounded disturbingly like hunger.

"How sweet, his devotion," they mocked. "How easily it will break when your hands wrap around his throat. Your body, our will. Your power, our purpose."

You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears tracking down your cheeks. But you couldn't block the voices. They were inside you, part of this cursed gift you'd inherited.

"There's something wrong with me," you managed, words raw and jagged.

"No," Azriel replied without hesitation, the word landing with the weight of absolute truth. "There's something wrong with what was done to you. That's different."

The distinction hung between you—simple yet profound. He didn't demand explanations. Just sat there, solid as bedrock, his shadows gradually settling as your breathing steadied.

The voices retreated slightly, their frustration a tangible pressure, but they didn't vanish. They lingered at the edges of your awareness, whispering promises of violence, of control, of horrors to come.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. You couldn't tell him about the voices, about their threats. Not yet. Not when you feared they might use you as their instrument.

"None of us do," Azriel replied, unexpected vulnerability in his admission. "We're all just... finding our way forward. One step at a time. Even Rhys."

A surprised laugh escaped you, so incongruous with the terror still coiled inside that it startled even you. The voices recoiled at the sound, as if your moment of genuine feeling caused them physical pain.

That was... interesting.

"You don't have to tell me everything," Azriel said, his perceptiveness cutting to the heart of your silence. "Not until you're ready. But don't convince yourself you need to face it alone."

Gregory bubbled energetically from his bowl, as if agreeing—or perhaps sensing the momentary retreat of the dead that had filled the room.

"Even Gregory agrees," Azriel noted, the faintest hint of humor warming his voice.

You wiped tear-stained cheeks with trembling hands. "You broke my door."

"It was between us." he replied simply.

Another surprised laugh, this one stronger. "You're impossible."

"I've had centuries of practice." His gaze remained steady, shadows settling into calmer patterns. "Are you hungry?"

The question was so normal, so everyday amid the supernatural crisis consuming your life, that you could only stare at him.

Then, absurdly, your stomach growled—loudly.

Azriel's brow lifted slightly, the closest thing to smugness his severe features could manage. "I'll take that as yes."

For the first time in days, you felt something simple and human beneath the fear. Hunger—a reminder that regardless of what else you might be, you were still flesh and blood with basic needs.

"Maybe a little," you conceded.

He nodded, rising with fluid grace that belied his warrior's build. He didn't offer his hand, didn't try to help you up—understanding you needed to stand on your own terms, in your own time.

"I'll bring it here," he said, already turning toward the broken doorway. "You don't have to come out until you're ready."

The consideration in the gesture made your chest ache. "Az?"

He paused, looking back over his shoulder, wings shifting slightly.

"Thank you."

For staying. For breaking down doors. For not demanding answers you couldn't give.

"For everything."

His expression didn't change, but his shadows swirled with something that might have been tenderness. "Always."

As he left to retrieve food, the voices whispered again—fainter now but laced with malice.

"You won't escape us forever," they warned. "We are patient. We are eternal. We will always find you, little daemati."

But for the first time since they'd begun their terrible chorus, their threats felt less absolute.

A shadow—one of Azriel's—had remained behind, curling around your wrist like a bracelet of cool night. It pulsed gently, as if taking your pulse, reminding you that you weren't alone in this darkness.

That perhaps there was light worth fighting for after all.

Consciousness returned like the tide—gradual yet inevitable. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting golden stripes across your rumpled sheets and warming skin that had felt cold for days.

You shifted, muscles protesting after being tensed in fear for so long. The absence struck you first—that terrible chorus of dead voices had finally quieted sometime in the night. The silence in your mind felt vast and pristine, like fresh snow before footprints mar its surface. You'd forgotten how peaceful quiet could be.

A soft rustle drew your attention.

Azriel sat in the chair beside your bed, a sentinel carved from shadow and steel. His wings were folded tight against his back, the tips brushing the floor. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, the only evidence of his sleepless vigil. His shadows moved languidly around him, more settled than you'd seen them in days.

Guilt twisted through you. "You didn't sleep," you murmured, voice rough from disuse.

His eyes—sharp despite his evident exhaustion—focused on you immediately. The slightest tremor ran through his hands before he stilled them against the armrests. "You did. That's what matters."

You pushed yourself up against the headboard, studying him. The shadows beneath his eyes looked almost bruised, his normally immaculate appearance showing subtle signs of strain—a slight wrinkle in his fighting leathers, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead.

"Az, you need rest too," you said softly.

A muscle in his jaw tightened. "I've gone longer."

The stubborn male.

Your lips pursed into what you knew was a childish pout, brows drawing together as you frowned at him.

Something shifted in Azriel then—subtle at first, like ice beginning to thaw.

The rigid line of his shoulders eased slightly. The severe set of his mouth softened at the corners.

Then, like dawn breaking after endless night, his expression transformed completely. A genuine smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes in a way so rare and beautiful it momentarily stole your breath.

"What?" you asked, unsettled by this sudden change.

"There you are," he said, voice hushed as if sharing a sacred truth. "I thought I'd lost you to the fear."

His shadows stirred, stretching toward you like creatures seeking warmth.

Before you could respond, he moved to the edge of your bed. Not with his usual predatory grace, but carefully, almost tentatively, as if afraid you might shatter or flee.

"Az?" Your heart quickened as he leaned closer.

His scarred hands hovered near your face—hesitating, uncertain—before gently, reverently cradling your cheeks. The calluses on his palms were rough against your skin, a warrior's hands trying to be gentle. Then he pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering as if in prayer.

"Azriel!" Heat flooded your face at the unexpected tenderness.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, something vulnerable flickering in the depths of his hazel eyes. A question. A fear of overstepping. But at whatever he saw in your expression, his hesitation melted away.

Another kiss found your temple, his breath warm against your skin. Then your cheek, the touch feather-light yet devastating in its sweetness. The tip of your nose. Each contact deliberate, almost worshipful.

"Az, what are you doing?" you asked, breathless.

The shadows of his lashes fell across his cheekbones as he looked down. "Making sure you're real," he confessed, voice rough with emotion he rarely displayed. "That the voices didn't take you from me."

His shadows joined this unexpected display of affection, curling around your wrists like cool silk ribbons. Where they touched, they left a sensation like starlight against your skin—bright yet gentle, familiar yet extraordinary.

"I'm still here," you assured him, flustered by this uncharacteristic display. "You can stop now."

He caught your chin between thumb and forefinger, his expression softening further.

"No," he said simply, the word carrying a world of tenderness you'd never heard from him before. "I don't think I can."

The bold declaration, so unlike his usual measured restraint, left you momentarily speechless.

"When did you get so impossible?" you managed finally.

His thumb traced the curve of your lower lip, his touch reverent. "When I thought I might lose you to the darkness in your mind."

You tried to maintain your composure, but a smile betrayed you, tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I'm stronger than that."

"Yes," he agreed, shadows swirling with something that might have been pride. "You are."

He brushed your hair back, the scarred ridges of his fingertips catching slightly against the strands. "The voices... are they quiet now?"

The question sobered you. You turned your awareness inward, holding your breath as you listened for that terrible chorus.

Nothing.

Where before there had been a cacophony of malicious whispers, pressing against your consciousness like hands trying to break through glass, now there was only blessed stillness. The relief was so profound it brought tears to your eyes.

"They're gone," you whispered, voice breaking on the words. "I can't hear them at all."

A shudder passed through Azriel, his exhale shaky as he leaned his forehead against yours. "Thank the Mother."

For a moment, you simply breathed together, sharing the same air, the same space. His shadows drifted around you both, forming a cocoon of living darkness that felt strangely like protection.

"You know," he said finally, his voice a low rumble that you felt more than heard, "Rhys believes he can help."

Tension crawled back into your shoulders. "How?"

"He's a daemati too," Azriel reminded you, one hand sliding to the nape of your neck in a steadying touch. "He could teach you to build shields in your mind. To filter what you hear."

His shadows faltered slightly at the mention of Rhys, twisting into agitated patterns before settling again—a tell you'd never noticed before.

"What if I hurt him?" Fear crept back into your voice. "What if the voices come back when I'm with him, and they make me do something terrible?"

Azriel's grip on you tightened fractionally, his jaw hardening with determination. "Then I'll be there. Between you and him. Between you and anyone who might be harmed." His shadows surged in agreement, darkening with protective intent. "But we can't hide from this forever."

The "we" wasn't lost on you—he had claimed your burden as his own without hesitation.

"I'm terrified," you admitted.

"I know." He kissed you again, this time at the corner of your eye where a tear threatened to fall. "But I've watched you face impossible things before."

"You make me sound braver than I am," you murmured.

"No," he said with unexpected fierceness. "I see you exactly as you are."

The simple truth of it struck deep, warming places inside you that had been cold with fear for days.

His thumb brushed your cheek. "We'll go only when you're ready. But Rhys can help in ways I can't."

You sighed, leaning into his touch. "When did you get so persuasive?"

"Five centuries of practice," he replied, the serious line of his mouth betrayed by the warmth in his eyes.

"Fine," you conceded, unable to resist the hope he offered. "We can see Rhys. But after that, you're going to sleep for at least twelve hours."

"Is that an order?" he asked, amusement threading through his voice.

"Yes," you said firmly. "And stop with all the... the..."

"Affection?" he supplied, pressing another deliberate kiss to your cheek.

You tried to summon a glare, but a helpless laugh escaped instead. "It's disconcerting. You're supposed to be scary and brooding."

"Only to everyone else," he said with quiet sincerity. Then, as if catching himself being too earnest, he added, "Besides, this is far more effective at keeping you off-balance."

He rose gracefully, extending one scarred hand. "Breakfast first? I imagine you're hungry."

Your stomach growled in agreement, making his lips twitch with satisfaction.

As you placed your hand in his and let him help you to your feet, you felt something fundamental shift between you. The voices might return. Your power remained untamed. But for the first time since the River House, since the memories and the whispers had begun, you felt a flicker of something precious.

With Azriel looking at you as though you were the dawn after his longest night, even the darkness that had nearly consumed you seemed less absolute, less eternal.

And in the Night Court, perhaps that was the greatest victory of all.

Author's Note:

Dear wonderful readers,

I apologize for vanishing faster than memories in the Night Court! Life's been a whirlwind—juggling the whispers of the dead, a pet fish named Gregory, and a moody shadowsinger boyfriend demands more multitasking mojo than I've got.

I promise the next update won't take as long—Azriel's threatened to hunt me down with his shadows if I keep you waiting. (Who knew he'd be so invested in my storytelling? Definitely not him!)

Thank you for your patience! Now, back to stumbling over things and accidentally causing havoc.

Tag List: @songbirdpond @tothestarsandwhateverend @lovely-susie @kksbookstuff @ladycaramelswirl @gamarancianne @writtenbypavani @bubybubsters @moonlitscrolls @valyas-corner @iris-lavender @lreadsstuff @nebarious @azrielssgirl @lamimamiii @fantasydreamwalker @dallynjennasgirl @tenshis-cake @lilah-asteria @sweetsugarcoffee @fall-winter-heart97 @lovely-susie @lreadsstuff @sofi03 @songbirdpond @nico707 @justtryingtosurvive02 @yourlocalcancer @saltedcoffeescotch @thatacotargirl @happypeanutstrawberry @theverseoftheblackpearl @tele86 @highladyofhogwarts @fuckingsimp4azriel @thegoddessofnothingness @lovelyflower7777 @stressed-reader @karespocketboyfriends @lreadsstuff @yourdarkroses-blog @plants-w0rld @oldernotwiser26 @ashduv @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @adventure-awaits13 @thegoddessofnothingness @fuckingsimp4azriel @highladyofhogwarts @stainedpomegranatelips @i-am-infinite @arcticfoxxes

[mahalachives]

Okay, I’ve spent 24 hours digesting Between Two Fires and I finally feel ready to comment. Firstly, what a fantastic story. What a well written, heartfelt, gut wrenching, tragically beautiful story. A story whose characters felt like living breathing entities, whose thoughts and motivations I pondered for hours after I finished. Your prose are stunning and evocative and truly one of the best pieces of fiction I’ve read in a while.

Now to my favorite part; how beautiful is it that the Lady of Autumn knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Azriel’s love is true and real. That it was not a fiction of trauma or the mating bond, but his genuine affection and adoration of her. How lovely to have a love that would wait 80 years in the mere hope to see you again. To have a love that spans universes and reaches into the dark between spaces and pulls you like a magnet to true north.

Thank you so much for such a lovely story.

Oh my stars, I’m sitting here with tears in my eyes and a cookie in my hand (which is now soggy because feelings are messy, apparently). This is the kindest, most beautifully worded feedback, and I’m equal parts honored and emotional. Thank you for seeing so deeply into the heart of Between Two Fires. I’m just over here scribbling words and hoping they stick, and you’ve turned them into an entire soul-stirring experience.

Also, I’m officially stealing “love that spans universes and reaches into the dark between spaces” for my next tattoo- thank you for the inspiration! But seriously, knowing that the Lady of Autumn and Azriel’s story resonated with you this deeply makes all the blood (metaphorical), sweat (literal), and late-night crying sessions worth it. You’ve truly made my day, week, and possibly my year.

Sending you so much love and all the magnet-to-true-north vibes!

[mahalachives]

just finished Between Two Fires. You have SO MUCH talent, thank you for sharing it with us. That was an incredible read 💕

Wow, thank you! I’m blushing so hard I might spontaneously combust. Glad Between Two Fires didn’t literally set you on fire! 💕

[mahalachives]

I left a comment as well but I just had to come back and say that Between Two Fires is genuinely one of the best written fics I've read, and I'm not exaggerating. I just really love your writing style and the way you are able to balance heavy topics and feelings that had me tearing up (both traumatic and yearning) with humour that had me giggling out loud. But ultimately I had to come back because I've been sitting on my couch minding my own business and my mind can't help but wander to what happened in those 80 years. It's genuinely like a movie time lapse played in my mind - both of them going through life, not necessarily hollow but not necessarily full (although reader definitely lived a full life), both unsure that they'd end up together but still holding out hope somehow - I just. Ugh. Beautiful. Stunning. An artful and perfect conclusion. May we all find a love like that in our lifetimes (without the trauma). And girl did you even rest how did you pump out such long and eloquent chapters so quickly?? Just - thank you💕

Okay but now I’m the one sitting on my couch like a Victorian ghost, clutching my chest and whispering, “they get it.” I had to read this twice for emotional absorption and a third time just to squeal into a throw pillow. The way you described the 80-year time lapse?? My brain lit up like a sad little cinema projector playing “what if” on loop. You saw the vision! You felt the ache! You deserve a medal and a warm drink! ❤️

And listen, those two? Just wandering through life like emotionally constipated soulmates, probably staring wistfully out of windows thinking, “huh, something’s... missing.” Yes. It was each other. And also therapy.

As for rest? No. I merged with my Google Doc like a cursed object. I fed on caffeine and chaotic feelings. It was unholy. It was beautiful.

Thank you so much for this comment. I’m printing it out and taping it to my heart. May your favorite fics update on time, your comfort characters never suffer (too much), and your OTPs always get their smooches. Thank you for reading BTF 🔥🐇❤️

[mahalachives]

CHAPTER 8 and 9 were perfection but I'm gonna need you to extend the fic cuz soft pining az is too precious 🥹 He deserves his cabin and kids but at the same time angsty az is just so 😍 like hes willing to go anywhere. Your writing is truly something else💖

STOP you’re gonna make me cry into my plotting notebook!! Also yes, angsty Az is a menace and I love him for it. Thank you for reading, you magical chaos gremlin!!

[mahalachives]

im simply too scared to read the last chapter of between two fires hELP SJKFJDS

grabs your hand dramatically Don’t worry, brave soldier. If you cry, I cry. If you perish, I perish. We go down with the angst together.

[mahalachives]

Part 10: Golden, At Last

Author’s Warning: This is the final chapter. Prepare your tissues, your emotional support bunny, and possibly your will to live. Enjoy, and sob responsibly. 🖤🐇🔥 Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The crown of the High Lady rested on a velvet cushion beside your bed, a physical manifestation of power that needed no adornment.

Unlike Beron's flame circlet, your crown was simpler.

Twisted copper branches studded with amber gemstones that glowed with inner fire. You hadn't worn it since the coronation three days ago.

You stood at the window of what had once been Beron's chambers, now yours by right of power and blood.

The Autumn Court stretched before you, eternal flames painting the landscape in crimson and gold.

Beautiful, undeniably. But was it home?

The bond within you remained muted but present, a dull ache where once golden light had flowed. You'd tried to sever it completely, but some connections transcended even the strongest will.

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your desk, their tiny flame forms nudging a stack of reports toward you: diplomatic communications from other courts, updates on rebel strongholds, casualty counts from skirmishes still flaring at the borders.

"Later," you told them, turning back to the window. "I need a minute to process... everything."

A knock interrupted your thoughts.

"Enter," you called, straightening your shoulders.

Eris stepped inside, his injuries from Beron's torture still evident in the careful way he moved. His face bore half-healed cuts, but his eyes were sharp, alert.

"The Dawn Court delegation has arrived," he said without preamble. "Thesan came personally."

Your heart stuttered. "I thought they weren't expected until tomorrow."

"Apparently Dawn Court operates on its own schedule," Eris replied dryly. "And... there's another report about the shadowsinger."

You didn't need to ask.

The guards had been bringing reports for days about Azriel's presence at the borders of your territories, watching, waiting, sending shadows to gather information about your wellbeing.

"What is it this time?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral and failing miserably.

"He's made camp at the western border," Eris said, studying your reaction. "The guards say he looks... haggard. Like he hasn't slept in days."

The bond twisted painfully at the information, a golden thread pulling taut beneath your breastbone. You'd left his charm behind in Velaris, deliberately creating distance between you. But the connection remained, a constant awareness that transcended physical tokens.

"Tell the guards to maintain the perimeter," you said, the words costing you. "No entry without my express permission."

"This is the fifth day," Eris noted, no judgment in his tone, merely observation. "How long will you keep him at the borders?"

"As long as necessary," you replied, turning back to the window. "I have a court to stabilize. Rebels to pacify. I can't afford distractions."

Eris made a noncommittal sound that somehow conveyed disbelief without directly challenging you. "The eastern rebellions have been contained," he reported, changing the subject. "Lucien's efforts have been... surprisingly effective."

Lucien had left the Night Court temporarily to help after Beron's death, his diplomatic skills honed through years of navigating complex political landscapes proving invaluable in bringing rebel factions to the negotiating table.

"He has a talent for mediation," you agreed.

"And for avoiding topics that need addressing," Eris added pointedly. "Like your apparent disinterest in actually ruling the court you now control."

You bristled at the accusation. "I've attended every council meeting. Signed every decree."

"With the enthusiasm of someone awaiting execution," Eris countered, his gaze unwavering. "The court needs more than a figurehead, sister. It needs a leader."

"I'm doing my best," you said finally, the admission costing you.

Eris's expression softened fractionally. "I know. But we need to decide what happens next. The court is stabilizing, but your... reluctance... creates uncertainty."

Before you could respond, another knock came, this one lighter, more musical somehow.

"That will be Thesan," Eris said, moving toward the door. "Shall I tell him you're indisposed?"

You straightened your informal robe, wishing you'd worn something more appropriate for receiving a High Lord. "No, I'll see him. Just... give me a moment."

Eris nodded and departed, leaving you alone to collect yourself. You moved to the small mirror, assessing your appearance with critical eyes. The High Lady of Autumn looked back at you, familiar features that still sometimes surprised you, golden light occasionally pulsing beneath your skin when emotions ran high.

Who was she, really? The cruel Lady of Autumn from before? The human nurse whose body lay in a hospital bed? Or someone new entirely, forged in the crucible of trauma and healing, of two worlds colliding within one soul?

You had no answer yet, but the question itself felt important, a compass pointing toward something true.

Thesan entered with the quiet grace characteristic of Dawn Court, his copper-gold skin catching the flame-light from nearby sconces.

"High Lady," he greeted, bowing slightly. "Forgive the unexpected visit. The roads were clearer than anticipated."

"High Lord Thesan," you replied, inclining your head in return. "Dawn Court is always welcome in Autumn territories."

His smile was genuine as he straightened, eyes taking in your informal attire and the scattered reports on your desk with knowing sympathy. "The early days of leadership are always overwhelming," he observed, no judgment in his tone. "Even when the transition is more... conventional... than yours was."

You gestured to the sitting area near the hearth where flames danced in ever-changing patterns. "Please, join me. I can offer refreshment if you'd like."

"Just your company is refreshment enough," Thesan replied, settling into one of the copper-inlaid chairs. "My court has been following your progress with great interest. The reforms you've implemented in just a few months, quite remarkable."

"Necessity more than vision," you admitted, taking the seat opposite him. "Beron's approach was unsustainable."

"Perhaps," Thesan acknowledged. "But identifying necessity and acting upon it, that is leadership, whether you recognize it as such or not."

Something in his tone, in the quiet confidence of his assessment, eased a tension you hadn't realized you'd been carrying. Unlike Eris's pointed observations or the court's watchful speculation, Thesan's words carried no agenda beyond recognition of shared experience.

"How did you know?" you asked, the question emerging before you could consider its wisdom. "When you first became High Lord, how did you know you were making the right choices?"

Thesan's expression turned thoughtful, fingers absently tracing the copper inlay on his chair's arm. "I didn't," he admitted candidly. "No one does, not really. We act based on the best information available, guided by whatever moral compass we possess, and hope the consequences align with our intentions."

"That's... not especially reassuring," you replied, a hint of your former human humor surfacing despite the gravity of the conversation.

He laughed, the sound warm and unexpected. "No, I suppose it's not. But it is honest. And honesty has been in short supply in Prythian's courts for far too long."

The flames in the hearth danced higher, responding to your emotional state without conscious direction. You'd been working on control, but moments of genuine connection still triggered your power in ways you couldn't always predict.

"May I speak freely?" Thesan asked, his gaze following the flame patterns with understanding rather than concern.

"Of course."

"The shadowsinger at your borders," he began, careful but direct. "His presence creates... speculation... among the other courts."

You tensed, the bond flaring briefly beneath your skin. "Azriel's actions aren't my responsibility."

"No," Thesan agreed. "But they are connected to you nonetheless. The mating bond between you is evident to those with eyes to see such things."

Your hands fisted in your lap, knuckles whitening. "I have responsibilities now. A court to rebuild. People who depend on me. I can't allow personal attachments to interfere with duty."

"An admirable position," Thesan acknowledged. "And yet... in my experience, denying such connections rarely results in greater clarity or focus. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"What are you suggesting?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

"Speak with him," Thesan said simply. "Not as High Lady to shadowsinger, but as yourself, whoever that may be now, to one who sees you clearly across that divide."

The bond pulsed at his words, golden warmth briefly spreading through your chest before retreating to that muted, distant ache. "It's not that simple."

"Few worthwhile things are," Thesan replied, rising with fluid grace. "But consider this, I have witnessed dynasties rise and fall, courts evolve and dissolve, power exchange hands countless times. The one consistent truth I've observed is that those who lead from connection rather than isolation ultimately create more lasting change."

He moved toward the window, gazing out at the eternal autumn that painted your territories. "Your court reflects you, whether you intend it or not. If you remain divided within yourself, so too will your lands, your people."

The insight struck with uncomfortable precision, naming what you'd felt but couldn't articulate, the sense of operating half-present, caught between worlds, between identities, between paths diverging before you.

"I'm still figuring out who I am in all this," you admitted, the confession easier with this High Lord who radiated compassionate understanding rather than political calculation. "Human nurse or High Lady of Autumn. Both seem equally impossible and equally real."

Thesan turned from the window, copper eyes gentle but direct. "Perhaps that's your strength, not your weakness. The ability to see from both perspectives, to bring human compassion to Fae politics, to recognize that power need not corrupt if wielded with awareness of its cost."

The words settled deep, a truth you'd sensed but hadn't fully claimed. Your hands unclenched in your lap, flames in the hearth settling to steadier patterns that reflected growing calm within.

"Thank you," you said simply. "For seeing me. The real me, whoever that turns out to be."

"Dawn Court specializes in transitions," he replied with a small smile. "In the spaces between darkness and light, between what was and what might be. Your path is uniquely your own, but not one you must walk in isolation."

Before you could respond, another knock interrupted. A guard entered, bowing deeply. "Forgive the intrusion, High Lady, High Lord. Reports from the western border require immediate attention."

Your heart skipped. "What's happened?"

"The shadowsinger, my lady," the guard reported, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "He's... well, he appears to be constructing something. Our scouts report it resembles the beginning of a small dwelling."

The bond flared painfully at the information. A dwelling. A cabin. The dream you'd shared of a place between mountains, with windows facing sunrise and a porch for watching storms.

"Is he within our borders?" you asked, voice carefully controlled.

"No, my lady. He remains just beyond the boundary, in unclaimed territory. But his presence has drawn attention from neighboring courts. The Summer Court has sent observers."

Thesan exchanged a glance with you, understanding passing between you without words. The political implications of Azriel's actions extended beyond personal connection, creating potential complications you couldn't ignore regardless of your feelings.

"Thank you," you told the guard. "Double the patrols but maintain distance. No engagement without my direct order."

After the guard departed, Thesan moved toward the door. "I've taken enough of your time," he said. "But consider what we've discussed. True strength sometimes lies in acknowledging connection rather than severing it."

"You've given me much to think about," you acknowledged, rising to escort him properly. "Dawn Court's wisdom is appreciated in Autumn territories."

His smile warmed. "We are neighbors, after all. And I, for one, am pleased with the changes in leadership at our borders." He hesitated at the threshold, then added, "Should you need neutral ground for any... conversations... you might wish to have, Dawn Court stands ready to offer sanctuary."

The offer hung between you, significant in its generosity, in its recognition of both your official position and your personal dilemma.

"Thank you," you said again, meaning it more deeply than the simple phrase could convey.

The night terrors started three weeks before Winter Solstice.

You woke screaming, sheets twisted around your limbs, fire erupting from your fingertips to scorch the bedding. Guards burst through your chamber doors, weapons drawn against invisible threats, only to find you alone, trembling, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed.

Night after night, the pattern repeated.

Images haunted your sleep.

Cold stone corridors, hands pinning you down, laughter echoing off walls, pain beyond bearing.

"You need to speak with someone," Lucien insisted after the fifth consecutive night of screams that echoed through the palace corridors. He had returned to the Autumn Court temporarily, taking leave from his position in the Night Court to help stabilize territories in rebellion. "This isn't normal exhaustion or stress."

You sat in your private sitting room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fire blazing in the hearth. You couldn't seem to get warm, the chill settled bone-deep regardless of external heat.

"I'm fine," you insisted, the lie transparent even to your own ears. "Just court pressures manifesting in dreams."

"Lies don't become a High Lady," Eris commented from the doorway, his entrance silent as always. He studied you with calculating precision, missing nothing. "Particularly not when they're this poorly constructed."

You hadn't invited him to this conversation, but you lacked the energy to send him away. "What do you want, Eris?"

"Answers," he replied simply, crossing to pour himself a measure of wine. "The entire court is whispering about their High Lady's nocturnal disturbances. Some suggest madness. Others, possession."

"And what do you suggest?" you asked, exhaustion making the words sharper than intended.

Eris settled into the chair opposite yours, swirling the wine thoughtfully. "I suggest you're remembering."

The simple statement hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Lucien shifted uncomfortably, his mechanical eye whirring faster as it darted between you and Eris.

"Remembering what?" you asked, though dread pooled in your stomach, a certainty you weren't prepared to face.

"The Winter Court corridor," Eris replied, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "The night your soul shattered."

Cold swept through you, so intense you gasped with it. The fire in the hearth dimmed, responding to your instinctive retreat from heat, from flame, from sensation itself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you insisted, but your voice trembled, betraying the lie.

"You do," Eris countered, setting his wine aside untouched. "You've carried the memories since returning to this body, but they were dormant, disconnected, until recently."

Lucien moved to stoke the fire, avoiding your gaze. His discomfort was palpable, confirming what you already suspected. He knew what Eris was referencing. He'd known all along.

"What changed?" you asked, the question directed to neither brother specifically, perhaps not even to them at all. "Why remember now?"

"The Winter Court emissaries," Lucien supplied reluctantly, still focused on the flames rather than your face. "They arrive tomorrow for pre-Solstice negotiations."

Horror washed through you in a nauseating wave. "Winter Court," you repeated, the words ashen in your mouth. "Here. In Autumn territory."

"Diplomatic necessity," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction closely. "The first official delegation since before Beron's death."

A memory flashed, unbidden. Pale hands against your skin, frost magic creeping through your veins, voices whispering terrible promises while you struggled against restraints both physical and magical.

"No," you said, the word emerging as a plea. "I can't, I won't see them."

"You must," Eris replied, no cruelty in his tone, only cold realism. "You're High Lady now. Diplomatic relations cannot be avoided based on personal history, no matter how... significant."

"Personal history," you echoed, a hollow laugh escaping you. "Is that what we're calling it? Thirteen nobles. My soul literally torn in half. Just 'personal history'?"

Lucien flinched at your words, finally turning to face you. "We didn't know," he said, voice rough with what might have been guilt. "Not until later. Not until it was too late."

Another memory surfaced. A palace guard finding you at the border, body broken beyond recognition, frost magic still lingering in your veins. The guard's horror, his hesitation, his eventual decision to bring you back rather than leave you to die. The bitter knowledge that nothing could be done, no justice sought, not without risking open war with Winter.

You rose abruptly, blanket sliding from your shoulders. The cold had vanished, replaced by rage that burned hotter than any Autumn flames.

"Who were they?" you demanded, each word precise despite the fury coursing through you. "I want names. All thirteen."

The brothers exchanged a glance laden with centuries of silent communication, of shared survival beneath Beron's rule.

"Most are already dead," Eris finally said. "The war with Hybern claimed several. Others fell during earlier conflicts."

"How many remain?" you pressed, fire dancing at your fingertips unbidden.

"Two," Lucien answered reluctantly. "Lord Heatherson and Lord Gaius."

"Lord Kieraven was the leader," Eris added, his voice hard. "But Azriel killed him during the war with Hybern. The shadowsinger selected him specifically from the battlefield, though none knew why at the time."

A chill ran down your spine at this revelation. Had Azriel somehow known? Had his shadows whispered secrets about the male who had orchestrated your suffering?

"And are they among the delegation arriving tomorrow?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Both of them," Eris confirmed, watching your reaction with calculating eyes. "As Kallias's appointed representatives."

Your knees buckled. You sank back into your chair, trembling returning despite your efforts at control.

"I can't face them," you whispered, the admission costing you. "Not yet. Not while these memories are still fragmentary."

"You must," Eris insisted, leaning forward. "Not just as High Lady fulfilling diplomatic obligations, but as yourself, the self you were before, the self you're becoming again."

"Why?" you challenged, tears threatening.

"Because some wounds don't heal until the blade is removed," he replied, surprising you with unexpected wisdom. "Because your soul will never be whole while pieces of it remain lost in darkness."

Silence fell between you, heavy with implication, with possibility both terrible and necessary.

"I'll be with you," Lucien offered unexpectedly, his voice firm despite the discomfort evident in his posture. "Every moment. They won't have access to you without witnesses."

"As will I," Eris added, something approaching protectiveness in his tone. "The time for allowing Winter Court transgressions has passed. Beron may have valued politics over family, but we do not."

The declaration, spoken with such certainty, broke something open inside you. These brothers, complicated, difficult, damaged in their own ways, were offering something you'd never experienced from them before: unequivocal support, protection without condition or expectation.

"Family," you whispered, testing the word, its weight, its truth.

"Vanserra Siblings," Eris confirmed, no hesitation in his voice. "Whatever came before, whatever may come after, that much remains constant."

You nodded once, decision crystallizing. "I'll meet the delegation. I'll face Heatherson and Gaius." Resolve hardened your voice, straightened your spine. "But on my terms, in my court, with my power."

"As is your right," Eris agreed, satisfaction evident in his expression. "High Lady."

The title no longer felt foreign, no longer sat uncomfortably on your shoulders. It felt like armor, like identity, like the person you had been and were becoming again.

That night, after leaving your brothers, you made a decision. Before you could face the Winter Court delegation, there was something else you needed to do. Someone else you needed to see, even if just from a distance.

You donned a simple, dark cloak, evading the palace guards with ease born of centuries living in these halls. The night embraced you as you slipped beyond the castle walls, magic carrying you swiftly toward the western border.

The bond in your chest pulled stronger with each mile, the carefully constructed barriers weakening with proximity. You followed that golden thread through forest and field, until finally, you stood at the edge of Autumn Court territory.

And there he was.

Azriel.

Your breath caught at the sight of him. He sat before a small fire, his wings folded tight against his back, shadows swirling restlessly around him. Even from this distance, you could see the changes in him. His face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than before, as if he hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, testifying to sleepless nights.

Before him, the foundation of a cabin was taking shape, stone by stone. Windows positioned to catch the sunrise, just as you'd dreamed. A porch that would someday face the storms rolling across mountains. A home built by hand rather than magic, each stone placed with deliberate care, with hope, with patience.

The bond throbbed painfully in your chest, golden light briefly illuminating your hands before you forced it down again. You took a step forward, drawn by something beyond conscious thought, beyond reason.

Azriel's head snapped up suddenly, as if sensing your presence. His shadows froze, then surged forward, testing the air, seeking confirmation of what his instincts already knew.

You retreated behind a tree, heart pounding. His face in that brief moment of awareness had been transformed, hope and longing replacing exhaustion in an instant. It would be so easy to reveal yourself, to cross that border, to let the bond between you flare back to full strength.

But you couldn't. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

As long as your human body lay in that hospital bed, as long as part of you longed for a world beyond Prythian, you couldn't give Azriel what he deserved.

A mate fully present, fully committed, fully his.

With a final glance at the cabin rising stone by stone, you turned away, tears streaking silently down your face. The bond protested, a physical pain in your chest that echoed with each step back toward your court, your responsibilities, your throne.

Tomorrow you would face the Winter Court delegation. Tomorrow you would confront those who had shattered your soul. But tonight, you allowed yourself to mourn what might have been, what still might be, if only the worlds would align, if only your fractured self could become whole again.

The Winter Court delegation arrived precisely at midday, when Autumn Court's eternal sunlight blazed at its brightest, a deliberate choice that didn't escape your notice. Winter Court preferred twilight and dawn, times when light and darkness balanced. By forcing them to arrive at noon, you established dominance from the first moment.

You sat upon your copper throne, crown gleaming with inner fire, as the delegation entered the great hall. Eris stood at your right hand, Lucien at your left, both brothers radiating cold vigilance despite the formal occasion.

Lord Heatherson entered first, his pale skin almost translucent under autumn light, veins like blue shadows beneath the surface. Lord Gaius followed, silver-white hair bound in traditional Winter Court braids, his steps deliberate and measured.

Your breath caught in your throat as they approached, memories threatening to overwhelm you. Cold hands. Cruel laughter. Pain beyond endurance.

"High Lady," Heatherson greeted, bowing with precise formality. "Winter Court brings greetings and congratulations on your ascension."

"Indeed," Gaius added, his voice as brittle as his name suggested. "Your coronation marks a new chapter in relations between our courts."

You studied them, these males who had once torn your body apart, who had fractured your very soul. They showed no recognition, no awareness that you might remember. To them, this was merely diplomacy, politics as usual.

"Winter Court is welcome in Autumn territories," you replied, the formal words tasting like ash in your mouth. "So long as all agreements are honored."

The diplomatic discussions began, trade routes and border policies debated with careful precision. You participated with cool detachment, signing what needed signing, agreeing where agreement served your court's interests.

Through it all, the memories simmered beneath the surface, threatening to break through at any moment. Lucien noticed your tension, his hand occasionally brushing yours in silent support. Eris watched the Winter Court representatives with predatory intensity, missing nothing, cataloging every reaction for future reference.

As the formal negotiations concluded, Lord Heatherson requested a private audience "to discuss matters of historical significance between our courts."

The implication was clear, a discussion of past grievances, policies established under Beron's reign.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steady despite the rage building beneath your calm exterior. "My brothers will join us, as is tradition when discussing matters of historical record."

Disappointment flickered across Heatherson's face, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn't been watching carefully. "As you wish, High Lady."

You led them to a smaller council chamber, where wine had been prepared in advance. As the Winter Court representatives sipped from copper goblets, Lucien engaged them in conversation about border policies, his diplomatic skills creating a facade of normalcy.

But something had changed in the atmosphere.

Tension crackled beneath the polite exchanges, a current of awareness building with each passing moment. You could feel it, the sense of a trap about to spring, though who had set it remained unclear.

"I must say," Lord Gaius remarked, swirling his wine thoughtfully, "you seem remarkably... different... from when we last encountered you, High Lady."

The words hung in the air like an icicle about to fall. Eris tensed beside you, his hand drifting casually to the knife at his belt.

"Different how, Lord Gaius?" you asked, voice deceptively mild.

"More controlled," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "More... present. As if pieces of you that were once missing have been returned."

The deliberate provocation sent ice through your veins. He knew. They both knew. This wasn't diplomatic small talk; this was calculated testing of boundaries, of memory, of power.

Lucien's control snapped first. "How dare you," he snarled, his mechanical eye whirring furiously as he set his goblet down with enough force to slosh wine across the table. "How dare you stand in our court, drink our wine, and make such insinuations?"

"Insinuations?" Heatherson's face arranged itself into a mask of innocent confusion. "I believe Lord Gaius was merely complimenting the High Lady's composure."

"We all know what you meant," Eris said coldly, his voice all the more threatening for its quietness. "Just as we all know what happened two centuries ago."

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees as both Winter Court nobles froze, composure briefly cracking before masks slid back into place.

"I'm afraid I don't recall any significant events from that time," Gaius said carefully, but his eyes betrayed him, darting nervously between you and your brothers.

"Don't you?" You finally spoke, rising from your chair with deliberate grace. Fire danced at your fingertips, responding to your emotions without conscious summoning. "Thirteen nobles. A female bound with frost magic. Hours of torture. Does none of this sound familiar, Lord Gaius?"

Heatherson's face drained of what little color it possessed. "High Lady, these accusations—"

"Are not accusations," you interrupted, your voice calm despite the inferno building inside you. "They are statements of fact. Facts we all know to be true, though some have spent centuries pretending otherwise."

Power flowed from you in waves, the High Lady's magic responding to your righteous fury. The fires in the wall sconces blazed higher, shadows dancing across the faces of males who had once believed themselves untouchable.

"What happened that night was a diplomatic incident," Gaius said, his voice betraying a tremor despite his attempt at composure. "One that both courts agreed to put behind them."

"Both courts?" Lucien echoed, incredulity and rage making his voice shake. "You mean Beron agreed to silence in exchange for continued alliance. The victim was never consulted."

"The victim?" Heatherson's laugh was brittle. "You speak as if she remembers. As if part of her didn't flee that very night, leaving behind a shell we simply... helped reshape."

The casual cruelty of his words, the dismissal of your suffering, the pride still evident in his tone—it was enough.

More than enough.

"I remember everything," you said, each word precise and heavy with power. "Every hand. Every voice. Every moment."

Golden light flared beneath your skin, the High Lady's magic merging with the bond, with your human consciousness, with the part of your soul that had fractured and fled. For the first time since your coronation, you felt truly whole—human compassion and Fae power united in perfect clarity.

"High Lady," Heatherson began, rising from his chair, fear evident now. "Perhaps we should return to diplomatic matters—"

"This is diplomatic," you replied, flames now wreathing your hands in controlled, deadly beauty. "I am informing Winter Court representatives of new policy regarding those who harm Autumn Court citizens."

With a gesture, fire encircled the chamber, cutting off any escape. Not attacking, not yet, but a demonstration of power, of control, of boundaries that would no longer be crossed.

"You can't do this," Gaius protested, frost magic gathering defensively around his fingertips. "This violates every diplomatic protection—"

"As you violated me?" Your voice remained steady, though the fires burned hotter. "As you violated the most basic tenets of decency, of honor?"

"That was different," Heatherson insisted, backing away as flames licked closer. "That was politics. That was—"

"That was rape," Lucien said, the word dropping into the room like a stone into still water. "That was torture. That was an act of war disguised as politics."

Silence fell, heavy with centuries of unspoken truth finally given voice.

"Here is the new policy of the Autumn Court," you announced, your power filling the room until the very air shimmered with heat. "Those who harm our citizens answer with blood and bone. Those who tortured their High Lady answer with their lives."

Gaius made a desperate move, frost magic surging toward you in a futile attempt at self-preservation. The ice melted before it reached you, evaporating in the heat of your rage.

"High Lady, please—" Heatherson began, but it was far too late for pleas.

"I, as High Lady of the Autumn Court, find you guilty of crimes against this court, against its lady, against its future," you declared, the formal words binding, irrevocable. "The sentence is death."

Fire answered your command, precise and purposeful. It did not burn wildly or cause unnecessary suffering. It simply consumed, reducing the two Winter Court nobles to ash where they stood, their screams brief before silence fell once more.

As the flames receded, Eris moved to your side, assessing you with new respect in his eyes. "What of Winter Court? They will demand explanation."

"They will receive one," you replied, your voice calm as the fire within you settled to embers. "The full truth, documented and witnessed, will be sent to Kallias. He may choose war if he wishes, but I suspect once he knows what his nobles did in Winter's name, he will choose justice instead."

Lucien's mechanical eye whirred as he studied the piles of ash. "And if he doesn't?"

"Then Autumn Court stands ready," you said, turning toward the door. "We will no longer sacrifice our own to maintain false peace."

As you walked from the chamber, power still humming beneath your skin, you felt lighter than you had in weeks. The memories remained, the pain not erased, but facing those who had hurt you, delivering justice long delayed—it had changed something fundamental within you.

For the first time since your coronation, since waking in this world, you felt not torn between identities but unified. Human compassion and Fae power, merged into something new, something stronger.

That night, standing on your balcony, you gazed westward once more.

The vial of Ash Tea rolling between your fingers. The dark liquid caught the amber light of the setting sun, its potent magic a silent promise of temporary peace.

The tiny pinpoint of Azriel's fire still burned at the border, a beacon in darkness. The cabin would continue rising, stone by stone, window by window.

And perhaps, when you were truly ready, when your court was secured, when your soul was fully healed—perhaps then you would cross that border. Perhaps then you would let the bond flare to full strength once more.

But for now, you had a court to rule. Justice to deliver. A future to build, brick by brick, just as he built that cabin stone by stone.

For now, that was enough.

The wind whispered through the pines like it knew you wouldn't stay, mourning before you spoke a word.

You stood at the threshold between Autumn territory and unclaimed land, taking in the cabin Azriel had built with his own hands. It was more beautiful than you had imagined - sturdy logs fitted perfectly together, a welcoming porch wrapping around one side, windows gleaming in the afternoon light.

Azriel appeared at the doorway, shadows twisting anxiously before settling around his shoulders. When he saw you, hope flared in those ancient eyes - too much hope, a brightness that would only make the darkness to come more devastating.

"You came," he said, voice rough from disuse. His shadows stretched toward you before he pulled them back, a habit of restraint he couldn't break even now.

"I wanted to see it," you replied, gesturing to the cabin.

"I thought—" he hesitated, shadows twitching, "—maybe you were ready to come home." The fragile hope in his voice made your heart splinter.

You couldn't meet his eyes. "It's exactly as you described."

He stepped onto the porch, movements careful, measured. "Windows facing east," he confirmed, a tentative smile touching his lips. "For the sunrise."

"And the porch for watching thunderstorms roll across the mountains," you added, remembering your conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

You followed him inside. The interior was simple but beautiful - pine furniture he must have crafted himself, a fireplace of river stones, bookshelves already filled with volumes. A home built for two, with every corner yearning for a presence it had never known.

You turned to face him fully. "I know the whole truth now," you said. "About what happened in Winter Court. About why my soul fractured."

His face softened with understanding. "Your memories returned?"

"Not all of them," you admitted. "But enough. Enough to understand why part of me fled to another world, why I woke up in a hospital bed with a family who'd never heard of Prythian."

Azriel moved to the window, looking out at the mountains. "You were too gentle for what was done to you," he said. "Too kind for the cruelty they inflicted."

"I was broken," you acknowledged. "And now I'm whole again. But I still have to choose."

He turned back to you, and something in your face must have given it away. The shadows around him stilled completely.

"That's why you're really here, isn't it?" he asked softly. "Not just to see the cabin."

"I had to come," you said. "To say goodbye properly."

The light in his eyes dimmed. "Goodbye?"

The bond between you didn't just throb—it screamed, a golden cord pulled taut enough to snap, singing with the agony of a love denied.

"I've made my decision," you forced yourself to say. "I'm going back. Back to my world."

"Of course," he said softly, staring past you. "Why would you stay?" You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Don't lie to make it easier."

"Azriel—"

"Was it ever real?" he asked suddenly, voice breaking. "Any of it? Or was it just the bond?"

The question hung between you, raw and bleeding. The hearth looked cold despite the fire. The books seemed too untouched. The walls too thin to hold the ache left behind.

Instead of answering, you crossed the distance between you. After a moment's hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him.

He remained still, unyielding, before slowly, painfully embracing you in return. His arms encircled you with restrained strength, as if afraid you might shatter. The bond between you wailed in golden agony as his wings folded around you both, creating a sanctuary of shadow and starlight.

"I understand," he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. "If it brings you happiness, I would never stand in your way."

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you clung to him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." His arms tightened, memorizing the feel of you. "These moments with you have been worth centuries of solitude."

You felt tears dampen your hair as he pressed his lips to your crown.

"I love you," he confessed, the words torn from somewhere deep and vulnerable. "I've existed for five hundred years, but I only began living when I found you."

A sob escaped you, muffled against his chest. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and sacrifice.

"I'll wait for you," he promised, voice thick with emotion. "If there's even the slightest chance you might return... I'll wait centuries more."

His scarred fingers tilted your chin up, hazel eyes memorizing every detail of your face. "The cabin will remain. This life I've built will remain. Whether you return tomorrow or in a thousand years."

You reached up, brushing tears from his beautiful face. "Live for yourself, Azriel. That's all I ask."

"I will try," he whispered. "But part of me will always be yours."

You stayed locked in each other's arms as the sun began to set, casting the valley in amber light that matched the golden bond pulsing between you. Neither willing to be the first to let go, to end what might be your last embrace.

"Be happy," he murmured against your temple. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."

When you finally pulled away, both your faces were streaked with tears. He let his wings unfold reluctantly, the cold rushing in where his warmth had been.

You turned away as he whispered your name like a prayer he'd never say again. The door didn't close behind you. Neither of you had the strength to end it.

Beeping.

That's the first thing you notice. A steady, mechanical rhythm cutting through darkness.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy. Your mouth is dry, with something hard and plastic between your lips. A tube. You can't speak.

With monumental effort, you crack your eyes open. Fluorescent lights, harsh and clinical, burn your retinas.

White walls. Machines with glowing numbers and lines.

"Oh my god." A familiar voice breaks through the fog. Your aunt. "She moved! Doctor! Nurse! Someone!"

Hurried footsteps approach as her face appears above you – lined with exhaustion and hope. Tears immediately well in her bloodshot eyes.

"You're back," she whispers, clutching your unresponsive hand. "You're really back."

More faces appear. A doctor in a white coat. A nurse adjusting something on the machines. They speak in quick, clinical bursts.

"...unexpected return to consciousness..."

"...extraordinary after this duration..."

"...need to run tests immediately..."

The breathing tube is carefully removed, leaving your throat raw and aching. Someone holds a straw to your lips, and you take a small sip of water.

"Can you hear me?" the doctor asks, shining a light in your eyes. "Can you blink once for yes?"

You manage a slow, deliberate blink.

Your fingers unconsciously reach for your chest, seeking something that should be there. A warmth. A pulse of gold beneath your skin. Nothing. Just the steady beat of your ordinary human heart.

Hours later, after the initial medical frenzy subsides, the door opens. Your grandmother enters slowly, leaning on her cane, your aunt supporting her elbow. Your grandmother's face, deeply lined and framed by silver hair, crumples at the sight of you awake.

"My girl," she whispers, her voice wavering. "My precious girl."

Your aunt helps her to your bedside. With trembling hands, your grandmother cups your face, studying you as if memorizing every detail. Her tears fall onto your cheeks, mingling with your own.

When she embraces you, fragile arms holding you with surprising strength, something breaks inside you. The dam holding back your emotions crumbles completely.

You sob against her shoulder, great heaving cries that shake your weakened body. The tears come from somewhere bottomless, somewhere that knows what you've lost, what you've gained, what you've left behind.

"I'm here, my darling," she murmurs, her voice cracking. "I'm here."

Your aunt joins the embrace, her arms encircling you both. They hold you as you cry, mistaking your tears for relief and trauma from the attack.

They don't understand you're mourning a life they can never know about. A bond severed. A cabin in a valley. A shadowsinger with scarred hands who promised to wait forever.

"We kept the light on for you," your aunt says, stroking your hair. "Every night. We knew you'd find your way back to us."

Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. The guilt of wanting to be elsewhere when they've waited so faithfully for your return. The gratitude for their unwavering love. The grief for what can never be explained.

As night falls and they reluctantly leave, promising to return at first light, you lie awake, staring at the ceiling. The machines continue their vigilant beeping.

You close your eyes and try to reach across the void. Try to feel that golden thread that once connected you to a world of magic. To him.

But there's nothing.

In the silent hours before dawn, you whisper his name, the sound barely audible even to your own ears.

"Azriel."

No shadows stir in the corners of your room. No wings unfurl from darkness.

The bond is severed. The connection lost.

You are home.

But in your dreams that night, you smell night-chilled stone and cedar. You feel the ghost of wings enfolding you. You hear a voice promising to wait, even as it fades into memory.

"Until we meet again, my heart."

Five years, and the world still doesn't fit right.

Five years since you woke in a hospital bed with hands that remembered magic and a heart that had forgotten how to beat without him.

Medical school consumes your days and nights. The transition from nursing student to medical student raised eyebrows, but your near-death experience provides a convenient explanation for your sudden change in direction.

What you can't explain is how anatomy comes to you like breathing, how you can identify trauma patterns with uncanny precision, or why you instinctively reach for moonleaf or frostroot—plants that shouldn't exist here, but live vividly in your muscle memory.

"Your spatial reasoning is exceptional," your neurosurgery professor remarks after watching you practice sutures. "It's like you've been doing this for centuries."

You flinch at his words, a memory fragment flickering—your hands wreathed in golden light as you healed a wounded faerie in Dawn Court. You smile tightly to hide the tremor. "Just good with my hands."

You specialize in trauma surgery. Each life you save feels like redemption for the one you abandoned. Each scar you repair reminds you of wounds you couldn't heal across worlds.

Two albino rabbits sit in the pet shop window, twitching their noses. Their eyes are wrong—not quite red, but a soft, gleaming pink.

You freeze. The world blurs.

You don't notice you've sunk to your knees until someone asks if you're alright. You aren't. You haven't been, not since two glowing shadows with cotton-flame tails hopped through fallen leaves, and someone with a voice like dusk laughed beside you.

You wake some nights gasping, hand clutched to your chest, sure the bond has snapped back into place—only to find yourself alone in the dark, throat raw with his name half-spoken.

During thunderstorms, you sit on your apartment balcony, watching lightning split the sky. Sometimes the shadows seem to reach for you, comforting and familiar.

In those moments, you unconsciously reach for your chest, searching for a golden warmth that no longer pulses beneath your skin.

Autumn becomes your season. You collect fallen leaves that shimmer copper and gold in certain light, pressing them between book pages like precious memories.

Your apartment fills with candles scented with cedar and pine, though they never smell quite right—never like night-chilled stone and forest.

Your grandmother notices these peculiarities but never questions them. "You came back different," is all she says, squeezing your hand during Sunday dinners. "But you came back. That's what matters."

Your aunt is less philosophical. "You need to start dating again," she insists regularly. "That surgical resident keeps asking about you."

You nod and make vague promises you never keep.

How could you explain that you left your heart in another world? That you loved someone with wings and shadows and scars who offered to wait centuries?

In your final year of residency, you join a research trip to Scotland.

The program pairs physicians with historians to study ancient healing practices.

While your colleagues are excited about the medical aspects, you're drawn by a different hope—one you barely acknowledge even to yourself.

The museum sits nestled in the highlands, a small stone building housing local artifacts.

Your group filters through the first exhibition hall, examining crude surgical tools and herbal remedies. You lag behind, something pulling you toward a separate gallery.

And then you see him.

Not his face, not truly.

But the silhouette, the posture, the wings—etched into you so deeply no time or world could ever wear it away. And your soul answers. Fiercely. Immediately.

Azriel.

A tapestry, ancient and faded, stretches across the far wall.

Your breath catches in your throat. The air tastes like lightning. Like cedar. Like home.

The weaving depicts a forest of perpetual autumn, trees burning with colors that never fade. Figures with pointed ears move through the scene, and at the center stands a male with a crown of living flame.

"Fascinating piece, isn't it?" The curator appears beside you. "Local legend says it depicts 'the autumn people' who live beyond the forest. Fairytales, of course, but the craftsmanship is remarkable."

You barely hear him, your eyes fixed on the tapestry's border. There, nearly hidden in the woven scene's edge, sits a small cabin with east-facing windows. A figure stands before it, wings folded against its back, staring at mountains as if waiting.

The curator moves on. Your colleagues drift toward the next exhibition.

You remain rooted, trembling.

You step closer, fingers brushing against the woven silhouette. Golden light flickers beneath your skin—then flares. It burns like resurrection.

The bond, asleep but never gone, seizes your chest in a silent scream of recognition.

"Azriel," you whisper, the name both foreign and familiar on your tongue after years of silence.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you trace the winged figure.

Something inside you breaks open—grief you've suppressed for five years flooding to the surface.

"I'm sorry I left you alone," you sob quietly, fingers pressing against the tapestry. "I'm so sorry."

You collapse to your knees, forehead pressed to ancient threads, sobbing like a soul unmoored. Your tears fall into a forest woven in legend, into a promise that never died.

And somewhere—across stars, across centuries—he lifts his head.

He's still waiting.

Ten years pass in rhythms of healing and work.

You try dating—a surgeon from your hospital, a literature professor who quotes poetry, a kind veterinarian with gentle hands.

Each relationship ends the same way. "You're never fully here," they eventually say. You can't explain the hollow space in your chest where golden light once pulsed.

The nightmares still come, though less frequently.

Cold hands holding you down. Mocking laughter echoing off stone walls. You wake gasping, drenched in sweat, reaching for shadows that aren't there.

These experiences shape your medical practice—you specialize in trauma recovery, creating a program for assault survivors that combines medical and psychological care. Your colleagues marvel at your intuitive understanding of trauma's physical manifestations.

"It's like you've lived through it yourself," a psychologist comments.

You smile tightly. "I just listen carefully."

At forty, you're respected, successful, alone.

Your apartment fills with more autumn leaves, more candles that never smell quite right. You volunteer weekends at an animal shelter, drawn especially to the rabbits with their twitching noses and watchful eyes. Your coworkers call you the "rabbit whisperer" when traumatized ones calm at your touch.

"You understand them somehow," the shelter director says.

If only she knew how you sometimes whisper to them in a language that shouldn't exist, how you occasionally catch yourself looking for pink flames that never appear.

Your fiftieth birthday arrives with honors from the medical community. You've pioneered trauma-informed surgical protocols now implemented nationwide. Your sister hosts a celebration dinner, her grandchildren clambering for your attention.

"Tell us a story!" they beg as the adults clean up.

You settle in your favorite chair, children gathered at your feet.

"Once," you begin, "there existed a world where autumn never ended, where trees burned with colors that never faded..."

Your stories grow more elaborate over the years—tales of courts governed by seasons, of creatures with powers tied to natural elements, of shadows that whispered secrets.

Your family assumes they're born from your imagination rather than memory.

"You should write these down," your great-niece suggests on your sixty-eighth birthday. "These stories about the shadowsinger and the flame lady are beautiful."

You smile, throat tight. "Perhaps someday."

At seventy-two, retirement brings contemplative quiet. Your hands, once steady in surgery, now shake slightly as you press another autumn leaf between journal pages.

The cabin with east-facing windows haunts your dreams more frequently now—so vivid you can almost smell pine needles, almost hear wings rustling in pre-dawn darkness.

Your eightieth year brings pneumonia that never quite resolves.

Hospital corridors feel strange from the patient's perspective. Family gathers, whispering consultations with your former colleagues.

"It's my time," you tell your great-nephew when you catch him crying. "Don't be sad."

"We can't lose you," he insists, clutching your fragile hand.

You smile, peace settling in your bones. "I'm not being lost. I'm going home."

The night your body finally releases you, golden light flickers beneath your skin for the first time in decades.

The monitors flatline as nurses rush in, but you're already gone—crossing between worlds on a bridge of light that never truly broke.

You wake with a gasp, heart hammering against your ribs. The scent of cinnamon and burnt maple rushes into your nostrils, familiar and foreign all at once.

Sunlight filters through amber-stained windows, casting warm patterns across your nightgown. For a moment, you're disoriented, the transition too abrupt, too complete. Your fingers trace the silk sheets, luxurious against your skin after decades of hospital linens.

"I'm back," you whisper, touching your face in disbelief. The skin feels impossibly smooth, eternally young. "I'm actually back!"

Small pink embers spark from your fingertips, startling you. Your magic. Your true power, returning like an old friend.

Without thinking, you leap from bed, nearly tripping over the nightgown that tangles around your legs. You catch yourself on a bedpost carved with autumn leaves that weren't there before, already running toward the door.

"Eris!" you shout, flinging open your chamber door. The familiar weight of it surprises you; heavier than human doors. "ERIS!"

Briar, who was carrying fresh linens, shrieks as you barrel past, dropping her basket. Sheets flutter to the floor like startled ghosts. Her face is the same, yet different. Faint lines around her eyes that weren't there before.

"My lady!" she calls after you, voice cracking with disbelief. "You need proper attire! The court will see you! My lady!"

You ignore her, bare feet slapping against cool marble as you race through familiar corridors. The walls have been repainted, you notice absently. Darker reds, deeper golds. A guard nearly drops his spear as you round the corner, his uniform subtly different from what you remember.

"The Lady is awake!" he shouts, voice breaking in shock. "After all this time! The Lady is awake!"

The cry echoes behind you, rippling through the castle like wildfire. Servants peek from doorways, many faces you don't recognize, eyes wide with shock. More guards join the chorus, their disciplined decorum crumbling at the sight of you, the Lady of Autumn Court, sprinting through hallways in a nightgown with your hair flying wildly behind you.

"My lady, please!" calls an elderly housekeeper you've never seen before, clutching her chest as you leap over a small decorative table that definitely wasn't there eighty years ago. "Your slippers! Your robe!"

The scent of autumn magic fills your nostrils, stronger than before. The court has grown in power during your absence.

"Where is Eris?" you demand, not slowing. Your bare feet slap against the cold stone, the sensation grounding you in this reality.

"The war room, but—"

You're already gone, leaving the poor female sputtering in your wake. The corridor stretches longer than you remember, new tapestries depicting battles you don't recognize hanging between windows.

You skid around another corner, nightgown billowing. A young noble steps directly into your path, and you collide with enough force to send him sprawling. His papers scatter like autumn leaves. His clothing style is subtly different, more angular, with decorative metal leaves at the shoulders that would have been considered ostentatious in your time.

"So sorry!" you call over your shoulder, already back on your feet. The bond in your chest pulses stronger with each step, drawing you west. Pulling you back to life. "Royal emergency!"

Behind you, the noble stares open-mouthed at your retreating form. "Was that...?" you hear him ask a nearby guard.

"Indeed, Lord Ramel," the guard replies, his voice reverential and hushed. "After eighty years... she has returned."

"In her nightclothes?"

"Apparently so, my lord."

The war room doors loom ahead, massive oak panels carved with battle scenes from Autumn's history. New scenes have been added since your time, conflicts you never witnessed, victories and defeats that occurred while you slept.

Two stone-faced guards stand at attention, their expressions flickering with shock as you approach. The insignia on their armor has changed. Eris's mark now, not Beron's.

"My lady," one begins, swallowing hard at the sight of you. His eyes darting to your bare feet, your disheveled state. "Perhaps you would like to—"

You don't let him finish. With a strength that surprises even you, you slam both doors open, the bang echoing like thunder through the chamber beyond. The wood feels different against your palms, worn smooth by hands that touched it while you slept.

Silence falls instantly.

A dozen lords in autumn finery turn as one, mouths agape. Maps and tactical markers cover the massive table between them. A territory dispute you don't recognize depicts borders that have shifted since your time. And at its head—

Eris.

He stands frozen, quill suspended over parchment, amber eyes widened in disbelief. A flame crown burns atop his head, smaller than Beron's had been, but undeniably the mark of High Lord. He looks older, not in body but in bearing. The weight of leadership has changed him, sharpened his edges, softened others. A thin scar traces his right cheekbone, one you've never seen before.

"Sister?" he whispers, face draining of color. His fingers tremble almost imperceptibly, the quill shaking in his grip.

You beam at him, suddenly aware of your nightgown, your bare feet, your hair that probably resembles a bird's nest after eighty years of disuse. Inside, you feel both people you've been, the healer and the lady, merging into something new. "Surprise!"

No one moves. No one breathes. The scent of shock and disbelief fills the room, thick enough to taste.

Then Eris, the terrifying High Lord of Autumn Court, drops his quill. Ink spatters across ancient maps and generations-old treaties. Without a word, he vaults over the table—literally vaults, one hand pressed to the wood as he leaps—sending markers and figurines flying. A move so unlike the controlled brother you remember that you almost don't recognize him.

"It's really you?" he asks, approaching cautiously as if you might vanish. His voice breaks on the question. "Both parts of you?"

You nod, tears and laughter mingling. The bond in your chest pulses, reaching westward even as you stand here. "All of me. Every memory. Both lives."

A strangled noise escapes him as he pulls you into a fierce embrace. His body trembles against yours, a vulnerability he would never have shown before. Over his shoulder, you see the assembled lords exchanging glances of utter bewilderment. Some you recognize, aged but familiar. Others are complete strangers, risen to power during your absence.

"My lords," Eris says, his voice suspiciously thick as he turns to face them. The flame crown flares briefly with his emotion. "Meeting adjourned."

"But the Winter Court border dispute—" one begins, gesturing to markers that indicate a conflict near the mountains where once there had been peace.

"Can wait another day," Eris cuts him off. The authority in his voice is new, a confidence he lacked when you last saw him. "My sister has returned from the dead. In her nightclothes. Priorities, gentlemen."

The lords bow hastily, filing out with backward glances and poorly concealed whispers. The last one pulls the doors shut behind him, the sound echoing in the suddenly empty chamber.

Once alone, Eris holds you at arm's length, examining you with eyes that gleam suspiciously bright. His hands grip your shoulders, as if assuring himself you're solid. "Eighty years," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Eighty years, and you choose to return while I'm in the middle of the most boring border dispute in Prythian history."

"Your timing was always worse," you counter with a watery smile. Your voice sounds strange to your own ears, both familiar and unfamiliar. More like the Lady of Autumn than the nurse you became.

"Says the female who just crashed a war council in her nightgown." His gaze travels pointedly to your bare feet, where a small flame bunny has materialized without your conscious thought. "Nice entrance, by the way. Very dignified. Absolutely befitting a Lady."

The flame bunny sneezes, leaving a scorch mark on the ancient floor.

"Ember?" you whisper in disbelief. "After all this time?"

The bunny chirps, hopping up your leg to nestle against your hip. A small piece of home you'd thought lost forever.

"What happened?" you demand, instinctively stroking the flame creature. "Why am I here? I was eighty! I died in that hospital bed!"

"Not exactly," Eris says, looking amused despite the wetness in his eyes. "You never actually died."

"What?" The word comes out sharper than intended, your Autumn Court accent reasserting itself over the human one you'd adopted.

"The Ash Tea you took. It didn't just dampen your magic—it eventually put you into a death-like sleep." Eris gestures to a new tapestry on the wall, one depicting your sleeping form surrounded by flame. "Your body remained here, perfectly preserved, while your consciousness..." He waves vaguely. "Went wherever it went."

You blink. "Like Sleeping Beauty?" The human reference feels strange on your tongue, a remnant of your other life.

Eris stares blankly. "Like what?"

"Sleeping Beauty! The princess who pricked her finger and slept for a hundred years until true love's kiss woke her?" The bond in your chest pulses at the mention of true love, a warmth spreading through your veins.

"That sounds... highly improbable," Eris says diplomatically. His expression has changed, you realize. He's learned restraint in your absence, a political savvy he once lacked.

"Says the immortal faerie with fire powers," you retort, the banter familiar despite the years between.

He concedes with a tilt of his head, a new scar visible along his jawline when he turns. "Fair point."

"Does anyone else know I'm back?" Your hand instinctively rises to your chest where the bond pulses stronger. "What about Azriel? The Night Court?"

At the shadowsinger's name, the bond flares so strongly that small flames dance along your fingertips. Eris notices but doesn't comment.

"No one knows yet," Eris says, sobering. "And it should stay that way temporarily. You're vulnerable right now. Your magic needs time to stabilize." His protective instinct reminds you of the brother you knew, beneath the High Lord he's become.

"Vulnerable to what?" The question feels naive even as you ask it.

"Assassins, power-hungry nobles, the usual delightful court politics," he says casually, as if discussing the weather. The words carry weight that speaks of experience. "We've had three attempts on the Autumn throne in the last decade alone."

"Lovely. Just what I needed after eighty years of human medicine—fairy court murder plots." Despite your sarcasm, your body remembers court life. You find yourself automatically scanning exits, assessing threats. The Lady of Autumn reemerging.

Eris smirks, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Welcome home, sister."

"But wait—if I've been technically alive all this time, why wake up now?" you wonder, running a hand through your tangled hair. "Why today specifically?"

Eris shrugs, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "The Ash Tea finally wore off? Cosmic timing? Who knows how these things work?"

"Or maybe... the charm..." You touch your chest, feeling the golden bond stir and pull westward. The sensation stronger than it ever was before. "Maybe he called me back somehow. Maybe he never stopped trying."

"Speaking of your brooding shadowsinger," Eris says, something softening in his expression. A melancholy that speaks of changes you don't yet understand. "I assume you'll want to see him rather urgently?"

"Is he—" The question sticks in your throat, fear suddenly gripping your heart.

"Still in that ridiculous cabin with the impractical east-facing windows? Yes." Eris sighs dramatically, but there's a fondness in his voice that surprises you. "Eighty years, and he's still there, waiting. Immortals and their stubborn attachments."

Your heart stutters. "He's still waiting? After all this time?"

"Of course he is," Eris says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Hasn't left that valley for more than a few days at a time since you... left."

"I need to go," you say, starting for the door before realizing. "But not like this! I need clothes!" Your nightgown, while fine for running through the castle, would hardly be appropriate for reunion with your mate after eighty years.

Eris looks you up and down, smirking. "I don't know. This look might be exactly what the shadowsinger has been waiting eighty years for."

"ERIS!" Heat rushes to your cheeks, both from embarrassment and from your magic responding to emotion.

"Fine, fine." He chuckles, guiding you toward the door. "Let's find you something suitable. Though fashion has changed considerably in eighty years."

"If you try to put me in anything with unnecessary feathers or those weird shoulder leaves that lord was wearing—"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he lies smoothly. "Though the current style does involve quite a lot of strategically placed autumn leaves..."

Your horrified expression sends him into a fit of laughter as he leads you down the hall, his arm around your shoulders in a gesture of protective affection you'd never experienced from him before.

Behind you, servants whisper excitedly:

The Lady has returned—in her nightgown, no less—and she's headed west, to a cabin with east-facing windows, where a shadowsinger has waited eighty years, watching the sunrise, never giving up on the bond that finally, finally called you home.

You crest the last hill just before sunset, your boots crunching over the forest floor. The path winds familiar but strange; wider than memory, the trees newer, as if time itself tried to soften the edges of what you left behind.

You pause at the treeline.

The cabin waits below.

Except, it isn't a cabin anymore.

It's a home.

Two stories of weathered wood and stone, a wraparound porch shaded by climbing vines. A garden spills out in vibrant rows of herbs and vegetables. Windows facing east gleam in the fading light, capturing the day's last embers.

Your chest tightens, the bond humming faintly beneath your skin.

"Azriel?" Your voice sounds small in the vast silence.

No answer. Just the hush of wind through pine.

You step forward, each footfall carrying the weight of eighty years. The door stands ajar, as though left that way for you. Inside, the air holds warmth but no presence. A stillness too reverent, too expectant.

The house is a reliquary. A shrine to a love he never abandoned.

Your fingers trail across a workbench where wood shavings still curl, fresh and fragrant. A half-finished flame bunny waits patiently beside carving tools.

The pink glass eyes gleam, unfinished but already alive. On the mantle above the fireplace, dozens of others stand in silent formation; each unique, each perfectly capturing some essence of Ember and Sizzle.

You turn slowly, taking in walls lined with bookshelves, maps of stars, sketches of landscapes you've never seen. The home feels thoroughly lived in yet meticulously organized. Everything has a place, a purpose.

A note lies on the kitchen table, pinned beneath a carved stone bunny:

Gone to settle matters with Rhys. Return in three days. —A

Three days. After eighty years of waiting, you've missed him by hours.

A laugh breaks from your throat, wet and trembling, as you sink into the kitchen chair.

Not from humor. From disbelief.

The sort of cruel irony only fate could orchestrate.

Your fingers tighten around the carved bunny. Its tiny ears tilt slightly left, just like Ember's did when he was curious. He remembered.

Of course he did.

As you explore further, you notice something strange about the land surrounding the cabin. Boundary stones mark a perimeter that belongs to neither Court.

He's carved out a territory... a small realm between worlds, belonging to no High Lord.

"He's created his own little realm," you whisper, touching the stones etched with unfamiliar symbols. A place outside court politics. A sanctuary.

On a lower shelf, tucked between histories of Prythian, you find a collection of journals bound in midnight-blue leather. Your hand hesitates, fingers hovering over the spines.

Is this too private? Too personal?

But the need to understand these missing decades overrides your hesitation.

The first entry is dated exactly one day after you took the Ash Tea.

The writing is tight, controlled, betraying nothing of emotion.

She is gone. The bond remains, but muted. I will wait.

Just three sentences.

But the pressure of the pen has nearly torn through the paper.

You trace the words with trembling fingers, feeling the grief preserved in careful script.

Your tears fall, smudging the ink before you hastily wipe them away.

You turn pages, decades passing between your fingers.

Year 5: Began construction on the second story. The sunrise is better viewed from height.

Year 12: Rhy has conceded territory around the cabin. Cassian calls it folly. Perhaps it is.

Year 20: Found pink crystal in the mountains today. Captured the exact shade of the flame bunnies' eyes. Have begun carving again.

Year 37: The garden produces more than enough now. I've started leaving the excess at the border village. They still fear the "shadowsinger" but the food disappears by morning.

Year 53: Feyre visited today. Asked if I regret my choice. I do not.

Your fingers press against your chest, and for a moment, just a moment, you swear the bond hums.

Soft and golden. Waiting.

As the decades progress, the entries grow longer, more detailed.

More...hopeful. The words of a male who has chosen patient waiting over despair.

Year 68: I felt the bond flicker today. Stronger, then gone. Is she thinking of me across worlds? Is she near windows facing east?

Year 79: Dreams of her return have increased. The shadows whisper of changes coming. I dare not hope, yet find I cannot stop myself.

The final entry, dated just days ago.

Rhysand has requested my presence. After all these years, a summons I cannot ignore. I go reluctantly, but perhaps this is the Cauldron's design. I leave signs of my return, should the impossible happen while I'm gone.

Three days. I will be back in three days.

You close the journal, something breaking open inside you. Eighty years of patient waiting, of building and preparing, of never losing faith that somehow, someday, you would find your way back.

The day fades into evening as you explore further.

The upper floor holds a bedroom with that promised view of the sunrise. A smaller room adjoins it, filled with musical instruments and comfortable chairs... a room for leisure, for living, not just surviving.

You climb the stairs like you're in a dream.

The bedroom is beautiful: warm wood, east-facing windows painted with sunset. A reading nook nestled in the corner. A space made for two.

But it's the third room that destroys you.

A nursery.

Simple, practical, but unmistakable. A cradle carved from pale wood. Tiny clothes folded in a dresser, and a rocking chair by the window.

Your knees buckle.

You sink to the floor, sobs tearing from your throat, raw and wordless.

He hadn't just hoped for your return. He had prepared for a future.

A life.

Every dream you'd whispered together, every small detail you'd imagined for a life beyond courts and duty... he'd made it real. He'd built it, year by patient year, while you lived an entire human lifetime.

Night falls gently, like a blessing. You light the hearth, the candles. Shadows dance across walls that have waited for you. Outside, the forest seems to hold its breath, as if the trees themselves sense something momentous.

You could return to Autumn Court, wait in comfort, let Eris announce your return properly. The diplomatic, sensible choice.

But no. Not when he carved eighty years of devotion into every beam of this house.

"Three days is nothing," you whisper, settling into the chair by the fire with another journal.

You stay.

And somewhere, far across the courts, a shadowsinger feels the shift in the air.

The bond hums.

The fire rekindles.

The forest holds its breath.

Three days. After eighty years, what's three more days?

Light spills through east-facing windows, bathing the cabin in liquid gold. You've fallen asleep in his chair, his journal open in your lap, after two days of exploring every corner of the home he built for you both.

The door opens with barely a whisper.

Azriel stands frozen in the threshold, wings tightly folded, dawn painting his silhouette in fire and shadow. The package in his hands drops to the floor with a soft thud. His shadows, always in motion, go completely still.

Your eyes flutter open.

Time stops.

The space between heartbeats stretches into eternity as your gazes lock across the room.

Neither of you moves. Neither breathes.

The morning light wraps around him like a memory made flesh, illuminating the planes of his face unchanged by decades, yet somehow different.

His eyes widen, lips parting slightly, as if he's seeing a ghost.

Perhaps he is.

His name rises in your throat but gets caught there, trapped behind emotion too vast for sound. The bond between you pulses once, tentatively, like a bird testing broken wings.

"I'm finally going mad," he whispers, voice raw and reverent.

You rise slowly, journal sliding forgotten to the floor. The movement feels like swimming through honey, each second precious and thick with meaning.

"Azriel," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

The sound shatters his stillness. His shadows surge forward, reaching you before he does: tentative, trembling. They brush your cheeks, your hands, your hair, as if making certain you're real.

"How?" The word tears from his throat, rough with hope and fear.

"The bond never broke," you whisper, your voice trembling with truth. "It stretched across worlds, across time. My body lived there, but my soul was always anchored here, with you."

He takes one step forward, then another.

His scarred hands hover near your face without touching, as if afraid you might dissolve like morning mist.

"Every sunrise for eighty years," he says, voice catching, "I've stood on that porch and whispered your name to the mountains."

"I heard you," you tell him, tears spilling freely now. "In my dreams. I always heard you calling me home."

When your fingers finally brush his cheek, he collapses.

Not like a warrior falls in battle, but like a man finally allowing himself to believe. His wings fold forward, arms encircling your waist, and he buries his face against your stomach. You sink with him to your knees, your legs giving out from the sheer weight of finally being found.

"I'm here," you whisper into his hair, voice breaking, "I'm home."

His scarred hands cradle your face with such reverence it breaks your heart.

"Tell me you're staying," he pleads, voice raw with eight decades of longing. "Tell me I won't wake tomorrow to find you gone."

Instead of words, you take his hand and place it over your heart where the bond pulses golden beneath your skin.

"Feel that?" you whisper. "It never faded. It never broke. It only stretched between worlds until I could find my way back to you."

The bond flares between you, no longer muted by distance or dimensions, but blazing with renewed life. Golden light spills from beneath your joined hands, illuminating his face.

A single tear traces the sharp line of his cheekbone. "I built this home with my own hands," he says, voice breaking on each word, "plank by plank, stone by stone. Not because I believed you would return, but because I couldn't bear to stop waiting."

Your thumbs brush away his tears. "How did you survive it?" you ask, your own voice breaking. "How did you bear it alone for so long?"

"I wasn't living," he confesses, pressing his forehead to yours. "I was existing. Breathing because my body refused to stop. My soul has been right here all along, waiting for you to make me whole again."

As if summoned by the truth in his words, warmth blooms between you. Pink flame erupts in twin bursts of light and joyful squeaking. Ember and Sizzle materialize, hopping excitedly around you both.

"They remember," you whisper in wonder.

"Everything that is part of you refuses to forget," Azriel says, watching the flame bunnies with awe. "Just as I memorized every detail of your face, every sound of your laughter, every shade of light in your eyes."

Ember hops onto his shoulder while Sizzle circles your joined hands, leaving tiny scorch marks on the wooden floor.

"After you were gone," he says softly, "I kept feeling you everywhere... in the sunrise, in the autumn wind, in the spaces between heartbeats. They said I was mad to keep believing."

"I felt you too," you tell him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face. "Even across worlds, even across time. My soul never stopped reaching for yours."

His shadows curl around your joined hands, no longer restless but finally at peace. "When I felt our bond dim," he whispers, voice raw, "it was like watching the stars fade one by one until the night was empty."

"I thought I was setting you free," you confess, pressing your forehead to his chest. "I thought I was being merciful."

His arms tighten around you, wings creating a cocoon of shadow and warmth. "There is no freedom in half a soul," he says fiercely. "No life worth living without you in it."

You look up at him through your tears. "How can you still look at me like that? After all this time?"

"Like what?" he asks, his voice achingly soft.

"Like I'm everything."

"Because you are," he says simply, the words striking your heart like lightning. "You are dawn after endless night. You are the answer to prayers I was too broken to speak."

Tears stream freely down your cheeks as he lowers his forehead to yours.

His shadows curl around your face, tender and possessive. "My fierce, impossible mate," he breathes, voice rough with wonder. "My heart. My home."

And then his lips find yours, gentle yet desperate, a reunion and a promise in one.

His wings wrap around you both, shuttering out the world until there is nothing but this: his mouth on yours, his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the bond between you singing like the first notes of creation.

When you finally part, both breathless, his eyes hold a peace you've never seen before... the look of someone who has finally, after endless searching, come home.

Your gaze falls to the forgotten package on the floor. "What's that?" you ask, voice still thick with emotion.

A different kind of warmth colors his cheeks as he retrieves the small burlough sack.

"I remembered how much you missed it," he says softly as you open it.

The rich, familiar aroma hits you immediately: coffee beans, perfectly roasted, their scent rising like a memory from another life.

"You remembered," you whisper, tears welling fresh in your eyes as you run your fingers through the dark beans.

"I spent eighty years trying to grow them," he admits, his shadows curling bashfully. "The first plants all died. Then the beans were too bitter. By the fortieth year, I could make something drinkable, but it wasn't right. It wasn't what you remembered."

A laugh bubbles up through your tears. "You spent eighty years learning to grow coffee beans? For me?"

His smile is small but reaches his eyes, perhaps the first true smile you've ever seen transform his face. "I would have spent eighty lifetimes learning."

Ember hops excitedly around the bag, leaving tiny scorch marks that curl into a heart shape. Sizzle bounces onto Azriel's shoulder, nuzzling against his cheek with fiery affection.

"I think they approve," you laugh through your tears, clutching the precious beans to your chest.

You rise together, his arm steady around your waist, the bond between you glowing like captured starlight.

"Show me," you whisper. "Show me everything you built."

Outside the window, dawn breaks fully over your valley.

Your home.

Bathing everything in golden light that feels, at last, like a beginning rather than an ending.

Author’s Note: And that’s it. That’s the fic. She died, she lived, she ran through a palace in her nightgown like a feral fairy princess, and she got her man (who, in case you forgot, spent EIGHTY YEARS building a house and practicing agriculture like a sad, winged Pinterest husband). 🐇💔🔥

Thank you for crying with me. Screaming with me. Whispering “oh my god just kiss already” with me.

This story was equal parts pain, pining, trauma-healing, and “what if Azriel just... stood outside her kingdom for decades like a Victorian ghost with a toolbelt?”

To those of you who made it to the end. I see you. I love you. I, too, would betray a High Lord for a coffee bean grown out of pure love.

BUT WAIT.

While the main arc has closed with a very dramatic, very deserved Happily Ever After, you didn’t think I’d leave you without some bonus content, did you?

Stay tuned for bonus chapters featuring:

1. The mating ceremony (someone cries, someone combusts emotionally and/or literally, everyone gossips) 2. Azriel trying to be a husband and a mate while quietly short-circuiting every time she kisses his cheek 3. Domestic arguments about mundane things like curtain color and whose turn it is to wash the flame bunnies 4. Azriel learning to cook without murdering a pan (he fails, but his arms look great while doing it) 5. Found family visits. Too much wine. Velaris bets. Rhysand regrets inviting himself. 6. Intense fluff. Devastating angst. Some smut that’s been aged like fine wine in my drafts 7. And yes, maybe babies, because listen... have you seen Azriel hold things gently? Of course we're going there

Basically: a mating bond is forever, but so is the chaos that comes with it.

Thank you for reading this soul-wrecking, hope-restoring, very dramatic tale of second chances and shadow-soaked love. You made it through. Go scream into a pillow and eat something carb-heavy. You’ve earned it.

—With all my love and possibly a flame bunny plush in hand, mahalachives 🖤

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

[mahalachives]

Part 9: The Rise of the High Lady of Autumn

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The wind rushed past, cold against your tear-streaked face as Azriel's wings cut through darkness. His arms formed an unbreakable cage around you, keeping you pressed against the steady beat of his heart.

Below, the world stretched in shadow-painted patches: forests giving way to hills, plains to mountains, all rushing by as he flew with desperate speed.

You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Eris was captured. Your safe haven in Dawn Court had crumbled in moments.

"It's my fault," you whispered, the words torn away by wind. "Beron wants me."

Azriel's arms tightened fractionally. "No." The word vibrated through his chest, against your cheek. "Beron sealed his fate the moment he betrayed you. What happens now was always coming."

The charm between your bodies pulsed with shared warmth, fire and shadow interwoven. It offered comfort where words failed, a silent promise that transcended the chaos below.

When the most imposing mountain range you'd ever seen loomed ahead, Azriel banked sharply.

You closed your eyes against vertigo, burying your face in his leathers. He smelled of night-chilled stone and cedar, of safety and danger in equal measure.

"Look," he commanded softly, his breath warm against your ear.

You opened your eyes.

And there it was.

Velaris. The City of Starlight.

Nestled between mountains and sea, it glowed with a light that owed nothing to the sun. Instead, thousands of lamps, pearl and gold and silver, cast their glow across buildings that somehow managed to be both ancient and alive.

A river cut through its heart, midnight blue and glittering with reflected stars. Bridges arched gracefully across the water, each one uniquely beautiful.

In this moment, suspended between sky and earth, you understood something profound: beauty could exist alongside terror. Light could persist through darkness. Perhaps this was what the bond had been trying to teach you all along.

"Home," Azriel offered, the word rife with meaning.

It wasn't a demand or expectation, merely an invitation. A possibility.

He circled lower, wings extended to catch thermal currents as he guided you toward a house built into the side of a mountain.

A balcony extended outward like an offering hand, glowing with warm light that spilled from tall windows.

"The House of Wind," he explained. "Where the Inner Circle gathers."

The mention of his family sent anxiety coiling through you. The bond reacted instantly, tightening between you as golden light briefly illuminated your joined bodies.

Azriel landed with practiced precision, wings folding with mechanical efficiency as he set you carefully on your feet. Your legs wobbled, unaccustomed to solid ground after hours of flight.

His scarred hand steadied you, the touch brief but grounding.

His eyes, normally warm when they looked at you, turned to ice as they shifted toward the waiting figures. "They're here."

The glass doors opened. A male of such devastating beauty it seemed almost cruel stepped onto the balcony. Violet eyes flickered between you and Azriel, noting the proximity, the lingering touch.

Rhysand's power rolling off him in midnight waves, stars glittering within that darkness like predator eyes. Yet there was wisdom there too, ancient and considering.

"Az," he greeted, voice cultured and carefully neutral. "I see your mission was successful."

Something in his tone made your spine stiffen.

Not hostile, precisely, but measured. Assessing.

"High Lord," you responded before Azriel could speak, straightening to your full height despite your exhaustion. "Thank you for your hospitality."

Rhysand's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise flickering across those perfect features. "Lady of Autumn. Welcome to Velaris."

Behind him, others appeared. Feyre and beside her, Cassian, his wings tucked loosely against his broad back.

And then, a golden-haired female, beautiful in ways that transcended conventional prettiness. Her eyes assessed you with such cold hostility it felt like a physical blow.

Morrigan. The cousin who had once been promised to Eris in marriage, before he'd left her bleeding at the border between their courts.

Your brother's victim.

The air thickened with tension as her gaze slid from you to Azriel, noting how he'd positioned himself half a step ahead of you, wings still partially extended in unconscious protection.

"What is she doing here?" Mor demanded, voice sharp enough to cut. "We discussed this, Rhys."

Rhysand's expression tightened fractionally. "Mor..."

"No," she interrupted, her beautiful face contorted with a fury that seemed to transform her from within. "This is Velaris. Our sanctuary. Our home. And you bring Autumn Court royalty here?"

Azriel didn't speak. Didn't warn.

His shadows simply expanded, darkness slithering across the balcony floor toward Mor like living things with purpose, with intent. The temperature plummeted so rapidly that frost crystals formed on the railing beside you.

"Az," Cassian said, voice low with warning.

Azriel's face remained perfectly expressionless, but his shadows darkened, swallowing nearby lamps with cold precision. When he finally spoke, his voice carried none of the gentle cadence he'd used with you. Each word fell like a shard of ice.

"She is under my protection."

Four words. Simple. Final.

Mor's eyebrows rose in disbelief. "We're talking about Beron's daughter. Eris's sister. Have you forgotten..."

"I forget nothing." Azriel's interruption was soft yet somehow more threatening than any shout. His shadows coiled tighter, their edges hardening into something closer to blades than mist. "Nor do I need reminding of my own experiences, Morrigan."

The use of her full name, not the casual "Mor" of five centuries' friendship, fell like a blow between them. Something fractured in the air, invisible yet undeniable.

The bond between you flared in response to the building tension, golden light not just briefly visible beneath your skin but radiating actual warmth that pushed back against the frost his shadows had created. It was like standing in a ray of winter sunlight, your joined magics creating a balance neither could achieve alone.

"I don't expect welcome," you said quietly, meeting Mor's hostile gaze despite the instinct to retreat. "Only temporary sanctuary."

"Well, you won't find it here," Morrigan replied, her voice cold as Winter Court frost. "Not as long as I have any say."

Feyre stepped forward, diplomatic mask firmly in place. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion inside. Our guest has traveled far under difficult circumstances."

"Our guest," Morrigan repeated with venomous emphasis, "shouldn't be here at all."

The charm against your chest burned painfully hot as Azriel moved, not toward Mor but toward you. His body shifted until he stood between you and the others, a physical barrier of muscle and wings and shadow.

"She is my mate," he said, each word precise as a blade strike. "That should be enough for you, for all of you."

The declaration fell into stunned silence. Even Rhysand seemed momentarily at a loss for words. His violet eyes widened fractionally, power momentarily faltering around him as the implications registered.

In that silence, you felt something shift within the shadowsinger beside you. A weight lifting, perhaps.

"Mate or not," Mor said, recovering first, "she's still Beron's daughter. Still Eris's sister. Or have you forgotten what Autumn Court nobility is capable of?"

Azriel didn't turn to face her, his body remaining a shield between you and the others. His wings flared slightly, an unconscious display of aggression that made even Cassian's hand drift toward his weapon.

"You know nothing about her," he said, voice midnight given sound. "Nothing about what she's endured or survived."

Cassian shifted uncomfortably, the movement drawing your eye. The general's expression held none of Mor's hostility. Instead, he watched the exchange with something approaching concern, recognition flickering in his eyes.

"Az," Cassian said quietly, "maybe now isn't the time..."

"There is no better time," Azriel cut him off, his normally controlled voice edged with emotion. "Before assumptions become actions."

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your shoulders, sensing your distress. Their tiny flame forms brightened defensively, casting warm, pink light across Azriel's shadowed wings.

In their appearance, you understood something about magic you hadn't before. It answered to emotion as much as to will. Perhaps that was why the bond had formed in the first place, answering to something beyond conscious choice.

Rhysand's expression shifted subtly as he studied you with renewed interest.

Feyre moved closer to her mate, her own gaze thoughtful. She slipped her hand into Rhysand's, a silent communication passing between them. As High Lady, she would understand better than anyone what it meant to be bonded to a powerful male, to have that bond form against all expectations.

"She can't stay here," Morrigan insisted, crossing her arms. "I won't have it."

Something cold and resolute settled in your chest.

The truth was simple. You didn't belong here. You couldn't heal in a place where your very presence caused others pain.

"She's right," you said, the words falling into sudden silence. "I shouldn't be here."

Azriel turned to you then, shock evident in his expression, his shadows momentarily dispersing with his surprise. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I won't stay where I'm not wanted," you replied, voice steady despite the pain radiating through the bond.

"Where would you go?" Feyre asked, genuine concern in her voice. She, of all of them, had once been the outsider, the human in a world of immortals.

"Somewhere else," you answered simply. "Somewhere new."

"Alone?" Cassian's brow furrowed.

"If necessary." You lifted your chin, refusing to bend beneath the weight of Morrigan's hatred. "I've survived worse."

Azriel's shadows exploded outward, dark tendrils lashing the night air. The temperature on the balcony plummeted until breath fogged before faces. Even Rhysand took an involuntary step back, momentarily stunned by the ferocity of Azriel's reaction.

"You won't go alone," he growled, the words vibrating with conviction. "Wherever you go, I go."

The declaration stunned everyone into silence. Even Mor's hostility faltered, replaced by disbelief.

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. The bond between you blazed golden-bright beneath your skin, responding to the absoluteness of his choice. Through that connection, you felt what he felt, centuries of isolation crashing against the terrifying freedom of choice. Five hundred years of darkness giving way to a light he'd never believed himself worthy of claiming.

A choice made not out of duty or obligation, but something infinitely rarer. Free will.

"Az," Rhysand began carefully, "think about what you're saying."

But there was something beyond caution in Rhysand's voice now, something like understanding. His gaze flickered to Feyre, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He, too, had once chosen his mate over everything else.

Azriel turned to face his High Lord fully, his body shifting to stand beside you, equals, not protector and protected.

"I have thought," Azriel replied, his voice colder than you had ever heard it. Gone was the shadowsinger who had flown with you through the night. In his place stood a warrior hewn from winter frost and ancient darkness. "For five centuries, I've served the Night Court. I've spilled blood and shadow without complaint or hesitation."

His wings snapped fully open, an intimidation display that made even Cassian take an instinctive step back. His shadows formed patterns of such complexity and rage that they hurt the eye to follow.

"But I tell you now, clearly, so there can be no misunderstanding." His gaze swept the gathered circle, lingering longest on Mor. "If the choice is between my mate and my court, I choose her. Every time. Without hesitation or regret."

The words fell like a thunderclap. Mor's face drained of color. Rhysand's expression remained carefully controlled, but something like pain flickered in those violet eyes, the understanding of a High Lord who might lose not just his spymaster but his brother.

Your body went completely still, breath caught in your lungs. Five centuries of brotherhood. Five centuries of loyalty. Five centuries of shared battles and blood and nightmares. And he would walk away from it all, for you.

The bond between you vibrated with the magnitude of his choice, golden light spilling from beneath your skin, illuminating the night around you both. It wasn't just light; it was truth made visible. Undeniable. Absolute. The warmth it generated seemed to push back against the chill, creating a pocket of heat around you both, as if the magic itself rebelled against the coldness of potential separation.

"No one is asking you to choose, brother," Rhysand said, voice deceptively calm despite the power now coiling around him like a storm waiting to break. His eyes, though, betrayed deeper emotion, the memory of his own sacrifice for Feyre shadowing his features. "There are other solutions. We can find another place within Night Court territory..."

"No," you interrupted, your decision solidifying with each passing moment. "This is your sanctuary. Your safe place." Your eyes met Mor's, acknowledging her pain without minimizing it. "Some wounds can't heal in the presence of what caused them. I understand that better than most."

"You don't have to leave," Feyre insisted, stepping forward. "Mor doesn't speak for all of us." She, perhaps alone among them, fully understood what it meant to be separated from a mate.

"But she speaks truth," you replied. "And I respect that more than false welcome."

You looked at Azriel, heart pounding against your ribs. "You don't have to come with me. This is your family. Your home."

Azriel's scarred hand found yours, cool fingers slipping between your warm ones with careful deliberation. "You are my home now," he said simply.

Through the bond, his emotions crashed into you, raw and unfettered: centuries of silent longing, of watching others find connection while he remained in darkness. The terrible, wonderful freedom of finally choosing something for himself. The fear of unknown pathways balanced against the certainty of what he'd found in you.

Not out of obligation. Not out of duty. But out of choice.

Cassian moved forward, genuine alarm in his features. "Az, think about this. Five centuries together. We're brothers."

Azriel's gaze shifted to Cassian, something almost like regret flickering briefly in those hazel depths before ice reclaimed them. "And brothers understand when one must follow his own path," he replied, though the slight roughness in his voice betrayed the cost of his choice. "This isn't goodbye, Cassian. Just... a different road."

"Where will you go?" Rhysand asked, power now visibly swirling around him, tiny stars coalescing and fading within the darkness that clung to his skin.

"West," Azriel answered after a moment. "Beyond Prythian's borders. Beyond the reach of courts and politics."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with finality. Rhysand's face remained impassive, but his eyes, those star-flecked violet eyes, revealed the depth of his shock. Centuries of brotherhood, of shared battles and blood and loyalty, suspended in this single, fragile moment.

"I won't command you to stay," Rhysand finally said, each word weighed and measured. "I never would. But I ask you, as your High Lord and your friend, to reconsider."

Though his tone remained controlled, Rhysand's power betrayed his turmoil, stars burning brighter, darkness swirling more intensely. He understood the choice Azriel faced, had made similar sacrifices himself, yet still struggled with the reality of losing his shadowsinger.

Azriel's expression remained coldly resolute,"I've made my choice, Rhys. As you once made yours for Feyre."

The comparison wasn't lost on any of them. Rhysand had once risked everything, including his own life, for his mate. The parallel hung between them, uncomfortable but undeniable.

Morrigan stepped forward, her earlier hostility tempered by dawning realization. "You would really leave? For her?"

"Not just for her," Azriel corrected quietly, his shadows calming as they settled around you both. "For myself as well. For what we might become together, without the weight of past sins and obligations."

The admission stole your breath. This wasn't just about protection or duty. This was about something far more profound, a future neither of you had dared imagine possible. The knowledge of it settled in your chest like a stone, heavy with potential and terror in equal measure.

"At least wait until morning," Feyre urged. "Rest. Eat. Make this decision with clear heads."

Before you could answer, a sudden tug pulled at your awareness, a sensation like blood calling to blood. Your head snapped toward the city streets below, an instinct more primal than thought drawing your attention.

Chaos erupted below a heartbeat later. Shouting rose from the streets of Velaris, the sounds of panic reaching even the lofty heights of the House of Wind.

Rhysand was at the balcony's edge in an instant, power rolling off him in midnight waves as he scanned the city below. Cassian and Feyre flanked him, their own magic rising in response to potential threat.

"What is it?" Morrigan asked, moving forward despite her earlier hostility.

"Something's wrong," you whispered, the familial connection pulling at you with increasing urgency. "Someone's here. Someone of my blood."

Azriel's shadows stretched outward, tasting the air, gathering information beyond normal senses. His expression shifted from confusion to grim determination as they confirmed what your blood already knew.

"Lucien," he said, shadows confirming what his eyes could now see. "He's wounded."

You pushed past him to the balcony's edge, eyes straining to see through darkness.

There, in the street below, stood your brother. His clothing was torn and bloody, his hair matted with what could only be more blood. But he was alive, standing proud despite obvious injury.

"Lucien," you whispered, relief and fear warring within you.

Azriel's hand found yours, scarred fingers twining with your own. "I'll take you to him," he said, voice rough with shared concern.

As he gathered you in his arms and launched from the balcony, you caught a glimpse of the Inner Circle's faces, shock, concern, and in Mor's expression, something complicated that couldn't quite eclipse her earlier rejection.

The shadowsinger carried you down toward your brother with swift purpose, his wings creating eddies in the night air.

Landing lightly beside Lucien, Azriel set you carefully on your feet. Your knees nearly buckled as you took in the full extent of your brother's injuries, a deep gash across his forehead, burns along his arms, a limp that spoke of damage to his right leg.

"What happened?" you demanded, moving to your brother's side. "Where's Eris?"

Lucien's mismatched eyes were haunted, the mechanical one whirring erratically. "I couldn't get to him in time," he said, voice ragged with exhaustion and grief. "Beron caught him organizing the rebellion. He..." Lucien's voice broke. "He's torturing him. Using him as an example."

Horror flooded through you, cold and paralyzing. "No," you whispered. "No, no, no..."

"I tried," Lucien continued, the words tearing from his throat. "Mother above, I tried to reach him. But Beron's guards were everywhere. I barely escaped with my life."

Cassian landed beside you, having followed from the House of Wind. His face hardened as he took in Lucien's condition and his news.

"We need to get you to a healer," Cassian said, military precision taking over. "Then we plan our next move."

"There is no next move," Lucien replied, his voice hollow. "Beron has sealed the borders of Autumn Court. Every entry point is guarded by his elite. He's sent a message to all High Lords, any interference will be considered an act of war."

"And the rebellion?" Azriel asked quietly.

"Still fighting," Lucien confirmed, though his expression held little hope. "But with Eris captured... their leadership is in chaos. Beron is systematically hunting down anyone connected to the resistance."

The implications settled over you like a physical weight. Eris, your eldest brother who had risked everything to help you escape, was now paying the price for his defiance. The brother who had always seemed so untouchable, so invulnerable, was at Beron's mercy.

And Beron had none.

"We have to do something," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "We can't just leave him there."

Azriel's shadows coiled tighter around you, as if trying to shield you from a truth too painful to bear. "We won't abandon him," he promised, the gentleness in his voice a stark contrast to the coldness he'd shown his Inner Circle moments before. "I promise you that."

"But we need a plan," Cassian added, his battle-trained mind already working through scenarios. "Not a suicide mission."

You glanced back at the House of Wind, where Rhysand and Feyre still watched from the balcony. Morrigan had disappeared back inside.

"We still need to leave," you said quietly to Azriel. "But not until we've done everything possible for Eris."

"We'll find a way," Azriel agreed, his shadows swirling protectively around both you and Lucien. "Then we go."

Lucien's gaze shifted between you and Azriel, confusion evident in his mismatched eyes. "Go? Go where?"

"Somewhere new," you said simply. "The Night Court isn't the right place for me. For us."

Understanding dawned in Lucien's tired face. "Mor," he guessed, accurately reading the situation. "She's still blinded by the past."

"She has reason," you acknowledged, refusing to villainize someone whose pain was so clearly genuine. "And I won't heal in a place where my presence causes others to suffer."

Lucien's gaze shifted to Azriel, assessment clear in that mechanical eye. "And you? You would leave everything for my sister? Your court? Your High Lord? The family you've served for centuries?"

Azriel's expression remained neutral, but his shadows curled possessively around your joined hands. "I would."

The words shimmered between you, a truth so profound it left you breathless. The realization of what this male was offering, not just protection, not just loyalty, but a future built on mutual choice rather than obligation or duty, made your heart pound against your ribs.

"We stay until we've done everything we can for Eris," you said, your decision made. "Then we find our own path."

Lucien nodded slowly, acceptance settling in his weary features. "I understand. More than most."

The healing center of Velaris melded practicality with comfort in ways that spoke to the Night Court's character. Stone walls, softened by tapestries in deep midnight blue, captured and reflected the perpetual night of the city. Windows stood open to the cool air, carrying the distant hum of city life and the faint scent of salt from the nearby sea. Rooms glowed with starlight captured in floating glass orbs, their light gentle enough for healing but bright enough for precision work.

The air carried the distinctive scent of healing herbs: night jasmine to induce restful sleep, crushed moonberries for pain, and the sharp tang of wintermint for clarity of mind. Beneath it all lingered the subtle sweetness of healing magic itself, like honey dissolved in water.

Healers, quiet and efficient in midnight-blue robes embroidered with silver stars, had immediately taken charge of Lucien, guiding him to a treatment room where they now worked on his injuries with methodical precision. Their hands moved with the confidence of those who had mended far worse wounds than his.

You waited outside, pacing the smooth stone floor. Each step echoed softly in the quiet corridor, marking time like a heartbeat. Azriel stood motionless by the window, his shadows stretching periodically down the hallway, gathering information, monitoring for threats. His stillness made your restlessness all the more pronounced.

The door at the end of the hallway opened, admitting a slender female you had seen.

Elain Archeron.

"Where is he?" she asked, voice melodic yet urgent. "Is he..."

"He's being treated now," you answered, instinctively stepping forward.

Elain. Lucien's mate.

The female whose face appeared in his rare, unguarded moments, whose name he sometimes spoke in his sleep. The female who had sent warning, created diversion, saved Lucien's life.

Azriel's shadows maintained their steady patrol, neither reacting to her presence nor acknowledging any shared history. His face remained calm, completely unperturbed, as if greeting a casual acquaintance rather than someone with whom he might have once shared deeper connection.

"You helped him escape," you said softly to Elain.

Elain's gaze finally focused on you fully, wariness evident in her posture. Her fingers twisted a small silver ring with nervous energy. "You're his sister. The Lady of Autumn."

"Just his sister," you corrected automatically. "Nothing else matters right now."

Her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing you with unexpected sharpness. Then, apparently satisfied with whatever she saw, she nodded once. "He called for you. In my visions. Before they happened."

The words sent a shiver down your spine. "Visions?"

"I'm a Seer," she explained simply, no pride or apology in the statement. Just fact. "I See what's coming. Sometimes. Not always clearly. Not always in time." Her gaze drifted to the treatment room door, guilt shadowing her features. "Not soon enough for Eris."

Azriel's shadows curled inward at the mention of Eris, growing denser, almost defensive. "You did what you could," he said.

Elain looked at him fully for the first time, her expression complicated. "Az," she acknowledged, something like resignation briefly crossing her features at his professional demeanor.

Before any of you could say more, the treatment room door opened. A healer stepped out, bowing formally to Elain.

"He's asking for you," she said simply, stepping aside.

Elain moved forward, then hesitated, glancing back at you. "Will you come? He needs his family too."

The unexpected inclusion startled you. You looked to Azriel, whose shadows had gone utterly still, as if holding their breath. He nodded once, a tiny movement that nonetheless conveyed complete support for whatever you chose.

"Of course," you said, stepping forward to follow Elain into the room.

Lucien lay on a bed of midnight blue, his injuries already partially healed. The gash on his forehead had closed, leaving behind a thin red line that would fade to silver. The burns on his arms were covered in a translucent green salve that smelled of mint and something sweeter, like crushed berries. His mechanical eye had been removed for repair, the empty socket covered with a patch of dark silk.

His remaining eye widened at the sight of you and Elain together. Surprise, then something like wonder, crossed his features. Beneath it, you caught the flash of vulnerability, the momentary disbelief that his mate and his sister would stand together at his bedside.

"My two guardian angels," he said, voice rough with exhaustion but touched with genuine amusement. "Come to ensure I don't slip away?"

Elain moved to his bedside without hesitation, her hand finding his with practiced familiarity. The moment they touched, a barely perceptible sigh escaped him, his body relaxing as if a hidden tension had finally released. "You're not going anywhere," she said, the dreamy quality entirely gone from her voice. In its place was steel, determination, a will that seemed at odds with her delicate appearance.

His eye never left her face, drinking in her presence as if storing it against future drought. The nakedness of his need was almost painful to witness, a male so thoroughly claimed by the mating bond that even the presence of others couldn't mask it.

You approached from the other side, relief making your movements unsteady. "The healers say you'll recover fully."

"They always say that," Lucien replied with a weak smile, finally tearing his gaze from Elain. "Makes the patients feel better." His gaze shifted to Azriel, who had remained by the door, shadows wrapped tight around him. "They're treating me better than I expected, Shadowsinger. Your doing?"

Azriel's face revealed nothing, but his shadows briefly formed a pattern that might have been confirmation. "The Night Court respects loyalty to family," he said quietly. "Even when that family belongs to Autumn."

Lucien's eye narrowed, studying Azriel with unnerving intensity. The mechanical gold eye, temporarily removed, would have been whirring with calculation.

Lucien's expression sobered. "We need to act quickly. Beron won't keep him alive indefinitely."

"We need a plan," you agreed, anxiety clenching your stomach at the thought of Eris in Beron's clutches. The bond with Azriel flared briefly, responding to your distress with golden warmth that pushed back against the cold fear. "A way to reach him."

"I can help with that," Elain said, her dreamy voice returning, eyes going slightly unfocused. "I've Seen a path. Through shadows and flame. A way beneath mountains where guards don't look."

Azriel straightened, interest sharpening his features. "What did you See, exactly?"

Elain's gaze turned inward, focusing on something none of you could perceive. "A tunnel. Ancient. Forgotten. It runs beneath the border mountains between Night and Autumn. It emerges in a grove where the trees burn eternally without being consumed."

Recognition flashed across Lucien's face. "The Sacred Grove. It's less than a mile from the Autumn Court palace."

"How did you know about this tunnel?" Azriel asked Elain, his voice remaining professionally curious rather than personally invested.

Elain's eyes refocused, meeting his with unexpected directness. "I Saw it after you left the House of Wind. When I knew what you'd chosen." She shrugged lightly, acceptance rather than hurt shaping her features. "The Cauldron shows me what's needed, Az. Not what's wanted."

The atmosphere remained calm, without the charged tension of unresolved feelings. Azriel's shadows continued their steady vigilance, neither reaching for Elain nor recoiling from her. Whatever history lay between them seemed settled, at least on his part.

Lucien watched this exchange with careful neutrality, though his fingers tightened slightly around Elain's. The movement was subtle, possessive yet insecure. A male who had found his mate but still feared losing her, even to a male who clearly had no interest.

"This tunnel," you interjected, "can it get us to Eris?"

"Yes," Elain said, attention returning to you. "But not all of us. Two, at most. More would draw attention."

"I'll go," Azriel said immediately, shadows coiling with deadly purpose.

"Me too," you added, the decision requiring no thought. "He's my brother."

"You can't," Lucien protested, struggling to sit up. "Beron wants you most of all. If he captures you..."

"He won't," Azriel interrupted, his voice midnight-cold and absolute. "I won't allow it."

The conviction in his voice silenced Lucien's objections. The scarred male exchanged a long look with Elain, some silent communication passing between them.

"When?" you asked.

"Tomorrow night," Elain answered, certainty in her voice. "When the moon is highest. The guards change shifts. There's a gap in their rotation, seven minutes when the eastern dungeon corridor is unwatched."

"How do you know that?" Azriel asked, shadows stretching toward her as if testing the truth of her words.

"I Saw it," she replied simply.

The finality in her voice sent a chill down your spine. Azriel's shadows recoiled slightly, then settled into watchful stillness.

"Then we leave tomorrow night," you said, decision made. "And afterward..."

"You go your own way," Elain finished for you, no judgment in her tone. "West, beyond Prythian's borders."

Lucien's eye widened, realization dawning. "You're leaving the Night Court?"

"I'm not welcome here," you said simply.

The bond's golden light briefly shimmered beneath your skin as you spoke, carrying warmth and certainty despite the unknown path ahead. In that moment, you realized that "home" was no longer a place for you, but a connection. A bond not forced by fate but chosen in defiance of it.

"And I go where she goes," Azriel added, voice softening when he looked at you despite the distance he maintained from the others.

A complicated series of emotions crossed Lucien's face. "I understand," he finally said, gaze lingering on Elain. "Sometimes the place you're meant to be isn't where others think you belong."

Elain's hand tightened on his, an unspoken acknowledgment of his words. "I'll draw you a map," she said to Azriel. "Of what I've Seen. The tunnel entrance, the guards' positions, the cell where they're keeping Eris."

Azriel nodded, gratitude softening his severe features. "Thank you, Elain."

She met his gaze directly, simple kindness in her eyes. "Be happy, Az," she said quietly. "That's all any of us ever wanted for you."

The words struck him visibly, shadows briefly dispersing in surprise before gathering closer than before. He didn't respond, but his eyes flickered to you before returning to her, answer enough.

The bond burned beneath your skin, molten gold tracing veins of fire through your borrowed body as you walked the streets of Velaris.

Each pulse echoed the question that had haunted you since waking in this world. Which life is truly mine?

The Night Court's famed city of starlight unfurled around you in painful, breathtaking beauty. Artists captured moonlight on canvas beneath silver-starred streetlamps. Music spilled from taverns like liquid joy, mingling with laughter and the scent of cinnamon and sea salt. Couples strolled arm-in-arm, their faces illuminated by faelights hovering like captured stars.

Too beautiful. Too perfect. A dream you'd never dared imagine.

"Are you cold?" Azriel's voice slipped through your thoughts, quiet as shadow. He walked beside you, wings tucked tight, shoulders angled to shield you from curious stares without touching you.

You shook your head, not trusting your voice. The golden thread of the bond twisted tighter as another wave of panic crashed through you.

Eris in chains. Lucien fighting alone. Beron's flames consuming all you'd begun to care for.

Azriel's shadows reached toward you before retreating at your rigid posture. You pretended not to notice the hurt that flashed across his face when you stepped further away.

"Just ahead," he said, gesturing toward a townhouse nestled between two larger buildings. Three stories of pale stone with midnight-blue shutters, a small balcony dripping with night-blooming jasmine. "Rhys and Feyre arranged it. Privacy until..."

He didn't finish. Until you left. Until he abandoned everything for you. Until you made choices that would shatter one world or another.

You nodded and walked ahead, climbing the few steps without waiting. The scent of jasmine clung to your clothes as you passed beneath the flowering vines, sweet and foreign and heartbreaking.

Inside, the townhouse breathed quiet elegance—plush furniture in midnight blues and silvers, windows strategically placed to capture moonlight, walls adorned with paintings of star-strewn skies. A fire burned in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the polished wood floor.

Too much. Too real.

The flames reminded you of Eris. Of his face when he'd declared rebellion against Beron. Of what your father must be doing to him now.

Not your father, you reminded yourself. Not your blood. Not your world.

Azriel stood in the doorway, shadows darker than the night outside wreathing his powerful frame. His face remained carefully blank, but his shadows betrayed him, curling into agitated patterns that revealed his concern.

"There are two bedrooms upstairs," he said, voice carefully neutral despite the golden light flickering beneath his skin whenever the bond pulsed. "You can choose whichever you prefer."

You moved toward the stairs without answering. Each step felt like wading through water, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and fear.

At the landing, you paused, throat tight with words you couldn't say.

Don't throw your life away for me. Don't sacrifice everything for someone who doesn't belong here. Don't care for me—please, don't care.

"I need to rest," you managed, the words hollow.

"Of course." The shadows around him shuddered with something like despair.

You turned away, entering the nearest bedroom and closing the door with a soft click that somehow felt deafening in the silence.

Alone at last, you sagged against the door, sliding to the floor as exhaustion claimed you. Ember and Sizzle materialized in twin pops of flame, immediately nuzzling against your trembling hands.

"What am I doing?" you whispered, voice breaking. "He's giving up everything for someone who can't stay. Someone with a body lying in a hospital across worlds, family keeping vigil, machines beeping out the rhythm of a life half-lived."

The flame bunnies chirped softly, climbing into your lap, their tiny warmth both comfort and burden. Hadn't they, too, become real? Hadn't this body, this magic, this life begun to feel more substantial than the ghostly memories of a human existence?

You pushed yourself up and crossed to the bed, not bothering to change out of travel-worn clothes. Sleep claimed you almost instantly, dragging you into dreams of hospitals and beeping monitors and sobbing aunts who had long since given up hope.

You woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding against your ribs with enough force to hurt. In your dream, Eris had been screaming your name as Beron's flames consumed him, the scent of burning flesh so vivid you gagged.

The room was pitch black, moonlight long since faded. The city below slumbered, only occasional lights visible in distant windows.

Decision crystallized in your chest, cold and final. You couldn't wait until tomorrow. Not with Eris suffering at Beron's hands. Not with Azriel preparing to throw away five centuries of brotherhood, of family, of purpose—for a female he barely knew.

For an imposter in a body not her own.

You dressed silently, strapping on the knife Lucien had pressed into your hands before you'd left the healing center. The blade thrummed with old magic, protection spells etched into its hilt.

Ember and Sizzle watched from the bed, unusually still, their tiny flame ears laid flat against their heads.

"Stay with him," you whispered. "I need to do this alone."

Your palm curled around the silver charm Azriel had given you.

Break it and I'll come to you, across any distance.

You removed it carefully, placing it on the bedside table. You wouldn't drag him into this. Wouldn't be responsible for another sacrifice.

You eased the door open, heart in your throat, and nearly collapsed at the sight that greeted you.

Azriel.

Sitting on the floor outside your room, back against the wall. His magnificent wings were folded tight against his spine, shadows wrapped around him like a living blanket against the chill.

Not sleeping—you doubted he ever truly slept—but guarding.

Waiting.

His head snapped up at your appearance, and the naked emotion in his eyes stole your breath.

Concern, yes, but something deeper. Something that made the bond sing gold and fire between you.

Shadows writhed around him, betraying his agitation even as his face remained carefully neutral. Several tendrils reached toward you before he called them back with visible effort.

"You're leaving." Not a question. His voice, velvet darkness wrapped around steel, betrayed nothing of his feelings.

"I have to try," you admitted, unable to lie to that piercing gaze. "For Eris."

"Alone?" The word carried more emotion than any outburst could have.

"Yes." You moved to step around him, refusing to acknowledge how the bond screamed against the distance you insisted on maintaining.

Azriel rose in a single fluid motion that reminded you what he was—warrior, predator, death on silent wings. He blocked your path without touching you, his body a wall of night and shadow.

"You'll die," he said. The starkness of it, the absolute certainty, sent ice down your spine.

"Better me than him." You straightened, meeting his gaze despite the effort it cost. "Better me than you."

Something fierce flashed across his face, breaking through that careful mask of control. "That's not your choice to make."

"And throwing away your life for mine isn't yours," you countered, frustration finally cracking your careful indifference. "Five centuries with the Night Court, with family who loves you, and you'd walk away for what? A broken bond with someone who isn't even supposed to be here?"

His expression shifted, surprise briefly visible before his shadows receded slightly.

"Is that what this is about?" The gentleness in his voice threatened to shatter you. "You think I don't know what I'm choosing?"

"I think you're making a sacrifice you'll regret for the rest of your immortal life," you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze despite the pain it caused. "And I can't let you do that."

"Let me?" A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained grave. "I've been making my own choices for five hundred years."

The words sent heat curling through your veins, unwelcome and undeniable. The bond flared in response, golden light briefly visible beneath your skin, beneath his, a betrayal of bodies despite minds' protestations.

"Come downstairs," he said, soft as night breeze. "Please. Before we both do something we'll regret."

The request was reasonable enough that you found yourself nodding, following him to the small sitting room on the main floor.

Shadows settled into corners as you both sat on the same couch, a careful distance between you that somehow felt both too great and not nearly enough.

The silence stretched, alive with all you couldn't say.

"Why have you been shutting me out?" he finally asked, directness catching you off-guard.

You stared at your hands, at the borrowed skin with its too-smooth texture, its too-perfect nails, its too-bright veins of gold that danced beneath the surface like trapped sunlight.

"Because this isn't real," you whispered. "None of it."

"It feels real to me," he replied, the simplicity of it cutting deeper than arguments ever could.

"It's not," you insisted, looking up at last. "This bond, this world, this body—none of it belongs to me. And I can't... I can't let you destroy your life for an illusion."

His scarred hand moved slightly closer, not quite touching yours. Even that small movement sent the bond into a frenzy of golden heat beneath your skin.

"What if it's not an illusion?" he asked, voice dropping lower. "What if this is precisely where we're both meant to be?"

The words struck closer to your secret fear than you'd thought possible.

What if he was right? What if the hospital room was the dream, and this—this magic, this bond, this male whose mere presence eased an ache you hadn't known you carried—was your truth?

"I don't belong here," you said, throat tightening around the words. "My body—my real body—is waiting for me to come home."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by compassion so genuine it hurt to witness. "The hospital. The human world."

You nodded, tears threatening. "I can't stay here, Azriel. No matter how much I might..." Want to. Belong to you. Need you. "I have family waiting. A life."

"And you think I'm following you out of obligation?" The question was gentle, offering understanding where you'd expected hurt. "Out of some misguided sense of duty to the mating bond?"

"Aren't you?"

His shadows stilled completely—a rare occurrence that drew your attention more effectively than any shout could have.

"I have spent five centuries in darkness," he said, voice so low you had to lean closer to hear, to breathe in his scent of night-chilled stone and cedar. "Five centuries as weapon and warning, as the nightmare that keeps enemies at bay. Five centuries watching others find connections I believed I could never have."

His eyes, when they met yours, contained such vulnerability that your breath caught. The golden light beneath his skin pulsed in time with your heartbeat, the bond singing recognition between your bodies even as your minds fought its pull.

"I thought I loved Mor once," he continued, the confession clearly costing him. "Then Elain. But it was always the idea of love that drew me. The possibility of light. Not the females themselves."

His scarred fingers traced patterns on the cushion between you, not quite touching you, but close enough that you could feel the coolness radiating from his skin.

"With you, it's different," he said, voice roughened with emotion. "From the moment the bond snapped into place, even as I rejected it, I knew. This wasn't just magic. This wasn't just fate. This was recognition."

"Of what?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

His shadows stirred, curling into shapes that reflected his words—wings and flames dancing together, darkness and light intertwined.

"Of the only person who's ever seen me," he replied, each word carefully chosen, heavy with significance. "Not the shadowsinger. Not the spymaster. Not the weapon." His voice dropped lower. "When you look at me, your eyes don't reflect centuries of blood and darkness. They show me something I thought I'd lost long ago."

"What?" you whispered, unable to look away from the raw emotion in his gaze.

"Possibility," he said simply. One word that contained worlds.

His shadows curled toward you with heartbreaking hesitancy, stopping just short of contact. "I'm not following you out of duty or obligation. I'm following you because for the first time in five hundred years, I've found something that's mine alone. Not given by Rhysand. Not shared with Cassian. Not demanded by war."

"I can't give you what you want," you finally said, each word a shard of glass in your throat. "I can't stay here, Azriel. I can't be your mate. Not permanently."

"Why?" His voice remained gentle despite the pain that flashed across his beautiful face.

"Because I don't belong to this world," you whispered. "This body isn't mine. This life isn't mine. And someday—somehow—I have to find my way back home."

His scarred hand finally reached across the distance between you, not grasping, simply offering. "What if this is home? What if that human girl is the dream, and this is your reality?"

The question struck deeper than you'd expected, touching the fear that had haunted you since waking in this fae body.

What if he was right? What if the hospital was the illusion, and this strange, magical world was where you truly belonged?

"I don't know," you admitted, the confession leaving you raw. "I don't know which is real anymore."

"They both are," he said, shadows forming shapes that looked like doorways, like bridges between worlds. "And whichever you choose, I'll respect it. Even if it means losing you."

The words hung between you, heavy with sincerity. This wasn't just about the bond anymore. This was about choice—his and yours. About making decisions with open eyes and full awareness of the consequences.

"Why would you do that?" you asked, voice breaking. "Why would you leave everything for someone who might not stay?"

His scarred fingers extended further, an invitation without pressure. "Because some moments are worth an eternity of loss."

Your heart stuttered in your chest, the bond responding with a flare of golden warmth that momentarily eclipsed all doubt, all fear. This male who had known only duty and shadow for centuries was offering you something no one in either of your lives had ever given: complete freedom to choose your own fate, without expectation or demand.

His shadows brushed your wrist, cool as night air, gentle as a whisper. "I would rather know you for a single heartbeat than live an eternity wondering what might have been."

The bond between you shimmered, visible now as golden threads spanning the distance between your bodies, delicate as spider's silk but stronger than steel. Each breath you took made them glow brighter, a constellation of shared possibility.

"Tomorrow we rescue Eris," you finally said, pulling your hand back despite the bond's protest. "After that... I don't know. I don't know what happens next."

Azriel nodded, accepting your withdrawal without question. His shadows retreated, curling back around his shoulders in patterns that spoke of restraint, of patience, of understanding beyond what you'd thought possible.

"One day at a time, then." He spoke the words like a promise.

"One day at a time," you agreed, rising from the couch. Your legs felt unsteady beneath you, the weight of his truths, of your fears, threatening to pull you under.

He stood as well, shadows gathering around him like a living cloak. "Would you prefer I remain downstairs tonight?"

There was no judgment in the question, no hurt, only simple respect for your boundaries. The consideration—so at odds with the fearsome reputation that preceded him—made your throat tighten with emotions you weren't ready to name.

"You don't have to sit outside my door," you said quietly, the bond aching as you forced distance between you. "But... I wouldn't mind knowing you were nearby."

The admission cost you, revealed more than you'd intended, but you couldn't bring yourself to regret it when understanding flashed in his eyes, followed by something that might have been hope.

"I'll be here if you need me," he promised, shadows reaching toward you one last time before he pulled them back. "Always."

You nodded once, then turned toward the stairs, unable to bear the weight of his gaze any longer.

In your borrowed bedroom, you sank onto the edge of the bed, Ember and Sizzle immediately materializing to nudge against your trembling hands.

"What am I doing?" you whispered to them, the question you couldn't ask Azriel. "What am I going to do?"

The flame bunnies had no answers, only warm comfort as they curled against you, tiny embers of promise in a night that seemed endless.

Outside your door, shadows whispered quiet vigilance, a promise kept without words. Downstairs, the shadowsinger of the Night Court—who had offered you his scarred heart without demanding yours in return—waited patiently for a decision you weren't sure you could make.

And in another world, separated by barriers of reality itself, machines beeped a steady rhythm beside a hospital bed where a body lay suspended between life and death, while family members whispered, "Please come home."

Two lives. Two worlds. Two hearts beating across an impossible divide.

The bond pulsed once more, golden light briefly illuminating the darkness of your room, carrying with it the echo of his words: Some moments are worth an eternity of loss.

Tomorrow, you would rescue Eris. Tomorrow, you would fight for family—chosen and given and made. Beyond that lay choices that terrified and tempted in equal measure.

You closed your eyes, the weight of worlds pressing against your chest.

One heartbeat at a time.

The High Lords converged on Velaris like gathering storm clouds.

The emergency conclave had been called by Rhysand after news of Beron's actions spread across Prythian. War loomed on the horizon, and even ancient enemies now sought common ground against Autumn Court's growing madness.

You stood on the balcony of the townhouse, watching as entourages made their way through the streets below. Each High Lord had brought a small contingent, enough to demonstrate power without appearing threatening. The air itself seemed to thicken with magic as they passed, a tangible pressure against your skin.

"Are you certain you want to attend?" Azriel asked from the doorway, his voice quiet. His shadows curled restlessly near the railing but never touched you.

You didn't turn. "I need to be there," you replied, fingers whitening as they gripped the cold stone. "For Eris."

Azriel said nothing more, but his presence shifted closer, a silent offering of strength.

The River House had been transformed for the gathering. The central chamber now held an enormous circular table, each seat marked with the sigil of a different court. Rhysand and Feyre stood at the entrance, greeting each arrival with careful diplomacy.

You entered with Azriel at your side, his presence a cold comfort as curious gazes tracked your movement. His shadows remained tightly controlled, but you could feel the tension radiating from him, a predator walking willingly into enemy territory.

Tarquin of Summer Court nodded politely as you passed, sea-salt scent clinging to his turquoise robes. Helion of Day Court studied you with scholarly interest, golden eyes missing nothing beneath his crown of light. Kallias of Winter Court remained expressionless, his silver-white hair contrasting sharply with his midnight blue attire.

Something strange fluttered in your chest at the sight of him, not recognition but a sudden chill that traced your spine despite the warmth of the room. You swallowed hard, attributing the feeling to general anxiety about the meeting.

The discussions began with Rhysand outlining the situation in Autumn Court, his voice measured despite the rage that occasionally flashed in his violet eyes. The rebellion, Eris's capture, Beron's increasingly erratic behavior. Maps were spread across the table, territories marked in colored ink.

"Winter Court has intelligence suggesting Beron has moved Eris to the eastern dungeons," Kallias was saying, his voice crystalline and sharp as ice. "Our late Lord Kieraven provided similar information before his death in the war with Hybern."

The name hit you like a physical blow.

Kieraven.

Your vision blurred at the edges, the room suddenly too bright, too hot. Your heartbeat accelerated, a fluttering bird trapped in your chest. Something about that name made your skin crawl, though you couldn't place why. Your fingers curled into fists beneath the table, nails cutting into your palms.

"These dungeons have access points through the servant corridors," another Winter Court advisor added, pointing to the map with fingers that seemed too long, too pale.

A phantom sensation of cold hands gripping your wrists flashed through your body. Your throat tightened as if invisible fingers pressed against it.

Beside you, Azriel shifted slightly in his seat.

To anyone else, the movement would appear negligible, a simple adjustment of posture. But you felt his attention sharpen, felt his shadows condense beneath the table, pooling around your feet in silent vigilance. His face remained impassive, yet something in his eyes had changed, a dangerous awareness that hadn't been there moments before.

"Are you well?" Tarquin asked from across the table, sea-glass eyes noting your pallor.

"Yes," you managed, though your voice sounded thin even to your own ears. "Just concerned for my brother."

The meeting continued, but you felt increasingly detached, a strange buzzing filling your head. Whenever your gaze drifted toward the Winter Court contingent, unease rippled through you, gooseflesh rising on your arms. You deliberately looked away, focusing instead on the maps spread across the table, tracing the familiar outlines of Autumn Court territories.

Azriel remained silent throughout, his contributions limited to precise tactical observations when directly addressed. But his attention never wavered from you, from the cold sweat beading at your temples, from the minute tremors in your hands that you tried to hide.

"The eastern corridor has twelve guards stationed at regular intervals," the Winter Court representative continued, "but there are passages between guard rotations where..."

Thirteen.

The thought came unbidden, bewildering in its certainty. There were thirteen.

"...where infiltration would be possible with proper timing."

When the Winter Court advisor mentioned "corridors in the eastern wing," your stomach twisted violently. Without warning, tears sprang to your eyes, though you had no idea why. The scent of frost and blood filled your nostrils, a memory that couldn't be yours.

Stone walls. Cold floor. Hands holding you down.

"The structure of these dungeons suggests a weakness in the northwestern corner," Kallias added, his pale finger tracing a path on the map.

Voices whispering things that couldn't be forgotten. Pain beyond naming.

You blinked back tears furiously, refusing to show weakness in front of these powerful beings. But Azriel noticed, of course he did. Nothing escaped the shadowsinger's attention, especially not concerning you.

His hand found yours beneath the table, scarred fingers wrapping around your trembling ones. A touch so light it might have been imagined, yet anchoring you to the present. His face remained distant, focused on the maps, but his thumb traced a small circle against your wrist, steadying your frantic pulse.

"Each rotation changes at midnight," the Winter Court advisor was saying. His voice seemed to come from far away, distorted as if through water. "Which gives a window of approximately seven minutes..."

Seven minutes. Seven minutes where no one came. Seven minutes of desperate hope before the eighth male arrived.

The room began to spin, colors bleeding into one another. Your lungs couldn't seem to draw enough air, each breath shallow and insufficient. The bond beneath your skin pulsed erratically, your borrowed Fae body remembering what your human mind could not.

When you tried to speak, your throat closed. Panic rose without explanation, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The room seemed to shrink around you, the voices of the High Lords becoming distant and indistinct.

A single tear escaped despite your efforts, tracking silently down your cheek.

Azriel was on his feet in an instant, his movement so smooth it seemed he'd simply materialized standing. His shadows flared around him, tendrils whipping in patterns that spoke of deadly intent, though his face remained controlled.

"My lady requires air," he announced, his voice giving no room for question or challenge. "Continue without us."

Before anyone could object, he had gathered you into his arms. Not gently, not tenderly, but with efficient, impersonal precision that would appear as duty rather than concern to watching eyes. His wings unfurled as he strode toward the balcony, his face a mask of cold indifference that belied the protective fury radiating from him.

"My apologies for the interruption," he said to Rhysand, his tone suggesting anything but remorse. "We'll return shortly."

Then you were airborne, the cool night air rushing past as Azriel carried you away from the River House. Your body trembled against his, tears flowing freely now though you still couldn't understand why.

"I don't know what's happening to me," you whispered against his chest, embarrassment and confusion warring within you. "I don't know why I'm reacting this way."

Azriel said nothing, his silence almost comforting as he flew through the darkness. The city fell away beneath you as he climbed higher, banking toward a sheer cliff face that towered over Velaris. Stars scattered across the vast expanse of night sky, cold and distant as ancient memories.

He landed on a small ledge invisible from below. A tiny flat space carved into the rock, overlooking the entire city and the sea beyond. A single bench made of polished stone sat against the cliff wall, worn smooth from centuries of use. The air here smelled of wild thyme and night jasmine, undisturbed by the scents of the city below.

"No one knows about this place," he said, setting you carefully on the bench. "Not even Cassian or Rhys." The admission hung in the air between you, significant in its rarity.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to stop the trembling that seemed to come from somewhere deep within. "I'm sorry for disrupting the meeting. I don't understand what came over me."

Azriel moved to the ledge's edge, wings partially extended as if ready for flight. His shadows swirled in agitated patterns around him, occasionally forming shapes that looked almost like protective shields before dissolving back into formless dark.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

"I do," you insisted, wiping at tears that wouldn't stop. "Breaking down like this when Eris needs us to be strong, to be focused..."

Azriel turned to face you, and the expression in his eyes made you fall silent. Not tenderness or concern, but something darker, more knowing. His shadows quieted, gathering close to his body as if containing secrets too dangerous to share.

"The body remembers what the mind forgets," he said, each word carefully chosen. "Sometimes it warns us of dangers we don't consciously recognize."

You shook your head, confusion only deepening. "What are you talking about? I've never even met these people before."

Azriel didn't answer directly. His gaze shifted to the city below, to the River House where the conclave continued without you. "The Winter Court," he said finally, voice so low you had to strain to hear it. "Your reaction wasn't without cause."

"I don't understand," you whispered, another tear sliding down your cheek.

He moved to sit beside you, not touching, a precise distance maintained between your bodies. His shadows, however, encircled you both, creating a barrier between you and the rest of the world. The scent of night-chilled stone and cedar enveloped you, bringing strange comfort.

"You're safe here," he said, voice gentle despite its underlying steel. "No one can reach you. No one can hurt you."

The words should have been comforting. Instead, they made you cry harder, great gulping sobs that seemed to rise from some hidden well of grief you hadn't known existed. Your body remembered something your mind could not access, a trauma buried beneath layers of magic and dimensional walls.

"Why do I feel like this?" you gasped between sobs. "Why does it hurt when I don't even know what's hurting me?"

Azriel remained silent for a long moment, his shadows shifting restlessly. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled. "Some wounds run deeper than memory."

You turned to face him fully, frustration cutting through your tears. "Stop speaking in riddles. Tell me what you know."

His eyes met yours, ancient and knowing and filled with a darkness that made you shiver. "I can't," he said softly. "This is something you must discover for yourself, when you're ready."

The bond between you pulsed, golden light briefly visible beneath both your skins. It thrummed with truth, with connection deeper than conscious thought.

"Your human life," Azriel continued carefully, "and this Fae existence... they're more connected than you know."

Before you could press further, he removed his outer leathers and draped it around your shoulders. The leather was still warm from his body, carrying his scent. The weight of it was grounding, pulling you back from the edge of panic.

"For now," he continued, "just know that your reactions are valid. That what you feel is real, even if you don't understand why."

The certainty in his voice gave you pause. There was more to this, much more, than he was saying. But the gentleness underlying his cold exterior suggested whatever knowledge he held was being withheld out of protection, not cruelty.

"Will you tell me someday?" you asked, pulling his jacket tighter around you.

"When you're ready to hear it," he promised, shadows briefly touching your hand before retreating. "Not before."

After a long while, when your tears had finally subsided, you found yourself leaning against him despite your earlier resolve to maintain distance. His body tensed momentarily at the contact, then relaxed, one arm coming around you with cautious precision.

You both sat in silence, watching the stars reflect on the distant sea. The panic had receded, leaving exhaustion in its wake. The night air carried the salt scent of the ocean mixed with the wild herbs growing in crevices of the cliff face.

"I sometimes think about what life would be like," you whispered into the night, voice raw from tears, "if I stayed in Prythian."

The moment the words left your lips, the entire world seemed to still. Even the wind paused, holding its breath with you.

Azriel's body went rigid against yours, but his arm remained, a steady anchor around your shoulders. His shadows, ever-moving, froze in mid-air like fractured pieces of night. The only sound between you was the soft rhythm of his breathing, more careful now, more measured.

"Tell me," you continued, heart hammering against your ribs, "if you could choose any life for us, what would it be?"

The question hung between you, fragile as spun glass.

For several heartbeats, he didn't move, didn't speak. Then his shadows pulled tight around his body, as if he were gathering parts of himself that had never been exposed to light.

"Not here," he finally said, voice so low you felt it more than heard it, rough-edged with longing he'd never allowed himself to voice. "Not in Velaris or any court."

You tilted your face to study his profile, severe and beautiful against the backdrop of stars. "Where then?"

He swallowed, the movement visible in the strong column of his throat.

"There's a place..." He faltered, then began again. "Beyond the western mountains. Past Illyrian territory."

His voice softened into something you'd never heard from him before, something almost reverent. "A valley hidden between two peaks where the snow never falls too heavily and the summers are mild."

As he spoke, his shadows formed shapes you could almost recognize. Mountain peaks. Pine trees. A lake surface rippled by gentle wind.

"No High Lords," he continued, something in his voice breaking open. "No war. Just forest and mountains and a lake clear enough to see the stars reflected in its depths."

Your breath caught. "It sounds beautiful."

"I found it centuries ago," he admitted, the confession weighted with significance. "During a mission for Rhys. I've never told anyone about it." The words that followed were quieter still.

The knowledge settled in your chest, a precious gift. This wasn't simply a fantasy he was spinning; this was a secret he had kept, a dream he had nurtured in solitude for centuries.

"Why not?"

His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, as if he could see this valley even now, waiting beyond the darkness. "Because some sanctuaries must remain untouched." His voice dropped further. "Because some dreams are too fragile to share."

The bond between you pulsed, golden and warm, as if in recognition of truth freely given.

"Would we have a house there?" you asked, allowing yourself to fall into this impossible future.

"A cabin," he corrected softly. "Built of pine and stone. Simple but strong."

He hesitated, then added in a voice that made your heart crack open. "Windows facing the sunrise."

"With a porch," you added, your own voice thick with emotion. "Where we could watch thunderstorms rolling across the mountains."

His shadows stirred, curling toward you before retreating. "Yes," he agreed. "And space behind it for a garden, if you wanted one."

"I would," you whispered, the vision so vivid you could almost feel soil beneath your fingernails. "Herbs and vegetables. Maybe wildflowers. Things that heal and feed and bring beauty."

You closed your eyes, imagination carrying you further into this shared dream. "What would we do there? So far from everything?"

"Live," he said softly.

The word hung between you, heavy with all it contained. No wars. No courts. No duty. No pain. Just existence without the weight of the world on your shoulders. Without the pressure of a bond neither of you had asked for. Without the pull of another world where machines kept a body breathing while you inhabited this one.

"No missions," you murmured. "No courts summoning you away."

His arm tightened fractionally around you. "No more shadows used as weapons," he said, voice roughened with longing that cut you to the bone. "Just shadows as they were meant to be, cast by trees and mountains and ordinary things."

Something tight in your chest unraveled at his words. This wasn't merely a dream of escape. This was his deepest yearning—to be defined not by his power or utility, but by simple humanity.

"Ember and Sizzle would love it," you said, thinking of your flame bunnies exploring forest trails.

A sound escaped him—so close to a laugh it made your heart stumble. "They'd terrorize the local wildlife," he replied.

"I'd want coffee," you said, surprising yourself with the mundane desire.

Azriel turned his face toward you then, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it. "I'd find a way to get it for you," he promised. The certainty in his voice made something within you ache. "Whatever it takes."

"I'd bring other things too," you continued, warming to the idea. "Music. Books. Ridiculous holiday traditions that would make no sense to you."

His brow lifted slightly. "Like what?"

"Christmas trees," you said, smiling despite the tears still drying on your cheeks. "Bringing an entire pine tree inside the house and covering it with shiny objects. For no logical reason whatsoever."

His brow furrowed. "That sounds... hazardous. Especially with your flame bunnies."

The laugh that escaped you was unexpected, bright and clean in the night air. "It is! People's houses catch fire all the time. But we do it anyway because it's beautiful."

Something shifted in his expression as he watched you laugh—a softening, a wonder, as if he'd just witnessed something rare and precious. His shadows reached toward you, hesitant, almost shy.

"Tell me more," he said, voice hushed with quiet hunger. "About these strange human traditions."

"We'd have movie nights," you said, leaning into him. "Which would be impossible without electricity, but let's pretend. We'd huddle under blankets and watch stories play out on a screen."

"I don't understand what that means," he admitted. The honesty in his face, the genuine desire to know this part of you, made your throat tight with emotion.

"It doesn't matter," you whispered. "I'd find other stories to share. We'd make our own traditions."

His eyes held yours, something unspoken passing between you. The bond thrummed, golden threads weaving tighter with each heartbeat.

"Would we have children?" you asked, the question slipping out before courage failed you.

Azriel went completely still, even his breathing suspended. For a terrible moment, you thought you'd shattered everything with that single question.

Then his arm tightened around you, so subtly you might have imagined it if not for the way his shadows trembled, forming and reforming shapes that looked suspiciously like tiny winged figures near your joined hands.

"Would you want them?" he asked, voice controlled to the point of breaking.

"Yes," you admitted, the word falling like a stone into still water. "Two, I think. A boy and a girl."

"With wings?" he asked, the question barely audible.

You turned to face him fully, heart in your throat at the vulnerability in his expression. "Of course with wings," you said fiercely. "Beautiful wings like their father's."

His breath caught, the small sound devastating in its honesty. His hand found yours, scarred fingers intertwining with your own as if they'd always belonged there.

"And your fire," he said, voice rough with emotion. "Your courage. Your heart."

The bond between you blazed, golden light spilling from beneath your skin to illuminate the darkness around you. His shadows didn't recoil from the light but danced with it, twining together in patterns that spoke of possibility.

"They'd be free," you whispered, the realization settling bone-deep. "No courts claiming them. No ancient grudges to inherit. Just mountains and forests and stars."

"I'd teach them to fly," Azriel said, voice breaking on the final word. "Among the peaks at sunrise."

You could see it so clearly—his powerful hands steady on small backs, his fierce protectiveness tempered with patience as tiny wings learned to catch the wind.

"I'd teach them stories from both worlds," you said, tears gathering again. "So they'd understand where they came from. Who they are."

"They'd know peace," he said, the word like a prayer on his lips. "True peace."

You both fell silent, the shared vision suspended between you—so vivid, so beautiful, so achingly out of reach. The cabin in the valley. The children with wings. The life built on choice rather than duty or obligation.

Yet for the first time, you found yourself wondering which world truly felt like home. The human one, with its beeping monitors and grieving family? Or this one, with its magic and pain and the possibility of a valley beyond the mountains?

"It's a beautiful dream," you finally said, unable to keep the longing from your voice.

Azriel shifted, turning to face you fully. "It doesn't have to be just a dream," he said, and for the first time in all your encounters, you heard naked pleading in his voice—an emotion you'd never expected from the controlled, deadly shadowsinger.

When you looked up, what you saw stole your breath. Azriel—the Night Court's most feared assassin, the male who had witnessed five centuries of darkness without flinching—had tears in his eyes. Not falling, not yet, but there, shimmering in the starlight like diamonds.

"Azriel," you whispered, reaching up without thinking to touch his face.

He caught your hand with his scarred one, pressing your palm against his cheek in a gesture so vulnerable it fractured something essential inside you. His skin was cool beneath your touch, but warming rapidly. The bond between you pulsed, a heartbeat shared across bodies and worlds.

"Whatever you choose," he said, each word weighted with centuries of solitude, "know that the cabin waits. Whether in a month or a century." His voice faltered. "Whether we go together or—"

The words died in his throat, but you heard them nonetheless.

"Or I return to my world," you completed for him, the possibility that had always stood between you.

He nodded once, barely perceptible. But his eyes, those ancient, haunted eyes that had witnessed centuries of darkness, held yours with unflinching courage.

"Either way," he said, "I wanted you to know. That somewhere, there is a place that belongs to us alone. Without courts or duty or pain."

The first tear fell then, tracing a silver path down his scarred cheek and onto your joined hands.

The bond between you flared, golden light spilling from your joined hands, illuminating your faces in the darkness. Not a chain binding you together, but a bridge between worlds, between possibilities.

"Thank you," you whispered, voice breaking. "For showing me this. For letting me see."

His only response was to draw you against him, wings unfurling to create a private sanctuary around you both. Against your cheek, you felt the steady rhythm of his heart, its beat perfectly synchronized with your own.

Tomorrow would bring danger—Eris's rescue, confrontation with Beron, an uncertain future beyond. But for now, cradled against the shadowsinger's chest while his rare tears mingled with your own, you allowed yourself to hold that impossible dream close.

The cabin in the valley. The children with wings. The life beyond the courts.

A dream, perhaps.

But with the golden bond pulsing beneath your skin, the solid warmth of his body against yours, the scent of night-chilled stone and cedar surrounding you, the human world of beeping monitors and grieving family seemed increasingly distant. Like a half-remembered dream fading with the dawn.

For the first time since waking in this borrowed Fae body, you felt something settle inside you. Not certainty, not yet. But possibility. Hope.

Home.

Which was real? Which was home?

For the first time, you weren't certain you knew the answer.

The golden bond thrummed beneath your skin as you woke, an urgent pulse matching your heartbeat. Outside, Velaris slept under indigo skies, last stars fading as dawn approached.

Perfect timing. Perfect silence.

You dressed in shadow, fingers finding Lucien's enchanted blade without looking. Its weight at your hip felt both foreign and familiar, like muscle memory that didn't belong to you.

Ember and Sizzle materialized at your feet, tiny flame bodies flickering with anxiety. They sensed your intentions without words. You pressed a finger to your lips, and they quieted, though pink embers sparked with protest.

"Stay," you whispered, stroking each once. "Wait for him to return."

They settled on the windowsill, sentinels against the pale horizon, their glow dimmed to near-invisibility.

Downstairs, the townhouse held its breath. Azriel's jacket hung by the door, night-chilled stone and cedar wrapping around you as you slipped it over your shoulders. One last comfort before what must be done.

Your fingers found the silver charm at your throat, his parting gift. Break it and I'll come to you, across any distance. You placed it on the small table, a note beneath in your hurried hand.

Forgive me.

Three heartbeats later, Velaris's pre-dawn streets enveloped you. The rising sun gilded rooftops with the same golden light that pulsed beneath your skin, a warning you ignored.

What you planned was foolish. Suicidal, even.

Going alone to rescue Eris when the combined might of multiple courts had organized for tomorrow. But another day meant more torture for your brother. Another day risked Azriel's life for your family's conflict.

Another day meant facing him with the truth. That you planned to return to your world. That his dream of a cabin in the valley, of children with wings and your shared future, would remain just that, a dream.

Between one step and the next, reality fractured.

The hospital room blurred over Velaris's cobblestones. Your aunt's face, tear-stained and haggard, superimposed over dawn-touched buildings.

"The doctors say it's time to consider letting you go," her voice echoed, "but I can't. I just can't."

You stumbled, shoulder striking stone. A passing Night Court citizen glanced with concern, but your forced smile sent them on their way.

The winnowing point beckoned from the edge of the city, a place to bend reality and step directly into Autumn's territory. You'd memorized it from the war maps, burned it into your mind while the High Lords plotted.

But first came the hardest part.

In an alcove away from prying eyes, you pressed your hand to your chest. The bond pulsed steadily, familiar as breathing. A constant presence anchoring you to this world, to him.

"I can't let you suffer when I go," you whispered to no one, to him, to yourself. Golden light spilled between your fingers. "It would destroy you."

Better a clean break. Better mercy than slow torment.

"I release you."

The golden light flared, blinding.

"I sever this bond, not out of hatred but mercy."

Pain lanced through your chest, not external but from within, like ribs cracking outward.

"Not out of rejection..."

Your knees struck cobblestones.

"...but protection."

Tears blurred your vision, golden light pulsing erratically.

"I reject this bond." The words tasted like ash and iron. "I reject it so you may be free when I am gone."

Something inside you tore, not muscle or bone but something essential, something primal. Your vision whited out, breath stolen.

"I reject it because..." a gasping sob interrupted, "...because I love you."

The golden light pulsed once more, then dimmed. The connection that had hummed between you since that first moment in the Autumn Court didn't vanish but receded, like music heard underwater, distorted, distant, muffled.

Cold swept through spaces where warmth had lived. Hollowness echoed where completeness had dwelled. Your hand pressed against your sternum, searching for the familiar pulse, finding only silence.

You dragged yourself upright, swaying. The world felt wrong, off-balance. You'd grown so accustomed to the bond's weight that its absence left you lightweight, untethered.

No time for mourning.

Dawn broke fully now, spilling gold across the city. Soon Azriel would return. Soon he'd find the charm. Soon he'd feel the muted bond and know.

The winnowing point shimmered as you approached. Your magic felt diminished without the bond's amplification, but determination burned hotter than power. You gathered what remained, world dissolving around you.

Reality reassembled. Endless autumn spread before you, trees burning with color that never faded, crimson and gold leaves against a perpetual sunset sky.

You stepped forward, then stumbled as another merged memory hit, hospital corridors overlaid with forest paths. Medical staff around your bed, discussing options, timelines, prognoses. "Irreversible" floated through the air as your doctor shook his head.

"Not yet," you gasped, forcing clarity. "I'm not finished here."

The castle loomed in the distance, Beron's ancestral seat. Eastern dungeons, according to intelligence. Servant passages with specific guard rotations.

You moved toward it, staying to shadows, avoiding patrolled roads. The spice-and-smoke scent of autumn wrapped around you, so different from Velaris's salt-touched breeze. Yet something in you recognized it, a distant familiarity you refused to acknowledge.

Spires pierced a blood-orange sky as you approached. Your body ducked beneath a low archway without conscious decision, hands finding servant passages your mind shouldn't know existed. Stone whispered beneath your fingers, hidden doors responding to touches that felt both foreign and instinctive.

Memory flashed, running these same passages as a child, hiding from brothers who sought to torment, servants who sought to tame.

Not your memory. Not your life.

You pushed it away.

The first guard appeared at the dungeon approach, young, barely more than a boy, bored with his assignment. His eyes widened at sight of you, recognition blooming.

"My lady," he breathed, dropping to one knee. "We were told you were..."

Your hand found his forehead before he finished, sleep spell springing to your lips without thought or practice. He slumped forward, consciousness fleeing.

The magic drained you more than it should have. Without the bond's strength flowing through you, your powers were diminished, hollowed. You leaned against stone, breath ragged.

"Just a little further," you told yourself, pushing away.

The main dungeon entrance waited ahead, an iron door carved with moving flame patterns. Two alert guards stood before it, hands on weapons.

You couldn't risk another sleep spell. Not when Eris waited beyond, not when escape would demand whatever magic remained. You drew Lucien's blade instead, its enchanted edge catching torchlight.

Then you stepped into view.

"My lady," one gasped, shock evident. "Lord Beron said..."

"Lord Beron says many things." Your voice emerged colder than you'd ever heard it, a tone that didn't belong to you but to the body you inhabited, the cruelty cultivated over centuries.

Both guards hesitated, confusion and fear battling across their features. They'd been trained to obey the High Lord, but generations of instinct told them to defer to the Lady of Autumn.

You exploited that hesitation, moving with deadly grace you'd never possessed in your human life. The blade found the first guard's throat, not killing, but promising.

"Open the door," you commanded the second, "or watch your companion bleed."

He fumbled with keys, fear making him clumsy. The heavy door swung open with a groan of metal, revealing a staircase spiraling into darkness.

"Down," you ordered, pushing the first guard ahead while keeping the second at blade-point.

The stairs descended endlessly, air growing colder, damper with each step. Blood and fear-scent thickened as you descended, your stomach knotting with dread.

At the bottom waited another door, this one reinforced with both iron and magic.

You studied the symbols carved into its surface, pulsing with malevolent energy. Following instinct that wasn't yours, you pressed your palm against the center where Beron's sigil burned brightest.

Fire erupted beneath your hand, searing your palm. You gritted your teeth, refusing to pull away as the sigil flared once, recognized something in you, then faded to ash. The door swung open.

You turned to them, fire of the Autumn Court burning in your eyes. "Leave," you commanded.

They fled, taking the stairs two at a time.

The chamber beyond was lit by a single brazier, shadows dancing across stained stone. The air reeked of blood and burned flesh, of bile and sweat and despair.

And there, chained to the far wall, hung Eris.

Your breath caught. You'd prepared yourself for injury, for pain. Not for this.

The once-handsome face swollen beyond recognition. His right arm hung at an unnatural angle, broken in multiple places. Blood had dried in rusty streaks down his chest and legs. The stench of infection and charred flesh made your eyes water.

His breathing came in wet, labored gasps. Each inhale bubbled with what might be blood in his lungs.

"Eris," you whispered, rushing forward.

At your voice, his head lifted slightly. One eye, the only one not swollen shut, focused on you with effort.

"You... fool," he croaked, each word a struggle. "Trap."

"I'm getting you out," you said, examining the chains that bound him.

His laugh was a broken thing, dry as autumn leaves. "Sister... you need to..."

You reached for the chains, examining the enchanted metal. "I need to get you out of here."

"Be careful," he warned, words slurring. "Spelled to..."

You pressed Lucien's blade against the lock before he finished. The enchanted metal glowed briefly, then clicked open. Eris slumped forward as the chains released, his weight falling against you.

"Can't walk," he mumbled against your shoulder. "Ankle... shattered."

"Then I'll carry you," you replied, though you had no idea how you'd manage it without the bond's strength.

Before you could figure out a solution, slow clapping echoed through the chamber.

You whirled, pushing Eris behind you as best you could while drawing your blade.

Beron stood in the doorway, flame crown burning atop his head. Behind him, a dozen guards filled the stairway, weapons drawn.

"How touching," the High Lord of Autumn said, voice like silk over steel. "The wayward daughter returns for her traitorous brother."

"Father," you acknowledged, keeping your blade steady despite the fear coursing through you.

Beron studied you, head tilting slightly. "But you're not really my daughter anymore, are you?"

A chill ran down your spine.

Beron circled you slowly, flames dancing at his fingertips. "My daughter was cruel. Calculating. Vicious." His eyes narrowed. "She would never have risked herself for anyone, least of all Eris."

The way he said it, not with anger but something like baffled wonder, unnerved you more than rage would have.

"I'm not her," you said flatly. "I never claimed to be."

"And yet..." Beron's voice softened unexpectedly, "...you opened the sigil door. Only the power of the High Lord can do that."

Something in his expression shifted, a flicker of recognition that made your heart stutter.

"I remember when you were born," he said, each word deliberate. "So small. The first female born to Autumn in three centuries."

"Stop it," you snapped. "These mind games won't work."

A memory flashed unbidden, sitting on Beron's knee as a child, watching in wonder as he formed fire animals in his palm.

You shook your head violently. "Those aren't my memories."

"You don't want them to be," Beron corrected. His flame crown dimmed slightly as he studied you. "But they are yours. As is this body. As is this court."

"I have a family," you insisted. "A life waiting for me."

"And yet you're here." Beron gestured to the dungeon around you. "Risking everything for a brother who would have let you die without a second thought."

"He's lying," Eris rasped from behind you, somehow finding strength to stand straighter. "Tell her, Beron."

"Tell me what?" you repeated, unwillingly drawn into the conversation.

"After Winter Court," Eris said, each word costing him. "Thirteen nobles. Left you for dead."

Beron's jaw tightened. "Ancient history. Diplomatic matters."

"Not... diplomatic," Eris forced out, blood speckling his lips with the effort. "Assault. Torture. Abandonment."

Ice flooded your veins as another memory surfaced, cold hands on your skin. Laughter echoing off stone walls.

Pain beyond imagining.

"No," you whispered, the blade trembling in your grasp. "That's not... I'm not..."

"Your soul fractured that night," Eris continued, each word a blade between your ribs. "Split in two. Half fled to another world."

"That's not possible," you said, but your voice lacked conviction.

Because it made sense. It explained everything, the foreign memories, the body that felt both alien and familiar, the life in another world that seemed increasingly distant.

"My little flame," Beron said, and the childhood endearment struck like a physical blow. "I made you into something terrible because I had to. The courts would have devoured you otherwise."

Another memory, Beron teaching you to hurt servants, to hide weakness, to cultivate cruelty as armor.

"You were so gentle as a child," he continued, something like regret coloring his tone. "I remember how you wept when you accidentally burned a butterfly. How you tried to heal it with your fingers."

The memory crashed through your defenses, the orange butterfly, its wings blackened by your untrained magic. The desperate attempt to save it, tiny hands cupping its broken body.

"Stop," you begged, but the memories kept coming.

Beron took a step toward you. For an instant, his face transformed, not the cruel High Lord but the father who'd once lifted you to his shoulders. "I wasn't there when Winter took you. I thought... I thought it was politics. By the time I realized..."

"It was too late," you finished, the words rising from somewhere deep inside. "I was already torn apart..."

Beron nodded, something like pain flashing across his features. "Your mother warned me. She said making you cruel would destroy what made you special. I didn't listen."

The blade wavered in your hand, your voice breaking. "You left me to them. You let them..."

"I didn't know what they planned," Beron said, but his eyes slid away from yours. The lie sat heavy between you.

"You knew," Eris snarled, finding strength from somewhere deep inside. Blood trickled from his mouth with each word. "You knew and did nothing. Then covered it all up."

"You understand nothing of ruling," Beron snapped, anger flaring. "Sacrifices must be made. Alliances preserved."

"I was your daughter," you whispered, the truth of it settling into your bones. "Your only daughter."

Something in Beron's face cracked then, a glimpse of the father beneath the High Lord's mask. "Yes," he admitted. "And I failed you."

The words hung in the air between you, unexpected in their sincerity.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

Then Eris moved.

It happened so fast you barely registered it. Eris, who moments ago could barely stand, lunged forward with hidden strength. Something flashed in his hand, a small blade concealed somewhere on his broken body.

It struck Beron in the chest, driving deep. Directly into his heart.

Beron's eyes widened in shock, his gaze locked with Eris's. "Son?" he gasped, blood bubbling at his lips.

"For her," Eris whispered, holding his father's gaze without flinching. "For what you let happen."

Beron's flame crown sputtered, then flared blindingly bright. Power, ancient and terrible, erupted from his body as he collapsed. It swirled like a living tornado, seeking its new vessel.

Eris fell to his knees, arms outstretched, face lifted to receive what had been promised him for centuries, the High Lord's power.

But the magic had other ideas.

It swirled around Eris, examined him, then veered sharply toward you. Golden fire engulfed you, lifting you from the ground as it poured into your chest, your veins, your very soul.

You whimpered as centuries of power and knowledge invaded your body, not just magic but memory, history, duty.

The fractured pieces of yourself collided, human and Fae, present and past, nurse and Lady of Autumn.

When the transfer ended, you collapsed beside Beron's motionless form. The High Lord of Autumn was dead. His power now resided in you.

"No," you whispered, staring at your hands where flames now danced unbidden. "No, this isn't right."

Eris stared at you in shock, his face drained of what little color remained.

"It chose you," he said, disbelief evident. "The magic recognized its own."

Around you, the guards had fallen to their knees, recognizing their new High Lady in the same moment you did.

"I didn't want this," you said, tears streaming down your face. "I'm not supposed to be here. I'm supposed to be..."

But where were you supposed to be?

The hospital room seemed like a distant dream now, your human life fading like mist in morning sun. This, the flames dancing at your fingertips, the memories flooding back, the fractured soul finally reunited, this was real.

"Long live the High Lady of Autumn," Eris said, bowing his head despite his injuries. "My sister. My High Lady."

Fire danced across your skin, responding to emotions too complex to name. You weren't just who you'd been in that hospital bed. You weren't just the cruel Lady of Autumn from before.

You were both. You were neither.

You were something new entirely, forged in trauma, tempered by two lives, crowned in fire.

And somewhere deep inside, beneath the shock and grief and power, a small voice whispered.

This is who you were always meant to be.

Author's Note: I could apologize for the emotional damage... but let’s not lie to each other. You came here willingly. 😌🔥 Beron’s toast (literally), your girl’s a High Lady, and Azriel is one "where is she?!" away from emotionally combusting in a corner. Buckle up. It only gets worse better from here.

💌 Thanks for reading, crying, and mentally punching Beron with me. Now the real questions: Will our girl embrace her inner fire queen or sprint back to her coma body like it’s the last bus home? Will Azriel survive this emotional rollercoaster without setting something (or someone) on fire? Will Eris finally get a nap?

Stay tuned. I have no idea either. 😇

Taglist: @circe143@lunarxcity@willowpains@messageforthesmallestman@lreadsstuff@evye47@lovely-susie@moonfawnx@tele86@moonlitlavenders@darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa@auraofathena@lottiiee413@minaaminaa8@claudiab22@moonbeamruins@shewolf1549@crimsonandwhiteprincess@a-band-aid-for-your-heart@kathren1sky-blog@alimarie1105@masbt1218@topaz125@falszywe@randomdumsblog@sophia-grace2025@okaytrashpanda@thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn@suhke3@galaxystern08@ivy-34@hellsenthero@nayaniasworld@raccoonworld@bobbywobbby@evergreenlark@greenmandm@shinyghosteclipse@catloverandreader@the-onlyy-angie@bunnboosblog@i-like-boooks@ashduv@kayjaywrites@lovelyreaderlovesreading@badbishsblog@vera0124@i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

[mahalachives]

Azriel are you okay? Because the next chapter of the fic isn’t ready yet and I need this brooding bat to stop pacing in my brain long enough for me to get the tone right. Something’s still not clicking, so I’m giving it one more night to simmer. I pinky promise it’ll land softer, sadder, and spicier tomorrow. 💀🖋️✨

Thanks for being patient with my chaos (and Azriel’s emotional damage).

[mahalachives]

Part 8: The Soul That Fled

🕊️TW: This chapter contains graphic depictions of Non-consensual sexual violence involving multiple perpetrators, assault, forced magical suppression, torture, and psychological trauma.

It also explores the emotional aftermath of these events from both the survivor's and the witness's perspectives, including dissociation, soul trauma, and survivor's guilt.

This content is extremely intense and disturbing, even in fictional context.

If these subjects are harmful or triggering for you, please skip this chapter or engage with caution.

Your well-being matters. 💛

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The poison sang through Azriel's veins.

He had known many darknesses in his long life. The pitch of dungeons where he'd spent his childhood. The velvet of night skies above battlefields. The quiet absence in the spaces between stars that he sometimes thought might be the truest reflection of his own soul.

This was different. This darkness had teeth.

He fought it with the stubbornness that had kept him alive for centuries, each heartbeat a rebellion against surrender. Five hundred years of discipline demanded resistance, even as the toxin wound its way through carefully constructed defenses, dismantling the magic that made him immortal, that made him himself.

As his consciousness began to fray at the edges, Azriel became aware of your hands moving over his wound. Gentle, despite everything. Purposeful, despite what he deserved. He had carved rejection between you with the precision of Truth-Teller, and still, you chose to heal rather than harm.

Why? he wanted to ask, but his voice belonged to the poison now.

His body grew heavy, anchored to the realm by pain alone, while something deeper, something golden and ancient, pulled him elsewhere.

The bond that he had feared, that he had rejected, now wrapped around his failing consciousness like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

How strange, he thought distantly, that the very thing he'd run from would be his salvation. How fitting, perhaps, that it would lead him not toward light but into another kind of darkness altogether.

Into memory that was not his own.

Into yours.

Time fractured as he slipped between the layers of your shared existence. The shadowsinger who had cataloged centuries of suffering, who had measured pain in careful increments, who had learned to read agony in the minute expressions of his victims... that shadowsinger found himself suddenly, terribly unprepared.

For shadows recognized shadows.

And yours were vast beyond measuring.

He had wandered the darkest corners of Prythian's history. Had memorized the architecture of cruelty across High Fae courts. Had both witnessed and delivered precise suffering when Rhysand's plans required it. Had stared unflinching into abysses that would have shattered lesser beings.

None of it, not one moment in five centuries of darkness, had prepared him for this descent into the quiet catastrophe of your past.

A flash of light—soul-light, memory-light—pierced the veil between worlds.

Azriel drifted through time like smoke through shattered glass.

His shadows, those faithful companions of five centuries, reached ahead as if tasting a forgotten sweetness. They had known darkness in all its forms: the crushing weight of dungeons, the hollow void of night skies, the cold absence between stars.

Yet this darkness was different; it held memory, it held you.

The clearing materialized like a painting rendered in firelight. Autumn in its purest form, not the bitter political machinations of Beron's court, but autumn as it was meant to be.

Leaves burning gold and crimson in their slow, beautiful death; the scent of earth preparing for slumber; sunlight filtered through a canopy of fire.

And you.

Oh, you.

Azriel had witnessed beauty across realms.

Had seen sunrise over the Sea. Had watched starfall from mountain peaks. Had observed the deadly grace of Illyrian warriors in flight.

None compared to you in this moment, fingers trailing lazy patterns in water, face upturned to dappled light, humming a melody that reached inside him and touched something he'd thought long dead.

He moved closer, drawn by an instinct older than training. His shadows flowed toward you like water finding its natural course, stretching across time to cradle what they could not touch.

What was stolen from you?

What was stolen from us?

The question formed unbidden, startling in its possessiveness. He had rejected the bond, had severed connection with cruel precision. Yet here, witnessing who you had been, something ancient and nameless stirred beneath his ribs.

Recognition. Kinship.

The terrible knowledge that you had been carved from the same wounded material as he, gentle souls forced into weapons by others' cruelty.

A deer approached through sun-dappled shadow. You stilled, becoming statue-perfect save for eyes tracking its cautious advance. Your patience spoke of understanding that trust, once broken, must be earned again through consistent gentleness.

Hadn't he learned that same lesson through centuries of careful friendship with Mor, with Cassian, with Rhys? The parallels between you struck him with physical force.

"There you are," you murmured, voice soft as ember-light. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come today."

Your smile as the deer accepted your offering...

Mother above, that smile.

It transformed features Azriel had only ever seen hardened by calculated cruelty.

He knelt before you, shadowsinger become supplicant. His scarred hand reached through time to touch what could never be touched. If only he could have known you then.

"Sister! Are you talking to animals again?"

A younger Lucien emerged between trees, whole in ways Azriel had never witnessed: unscarred, unbroken, eyes matched and innocent of horrors to come.

You mock-glared at your brother. "You scared him away."

"He'll be back tomorrow," Lucien replied, dropping beside you with easy confidence that would later be beaten into watchful wariness. "They always come back to you."

"Not if you keep blundering around the forest like a newborn bear."

Your teasing carried genuine warmth. Another revelation. Another piece of a puzzle Azriel hadn't known needed solving.

During war councils, he'd seen only calculated distance between you and your brothers. Had assumed coldness innate rather than learned. How many other assumptions had he made, about you, about himself, about the bond that connected and terrified you both?

Lucien peered at your sketchbook. "More healing herbs? Father won't be pleased."

A shadow crossed your face, swift, suppressed, significant. The spymaster in Azriel recognized that concealment. He'd performed it countless times when Rhys or Cassian ventured too near buried wounds.

"Father doesn't need to know everything."

Secretive, even then.

Hiding gifts meant for healing rather than harming. The irony struck him like a physical blow, you, practicing concealment to protect tenderness; him, practicing tenderness to conceal deadly skill. Mirror images, reversed but matching.

"Your secret's safe with me," Lucien assured, bumping your shoulder companionably. "Though I still think you should show the healers. Your knowledge could help people."

Azriel's shadows stretched toward the sketchbook, trying to preserve that evidence of your true nature. They traced illustrations with the reverence of scholars discovering ancient texts, each careful line a testament to patience, to precision, to purpose beyond pain.

"Maybe someday," you said softly, closing the book. "When the time is right."

Lucien studied you, expression uncharacteristically serious. "You know, sometimes I think you were born into the wrong court. You have fire in you, yes, but not the kind Father values."

"Careful," you warned without heat. "That's dangerously close to treason."

"It's the truth," he insisted. "Your fire heals rather than destroys. There's no shame in that."

You smiled at him, gratitude warming your eyes. "Thank you for seeing me, brother. Sometimes I think you're the only one who does."

I see you now.

Too late. Always too late.

The memory shimmered, edges dissolving into golden light. Azriel's shadows stretched desperately, trying to hold together what was already fading. He recognized approaching tragedy with the intimacy of old lovers, had cataloged its patterns across five centuries of blood and battlefields.

But this was different.

This wasn't witnessing another's pain with professional detachment.

This was feeling the approaching horror as if it were his own, perhaps because, in some cosmic way, it was.

The bond connecting you had transcended time, had brought him to this moment not as observer but as participant.

"Get out."

Your voice, your subconscious, rippled through his consciousness. Not memory but imminent confrontation.

"These aren't yours to see."

His shadows recoiled instinctively. They recognized boundaries of pain; he had taught them such restraint over centuries. Never take more than necessary. Never violate another's suffering without purpose.

"Forgive me," he whispered to the dissolving scene, to the girl you had been, to the female you had become.

But the bond pulled harder, golden thread becoming golden chain. It dragged him deeper against both your wills, into darkness shot through with winter frost. The memory of what was lost gave way to the horror of its taking.

The golden bond between them trembled violently, a dying star collapsing in on itself.

Azriel had endured five centuries of war, interrogation, and depravity, but nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

The bond yanked his consciousness sideways, tearing him from the Autumn Court gardens. His wings instinctively flared to catch himself, but there was no physical space to navigate.

Only the golden thread connecting your souls remained, pulsing with ancient magic no shadowsinger's training could have prepared him for.

For a breathless, eternal moment, he was neither here nor there, suspended in a liminal space where time ceased meaning. His shadows curled protectively around him like children seeking shelter, sensing danger but finding nothing tangible to fight.

The disorientation was unlike anything he'd experienced... worse than winnowing gone wrong, more violating than even Rhysand's mind-walking.

Then, with violent clarity, the memory crystallized around him.

Winter Court's delegation feast, perhaps two centuries ago.

Azriel's soul wept before his mind could comprehend why.

Some deep, primal part of him already knew what awaited, even as his conscious thoughts scrambled to make sense of this displacement.

His shadows thinned and spread, seeking purchase in a reality that wasn't quite real, their agitation mirroring the frantic beating of his heart.

The Winter Court's great hall breathed frost with each collective exhale of its occupants. Ice sculptures depicting the hunt lined the walls: predator and prey frozen in eternal pursuit. Unlike most diplomatic celebrations, the atmosphere carried an undercurrent of tension that made Azriel's centuries-honed instincts scream in alarm.

His spectral form tried to reach for Truth-Teller, muscle memory responding to perceived threat, only to grasp emptiness.

His shadows writhed in distress, seeking the familiar weight of his blade and finding nothing but memory and mist.

The opulence was obscene.

The mingling of courts created a sensory tapestry too vivid for mere recollection. This wasn't simply remembering; the bond had made him a witness to something far more intimate than memory.

Each detail assaulted his senses with precision that bordered on torture: the warm copper-gold light of Autumn Court chandeliers battling the crystalline blue radiance of Winter Court magic. Heat and frost waged their ancient war in the very air. He could taste the conflict on his tongue: cinnamon and woodsmoke overwhelmed by the sharp, cutting bite of fresh snow.

His gaze found you immediately.

Like a compass finding true north, like a dying man seeking water, like a shadow yearning for darkness. As if his entire being had been calibrated to locate you regardless of time or distance.

You stood alone.

A rush of protective fury surged through him, shocking in its intensity. His heart stuttered beneath the phantom sensation of ribs.

Isolation in court gatherings was never accidental. Never safe.

Centuries as Rhys's spymaster had taught him to recognize patterns of predation across courts. His fingers itched for Truth-Teller, his oldest companion, his most faithful tool. Helplessness clawed at him, a suffocating weight pressing on his chest.

The shadows around him whimpered, actually whimpered, a sound he'd never heard from them before.

They sensed his distress and shared it, amplified it, until the feeling threatened to drown him entirely.

The golden gown you wore was a declaration of defiance, burnished amber and molten copper in a sea of Winter Court blues and silvers.

Your hair caught torchlight and transformed it, not merely reflecting but enhancing, as if you were the source of all flame in the room.

You were beautiful. And you were in danger.

His stomach twisted with dread, primal and overwhelming.

Was this what drowning felt like?

This crushing weight on his chest, this burning in his lungs?

Azriel's shadows condensed into dark ribbons that strained toward you, as if to warn or protect, before dissolving against the immutable barrier of time. His wings flexed, the phantom sensation of battle-readiness coursing through him. Every instinct screamed a warning his conscious mind was still piecing together.

"Please," he whispered to the uncaring void of memory. "Please let me be wrong."

The pattern revealed itself with terrible clarity: your position near the high windows, too far from Autumn Court allies; the subtle shifting of Winter Court nobles creating a barrier of blue and silver bodies; the way servants had stopped offering you wine, isolating you from even that minor protection.

You had been positioned precisely like prey before a winter hunt.

Separated. Isolated. Displayed.

The male who approached moved with a predator's grace that made Azriel's shadows coil and hiss. Snow-white skin with veins of palest blue visible beneath, like cracks in ancient ice. Eyes deeper than midwinter midnight. Lips curved in a smile that held no warmth, only the promise of devastation disguised as passion.

"Lord Kieraven," the name pulled from Azriel's spectral lips before he could stop it. Knowledge that wasn't his flooded his consciousness. Distant cousin to Kallias. Not powerful enough to rule but privileged enough to remain untouchable.

Known for his particular fondness for fire magic—specifically, for extinguishing it.

Memory fragments flickered through Azriel's mind. Intelligence reports he'd filed centuries ago about Winter Court power structures, snippets about Kieraven that hadn't seemed significant then.

He recalled, with sudden clarity, dispatching the Winter lord himself during the war with Hybern. The noble's dying expression flashed in his mind—shock that the shadowsinger had chosen him specifically from the battlefield.

A fierce, vindictive satisfaction blazed through Azriel's veins. His shadows danced with savage pleasure. He hadn't known why he'd felt compelled to end that particular noble, but the bond was showing him now. Some part of him had sensed a debt needing payment. His only regret was that death had come too quickly, too mercifully, for what Kieraven had done.

"Lady of Autumn," Kieraven murmured, voice like a frozen river, smooth surface hiding killing currents beneath. "Your beauty outshines even your court's legendary fire."

Azriel's shadows thinned to razor edges, stretching toward Kieraven as if to flay him where he stood. Rage boiled through him, ancient and terrible. His carefully constructed walls of control crumbled with each passing second, shadows twisting into unrecognizable shapes that reflected his growing horror.

You replied with practiced diplomacy, your voice carrying the measured cadence of someone raised in political battlefields. "You honor me with such words, Lord Kieraven, though I suspect you offer them to all visiting diplomats."

The words themselves were forgotten the moment they left your lips as Azriel cataloged what others would miss.

The infinitesimal tightening of your fingers around your goblet, nails pressing white half-moons into your palms; the barely perceptible shift of weight to your back foot; the subtle scanning of the room for allies. Fight-or-flight instinct already activated while your conscious mind still navigated court politics.

Azriel recognized your fear—had cataloged such micro-expressions for centuries. But never had another's fear affected him so viscerally. His own heartbeat accelerated to match yours, his muscles tensing in unconscious mimicry of your readiness to flee. The bond between you vibrated with shared dread.

"Not flattery if it's true." Kieraven's fingers, long and elegant, tipped with the faintest blue that spoke of controlled Winter magic, brushed yours as he offered a goblet. The touch lingered, a deliberate invasion of your space, possession disguised as courtesy.

Azriel's awareness expanded, taking in the entire room with the tactical precision five centuries of spycraft had honed. Five Winter Court nobles had shifted positions, creating a subtle perimeter. Two Autumn Court guards who should have been nearby had disappeared entirely. Eris was engaged across the hall, deep in conversation with three Winter nobles, his back deliberately turned.

Not coincidence. Planned separation.

Understanding slammed into Azriel like a physical blow. This had been orchestrated. The separation from protection. The isolation. The calculated approach. Eris's convenient distraction.

A wave of self-loathing crashed through him, bitter as poison.

Recognition hit him with sickeningly familiar weight.

How many females had he witnessed in the shadows as they were cornered by powerful males? How many reports had he filed on violations when information was deemed more valuable than intervention?

Acid shame flooded his mouth, bitter and burning.

The taste of complicity. He wanted to vomit, to scream, to tear Kieraven limb from limb—but most of all, he wanted to erase his own culpability in centuries of similar predations, all justified in the name of intelligence gathering.

"Perhaps we might speak privately," Kieraven suggested, hand settling at the small of your back, fingers splayed possessively over your gown.

Even through memory, Azriel could feel the winter chill emanating from that touch. Not physical cold but something darker, an intent that frosted the very air between you.

His shadows lashed toward Kieraven again—a futile gesture against a memory two centuries old. Yet the violence of his reaction disturbed him.

His breathing came in short, sharp bursts, his vision narrowing until all he could see was the Winter lord's hand defiling the gold silk of your gown.

You attempted retreat, voice maintaining the careful neutrality of court politics. "I'm afraid I must decline, my lord. My father expects—"

The transformation was instantaneous. Charm to cruelty in the space between heartbeats. Kieraven's face hardened, frost literally forming around his fingertips where they dug into your waist.

"Your father expects you to secure Winter Court's goodwill." His voice dropped to a whisper meant for your ears alone, but the bond carried it to Azriel with perfect clarity. "Don't you think it's time you fulfilled your purpose?"

Kieraven's meaning crystallized with terrible clarity in Azriel's mind. The specific way he emphasized "fulfilled your purpose" carried centuries of entitlement, of females treated as currency between courts. A transaction Beron had clearly authorized.

The question burned like acid.

Now, seeing you—feeling through the bond your rising fear masked behind diplomatic composure—made him realize how hollow those justifications had been.

You lifted your chin, summoning dignity that made Azriel's chest ache with unexpected pride. "You misunderstand my purpose here, Lord Kieraven. I represent Autumn Court's diplomatic interests, not its... hospitality services."

The refusal was measured, diplomatic, final. Delivered with the poise of someone born and bred to navigate deadly courts.

Something that might have been admiration flickered through Azriel. A strange warmth blossomed in his chest, so at odds with the horror of witnessing what he couldn't change.

Kieraven's face contorted with quiet rage, "You'll regret that choice."

The memory shifted, the great hall dissolving into a more intimate scene.

You slipping from the gathering, seeking momentary solitude in a corridor adorned with Autumn Court's sigils. A place where you should have been safe.

Azriel recognized your tactical error immediately and wanted to scream a warning across time. No diplomat should ever seek isolation during hostile negotiations.

His centuries of training screamed at the vulnerability of your position—alone in a corridor, away from witnesses, in hostile territory. The terror of foreknowledge clawed at his throat, wild and desperate.

Please, no.

The sound of footsteps echoed against stone walls. Not one set, but many.

Azriel's body tensed, shadows coiling around him like armor as he braced for what he knew would come. He found himself at your side, unable to affect events yet unwilling to abandon you to face this alone.

Every sinew in his spectral form strained against the constraints of time and memory, his very essence rebelling against his role as helpless witness.

"Did you really think you could embarrass me before both courts without consequence?" Kieraven's voice carried a chill that frosted the very air between you.

You turned to find Kieraven blocking the corridor. Eleven other Winter Court males emerged from adjoining passageways. Surrounding you. Cutting off every escape route. The precise formation spoke of planning, of premeditation.

Azriel's spymaster mind calculated odds with the detachment of centuries of training—twelve against one, a female without combat skills, in a hostile territory with magic designed specifically to counter her natural abilities.

No possibility of victory. No chance of escape. The clinical assessment made him hate himself all the more.

"What is the meaning of this?" Your voice remained steady despite the fear-scent that filled the memory-space, so potent Azriel could taste your terror on his tongue. "My father will—"

"Your father," Kieraven interrupted, frost patterns forming on the walls around him as his control slipped, "sent you to us as a gift. One you refused to properly deliver."

The words hit Azriel like a physical blow, confirmation of his worst suspicion. This hadn't been opportunistic predation. This had been arranged. Sanctioned. Sold. The brutal truth of it cleaved through his composure, leaving raw, bleeding fury in its wake.

He fought against the memory's pull with everything he had, shadows lashing wild patterns against the constraints of time and space.

He cried your name, the sound tearing from his throat with such force it should have shattered the memory-walls around them. The scream echoed in the void between past and present, carrying five hundred years of rage and helplessness.

"STOP!"

Your voice, your subconscious, tore through the memory-space, desperate and raw.

Shadows that were not Azriel's surged between him and the memory, trying to block his view. The bond trembled violently, the golden thread connecting you stretching so thin it seemed it might snap.

"I don't want you to see this."

The memory surged forward, implacable as fate itself.

What followed unfolded with merciless clarity.

Kieraven struck first.

He grabbed you by the throat and slammed you into the wall so hard the stone behind you cracked. The impact forced the air from your lungs.

Your vision spun. Cold rolled off his skin in waves. Not the ordinary chill of Winter Court nobility, but something deeper. Something ancient. The kind of cold that settled into marrow, that crawled into the soul.

"The Autumn Court bitch thinks herself better than us," he spat, leaning close, his breath frosting the air between you. "But look how easily she burns."

You struggled. Your hands sparked, the fire in your veins instinctive, but it flickered once, then vanished.

A second male seized your wrist, another your ankle. Cold hands.

Magic laced through their fingers as they dragged you down, tearing your gown as they did. The fabric shredded under them, silk splitting like skin. Your scream followed, a raw, animal sound, but it was cut off too quickly. Kieraven's hand clamped over your mouth.

Azriel fell to his knees.

His shadows scattered like startled birds.

His heart didn't beat, it convulsed.

The bond pulled taut, a golden thread soaked red with what was coming.

His mouth opened to scream. Nothing came. Not your name. Not his own. Only air. Only silence.

Only memory that wouldn't stop bleeding.

Your body thrashed in their grip, but already you were surrounded.

Four males. Then six.

Then more.

Their bodies a cage of silver and blue. Their eyes glittered, not with lust, but with domination. With power. With ritual.

Ice magic bloomed across your bare skin, slow and creeping like frost over glass. It wasn't just suppression, it was invasion. It slipped beneath your skin, laced through your blood, calcified your flame. You writhed as your magic betrayed you, collapsed inside you, turned brittle and useless.

Your screams froze in your throat before they could even leave.

The silence wasn't still.

It screamed.

Azriel clawed at his chest, as if he could rip the bond out of his ribcage. As if he could stop feeling your bones break through his own skin.

His hands trembled. No grip. No ground. No breath.

Even his shadows refused him. They huddled in corners, flickering with grief. No blades. No barriers. No salvation.

Your limbs were forced outward. Your wrists pinned to cold stone. Ankles held wide.

Every inch of you exposed to their cruelty.

The chill on your skin was more than winter, it was shame. A shame so visceral it burned hotter than your fire ever had.

You tried to fight, gods, you tried, but they were prepared.

Each hand on your body was placed with precision. Each move choreographed. Your power suppressed. Your limbs restrained. Your mouth silenced.

One male took your face in his hand and turned it toward him. "The fire's gone now," he said with a grin. "Now we see what's left underneath."

The others laughed. That laughter echoed off stone walls like the shattering of glass.

Azriel's shadows clawed at the barriers of time until they bled smoke.

His skin split open in sympathy with yours, invisible wounds mirroring every violation. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard someone calling his name.

Rhys? No, it was you. Not present you, but the girl you were before they ruined you. Screaming, sobbing, begging, whispering his name like a prayer in a language he didn't know how to answer.

He reached for Truth-Teller, for wings, for any weapon, any strength he had ever possessed. His hands passed through memory, through time, grasping nothing.

Sweat beaded on his skin despite the cold. Bile rose in his throat. The room spun, reality fracturing around him while you suffered in perfect clarity.

He was a boy again. Hands nailed to stone. Blood in his mouth. But it wasn't his. It was yours.

His memories collapsed in on themselves until there was no line between past and present, between who had suffered and who was suffering now.

They touched you. Violated you.

Passed you from hand to hand like a thing. They didn't speak after the first, no taunts, no questions, no pleasure. Only duty. Only cruelty. As if this was a rite. A purge.

Each of the thirteen took something.

One crushed your fire.

Another twisted your arm until it snapped.

A third forced Winter magic into your mouth, through your teeth, until your tongue blistered.

One dislocated your hip.

Another froze your feet to the floor until your skin split open when you were torn free.

There was no dignity in this. Only desecration.

Pain was constant.

It had no beginning, no crescendo, no mercy.

And through the bond, Azriel felt it all.

As if it were happening to him. As if his own body were being torn apart while his mind remained intact, forced to witness, to experience, to understand.

Azriel's scarred hands trembled uncontrollably against the memory-floor. Sweat drenched his body, his leathers clinging to his skin as violent tremors wracked his frame. Blood filled his mouth where he'd bitten through his tongue, metallic and sharp. He couldn't feel his wings anymore, they'd gone numb with his horror, hanging like dead weight from his back.

The guilt wrapped around his throat like a rope, each second dragging tighter.

He should have known. Should have seen. Should have been there. He hadn't. And now it was carved into him, a sin that would never stop bleeding.

Your body shut down. Your mind tried to flee. He felt that too, the disassociation.

The split.

The moment when you began to float outside yourself, watching from somewhere above. The only defense left to you.

He could feel your soul splinter.

A thread snapped.

Something sacred was torn.

And he mourned.

His body convulsed. It wasn't a sob, but something more primal, a physical rejection of what he witnessed.

His stomach heaved, emptying itself onto the memory-floor. Shadows poured from his mouth with the bile, twisting into shapes of such anguish that they became unrecognizable.

His face contorted, veins standing out on his temples as he fought for breath against the crushing weight of your trauma.

He, the great shadowsinger. The killer of kings. The nightmare in the dark. On his knees in a memory he could not stop, unable to do anything but scream into the void and feel your suffering as his own. Five centuries of training.

Five centuries of killing. Five centuries of power. All meaningless in this moment. He could not save you. He could not even look away.

One noble bent to whisper in your ear. "This is what you were born for."

Azriel's shadows exploded. Darkness erupted outward from him in a tidal wave, tearing through the memory like a silent storm. He knew it would do nothing. He knew the past could not be touched.

But it didn't matter.

He would not let it go unanswered.

The scene shifted, a jarring transition.

Autumn Court guards discovered your body, their shock at finding you still breathing evident in their careful handling. Their whispers reached Azriel with perfect clarity.

"How is she still alive?"

"No one could survive this."

"Her pelvis is completely shattered," one guard reported, voice shaking. "Both legs broken. Five ribs puncturing her lungs. Her right shoulder and elbow dislocated. Three fingers on the left hand missing entirely. Frost magic in her bloodstream. And the... the internal damage..." He couldn't continue.

But you had survived. Somehow.

You survived.

Azriel fell forward, pressing his forehead to the memory-floor. His wings draped over you both, a shield against horror he couldn't escape. His shoulders shook with silent reverence. The survivor in him recognized something in you that transcended the breaking, a core of steel that even torture couldn't reach.

Where I might have surrendered, you endured.

Then Beron, standing over your healing table, face twisted not with fury at what had been done to his daughter, but with contempt at the political complication your assault created.

"Foolish girl," he hissed, flames erupting around his clenched fists, casting ominous shadows across your broken body. "Did I not tell you to behave appropriately? To represent this court with dignity?"

Something in Azriel broke.

A sound erupted from him, part growl, part scream, all predator. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl.

His shadows solidified, taking physical form for the first time in memory. Truth-Teller appeared in his hand, conjured from pure hatred. His pupils dilated until his eyes were black pools rimmed with gold fire.

"I will end you," he promised Beron, the words a vow written in blood. "Father or not. High Lord or not. For this alone, you die."

The killing rage that surged through him transcended anything he'd experienced in five centuries of battle. His shadows lashed out with such violent force that the memory itself seemed to waver.

"She was found at the border," one healer reported quietly, hands shaking as they hovered over your wounds. "Impaled on a Winter Court tree."

"And the perpetrators?" Beron's voice held no concern for you, only calculation.

"No trace, my lord."

Beron's expression hardened further. "Say nothing of this. To anyone. Not even her mother or brothers."

"But my lord, she requires—"

"She requires discretion," Beron interrupted, voice deadly soft. "Heal her body if you can. But this incident never happened. Is that understood?"

The healers nodded, terror evident in their trembling hands as they resumed work on your shattered body. No one dared speak against the High Lord, though their expressions betrayed their horror at his callousness.

"You failed her," Azriel snarled, the words meaningless to ears that could not hear him. "You all failed her."

Azriel could only watch with mounting horror as the healers worked over your broken form.

Something in your eyes began to change.

The light dimming, the spark of the woman he'd glimpsed by the forest pool fading into nothingness. Blue frost patterns remained beneath your skin where Winter magic had taken root, refusing to dissipate despite the healers' efforts.

And then came the transformation that truly chilled him to the bone.

Over the following weeks, as your body healed but your spirit remained shattered, Azriel witnessed it.

The memory timeline accelerated, showing flickering moments across months, then years, to centuries.

Your eyes, once warm with compassion, grew cold and calculating. The curve of your lips, once quick to smile, hardened into a permanent sneer. Your hands, which had once healed with gentle touch, now dealt pain with mechanical precision.

You became what trauma had forged. A weapon.

Your first kill came three months after the assault. A servant who spilled wine on your gown during a feast. The room fell silent as you placed your hand against his chest and channeled fire directly into his heart.

His body crumpled to ash before it hit the floor. You didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just returned to your meal while servants hastily swept away the remains.

Beron's smile that night was one of sick pride.

Azriel recognized the hollowness in your eyes. His own stared back at him from countless reflections after his own torture. The void where something vital once lived. He had almost become this, would have become this without his brothers. The knowledge settled in his gut like stone.

The second kill followed a week later. A courtier who dared mention the Winter Court in your presence.

His screams echoed through the castle for hours before he finally died, his body a testament to your newfound creativity with flame.

By the time another year had passed, your reputation had spread throughout Prythian. The Lady of Autumn, they called you in whispers. Cold as Winter but burning with Autumn's fire. A contradiction wrapped in cruelty. Beautiful and untouchable. Those who approached too closely vanished in screams and ash.

Through the bond, he felt it happen.

Your soul fracturing, tearing, one piece clinging desperately to your body while another fled, seeking escape from unbearable pain.

Azriel reached forward with trembling fingers, trying to hold the pieces together. His shadows joined his effort, stretching toward the breaking golden light of your essence. His face contorted with desperate concentration, as if by sheer will he could prevent what had already happened.

It wasn't instantaneous. The fracture began that night in the Winter Court corridor, widened during the hours on the tree, and continued to split during the weeks of physical healing.

Each new callous comment from Beron, each dismissal of your suffering, each night of untreated nightmares widened the crack.

Until finally, during a particularly horrific flashback, something broke completely.

One remained tethered to your Fae body, calcifying into something cold and lethal. The other fled, across worlds, across realities, seeking refuge in a form untouched by Prythian's horrors.

It felt like his own soul was being torn apart.

His shadows split into two distinct groups. One remaining with his spectral form, the other flowing toward you on the healing table, instinctively trying to hold the pieces of your soul together.

But they couldn't. Nothing could. The tear was too profound, the wound too deep.

His consciousness followed the fleeing half of your soul, pulled by the golden bond that connected you. The memory-vision blurred, reality dissolving into golden light that surrounded him, buoyed him, carried him across the boundaries between worlds.

The experience was nothing like winnowing, which merely folded space within Prythian. This was a shattering of cosmic barriers, a journey across realities that shouldn't have been possible.

The hospital room materialized around him with shocking clarity.

Sterile white walls, strange beeping devices, tubes and wires connecting the still form on the bed to machines he couldn't comprehend.

Your human form, so similar to your Fae body yet subtly different. Softer. More fragile. Untouched by the horrors your other half had endured.

Around the bed, human figures, family, he supposed, maintained their vigil. A woman who shared your human features wept silently, holding your unresponsive hand. A male, perhaps a father or brother, stood by the window, face haggard with grief.

"Come back to us," the woman whispered, and Azriel felt the words reach toward your soul across the void that separated conscious thought from wherever you had retreated.

But he could see what they could not, the golden thread that connected this human vessel to a Fae body in another world entirely.

You found a way to survive.

When there was no escape, you created one.

Azriel lurched awake with a strangled gasp, wings flaring violently in the pre-dawn darkness.

Shadows exploded from his skin, not with their usual controlled precision but in chaotic bursts that plunged the room into impenetrable night. His scarred hand seized Truth-Teller before his eyes had fully opened.

Then he felt it—wetness tracking down his face.

Tears. In five centuries of nightmares, of reliving his own torture and the weight of countless deaths, he had never once cried in his sleep.

"You were crying."

Your voice cut through his darkness like the first light of dawn. His senses, always razor-sharp, had failed to detect your presence—he'd been too consumed by the visions the bond had forced upon him.

His eyes found you standing at the foot of his bed. Morning light filtered through the windows, limning you in amber and gold, turning your hair to living flame. The sight of you stole what little breath remained in his lungs.

"Bad dreams?" you asked.

Something in how you said it—the understanding that only comes from walking through nightmares yourself—made his shadows curl back protectively around him.

"The bond shows me things," Azriel said, watching your reaction carefully. "Your world. The hospital room where part of you still dreams. The machines keeping watch with their steady, metallic heartbeats."

Your sharp intake of breath seemed to pull all oxygen from the room. Fear flashed across your face, not of him, but of truths you weren't ready to face.

"You've seen... my other life?" The words barely formed a whisper.

Azriel nodded once. His shadows coiled tighter, though rebellious tendrils still strained toward the answering golden light beneath your skin.

"I've seen your human family," he said, gaze never leaving yours. "Their vigil at your bedside. The prayers they whisper over your unmoving hands. Their refusal to surrender hope."

The color drained from your face as you stepped back. "How much do you know?"

His shadows reacted to his inner conflict, painting the walls with frantic, jagged patterns.

The bond had shown him everything, your assault, your soul's desperate flight from unbearable pain, but he could see those memories remained locked behind walls your mind had built to protect itself.

"I know enough," he said finally, voice gentling despite the rage still simmering beneath his skin. "I know you exist between worlds, suspended between lives, belonging fully to neither."

He watched your face for signs of distress, of memories threatening to surface. But he saw only confusion and wariness, and beneath that, desperate hope that someone finally understood.

"There are...gaps," you admitted, so quietly only Fae hearing could catch it. "Times I can't remember. Feelings that appear from nowhere, like I'm borrowing someone else's heart."

The admission seemed to surprise you as much as him, a vulnerability you hadn't meant to reveal. The bond pulsed in response, acknowledging the trust such words required.

"Sometimes the mind shields us from what we're not ready to remember," Azriel said softly. His wings shifted unconsciously, creating a sheltered space that included you within their span. "There's no shame in that."

Your eyes widened, understanding dawning like stars appearing one by one. "You know more than you're telling me."

Azriel's silence was answer enough.

A single tear escaped down your cheek. The mating bond flared in response, golden light seeping through both your bodies like twin flames fed by the same source.

"Why won't you tell me everything?" you whispered.

"Because some truths should be followed to their source, not poured into unprepared vessels," he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "And because choice was stolen from you once. I won't be another thief."

Something in your expression shifted at his words, a wall crumbling, a door creaking open. Your fear softened to cautious wonder.

"You really mean that," you said, half statement, half question.

"I've had five centuries to learn the sanctity of choice," Azriel replied, the ghosts of his own trauma briefly visible in his eyes. "Of agency. Of deciding one's own fate when all other freedoms have been stolen."

Ember and Sizzle materialized beside you, their pink flame forms crackling protectively. They studied Azriel with suspicious intensity before Ember cautiously approached. The tiny creature hopped onto the bed, then settled near Azriel's scarred hand. Not touching, but close.

"I should go," you said finally. "The healers are expecting me."

Azriel nodded, making no move to stop you.

But as you turned to leave, something broke inside him, some final barrier between duty and need.

With a wince he couldn't hide, Azriel pushed himself from the bed. His movements betrayed the wounds still healing beneath his leathers. Shadows curled around him as he crossed the chamber in three swift strides.

Then, before you could react, he knelt at your feet.

The gesture was so unexpected, so contrary to everything you knew of the feared shadowsinger, that you stepped back. But Azriel remained where he was, head bowed, shadows spread around him like wings darker than those folded against his back.

"I make this vow to you," he said, voice raw with emotion he'd stopped trying to hide. "Not because the bond demands it, but because I have seen all that you are across worlds and cannot bear the thought of your light dimming."

Your breath caught in your throat. The weight of his words pressed against your chest, not crushing, but anchoring you to this moment.

He looked up, meeting your startled gaze with eyes that burned with such fierce devotion it stole what little breath remained.

Five centuries of controlled fury now focused solely on you with the precision of a blade crafted for one purpose.

"I vow that no one, not Beron, not the courts, not reality itself will ever again inscribe your destiny but you." His voice shook with the effort of laying himself bare. "Your choices will be yours alone."

His hands trembled at his sides, the effort it took not to reach for you written in every line of his body.

"Even if—" His voice faltered, and for the first time in five centuries, the shadowsinger struggled to master himself. "Even if those choices lead you away from me."

The bond between you flared, golden light bleeding through both your skins, responding to truth where pretty words would have fallen short.

The shadows around him deepened, no longer the calculated extensions of his will but raw manifestations of his soul laid bare. They created a living circle of darkness that surrounded you both, intimate as a whispered confession.

"I vow to stand between you and harm," he continued, each word carved from his very being, "not because you lack strength, but because you've already carried too much alone."

His voice dropped lower, until each word felt like a caress against your skin.

"I vow to be the silence that listens when you speak," he said, "the darkness that shelters when light wounds. To learn your silences, to honor your spirit in all its broken, beautiful glory."

His scarred hands—instruments of centuries of death—remained at his sides, making no move to touch you.

His fingers curled into fists, as if physically restraining themselves from reaching for what they had no right to claim.

"I vow to be patient as mountains, steadfast as stars." The tendons in his neck strained with the effort of offering everything while asking nothing. "To wait centuries if needed, to accept only what you freely give."

The chamber around you seemed to hold its breath as his final words took form.

"I bind myself not to you, but to your freedom," he said, the vow settling around you both like a constellation newly born, "your right to determine what you become."

You stood frozen, overwhelmed by what he offered. No male in your experience had ever placed a female's sovereignty above even a mating bond's demands.

"Azriel, get up," you finally managed, the word barely audible.

Azriel obeyed immediately, returning to his full height though he remained close enough that his scent—night-chilled stone and cedar—enveloped you like the promise of shelter in storm.

"Why?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

His gaze did not waver. "Because in five centuries of darkness, I never knew I was blind until your light showed me my own soul."

The simplicity of his answer, the raw honesty of it, nearly undid you.

"Can you..." you began, then faltered. Taking a deep breath, you tried again. "Can you help me find my way back? Home, I mean. To my real body."

For a heartbeat, everything showed on Azriel's face—the devastation of your request, the selfish desire to refuse. The bond between you spasmed as if in physical pain. His shadows recoiled, then coiled tighter as if protecting him from a blow that had already landed.

But then, deliberately, he mastered himself. His expression smoothed into something that cost him dearly to maintain.

"If that is your heart's true desire," he said, each word a river of emotion carefully channeled between banks of control, "then I will tear apart the fabric between worlds with my bare hands if it would grant you peace."

The promise clearly flayed him alive—you could see it in the tightening of his jaw, the subtle tensing of his wings, the way his shadows trembled, but he made it anyway. Honoring your choice even as it carved pieces from his soul.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words inadequate but all you could manage past the tightness in your throat.

Azriel inclined his head, accepting your gratitude though it must have felt like swallowing fire.

You took a step back, needing space to process what had just happened. The flame bunnies followed, though Ember cast one last look at Azriel before reluctantly joining you.

At the door, you paused, looking back. "I don't know what I'll choose in the end."

The hope that flared in his eyes was quickly banked, carefully controlled, but unmistakable as sunrise. "Whatever you choose," he said, voice steady only through centuries of discipline, "I will honor it as I would honor my own heartbeat."

Something that might have been a smile ghosted across your lips before you turned away. The sight of it made his heart clench in his chest, a glimpse of possibility where before he had seen only walls.

The door closed behind you with a soft click that echoed in the hollow space of your chest.

Azriel remained perfectly still for several heartbeats after you left.

The memory clung to him like smoke, seeping into his skin, his lungs, his bones. His scarred hands trembled uncontrollably as he tried to breathe through the aftershocks.

He made it three steps before his knees buckled. Truth-Teller clattered to the floor.

Then came the sound, not a sob, not a growl. Just something breaking.

Your screams still echoed in his ears. The cold of that corridor. The laughter of those males. The smell of your blood on snow.

The room was too quiet now. Too still. A silence that rang louder than your screams.

He lurched toward the bathroom, barely making it before his stomach emptied itself. His shoulders heaved as he retched, tasting bile and fury and impotent rage.

When there was nothing left to purge, he slid to the floor, back against the cold tile wall. His wings dragged awkwardly, joints refusing to cooperate.

The first tear fell then, sliding silently down his cheek. Another followed. Then another, until his face was wet with grief.

Five centuries of discipline shattered like glass as sobs tore from his throat. Each one painful. Each one raw. His shadows recoiled from him, terrified by this display of emotion from their master who had taught them control above all else.

I failed you.

The thought crushed against his ribs like a physical weight.

Mother above, I failed you.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop the violent trembling that had overtaken his body. The scars on his palms caught on the leather of his fighting clothes as he clutched at his own shoulders.

He had never broken like this. Not during his imprisonment in that lightless cell. Not in the centuries of blood and battlefields that followed. He had built his reputation on control, on emotionless precision, on perfect, deadly calm.

I should have been there.

I should have known.

Gods, I failed you.

The thoughts repeated, blades twisting deeper with each iteration. The tears wouldn't stop. They flowed as if an ancient dam had finally broken, carrying centuries of suppressed emotion. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with the force of his anguish.

His shadows finally approached cautiously, curling around him like concerned children. They had never seen their master like this, utterly broken open, utterly vulnerable.

They will pay.

The thought formed with perfect, crystalline clarity amidst his grief.

Every one of them still living.

Every one who touched you.

Every one who watched.

He saw it again, the moment your soul tore in two. Remembered the sound, like silk ripping, like a star dying. The terrible beauty of that golden light splitting, one half fleeing across worlds, the other calcifying into armor around what remained.

This understanding only made him crumble further, made his chest heave with sobs that felt like they might break his ribs. He tried to regain control, tried to force the tears to stop, but they continued to pour down his face, dripping onto the tile floor beneath him.

In this moment, he wasn't Rhysand's shadowsinger. Wasn't the Night Court's most feared assassin. He was just a male, kneeling alone on a bathroom floor, heart breaking for suffering he couldn't prevent.

The shadows tried to comfort him, wrapping around his shoulders, his wings, his trembling hands. But they couldn't reach the wound that had been torn open inside him, the raw, bleeding awareness of his failure to protect something precious.

I'll guard what remains.

The vow formed somewhere beneath the tears, solid as stone.

I'll never fail you again.

He rested his forehead on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, making himself as small as possible, as if he could somehow contain the devastating grief that poured from him.

For the first time in five centuries, Azriel, shadowsinger of the Night Court, cried until there were no tears left to shed. Until his throat was raw and his eyes were swollen. Until his shadows had gathered around him in silent vigil, witnessing this transformation, this breaking, this rebirth.

His shadows, once wild and frantic, began to still. As if recognizing the shape of a vow. As if honoring it.

Finally, when the tears subsided into occasional shuddering breaths, he lifted his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his features swollen with grief.

I will find them all.

The oath settled in his bones with cold finality.

And when I do, death will seem a mercy.

He pushed himself up, movements stiff and pained. In the mirror, he barely recognized himself, face ravaged by tears, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, shadows still curling protectively around his shoulders.

He looked like what he was: a male who had witnessed something unholy and been forever changed by it.

He splashed cold water on his face, the chill a shock against his heated skin. Then he straightened, squared his shoulders, and faced his reflection. Not to check the damage, but to look himself in the eyes.

To bear it. To earn the right to one day bear your gaze again.

I am yours, as you are mine. Whether you want me or not.

The vow settled in his bones with finality. This was his purpose now. Not Rhysand's missions. Not court politics. Not ancient vendettas.

You. All parts of you.

The broken and the healing. The cruel and the kind. The fragments across worlds.

His to protect. His to avenge. His to guard.

He picked up Truth-Teller with unsteady hands.

Not a weapon tonight. Just a reminder.

He opened the bathroom door, shoulders set with new determination.

The grief would come again, he knew. The images would haunt him. But they would also drive him.

He wasn't healed. He wasn't whole. But something had cracked open. Like stone split by frost. And through it, something new might one day grow.

His tears had washed away something old to make room for something new, a shadowsinger with purpose beyond court and war. A male who had finally found something worth fighting for beyond duty and brotherhood.

You.

You stumbled back to your chambers, Azriel's vow reverberating in your mind. Each word had carved itself into your memory with the precision of Truth-Teller's edge.

"Is kneeling and swearing eternal oaths what passes for flirting in Prythian?" you muttered, pressing fingers to your flushed cheeks. "Whatever happened to awkward small talk over wine?"

The bond pulsed in response, a golden thread beneath your skin that sent warmth cascading through your veins.

Ember and Sizzle materialized in twin pops of flame, immediately launching into a dramatic reenactment. Ember dropped to his tiny knees, paws clasped in supplication, mimicking Azriel's intensity with such ridiculous devotion that you snorted despite yourself.

"I'm glad someone finds this amusing," you said, collapsing onto your bed. The mattress sank beneath you, cradling your exhausted body.

Your fingers brushed against the leather journal in your pocket. The worn cover felt warm against your skin. You hesitated, then pulled it out.

"I shouldn't read this," you told the bunnies, already turning pages. "Major invasion of privacy."

The first entry made you choke on a laugh.

"What is a submarine? Some underwater house? Why would anyone put a door with holes in it underwater? Filed under: Makes no sense but I understand completely."

"He's been documenting everything!" you exclaimed, fingertips trembling slightly as you flipped through more pages.

A knock interrupted your reading. A servant bowed when you opened the door.

"My lady, Lords Eris and Lucien request your presence in the eastern gardens. The meeting with Lord Thesan and the shadowsinger has concluded."

Your heart stammered against your ribs. "What meeting?"

"I believe it concerns the Autumn Court," she replied carefully. "They asked for you specifically."

You hurried to the gardens, journal still clutched in your hand. The eternal dawn cast long shadows across the carefully tended paths. As you rounded the final corner, you spotted Eris and Lucien standing with Azriel beneath a blooming tree.

The shadowsinger's back was to you, his wings folded tight against his spine, but his posture changed the moment your scent hit the air.

Lucien looked grim, his metal eye whirring faster than usual. Eris's face was a mask of cold fury, lips pressed into a bloodless line, until he saw you. His expression softened instantly.

Azriel turned, and the raw emotion in his eyes knocked the breath from your lungs. His shadows stretched toward you before he reined them in, but not before one tendril brushed your ankle.

"What's happening?" you demanded, heart pounding. "Why wasn't I included?"

Eris's gaze flicked to Azriel, sharp as a blade. "Shadowsinger, leave us. This is a family matter."

A muscle ticked in Azriel's jaw. His shadows darkened, coiling tightly around him. For a moment, you thought he might refuse, but then he bowed his head in a gesture of surprising deference.

"As you wish," he said quietly. His voice was midnight stone, cool and impenetrable. The words were for Eris, but his eyes found yours. "I'll be nearby if needed."

With that, he dissolved into darkness, though the bond tugged insistently in the direction he'd vanished.

Once he was gone, Eris's shoulders dropped a fraction, the knife-edge of his posture dulling just enough to reveal something more human underneath.

"I've declared the northern territories of Autumn Court in rebellion against Beron," he said, his voice precise as a surgeon's blade. "Dawn Court has granted sanctuary and military aid."

Cold shock washed through you, the bond trembling with your fear. "You're starting a civil war?"

"A war that's been brewing for centuries," Eris replied, each word cut from ice. "Beron's time has ended."

"Why now?" you asked, stomach twisting into knots. "What's changed?"

Lucien moved closer, his expression gentling. Before you could respond, Lucien closed the distance between you. His arms wrapped around you in an embrace so unexpected that you froze, the journal pressed awkwardly between you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking. You could feel him trembling. "I'm sorry for failing you. For not being the brother you deserved."

You stood shocked, uncertain how to respond. Over his shoulder, you saw Eris watching, his amber eyes burning with an emotion you'd never witnessed there before.

"I'll protect you," Lucien continued, pulling back to meet your gaze. His metal eye whirred, focusing with fierce intensity. "I swear it on the Mother, on my blood, on whatever remains of my honor."

"We protect our own," Eris echoed. Unlike Lucien, he maintained his distance, but the vow in his voice cut deeper than any blade. "Whatever the cost."

You looked between them, Lucien's open emotion, Eris's restrained intensity, and felt something shift inside you. Not the mating bond, but something equally profound. The bond of family, forged in shared purpose.

"Beron will retaliate," Eris continued, voice hardening until it could have shattered stone. "You can't stay in Dawn Court. It's not defensible enough."

The bond reacted to your rising concern, pulsing beneath your breastbone. It felt like warning, like protection.

"The Night Court has offered sanctuary," Lucien said, his metal eye gleaming with determination.

"The Night Court?" Your voice rose slightly. The bond flared, golden warmth spreading through your chest. "With Azriel?"

Something that might have been amusement flickered in Eris's eyes, there and gone like a spark from a fire. "Despite my personal feelings about the shadowsinger, his protection is... formidable."

"You'll have choices there," Lucien assured you, warmth infusing his words. "You'll have freedom."

The word resonated within you. Your fingers tightened around the journal, its leather warm against your skin.

"Do I have a choice now?" you asked. "Or has this already been decided?"

The brothers exchanged a look laden with centuries of understanding.

"The choice is yours," Lucien said, his voice gentle. "Always."

"But we strongly advise Night Court protection," Eris added, amber eyes never leaving yours.

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your shoulders, sensing your uncertainty. Ember nuzzled against your cheek, his tiny flame form surprisingly comforting. Sizzle puffed herself up, growing to twice her size as if preparing to defend you from your own brothers.

"I'll go to the Night Court," you said finally. The bond hummed in approval, sending warmth through your veins. "But this isn't forever. When Beron is dealt with, I decide where I belong."

"Agreed," Lucien said immediately.

Eris nodded once, the gesture somehow more binding than any oath. "We'll send word when it's safe."

As arrangements were made around you, a shadow tendril briefly touched your hand. Azriel, listening from the darkness, acknowledging your choice without intruding.

The bond responded instantly, golden light briefly visible beneath your skin where the shadow had touched. Not rejection. Not possession. But recognition.

Looking at your brothers, one openly protective, one fiercely reserved, you felt something you hadn't expected. Belonging.

Whatever awaited in your future with a certain shadowsinger, you wouldn't face it alone.

The Dawn Court servants had packed most of your belongings. All that remained were your personal items and deciding which of Azriel's gifts to bring. You stood over the drawer containing them, his journal warm in your hands, your fingers tracing the worn leather cover.

A whisper of darkness gathered at your balcony, like night itself had taken form. Shadows curled and danced in invitation before Azriel himself appeared, moonlight silvering the edges of his wings.

"May I enter?" he asked, his voice deep velvet in the twilight. He remained outside, waiting with a patience that seemed etched into his very being.

You stiffened, heart betraying you with a quickened beat. "Why are you here?"

"Your brothers asked me to check final arrangements," he replied, but something in his eyes, a vulnerability that belied his warrior's stance, suggested another reason entirely.

You nodded, placing the journal back in the drawer. "Fine. Come in."

He stepped inside, wings tucked tight against his back, not the predatory male you'd first met, but someone humbled, careful. You moved to the opposite side of the room, pretending not to notice how the bond between you brightened at his nearness, golden light briefly visible beneath your skin.

Silence stretched between you, fragile as spun glass. Ember and Sizzle materialized, their tiny flame bodies casting warm light across your face. They stayed beside you, but their eyes remained fixed on Azriel with unmistakable longing.

"Are you prepared for tomorrow's journey?" Azriel finally asked, shadows betraying his nervousness, reaching toward you before he pulled them back.

"As prepared as one can be when shuttled between courts like a parcel," you replied, your tone softer than intended. Something about the night, about his presence, made your carefully constructed walls seem suddenly transparent.

He didn't flinch, but his shadows curled inward, as if absorbing your words. "Your world," he said unexpectedly, eyes finding yours across the distance. "What was it like?"

The question caught you off guard. "Why do you want to know?"

His gaze didn't waver. "Because it made you," he answered simply. "And that makes it important."

Your breath caught, the raw honesty disarming you more effectively than any practiced charm. "Is this small talk? Because you're terrible at it."

A smile, rare and beautiful, touched his lips. "Is it working anyway?"

Despite yourself, warmth bloomed in your chest. "Maybe."

"Tell me," he said, voice falling to an intimate murmur that seemed designed for secrets shared in darkness. "Please."

You moved to the balcony, gesturing for him to join you beneath the stars. His scent, night-chilled stone and cedar, enveloped you as he drew near, careful to maintain the space you needed.

"Submarines are vessels that travel underwater," you explained, watching wonder transform his severe features. "Like ships, but beneath the surface."

"And screen doors?"

Your answering laugh surprised you both. "They're mesh doors that keep insects out while letting air in, useless on submarines, hence the saying."

"Your world sounds fascinating," he said, gaze lingering on your smile.

"Says the immortal shadowsinger," you countered, noticing how starlight caught in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold.

His attention fell to your mouth. "What about...yeeting?"

"Oh god." Heat rushed to your face.

Laughter bubbled up from some long-forgotten place inside you. Ember and Sizzle suddenly formed tiny flame balls and flinging them while squeaking what could only be their version of "yeet."

"No, no!" you exclaimed through giggles. "No yeeting fire indoors!"

Azriel's shadows darted out, catching the flame balls before they could cause damage. What happened next stole your breath, darkness and fire merged, spiraling together in a dance of opposing elements that somehow created something new, something beautiful.

"I didn't know they could do that," you whispered, momentarily forgetting the distance you'd imposed.

"Neither did I," Azriel replied, watching the interaction with wonder. "Looks like we create something beautiful together."

The implication hung in the air between you, not a challenge, but a truth offered without expectation.

"What do you miss most about your world?" Azriel asked, his voice a caress in the darkness.

"Coffee," you admitted, leaning against the balcony rail, face tilted toward stars you were beginning to recognize. "And the people who'd make it for me on bad days."

His hazel eyes lit with genuine curiosity. "What is this coffee? I've heard you mention it before."

"It's a drink made from roasted beans. Bitter, but in the best way possible. People get addicted to it."

One of his shadows curled forward with interest. "Your world has recreational poisons?"

You laughed, the sound startling in its genuineness. "We have so many. Coffee, alcohol, sugar, social media..."

"Social... media?" His brow furrowed, shadows mimicking his confusion in swirling patterns.

"Imagine if everyone in Prythian could instantly send messages to everyone else, at all times of day, and also show pictures of their breakfast."

A rare smile tugged at his lips. "That sounds..."

"Horrible? It absolutely is," you grinned. "I was completely addicted."

"You miss things that are horrible for you?" His shadows danced with amusement.

"Humans are complicated like that." You gestured to the night sky. "We also had metal contraptions that flew without wings. Cars that moved without horses. Tiny devices that held all the world's knowledge in your pocket."

Azriel leaned closer, completely enraptured. "Tell me more about these... cars?"

"Metal boxes with wheels and engines. They go really fast, but also kill thousands of people every year."

"Your world sounds terrifying," he said, but his tone conveyed fascination, not judgment.

"We also had medicine that could cure most diseases. Buildings that touched the clouds. Devices that let you talk to someone across the world instantly."

"Yet you say 'yeet' when throwing things," he noted with unexpected dry humor.

You burst out laughing. "Did you just make a joke? The terrifying shadowsinger made a joke!"

For the next hour, you described smartphones, internet, airplanes, and television. Azriel listened with increasing amazement, his shadows occasionally forming shapes that resembled what you described—tiny cars, miniature airplanes, even a crude approximation of a smartphone.

"Your world sounds interesting," he said finally. "Creative. Innovative."

"It's also polluted, overcrowded, and constantly at war," you admitted. "No place is perfect."

His expression grew serious as he reached into his leathers. "I have something for you."

From within his leathers, he produced a small object wrapped in midnight blue silk. His scarred fingers barely grazed yours as he placed it in your palm, but even that brief contact sent warmth cascading through your veins.

Inside lay a delicate silver charm—a tiny flame crafted with remarkable detail, suspended on a fine chain. Within the flame swirled what looked like living shadow, dancing and pulsing with quiet life.

"I asked Amren to bind your flame to my shadow," Azriel explained, his voice rough with emotion. "It'll grow warmer the closer I am."

His shadows caressed the charm as if reluctant to part with this piece of himself.

"And if you ever need me," he continued, eyes meeting yours with fierce intensity, "break it. The bond will bring me to you, across any distance."

You held the charm against your heart, understanding the gift's true significance—not possession, but protection. Not demand, but devotion.

"I know your path is yours to choose," he said, voice breaking slightly. "But if you ever need someone who will come without question, without hesitation..." His scarred hand hovered near your cheek, not quite touching. "Let it be me."

Before you could respond, a commotion erupted below. Azriel's shadows instantly darkened, stretching toward the sound as his body tensed, warrior replacing poet in the space of a heartbeat.

Lucien appeared at your door, face grim. "We have to leave. Now. Beron's forces breached the defenses."

"How?" Azriel demanded, wings flaring protectively around you.

"Betrayal," Lucien answered. "Someone inside let them through."

The charm burned warm against your skin, its promise suddenly vital.

"Get her to Velaris," Lucien commanded. "I'll hold them here."

"And Eris?" you asked, heart pounding.

"Captured."

Azriel moved toward you with predatory grace, the tender male of moments ago transformed into living shadow. His fingertips finally brushed your cheek, the touch so gentle it made your eyes burn with unshed tears.

"Stay behind me," he said, voice midnight steel. "Always."

As he cradled you against his chest, you felt his heart beating in perfect rhythm with yours, the bond between you no longer a chain but a lifeline.

Through the windows, orange flame bloomed in the distance. Velaris lay ahead, but behind you, everything you'd begun to trust was burning.

As Azriel launched into the night, wings unfurling like destruction made beautiful, you slipped the necklace over your head and pressed the charm between your bodies, where fire and shadow already danced together, creating something neither of you had imagined possible.

Author’s Note: This was one of the hardest chapters I have ever written. It deals with trauma, helplessness, and the echoes of pain that linger in love. Nothing here is for shock value. It is about survival, silence, and the grief of watching someone you care for break.

If you have lived through something like this, or love someone who has, I see you. This story does not claim to define that pain, but it does seek to honor it.

Please take care while reading. Step away if needed. Your peace matters. 🕊️

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[mahalachives]

i got my bottle of soju, my snacks, and 911 on in the background in case the angst takes me out.

chapters dropping tonight for Azriel, Are You Okay? and Between Two Fires. y’all better hydrate, it’s emotional damage o’clock 💀💔🍶