#Azriel X reader

[tarotsoul]

Smoke & Light — Part Two

SUMMARY: A run in with the cops is another reminder of the horrors Azriel faced through his childhood. Maybe one day hell open up about it, but not today. Today, he's solely focussed on helping you out of a bad trip.

WARNINGS: swearing, reoccurring themes of use of recreational drugs (weed), greening out, teasing, flirting, kissing, dirty talk, use of toys hehe, slapping/spanking, spitting, dom!Az, mentions of Az's abusive childhood.

WORD COUNT: 8.2k

SERIES MASTERLIST

When Azriel was a young boy, he dreamt of becoming a guitarist. It didn’t matter to him then if he was famous or not. Just so long as he was good enough to be able to replicate famous rifts with his own spin, and create his own music, too. 

For his fifth birthday, his mother bought him a children’s guitar, complete with the plastic pics and a leather strap with his initials etched into the fine fabric. He knew, even at that age, that the gift had cost his mother a small fortune. But she didn’t care how much it set her back. The look of pure shock and excitement on her boy's face was worth every single penny she spent. 

He could still remember the untold amounts of sleep he would forfeit to learn a new chord or finally string more than three together at once. By seven years old, he could recreate the first half of Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd—albeit choppy and slightly out of time—and memorise the chords by heart. 

His half-brothers had never liked that about Azriel. His talent and passion for music and the guitar. Even at the ages of five and four, they did not like Azriel. More often than not, they’d plant broken vases and stained cushions for their parents to find, and blame them on Azriel. They knew their father would take away his guitar for a few days to a week as punishment. 

But even then, a week wasn’t long enough. Their hatred for Azriel stemmed long before his love for guitar had grown. From the moment his half-brothers learned how to talk, Az was on the daggered end of their spiteful tongue and manipulative masterminds. As young as he was, Azriel wasn’t blind to the cause of it. He wasn’t blind to his step-father’s hatred for him, that he then instilled in his own blood sons. 

Being what they called a ‘blood traitor’ would always be their main justification for what they did. Azriel had never admitted to anyone the second reason his brothers set his hands alight. But the other thought behind it—the more vicious and calculated thought—was to burn not just his hands, but his dreams, too. 

For months after the incident, Azriel’s hands remained bandaged. He could hardly use them for everyday tasks like dressing and washing and eating. And when they had finally healed enough for the bandages to be permanently removed, he couldn’t play his beloved guitar. 

The strings were too harsh on his sensitive skin. It hurt so much just pressing down on the chords on the neck, let alone pinching the pic for longer than thirty seconds at a time. Azriel had to learn how to play all over again, covered in blisters and burnt flesh. And then his marred skin began to harden and callous and every strum was more painful than before. 

He often wondered if this would still be his life path had the burning never happened. If he would have still met Rhys and Cass, if he would still be selling drugs. He knew he wouldn’t be this well-off financially, but at what cost? What did all of this money mean when it was just him? When he wouldn’t be able to fulfil his biggest dream in life? 

He mostly thought about it all in times like this, when he was spontaneously pulled over by the cops for what they called a “random stop and search”, though they had never given a plausible cause for it. And today would be no different. 

“You stalking me again, Reynolds?” Az asked in a rugged tone as he exhaled the smoke from his cigarette. 

Officer Reynolds, one of the few officers that continuously pulled Az over and searched his vehicle, leaned against the open window with his arms crossed. His blue eyes gleamed with hope of catching something on him this time, though Az knew Reynolds would walk away with another few grey hairs to add to his collection. 

Reynolds was a strange looking man. Not in his features, but in the glint of his eyes and the disturbing tug of his lips whenever he offered a grim smile. He radiated nothing but offsetting energy, one that stunk of noncy behaviour and less than ethical tendencies. 

His iced eyes darted quickly across Azriel’s lap and the passenger's seat, coming up short and settling his gaze on the man again. 

“Random stop and search, nothing personal.” He grinned that awful smile but Azriel paid no mind to it. “Step out of the car, licence and registration.” Azriel was already reaching into the glovebox for his paperwork before Reynolds could even speak. 

He handed them over, opening the door as the officer stepped away, and stood with his hands on the hood of his Mustang. Azriel knew the drill. He’d been patted down and had his car searched more times than he could count in the past six months alone. 

And each and every time, Reynolds always came up short. 

“Got any weapons in the vehicle?” 

Azriel rolled his eyes, looking over his shoulder as Reynolds began to pat down his stomach and thighs. “Do I look like the type that needs a weapon?” 

A dry chuckle slipped from the officers lips as he patted harder down Azriel’s calves and ankles before turning to his full—albeit short—height. “What about narcotics? Any drugs that I should be aware of?” 

Az grunted with another roll of his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Officer Reynolds didn’t offer a response. Instead, he bent his body into the driver's side of the Mustang and began stifling through every nook and cranny that his swollen hands could reach. 

Azriel’s foot tapped impatiently as he waited and waited for the search to end. They wouldn’t find a damn thing, especially because of the new addition Azriel had recently added to his modded car. 

But that knowledge of the secret compartment didn’t stop his muscles from tensing just slightly when Reynolds wrapped his puffed fingers around the foot mat and peeled it up. 

Azriel’s stash was well hidden; wrapped and locked in an extended box beneath his footwell that managed to also keep the scent out. He knew it was a matter of time before they started bringing a K9 with them on their searches, so Azriel had to be prepared for that well in advance. 

Especially with how strong the new strain smelt. 

With a huff, Reynolds haphazardly threw the foot mat back down and struggled to clamber out of the car. And just like Azriel suspected, he came up short. 

Reynolds handed him back his paperwork and rested his hands back on his belt, fingers itching for his baton to give Az a taste of the frustration he caused him. Azriel didn’t so much as bat an eye at it. He knew Reynolds wouldn’t touch him. Not if he wanted to keep both his stumpy legs in use. 

“You know, this is getting pretty old. How do I go about filing a harassment charge?” 

Reynolds scoffed. “Good luck with that.”

If there was one thing Az liked about having his brothers home, it was the lack of talking his mind did. There was no silence for his brain and thoughts to gang up on him, to have him question every thought and decision he’d ever made. 

Music and guitar usually helped to quiet those demons—the shadows that he had no control over—but the frustration from his earlier encounter with Reynolds had the desire for playing at the bottom of his list. 

Instead, he settled for Nesta’s demand to braid her hair. She knew him better than she let the others know. Since they first met years ago, he became the brother she never had, that she never knew she needed. She was quick to learn his quirks and mannerisms; what they meant and how he felt. 

And he learnt the same for her. 

“You’re doing it too loose,” Nesta huffed, picking at her nails from her seat on the carpet between Azriel’s parted thighs. He huffed, flexing his fingers and undoing the braid. 

“Last time you told me it was too tight and it gave you a migraine,” he retorted back with an exasperated huff.

They argued like real siblings, too. 

“Just do it a little looser than last time.”

Azriel split her hair into three sections once more and slowly started to braid, overlapping the sections and tugging a bit tighter than his previous attempt. Nesta hummed in approval.

They didn’t pay much mind to the others. Rhys and Feyre were cuddled on the loveseat opposite them, Cassian on their left with a bulky pair of headphones on his head as he smashed the buttons of the gaming remote beneath his fingers. 

He was growing frustrated that he was losing, but it didn’t help that his hands were so massive that the pad of his thumb was big enough to press all the buttons at once. 

“Hey, Az… there’s this girl I know…” Azriel’s grunt cut Feyre off before she could say anything else. He tied Nesta’s braid and tapped her shoulders, signally he was done. 

“Not this again, Fey,” he groaned. 

A sheepish smile sat on her full lips, a gentle tint of pink blushing the apples of her cheeks. “I really think you guys would get along, though. She’s super laid back and so gorgeous.” 

Nesta moved from between Az’s thighs on the ground and clambered back onto the sofa, reaching for her tumbler of gin and tonic. Azriel was used to this, to Feyre trying to set him up. Each time, he’d always shut her advances down, but that never stopped her.

Feyre considered it a challenge, and she wouldn’t stop until Azriel agreed to go on a date. Just once, and she’d back off. She was fairly confident that one date would be all it would take for Azriel to fall for her mysterious friend. 

“I don’t need to be set up,” he spoke, finality in his tone. 

Rhys cocked a brow at how quickly Az dismissed his girlfriend but said nothing. He knew Feyre could get a bit too much with it sometimes, but Rhys himself still had hopes that maybe one day, Az would bite the bullet and just agree. 

But Azriel had no plans to do that. He didn't want to be set up on a blind date, and he most certainly did not need nor want his friends involving themselves in his love life—or lack thereof. It wasn’t that he struggled with girls, Mother, no. Not once in his life did Azriel ever have a shortage of pussy.

If he wanted it, he would get it. On his own. Without his brother's girlfriend’s self-involvement. 

His phone chimed from his back pocket, and not bothering another glance at Feyre, Azriel retrieved it to read over the message. 

You: you weren’t kidding. This shit is strongggg x

His heart rate quickened as he read the text again and again. Azriel hadn’t heard from for three days—since that kiss—and now he was reminiscing on the taste of your mouth on his. 

Azriel: I did warn you

You: maybe next time you could write a reminder on my baggie?

A grin stretched across the expanse of his lips, eyes glittering at how quickly you responded. The act didn’t go unmissed by Nesta, who grinned against her staw and wiggled her toes against the side of Azriel’s thigh. She knew that face—that look. 

“Azzy doesn’t want to get set up because he already has a crush on someone.” 

All eyes snapped to Azriel and Nesta at her words, eyes so wide they almost bulged from their heads. They all knew Az was a ladies man, that although he kept his sex life private, he was well endowed in that aspect. But what they had never really seen was Azriel with a crush. 

With someone who was more than a booty call or a fling.

Az narrowed his eyes at Nesta, a hard expression removing his previous smile. The phone in his hand began to vibrate and a quick glance at it had your number filling the screen through an incoming call. 

His heart stammered. 

“I don’t have a crush. It’s just a client.” He stood from the couch, his scarred thumb hovering over the answer button. 

Nesta grinned maniacally, taking another sip of her gin. “A lady client?” Azriel’s response was a pillow launched at Nesta’s face before leaving his family and shutting himself away in his bedroom. 

Az took a deep breath then swiped his screen to accept the call. “Hey,” he greeted, bringing the phone to his ear. “You doing okay?” 

There was a pregnant pause for a moment before your airly laugh breathed down the line and Azriel’s throat began to close up at the sound. “I think I’ve greened out a little,” you giggled, almost painfully. “Everything is spinning and heavy and when I close my eyes, I get seasick… is that normal?” 

Az pursed his lips, biting back his own smile. The fact that you’d managed to text full sentences and then call him suggested you hadn’t greened out too badly. And by the light self-deprecating laugh at your own situation, he knew you weren’t falling in too deep of a hole. 

“It should pass soon, it shouldn't get worse than how you feel now. Where are you?” 

“I’m at home so I’m okay. I just didn’t know what was the best thing to help.” 

Azriel shouldn’t have let your words affect him the way they did. They shouldn’t have warmed his heart and sent it soaring in his chest. But in your slightly vulnerable predicament, out of everyone that smoked in your life and would understand, it was him that you called for advice. 

Not your friends, not your ex. Him. 

“Honestly? Food and water.”

Another pause of silence had Azriel thinking a bit too much again. If you were calling him for advice, this was likely your first time greening out, and he wondered if you’d even be able to handle making yourself food alone. 

After a moment of consideration, he spoke again. “Want me to stop by?” 

Azriel could hear your soft breath through the call. “Isn’t that crossing a line?” you asked in a gentle voice. 

He frowned, brows pinched. “What line?” 

“I’m your client, you’re my plug,” you reminded him, and something about it sent a sour taste to the back of his throat. 

“You’re my friend,” he offered. 

He wondered if you considered that or not, and by the pause of silence once more, he got his answer. 

“I am?” The soft tone of your question hurt him more than it should’ve. It shouldn’t have hurt him at all. 

“Am I not yours?” 

You were considering it, though. In your book, he was definitely your friend. He’d comforted you just a few nights ago after the fiasco with your sister's secret wedding, had bought you food and then… He’d kissed you. Or had you kissed him? 

You supposed he was your friend, but you didn’t think you meant anything more to him than being just another client. Clearly, you were wrong. 

“Yeah… I guess you are.” 

The corners of Azriel's lips tugged upward slightly. “Great, so send me your address and I’ll stop by with some food.”

Perhaps you should’ve told him no, that it truly wasn’t necessary and you could just pick at a couple of leftover cookies you’d baked yesterday. But you didn’t. You wanted to see him again, wondered so desperately if that kiss had meant anything at all… if it would happen again. 

“I have a spare set of keys in a security lock outside. The code is 4369, let yourself in.” 

You didn’t know how much time you had to try and sort yourself out before Azriel would arrive. But as hard as you tried, every time you raised your head you were met with an onslaught of nausea and dizziness. 

You spent around five minutes attempting to regulate your breathing to rid those feelings, but your body remained stomach down on the couch with your face squished against a pillow. 

If you could stomach the feeling of your eyes being closed for longer than five seconds at a time, you probably could’ve fallen asleep. But alas, the sound of a key entering the lock of your front door had your eyes widening a little further and heart stammering against your ribs. 

“Knock, knock.” Azriel’s voice dripped with honey as he spoke into the expanse of your open plan living-kitchen area. 

Though you couldn’t see him from your position, you could hear the faint rusting of a takeout bag in his hand as he closed the door quietly and kicked off his shoes at the door. 

You didn’t need to call out to him for Az to see you. Sprawled on the sofa, just off to his left, he grinned comically, ignoring the unfamiliar swell in his chest. His feet padded closer to the couch, settling the food on the coffee table and the smell of hot, fried chicken wafted through your senses. 

Azriel helping you sit up and handing you the same meal you ordered the last time you saw one another was a bit of a blur. But the second the food hit your tongue and your tastebuds exploded in delight, the nausea slowly dwindled from your senses. 

“You are my saviour,” you moaned around the food, eyes fluttering closed and none the wiser to Azriel’s growing blush. 

Sat in comfortable silence, Azriel didn’t want you to focus on anything other than feeling yourself again. Within a few minutes, you’d both finished your food and your face didn’t seem so sunken and pasty. 

Now, you looked wonderfully blitzed, skin a little brighter than before and a sparkling sheen to your bloodshot eyes. Yeah, you were out of the woods, your body warm and relaxed. 

“You feeling okay?” he finally managed to ask, shoving the last fry between his lips as you nodded at his question. 

“I feel perfectly baked now.” 

A laugh spluttered from his lips at your words as he wiped his scarred hands clean on a paper napkin. For the first time in the past twenty minutes, Az allowed his eyes to gaze across the expanse of your rather cosy living room. 

Soft, golden lighting that warmed the room, plants of varying shapes and colours tucked into every corner and crevice available. Mismatched furniture and draping vines. 

It was cute, all of it. Very you. The wall facing the couch was hidden beneath tall bookcases that were filled to the brim with every type of book he could imagine. Even with squinted eyes, he could make out a few familiar authors amongst your shelves. 

“Have you read all of those?” He threw his gaze to you, wonder and slight adoration in his eyes, though you were sure you imagined the latter. 

“Mhm,” you hummed around your drink. “Some more times than I can remember.” 

You watched him stand from the couch, his tall frame approaching your collection. He was dressed in black again – his simple jeans and sweater combo – and his hair was perfectly tousled and swept down his forehead. 

Eyes on him, his finger traced the spines of your beloved possessions, settling on one in particular that made your breath still in your chest. Azriel gently pulled it off the shelf, hazel eyes examining the near-pristine cover. 

“Careful,” your soft voice warned him. “It’s worth three grand.” 

Azriel’s eyes almost bulged from his head as he turned to you with the most bewildered expression you’d ever seen. It took every ounce of control not to burst into laughter. 

“What?”

“It’s 134 years old. I restored it the best I could. You should’ve seen it when I found it.” 

Azriel’s brows pulled into a confused frown. “Restored it?” 

“Yeah, that’s what I do for work.” 

When his frown didn’t ease, you cleared your throat to continue. “I work between an auction and a museum in the city. I find the old books and restore them, then sell them through the auction, or they go to the museum.” 

His once furrowed brows raised, his eyes darting back to the book in his hand as if he was inspecting the eighth wonder of the world. Azriel finally turned back to you with a smile that borderlined a smirk. 

“That’s actually pretty cool.” 

A satisfied yet sheepish smile found its way to your lips, cheeks warming under the intensity of his gaze. Azriel slid the book back onto the shelf and continued his observations. 

If you were being honest, it was a little too intimate for your liking. No one in your life had ever taken such interest in your books, not your friends or past lovers. It wasn’t like your love for books was much of a secret, but no one had taken the time to get to know them. 

To know your books was to know you. 

You shouldn’t have been surprised that Azriel was the person to do so. In the short time you’d known him, you realised he was full of surprises.

“What about you?” Your voice greeted his ears softly as you cleaned up the trash from your food. Azriel casted barely a look over his shoulder, eyes caught on your limited edition fantasy book set. A part of you begged to take Azriel’s attention off them. “What do you do for work?” 

That seemed to earn his full attention, causing him to turn to face you fully. With an amused smirk, he followed you a few feet into the open kitchen. “You know what I do for work.” 

Ah. 

“You don’t have anything…legal…to keep on the books?” 

He tried to hide his amusement at your words, but to no avail. Azriel’s smirk only grew and he found himself wondering if his answer might make you think differently of him. 

“If you wanna talk…legalities…then I’m an investor in the stock market.” 

It was your turn to hold the raised eyebrows – a look that Azriel was quick to mirror. “What?” He asked. “You don’t think I could work in stocks?” 

“Do you?” You pressed. 

Azriel’s grin widened slightly. “I do. And I’ll have you know that I’m very good at it.” 

You didn’t want nor need to know any more. You weren’t about to outright ask how much money he had, and if he told you out of his own desire, you were certain it would only make you feel like pure shit. 

Your apartment and belongings weren’t much but they were yours. Everything you had, you worked for. You could do without knowing how many thousands he had sitting pretty in his bank. 

Azriel noticed that distant look in your eyes and took a seat at your island. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel uncomfortable. And if he was being perfectly honest, it was appallingly refreshing to speak with a woman about his side-hustle without them swooning or prying for more details. 

And it appeared that it was only now that either of you were realising how different things were the last time you saw one another. When your lips pressed against his and he kissed you back with just as much want and vigour. 

As if remembering that searing moment, your face and chest began to warm. You were quick to turn away from him, needing a moment to compose yourself and the tight feeling in the pit of your stomach. 

You tried desperately to ignore the ache between your thighs at the memory, instead opting to focus your attention on the half empty box of cookies on the counter. Flipping the lid, you offered one to Azriel who took it without much prompting. 

“Tell me if I’m crossing a line, but if you make enough money investing in stocks, why do you still deal?” 

Azriel’s eyes fluttered closed as he took a bite out of the chocolate chip cookie, and you found your eyes zeroed in on the way his plump lips moved and his broad shoulders slacked slightly. 

His eyes opened to focus on yours. “These are incredible.” You offered a smile, waiting. “Dealing is what got me the money to be able to invest. Don’t get me wrong, I’m good at it, but I lost a lot to get where I am. Dealing is steady income for now. It’s not something I plan to do forever.”

You didn’t probe any further, satisfied with the answer he provided and not wanting to push your luck. Your eyes were drawn to his mouth again, flashes of memories littering your mind as your body warmed once more. 

Clearing your throat, you desperately tried to blink away the haziness he seemed to make you feel. 

“You can smoke out on the balcony, if you want.” 

Azriel finished the last of his cookie and leaned forward on the counter. “I didn’t bring anything.” 

Your head tilted slightly to the half-smoked joint on your counter, stubbed out and back in your open tin. “Smoke the rest of that. It’s too strong for me and I know your tolerance is higher than mine.”

Azriel laughed; hearty and rich and deep. It tickled up your spine and reached around your neck and jaw to tug the corners of your lips into a smile. The effect he had on you was growing to be a slight problem. 

“You wanna come? Fresh air will help.” 

He watched you pinch the joint and lighter from your tin and lead him through to your bedroom. It was decorated similarly to the rest of your apartment–twinkling fairy lights and books and plants��and out on the small balcony, you’d managed to cram a rattan loveseat and table with vines wrapped around the short iron guard rail. 

“Here.” You handed him the joint and lighter. “I’ll be back out, I’m just going to change.” 

Azriel sparked up the joint between his lips, taking a long drag as you returned to your room. The smoke hit the back of his throat sharply, almost knocking him sideways. Even he hadn’t smoked a joint this packed and strong in a while. It was no wonder you’d had a wobble with it. 

He took a seat on the rattan furniture, admiring the little view your balcony offered. The summer air kissed his skin, even as late as the evening was. The warmth of it had him shrugging off his sweater and throwing it over the table, taking another deep pull. 

If Azriel was honest, he was quite thankful for the moments reprieve from your presence. He needed to take a second to calm himself down. Az couldn’t remember the last time he partook in something like this with someone who wasn’t his brothers or their girls. 

This was more of a common thing with Nesta, smoking and eating together. Never Feyre, she always preferred a glass of wine, and occasionally Mor would smoke with him when she was passing through town. Never a random girl, never a new friend. 

But that moment's reprieve was ripped away far too quickly, because you were sauntering back onto the balcony and stealing the breath right from Azriel’s smoked lungs. 

He was fucked. Comepletly and utterly fucked. He’d never seen you look so relaxed, dressed in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of mismatched socks. Your hair was thrown up lazily and stray pieces fell out to frame your face. 

Your legs, however, he couldn’t stop gawking. Soft skin and a whole lot of thigh. Azriel forced his gaze to your face again as you took a seat beside him on the loveseat, leaning your back on the armrest and bringing your knees up to your chest. 

Mother above, he could feel his cock begin to strain in his pants, his eyes begging to sweep your body once more to see what lay between your slightly parted legs. From his peripheral vision, he could see you cross your ankles, effectively shielding yourself.

But Azriel was good at reading people, and by the slight flush of your cheeks and the way your eyes grew more hooded by the second, he was more than certain you knew what you were doing and the affects your actions had on him. 

He took another pull of the joint. “You weren’t kidding,” he mumbled, “this shit is strong.” A bubbly laugh fell from your lips at the way his eyes squinted when the drug settled into his lungs. 

“I did warn you.” 

Azriel offered it to you, watching your inner turmoil as you weighed out your options until pinching it from his fingers. “One pull will be enough to keep me buzzed for the night.” 

He watched your lips thin as they clamped down on the roach. He watched your chest rise as your lungs filled with the thick tar until you pulled the joint from your lips and exhaled slowly. You handed it back to him, cutting yourself off completely for the night. 

Azriel took it between two pinched fingers, keeping his eyes on your slightly flushed face as he took another few drags before stuffing the cherry out in the ashtray. His gaze found purchase on your lips again as he mirrored your position on the loveseat, though Az didn’t tuck his knees to his chest. 

“Are we gonna talk about it?” He asked. 

You blinked at him, head tilted slightly to the left. “Talk about what?”

The way his taunting smirk grew made you shift uncomfortably. You had an inkling as to what he meant, but you hoped if you played dumb, he would drop it. Clearly not. 

“About the last time we saw each other.”

Yup. There it was. 

That familiar warmth spread across your face and chest again in waves of anxiety and embarrassment. You couldn’t handle this type of conversation right now. You were mortified enough as it was, you didn’t need to reminisce about your stupid mistake, nor the way he kissed you back as though his life depended on it. 

You let out a long sigh. “I was kind of hoping you’d forgotten about it.” 

Azriel quirked a brow. “Forget about it?” he asked. “You expected me to forget a kiss like that?” 

It felt like all the air had been completely sucked from your lungs. You could hardly breathe, struggling to string a coherent reply together. Azriel continued to smirk at you, bathing in the way he clearly made you feel. Like he was getting off on your flustered state. 

The state he put you in. 

“It’s been replaying in my head for days.” Azriel’s admission sent your mind into a frenzy. You had no idea what to do with that information or how it was supposed to make you feel. 

What you did know, was that familiar burning in the pit of your stomach, that daunting ache between your clenched thighs. And the way Azriel's eyes darkened and slowly traced the silhouette of your figure, you got the hint he felt the same way, too. 

“Yeah?” Your words came out as barely a whisper, lashes fluttering as the weed you’d just smoked began to settle into your bloodstream. 

Azriel inched a hand tentatively toward your ankle, the tips of his scarred fingers brushing against your cotton socks. The touch had your body keening for more, your legs twitching as he slowly wrapped a large hand around your lower leg. 

“Yeah,” he replied, almost breathless. 

He was testing the waters, desperate to get a feeler as to what you wanted from this interaction. Azriel watched you closely, cataloguing every response your body gave his touch. How goosebumps broke across the silky skin of your legs, how your cheeks flushed slightly and lashes fluttered at him. 

“Is that all you’ve been thinking about?” Your husky voice finally broke through the silence. Az raised a brow at your boldness. “Or do you let your mind wander to what else could’ve happened?” 

If it weren’t for the stifling warmth in the air, Azriel was sure he would’ve come in his pants from your words alone. Because he knew that meant you’d been letting your mind wander to something more. 

You allowed him to gently tug your leg down, resting the back of your calf across his thigh. Your covered cunt was surely exposed, but Az didn’t look. Not yet. A sneaky peek wouldn’t be enough to satiate the appetite he had grown for you. 

He needed to bathe and bask and bury himself in your scent. Mould his body to your body, meld his soul to your soul. Even then, he would never be able to feel you as closely as he craved. 

“You want me to tell you what places my mind has wandered to?” His eyes were glued to your mouth, watching as your tongue slid out to wet your lips before tugging the bottom one between your teeth. 

It was with a surge of complete arousal and haze that had you uttering, “I want you to show me.” 

Azriel’s lips were on yours not a moment later when he surged forward to trap your small frame beneath his large one on the loveseat. You could barely make sense of where you ended and Azriel began. 

His scarred hands cupped your face, his tongue massaging hotly against your own. Your legs had wrapped around his waist, ankles locked across his back to keep him close to you. 

It was unlike any kiss you’d experienced before. Passion and need and desire. Pure want and carnage. Like nothing could ever stop him from tasting you again. Like he was savouring every single piece of you. 

“If you want me to show you…” he muttered against your lips, “I suggest you let me take you inside.” 

You pulled away just enough for your noses to bump and make out a blurry picture of him before you. Swollen lips, mussed up hair that you hadn’t realised you’d been running your fingers through. 

“Worried someone might see?” You panted in a teasing tone. 

His eyes shadowed impossibly darker. “I don’t like to share.” 

Squirming beneath his thick body, your fingernails scraped across his broad shoulders, scratching at the cotton of his t-shirt. “It’s not sharing if they’re just watching.” 

Azriel nipped your bottom lip. “Well, I’m a greedy man, and I don’t want anyone else watching you come on my cock but me.”

A breathless moan tumbled off your tongue like hot honey, your eyes fluttering closed at the words he spoke. You hoped this was just the tip of the iceberg with him. Prayed that he was as filthy as he was gorgeous. 

Without another second to get lost in your thoughts, Azriel was gripping your hips, lifting you as he stood. Your legs around his waist tightened as your arms snaked to circle his neck. 

Even in the dark, he moved swiftly, settling your body onto your mattress without missing a beat. He crawled back between your thighs, the moonlight kissing his tanned skin through the cracks of your window. 

His lips were on yours again, searing and eager. Azriel poured every ounce of need and desire into it, massaging your tongue and licking against the roof of your mouth. He tasted like the cookies you’d baked, a hint of smoke and a tang of bud. 

It was intoxicating. He was intoxicating. 

Your fingers tugged at the curled tendrils on the nape of his neck, ushering him impossibly closer. His body flattened atop yours, the grooves of his abs pressing deliciously against your stomach and chest. 

Gods, he was solid. Built like a fucking Greek God and your fingers itched to trace the delicate intricacies of his golden skin. 

“Azriel,” you panted against his lips. “If you don’t touch me right now I’m going to burst into flames.” 

A dry chuckle left his throat as he dragged his mouth across your jaw and down to your neck; kissing and licking and sucking. He nipped at a sensitive spot, begrudgingly tugging himself off your frame. 

Sitting on his knees between your open thighs, he was a fucking sight. His chest heaved as he took a breath, his eyes dark and hair an unruly mess. Excitement was getting the better of you. So much so that when his scarred fingers looped in the neck of his shirt and tugged it up, you all but foamed at the fucking mouth. 

An unexplainable sound squeaked from the back of your throat. He was fucking beautiful. His skin was flawless, abdomen toned with divots of muscle, and dark ink of swirls that adored his chest. 

You could physically feel your arousal seep from your cunt, could feel your clit throb in desperate need for him. You could hardly breathe, your lungs almost crushed by his sheer beauty. 

You could stare at him forever. 

“Are you going to be good for me?” His rugged voice broke you from your trance. You blinked at him. Once, twice. 

Gone was the flirtatious Azriel who once made you blush from teasing. Gone was the light warmth in his smile and cheeky glimmer in his eyes. 

The Azriel before you was cold now. Calculated. He oozed power and dominance and your pussy clenched in anticipation of the pleasure he might inflict on you. 

The Azriel before you held all the control. And you’d gladly surrender whatever you had left to offer. 

“Yes,” you whimpered in response. 

He didn’t reply. Not with words. Azriel’s large palms flattened on your inner thighs as he pried your legs further apart. The calluses of his marred fingers scratched at your silky skin as they inched closer and closer to your core. 

His fingertips grazed at the soaked fabric of your panties. “Look at you, pretty girl.” 

Your lashes fluttered closed, lips parted open, head rolled back. Gods, you wanted his voice on a loop in your brain for the rest of eternity. If he was going to continue talking, you wouldn’t last long. 

“Look at your dripping little cunt.”

You couldn’t hold in the whimper, nor the way you clenched on nothing—so desperate to be filled by him. 

“I’m going to take my time with you.” You knew it wasn’t a threat, but Christ did it sound like one. You were far too pent up to be touched in any way that wasn’t with a cock buried deep inside you. 

Foreplay could come next time, you’d let him spend hours devouring you if that was what he truly wanted. Not now, not when you were borderline going to sob. 

“Fuck me, Az.”

He stilled, eyes on you as his hands halted on your inner thighs. “Please,” you whimpered, “I need you to fuck me. You can do what you want to me next time.” 

Azriel cocked a brow, the familiar hint of him returning to his face for a brief moment. “You promise?” 

Neither of you allowed yourselves longer than a few brief moments to bask in the vow of a next time. Not when he ghosted his fingers across your cunt and you nodded your head quickly, desperately. 

“There’s condoms in the drawer.” Your words came out a breathless pant as Azriel’s toned body leaned over yours. He rifled through your nightstand, blindly reaching for a foil packet when his fingers grazed against something else. Something silicone.

His eyes found yours in the night, a mischievous glint that darkened his honeyed hazel iris’. Your lips parted. “What?” 

From your angle, you couldn’t see what he held in his hands. Not until Azriel leaned back on his knees between your parted thighs, and the moonlight bounced off the hot pink toy in his palm. 

Oh, fuck. 

Without breaking your gaze, Az gently stroked the tip of the six inch object against your panty-covered cunt. You were soaking through the fabric, your thighs trembling on either side of his legs. 

There was no way this was happening. No way he was going to–

“I think I wanna fuck you with this instead.” 

You couldn’t argue with him, couldn’t even muster a single word to leave your lips. No one had used a sex toy on you before, much less a fucking dildo. And yet here Azriel was, eager to please you in the dirtiest ways possible. Even if it denied him his own pleasure. 

“Az—“ 

He held his free hand in the air. 

“Let’s call it a compromise.” His tone suggested there was no room for argument. You clamped your lips shut and continued to take deep, ragged breaths through your nose. 

“If you’re a good girl with this toy, I’ll reward you with my cock later.” 

Later. As in, he wasn’t planning on making you come just once…

You nodded once more, vigorously. 

If it was down to Azriel he would’ve tied you up and taken his time with you anyway. He would’ve told you not to be a spoiled brat and to take whatever he gave you like a good girl. 

But he couldn’t do that, not yet. 

He couldn’t deprive you of the one thing you desperately wanted. But he could take away the thing to cause the most pleasure. Replace his cock with a toy. Watch you come all over it. And then ruin you until you creamed all over him and sobbed from overstimulation. 

Azriel’s cock leapt in the tight confinements of his pants. He was desperate to free himself, touch himself. Have you touch him. He’d imagined the feeling of your lips around his dick for days, let his mind wander to what you’d look like on your knees for him. 

He needed to be patient, he’d be able to stuff your throat full soon enough. He was sure of it. Then he’d let you sit on his tongue and suffocate him until you were both seeing stars. 

“Please, baby.” 

Your pleading voice broke him from his trance and Azriel wrapped two fingers around your panties and pulled them to the side, baring yourself to him. 

And what a sight you were. 

Swollen and soaked. Your pussy glistened under the moonlight, your hips rolling lazily as if trying to chase the touches he wouldn’t grant you. Az wanted nothing more than to bury his face in your warmth and stay there all fucking night. 

But he didn’t touch you, at least not with his own body and skin. Azriel motioned the toy to your heat, teasingly sliding through your slick folds to collect your arousal. You jolted at the sensation, shuddering beneath his looking touch. 

Azriel leaned over your body, one arm supporting his weight beside your head, the other coaxing the toy through your head, nudging the head against your pulsing clit. 

“You’re gonna keep your eyes on me, and you’re gonna imagine it’s my cock fucking your tight little pussy.” Your chest arched into his, nipples pearled beneath the thin fabric of your t-shirt. 

“Do you understand?” There he was again, that dominant and overpowering Azriel you saw just moments ago. 

You nodded, lips blubbering slightly. “Yes.” 

He cooed you softly, his head dipping down enough to brush his nose against yours. Azriel lined the dildo to your entrance, teasing your hole deliciously before gently pushing through your tightness. 

Your lips parted, brows knit as your body grew taut. His honey gaze dripped into yours, melding you to him as Azriel rolled his hips to mirror what he would do if he was the one fucking you. 

“Such a good girl, taking that cock.” 

Your eyes fluttered closed at his praise, head rolling back into the pillow until his weight shifted above you and a briefly sharp sting met the side of your cheek. Your eyes flew open again, wide and confused. 

Azriel looked down at you, his hand now gripping either side of your cheeks, his gaze much darker than before. 

“I told you to keep your pretty eyes on me.” And then he sheathed the toy deep in your cunt. 

A shriek of pleasure tore through your throat, hands reaching for the warm skin of Azriel’s shoulders. Your nails dragged across the muscles that rippled beneath your touch, scratching at the surface with a cry. 

“Fuck!” 

Azriel began with slow thrusts, allowing you a few brief moments to accumulate to the intrusion. Not much time, but enough. Because after the fourth thrust, he picked up the pace. 

The noises were obscene, your high pitched cries and moans and the squelching of the toy that fucked your sopping cunt. 

Everything was too intense to comprehend. The fullness you felt, the lack of control you possessed. And the way his eyes bore into yours, as though he was claiming your soul to melt with his own. He was hauntingly beautiful, even in his dark demeanour. 

In your hazy state, it looked like even the shadows curled around his figure. As though he was their master, too. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby,” he praised. “Taking that cock like a good little girl.” 

His voice dripped with sex and arousal, and when he shifted his hips once more, you could feel the thick and solid bulge of his length in his trousers. You wanted nothing more than to feel it, taste it. 

You clamped tightly around the toy, dragging scratches and marks down Azriel’s golden skin. “Please let me come.” You had never begged to come before, had never even asked. But you felt no shame in pleading to the God above you for your release. 

You’d give him anything he wanted. 

Azriel’s own breath grew shaky, unready. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. You listened and complied immediately, eager to please him. 

He leaned closer, pinching your face harder before spitting into your mouth, onto your awaiting tongue. Then he was kissing you, biting you, claiming you. 

Your entire body felt like it burst into flames, hot fire licking at you from the inside out. You couldn’t breathe. Your entire being completely locked and consumed as you came around the toy with a frantic sob of his name. 

Azriel couldn’t cope, couldn’t handle the sound of his name on your lips as you came around something that wasn’t him. Every ounce of self control was crumbling down at the sight of you—of your eyes still fixed on his, your jaw slack and your supple body arching to meet his. 

He’d never seen anything so fucking sinful yet heavenly at the same time. Never felt so connected to someone without even touching them. He couldn’t take it, needed to touch you, feel you, taste you. 

Az pulled the toy from your pussy, dragging it up between your bodies as you desperately attempted to catch your breath. He held it to your mouth, and without command, your tongue swirled around the length of it, tasting your own release with your eyes still boring into his soul. 

And now he had an even more vivid image of what you’d look like sucking his cock. 

Before Azriel could get a taste for himself, that cursed blaring of his phone broke through the heaving silence. He didn’t hear it at first, not until it stole your attention from him. 

“Your phone,” you muttered breathlessly, barely coherent. 

Azriel dropped the toy to the side of the bed, his hands gentle on your body and face now. “Ignore it,” he breathed softly. 

His lips met yours in a taunting kiss, one so stark opposite to the way he’d treated you just moments ago. The versatility of this man was going to give you whiplash. 

But the phone blared again. And again. And suddenly, neither of you could ignore it anymore. His forehead rested against yours, a frustrated sigh tumbling off his lips. 

“You should go.”

He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to. 

“You don’t wanna come with me? Do some drop-offs?” He was tempting you, desperately wanting to spend more time in your presence, especially if it potentially ended like this again. 

You hummed, considering it. But your body was spent and the idea of being in his car and not being able to have your hands all over him at any moment you pleased sounded like torture. 

“Next time?” You posed it as a question, though the hope in Azriel’s eyes proved that he was more than happy to not only fuck you again, but to spend time with you, too. 

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

He nosed at your cheek, planting a teasing open-mouthed kiss to your jaw, nosing back up to your ear. “You look fucking breathtaking when you come.” 

Your eyes fluttered closed when he pulled away, your thighs trembling as he knelt and then clambered off your bed. Azriel watched your spent body for a moment, the way your thighs rubbed together as you squirmed, no doubt still horny. 

It pained him to leave you like that, wanting more. But if he didn’t leave now, he likely never would. And that wasn’t something he could afford to do right now. 

So without another word, he bent down to press a kiss to your mouth, and then he left—still high on both the drugs and you. 

A/N: I can’t even put into words how excited I am for this to be back and to be writing this again!! I’m hoping to have 5 or 6 parts to this series and I have 90% of it planned out too!! Updates may be irregular as I do have a job and a child and a busy life but I will do my best. If you’d like to be added to the tag list, please send me an ask and I’ll get you added for future parts <3

If you enjoyed it please consider giving it a like and reblog! Writers love to hear your feedback <3

[riddlesb1tch]

Imagine you and Azriel arguing about some petty little issue you don't even remember now, but you're still mad at him because obviously. You have dinner over at Rhysand's, for which everyone is bringing one dish. You chose to take dessert: custard. When everyone is done eating, you serve everyone the custard, and to get revenge on Azriel, you put a ton of salt in his bowl. When everyone is eating, you watch azriel out of the corner of your eye, waiting for the second he spits it out or gags. To your surprise, though, azriel finishes the entire bowl like it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted. You watch him, perplexed. You can't resist asking through the bond, "How did you eat that entire thing without spitting it out?" and he replied, "You could feed me poison and it'd be my best meal simply because you served it to me, my mate."

Also honorary mention @arshiyuh for the convo below

[spicycheeto]

Chat this is sweet as hell. I want it tattooed on my body.

Not sure if you’re still taking requests, but how about Az with a reader who has a tendency to hurt herself yet never realizes it until someone points it out?

I am constantly cutting myself and I never feel it - I swear the phrase “Are you okay? You’re bleeding!” Is one I hear at work weekly lol

Title: How to Alarm a Shadowsinger in Three Accidental Steps

pairing: azrial x human mate (fem!reader)

genre: flulf

The scent hit Azriel before he even entered the townhouse kitchen—blood. Your blood.

He was moving before he registered the thought, shadows whipping around him as he materialized in the doorway. His hazel eyes scanned the room with predatory precision, daggers already in hand.

What he found was you, humming contentedly while chopping vegetables for dinner, completely oblivious to the thin line of red trailing down your forearm.

"You're bleeding," he said, his deep voice so sudden in the quiet kitchen that you jumped, the knife clattering to the cutting board.

"Mother above, Az!" You pressed a hand to your chest. "Make some noise when you move, would you?"

He didn't smile, though the corners of his scarred hands tightened around Truth-Teller. "You're bleeding," he repeated, nodding toward your arm.

You glanced down, eyebrows rising in surprise. "Oh. Look at that." You examined the shallow cut with mild interest, as though observing a slightly unusual cloud formation. "Must've nicked myself with the knife."

Azriel's shadows retreated slightly as he realized there was no actual threat, but his concerned expression remained. With a silent sigh, he sheathed Truth-Teller and crossed to where you stood.

"This is the third time this week," he murmured, taking your wrist in his scarred hand. His touch was gentle—always so gentle with you—as he guided you to the sink.

"Is it really?" You tried to remember. "There was the thing with the book yesterday—"

"The paper cut that bled all over the library carpet," he confirmed, his deep voice tinged with exasperation as he ran cool water over your cut.

"And..."

"The splinter from the dock at the Sidra two days ago." Az's shadows curled around your joined hands, as though they too were concerned. "The one you didn't notice until Cassian pointed out you were leaving bloody footprints."

You had the decency to look embarrassed. "In my defense, we were having a very engaging conversation about battle tactics."

"And now this." He patted your arm dry with a clean towel, his movements methodical and practiced. It wasn't the first time he'd tended to your accidental wounds, and you both knew it wouldn't be the last.

"It doesn't even hurt," you protested.

"It never does, until later." Azriel guided you to sit at the kitchen table, where a small medical kit had appeared. You'd never seen him retrieve it. Shadows, probably.

As he began cleaning the cut with practiced efficiency, you noticed the tightness around his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw. Your shadowsinger was worried, though he'd never admit it.

"I'm not actually made of glass, you know," you said softly, hoping to ease that look from his face.

Az's hazel eyes flicked up to meet yours. "Glass would be better. Glass makes noise when it breaks."

You couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up. "Did you just make a joke, spymaster?"

The barest hint of a smile touched his lips as he wrapped a bandage around your forearm. "It's not a joke when it's true, love."

"Well, lucky for me I have a shadowsinger who can smell a single drop of blood from across Velaris."

That earned you another almost-smile. "Apparently that's a necessary skill when you're involved."

His shadows curled closer, whispering something in his ear that made color touch his cheekbones. After five decades together, you still loved that you could make this ancient, deadly warrior blush.

"What are they saying now?" you asked, nodding toward the shadows.

Az finished securing your bandage, but didn't release your hand. "They're suggesting I assign one of them to follow you permanently, to alert me the moment you injure yourself."

"Oh, now that's just excessive—"

"I'm considering it."

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the effect was ruined by your smile. "You wouldn't dare."

His scarred thumb traced gentle circles on your palm. "You cut yourself chopping carrots, love. Soft, yielding carrots."

"They were being very uncooperative carrots."

One shadow detached from the others, sliding up your newly bandaged arm to curl around your wrist like a bracelet. It was cool but not unpleasant, a familiar sensation after all these years.

"Az," you warned, though there was no heat in it.

"It's just until dinner," he said, rising to his feet. "I'll finish the chopping."

As he turned back to the cutting board, you heard him murmur to the shadow, "Alert me if she so much as touches anything sharper than a spoon."

"I can hear you, you know."

Azriel's shoulders shook with silent laughter. "Good."

The shadow around your wrist squeezed gently, almost affectionately. You'd long ago stopped being unnerved by them; now they were simply extensions of Az himself—protective, vigilant, and surprisingly tender when it came to you.

"I don't need a babysitter," you said, but made no move to dislodge the shadow.

Az glanced over his shoulder, a rare full smile gracing his handsome face. "After fifty years, five hundred and twenty-three bandages, and one memorable incident with a teacup that somehow left you needing stitches, I think I'm entitled to a little caution."

"You've been counting?"

"Shadowsingers never reveal their methods." He resumed chopping with efficient grace.

You watched him work, this deadly warrior now wielding a kitchen knife with the same precision he showed on the battlefield. The shadow around your wrist pulsed gently in time with Az's heartbeat.

"I love you," you said suddenly, because sometimes the sight of him still took your breath away, even after all this time.

Az paused, his shoulders softening. Without turning, he replied, "I love you too. Please try not to bleed on dinner."

Your laughter filled the kitchen, bright against his shadows. The perfect balance, as always.

Later that night, when you somehow managed to cut your finger on a book while reading in bed, Azriel's exasperated sigh was followed by such a tender kiss to your palm that you almost—almost—felt bad for being so accident-prone.

Almost.

End.

[itsswritten]

I want to drink your words like wine…

There were no boundaries in this relationship, you were wholly enmeshed. If people knew they would call it obsessive, controlling, even a little destructive. But who were you to deny the pull of the mating bond, who were you to determine what only felt natural. You knew being mated to the Shadowsinger of the night court would come with secrets.

You just didn’t realise your life would then be dedicated to managing your dark and twisted mate, hiding how possessive Azriel truly was.

Oh if anyone knew, they would call him toxic, manipulative, dangerous. But there was the way he looked at you— as though he was hooked on an addiction…and that filled you with some kind of twisted satisfaction.

He was obsessed…with you. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I read your diary every night…” Azriel breathed, his hot breath coming to the nape of your neck as you felt his body flush against your back.

There were no boundaries in this relationship. Privacy wasn’t a luxury you had. You were an open book, one to be devoured over and over should your mate wish to.

“I want to drink your words like wine…” Azriel nipped the soft skin behind your ear gently.

You turned around to him then, arms wrapping around his neck as you looked up into his dark hungry lidded gaze.

“Drink up Az,” your response had been before his lips crashed into yours.

****

Warnings: obsessive Az 😘

A/n: Just a little drabble inspired my some frank Ocesn lyrics. Exploring a version of Az that I secretly kinda love 👀🫣

Permanent taglist: @sleepylunarwolf @daily-dose-of-sass @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @milswrites @amberlynn98 @marscardigan @illyrianbitch @lilah-asteria @writingcroissant @flameandshadows

[coquettefrancaise]

the boy is mine

by Brandy, Monica

pair: Azriel x reader ~ 3k

warnings: lewd thoughts, a punch, self-deprecation, down bad shadowsinger

summary: only one person existed in Azriel's eye and it was you

author's note: this is the continuation of rock 'n' roll star! it’s more of an ‘az appreciating/adoring his mate’ story more than anything else lol this feels so all over the place but it felt...right

It was no secret that the Shadowsinger had a mate.

While he had been discreet about the past females he had taken to bed, when he met you, it was as if he suddenly enjoyed having someone to show off.

Something about your little quirks and the way you looked at him had him head over heels in no time.

Like how you hated peeling oranges because the skin dug under your nails and your fingers tended to smell like citrus the rest of the day. Or how you worried over the birds that he accidentally ran into mid-flight. Or-

"I need to think of some way to thank Mor."

Azriel was startled out of his reverie at the sound of your husky voice. He peered down at you where you rested, tucked into his side, fingers tracing the Illyrian tattoos etched onto his skin, warm from slumber.

You both enjoyed spending the mornings this way: waking up twenty minutes before he left for training, and either chatting and cuddling or getting some pre-exercise in.

It was his favorite part of the day. To wake you up with gentle kisses and then hold you close as you absorbed each other's warmth. You always opened your eyes with a pout, stretching your limbs while making precious noises before seeking to press as much of your skin against his.

And when it was time for him to head out, you'd snuggle into his side of the bed, intent on catching more rest. It was a struggle for Azriel to leave you but he knew Cassian would kick his ass if he wasn't in the training ring by dawn.

He had attempted to get you into joining but you quickly found that Valkyrie training hadn't been something you enjoyed. Instead, you preferred doing some pilates or yoga, intent on still toning your body but not by performing excruciating workouts. Preferably after the sunrise too.

"Why?" he asked, rubbing a hand over your arm.

You looked up at him under your lashes, softly illuminated by the dim twilight that crept through the lace curtains, finger climbing up his neck to twist the earring he wore. "Because she's an absolute gods-send and deserves the biggest fruit basket ever made."

Ah. He understood it now.

He didn't know what came over you after he acquired that particular accessory, but he couldn't say he was entirely put off by it. He was entirely put on by it, if anything.

Suddenly, your hands were always on him, whether it be fiddling with his ear, or roaming over his hard muscles, they were always on him.

Not to mention that you had become possessive, glaring at the people who dared a look at Azriel, twice once cursing out a female who had flirted with him.

And clocking one in the face.

You'd been interested in taking painting lessons by Feyre for a while now. Azriel knew how much you enjoyed finding new hobbies. First, it had been pottery, then archery, and now art. The first two had resulted in exploding ceramics and a nearly impaled foot but this one should be safer. Right?

Azriel leaned against the doorframe of the studio, admiring your hunched over form as you worked at your easel, tongue sticking out of your mouth in concentration, brow knitted deeply. He'd have to rub the tense lines out when you were finished to prevent a headache.

He had just returned from a fortnight-long mission in the human lands and arrived to Valeris not even ten minutes ago. He had refused to go home first thing, knowing you wouldn't be there.

It hadn't taken Azriel long to realize that he loathed being wherever you weren't.

His shadows clung to his leathers as he felt all the attention zero in on him. Don't get him wrong; he was used to being stared at but he rarely drew attention intentionally.

Even though most of the room's occupants were intent on Azriel, you and Feyre, who was up front, babbling on about shading, were oblivious to his presence.

He ignored everything else in favor of watching you. It took all that was in him not to walk to where you sat, pull you up into his arms, and take in your body being with his at last.

Cauldron. How had he managed being away from you for two weeks?

At last, the class wrapped up and everyone began washing their brushes, capping their paints, and gathering their belongings, brushing past Azriel on their way out with giggles and batted lahes.

Azriel watched as Feyre walked to where you still sat, pointing at the details of your art with a nod of consideration.

When there was only one fellow student straggling behind, Azriel pushed off the doorframe and strode to you, hand brushing along your bare shoulder in greeting.

Your eyes shot up to where he stood and in no time at all, your arms wrapped around his neck. He chuckled softly, pulling you tighter into his embrace as he took a deep breath of your skin.

"Missed you, baby," he sighed into your ear before pressing a kiss to the skin underneath. "How was class?"

You answered with a hum.

"When'd you get back?"

He opened his eyes to look at Feyre, who was grinning from ear to ear. "About twenty minutes ago."

"You know, Rhys always complains about how you go home to your mate first then write up your report."

Even though her words were meant to be a scold, her eyes shone with understanding.

"He's going to have to deal with it."

You detached yourself from Azriel, much to his dismay, but kept a hand looped around the small of his back and one on his stomach. "I usually have to feed this big guy as soon as he steps foot in Valeris so he doesn't tear off any heads."

Feyre's face scrunched in distaste. "I'd rather not hear about your bedroom activities b-"

Your face turned an adorable shade of red as you interrupted with, "Gods, Feyre! Not what I meant! At all!"

Azriel barely contained his smirk. "That's exactly what she meant."

You rolled your eyes and stepped out of his reach. "Both of you are impossible." You complained as you went about cleaning up your area.

Despite being easily flustered, you were in no way or form a prude. You climbed him like a tree every second you could.

"Could you step up onto the platform for me, Az?"

Azriel snapped out of staring at your ass as you bent over to retrieve a fallen paintbrush. "Hmm?"

Feyre gestured to the lifted platform in the middle of the room.

He hesitated, kissing his teeth before obeying. She was his high lady after all.

She then walked around him, finger tapping her chin as if in deep concentration. Azriel squinted, unused to the harsh glare of lights pointed directly at him. From the few times he'd observed the class, Feyre used this pedestal for the objects her students painted. Were it a bowl of fruit or a model.

Feyre continued to study him with a sharp eye before saying, "I've been thinking of offering a figure study course and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind being the muse?"

Before he could ask what the hell a study figure course was, a strong hand gripped at his arm. You stood at his side- when did you get there? -a murderous glint in your eye. "No way!" you hissed.

Feyre opened her mouth to argue but Azriel intervened with, "First off, what is a study figure course?"

Feyre huffed, "It's a nude anatomy class."

Out of all the things, that was the last thing he thought of.

Your fingers dug deeper into his leathers, bringing him out of his surprise. You were obviously worried- rightly so -that'd he'd accept. He could tell as much by the worry pulsating down the bond, and tight features.

Azriel considered pulling your leg a little but decided against it when an unbidden image flashed in his mind.

There you stood, in a room full of males, clad in nothing but a silk robe, standing on the platform, lights illuminating your exposed skin in a pants-tightening manner. You wore a seductive smile, breasts accentuated by the tie underneath and nipples poking through the nearly see-through fabric.

The males were perched on the edge of their stools, white-knuckled grasps on their art supplies as they hungrily watched you untie your robe. The scant fabric slid off your shoulders until it hit the floor with barely a whisper.

"So?"

Azriel kept his face composed, a lot calmer than he felt inside. "I'm alright, but thank you, Feyre."

He heard the sigh of relief you emitted.

"It was worth a try." Feyre shrugged. "Cassian will be ecstatic to know the position is all his."

"He'll be thrilled." He agreed, leading you out of the room to head home where he could remind himself that you were nobody's but his.

As soon as you both stepped foot outside, Azriel felt his tense shoulders drop, the fresh air clearing his mind of murdering males of his own fabrication.

"For what it's worth, you would have made a hot muse."

The straggling student stepped out from behind Azriel, finger twirling around her hair as she perused him with appreciative eyes.

It seemed that she had overheard the conversation then.

He was going to brush her off politely, but just as Azriel blinked, a fist flew into the female's face, causing her to stumble back with a pained cry.

Holy shit.

Azriel's head whipped down to you, who was rubbing your tender knuckles with a sneer.

You shook with barely contained rage as you spat, "Scram before you have to pay for a nose job." Azriel felt his blood rush south at your display of dominance.

Without further prompting, she fled into the night, hand cupping her bleeding nose.

The streetlights illuminated your scowl ."Don't even think about chastising me ab-"

Your snarky words were cut off by his mouth pursuing yours. He pushed you up against the nearby brick wall, hand cupping the back of your head to take the brunt of the impact.

His tongue swept past your lips, tracing the letters of his name on the roof of your mouth. That action spurred you into moaning, grinding yourself against the knee he slotted between your legs.

You pulled away abruptly, voice thick with arousal. "What in the cauldron?"

Azriel laughed softly, "I've never seen you so violent before, baby."

"Did it turn you on?" your lips curved in a wicked smile.

He brought your hand to his crotch, letting you feel his hardness.

Judging by the heaviness of your eyes and the heat emanating from your body, he'd say you were turned on as well.

"You know I'll never let another female see my body, don't you?" his breath caught in his throat when you squeezed.

"You're mine."

He guessed this was the end of your exploration of the arts.

With how obsessed he had always been with you, it was nice to have it reciprocated. And he only said that because you managed to be a little more subtle with your affections towards him. It was daunting, you had once told him, to be mated to one of the most dangerous males in history, especially in public.

"You really like the earring, huh, baby?"

"I absolutely love it on you," you teased your nails across his abs, causing them to tense. "I love everything about you."

"Especially my body."

"Why do you say that?"

He laughed through his nose at the defensiveness that laced your tone. "You're always ogling me."

You clicked your tongue, "Gods forbid a female has hobbies."

Sweat-dotted, sinewy muscles bulged every time he straightened out of his crunches. Abs tightening with short, controlled breaths.

You were beginning to feel faint with awe-

Azriel couldn't help but falter in his workout at your projected thoughts.

A shadow snickered in his ear that you hadn't taken your eyes off him since the moment he brought you to the training ring.

He'd been unable to sleep, tossing and turning relentlessly, until he decided to sweat off his insomnia. Having felt his shifting off the bed, you begged to join him.

Now, twenty minutes later, he was finishing his warm-up and amused at your open side of the bond.

"Come over here a sec," he sat up, panting softly.

You stood in front of him, arms wrapped around your waist as you waited for him to speak again. He took a moment to admire the cool breeze shifting your tousled hair and the hem of your robe.

"Lay down, baby."

"What?"

"Listen to me," his voice brokered no room for complaints or refusals. "and lay down. Or do I have to-"

You situated yourself along the mat before he could finish his sentence.

"Good girl."

He hovered above you, hands pinned above your shoulders, toes beneath yours. One of the things he appreciated about being nearly two times your size, was that he could dominate you in any position.

"You've behaved well today, haven't you?"

You nodded eagerly.

He lowered himself down into a push-up and pecked your lips, causing you to giggle.

He continued the process, laughing himself at your excited wriggling.

"I saw myself through your eyes earlier and I have to admit that you've done wonderful for yourself, choosing me to spend the rest of your life with."

"Someone's cocky," you puckered your lips when he went down again. "But now you see what I have to compete for everyday."

"Compete?" he moved to sit on his knees, watching you in confusion.

You sat up as well, biting at the inside of your cheek. "Yes, all of Prythian knows you're my mate and husband. But do they keep their hands and eyes to themselves? Ha!"

Azriel never thought twice about anyone other than you, so he didn't know why you were feeling so insecure about his attention. He'd rather carve out his eyes with Truth-Teller than look at anyone else.

He crushed you to his chest, uncaring that you were being smothered in his sweat.

Apparently, neither did you, seeing as you nudged your nose into the space between his pecs. He thought he'd been fairly vocal about his adoration for you. Every morning began and every evening ended with his proclaimed love for you.

No matter. He would reassure you every second of the day if it meant he could keep those deprecating thoughts out of your mind.

He said against the crown of your head, "There is no competition. You're the one I choose every single time."

You melted in his embrace.

"Would I have pierced my damn ear for anybody else?"

You giggled into his chest.

"I'd get a damn tramp stamp if you so much as hinted at it, baby."

"You really love me."

"Why do you sound so surprised? Have I not done a thorough job of showing my love for the past decade?" doubts began creeping into his mind and he-

A warm hand cupped his cheek, and you brushed your thumb over his lips. "There's nothing you've done to make me think otherwise; it's just me"

He kissed the pad of your thumb, feeling his heart swell with all the overwhelming love he carried for you. "And I wouldn't wish you to be anyone else."

He grabbed a handful of your ass, hauling you up to straddle him, "I would never begrudge you your peeping Tom hobbies, baby. You know I keep this body hard for you."

You huffed an ironic laugh, "Not because you're one of the only Carynthian's and right-hand male to the high lord?"

He shook his head. "Just. For. You."

Azriel took a moment to admire you. He didn't mind that you refused to get rid of his tatty-old t-shirt you used as a nightshirt. Not when you paired it with a pair of panties and nothing else.

"You're telling me you spent five-hundred plus years training and working out just for me? The mate you didn't even know you had? Who wasn't even born until centuries later?"

Cheeky female.

"Somewhere, deep down in my old, decrepit heart, a fire had been kindling. I had no clue where it came from nor how it continued to stoke. All I knew was that it meant something wonderful and glorious. I spent my days burying myself in my work; killing evil people and reporting to Rhysand. Every night spent with a random fae left me feeling lonelier and empty. Until I saw the most beautiful female in all of the world.

"She had this glow about her, this unwavering kindness, that drew me in. So I offered to purchase her ice cream and thus began my understanding of that long-forgotten fire. Every moment I spent with you, building the relationship I knew was about to be my everything, helped the flames burn brighter. I felt alive, something I never thought possible considering the blood on my hands.

"And now, that female turned out to be my mate and I knew I would do anything—anything—to keep her safe. To ensure that she was happy. So, to answer your absolutely ridiculous question, yes. I have built this body, and this soul, for you."

You tilted your head, silver lining your eyes, as you took him in, completely, and willingly, at your mercy. "You could have just said yes."

He chuckled, flipping you over so he laid on top of you, "Do you understand now why I do everything I have for you?"

A tear slid down your cheek and he kissed it away.

"Because you give me meaning, baby."

Your lips met in a slow kiss, conveying the words and emotions too difficult to speak aloud. Azriel breathed you in like one would fresh air. As if he needed you to survive. And you met him in the middle, giving him all he looked for.

After a couple of minutes, before Cassian would come to collect Azriel's sorry ass, you said against Azriel's lips, "Does this mean you'll help me with that fruit basket?"

"I'll find the biggest, juiciest fruit for that fucking basket."

[nightcourtnovels]

Matchmaker (Part 3)

Azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel decides to take Nyx to the library to see reader for their “date”.

~~~~~~~~~

The Day Court library was always quiet in the early morning hours, the soft warmth of sunlight filtering through stained glass windows painting patterns of gold and blue across the marble floors. The scent of old books and ink lingered in the air like a memory, familiar and comforting.

You stood near a tall window, the light catching the strands of your hair as you arranged a display of books about ancient Day Court magic. You were nervous, though you’d never admit it out loud. It wasn’t about seeing Nyx again—gods, the child already had your heart in his pocket. It was him. The male who had said, in a voice far too soft and dangerous, “Maybe I do want it to be.”

A whisper of shadow curled around the doorway, announcing Azriel’s arrival even before you heard the soft thud of boots on stone.

You turned with a knowing smile just as he stepped into the library, Nyx riding proudly on his shoulders, little wings fluttering in excitement.

“Special delivery,” Azriel said, voice laced with quiet amusement. “The prince has arrived for his private tour.”

Nyx leaned forward, his arms wide. “Y/N!” he shouted with glee.

You laughed, walking forward and taking the little prince into your arms with ease. “You made it!”

Azriel watched the two of you, something unspoken in his eyes. “He’s been talking about the library all morning,” he murmured. “And about you.”

Your cheeks warmed slightly, but you waved it off with a smile as Nyx wriggled free from your hold, already running toward the nearest reading nook. “I’m honored. Come on, you two. I’ve got something special planned.”

You led them deeper into the library, past the central dome where scholars worked at glowing desks, soft-glass orbs floating overhead to enhance the natural light. A few looked up as you passed, offering respectful nods to both you and Azriel.

Nyx whispered, “Do they all live here?”

You chuckled. “Some do. These are researchers, historians, spellweavers. They study sunlight, time, memory—all the parts of Day magic that help shape our world.”

Azriel gave a thoughtful hum. “And you oversee all of this?”

“I manage,” you said with a small smile. “Helion calls me the golden scholar, which is just his dramatic way of saying I do a lot of the work he doesn’t want to.”

Azriel’s lips quirked. “He’s not wrong.”

You blinked at the compliment, heat blooming in your chest.

“Are you flirting with me in a library?” you teased.

He leaned just a little closer, voice a whisper now. “I’d never defile a sacred space… unless you asked me to.”

You snorted, laughing louder than you meant to. “Azriel!”

He grinned, rare and beautiful, but said nothing as Nyx jumped in excitement. “Read now?” he asked, pointing toward the sunny children’s wing.

You smiled, leading the way down the spiral staircase. “Yes, let’s read.”

You led them into one of the more hidden wings of the library—a quiet space where sunlight filtered down from a dome overhead, illuminating soft cushions and a ring of low shelves filled with magical storybooks and child-safe scrolls. A few books floated gently overhead, glowing softly as they shifted from page to page mid-air.

Nyx gasped in wonder.

Giggling, you pulled Nyx over and settled him down in your lap, opening a book that shimmered with golden ink. “Today, we’re going to read about lightbinding—how Day Court magic can be used to create illusions, warmth, protection, and sometimes…” You tapped the page. “…beauty.”

As you read, golden illustrations danced off the pages, acting out scenes in mid-air. Nyx gasped and clapped, utterly delighted. Azriel sat beside you, his shoulder nearly touching yours as he leaned in to see the animated sun lion prancing across the page.

When the story ended, Nyx turned to you with wide, curious eyes. “Y/N… what kind of magic do you have?”

You smiled gently. “Would you like to see?”

Nyx nodded eagerly.

Azriel said nothing, but you felt the shift in his attention—like all his shadows stilled at once, drawn taut as he waited.

You extended your hand, palm up. Slowly, you let your magic rise.

Golden light unfurled from your fingertips, delicate as silk. It glowed like the afternoon sun through a stained glass window, and with a soft hum, it began to form shapes—gentle tendrils of warmth took form. A miniature sun bloomed in your hand. From it sprouted a garden of glowing wildflowers, curling toward Nyx like they recognized his laughter.

Nyx gasped. “Uncle Azzie, it’s alive! It’s like… like dancing sunshine!”

You laughed, sending the petals into a spiral around him, letting the magic tickle his cheeks before it slowly dissolved into golden dust.

When you glanced at Azriel, he was already staring.

His shadows had stilled entirely, and his eyes—those deep, hazel eyes—were locked on you as if he were watching something sacred.

“That was…” he said, his voice husky, “incredible.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “What, did I impress a Spymaster with a few party tricks?”

Azriel blinked, then smiled—one of those rare, slow, real smiles. “I’ve seen a lot of magic. Never seen anything like that.”

“Careful, Shadowsinger,” you whispered, “you’re starting to sound like you like me.”

He leaned closer, voice low and teasing. “Starting to?”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter.

But before you could respond, Nyx was pulling at your sleeve again, demanding another story and another trick. And so the moment passed, but not the feeling—not the way Azriel kept watching you like you were light in the middle of all his shadows.

You stood, brushing off your dress, and offered your hand to Nyx. “Come on, little prince. Let’s go find a book about sunships.”

After taking your hand to stand, Nyx skipped off ahead. You followed more slowly, aware of Azriel trailing beside you. The space between you hummed, electric and quiet.

When Nyx had found a spot to curl up with a new book, you and Azriel lingered by one of the tall windows overlooking the cliffs. The golden sky had begun to shift toward sunset, the light gentler now, softer.

Azriel was silent for a moment. Then— “I leave tomorrow.”

You blinked. “Back to Velaris?”

He nodded. “Rhys wants me back in Velaris for a few weeks. Training, updates, the usual.”

You nodded slowly, already feeling the ache of something slipping away before you’d had the chance to fully hold it. “That makes sense.”

He glanced at you, his voice quieter now. “I was wondering if you’d let me take you out before I go.”

Your breath caught. “You mean—”

Azriel smiled, rare and stunning. “An actual date. Not library supervision. No small princes. Just you and me.”

You tilted your head, lips curving. “And what exactly would a Shadowsinger plan for a Day Court girl?”

He leaned just a little closer, voice dropping to a delicious, velvet murmur. “I was thinking something warm. Slow. Something that makes you blush like you did earlier.”

You stared at him, your skin already heating. “Azriel—”

He stepped back with a wicked smirk. “That blush. Right there.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

Azriel’s shadows danced around him, like they were just as pleased as he was. “Don’t worry, scholar. I’ve got a whole evening to make it worse.”

You bit your lip, smiling despite yourself. “Then I suppose it’s only fair I wear that yellow dress again.”

Azriel’s grin faltered for just a second—just long enough for you to know he was already picturing it.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’ll have me writing excuses not to go back.”

You looked up at him, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “Maybe I’ll give you a reason to stay.”

And Cauldron help you—Azriel’s expression went from playful to something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something hopeful. For a long moment, neither of you said a word.

Then Nyx called out from across the room, completely oblivious to the charged silence. “Y/N! I found a book about lava birds!”

You exhaled shakily. “Duty calls.”

Azriel stepped aside for you to pass, but as you did, he caught your wrist gently—his thumb brushing along your pulse point.

“One night,” he said. “Just you and me.”

You smiled at him, eyes glowing with all the sunlight of your magic. “It’s a date then, Shadowsinger.”

[kathren1sky-blog]

Oh you know...same as usual... Az is pinned to Elain and we are in love with some angst!!!!

Unrequited Love

Quick background summary.

Reader is new to inner circle and is secretly in love with Azriel. Azriel is courting Elain and reader is jealous.

This is just something I couldn't get out of my head. It's not a fully fleshed out idea but thought I would post anyway. Enjoy!

----

I was leaning against one of the uppermost railings in the house of wind breathing the crisp air. The laughter and chatter of the people below echoed up to me and it reminded me of this time last year. My first Starfall would be a memory I would never forget.

I had spent the start of the night in exhilaration and excitement to the build-up to the stars falling, hoping that the view looked as stunning as everyone described. My breath left me when I saw those beautiful souls in the sky and it was unlike anything I had ever seen. I remember thinking that I was born to see those skies lit up in the most magical way.

I remember dancing with my friends who were steadfast becoming a new family. I had never had friends that I could call such a thing. I spent the night dancing upbeat songs with Mor and Feyre, songs that’s wild beat felt like it was echoing in my heart. Laughing at Cassian’s dancing, his booming laugh making me laugh. Slow dancing with Azriel at the end of the night my heart beating so loud in my chest I thought he could hear it. Ending the night with my feet so sore I thought I would never walk again, a wild smile on my face. Brightness bubbling in my chest how lucky I was to find Velaris, these people around me.

Tonight felt very different than that. The wild opposite. My chest felt hollow, longing haunting my every step. I didn’t know how long I could live with that hollowness in my chest reaching for something I would never get, it was madness. The moment I had arrived here I had avoided Azriel at any cost. I knew tonight would be tricky, so I convinced myself I wouldn’t have to see him. See him looking at Elain with his own longing showing on his face, so similar to how I knew mine would look looking at him. And I knew I couldn’t bear it, so I escaped up here after saying enough pleasantries to my friends that they wouldn’t suspect a thing. Mor had given me a brief sad look when she saw me, but I quickly looked away looking for the next person to say hello to so I could get away from the pity in her face. I was starting to regret telling her I was secretly in love with Azriel.

The longer I had stayed up here the more my worries seemed distant. The breeze singing its sweet song to me, the cold wind calming my frayed nerves and soothing my aching heart.

“I had a feeling I would find you here.” I started out of my thoughts, twisting around to the sound of Azriel’s voice at the door to the balcony, only a few steps from me. This balcony felt far too small for the distance I had been trying to keep from him the past few weeks. The closest I had been to him in a while. And god did he look good I could hardly stand it. He was wearing his usual black, but it was more tight fitting and smoother than the Illyrian leathers or the thick armored fighting clothes he wore so often. His shadows swirled haphazardly at his shoulders which I knew meant he was unsure.

He studied me, a serious look on his face. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

I shook my head not knowing what to say. I leaned against the railing subtly as much as I could trying to get distance.

His sharp eyes detected it. He looked back up at me his eyes narrowing even more.

He took a step toward me, a pleading look on his face.  “Y/N I just want to talk. If there’s something I have done tell me because I can’t take this anymore. We’ve been close for so long and every time I try to talk to you or even get close you, you back away like you can’t stand me.” He took another tentative step forward like I was a scared cat he was afraid would bolt at any second and he wasn’t wrong.

I shook my head once more. “You didn’t do anything.” I forced a smile onto my face and even its feeling felt too forceful for me. “Everything’s fine Az.”

He arched a brow smoothly. “I’m sorry but I find that hard to believe with how much you have been avoiding me the past few weeks. And then I find you up here hiding.”

“It’s just-“ my words failing me again. What could I say? I found it so hard to lie to him. How could I say the truth? Ever since you and Elain have been spending time together these past few weeks I can't stand to be around you because of my angry hateful jealousy?

“It’s just me Az, you didn’t do anything.”

“What’s just you?”

I made a frustrated noise, looking away from him toward's Velaris below. I was afraid the emotions on my face would reveal all. He was always so good at reading me.

“Please Azriel I can’t. Just not know.” I whispered.

“Than when y/n.” he said softly but sternly, “Because I know how good you are at keeping things bottled up and I’m not going to let it go on for any longer.”

“Oh what and your any better?”

He took an annoyed breath in, his chest expanding before letting it out in a rush. “No I’m not, we’re both great at holding things in. But I can’t walk away without knowing a reason why. Did I do something to hurt you? Say something I shouldn’t have? It’s been driving me mad the past few weeks and I can’t let it go. And don’t say it’s nothing, because I know you and somethings happened between us that I can’t understand. Somethings changed the way you look at me and all I can’t chalk it up too, is that you loathe me.”

My heart broke at his words knowing that I had hurt him. I couldn’t stand to know it. Even though it’s what I had preferred in the beginning when I was avoiding him. I had wanted him to think I was angry at him to hide my feelings. Had been happy to hide behind it. But now the shame of that, the cowardice and shame of everything washed over me. All the emotions I had kept bottled up started to raise to the surface and a cry broke from me. I looked away trying to stop it because I couldn’t stand to look at that pleading look on his face.

“I can’t tell you Az because I don’t want to loose you.”

He crossed the distance between us and turned my chin with one hand so I was looking at him again. And didn't let go so I couldn’t look away from those piercing eyes.

“You could never loose me." And I knew he meant it by the stern look on his face. He truly thought there was nothing that could ruin our friendship, but I wasn’t so sure. Even if he did mean it, things would change when I told him and never go back to the way they were. And I knew he meant what he said but I couldn’t hold it to him. Even when you don’t want it to feelings change and I knew that better than anyone.

“Why do you choose Elain?” I blurted.

His brows furrowed, confusion dancing on his features. “What?” 

“Why do you want to be with someone who doesn’t know what she wants?”

He leaned against the railing letting go of my face in shock.

“Love is tricky sometimes, it’s not always perfect.”

“No Az, love is when someone chooses you completely and doesn’t have thoughts of someone else in their head.  You know she is interested in Lucien. Why do that too yourself when there’s someone out there who will choose you? Want you.”

Az’s face turns angry like I’ve never seen before at least not directed at me. His amber eyes near glowing, his jaw set tight.

 “Oh and I suppose you know this from your experience? You have never experienced what it’s like to be in a real relationship how complicated it can be.”

I laugh hatefully. “I never want to experience love if that’s what it is. Pining after someone who doesn’t even respect you to let you go. Driving you mad to the point that you run to your friend every time she hurts you.”

He stood upright again off the railing and took a step toward me until he was looking down at me with those beautiful eyes so close I had to look up. His chest was rising up and down in angry puffs and as he got so close to me I could see the amber hues in his eyes near glowing. His anger was near radiating from him.

His sharp eyes studied me intently, too intently I wanted to look away.  “Where is this coming from, why are you so concerned by Elain’s intentions toward me?”

“I think I have a right as a friend to be concerned.”

“Answer the question.” He growled.   

"I'm in love with you!" I pushed him and he took a step back. I wasn't sure if it was from the shock or the force of my push. "And your in love with Elain and I can't stand it Az. I can't stand to see you two together because I've been in love with you since we met."

I took a big breath in realizing what I was saying. But I couldn't stop the words that I so desperately needed to get out. "and I know you'll never feel the same. And that's ok." My voice broke at the honestly in those last words, but it was like a weight off my shoulders saying it.

The shock on his face was all I saw before I turned away from him heading to the balcony door. I couldn't bare to hear the rejection from him so I ran away like the coward I was.

[etsukomoonbeam]

So...you hate me? (Azriel x Reader)

Summary: You can't believe he said that to you.

----------------------------------------------------------

"Love. I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to. I can feel it."

Azriel signed, leaning back in the chair at his desk. He is currently writing up a report on the latest mission his spy network completed in the Autumn Court. Well, he was writing until his beautiful mate had walked into his office.

"Love, what i said was that I was busy right now. But once I'm finished with this report, we can cuddle for so long that you'll be sick of me." He smiled, looking up at Y/N.

"Yeah, so you basically just said that you hate me." Y/N huffed, crossing her arms across her chest.

Azriel sighed again and as he went to try to reason with the beautiful high fae that stood before him, the door to the office burst open, Cassian stepping into the room.

"Oh let me guess... he hates you again?" The Illyrian smirked, looking at Y/N, who just nodded, "yup."

"Okay, well I'm gonna go back to this report until you two decide that I could never hate Y/N." Azriel turned back to his report, but could hear the door open and peered up to see Cass following Y/N into the hallway.

As the door closed, a third voice could be hear.

"How dare he hate you?! Hear me out, we can go on a date..." he could hear Mor exclaim as he facepalmed, dragging his hand down his face.

Females.

----------------------------------------------------

Hi everyone! I will be starting to tag people in my posts even if their just little random posts. I'm working on my ideas behind my big work, which we will be coming up soon on the first post of my story! Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list!

Taglist: @circe143 @m4rybb

[violetscar656]

Aftermath - Part 1

Summary: Y/N is a member of the inner circle, sister to Rhysand and Cassian, best friend of Azriel. This story takes place in ACOTAR book 4, after the war, and how it affected the reader

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Warning: mentions of war?, suppressing emotions, denial (sorta)

Author's note: You all go easy on me, PLEASE, it’s my first time writing a story EVER. Now this part is just the foundation for the next part or parts. Comments are open to any suggestions and ideas to the next part,

You couldn’t remember the last time you heard Azriel laugh the way he did right now, it was music to your ears, and that laugh was because of Elain

“Headache medicine, hmm, nifty”, you thought, staring at Azriel

Winter solstice, the longest night and also Feyre’s birthday, you look at them, your brother in arms, and Feyre and can’t help but feel so happy for them. He was not related to you not by blood. You were a bastard, and Rhysand’s mother took you in, Rhysand's sister became like a sister to you, and hence Rhysand became a brother and saw you like a sister. You were shocked that he let you stay after the tragedy, and surprised when he offered you a job in the inner circle

“Not all Illyrian females have magic to harness in a fight, and you, my sister, are packed with it” He told you what feels like a lifetime ago

After Eating A LOT of cake and some glasses of wine, you stood up to go for some silence

“HEY HEY, where do you think you are going, the night just started” Cassian said, stopping you

“I’m going to get some me time before the night turns into chaos”, you say, turning your head looking at him

“Chaos?” Rhys chimes in, sitting on the sofa, both eyesborws raised up

“Yes, chaos, drunk Mor will start singing, and then drunk Cass will join her, AND you and Feyre will seek off, leaving me with handling these two” You say in a coy yet assumed tone

“Funny, I thought Az was the one who handled the three off you”, Feyre says, taking a seat on Rhys’s lap

“My lady, that just happened once, Az usually sits there or disappears in the shadows” You say, narrowing your eyes at Azriel

Standing near the living room balcony in The Town House, you were just enjoying the few minutes of silence before you head back. Azriel’s laughter still stuck in your mind like an annoying song,

Why? You shouldn’t feel like this, you can’t, you practically grew up with them, Cassian and Rhys were your brothers, but Az, you never could see him that way, no matter how much you tried, considering the fact that he saw you as a sister,

These people gave you a home, a life, you did not know who your father was, and your mother was an Illyrian, low-born, seamstress who knew Rhysands’s mother; she was basically your Aunt. Your mother took you to her when you were 12, your magic was developing, and you knew your mother was sick; you could feel that there were few moments left with her.

You owed your life to Rhys’s mother, she helped you gather illegal herbs to delay your maturing, and when your brothers and Azriel finished the Blood Rite, you were untouchable by the brutal Illyrians who wanted to clip your wings, cause everybody knew who called you sister.

-

The night of drinking, laughing, remembering the old days, and just living, alive, you survived the war. Everybody who mattered in your life did.

You just finished another bottle of wine while gossiping with Mor when,

“What’s with the expression” Rhy’s voice sounds in your mind

“What I’m just happy”

“Y/N I have known you since you were a child, don’t you think I know when your face smiles, but your eyes are sad and distant?” He says, worry lining his tone

“Rhys, stop reading me, and it doesn’t matter, my family is alive, YOU ARE ALIVE  I.AM.HAPPY” with that you raise up your shields

Your eyes wander off to the shadowsinger sitting with Elain, her gift in his hand, talking, he is even smiling, and you just feel an ache in your heart, but it goes as fast as it came

You look at Cassian nursing a glass of whiskey by the window, looking outside as if he can see all the way to the other side of Velaris. By the Mother, the longing in his eyes,

You side glance at her with a smirk, your silent words  to her, go with the flow

You get up from the settee and go near the window and put a hand around Cassian's shoulder. he looks at you and smiles, then out of nowhere, you grab him in a headlock and start swinging your arms

“W-what is wrong you Y/N?” Cassian asks, he asks voice almost chocking

“Never keep your guard down, big brooo” You say with a smirk eyes glinting of playfulness

“Oh fuck you”, he says while laughing

Cassian knew you always had his back in a fight, and when it came to feelings, you knew when to and how to cheer him up or sit and have a conversation

“I got your back”  you said the first time you comforted him  “You always got others back; someone needs to have yours”

Everybody started laughing at the General in a headlock sawing back and front,

“You're gonna pay for that” Cassian said, freeing himself, a smile on his face

“Let's see” you tell him, grinning

--

A few days later, you are back in the House of Wind, training session with Cassian, and you lie on the ground, exhausted. Cassian did get you back for the solstice trick, your body aches when

“Good Morning”  you hear Azriel’s voice, and you get up, looking at him in his Illyrian leathers,  you try to calm your heart

“Hello there, brother” Cassian says “Get standing”  he says, looking at you on the ground

You mumble some curses and get your ass moving

---

“If you keep staring like that, your little play will be over” You filch looking at Cassian

“W-what do you mean play?” You ask voice is not as stable

“Y/N you think that I cannot see the way you look at him? You are good at hiding, not gonna lie, took me a while to figure” Cassian ask, your eyes widen, “Don’t worry, he is out of earshot” Relief washes on your face

“You knew? Since when?”  You ask him, worrying that he is not the only one

“It was pretty obvious when you refer to Rhysie and me as your brother, but not Az” He says

“Since when” you demand

“After I saw you bawl your eyes out in the kitchen at night when you got to know he has feelings for Mor” Cassian confess

“T-that long” You say, stunned by the news that was years ago “Does anyone el-“

“Rhys does, Feyre suspects, he doesn’t “, Cassian says, jerking his head towards Azriel

“Thank you” that’s all you could say, you were a bit relieved, and Mor and Amren did not know

You sit in the bath after the training. What Cassian said shook you, your mind goes places you did the thing which usually calms it, you dunk yourself in the water, and close your eyes, calming darkness relaxes you. But then it happens, flashes

-Rhy’s dead body, Cassian bloodied up, Azriel's shredded wings, Amren losing her powers, Mor’s torn armour-

You get out, gasping for air, scurrying out of the tub, you see yourself in the mirror, towel down, scar marking you from neck to navel, locking your fear and anxiety in a box, you change and head out.

Later that afternoon, standing in Rhys’s office, you were discussing the tactics of your upcoming mission

“I’ll tell you not to go alone, but-” Rhysand says with concern

“I can handle it, Rhysie, besides, I need some time away ” You say with a sigh

“From Azriel?” Rhys guesses, “Cassian told me that he told you”

“Great”  You huff

“Talk to me” you hear him say  “Y/N, Az is not just the reason, what happened, after the war, you're just,- it is okay not to be okay, sister” An ache rises up in your chest, the box inside trying to burst out, and you just look at him with sorrow

“You always spoke to Az about things you cannot tell me and Cass, and now you are even icing him out”  You hear the worry in Rhys’s voice

“If you can’t tell anyone one of us, then have a chat with Feyre or Mor, but knowing you sis, I know you wanna talk to him” Rhysand’s words never seemed so true.

It was true that things were different between you and Azriel; you missed your best friend, you missed the long night conversations, the teasing, and just being together. But, he was giving his time to Elain and didn’t have any for you.

--

Night had fallen, and you were sitting in the living room in the House of Wind book in one hand, wine in the other. A sudden breeze swept by, you did not have to turn to recognise the cedar and night chill scent, shadows twirled around your hands, feet, hell even your hair

Giggling, you say, “I have missed you” , shadows dancing along your body as if to say they missed you too

“Did you not miss me?” You hear the teasing in Azriel’s voice

You turn, looking at him, “Hi there shadowsinger”

“Hi” His mouth tilting up

“Care for glass?” You ask, pointing at the wine

“Sure” He answers, as he grabs a glass and fills it

Many glasses later, “I missed this” You gesture between you and Az, a smile on your face

“It feels like it has been ages” You say, voice tipsy

“I have been here, it is not my fault that you need more than three glasses to speak with me now” Azriel responds, both eyebrows raised, one hand on heart

“Are you implying that alcohol gets me talking, spymaster” You say dramatically

“Yes” His voice serious “Why is that Y/N?”

You freeze mind going in a thousand places, your nightmares of the war, the flashes of Rhys being dead, him and Elain, your feelings for him.

Azriel gives you a knowing look, the look of - I know your mind is going on overdrive- look

I know you wanna talk to him, Rhys’s voice echoes, you let out a sigh and look at Az

“It’s nothing, but there is also something” You confess, knowing that denying his question will get you nowhere

“Care to elaborate?” Azriel responds worryingly

You take the glass of wine and chug it, knowing you need the liquid courage “I have flashes and nightmares about the war”, heartbeat of silence

“I dream that Rhys never comes back or, the soldiers get you or Cass” You tell going with the easy thing first

“Y/N” Az leans forward, embracing you with his arm “We all came back”

You rest your head on his chest “I get flashes, Az, of your wings, Rhy’s body, Cassian’s bloodied face”

“Dove, I am alright, I'm sitting right next to you” He says, his hand moving in calming strokes “Rhys and Cassian are here too” he tells, comforting you. “You fought in a war Y/N, I remember the first time I did, the nightmares haunted even me” A solemn look on his face

“What made them go away?” You ask, needing to know the answer

“I spoke my mind, them knowing well, i-it made better”, Azriel lifts your head so your eye to eye “You telling me is the first step, dove” the way he told dove made your heart skip “But you should talk to Rhys and Cass when you are ready” Azriel advises

You make some distance between the two of you, suddenly need to breathe, not trusting yourself with what you will do

“I’ll try to, you know how they can get”, you say as evenly as possible

“Oh, definitely they’ll make sure you are at arm's reach” Azriel says, smiling

Maybe it was the liquor that made you say, “You don’t smile that often, you should do it more”

Azriel grins, and a daze look falls upon you “Y/N”,

“Azieee” You tease, filling the glass

“Okay, that is enough for you,” he says, taking the glass out of your hand, you frown “If you continue, I need to carry you to bed”

“Fine” you say, glaring, standing up “I should go I need to prepare to go to Illyria for a mission anyway”

Azriel’s head whips towards you “You're going to Illyria?”

“Yeah” You reply with a smile, heading for your chambers “It was good talking with you like before, goodnight Az” and with that, you call it night

--

Azriel was stunned She is going on a mission, alone? You always told him about a mission. Why would she hide this one, and that too in Illyria, last time she was there alone, she almost died, Azriel could not realise why you were drifting apart from him, he could feel it even tonight, the hesitation. I miss what we used to be.

He walks towards his bedroom when he comes up to his door, a sudden urge to knock at your door comes to him “She is asleep, we checked” a shadow whispers, and with that he turns in.

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 18

paring; Azriel x reader

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

word count ; 5k

Trigger warning; //

notes; what's up everyone I'm back ! Sorry for making you all wait for the next part of this story but here it is. Well to be honest I had my final theses to finish and i had to do more hours at my job, thus why i couldn't find any time to write hehe my bad everyone... The next part should be out next week I hope but I still have a lot of stuff to do so I'm sorry for not being able to post every week like before (don't worry i'm not going to wait one month to post the next chapter). Still I hope that you enjoy this chapter seen you soon <3

previous ✧

The morning sunlight trickled softly through the sheer curtains, painting golden streaks across the bedroom. The world outside was slowly waking, but inside your new home, everything was still, warm, untouched by the demands of the day.

Azriel’s arms were wrapped tightly around you, as if even in sleep, he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. His bare chest was pressed against your back, his slow, steady breathing tickling the nape of your neck.

You shifted slightly, the movement pulling a sleepy groan from him as he buried his face into your hair, inhaling deeply before pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. His lips lingered there, tracing faint patterns against your skin before he murmured, “Morning, love.”

You turned in his arms, facing him, your fingers instinctively reaching to brush through the strands of his dark hair, still tousled from sleep. He hummed at the sensation, eyes still half-lidded, but the golden warmth of them was locked onto you, taking you in as if he was memorizing every detail of this moment.

Soft kisses followed—his lips brushing over your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, before finally capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. You sighed into it, melting into him, savoring the simple beauty of waking up in his arms, in your home, together.

It had been a few days since you had moved in together, and the feeling of belonging here, of belonging with him, was settling deeper into your bones. The space felt lived in now—small things that made it yours and his. Books stacked near the fireplace, the faint scent of coffee lingering in the air from the mornings before, his shadows curling in familiar corners of the house, as if even they had begun to think of this place as home.

Azriel traced his fingers over your cheek, sensing the shift in you through the bond. His touch was soothing, coaxing, as if urging you to speak.

“There’s something on your mind,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “Go ahead, love.”

You met his gaze, searching for the right words, your heart thudding just a little harder.

After a beat of silence, you asked, “Have you talked with Elain?”

Azriel’s brows pulled together slightly, his thumb pausing on your cheek. “About what?”

“About… us,” you clarified, your voice quieter now. “After what happened during Solstice.”

His expression didn’t change, but through the bond, you felt the slight shift—the moment of realization.

“To be honest no,” he admitted, voice steady. “I quickly took my distance from her at the time. And in the end… I think we both gave it away that nothing would ever happen between us.” His fingers tilted your chin up slightly, his golden eyes unwavering. “You can be sure of that.”

You nodded, exhaling softly. But Azriel could feel that his words, as firm as they were, didn’t completely settle whatever was lingering inside you.

His gaze sharpened, studying you more intently. And then, his mind drifted back to yesterday—to Elain, to the look she had given you when she thought no one was watching. A look so sharp, so cutting, that it had surprised even him.

His grip on you tightened slightly, protective, his voice lower now. “Did something happen with Elain?”

You sighed deeply and lay back down, staring at the ceiling. “It’s not that something happened,” you murmured. “She just made it very clear that she doesn’t like me… or the fact that we’re mated. But it’s fine.”

Azriel sat up beside you, his golden eyes darkening as he looked down at you. “No, it’s not,” he said firmly. “It’s not fine.” His fingers traced your jaw before cupping your face, his warmth grounding you.

“What… what did she tell you?”

You hesitated, inhaling deeply before you finally said, “Last week, when I went to examine her, she told me that I was going to die soon… and that there’s no point in us being mated because after my death, you’d go back to her.”

Azriel’s entire body tensed, his wings shifting behind him, his grip on you tightening as his breathing grew sharper. His pupils dilated in shock and rage, his golden irises burning with disbelief.

“What the fuck is wrong with her?” His voice was low, almost dangerous, vibrating with an anger he rarely allowed himself to show.

Before you could say anything, he grabbed you tightly, pulling you against his chest, his hold almost desperate. His shadows curled around you instinctively, as if they, too, wanted to protect you from the weight of Elain’s words.

“Why would she say something like that?” he whispered, as if trying to make sense of it.

You sighed against him, closing your eyes as you pressed a hand over his heart. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just feel… stupid. That what she said affected me so much that I wasn’t capable of bearing it.”

Azriel pulled back slightly, his fingers threading into your hair as he forced you to look at him. “No,” he said sharply. “You are not stupid. Don’t you dare think that.”

You swallowed, a lump forming in your throat, but you forced yourself to keep speaking. “Listen, there’s no point in being mad. It was her decision to say what she did, and if she wants to stay in that mindset, then let her be. I don’t care what she thinks.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable, but you could feel it through the bond—the anger simmering beneath his skin, the protectiveness that roared to life inside of him. He was ready to say something, ready to argue, but you shook your head gently, stopping him before he could start.

“Az,” you said, your voice softer now. “She’s Feyre and Nesta’s sister. I don’t want to create any problems between them because of me. At the end of the day, I know that you are with me, not her. That’s what matters the most.”

Azriel let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening on your waist. You sent warmth through the bond, love, reassurance—reminding him that no matter what Elain said, no matter what she thought, it didn’t change what you had.

He exhaled, his grip loosening just slightly as he leaned his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “For what she said. She’s out of her mind.”

Your lips twitched into a small, tired smile. “I know.”

He lifted your chin gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek, and in a voice filled with certainty, he said, “I love you.”

Your heart swelled at the words, and you cupped his face, stroking his scarred cheek with your thumb. “And I love you more,” you whispered back.

Azriel kissed you, slow and deep, as if trying to erase every doubt, every cruel word Elain had spoken. And in that moment, with his hands holding you so carefully, so reverently, you knew—nothing would ever come between you and him. Not war. Not fate. And certainly not Elain Archeron.

The crisp winter air nipped at your cheeks as you walked through the lively streets of Velaris, arms full of various supplies for the clinic. The city was still blanketed in snow, but the sun shone brightly above, casting a golden hue over the rooftops, making the ice glisten like tiny diamonds. Despite the cold, the day felt... good. Light.

You exhaled a soft breath, your boots crunching against the frost-covered cobblestones as you stepped out of the apothecary, the scent of dried herbs and fresh tonics still lingering in your nose. Adjusting the bags in your arms, you took a moment to glance around, enjoying the familiar bustle of the Rainbow Quarter. Artists lined the streets, bundled in thick coats as they painted on their canvases, merchants called out their wares, and the ever-present hum of Velaris' heartbeat wrapped around you like a comforting embrace.

Then, as you turned a corner, your eyes landed on a shop you recognized. One Feyre and Mor had both mentioned before.

Rhysand’s favorite, apparently.

You arched a brow, glancing up at the elegant storefront, curiosity piqued.

Might also become mine, you know.

Azriel’s voice purred through the bond, the amusement in his tone unmistakable.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at your lips. Shut up.

His laughter rippled through the bond, rich and warm, wrapping around you like a second layer of protection against the cold. The sound sent a flutter through your chest, heat pooling in your stomach despite the winter air.

You bit your lip, cheeks still slightly pink, as you shook your head and continued on your way, the bond between you humming with quiet contentment.

The journey back to the clinic was peaceful, the city embracing you in its steady rhythm. By the time you arrived, the sun had climbed a little higher, casting long, golden streaks of light across the marble floors.

Later this afternoon, Feyre would be coming in with Nyx for a check-up.

The bell above the clinic’s door chimed softly as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of herbs, parchment, and clean linen wrapping around you like a well-worn cloak. The warmth of the building seeped into your skin, a stark contrast to the crisp winter air outside.

Elira was already behind the counter, flipping through a ledger, but the moment she caught sight of you, she smirked. "Took your time, didn’t you?"

You huffed a small laugh, setting the bags down onto the nearest table. "I was running errands, not taking a stroll through the Rainbow."

Elira quirked a brow but didn’t press further as the two of you began unpacking the supplies. Together, you organized the back shelves, stacking vials of tonics, neatly arranging bundles of dried herbs, and sorting through various salves and bandages.

As you worked, the easy rhythm of your hands was met with a quiet conversation.

"Have you noticed it lately?" Elira murmured after a moment, her voice lower than before.

You paused, glancing up at her. "Noticed what?"

She exhaled through her nose, adjusting a row of bottles. "Something’s... off. The illnesses we’ve been seeing, the way injuries aren’t healing as they should. I know winter always brings its usual cases, but this is different. It’s like the land itself is holding its breath."

You swallowed hard, fingers tightening around the wooden shelf.

She wasn’t wrong.

You had felt it too—the slow, creeping unease, the way something dark seemed to lurk at the edges of your awareness. The war was coming, yes. But this was something else, something you couldn’t quite place.

"I know what you mean," you admitted, keeping your voice even. "It’s like the air is thicker, like something is waiting to break."

Elira hummed in agreement. Neither of you said more, but the weight of the conversation hung between you like an unspoken warning.

When the last bottle was set in its place, you exhaled, forcing yourself to shake off the lingering tension.

As you and Elira stepped back out into the main hall, your eyes landed on a familiar figure waiting near the entrance.

Feyre.

She smiled as she caught sight of you, Nyx tucked safely in her arms. The High Lady of the Night Court radiated warmth, her presence as grounding as ever.

Before you could say anything, she closed the space between you and wrapped you in a hug. You returned it without hesitation, the familiar comfort of her embrace making some of the weight in your chest ease.

When you pulled back, your gaze softened as you brushed your fingers gently through Nyx’s soft hair. The little babe cooed sleepily, blinking up at you with those striking blue eyes that were so much like his mother's.

Feyre chuckled. "He always does that when he sees you."

You smiled, heart swelling with affection. "I must have a soothing aura," you teased, winking at her.

As you and Feyre walked through the clinic toward the private examination room, your conversation flowed effortlessly, the familiar ease between you two a quiet comfort.

“How’s everything at the River House?” you asked, shifting the bag of medical supplies in your hands, glancing over at her.

Feyre sighed, shaking her head with a soft chuckle. “Busy as ever. Between Nyx, Rhys’s endless meetings, and everything else happening, it feels like there’s never a quiet moment.”

You smiled knowingly. “I can imagine. Though I don’t think you’d want it any other way.”

Feyre smirked. “You’re probably right. But I wouldn’t complain about a few uninterrupted hours of sleep.”

You laughed softly, nudging her with your shoulder. “If I could give you a healer-approved remedy for sleep deprivation, I would.”

“I’d take it in an instant,” she admitted, rubbing her temple. “Though, in fairness, Rhys and I brought this on ourselves. He’s been working late, trying to keep everything balanced while we prepare for the High Lords meeting, and I…” she glanced down at Nyx, her expression softening, “well, I’d rather be exhausted than miss even a moment with him.”

Your heart clenched a little at the tenderness in her voice.

As you neared the examination room, Feyre let out a quiet sigh. “Elain has practically moved in with us since she fainted. Not that we mind, of course, but…” she hesitated, glancing at you as if weighing her words carefully. “She’s been… distant. More than usual.”

You kept your expression neutral, focusing on opening the door to the room instead of the way your stomach twisted at the mention of Elain.

Feyre continued, her voice softer now. “I know she’s not the easiest to read, but it feels like something’s shifted in her.”

You nodded slowly, stepping inside and setting down the bag of supplies. “Maybe the vision affected her more than she wants to admit,” you suggested carefully.

“Maybe,” Feyre agreed, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. “Either way, I don’t know what to do other than give her space.”

You met her gaze, offering a small, reassuring smile. “That might be the best thing for now.”

The tension in the room lifted slightly as you motioned for her to sit, ready to begin Nyx’s examination.

You carefully took Nyx from her arms. The babe made a small noise of contentment as you cradled him, his tiny fingers wrapping around the edge of your tunic.

You began your examination, hands gentle but thorough, checking his little limbs, his heartbeat, and the way his magic thrummed beneath his skin. As you worked, you continued asking Feyre questions about Nyx’s recent behavior.

“Has he been sleeping any better?”

Feyre sighed dramatically. “Some nights, yes. Others, he acts like he has no concept of exhaustion.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That sounds about right. What about eating?”

“Oh, he’s got no issue with that,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s eating so much that I think he might outgrow his clothes in a matter of weeks.”

You grinned, adjusting Nyx slightly in your arms. “Sounds like he’s healthy and thriving.”

Feyre watched you with a quiet expression, her blue-gray eyes soft as you gently held her son. Then, she said something you hadn’t expected.

“You know,” she murmured, “you would make an amazing mother.”

Your hands stilled. A flicker of something passed through your chest—warmth and sorrow twisted into one.

You turned your gaze to her, offering a soft but sad smile. Feyre’s expression immediately fell, realizing her mistake. She stood quickly, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t mean—”

You shook your head, cutting her off before she could continue. “It’s fine, Feyre. Really.”

But she wasn’t convinced. She pulled you into a hug, her embrace warm and firm. When she pulled back, she gave you a look—not one of pity, but of understanding.

“If you ever need to talk about it,” she whispered, “I will always be here for you.”

You swallowed, nodding slightly. “The same goes for you,” you said quietly.

A small smile crossed Feyre’s lips before she straightened, sensing the heaviness in the room. “Alright, let’s change the topic before I start crying in your clinic.”

You chuckled, nodding. “Azriel mentioned that you had a big meeting today. Any updates on Koschei?”

Feyre sighed, rubbing her temple. “Nothing particular, which is actually what’s worrying. The silence feels more like a warning than a relief.”

You frowned. “And the High Lords meeting? When is it happening?”

“As soon as possible,” she answered. “We’re sending the invitations soon. Hopefully, it will take place shortly after that.”

You nodded in agreement. “The sooner, the better.”

You finished dressing Nyx back into his little tunic, smoothing down the soft fabric before handing him back to Feyre. “He’s doing great,” you assured her. “Nothing to worry about. But I’ll give you something to help with his teething pain.”

“Mother bless you,” she sighed, taking the small bottle you handed her.

As she gathered her things, she turned back to you. “Are you heading home now? If you’re done for the day, you should come with me.”

You glanced at the time, then grabbed your coat. “I should be able to leave.”

Feyre grinned, waiting as you shrugged into your coat. As you stepped back into the main hall, Elira caught your eye and smirked, winking at you.

“Have fun,” she teased.

You smiled, waving as you followed Feyre out the door and into the crisp air of Velaris.

The sun had begun its slow descent by the time you and Feyre made your way toward the River House. The sky was painted in hues of orange and pink, the reflection shimmering over the Sidra as the two of you strolled along its banks. The crisp evening air was refreshing, but the warmth of Feyre’s company made the walk all the more enjoyable.

“You should’ve seen Rhys trying to get Nyx to nap earlier,” Feyre laughed, shaking her head. “He thought flying him around in circles would help, but he just made himself dizzy while Nyx stayed wide awake, giggling the entire time.”

You snorted, grinning. “I would’ve paid to see that.”

Feyre’s arm was looped through yours as you both continued along the quiet streets of Velaris, laughter still lingering in the air between you. The city was peaceful in the evening glow, the golden light casting long, soft shadows along the cobblestone paths. The scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby shop wafted through the air, mixing with the crisp winter breeze. It felt like one of those rare moments where the world slowed, where the looming weight of war and responsibility didn’t press so heavily on your chest.

Feyre glanced at you, her expression still amused. “You know, I think I actually did Rhys a favor by not painting that moment. His ego might not have survived the humiliation.”

You shook your head, grinning. “Oh, please. His ego is unshakable. I bet he would’ve hung it right in his study as a reminder of Nyx’s first great victory.”

Feyre groaned. “You’re right. He’d probably show it to every guest who walked through the door.”

The thought made you both burst into laughter again, leaning into each other slightly as you walked. The bond of friendship between you and Feyre had grown stronger over the months, and moments like these made it easy to forget the weight of the things you both carried.

The River House finally came into view, its grand, elegant silhouette standing proudly against the evening sky. The windows glowed warmly from within, an inviting sight that made something inside you settle.

“You know,” Feyre mused as you reached the steps, “I never expected to love this house as much as I do. It felt too big at first, too polished. But now, with Nyx here, with all of us filling the space… it feels like home.”

You nodded, understanding the sentiment completely. “Home isn’t about the place,” you murmured. “It’s about who’s in it.”

Feyre smiled at you, squeezing your arm before you both stepped inside, the comforting warmth of the River House welcoming you back.

As you stepped into the warmth of the house, Feyre passed you Nyx before shrugging off her coat. You took him gladly, bouncing the babe gently in your arms as he cooed up at you. His tiny hands reached toward your face, his fingers brushing against your cheek with a soft, curious touch.

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest?” you murmured, smiling down at him.

Feyre chuckled as she draped her coat over the nearest chair. “You’re going to spoil him.”

You grinned. “I intend to.”

You carried Nyx around the living room, swaying gently as Feyre prepared tea. The warmth of the fire flickered softly, casting a golden glow over the space. When she returned, you both settled into the plush chairs, sipping the fragrant drink as your conversation continued.

As the evening stretched on, Nyx began to fuss slightly, his tiny hands curling into the fabric of Feyre’s tunic.

“I think someone’s hungry,” you noted, shifting slightly so she could take him back.

Feyre nodded, adjusting him against her as she settled in to feed him. You gave her space but didn’t look away, offering a small, reassuring smile when she glanced at you.

“Do you mind?” she asked softly.

You shook your head immediately. “Of course not.”

The scene before you was one of pure serenity. Feyre looked so natural, so loving—an image of a mother utterly devoted to her child. The tenderness in the way she held him, the soft murmurs she whispered as he latched on, the way her hand cradled his small head—it was beautiful.

Once Nyx had finished, Feyre gently burped him, humming softly as his tiny body relaxed into her arms. His eyelids drooped, and soon enough, he was fast asleep.

“I’ll go put him down,” she whispered, standing carefully.

You nodded, watching as she made her way toward his nursery, leaving you alone in the quiet warmth of the house.

But not for long.

The sound of the front door opening had you glancing toward the entrance, your lips curving as you saw Azriel and his brothers stepping inside. They were still in their leathers, the lingering bite of the night’s cool air clinging to them.

The moment the door opened and the sound of boots echoed against the floor, Azriel’s eyes found yours. It was instinctual, immediate—his golden gaze locking onto yours like a tether had pulled him straight to you. Within seconds, he had crossed the room, his presence surrounding you, warm and intoxicating in a way that made everything else fade into the background.

Cassian, ever the instigator, let out a low whistle as he watched Azriel move with singular purpose. “Damn, at least pretend to acknowledge the rest of us before you go running into her arms.”

Azriel ignored him, stepping in front of you, his large hands sliding to your waist as he pulled you close. The weight of his gaze, the sheer adoration behind it, sent warmth curling deep in your chest. He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, and it took everything in you not to melt into him completely.

“Hello, my love,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rich and smooth, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

You smiled up at him, your fingers curling against his chest. “Hello, darling.”

A loud, exaggerated gagging noise broke the moment, and you both turned to find Cassian clutching his chest dramatically. “Mother above, it’s disgusting how in love you two are.”

You arched an eyebrow at him. “You act like you’re any better when you’re with Nesta.”

Cassian smirked but didn’t deny it. “Fair point. But at least I have the decency to greet my brothers before making out in the middle of the room.”

Azriel shot him a dry look, his grip on you tightening just slightly. “Jealous?”

Rhys chuckled, smirking from where he leaned against the doorway. “Not all of us have someone waiting for us when we get home, Shadowsinger.”

Cassian let out a dramatic sigh. “Exactly! Look at poor Rhys. No fawning mate to greet him.”

“You mean my wife? The mother of my child?” Rhys deadpanned. “Who literally just walked into the other room?”

Cassian waved him off. “Semantics.”

Feyre reappeared at that moment, rolling her eyes fondly at the conversation as she took her seat beside Rhys. She cast you a knowing look before settling in, Nyx now sound asleep in his cradle nearby.

Azriel kept his arm around your waist as you both sat down, the tension in his shoulders easing as he settled into the space beside you. The warmth of the room, the gentle crackling of the fire, the quiet hum of conversation—it all felt so… right.

Cassian, naturally, had to add one last quip. “Just saying, Az, we used to be your priority. Now we don’t even get so much as a ‘hello’ before you’re making eyes at your mate.”

Azriel, without missing a beat, turned his head to meet Cassian’s gaze. “Hello, Cassian.”

Cassian blinked. Then, with an exaggerated scoff, muttered, “I hate you.”

The laughter that filled the room was easy, familiar, the kind that only came from true family. And as you leaned into Azriel’s side, your fingers brushing gently over his, you knew there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

As the easy conversation and laughter filled the room, a faint tapping against the window caught your attention. You turned your head, spotting the familiar flutter of wings outside. A soft smile tugged at your lips as you recognized the tiny figure attempting to get in.

"Ydle," you murmured, instinctively moving toward the window.

Azriel's gaze followed you, though his attention never fully left you. He had spent enough time observing every little detail about you to know when something shifted in your demeanor.

But as you stepped closer, a strange feeling settled in your stomach. The bird outside wasn’t Ydle.

Your smile faltered.

The creature was bigger, its feathers marred with soot and streaks of blood, its wings trembling with exhaustion. A slow frown crept onto your face as you took in the sight, your instincts immediately sharpening.

You quickly unlatched the window, opening it wide. The bird barely hesitated before staggering inside, collapsing against your hands with a pained, desperate chirp. You only had a moment to exchange looks with the animal, but the panic in its dark eyes sent a shiver through you. This wasn’t just an injured bird—it was a messenger.

One bearing bad news.

You cradled it carefully, pressing a gentle hand against its small body, feeling the rapid beat of its tiny heart. Its chest heaved with every breath, the poor thing on the brink of exhaustion.

“Feyre,” you called over your shoulder, your voice calm but firm. She turned to you immediately, her brows knitting in concern as she took in the sight of the trembling bird in your hands. “Could you bring some water?”

She nodded without question, swiftly moving toward the kitchen.

You lowered yourself onto the floor, settling the bird gently in your lap, your fingers moving with careful precision. You ran a soothing hand over its feathers, infusing the smallest trickle of magic into your touch, easing its trembling limbs.

Behind you, the boys were still lost in conversation near the fire, their voices a distant hum. But you could feel it—that familiar weight of golden eyes on you, unyielding and watchful.

Azriel.

He wasn’t listening to whatever his brothers were saying anymore. Not fully. You could sense it in the way the air shifted, in the way his shadows curled subtly toward you, as if drawn to your unease.

Feyre returned moments later, kneeling beside you as she placed a small dish of water on the ground. You gave her a grateful nod before gently lowering the bird beside it. It hesitated for only a moment before dipping its beak into the cool liquid, drinking in slow, measured sips.

Feyre’s voice was soft with concern. “Is Ydle alright?”

You swallowed, shaking your head slightly as you steadied the trembling bird. “It’s not Ydle.” Your voice was calm, but your pulse had started to race. “This is one of the messenger birds from Rask. One of the kingdoms on the continent’s border.”

The name alone was enough to catch Azriel’s full attention. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, his shadows shifting ever so slightly around him. He knew Rask, knew its reputation, its strategic importance, and more importantly, the threats that lurked around it.

Carefully, you reached for the small tube attached to the bird’s leg, working with precise, delicate movements to avoid disturbing the exhausted creature as it continued to drink. The seal on the message was intact but smudged with soot and something darker—dried blood.

Feyre rose quickly. “I’ll get some meat for him,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen.

Your hands felt cold as you unrolled the parchment, your eyes scanning the first few lines. You barely had time to register the words before your fingers tightened involuntarily around the glass of water you had picked up.

Crack.

The next thing you knew, sharp shards fell from your hand, scattering across the floor with a faint, crystalline chime.

The room froze.

Your hand came up over your mouth, your breath caught somewhere between a gasp and silence, your eyes wide as they frantically reread the words—desperately hoping they had changed.

But they hadn’t.

Azriel was already moving, his voice sharp with urgency. “Y/N?”

Everyone’s attention snapped toward you. Cassian had already risen, his grin from earlier now replaced with a hardened expression. Rhysand straightened where he stood, his violet gaze honing in on you like a predator sensing an incoming storm.

“Y/N, what is it?” Feyre’s voice came from behind you, hesitant but firm.

You couldn’t speak.

Your hands shook as you lowered the letter, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You couldn’t look up, couldn’t meet Azriel’s gaze, couldn’t say it out loud.

Because if you did, it would become real.

Azriel was at your side in an instant, his hands finding your arms, grounding you. “Look at me, love,” he murmured, his voice steady despite the tension in it.

You turned, barely seeing him through the haze of shock.

“What did you read?” he pressed gently, his golden eyes locked onto yours, brimming with concern.

Your lips parted, but the words lodged in your throat.

Because whatever was written on that parchment…

It was bad.

Really bad.

don't hesitate to comment if you want to be added to the tag list ;)))

tag list : @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @bravo-delta-eccho @messageforthesmallestman @celestialgilb @tiredsleepyhead @annamariereads16 @arcanefeelingz @fuckingsimp4azriel @adventure-awaits13 @diaouranask @rcarbo1 @6v6babycheese @goodvibesonlyxd @sa54va87to90re12 @firefly-forest @babypeapoddd @hailqueenconquer @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @judig92 @pinklemonade34 @sourapplex @wickedshadowsinger @shinyghosteclipse @rose-girls-world @leptitlu @acourtofsmutandstarlight @feyrescanvas @dreamloud4610 @plants-w0rld @tele86 @dragonsandrinks @making-it-big @itsbonniebabe @motheroffae @azrielswhore @casiiopea2 @whyucloudingmymind @onebadassunicorn @prettylittlewrites @moondustxy @panickedmushroom @ly--canthrope @xlosttdreamss @phoenix666stuff @runningoncoffeeandchaos @zanaorian @prettty-thing @wxveysun @aslut4percyjackson @ailoda @byteme05 @elisabethch82 @eatsleepreadance1 @rainy-day-lady @breademoji @zuhashah-09 @quiettuba @magicaldragonlady @ajxsquish @hibye02 @am-riel @thorins-queen-of-erebor

[whimsicalnightfairy]

Prologue: The Cauldrons Wish

Summary: The prologue introduces the ancient, powerful Cauldron, a force older than the stars that has witnessed countless transformations throughout time. It awaits the four Archeron sisters, whose magic is destined to awaken. However, one sister, Astra, has been hidden from this power. As a newborn, she is taken from her family by a mysterious force, protected in secrecy to shield her from the dangers of the world. The Cauldron’s magic is tied to Astra, and when the time comes, it will find her, revealing the power she was meant to hold. The prologue sets the stage for Astra’s eventual return to the Cauldron’s pull, marking the beginning of her transformation and the bond she shares with Azriel.

The Cauldron was old. Older than any story told by the High Fae, older than the stars themselves. It had witnessed countless transformations, countless destinies being rewritten. And now, it waited.

The sisters were coming. The magic that had lain dormant within them would soon be awakened. They would be changed, their fates sealed, and the world would shift as it always had—beneath the Cauldron’s ancient gaze.

But one would be different.

One would rise from the shadows, lost to time, hidden from the magic that flowed so freely through the others. She was not meant to be hidden forever. The Cauldron would find her. And when it did, it would reveal her power—the power that had been meant for her from the beginning.

In the silence of the night, a woman stood beneath the vast sky, cradling her newborn daughter. Her heart was heavy, burdened with a truth she could no longer hide. The baby, wrapped in soft cloth, slept soundly, unaware of the danger closing in around them.

“You must go,” the woman whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “You must be kept from the world. It’s the only way.”

The woman kissed the baby’s forehead, her hands trembling with emotion. Astra’s magic was awakening—unseen, but undeniable. Her power was tied to the Cauldron’s ancient forces. The same forces that would one day transform her, but not yet. Not until she was safe.

The woman had known this day would come. She had always known her child was different. The moment Astra was born, the magic that surged within her was like a beacon to those who sought it. And so, she had hidden her, far from the prying eyes of the Fae and their politics.

As she stood in the cold night air, a figure emerged from the shadows—a woman, cloaked in a long, dark robe, the faintest traces of power crackling in the air around her. The woman’s eyes gleamed with an ancient wisdom, the kind that only those who lived in isolation and attuned themselves to the magic of the mountains could possess.

“You’re certain?” the witch asked, her voice calm but firm. “This child… she is tied to the Cauldron.”

The woman nodded, pressing Astra into the witch’s arms. “Keep her safe, Seraphine. Keep her from them. When the time comes, the Cauldron will call her. But until then, she must remain hidden.”

Seraphine, the witch of the Night Court’s mountains, nodded solemnly. “I will. She will be hidden, until her magic is ready to be unleashed.”

With a final, lingering glance at her daughter, the woman turned and disappeared into the night. The Cauldron’s call would one day reach Astra, but for now, she was safe. Hidden in the mountains, away from the reach of those who might seek to claim her.

And in that solitude, Astra’s true destiny would begin to take shape—quiet, secret, until the day she would be found by the very power that made her. The Cauldron would call, and Astra would answer.

[sweet-pea-channie]

Shadows of the Exile - Part 10

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Y/N is left alone at the townhouse, waiting for Azriel’s return from a mysterious mission. As the days stretch on, she battles loneliness and the gnawing fear that something has gone wrong. When Azriel finally returns, wounded and quiet, the walls between them begin to crack.

Warnings: angst... lots of angst! emotional distress, injuries (non-graphic but mentioned), themes of loneliness and vulnerability, mentions of past trauma

Woud count: 6.1k

series masterlist

Y/N walked through the Town House with quick, light steps, clutching a small, leather-bound book tightly against her chest. A smile played on her lips as she reached Azriel's door. Without much thought, she knocked twice and entered.

"Azzy, did you already see this?"

But instead of Azriel, it was Cassian who turned to her with a wide grin. "Oh hey, Y/N."

She blinked in surprise as Cassian casually leaned against a table, arms crossed over his chest. Behind him stood Azriel, who was spreading out his saddlebags on the bed and carefully packing them.

Azriel paused when he heard her voice and turned to face her. His dark eyes rested on her questioningly, a barely noticeable smile curling his lips. "What do you want to show me?"

Suddenly, Y/N felt uncertain. What if this wasn’t the right moment? What if she was interrupting something important? Her grip on the book loosened. "It’s nothing urgent," she said softly. "I can show it to you when you get back."

She hesitated for a moment before asking, "Where are you going, anyway?"

Azriel paused in his movements and looked at her. "We’re heading out on a mission. Rhys talked about it yesterday. It’s just a routine thing, but we need to act fast."

Y/N nodded slowly, though a slight unease spread in her chest.

Cassian, however, kept his gaze on Y/N. He noticed how she shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other, her fingers lightly brushing over the cover of the book – a clear gesture of her concern. He clicked his tongue and grinned. "If you keep doing that, Sweetheart, Az will think you miss him terribly."

Y/N snorted softly, rolling her eyes, but the small smile she gave him made the tension ease a little. "Maybe I just miss your bad mood, Cassian."

Cassian laughed heartily and patted her on the shoulder. "Well, I’ll be extra grumpy for you when we get back."

Azriel continued packing his things, his movements quick and efficient. Cassian, who was already done, waited impatiently, shifting on his feet. "Come on, Az. I don’t want Rhys to give us hell for being late."

With a final check of his gear, Azriel nodded and lifted the bags. "All set."

Y/N stepped closer, looking at him hesitantly. "When will you be back?"

Azriel met her gaze. "I’ll be back home in around two weeks, okay?"

She nodded and forced a small smile. "Then take care of yourself. Both of you."

Cassian laughed softly, planted a fleeting kiss on her temple, and patted her shoulder. "We’re indestructible, Sweetheart. Don’t worry."

Azriel didn’t say anything, but as he passed her, he paused and pulled her into a firm hug. His arms were warm and strong around her, and Y/N instinctively breathed in his familiar scent. A gentle kiss landed on her crown, barely more than a breath, but her heart skipped a beat.

Cassian watched the whole scene with a crooked grin. "Az, hurry up. The others might think you don’t want to leave."

Azriel slowly released Y/N, but his fingertips lingered for a moment over her wrist before he turned away. Y/N felt the warmth of his touch long after the door closed behind him and Cassian.

The cold wind tugged at their wings as Azriel and Cassian ascended into the night sky. The city beneath them faded slowly as they flew farther away from Velaris. Cassian, however, couldn’t stop grinning.

"You’re so whipped, dude," he teased Azriel, shaking his head in amusement. "When are you going to tell her how you feel? You know we can all see the way you look at her. And come on, you build a fucking green house for her —oh, and don’t think I haven’t noticed she calls you ‘Azzy’ now."

Azriel didn’t change his expression, but Cassian caught the glimmer at the corner of his mouth.

"You used to hate that name. I remember when Mor tried calling you that, you nearly lost it. But with Y/N?" Cassian theatrically shook his head. "You’re a lost cause, brother."

"She's my mate."

Cassian froze in the air. Then, in shock, he briefly lost his balance and dropped a few meters before quickly recovering and chasing after Azriel. "What did you say?"

Azriel kept his gaze forward. "Y/N's my mate."

Cassian blinked in disbelief. "I heard what you said, I just can't believe you're telling me this just now. How long have you known? Does she know?"

Azriel hesitated for a moment before answering. "A few months."

Cassian let out a surprised sound. "And you haven’t told her? Why the hell not?"

Azriel clenched his jaw as if fighting with himself. "I wanted to tell her at Solstice..." He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing. "But she was so happy. I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to ruin that moment. I just wanted to see her happy."

Cassian rolled his eyes dramatically. "You’re a damn idiot, Az."

Azriel didn’t say anything.

Cassian sighed and shook his head. "Remember, Feyre and Nesta didn’t take it well being kept from this for so long."

Azriel let out a long breath. "I know. And I’ll tell her soon."

Cassian studied him for a moment. "Do you love her?"

Azriel’s answer came without hesitation, calm and utterly truthful. "I loved her way before the bond snapped for me."

Cassian looked at him for a moment, then snorted. "Then stop worrying so much, brother. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. If you ask me, she already feels the same."

Azriel didn’t say anything, but something in his eyes told Cassian he had hoped so. Cassian chuckled softly and shook his head in amusement. "Remember how you weren’t even convinced about having a new healer in the house? And now—now she’s your damn mate."

Azriel lightly pressed his lips together as if unsure whether to laugh or sigh. "I know."

Cassian patted him on the shoulder, grinning. "Fate really has a sense of humor."

-

The soft glow of the Fae lights bathed Y/N’s room in warm light. She had settled in with a new book and a glass of wine, the silence of the Town House surrounding her. Azriel would be gone for another week, so she had the house to herself.

But then—a sound. A dull, hard thud, right at the front door.

Y/N’s body tensed. Her heart hammered in her chest as she listened. Another dull impact. Someone had slammed into the door.

Her fingers instinctively slid under her pillow where the dagger Azriel had once given her lay—for when she ever felt uncomfortable. Now was exactly that moment. She closed her fingers around the cold hilt and moved slowly and silently toward the door.

When she reached the bottom, she saw a shadow falling through the door. Definitely someone. She gripped the dagger tighter. Her breath quickened. But then—another heavy thud against the wood.

A scream escaped her lips as the dagger slipped from her hand. Hastily, she bent to retrieve it, but her eyes widened as dark shadows seeped under the door and began to move toward her.

She knew these shadows.

"Azriel!"

Without a moment’s hesitation, she yanked the door open.

At that moment, a blood-soaked figure collapsed in front of her.

She barely had time to wrap her arms around him before he fell against her, and together they sank to the floor. Azriel’s weight pressed her against the cold wooden boards, his breath coming in heavy gasps, his wings twitching weakly.

"Azriel! What happened?" Her voice trembled as she looked him over. His clothes were soaked in blood—but she couldn’t tell if it was his or someone else’s. "Gods, are you hurt? Say something!"

But Azriel only pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his shadows flickering wildly around him, as if he had lost control.

Y/N’s hands shook as she held him tighter. What the hell had happened?

Azriel weakly opened his eyes, his gaze searching for hers. Despite the pain flashing across his face, there was something else in his golden irises—something that made Y/N’s heart skip a beat. It felt as though something deep inside her was aching, expanding, as if an invisible force was pulling at her.

But before she could follow that thought further, Azriel weakly lifted a hand and gently placed it on her cheek. His fingertips were cold and trembled slightly. "I’m so sorry."

"Azriel, what is going on?" Y/N stuttered, her voice breaking as she placed her hand over his. He lay half on top of her, his weight heavy and exhausting.

Then he coughed. Dark blood ran from his mouth, dripping onto her nightgown. A muffled sound escaped Y/N as the truth hit her: All the blood was his.

Panic overwhelmed her, her hands flying over his body, desperately searching for wounds. "RHYSAND!" she screamed, her voice piercing through the silence of the house. If anyone could hear her, it would be Rhys.

Azriel tried to speak again, his hand slipping from her cheek and instead reaching for hers. His fingers clung to hers, pressing them against his chest as if he could hold her closer this way. "I'm sorry, I didn't—" Another coughing fit shook his body, more blood smearing Y/N's skin, her clothes.

"Azriel, please, we have to get you up. We have to get you to my room. Come on!" She tried to lift him, but he was too heavy, his wounds too deep, his body too weak.

His grip on her hand tightened for a moment before weakening. His eyes glazed over, his lips trembling. "I wanted to tell you... I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

Y/N's breath caught. "Tell me what, Azriel?" Her voice was a whisper, a plea.

Azriel opened his mouth, trying to say something. But then he coughed again, his body jerking, and his grip went limp. "Y/N, I—"

Then he fell silent.

His body became still. His chest no longer rose.

Y/N's heart tore in two as the realization hit her. "No, no, no!" She screamed his name, pressing her hands to his wounds as if she could keep him alive that way. "Azriel! Wake up! Please!" Tears streamed down her face as she shook him desperately. But he no longer responded.

Screams filled the Town House as Y/N desperately fought for his life.

No. No, no, no. This couldn't happen. Her heart raced, her thoughts spiraling. She couldn't lose him. She couldn't lose him. Her hands, sticky with his blood, trembled as she pressed down on his wounds again. "Please, Azriel. Please! Stay with me!"

She forced herself to stay calm, desperately searching for any way to save him. Her magic – she had to try. She had saved so many already. She could do this. She had to. But when her fingers glided over his chest, she felt nothing. No reaction. No heartbeat.

Panic gripped her, choking her. "Rhys!" Her voice was hoarse, full of despair. "Rhys, please! I need you! I can't do this alone!"

In that moment, Rhys appeared. His face was pale, but before he could ask what was wrong, he froze. He saw Azriel on the floor, lifeless in Y/N's arms, saw the blood pooling beneath them.

"We need to get him upstairs. Please, Rhys. Please! He's not—he's not breathing. I can't—I can't lose him."

Rhys nodded and reached for Azriel. With a strength that betrayed none of his inner tension, he threw him over his shoulder. At the same time, he sent out a mental call to Cassian. "I need Madja. I can't do this. I can't do this alone!" Y/N's voice broke, her hands clutching her bloody clothes.

Rhys saw that she was panicking. "Y/N, you can do this. But you have to start now. If you don't want him to die, then now."

"I can't feel him, Rhys. He's not—"

"Y/N, now!" Rhys' voice was sharp, urgent.

Something in her clicked. Her mind pushed aside the fear, the panic. “Put him on my bed!” she yelled and opened the door to her room where Rhysand threw Azriel onto her bed. Her hands glowed as she used her powers, blocking out everything else. She couldn't think. Only heal. Only save.

"I have to make it. I can't lose him. Not now." The words echoed in her head, but the fear wasn't fully banished. Her fingers trembled as she grabbed the knife she never truly wanted to use to hurt anyone. But now she had to act. She took it in her hand, pushing it with trembling precision under the tattered leather covering Azriel's wounds. Her hand pressed the knife carefully against the material until it tore with a soft rip, revealing the depth of the wounds that threatened to take his life.

"Come on, Azriel. I can't lose you." The words came out unconsciously, but her thoughts were unclear, chaotic. How was she supposed to start healing all of this? How could she save even a little piece of him?

Her hand glowed as she channeled her power through her fingers into his wounds. It was like a current of life entering him, a desperate attempt to stop the raw pain within him. But the flow of healing seemed to only partially close the wounds, the blood continued to pour from him.

"Rhys… Rhys, where are you? I need… help. Please…"

In that moment, Rhys stepped closer to the bed. Without another word, he placed a hand reassuringly on her shoulder, his voice soft but firm.

"I'm here, Y/N. I won't leave. You can do this, just tell me what you need. I'll help you."

Y/N's eyes filled with tears as she saw his reassuring look. Her hand continued to tremble over Azriel's wounds as she gathered the strength he offered her. But in her head, everything was spinning. She couldn't lose him. She couldn't.

"I... I can't feel him, Rhys. It feels like he's... not here anymore. I... I can't do this." Her voice was a whisper, so vulnerable and soft, she could barely understand what she was saying herself. She felt her hands tremble again as she tried to direct the healing energy into Azriel.

Rhys' eyes widened briefly, but he remained calm. "Y/N, you're stronger than you think. We can do this together. But you need to act now. You need to give him everything you have. And I'm here, I'll help you."

Her thoughts raced. She had to focus. Her powers had to be enough. She knew she didn’t have much time left. But Rhys was still by her side, his presence a support, an anchor that kept her grounded.

"What do you need, Y/N? What can I bring you?" Rhys’ voice was gentle, yet the pressure in his eyes was clear. He knew this was everything.

"Madja... I need Madja... and... and everything that helps, Rhys. Please. Everything." Her voice almost broke as she said it, but she fought against the tears.

"I'll get her as soon as I can, but I won’t leave you alone right now. You can do this, Y/N. I'll bring you everything." Rhys nodded before turning to call for the healer, but Y/N's thoughts wandered back to Azriel. Her hand continued to glow, her power flowing into him as she desperately tried to hold back all the life that was leaving him.

"Azriel... come on. I can't lose you. Not now." Her voice was firm, but the fear was still there. She pushed it aside, trying not to let it overwhelm her. Her fingers glided over the wounds, pressing more healing energy into him.

"I can't… I can't lose him..." Her thoughts repeated over and over, but she fought against the creeping doubt inside her. Again, she placed her hand on Azriel's chest and focused all her energy on his wounds. But time seemed to be working against her. It was all too much. The pain inside her, the despair questioning his chances of survival.

"Rhys… I need... I can’t…" Her words broke off again and again as she tried to stabilize Azriel's bleeding body. Her powers drained as the wounds seemed to grow, but she held on. She had to do this.

The door swung open. Mor entered, her eyes wide with shock. Behind her, Cassian. His expression flickered between relief and horror. Azriel had reappeared – but in what condition. Rhys had mentally asked Mor to get Cassian back from the mission as quickly as possible. Winnowing was faster than flying, and she had acted immediately.

"Say nothing," Rhys warned softly, before Cassian could speak. "If you disturb her now, we'll lose him."

Cassian pressed his lips together, his fists clenched. Mor stepped closer, gently placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder to show she was there.

Rhys took a deep breath and turned to Cassian. "Come with me. We need to talk."

He left the room, Cassian following him, while Y/N continued to focus on Azriel. She couldn’t lose him. Not now. Not ever.

Rhys stood in the hallway, his gaze fixed on the closed door to Y/N’s room, feeling the heavy silence between him and Cassian. Azriel still hadn’t come to, his injuries had driven Y/N to the brink of madness, and she had poured all her energy into healing him. But the nightmare was far from over.

Cassian leaned heavily against the cold wall, the stone barely holding him up. His arms were crossed, but not in calmness – but to keep himself together. He stared at the ground, as if he could find answers there that would ease his conscience. But there was nothing but blood. Nothing but guilt.

Rhys stood before him, silent, waiting. The silence was like a noose, tightening slowly. Finally, he asked softly, "How did it happen, Cassian?"

The words cut deep. Not because they were harsh – but because they were carried by despair. Rhys didn’t just want a tactical summary. He wanted to understand why his brother had almost died in Y/N’s arms.

Cassian closed his eyes for a moment. The image was there immediately. The roaring in his ears. The screams. The blood. So much fucking blood.

"It was an ambush," he began in a hoarse voice. No trace of calmness – only suppressed rage, helpless sorrow. "We thought it was a routine mission. Two targets, maybe three. Quiet. Clean. Nothing Azriel and I hadn't done a hundred times."

He swallowed hard. "But they knew we were coming, Rhys. They had everything prepared. When we entered the courtyard, it was too late. The barriers snapped shut. Facing us: at least twelve warriors, shadowmages, bloodmages... and one, damn it, one of them was carrying twilight steel."

Rhys' expression hardened.

"We fought. Gods, we fought like hell. Azriel... he was faster, ruthless as always. But they isolated him. Separated him from me. They targeted him directly." Cassian's voice shook. "First, a spear hit him in the shoulder. Then a curse that paralyzed his wings. I screamed, I went to him, but— they stopped me. Three of them. I couldn't reach him."

He took a shaky breath, his gaze empty, as if he was back there, in that hell. "I saw him fall. How that bastard with the dusk steel hit him – deep, right under the ribs. It wasn’t... it wasn’t just a wound. It was slaughter. And Az—" His voice cracked.

"He lay there, in his own blood. I’ve never seen so much blood, Rhys. His whole body was twitching, his shadows kept fighting even though he could barely breathe. And I... I couldn’t do anything."

Cassian pressed his hands against his forehead, as if trying to banish the image from his skull. But it only burned itself deeper. "I screamed. Killed. Anyone who got in my way. I tore them apart. But when I finally got to him... he was already almost gone. His eyes – they were half closed. He didn’t even register that I was there."

A bitter smile flickered across Cassian’s lips. “I thought... I was too late. But then two more came. I acted as fast as I could, and when I turned back to Azriel, he was gone... without a trace. And I was sure they’d taken him, that they’d tear him apart. Until Mor showed up. She told me he’d made it back on his own. To Y/N."

He looked up at Rhys. The desperation in his eyes was painfully clear. "He gave everything he had, Rhys. Everything. Just to come back. Just to be with her. His last strength... was for her."

Rhys’ gaze was hard, but beneath it lay pain. "Why was he in that condition? Why couldn’t you prevent it?"

Cassian took a deep breath, his hands trembling slightly. "Because I was too slow. Because I thought he was invincible. I didn’t see how much he threw himself in. How little he cared for himself. The wounds... they were too deep. The dusk steel cuts didn’t heal. The blood didn’t stop flowing."

His voice became quieter, rougher. "I should’ve stayed with him. I should’ve paid more attention. But I fought. I gave everything. It just wasn’t enough."

He looked at Rhys, eyes glassy. "He’s my brother. And I almost lost him. Because he never asks for help. Because he thinks he deserves to bleed if it protects the others." Cassian’s voice broke. "And maybe... maybe that’s why he was so reckless. Because he thought she’d never want him. That Y/N would never really see him. That she’d never understand what she means to him. And if he doesn’t deserve to be loved... then at least he can die to save her."

The silence that followed was palpable. Rhys said nothing. But his jaw was clenched, his eyes faintly glistening.

Rhys’ gaze changed as he realized how much Cassian was suffering from the responsibility. But he knew there was more, that Cassian was punishing himself for maybe overlooking something. But he also understood that Cassian wasn’t just fighting Azriel’s injuries – he was fighting something else.

"Cassian," Rhys said, his voice soft but serious, "you can’t carry it all by yourself. You know just as well as I do that Azriel protects us all, always. And he would’ve never said a word, never, even though he already knew inside how bad it was."

A long silence settled between them, then Rhys said something that put everything in a new, painful light: "You know something you haven’t told me, don’t you?"

Cassian looked up, confused, but then he understood where the question was leading.

"I know what you’re thinking," Rhys said quietly, his voice carrying a mix of understanding and concern. "You think Azriel did all of this because he didn’t just want to protect you, but everyone here in Velaris, especially Y/N. And because he was afraid she might ever truly want him."

Cassian’s eyes widened for a moment, but he didn’t say anything.

"He’s my brother, Rhys," Cassian murmured finally, almost inaudible. "I know he loves her. And he didn’t want to tell her because he was never... never sure that she felt the same for him. So he held back in all of it. For too long."

Rhys’ gaze softened, and he placed a hand on Cassian’s shoulder. "You know he’s an idiot, right?" Cassian nodded, a crooked smile flickering across his face. "But we’re going to save him, Cassian. We just have to do everything we can."

Cassian hesitated for a breath before speaking, voice low. “Rhys… he found her. His mate. It’s Y/N.”

Rhysand froze.

Cassian continued, eyes fixed on the floor. “And she’s in there with him now, trying to heal him. She doesn’t know.”

A beat of silence passed. Rhys’ eyes darkened, the weight of it settling into his chest. “Are you certain?”

Cassian gave a small nod. “He felt the bond snap into place months ago. He wanted to tell her. But he was scared it would change things—make it worse if she didn’t feel it too.”

Rhys closed his eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. “We can’t leave her alone in there. Not now.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened. “We can’t tell her now, promise me, Rhys. He didn’t want her to find out like this.”

“Telling her now will only make it harder for her to heal him,” Rhys said, more to himself than anyone else. “We won’t tell her. And he won’t die. We won’t let him. And when he wakes up… he’s going to have to tell her everything.”

The walls in Rhys’ mind started working, and he knew that the next steps would be crucial. Y/N was in a state of panic, and she would soon find out what was really between Azriel and her. But for now, there was only one thing: To help him, to heal him – before the pain tore everything apart.

Mor was sitting on a small stool at the edge of the bed, her hands red up to her wrists, her hair dishevelled, her clothes long soaked with sweat from the exertion and Azriel’s blood. Her magic lay like a second skin, ready to intervene at any moment, but in that moment, it wasn’t her power that mattered – it was Y/N’s.

Azriel lay motionless, his skin ashen, the deep wounds across his chest, side, and abdomen. Dusk steel had struck him, multiple times, and the cuts burned like black scars into his flesh, even now, hours after the fight. Every new area Y/N exposed revealed more horror. A gaping wound just below his ribs, two broken ribs crushed inward, a cut on his thigh that nearly hit the artery. His left wing joint was so badly injured that Mor refused to look at it any longer – the sight had nearly stolen her breath.

Y/N kneeled over him, the bloody knife in her hand that she had used to cut away the remaining leather scraps of his combat suit from his torso. She barely spoke. A fine sheen of sweat covered her forehead, her lips moving in silent whispers as she held her hands over the wounds, channelling her power into his body. Pale glowing light seeped from her fingers into his skin, trying to push the damage away, to reverse the destruction.

Mor could only watch. All she could do was follow Y/N’s instructions. Hand her cloths. Bring water. Change the bloody sheets. Do everything that didn’t interrupt.

Azriel was breathing shallowly – if at all. Sometimes his breath would stop, and Y/N would hold her breath until his chest rose again. Every one of those moments felt like an eternity to Mor.

She had never seen him like this. Never. Not even in the worst battles. Azriel had been unbreakable. The shadow between them. The silent, unstoppable fighter. And now? Now he lay there, as if the world had spat him out and shattered him.

Y/N’s lips trembled. Over and over, she muttered the same words: "Please, please stay. You can’t go." And then, that endless focus. She didn’t even hear Mor anymore when she spoke to her.

"Y/N?" Mor had asked softly, when she saw Y/N holding flickering light over Azriel’s chest, where his heart only weakly beat.

No response. No movement. As if she were in some sort of bubble, submerged in Azriel’s pain and her own fear.

Mor was preparing clean bandages when the door opened, and Rhys, Feyre, and Nesta appeared. But they didn’t enter.

Rhys immediately raised his hand to stop Feyre and Nesta. "Don’t go in yet," he said calmly but firmly. "She needs peace."

Cassian stepped beside him, his expression hardened. "How does he look?" Feyre asked quietly.

Mor was still standing in the doorframe, the smell of blood and magic heavy in the air, when she turned to Rhys. Her voice was soft, almost toneless from exhaustion. "Y/N keeps mumbling about some tea... but she doesn’t hear me when I talk to her. As if she... isn’t really here anymore."

Rhys blinked once, his expression hardening. "I know exactly which tea she means." He turned, without another word, Feyre by his side. In the kitchen, he immediately began opening the small wooden box hidden in the back corner of a cupboard – protected, hidden, for emergencies. For this kind of emergency.

Feyre watched him as he placed the dried leaves with almost ritual precision into the cup and poured hot water over them. "What kind of tea is that?" she asked cautiously, though she already suspected the answer.

"It takes her pain away," Rhys said, his voice hard with suppressed worry. "Or rather: It eases it. Y/N’s gift... it doesn’t just heal. It takes the pain from the wound, from the body. And pulls it into her own."

Feyre inhaled sharply. "Gods."

"Yes. It’s... rare. And dangerous." He looked her in the eyes. "That’s why she’s the only one who can still help Azriel. But if she continues too long, if she takes in too much... she won’t survive it."

Mor had followed him and was now silently standing in the doorway to the kitchen as Rhys took the steaming cup in his hands. "She’s trembling," she said, more to herself. "Every time she touches him, her whole body shakes. And still, she won’t stop."

Feyre wrapped her arms around herself. "How can she withstand this?"

Rhys didn’t answer immediately. Then: "Because she loves him."

In the bedroom, there was a silence that screamed. Azriel lay still, his chest barely moving, barely visible. Y/N knelt over him, sweat and blood clinging to her skin, her nightgown now connected to his – a blood-soaked veil of desperate hope.

Her hands trembled as she treated another wound on his side – one that had almost pierced his kidney. Her magic was gentle but flickering. As if with every movement, it was being ripped out of her body.

A faint scream escaped her, barely audible—not out of fear, but out of pain. Her own.

Mor knelt next to her carefully, offering her the steaming cup. “Here,” she said gently. “Drink this, Y/N.”

Y/N didn’t respond. Her eyes stared at Azriel, her lips murmuring incomprehensible words as a new wave of pain shot through her body—a pain not caused by her, but one that came from him, pulling her in.

“Y/N,” Mor repeated more insistently, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Please. You need him if you want to keep going with this.”

Rhys stepped behind her. His voice was quiet, but firm. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you. But you need to drink. Now.”

Y/N blinked. Finally. Her trembling fingers reached for the cup, her movements erratic. She drank slowly. The bitter taste almost made her gag, but after a few sips, she slumped slightly forward—as if part of the weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

Not all the pain. Not even half. But enough to keep going.

Mor watched as the color slowly—barely noticeably—returned to Y/N’s face. Her magic became steadier, brighter. The shadows around Azriel receded a little. He was still alive. Barely. But alive.

And Y/N wouldn’t give up on him. Not today.

Mor pressed her lips together and briefly closed her eyes. Please. Let this be enough.

Hours later, Feyre entered the room quietly as Mor closed the door behind her. A brief nod, a silent look, that was all it took—the switch happened soundlessly. The air was heavy with blood, magic, and something Feyre felt deep in her chest: despair.

Y/N was still kneeling over Azriel. Her back was stiff with exhaustion, her hands resting on his chest as if she feared his heart would stop beating as soon as she lost contact.

“Mor said you don’t need much,” Feyre said gently as she slowly approached the bed. “Just someone to be here.”

Y/N didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes were glassy, but awake—too awake. She had taken too much again. Feyre could see it: the fine cracks in her skin at her fingertips, the tense pallor of her face, the way she could barely breathe properly.

“I’ve closed the external wounds,” Y/N whispered, more to herself than to Feyre. “The cut on the side… was deep. I tried to repair the nerves, but he…” She swallowed, her voice breaking. “He’s not responding. His heart is beating, but it’s so… faint.”

Feyre sat at the edge of the bed but kept her distance. “You’ve stabilized him. He’s still alive. Only because of you.”

Y/N shook her head weakly. “It’s not enough. I can feel it. Something in him… something is broken. Not just physically.”

“You mean…?”

“His mind. Or his magic. I don’t know.” Her hands clenched in the sheets. “I can’t grasp it. I feel it, but it slips away from me, like water.”

Feyre placed a hand on Y/N’s trembling back. “You need to rest, Y/N. Just for a moment.”

“If I stop… if I let go, then—”

The door opened gently. Rhys stepped in, slow, careful steps. He didn’t look like a High Lord in that moment. Just a brother. A friend. Someone who had come too late.

His gaze fell on Y/N, then on Azriel. For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then he stepped closer.

“I can fetch Madja,” he said calmly. “Just for a moment. She can take over for you. You need new energy. Your skin is gray, Y/N.”

Y/N barely shook her head—not out of rejection, but out of exhaustion, the last resistance against admitting that she had reached her limits. Her gaze was glassy but clear enough to recognize Rhys’ serious expression. His eyes didn’t beg. They pleaded. And they promised at the same time: help. Safety. No decision would be taken from her hand—not really.

“Bring Madja,” Y/N whispered. Her voice was hoarse, brittle, but full of resolve. “But I won’t leave his side. Not for a second.”

Rhys nodded immediately. No objections, no hesitation. Just a silent agreement. Feyre, standing next to Y/N, gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll stay with you,” she said quietly. “I’ll look after you both.”

Y/N’s fingers still rested on Azriel’s chest, over the heart that beat so weakly that sometimes she feared it had already stopped. She couldn’t imagine letting go of him. Not even for a moment.

“I can barely feel him anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t know if he’s still…”

“Then stay,” Rhys said softly, already ready to leave. “Stay as long as you want. Madja will help. But no one will drag you away from him.”

She nodded—barely visible. As if even the movement cost too much strength.

Rhys turned to the door, but before he opened it, Y/N said with her last bit of strength: “Rhys… thank you.”

He paused, looking back at her over his shoulder. A shadow lay over his face, but something soft, something strong flickered in his eyes.

“You don’t need to thank me, Y/N. He’s my brother. He’s family” A pause. Then, quietly: “And you… you are too.”

With one last look, Rhys disappeared—to fetch Madja and finally bring Y/N some relief.

The sun had long risen, but the soft Fae-light in Azriel’s room still burned on—muted, warm, like a silent promise that hope still remained.

Y/N sat slumped in a chair beside the bed. Her fingers gripped Azriel’s hand as if her touch alone would keep him from being torn away. Her head rested on the mattress, close to his shoulder. Strands of her dishevelled hair fell over his blanket, her skin pale, dark shadows under her eyes. But she didn’t move. Not once.

When the soft sound of footsteps filled the room, Y/N lifted her head slightly. Her eyes found Madja—the healer stood in the doorway, dignified as always, her gaze serious but full of compassion.

Y/N straightened a little, brushing a trembling hand through her hair. “Thank you for coming,” she said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Madja only nodded, walking calmly to the bed. Her gaze swept over Azriel, then to the bandages Y/N had applied with practiced hands. She was silent for a long moment, her magic gently sweeping over his body, testing the aura of his wounds, assessing his condition.

“You’ve done good work,” Madja murmured finally, with honest appreciation in her voice. She leaned slightly over Azriel, healing two deeper wounds that had been hidden deeper inside—places where even Y/N’s powers couldn’t immediately reach.

Then she took half a step back, letting her magic glide over him one last time.

“You’ve done everything that could be done,” she said softly. “More than anyone else could have. Now… it’s up to him.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her fingers still tightly gripping Azriel’s. She nodded, even though the pain in her eyes spoke volumes about how much those words hurt her. Letting go had never been her strength. And in that moment… it felt like the hardest thing in the world.

“I’ll stay here,” she whispered, more to herself than to Madja.

“Of course,” Madja replied calmly. “And if he needs anything—you’ll be the first to know.”

Y/N nodded again, then slowly lowered her head back onto the mattress, her forehead resting against Azriel’s arm. Her hand still lay in his. The connection was there, weak, flickering—but there.

And she wouldn’t let go. Not as long as there was a shred of hope left.

-

Taglist: @princesssunderworld @tele86 @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @rose-girls-world @iluvyewman-blog @gluecksbaerchieee @lreadsstuff

[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

[svearehnn]

where the shadows hold you | azriel x reader

summary: the war never truly ended for you. your memories were now stained with blood, death a constant thought. at least azriel was there to pull you out of the thick of it.

content warning: blood, death, war

The war was over. Prythian had won–and yet, as you stood in the House of Wind gazing out at the blazing stars, you felt as though the war had just begun. You had washed the blood and grime off your skin weeks ago and yet you still felt its heavy sludge lingering on your flesh, claiming you as a living victim of a tragic massacre.

Prythian had won and all those that you loved had survived, except for one. The odds had been in your favor, and your heart didn’t feel much pain for the father that died on that battlefield. The father that was never one to you; always with a distant look in his eye, not saying a word as his youngest daughter went out and risked her life to provide whilst his second oldest sold themself for petty coin. No, you didn’t lose anyone important–except for yourself.

You may have never known a life of peace until Velaris, but nothing had scarred you more than seeing carnage dye the ground red–watching the light fade out of your comrades’ eyes one after another after another. The War against Hybern was nothing but a cruel sick joke in your mind, one that would plague you for decades, maybe centuries, after. 

Ten steps forward had you pushing open the balcony doors. The wind whooshed in, gently caressing your skin as you stepped outside. You let the doors shut softly on their own, silencing the sounds of the house: crackling embers, ginger voices, the swift turn of pages. The City of Starlight greeted you, shimmering below as if it were a mirage. You sighed, reaching the edge of the stone, and leaned against the railing. Incoherent chatter and fragmented music floated in and out of your pointed ears, a distant sound even with your improved hearing.

The serenity and secluded character of this balcony seemed to claw at your soul, digging in and dragging you towards it. A forgiving breeze and the subtle nature of passersby had a hold on your bones, calming you in a way no other place could. This was your sanctuary. At least, it had been since the days after you fought for your life in the muck, your skin now bearing scars that twinged when the weather changed. You should have never let Feyre teach you how to fight; maybe then you could have avoided the battlefield.

Maybe then your nights wouldn’t be plagued with the screams of the fallen, the sound of steel splintering bone, bodies squelching under your feet. You tipped your head up to the sky, trying to keep your breaths even as your heart raced in your chest. 

You wished you heard him before you saw him–he had always done that, sneaking up on you. As he came to stand beside you, your fingers squeezed the rail of the balcony, knuckles blooming a shade lighter from the force. You didn’t say anything; you just let the softness of your breaths carry into the darkened Velaris night, near-silent amidst the eternal sounds of the busy city below.

Gloved hands settled on the railing next to yours, nearly touching. Your breath stuttered at the closeness, at the warmth emanating off of him. It was a subtle confirmation of I’m here, and it brought tears to your eyes. The wind brushed against your face, your gaze drifting to the stars and blinking as if that could keep the water at bay.

“What’s going on, sweetheart.” Azriel’s soft voice murmured, dark and wispy just like the shadows that fluttered around him. You shook your head, a quiet sniffle, and refused to meet his hazel eyes that were gently searching for yours. 

“I’m fine.” Even to your own ears, your shaky voice was unbelievable; a farce that guarded the walls of your vulnerability. The leather of his gloves squeaked as his grip tightened on the iron barrier between you and the rocks that threatened you hundreds of feet below.

“Something’s going on in that head of yours, and I can tell it’s not a good something.” 

You shook your head again, more fiercely this time, as though your doe-like determination could steer him off course. “Thank you for worrying, but I’m fine. Really.” The tears began to glisten, threatening to spill over as you released your hardened grip on the railing and turned, intending to head back into the house. Azriel’s hand was wrapped around your wrist before you could even take one step. The tenderness in which he held you made your breath hitch in your throat, your watery eyes finally finding his.

That’s when the dam broke.

Your restraint had already been waning, your emotions begging to take control, and the second you looked into his sweetened, amber eyes, your walls cracked. Droplets streaked down your cheeks one after the other, gleaming in the soft glow of the moon and faelights in the lively city streets. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice breaking.

Azriel pulled you into his arms, his towering form engulfing you. His wings stretched and curled around your back, hiding the both of you from view. “You have nothing to apologise for.” His voice was strong even in its hushed tenor. You shrugged dejectedly, shoulders slumping as your head thudded against his chest, a shuddering breath leaving your lips.

“How do you cope with all of this? The war, the memories, the deaths–because I feel as though I’m being swallowed whole by it all.” Your confession released a tension into the air–not one of pity or anger, but one of empathy and a sadness that could not be quelled by the Mother herself if she deigned to try.

Azriel sighed, his breath causing the hairs on the crown of your head to dance in the shadowed night. “Everyone copes differently,” he mumbled, “and I’m someone who struggles with coping at all.” The soft brush of his lips against your hair as he spoke sent a shiver down your spine, but it wasn’t just because of the unintentional intimacy. Rather, you felt the sincerity in his words, the weakness that he kept close to his heart, yet shared with you, anyway.

“And what if I’m struggling, too? I don’t know what to do–I can’t even sleep without being haunted by nightmares. Every waking moment is just another war.” Your hesitant voice escaped the confines of your dry throat and racing mind, each syllable a crack in your defenses. His arms tightened around you, the flat of his palms a steady anchor against the small of your back.

His lips dropped to your ear, voice low, “then we will struggle together and help each other bandage their wounds.” Your nails dug into his back, pulling yourself closer. His gray sweater muffled the sound of your strangled sob; it hid the new melancholy that now lay permanently etched into your irises.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” Your voice, muffled by his chest, was indescribably solemn.

“I don’t have to do what?”

“This–comforting me. Holding me.” A watery laugh falls from your lips as you go to pull back. Azriel’s arms tighten around you, keeping you held against his chest. 

Azriel didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he pulled you tighter, like letting go wasn’t even an option. “I want to do this,” he murmured. “You don’t have to earn comfort, sweetheart. You just… deserve it.”

The sincerity in his voice nearly undid you all over again.

His thumb brushed softly across your back, a gentle stroke meant not to fix you, but to let you unravel safely. You both stood like that for a while—silent except for the quiet city far below, the rustle of his wings, and the hitch in your breathing as it gradually steadied. The stars blinked overhead, patient witnesses to your pain.

“I keep thinking if I could’ve done one thing different…” you whispered, eyes distant. “Maybe fewer people would’ve died. Maybe… I wouldn’t feel like this.”

Azriel drew back just enough to tilt your chin, guiding your gaze to his. “That’s survivor’s guilt. It’s cruel. It makes you carry burdens that were never yours to bear.”

You shook your head. “But I was there.”

“So was I,” he said softly. “And I’ve asked myself the same questions. Every day. But what happened wasn’t your fault. War doesn’t care who’s brave, or kind, or deserving. It just takes.” His jaw flexed, voice darkening. “But it didn’t take you. And I thank the Mother for that every damn night.”

You blinked, stunned by the rawness in his voice, the crack that slipped through his normally impassive facade. His shadows coiled gently around your shoulders like a second embrace, whispering silent reassurances you couldn’t quite understand, but still felt.

“I want to sleep again,” you said, quieter now. “I want to laugh without guilt. I want to be able to look at the sky without feeling like something’s going to fall out of it and crush me.”

Azriel smiled faintly, brushing a tear off your cheek with a knuckle. “You will,” he promised. “Not all at once. Not even soon. But you will.”

You nodded slowly, not because you were sure—but because he was. And for tonight, that was enough.

He held out a gloved hand, palm up. “Come back inside with me?”

You stared at it for a moment, then slipped your fingers into his.

The House welcomed you both back with its soft, golden light. No one interrupted as you walked in, hand-in-hand. Cassian and Nesta were curled together by the fire, quietly talking. Feyre sat with Rhysand by the window, a book resting on her lap, his arm curled around her waist. Elain stood by the hearth, cradling a steaming mug of tea, her eyes catching yours for just a moment—a soft smile, understanding and quiet and kind.

And for the first time in a long time, you realized you weren’t truly alone.

Azriel’s hand never left yours as the House of Wind settled around you, strong and silent and alive. You sat beside him, your head resting against his shoulder, shadows wrapping gently around your legs like a lullaby.

And when your eyes finally closed, you slept.

Not dreamless. Not healed.

But whole enough to try again tomorrow.

[imsandra]

The new beginning

Pairing: Azriel x Female Reader (It's more OC daughter)

Summary: The brightest light is sometimes born from the darkest corner of the soul.

Warning: Angst, nostalgia, fluff. I think that’s all—let me know if there's anything else I should add.

Word Count: 2,198

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this story about our boys. As always, feel free to share your thoughts, suggestions—everything is welcome as long as it's respectful and meant to help.

English is not my first language, so I apologize for any spelling or grammatical mistakes.

This is an original story, written by me. Please do not copy or plagiarize my work.

I truly appreciate every comment, reblog, and like I receive.

Happy reading!

Master list

The moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the bed where Azriel sat. Between his scarred fingers, he held a shining ring with a blue gemstone, surrounded by tiny stones like stars—a symbol of the one he once called his wife. Nights like this were the ones that hurt the most. There were days when he felt he didn’t deserve to live, nights when he longed desperately for the warmth of her body beside his.

He held the beautiful ring up to his eyes; the tiny sparkles of the gem reminded him of the light in her eyes when she was happy, when he made her laugh. They were only fleeting glimmers he wished had lasted forever.

But that would never happen again. There was no longer a "forever" together—not after he watched the life leave his beloved’s body.

“Listen to me…” Azriel whispered, his voice breaking. “Listen to me and come back, come home. Come back to me,” he begged as he held her body, rocking back and forth.

The pain tearing through his heart was unlike anything he had ever felt in his long life. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and in a moment, his beloved’s face was bathed in those warm drops.

Her face, so serene… Nothing disturbed her in that sweet slumber. And all Azriel could feel was each piece of his heart being ripped from his chest, how his soul slowly stopped singing.

“Please,” he begged once more. “Please, come back to me.”

Please. Please. Please.

There was no response. Her heart had stopped beating. Her cold body was all Azriel could feel—not warmth… only cold.

He opened the top drawer of the nightstand. In his free hand, he held the small velvet box that protected the one-of-a-kind piece he had commissioned just for her. He crawled beneath the sheets, pain his only companion. His shadows lingered throughout the room, drifting through Y/N’s belongings like it was the only routine they knew since she had gone.

Azriel sighed and closed his eyes. All he could see was her—all the little things she did that reminded him why he had fallen in love with his wife, his mate, his best friend, the love of his life, and the mother of his daughter. She would never come back.

The rays of the sun announced a new day. The sound of the door opening made him roll to the other side; he clung to the sheets like a small child. He wanted to stay in bed, but the voice of the person who interrupted his sleep broke the silence.

“I know you're awake,” she whispered, her voice full of resignation. “Today’s the big day. Nyx is being crowned and you're not ready,” the woman continued. She stepped further into the room and yanked the sheets away, just like Azriel used to do when she was little.

“Nira, leave me alone,” his voice, rough and hoarse from sleep, made his daughter laugh.

“I used to say the same thing when I was eight. Consider it my revenge.”

She couldn’t help but remember those times with her father. Everything looked so different back then. Her hero’s sense of humor had faded as she grew older. Every time her face reflected her mother’s… with the only exception being her eyes—hazel, just like her father's.

“Dad, come on. Rhys is going to come, and you don’t want him dragging you out of bed,” she continued, trying to convince him.

Azriel opened his eyes and felt his heart stop for a second. His daughter’s silhouette, bathed in sunlight, glowed like gold—like the most precious treasure he had: the constant reminder that, at the end of the day, someone was waiting for him to tell them about their day. But his little girl wouldn’t be waiting for him anymore.

“Just ten minutes and I’ll be downstairs,” Azriel murmured, unable to take his eyes off his daughter. His little whirlwind. Just a few years ago she had cried in his arms with chubby cheeks, and he hadn’t known how to walk that road. And now, she was a grown woman, taking care of her aging father.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” she said with a smile before leaving the room.

The spymaster got out of bed and walked straight to the shelf where he kept a small, simple black box. Just like him. He gently placed it into the pocket of his tunic.

Azriel looked at his reflection. Despite all the centuries he had lived, he still wasn’t used to wearing fancy clothes. The black suit with subtle golden embroidery was perfect for the occasion. He walked down the hallway, step by step, searching for where his daughter might be. Her presence was as familiar to him as the beat of his own heart. When he reached her side, he took the small box from his coat. Simple, unadorned. But the weight inside was immense.

“I want to give you this,” he said, holding it out.

She looked at him, puzzled, but took the box. She opened it carefully… and her breath caught.

A pendant. A stone of pure starlight, captured in a teardrop of carved crystal with impossible delicacy. The chain was dark, the color of the sky before a storm, and etched with details so subtle only someone like her would notice: lines of ancient runes. For protection.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“A part of me,” Azriel replied softly. “It’s forged from a fragment of my shadows. The first ones I ever learned to control.”

She looked up at him, surprised.

“The first ones?”

“The most stubborn ones. The ones that stayed when all the others left,” he said with a half-smile, though his voice carried something deeper. “I thought they might be useful to you.”

She closed her fingers tightly around the pendant.

“Why now?”

Azriel turned his gaze toward the window.

“Because now you’re building your own world. Because you’re leaving, in a way. And I want you to carry something that reminds you… that you’ll always have a home. That you can always come back. That I’ll always be here, even when you no longer need me.”

His words hit her harder than she expected. The kind of things he didn’t say lightly. The kind of love that wasn’t shouted, but felt deep in the skin.

“Dad…” her voice trembled.

He looked at her then, straight in the eyes. And for a moment, she saw the warrior, the spymaster of the Night Court… unarmed.

“You’ve become more than I ever dreamed of. Strong. Brilliant. Free. And now, you’re giving your life to someone else…” He paused. “But you’ll never stop being my little girl.”

The tear that slipped down her cheek was silent, but she didn’t hide it.

“No matter how much I grow, I’ll always need you.”

Azriel nodded. Then, he gently lifted the pendant and tied it around her neck. His fingers, hardened by training and time, were surprisingly soft.

“If you ever feel lost… touch it. My shadows will come to you.”

She hugged him. With enough strength to make his wings flare slightly, wrapping around her. As if they wanted to shield her from the entire universe. And he… he held her like he could still keep her safe in his arms. Like the world was a little less dark when she was near.

Father and daughter made their way to the Grand Palace for the celebration. Arms linked, for the last time.

The ceremony had already ended. 

The night had stretched on with wine, soft music, and congratulations. The newlyweds were downstairs, surrounded by friends and family, but in one of the highest towers of the Palace, two shadows shared a glass of wine in silence.

Azriel didn’t drink much, but that night… that night, he did.

“I never thought we’d end up here,” Rhysand said, breaking the silence. “You giving your daughter away… and me gaining a daughter-in-law.”

Azriel shot him a sidelong glance, but the small curve of his lips betrayed his calm. The day he had to entrust his daughter to another man felt so distant now. That night when the light of his life was born was a memory he cherished more with each passing year, and now, the possibility of becoming a grandfather loomed closer.

“I never thought your son would survive his first training with Cassian.”

Rhys chuckled quietly, sipping from his glass. “He almost didn’t. But then he started flying before he turned two, and his mother didn’t let anyone take him away for weeks.”

“I remember,” Azriel said, turning the glass in his hands. “I remember when she spelled the nursery door so Cassian couldn’t sneak in and drag him off to train.”

Rhysand laughed again, but then fell silent. His expression grew more serious as he looked at his brother—not with the gaze of the High Lord, but just as Rhys. Simply Rhys.

“You know he’ll take care of her, right?”

Azriel took a second to answer. He’d known Nyx since he was a child; he had been just his nephew… until he wasn’t. Not once those blue eyes had landed on his little girl. From the moment they were old enough to admit their love.

“I know,” his rough voice betrayed him to Rhys. He didn’t know how long he could live in a house without the sound of Nira’s voice, her morning songs, and her nighttime jokes.

Rhys set his glass on the stone railing. “Nyx… he’s not like me. He’s softer in some ways. More of a dreamer. But when it comes to her, to your daughter… Azriel, I swear by the stars-damned sky, there is nothing he wouldn’t do for her.”

Azriel knew that. Even when his brother’s son had “saved her life” from an evil frog in the pond, or the time Nira scraped her knee from running too fast. That very afternoon, Nyx’s eyes hadn’t lied: the care in his hands as he helped her up, the way he healed her himself and told her everything would be okay… Azriel had known then.

“I saw it in his eyes. Since they were children.”

“You knew since then?”

“No,” he looked straight at him. “But one afternoon, I watched them from the window. My shadows confirmed it the next day.”

Rhys watched him in silence. There were so many unspoken words between them. Centuries of battles, of wounds and loyalties. But this… this was different. Their children would shape the next generation of the Night Court’s reign.

“She has your strength, Az,” Rhysand said softly. “But also your silence. Your way of seeing the world without saying a word… and still saying everything.”

Azriel looked up at the stars. They knew how often he’d begged them to give him the strength to keep going.

“It wasn’t always easy to care for her. Sometimes… it felt like she was the only thing anchoring me to the world. That if she ever disappeared, I would too.”

Rhys lowered his gaze in silent understanding. That night when Velaris had mourned those lost to that strange illness. The night his brother lost his wife and mate, and Rhysand lost a friend. A member of his family. Azriel had shut down completely. Feyre had cared for Nira until the spymaster was ready again.

“Now it’s time to let her fly.”

 Azriel closed his eyes for a moment.

“I did, long ago. I was just pretending she was still by my side.”

Rhysand smiled—the smile of a father who understood how hard it was to let a child walk their own path, build their own life, follow their own destiny. And even though he was entrusting his legacy to his son, he knew it couldn’t compare to letting go of a daughter.

“You have the right to feel this, brother. But this isn’t a loss. It’s a new beginning—for all of us.”

Azriel took a deep breath. Then, for the first time in a long while, he set his glass down on the stone wall… and allowed himself to smile.

“I just hope Nyx is ready for her.”

“No one is,” Rhysand laughed. “But he’ll learn. And if not… he’s got two giant-winged, short-tempered fathers to put him in his place.”

They both laughed, though it didn’t last long. Azriel, lost in his grief, turned to the window again. The full moon bathed the palace in its cold light, as if it too mourned the absence of its mate on this special night.

The sound of footsteps echoed in the room, and the shadow of another Ilyrian warrior appeared:

“Brothers, the party’s downstairs. I bet Leif is about to finish off the wine.”

Azriel and Rhysand followed the feared warrior down the stairs, arms thrown around each other’s shoulders like when they were young. Cassian mumbled nonsense, fueled by the alcohol in his system. Azriel could only grunt every time his brother leaned more heavily on him.

And under the starry sky, the shadows and the night shared a moment of peace. Of pride. Of farewell.

Because their children were the future.

And they, though marked by darkness… had brought light into the world.

*divider by @cafekitsune , thank you <33.

A/N: I'm back. Sorry to keep you waiting, or maybe not. I've been busy with my degree paperwork, so I haven't had time to write, but today I'm back with this little story, and I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think. Kisses, love you guys.

[agentstarkid]

WHAT THE GODS TRIED TO BURY ✦ 04

✦ WORD COUNT: 7.2K (damn)

✦ WARNINGS: language, brief angst, nightmare, banter and you might end up loving someone (I did). No Azriel or anyone from the Inner Circle.

✦ MAY'S RADIO: I just want y'all to know that this wasn't planned at all. This chapter took a sharp turn after I read inhaled Fourth Wing a few days ago (and now I'm on chapter 49 of Iron Flame), I fell in love with the men—except Dain, I couldn't care less what happens to his bitch ass. Anyways, this was definitely inspired by them (especially Ridoc and Garrick). No violence on this one or major angst (shocking), so enjoy it while it last, friends :)

< previous | series masterlist | next >

She had no intention of coming home.

Not to this place. Not to him.

But her feet had led her here anyway—like they always did.

“You’ve got that look again,” the male drawled, voice rough with sleep. “Like someone kicked your favorite blade off a cliff.”

He didn’t move when she approached. Didn’t even open his eyes.

She halted just inside the archway. “Maybe they did.”

He was sprawled in a chaise on the sun-drenched terrace, a book balanced on his well-defined chest, his bare feet kicked up on a cushioned stool. He looked every bit the lazy noble male he pretended to be in the Summer Court. Barefoot, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a little too perfect to be accidental, one arm slung behind his head like he hadn’t a single responsibility in the world.

He cracked one eye open. The corner of his mouth tilted. “Then I hope you returned the favor.”

She didn’t answer. Just stepped onto the terrace and dropped her satchel and blade beside the chair opposite him—the one she always used, though she’d never admit it—while the ocean roared below like it wanted to swallow everything she was trying so hard not to feel. His scent followed her, sliding through the tension, as sharp and steady as always—spice wound through crushed mint, sun-warmed leather, and the tart bite of elderberries, anchoring her in place.

“You look like shit.”

That earned him a glance. Barely. But enough for him to spot the storm behind her eyes. Not the rage, no—he knew that well. Rage was easier. This was… something else. Quieter. Meaner. Sadder.

Instead, she rolled her eyes. “Nice to see you too, Theron.”

The male tilted his head without lifting it. “Didn’t say I wasn’t happy to see you. Just pointing out that you look like you haven’t slept since the last solstice.”

She stepped past him without answering, boots silent on the polished stone floor.

Truth was…she hadn’t planned on coming to the Summer Court.

Not really.

She’d decided to head to the Winter Court next, it was easier to leave. She’d told herself that at the crossing—Winter was quiet, detached. Winter made sense. But as she found herself at the intersection of the three courts, Summer had just been on the way—or close enough that the detour felt justified, and it’s been a while since she’s seen the ocean. That was what she told herself as she crossed the final marble bridge stretching toward the villa that overlooked said ocean, where sea-salt clung to her skin and the scent of citrus blooms and driftwood wafted on the breeze.

Definitely just a coincidence, she thought with a huff.

She told herself it wasn’t about the only person in two centuries who hadn’t asked anything of her but had given everything anyway.

Theron wasn’t home.

Not exactly.

But he was the closest thing to it.

And gods help her, she hated that most of all.

The heaviness in her bones threatened to pull her down, and none of it was physically related to the 2-week trip she made to get here from Autumn. 

Fifteen days since Azriel had looked at her like she was both a ghost and a sin he couldn’t name. Since Cassian stood in front of her like a stunned wall she hadn’t asked for. Since the past had bled into the present and she had no idea what to do with any of it.

Theron sat up slowly, brushing a hand through his hair, the ends curling slightly thanks to the sea breeze. “Let me guess. You’re here to ‘pick something up.’”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Or was it ‘just passing through’ this time?” he teased, standing with that languid grace that always made people underestimate how fast he could gut somebody.

“I needed a place to lie low.”

“Of course you did,” he said dryly. “Purely practical. Not at all sentimental.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. But Theron just grinned, stepping forward and pulling her into a one-armed hug that she tolerated for exactly three seconds before pulling away.

“You smell like fire and poor decisions,” he said.

“I was in Autumn,” she muttered, brushing past him and into the villa.

He raised a brow. “And yet, still in one piece. That’s new.”

She ignored that, too.

It was easier not to talk about it. About how she nearly slipped on her control and the way her power threatened to burn everything around her, fueled by her emotions. About how Azriel’s voice had chased her long after she’d walked away. About how, for the briefest moment, she'd wondered if he would follow.

He hadn’t.

And that was for the best.

Probably.

The 4-inch over 6-foot male didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched her move through the villa like she wasn’t trying to wear her anger like armor. Like he hadn’t seen her do this before—hadn’t memorized the signs of her unraveling long ago.

She stood at the edge of the open balcony doors, staring out at the ocean, jaw tight. He leaned against the threshold, arms crossed over his chest, his posture all casual indifference.

“I’m making dinner,” he announced.

She blinked. “You burn water.”

“I’ve improved,” he said with mock offense. “Besides, I didn’t say I was cooking it. I said I was making it. Big difference. I’ve got a tray of very pretty things being delivered by a very pretty male in about ten minutes.”

She shot him a sidelong glance. “Is that what you call flirting now?”

“I call it strategic delegation.”

Her lips twitched—barely—but Theron caught it. A chink in the walls.

He pushed off the doorway, walking toward her with that infuriating ease, like he knew exactly what he was doing. (And knowing  him, he mostly did.) “Come on. Eat something. Then you can brood dramatically on the rooftop if you must.”

“I’m not brooding.”

He gave her a look. “You are the definition of brooding. If I painted you right now, I’d have to call it ‘Female Thinking About Death and Vengeance While Pretending to Enjoy the View.’”

That got a real smile, small and unwilling. “You’re an ass.”

“And you’re stalling.”

She said nothing.

Theron stepped closer, his tone softening. “Whatever happened in Autumn—it’s not going to eat you alive unless you let it.”

Her shoulders stiffened. He didn’t push further. Just added, “Let me distract you for a little while. I promise to be annoying enough that you’ll forget everything else.”

“I don’t need distraction,” she muttered.

“You need something. It's why you're here.”

She turned to him then, really looked at him. And just for a second, she saw the echo of herself in him—Almost the same wild tangle of hair that drank in the light, same sun-warmed skin that always looked kissed by some faraway place, the same shadow in their gazes they never quite managed to scrub out, the same tension curling through their postures like a second skin. The few people who have gotten lucky enough to see them together—to see her—often asked if they were siblings.

Sometimes, when she looked at him sideways, she wondered if the Cauldron had stitched something in their bones before they were born, she even wondered if they could’ve been, in another life, before everything had been taken. Before the world had turned cruel.

But no—he was just the male who helped her escape, who stayed, who never asked for anything in return. Just a guard with too many secrets and a soft spot for the female he once smuggled out of what she considered was Hel itself.

He was the only hand that reached for hers when she was nothing but blood and bone and rage. She didn’t trust many—but she trusted him.

Or at least, as close to trust as she allowed.

Alas, Theron never corrected the assumptions. He just smirked and let it hang in the air.

“I’ll stay for dinner,” she said finally.

Theron smirked. “I knew the promise of food would win. Works every time.”

As he turned to head for the kitchens, whistling under his breath, she found herself following.

And for the first time in days, the storm inside her eased—just slightly.

He opened a bottle of wine, and called over his shoulder, “So are we pretending everything’s fine, or do I get the full tragic breakdown today?”

She shot him a look, arching a brow. “What happened to distracting me?”

He glanced back with a crooked smile. “This is the distraction.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, at least you’ve got the annoying part covered, effortlessly may I add.”

He just grinned, throwing at her a small trinket he found nearby as she ducked slightly, and made his way to the small cabinet by the kitchen entrance.

She didn’t answer at first, just leaned against the cool marble counter and watched him pull down two mismatched glasses like he hadn’t stolen them from a noble’s villa three solstices ago.

“I’m not in the mood for a breakdown,” she said finally.

Theron uncorked the bottle and poured generously. “So… pretending everything’s fine, then.”

“Exactly.”

He slid a glass toward her as she took a seat on one of the stools, which were made of polished iron and decorated with an intricate design. “Cheers to emotional repression. My favorite coping mechanism.”

She raised it, clinked it against his. “Second only to sarcasm.”

He grinned. “Naturally.”

They drank in silence for a moment. Outside, the breeze rolled in through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of salt and ripe peaches. Somewhere, a gull screamed clear and cutting, a wild hymn to the open sky.

Theron cocked his head. “You going to tell me what happened?”

She stared at the glass. “No.”

“Okay,” he said casually, then dramatically dropped his shoulders with a sigh. “Then I’ll guess.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Theron—”

“You were caught stealing priceless jewels from the Autumn Court treasury and had to seduce a warden to escape.”

She snorted. “That was you in Winter, last year.”

“Right.” He took another sip. “Then… someone pissed you off, you burned half a forest, and now you’re in hiding because someone’s very upset about their trees.”

Her jaw tightened, but not from amusement this time.

Theron didn’t miss it.

His voice lowered, the teasing slipping from his tone just enough to be noticed. “Was it them?”

She didn’t answer.

He set his glass down. “Did they find you?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. “It wasn’t them.”

Theron waited.

She pressed her lips together. “I saw… someone. From before.”

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

She took another drink, staring past him at the sea. “It was like… like I’d walked back into a story I forgot I was a part of. And suddenly, everything was loud again. All of it.”

A muscle ticked in her jaw. “I left before anything could happen. Before I did something I’d regret.”

Theron’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t move. “You didn’t lose control?”

“No.”

Almost.

It wasn't necessarily a lie, just omitting certain words, but it still felt bitter in her mouth. Her fingers curled around the glass.

He nodded, as if accepting that answer—for now. “And this someone… was it the one with the shadows and the brooding glower? The one who stares like he’s trying to solve a riddle no one asked?”

Her eyes snapped to his. How the fuck–?

Theron held up his hands. “I remember things.”

She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters if he made you look like you’re carrying the end of the world on your back again.”

She looked down at her drink and exhaled slowly. “Rhysand knows.”

His brow arched. “That you’re alive, or that you’ve been impersonating the ghost of vengeance for the past hundred years?”

“Both.”

“Damn.” He clicked his tongue. “Took him long enough. I thought he was supposed to be clever.”

Her jaw twitched. She didn’t respond.

“Apparently he told the others I died on that battlefield,” she said finally, voice like splintered glass. “Didn’t even check. My supposedly dead body wasn’t even cold yet—and he was already spinning the tale. Told them I sacrificed myself.”

Theron stilled.

His hand flexed once on the stem of his glass before he forced himself to ease it.

“Right,” he said, too softly. “Of course he did.”

She didn’t look up.

“I bled out in a shithole,” she murmured. “Alone. And when I clawed my way back he’d already moved on. Already buried me in his mind and made it poetic.” A dry chuckle left her lips.

Theron’s expression didn’t change, but his silence sharpened.

He’d always known. She hadn’t needed to spell it out for him—the fury, the sorrow, the way she flinched at the mere mention of them. She’d told him enough. Enough for him to hate them all on principle.

“Sounds like they mourned a corpse that wasn’t theirs to grieve,” he said coolly.

She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “At least he made it sound noble. Said I made a choice. That I gave myself to save the rest of them.”

“And did you?”

She glanced at him.

He didn’t smile. “Or did he just need a story to sleep at night?”

Her chest rose with a sharp breath. “Fuck if I know anymore,” she said. Then, quieter—like it cost something to say, “Azriel and Cassian… they said they didn’t know. That Rhysand never told them I was alive.”

Theron’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t speak.

“They swore it.” Her voice wavered, barely. “And I—” she shook her head, fingers curling tighter around her glass, “I almost believed them. The way they looked at me… like I’d torn the world in half just by standing there.”

He was quiet for a beat, the only sound coming from the waves crashing on the shore outside.

“He looked at me like I was a ghost.”

Silence stretched. By the way her eyes seemed to dim a little, he knew who she was referring to. Mother damn it. 

“Maybe you were.”

She blinked.

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “To him. Maybe you’re a story he buried. Or maybe you were the part he never really got over.”

Her throat felt tight.

“But,” he added, his tone light again, as if cutting the thread before it pulled too far, “he’s also probably an idiot. So don’t let it get to your head.”

She huffed a soft, dry laugh. “Thanks for the insight.”

Theron grinned. “Anytime. I’m full of half-baked wisdom and unlimited charm.”

She rolled her eyes, but the tightness in her chest eased. Just a little. Just enough.

Her gaze drifted to the rim of her glass. “Why did you stay?”

Theron blinked. “What?”

She looked up at him now, something open and bare in her expression. “You had no reason to. After that place, after—everything. You could’ve disappeared. But you stayed. With me.”

A pause.

“Are you asking if I’m secretly madly in love with you?”

She snorted. “Theron.”

He gave her a slow, exaggerated shrug, leaning back in his chair like he hadn’t just deflected her question. “Maybe I just like Faerie wine. Or maybe I enjoy the thrill of never knowing when you’re going to barge in covered in blood and bad decisions.”

She didn’t let it go. “I’m serious.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stared at the wine in his glass like it might spare him from telling the truth.

Then, softly, “Because I saw you chained and beaten half to death, and still looking at those assholes that captured you like you were the one they should fear.”

She stilled.

He didn’t look at her as he continued. “Because when most people break, they shatter. But you—gods, you didn’t just survive. You endured. And you still had enough spite in you to tell me to fuck off while half-conscious.” A dry huff of a laugh left him. “You were bleeding out, less than half conscious and still trying to bite the guards when they got too close.”

“I don’t remember that,” she said, voice thin.

“I do.” He looked up at her then, something ancient and unspoken in his eyes. “And I think… seeing that—seeing you—did something to me. You had a foot and a half in death’s door and were still feral. It was the most impressive, most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her throat went tight.

But of course, he didn’t let the moment linger too long.

“Also, I’d already decided that if you lived, you owed me at least one dramatic rescue from a tower cell. Still waiting on that, by the way.”

She snorted. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Sharing my wine. Sitting at my table.”

“Only because you bribed me with food.”

“Strategic delegation, thank you very much.”

She shook her head, but the edges of her mouth lifted.

“You still haven’t cooked anything edible in your life.”

“I made toast once.”

“You burned toast once.”

“Fine,” he said, throwing his hands up. “I’m emotionally supportive and terrible in the kitchen. Some would call that balance.”

She grinned, just a little. “Some would call that a red flag.”

“Some don’t appreciate me.”

“I do,” she said quietly, before she could stop herself.

The words hung between them like threads catching light.

Theron tilted his head slightly, the smirk slipping into something gentler. “I know.”

And for a few heartbeats, silence wrapped around them—comfortable and full of everything unspoken.

“Whatever you are thinking about making better not be poisoned.”

He let out a mock gasp. “How dare you.”

“Because if I die from it, I’m haunting you.”

“Oh, I expect nothing less. But if you do, try to knock over the vases I hate first.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ass.”

“You adore me.”

“Questionable.”

“Undeniable.”

He poured her another glass of wine. “You still smell like shit, by the way.”

“And you still dress like a pompous little prince in exile.”

“It’s called fashion,” he said with a wink, twirling with a flourish gesture. “You’d know that if you didn’t wear the same bloodstained black leathers every other week.”

“You love them.”

“I tolerate them.”

She smirked and settled further on her chair, stretching like a cat. “I missed this.”

His smile turned quiet, but sure. “Yeah. Me too.”

For the first time in weeks, the air around her felt breathable.

She found herself in the same kingdom of impossible wonder.

It always started the same way.

Towers that kissed the sky, carved from pale stone that shimmered like trapped lightning. A river, dark and glimmering with untold power, that cut through the land like a vein of liquid night.

But tonight, it was… different.

Wrong.

Instead of the deafening chaos that always follows, the quietness reigned. No screaming. No shadows lunging through wreckage. Just… stillness.

The towers now stood shattered, veined with cracks and shadows, jagged stumps clawing at the dark sky. That radiant shimmer was gone—stone dulled and scorched, as if lightning had not been trapped in it, but had burned it from the inside out. Statues that had once stood tall and graceful, wept molten gold from hollow eyes. The river that had once flowed like a pulse of living magic now ran thick and crimson, sluggish as blood. The scent, so dense it made her stomach twist, hit her next—iron, acrid sulfur, rot. Trees, blackened and skeletal, groaned softly despite the lack of wind.

It looked like the calm after a storm, but there was no peace here. No calm.

Not anymore.

Still, the silence pressed hardest of all. Not even her footsteps dared make a sound.

Something was so fucking wrong.

The stones were too smooth. The grass too dry. The sky above churned with grey, angry clouds that didn’t move, as if painted on.

She whispered, “What happened?”

The wind didn’t answer. It never did.

But her feet moved anyway, following the broken path to the water’s edge, where crimson lapped at the banks and the reflection staring back at her was not her own.

It was her face—but older. Blood-spattered. Void-eyed. Crowned in bone and cerulean flames.

And behind her in the river’s reflection, a throne sat empty.

Waiting.

She gasped and staggered back, heart lurching, breath caught on a sharp edge of panic. The vision—or whatever it had been—vanished the moment she looked away, leaving only the ripple of blood-stained water. But the weight of it lingered. Clung to her skin like smoke.

She turned from the river, throat dry, and stepped carefully into the ruin beyond. Yet every footfall felt too loud, like it might wake something that should never rise. Her skin prickled. Her heart pounded too hard against her ribs.

Her senses screamed with something she hadn’t felt in years—prey.

There was a presence. She could feel it, just at the edge of awareness. Not watching—looming. Like a stormcloud with teeth. Like a shadow that whispered of ruined oaths. Power rolled across the ruined landscape, ancient and wrong, pressing against her like invisible chains.

She turned in slow circles, scanning the wreckage. Nothing. No movement. No sound.

But she knew something was here.

A tremor rippled down her spine. That was when she saw it—movement.

From the ruins ahead.

Shapes.

At first she thought they were shadows, but no—bodies. Dozens of them. Twisted, broken, dragging themselves from the crumbling remains of the city. Some stumbled forward as if in a trance, others crawled, limbs splintered and bent. Their bodies were ruined—gaping wounds, twisted limbs, charred skin hanging from fragile bones. Their faces were bloodied, half-gone, yet eyes that should have been shut in death were open, locked on her with hollow stares as if they remembered her. As if they hated her.

The closer they came, the clearer she saw it: these were people.

Or what was left of them.

Panic shot through her like lightning.

They were coming straight for her.

She stumbled back, heartbeat turning frantic.

And then—

A breath, hot and too close, ghosted across the back of her neck.

She froze.

A voice, low and rich and dark as the grave, whispered into her ear:

“Ah, I’ve been waiting for you, Geallta.”

She woke with a gasp—sharp and ragged, like her lungs had forgotten how to breathe.

For a moment, she didn’t know where she was.

The shadows of the room twisted in her vision, strange and warping as if the dream hadn’t truly let her go. The scent of blood and sulfur still clung to her senses, too thick, too real. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow bursts as her eyes darted across the room.

Stone walls.

Sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains.

The soft crash of distant waves.

Not the kingdom. Not there.

Just a dream. Just a dream. It was just a fucking dream. 

But the panic didn’t care.

She reached instinctively—fingers wrapping around cool steel beneath her pillow—just as a shape moved in the corner of her vision.

The blade was in her hand, half-raised before her eyes fully registered him.

Theron.

Leaning lazily against the doorway, arms crossed, barefoot and utterly unconcerned.

He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. Just lifted a brow and drawled, “Do you ever not wake up like you’re about to kill someone?”

Her heart still raced like a war drum. Sweat cooled against her skin. But the knife lowered, her grip slackening just slightly.

“Next time,” she rasped, her voice still hoarse with sleep, “try knocking.”

“I did. Three times.” He glanced pointedly at the closed door. “You were too busy thrashing around like you were fighting off a small army. Which, to be fair, is on brand.”

She groaned and sat up, dragging a hand down her face. Her muscles ached with tension she couldn’t shake, the echoes of that dream still clinging like a second skin.

“Morning sunshine,” he sang-song. “Or, you know, whatever passes for a greeting from you these days.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered something too low for him to hear. Not that it mattered—he probably already knew what she was going to say anyway. Sometimes she swore he saw too much.

The broad-shouldered, lean male pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room, snagging the pitcher from the nightstand and pouring her a glass of water. He handed it over without comment, sitting on the edge of her bed, crossing one ankle over the other.

She took it with a muttered thanks and drank, slowly, letting it anchor her. Letting here sink back in.

The bed. The villa. Summer’s sea breeze curling through the open windows.

Not bone crowns or rivers of blood.

He watched her, still and silent, his usual smart-ass commentary blessedly absent—for now.

“You had the dream again,” he said after a beat.

Not a question.

She didn’t answer.

“You screamed,” he added, softer.

She looked away.

Theron let the silence stretch before he offered, gently, “Wanna tell me what you saw this time?”

She didn’t speak. Just stared at the cup in her hand like it might hold the answer.

But the image burned behind her eyes: a river turned to blood, a reflection that wasn’t hers, an army of undead.

And the voice. 

Mother save her.

She shuddered.

“I don’t think it was just a dream,” she said quietly.

He tensed, but didn’t interrupt. He didn’t push. He never did—not in the way others had. That’s what made him dangerous, she sometimes thought. He saw everything, said little, and made you think it was your idea to share anything at all.

“I think…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “There was something there. I could feel it watching me. I could feel it.” Her voice dropped. “It knew me.”

Theron didn’t move. But something cold flickered in his gaze. “What did it say?”

She hesitated before repeating what that voice said, low and unhurried, thick with something ancient and vile.

Silence.

Even the sea outside seemed to hush.

Theron’s expression didn’t change—but she saw it. The faint twitch of his jaw. The stillness of a man suddenly very, very alert.

She met his eyes. “You know what that word means.”

It wasn’t a question either.

But he only gave her that maddening look—the one that danced the line between infuriating and concerned. The one that never quite gave anything away.

Theron didn’t answer right away.

His gaze flicked to the window, where early sunlight spilled across the stone floor like gold dust. “I think it means you’re not getting enough sleep. Or you’ve been reading too many creepy, erotic poems before bed.”

She gave him a flat look. “Theron.”

He offered her a lazy shrug. “Nightmares are dreams with better marketing. I’m not sure I’d call that prophecy.”

“Bullshit,” she snapped. “You’ve been writing every detail I give you down for years.”

“I like stories,” he said smoothly, too smoothly. “And yours are always�� vivid.”

She stared at him, unblinking.

He grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Look, if I had a coin for every time you woke up brooding and dramatic, I could finally afford that island I keep threatening to disappear to.”

Before she could answer, he pushed off the bed and crossed the room, his movements unhurried, like he wasn’t watching her out of the corner of his eye. Like he hadn’t noted the sheen of sweat on her brow or the tremor in her fingers.

“Anyway,” he said, tone light, “I ordered pastries. From that place you pretend you don’t like but somehow eat half the tray from every time.”

She didn’t reply. Just stared at the space where the dream still lingered like smoke.

He hesitated—only a beat, but long enough to register—and then added with a lazy smirk, “They sent the good honey this time. The one you claimed wasn’t sweet enough, then finished with a spoon.”

Still no answer.

Theron ran a hand through his hair, “If you’re going to sit there looking like the ocean chewed you up and spit you out, I’m going to do the responsible thing and feed you before you start brooding hard enough to summon a storm.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. “You better eat something. Or I’ll start reciting tragic tales of my short-lived career as a Summer Court minstrel until you cry out of secondhand embarrassment.” Her brow lifted, the smallest flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “Turns out, water wraiths are harsh critics—Who knew?.” 

That earned him the tiniest, grudging flicker of a smile.

He saw it.

He said nothing.

Later, when the scent of sweet-flavored tea finally dragged her from her room, she padded barefoot down the polished hall, hair still damp from the bath she hadn’t intended to take. Her steps were quiet, unhurried—but not quite relaxed.

The villa’s kitchen came into view just as a very pretty male—the very pretty male—was pulling on his tunic, tousled hair sticking up like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times. He stood close to Theron. Too close for it to be casual.

Tall, golden-brown skin kissed by sunlight, high cheekbones and a mouth made to smirk—all of which he was currently using to good effect as he murmured something low enough that she couldn’t catch it, but whatever it was made Theron grin and nudge him with a shoulder, still barefoot and shirtless, tattoos curling around his forearms—souvenirs from another life. An old thin scar traced the side of his neck, just barely visible through the stubble on his jaw.

She slowed just enough to watch Theron lean in and murmur something in return. Whatever it was made the stranger grin, bold and unapologetic, leaning in—mouth brushing too close to Theron’s ear for it to be anything but intimate. A quiet laugh. A brief touch to the waist before he ducked his head, placed a slow and sensuous kiss on the ex-guard’s lips and left through the side door with a wave that might’ve lingered a little too long, smug and definitely satisfied.

She raised a brow as she stepped into the room. “Let me guess. That was the very pretty male delivering very pretty things last night.”

Theron turned with a stretch, unbothered. “And prettier in person, right? I didn’t lie.”

“You left out the part where he came back after dinner.”

Theron smirked, unrepentant. “Must’ve forgotten.”

“You also forgot to mention he stayed.”

“He was very persistent,” Theron purred, flipping open a box on the counter and revealing a selection of pastries that looked criminally good. “And, in my defense, the dessert was excellent.”

She didn’t quite roll her eyes as she reached for one. “Which part? The cake or the company?”

He winked, biting into a strawberry tartlet. “Yes.”

She took a slow bite of the flaky pastry, eyeing him. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

Theron made a noise of agreement, already halfway through his tartlet. “So I’ve been told. Repeatedly. Usually right before someone kisses me or tries to stab me.”

She arched a brow. “Which one was he?”

Theron grinned, dusting off his hands. “Why not both?”

She rolled her eyes and took another bite of her mini coconut-key lime pie. Fuck, they were so good. “You really know how to pick them.”

He placed a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “I’ll have you know my taste is impeccable.”

“In chaos? Sure.”

“And you?” he said, raising a brow. “You’ve had your fair share of… colorful partners.”

Her look turned flat. “No, I haven’t.”

He tilted his head. “Come on. There was that Urisk who—”

“Used me for cover during a raid and vanished with half my gold? Not exactly a sweeping romance.”

“Alright, then the brooding blue-skinned fae who—”

“Lasted all of 5 minutes and then stole my boots.”

Theron cringed. “Oh. Right. I forgot about the boots.”

“You know why you forgot?” she said dryly. “Because there’s barely a list to begin with. And it’s short. Very short.”

He didn’t answer immediately, just studied her over his cup, that too-knowing look flickering behind his lashes. She felt it—just for a moment—that faint edge of concern beneath the teasing. The truth he wouldn’t say out loud.

“I don’t trust easily,” she added, quieter this time. “Haven’t in a long time.”

“Since escaping a prison of nightmares two centuries ago? Shocking,” he said lightly. But the softness was there. “Still, good to know you’re picky.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “And you’re not?”

“I just have very… flexible standards.”

She snorted. “Clearly.”

He playfully stuck his tongue out at her, narrowing his eyes as she answered back with a smug smirk. Then his expression laced with thinly veiled curiosity as he leaned against the counter, drumming his fingers lightly. “So. You gonna tell me why you refused their invitation?”

Her brow furrowed. “What?”

“The Night Court. You mentioned they wanted you to return. And from what you told me, you shot it down so fast I’m pretty sure time must’ve reversed for a second.”

Her shoulders stiffened slightly. “Because I don’t want to go.”

Theron gave her a long, unreadable look. Then, with a breezy shrug, said, “Maybe you should.”

What in the Mother's tits?

She blinked slowly. “What?”

She must have heard him wrong. Surely, he didn’t just suggest her to pay them a—

“Visit. Just to stir the pot. Imagine the chaos you could cause by simply showing up.” He smirked. “You’d have them all crying into their pretty wine glasses.”

For Cauldron's sake… 

“I’m not a blunt instrument.”

“No. You’re far worse. You’re a scalpel.” His grin widened while he wiggled his eyebrows. With each word spoken, his voice became less pitched until it became a whisper, “Sharp. Quiet. Dangerous.”

She gave him a look. “And this is your idea of encouragement?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Think of it as a heartfelt push from a concerned friend who wants to live vicariously through your emotional carnage.”

She stared at him a beat, slight amusement dancing in her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Eating my pastries. Sleeping under my roof. Threatening me with knives. Rejecting the idea of a little chaos. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting soft.” 

“Keep talking and you’ll find out how soft a blade can feel in your ribs.”

He winked. “That’s the spirit.”

Then, casually, as if it were a minor detail: “Besides, if you go, you could finally kick that pompous High Lord’s ass. Closure, catharsis—call it whatever you want. I’ll even make popcorn.”

She raised a brow. “You just want a front-row seat.”

He grinned. “Obviously. But also... come on. Don’t pretend the thought hasn’t crossed your mind.”

Her silence was answer enough.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Mm, sure. But a correct one?”

Silence.

Too long.

He leaned forward, grinning like a cat who’d found something sharp to play with. “You thought about it.”

She didn’t look at him, moving around the counter to get to a cupboard. “Maybe I just want to punch someone.”

“Then make it count. Hit the one who deserves it.” He turned around, following her figure.

And though she said nothing, he saw it—the twitch at the corner of her mouth, the way her eyes didn't quite harden fast enough. Just for a heartbeat. 

“Gods, you’re the worst,” she muttered, grabbing a cup from the shelf a little too aggressively.

“And yet,” he said, grinning as he leaned his back against the counter, “you’re still here.”

“I have nowhere better to be,” she said coolly, but the words lacked their usual bite. Her don’t-give-a-damn tone slipped, just a fraction, around him—and he noticed. Of course he did.

He didn’t press. Just sipped his tea like this was all very casual. “You know,” he said after a beat, “if anyone might know something about the undead, it’s probably the Night Court. They’re dramatic like that.”

She snorted, grabbing the kettle and pouring the blood orange, cranberry, and pomegranate flavoured tea into her cup. “You’re confusing drama with darkness.”

“Not mutually exclusive. Shadowboy did say they needed you to fight Koschei. And if I recall from old tales, he’s not exactly… alive—in the traditional way.” Theron’s nose wrinkled as if he smelled sour milk. 

Her hand stilled. The warmth of the cup did nothing to stop the chill climbing her spine.

Koschei.

Her chest tightened, vision narrowing. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

That name… It gave her the same feeling as the voice in her dreams. The same wrongness. The same ancient dread.

She took a slow breath. Masked it with a roll of her shoulders and a sip of her cup. “Still not a reason to go running into their open arms.”

“No,” Theron agreed easily, but there was something quieter under it. “But maybe not a reason to keep running away, either.”

She gave him a long look, trying to find the usual smirk, the glint of teasing in his eyes.

It was there. But dimmed.

She hated how he could do that—say the one thing that cracked right through the armor she’d spent centuries sharpening. Hated more that some traitorous part of her was already imagining it. Velaris—the place she considered home once. The spymaster’s shadowed hazel eyes. The look Rhysand might wear when he saw her again. She wholeheartly hoped he’d shit his pristine tailored pants once he saw her, as if she was a vengeance spirit coming to right all. his. fucking. wrongs. 

She took a drink instead of answering.

But her silence wasn’t quite as heavy with certainty as it had been moments ago.

Theron didn’t push—just leaned back in his chair with that maddening calm, tattooed arms crossed loosely over his chest. Watching her like he always did, with too-sharp eyes and too much patience.

She hated when he did that.

Because it worked.

It made her want to throw the cup at him.

She didn’t. Mostly because she knew he’d dodge it easily.

She shifted in her seat, her left foot tapping once against the leg of the stool. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered.

She set the drink down slowly, her thumb traced slow circles against the rim of the cup, over and over like it might ground her. “I’m not going back,” she said, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than him.

Theron arched a brow but didn’t comment. Just drummed his fingers against the table in a slow rhythm. “No one said you had to. It was just a suggestion.” 

She rubbed a hand over her face, fingers dragging down the line of her jaw. “It’s not my war anymore.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But whatever’s coming? Sounds like it might make your last war look like a warm-up.” Theron was on his feet now, moving to the granite sink to wash it.

There wasn’t mockery in his expression this time. No teasing. Just something quieter. A flicker of something he rarely let show—concern. Worry. Maybe even fear.

Not for himself.

That made her chest twist.

Her voice was quiet when she finally asked, “You think I should go?”

He shrugged one shoulder as he came to stand on the edge of the countertop, facing her chair as he studied her face. His eyes made her think of the sea after a terrible storm, the gray rolling clouds reflecting onto the almost-blue surface of the water. “I think you’ve already decided.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

The silence said enough.

“What if I’m wrong?” she said quietly.

He didn’t ask what she meant. Just said, softer than usual, “About what?”

“That they didn’t know. That they didn’t care.”

He was quiet for a beat. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” The word snapped from her throat. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

He shifted again, his voice back to that frustrating drawl. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I still think they’re a bunch of emotionally constipated pricks.”

That startled a soft huff from her. 

Theron shifted, tilting his head a little, as if he could see something she couldn’t. Then, he smiled. Not smug. Not teasing. Just… there. A quiet presence that had long since stopped trying to be anything but himself. 

"Whatever this is, you're not facing it alone. Not this time.” After a beat, he knocked three times on the counter.

A shadow of a smile tugged at the edge of her mouth, even as her heart twisted.

He softly nodded once, and then made his way toward the door with a stretch and a lazy yawn, like the conversation hadn’t shifted the ground beneath her feet.

She stayed at the table long after Theron left the room, the morning sun slanting through the open balcony doors and casting gold across the cool stone floor. The scent of salt and citrus drifted in on a lazy breeze, but it couldn’t quite settle the storm inside her.

She told herself it didn’t matter. That she didn’t fucking care. That the Night Court wasn’t her home anymore. Fuck them and their City of Starshit. But Gods—some part of her still felt the tug. Felt it like an old scar aching before a storm.

And worse still, she wanted to see them. Not all of them. Not yet. But… him.

She shoved the thought aside so hard her chair scraped the floor as she stood.

Her feet made no sound as she crossed the villa, padding barefoot across sun-warmed tiles toward the open terrace. The sea glittered beyond the cliffs, mocking in its serenity.

She braced her hands on the balcony railing, jaw clenched, heart pounding far too fast for someone standing still.

He had been the one to say her name first. After two centuries. He’d looked at her like a man dragged from a grave. Like she was something lost and found all at once. And Mother help her, some weak, traitorous part of her had felt it. Had wanted to reach out. Had wanted to believe.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She died on that battlefield, Rhysand had told them.

Except she hadn’t. And they’d lived with that lie. Built a whole life around it.

Her head said stay away. Burn the bridge. Let them drown in what they did. Tell them to fuck right off once again.

But her heart—godsdamned thing—had the worst memory. Still kept pieces of them buried deep, under layers of iron and ice and rage. Azriel’s deep voice. Cassian’s booming laughter. Amren’s sharp words that somehow still made her feel seen. Mor, who had looked at her once and immediately decided she was worth keeping around.

The fragile and stupid thing was whispering still. Definitely not forgiveness. Not yet. But something quieter, older. That they’d once been hers. And maybe, just maybe, some part of her still belonged to them.

And to him.

The shadowsinger with eyes like dusk and scars she knew by heart.

She opened her eyes.

The wind shifted, tugging at her hair.

She didn’t move for a long time.

The truth was, she didn’t know what scared her more—the thought of returning, or the thought that she might actually want to.

< previous | series masterlist | next >