#Rhysand

[romanticatheartt]

"Not now babe, I'm busy staring at the most heartwarming Feysand fanart"

The fanart:

🎨: artoffrostandflame

[mahalachives]

Part 4: The Thread That Would Not Break

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: 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

Darkness claimed you completely as the last strands of the mating bond began to snap.

The pain was exquisite—each golden thread breaking with the force of a lightning strike through your chest.

Your consciousness floated in the liminal space between worlds, untethered and drifting.

Then, distantly, you felt it—a tug toward your old life.

The steady beep of hospital monitors, the antiseptic smell, the scratchy sheets against your skin. Your real body, waiting for you to return.

The sensation grew stronger, pulling you away from Prythian, away from magic and immortality and heartbreak.

Home.

You were going home.

But as your soul began to slide away, another pull—stronger, more insistent—wrapped around you.

The mating bond, refusing to be severed completely. It burned through the darkness, a golden lifeline refusing to let you go.

In its place. Murky water, illuminated with an eerie blue-green glow.

The Azure Pool.

You were floating beneath the surface, your body limp and unresponsive, hair drifting around your face like flame underwater. The cold pressed in from all sides, a crushing weight that seemed to compress your very soul.

Then. Strong arms pulling you upward, breaking the surface.

The shock of air against your wet skin. Being dragged to shore, your waterlogged body laid out on soft grass. The sensation was so vivid you could feel individual blades of grass pressing against your back, the rough texture of wet leather against your skin, the cool autumn air raising goosebumps along your arms.

Your perspective shifted, and suddenly you could see yourself—pale, lips blue, utterly still—and above you, Azriel.

The shadowsinger knelt over your body, his face a mask of desperate concentration.

No words escaped him, but his shadows betrayed his anguish, writhing in frantic patterns around him like living embodiments of grief.

They formed jagged, panicked shapes, reaching into your mouth, your nose, as if trying to pull the water out by force. Water dripped from his hair, his wings, his leathers—he'd dived in after you without hesitation.

He tilted your head back, pinched your nose, and sealed his mouth over yours, breathing air into your unresponsive lungs. The contrast was shocking—his lips warm despite the cold water, firm and insistent against yours.

His eyes never closed, fixed on your face with fierce intensity that belied his usual emotional control. He pulled back, pressed hard against your chest in rhythmic compressions, then returned to breathe for you again.

The raw emotion on his face—normally so controlled, so emotionless—was staggering.

Gone was the cold, professional mask.

In its place was naked fear, desperate determination, and something else, something that made your non-existent heart twist painfully in your spectral chest.

Again he pressed his mouth to yours, breathing life into you.

Again the compressions, harder now, desperate.

His wings trembled with the effort, water still cascading from them in silver droplets that caught the strange light of the pool. His shadows were extensions of his fear, probing your airways, massaging your heart through your ribcage, working in tandem with his physical efforts to revive you.

And through it all, the mating bond—that golden thread you'd tried so hard to sever—pulsed weakly between your bodies.

With each compression, each breath, it glowed a little stronger, a beacon in the growing darkness. It was a living thing, fighting for its own survival as desperately as Azriel fought for yours.

You could feel it now—a tugging sensation deep in your soul, pulling you back toward your abandoned body.

Back toward him.

The connection was tangible, a golden lifeline stretching between the hospital and the Azure Pool, between your two separate existences.

Let go, a quiet voice whispered in your mind. Let go and return to your real life.

But the golden thread pulled harder, more insistently.

The pain in your chest intensified, no longer the dull ache of something severed but the sharp, immediate agony of something fighting to reconnect.

It was demanding a choice—stay or go, live or die, belong or remain forever adrift between worlds.

On the shore, Azriel paused his compressions, his face twisting with something beyond despair. His shoulders slumped, his hands falling away from your chest.

For the first time since you'd met him, his emotions were written plainly across his face—grief, denial, rage, and beneath it all, a terrible, aching loss that made your spectral heart break for him.

Come back, the bond seemed to whisper. Not his voice. Not yours. Something else entirely, ancient and powerful. Come back.

The hospital room flickered around you, growing fainter with each beat of your heart. The beeping of the monitors slowed, fading to distant echoes. Reality itself seemed to hang in the balance, waiting for your decision.

Stay or go, the voice whispered. Choose.

The golden thread pulsed once more, brighter than before, stretching between your chest and his. It was no longer just a connection—it was a choice, a path back to a life you'd abandoned, to a world where you might, against all odds, belong.

Choose.

Time seemed to stop as you considered. Your human life was safe, known, logical. Your family, your career, your future—all waiting for you back in that hospital bed.

But it felt distant now, insubstantial compared to the vivid reality of Azriel's grief, the cool press of grass against your back. The mating bond thrummed between you, more real than anything you'd ever experienced in your human life.

You reached for the thread—not to sever it this time, but to follow it home.

To him.

Pain exploded through your body, a burning rush that filled every nerve ending. It was as if every cell was simultaneously dying and being reborn, rearranged according to some new pattern that accommodated both worlds, both lives, both versions of yourself.

You gasped, choking, water flooding from your mouth as your lungs spasmed violently.

Your eyes flew open to find Azriel's face hovering above yours, his expression transforming from grief to shock to something else entirely.

Fury.

His hazel eyes, rimmed with red blazed with barely contained rage.

His jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscles working beneath his skin. His shadows whipped around him in violent patterns, no longer reaching for you but forming sharp, dangerous shapes that reflected the storm of emotions he refused to voice.

You coughed again, more water expelling from your lungs in a painful rush that burned your throat and chest.

You tried to speak, to explain, to apologize. "Az—"

He cut you off, not with words but with a look so fierce it stole what little breath you'd regained. The temperature around you dropped several degrees, as if his anger had physically chilled the air.

Without a sound, he gathered you into his arms and stood, wings unfurling to their full, impressive span.

You had just enough time to register that his entire body was trembling—with relief or rage, you couldn't tell—before he launched into the sky, carrying you away from the pool that had almost claimed your life. The wind whipped past your face, cold and bracing after the warmth of his arms.

The golden thread between you pulsed stronger now, solid and real—a connection you could no longer deny or escape. It hummed with a strange harmony, as if finally satisfied that its two halves were once again united.

The world fell away beneath you, trees and land shrinking rapidly as Azriel carried you higher and higher. The wind rushed past, stealing what little breath you'd regained. You instinctively curled closer to his chest, seeking warmth against the biting cold of high altitude.

He flew in silence, his arms like iron bands around your shivering form. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, a metronome counting the seconds of this unexpected reprieve. You didn't dare speak, afraid that any word might break whatever fragile thing had compelled him to save you.

As the miles fell away beneath his powerful wings, your thoughts swirled in confusion.

Why had he come for you? How had he known where to find you? And most importantly—why did he care whether you lived or died when he had made it so abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with you?

The mating bond offered no answers, only a steady pulse of shared life between you.

When the Autumn Court came into view, its forests ablaze with eternal fall, Azriel began to descend. The castle rose from the horizon, amber windows glowing like cat's eyes in the fading light. Servants moved through the gardens, their copper-colored uniforms distinctive even from this height.

Azriel's descent was rapid but controlled, bringing you down with practiced precision at the edge of the formal gardens. The moment his feet touched earth, a cry went up from the nearest guards.

"The Lady has returned!" "Call the healers!" "An Illyrian warrior!"

Weapons were drawn, arrows nocked, and fire bloomed in Autumn Fae palms. The scent of aggression spiked in the air, sharp and metallic.

Azriel ignored them all, striding forward with you still cradled against his chest. His wings remained half-spread, a threatening display that made the guards hesitate despite their numbers. His shadows writhed around him, reaching like tentacles into the spaces between guards, testing for threats.

"Stand down," he commanded, his voice pitched low but carrying with undeniable authority. "Your Lady needs assistance."

Something in his tone—or perhaps the sight of you, pale and shivering in his arms—made the guards lower their weapons fractionally. They parted reluctantly, creating a path toward a stone platform in the center of the garden.

As Azriel carried you forward, servants began to appear—drawn by the commotion or perhaps alerted by the guards. Among them was Briar, her copper-brown hair escaping its pins as she ran toward you.

"My lady!" she cried, her face draining of color as she took in your soaked clothing and blue-tinged lips. "What happened? Are you—"

She froze as Azriel's shadows curled toward her, a silent warning. The shadowsinger laid you gently on the stone platform, his movements careful despite the rigid set of his shoulders.

"Blankets," he ordered, not looking away from you. "Dry clothes. Healer."

The servants scattered immediately, rushing to obey despite the unprecedented situation of taking orders from a Night Court warrior in the heart of Autumn territory. Only Briar remained, hovering anxiously at the edge of the platform.

"She needs a healer," she said, her voice trembling slightly but firm.

Azriel's only acknowledgment was a slight incline of his head, but it was enough. Briar turned and ran toward the castle, calling for healers as she went.

As the garden emptied of all but a few distant guards, Azriel finally straightened to his full height. His wings folded behind him with deliberate precision, each movement controlled and measured. His face remained expressionless as he stared down at you, water still dripping from his leathers onto the stone beside your head.

He turned to leave without a word, his back a rigid line of barely contained emotion.

"Wait," you croaked, the word painful in your raw throat.

He paused, his body tensing further, but didn't turn.

"Please," you whispered.

Slowly, agonizingly, he turned back to face you.

The sight of him stole what little breath you'd managed to recover. His face was a study in controlled fury—jaw clenched, eyes blazing with golden fire, shadows writhing around him in agitated patterns.

But beneath the anger, barely visible but unmistakable, was fear.

He had been afraid.

"What," he asked, each word precise and deadly calm, "were you doing in that lake?"

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

The mating bond flared between you, carrying emotions too complex to name. The truth lodged in your throat, but you swallowed it back. He wouldn't understand—or worse, he would think you mad. Either way, it would give him more reason to reject you.

Instead, tears welled in your eyes, spilling over to track down your already wet cheeks. The sight of them made Azriel's shadows still briefly before surging forward, as if they had a will of their own.

"Why do you care?" you asked, your voice cracking painfully. "You made it perfectly clear you want nothing to do with me."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

The temperature around you plummeted as his shadows expanded, filling the space with their cold presence.

"Is that what this was?" he demanded, taking a step closer to the platform. "Some kind of desperate bid for attention?"

The accusation in his voice ignited something in your chest—a spark of anger that quickly blazed into fury. Despite the pain, you pushed yourself up to sitting, glaring at him through tear-filled eyes.

"You think I tried to kill myself because of you?" Your voice rose, cracking on the last word. "Your arrogance truly knows no bounds, shadowsinger."

The pink bunnies appeared without warning, materializing from thin air around your clenched fists. They were different this time—not the playful creatures from before, but twisted, angry things with flames for eyes and sharp, gleaming teeth. They hopped agitatedly around you, leaving scorch marks on the stone.

Azriel's eyes widened fractionally, his shadows pulling back as if surprised by this display of power.

"Then explain," he pressed, his voice dangerously soft. "Why would the Lady of the Autumn Court be drowning herself in a magical lake?"

"I don't answer to you," you hissed, the words tearing from your throat. One of the flame bunnies leapt toward him, dissipating against the wall of shadows he instinctively raised. "I don't answer to anyone in this godforsaken place!"

More bunnies materialized, bouncing frantically around you as your control slipped. Small fires bloomed where they landed, smoking holes in the immaculate garden.

"Everyone hates me for things I never did!" you continued, your voice breaking. "For actions I never took! For a person I've never been!"

Azriel went completely still, even his shadows freezing in place. "What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't understand," you rasped, tears flowing freely now. "No one does."

One of the flame bunnies hopped onto your lap, nuzzling against your stomach. Despite everything, the sight was so absurd that a hiccuping sob-laugh escaped you.

"Why should you care if I died?" you whispered, stroking the fiery creature with trembling fingers. "It would solve your problem, wouldn't it? No more unwanted mate. No more reminder of... whatever it is about me that you hate so much."

The quiet that followed was absolute.

Even the flame bunnies stilled, sensing the gravity of the moment. Azriel remained motionless, his face unreadable, his shadows pulled tight around him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "You truly believe that's what I want?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" you asked bitterly. "You've made your disgust perfectly clear."

Something shifted in his expression then—not softening, exactly, but changing. His shadows stirred restlessly, reaching toward you before he pulled them back.

"You crossed territories, winnowed to an Illyrian war camp, and confronted a warrior centuries older than you... to say goodbye before trying to drown yourself." His voice was flat, but his eyes burned with unreadable emotion.

"The bond wouldn't let me go without saying goodbye," you whispered. "It hurt too much."

Azriel took a single step closer, his movements predatory and precise.

"And did it occur to you," he asked, his voice deceptively soft, "that there might be a reason for that?"

Before you could answer, servants reappeared with blankets and a steaming mug.

They hesitated at the sight of your flaming bunnies, but Briar pushed forward bravely, draping a thick blanket around your shoulders and pressing the mug into your hands.

"Drink, my lady," she urged, casting nervous glances at Azriel. "The healers are coming."

You sipped obediently, the hot tea burning your raw throat but spreading welcome warmth through your chest. The flame bunnies began to fade, one by one, as your emotions stabilized.

Azriel watched this all in silence, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts.

His shadows, however, stretched toward you again, as if testing the truth of your words through touch.

When the healers arrived, bustling with efficiency and concern, Azriel stepped back. His wings shifted behind him, preparing for flight.

"This isn't finished," he said quietly, his words meant for you alone. "We will speak again."

It wasn't forgiveness. It wasn't acceptance. But it was something—a promise, however reluctant, that this wasn't the end.

The mating bond hummed between you, no longer fighting but settling, a golden thread connecting two souls across an impossible divide.

As Azriel launched himself skyward, his powerful wings carrying him swiftly away, you felt something unfamiliar bloom in your chest.

Hope.

Small, fragile, but undeniably there—like the first green shoot after a forest fire.

Whatever came next, you were still here. Still alive. Still bound to this world, this court, this shadowsinger who had pulled you from the depths despite everything.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Sunlight filtered through amber-stained glass, painting warm patterns across your bed as you stared at the ceiling of your chamber.

The healers had done their work efficiently—lungs cleared, temperature restored, physical damage repaired. But they couldn't heal the confusion swirling in your mind like the shadows that had enveloped you at the lake.

You'd failed. Again.

The mating bond had tethered you to this world with unrelenting tenacity, refusing to let you escape back to your real life.

And Azriel—cold, furious Azriel—had physically dragged you from the waters that might have been your passage home.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," you muttered, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. "I should never have gone to say goodbye."

Your flame magic responded to your agitation, small pink rabbits materializing on your bedspread. One hopped onto your chest, its fiery weight oddly comforting as it nuzzled against your collarbone.

"Next time," you told the rabbit seriously, "I'll avoid magical lakes. Maybe a cliff? Or poison—something fast-acting that can't be treated." You frowned, considering your options. "Perhaps if I got far enough away from Prythian entirely... somewhere across the sea where no one could find me in time."

The rabbit tilted its flaming head, ears twitching as if confused by your morbid planning session.

"Don't look at me like that," you scolded. "You're literally made of fire. You have no survival instinct whatsoever."

The rabbit responded by multiplying, and suddenly six small flame bunnies were bouncing on your bed, leaving charred paw prints on the silk sheets.

"Great," you sighed. "More evidence of my deteriorating mental state."

You brushed halfheartedly at a smoking spot on your pillowcase.

The rumors had already spread throughout the castle—the Lady of Autumn, found half-drowned by a Night Court shadowsinger. The whispers followed you even here, in your private chambers.

"She tried to kill herself because of the mating bond rejection... the shame was too much... she's even more unstable than before..."

If only they knew the truth—that you weren't trying to die, just trying to get home.

That this body, this court, this entire world wasn't yours to begin with.

A knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

Briar entered without waiting for a response, her face pinched with worry. She took one look at the flame rabbits desecrating your bedding and her eyes widened.

"My lady, perhaps it would be best to... disperse your little friends before your audience?"

"Audience?" you repeated, sitting up so quickly that two rabbits tumbled off the bed with indignant squeaks. "What audience?"

Briar's hands twisted nervously in her apron. "Lord Beron has commanded your presence immediately. In the Great Hall."

Your stomach dropped faster than a flame bunny falling off a bed. "Lord Beron? My... father? He's back from the Dawn Court already?"

"The High Lord returned the moment he heard about the... incident." Briar's voice dropped to a whisper. "Lord Eris is with him. And your brothers."

"All of them?" you asked, your voice climbing an octave higher. "How many brothers do I have again?"

Briar gave you a strange look. "Five, my lady. Though... Lord Lucien is at the Spring Court."

"Right. Of course. Five brothers. Totally knew that." You ran a hand through your hair, trying to calm your racing heart. "And they're all... angry?"

"I wouldn't presume to know the High Lord's emotions," Briar replied diplomatically, though her expression said otherwise.

You groaned, flopping back onto your pillows. "He's furious, isn't he?"

"The word 'incandescent' was used by one of the guards," Briar admitted. "Along with 'apocalyptic' and 'preparing the torture chambers.'"

"Torture chambers?!" you squeaked.

"That may have been an exaggeration," Briar conceded, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "But Lord Beron is... displeased. The involvement of the Night Court in Autumn Court matters has always been a sensitive issue."

"It wasn't Azriel's fault," you protested automatically. "He was just... being a decent person."

Even as you said it, you wondered why the shadowsinger had saved you. After his cold dismissal, his formal rejection of the bond—why had he followed you? How had he known where you'd gone?

"My lady," Briar interrupted your racing thoughts, "Lord Beron is waiting. It would be... unwise to delay."

"Right." You took a deep breath, banishing the flame rabbits with a flick of your wrist. Most of them disappeared in puffs of smoke. One particularly stubborn bunny remained, glaring at you reproachfully from the foot of your bed.

"Oh, for—fine, you can stay," you told it, "But no setting anything important on fire."

The bunny made a smug little hop.

Briar watched this exchange with a mixture of concern and bemusement. "Perhaps it would be best if your... friend... remained here?"

"Probably," you agreed, scooping up the creature and depositing it on your pillow. "Be good," you instructed. "No arson."

The bunny yawned, tiny flames flickering between its teeth.

With a deep, steadying breath, you followed Briar from your chambers toward what would surely be the most awkward family meeting in the history of dysfunctional immortal families.

The Great Hall of the Autumn Court was aptly named—a vast, imposing space with vaulted ceilings that seemed to capture sunlight and transmute it into liquid gold.

Fall leaves perpetually drifted from the ceiling, disappearing before they reached the ground. The effect was both beautiful and disorienting—an eternal autumn suspended in time.

At the far end of the hall, upon a dais of polished wood, sat Lord Beron on his throne of living flame. The fire never seemed to burn him, though it cast his already severe features into harsh relief, highlighting the cold cruelty in his eyes.

Beside him stood Eris, immaculate as always, his auburn hair gleaming like burnished copper in the firelight. His expression was carefully neutral, though you caught a flicker of... something... in his eyes as you approached.

Three other males flanked the throne—your "brothers," apparently. They shared Eris's coloring to varying degrees, though none possessed his lethal grace or cunning intelligence. Their expressions ranged from bored disinterest to poorly concealed amusement at your predicament.

You approached the dais on legs that felt increasingly unstable. The walk seemed interminable, each step echoing ominously against the marble floor.

The court had gathered to witness your humiliation—dozens of Autumn Fae lining the walls, their whispers a susurration like wind through dry leaves.

"So," Lord Beron said when you finally reached the foot of the dais. His voice was deceptively soft, but fire flickered at his fingertips—a warning of the rage barely contained beneath his calm facade. "My only daughter seeks to drown herself rather than bear the shame of rejection from a Night Court bastard."

Your cheeks burned. "It wasn't like that," you began, then stopped. How could you possibly explain the truth?

"Then enlighten us," Beron continued, leaning forward slightly, his throne's flames rising in response to his agitation. "What exactly 'was it like'?"

Words failed you.

Every explanation sounded like madness, even in your own head. I'm actually a human nursing student possessing your daughter's body and I was trying to drown myself to get back to my world hardly seemed like something that would improve this situation.

"The bond," you said finally, the partial truth easier than outright lies. "It... hurt. I wasn't thinking clearly."

One of your brothers—the one with the cruelest smirk—laughed softly. "Poor sister, so devastated by that shadow-loving mongrel's rejection that she tried to end herself. How pathetically romantic."

You bristled, pink sparks dancing at your fingertips. "You don't understand what it feels like."

"Neither do you," Eris cut in smoothly, drawing all eyes to him. "The bond formed mere days ago. The pain of rejection, while significant, would hardly drive someone with your particular... temperament... to suicide."

You tensed at the calculated precision of his words. Eris was too observant, too clever by far. He knew something wasn't right.

"Unless," he continued, his amber eyes never leaving yours, "there are other factors at play?"

A tense silence fell over the hall.

"What factors could possibly drive a High Fae of the Autumn Court to such desperation?" Beron asked, his gaze burning into you. "What weakness have you discovered in yourself, daughter, that would bring such shame upon our house?"

You straightened your spine, meeting his gaze despite the fear that threatened to choke you.

"No weakness, Father. Only clarity." The words came unbidden, but as you spoke them, you realized their truth. "I've lived... differently... these past days. Seen things from a new perspective. The person I was before—"

"Is the person you are," Beron interrupted coldly. "Whatever temporary madness has overtaken you, I suggest you master it quickly."

"And if I can't?" you challenged, surprising yourself with your boldness.

Beron's eyes narrowed. "Then perhaps the Autumn Court requires a different Lady."

The threat hung in the air, clear and deadly. You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the precarious nature of your position. If Beron discovered the truth—that his daughter's body now housed a foreign soul—what would he do?

"The mating bond complicates matters," Eris observed, his voice neutral. "Death would not resolve the issue. It would only create a diplomatic incident with the Night Court."

"The Night Court," Beron spat, flames briefly engulfing his throne. "That shadowsinger dared to enter our territory without permission. To touch what belongs to the Autumn Court."

"He saved my life," you pointed out, then immediately regretted it as Beron's gaze sharpened on you.

"A life you were attempting to end," he countered. "Perhaps you should thank me instead for not letting him keep what he retrieved."

Your brothers snickered, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves.

"What I don't understand," said the youngest-looking brother, his tone falsely casual, "is why the shadowsinger bothered at all. If he rejected the bond, why save her?"

It was a good question—one that had plagued you since you'd awakened in your chambers.

Hope fluttered traitorously in your chest before you ruthlessly squashed it. No, Azriel had made his feelings perfectly clear. Whatever had driven him to save you, it wasn't acceptance of the bond.

"Regardless," Beron said dismissively, "the matter is settled. You will remain in the castle under guard until I determine you are no longer a danger to yourself or the reputation of this court. You will not attempt to contact the Night Court or its representatives. You will not leave your chambers without an escort. And you will cease this... undignified emotional display immediately."

As if in direct defiance of his orders, a small pink flame bunny chose that exact moment to materialize on your shoulder. It squeaked indignantly at Beron, tiny fiery ears laid flat against its head.

A collective gasp swept through the hall.

One of your brothers cursed. Eris looked briefly skyward, as if praying for patience. And Beron... Beron's expression was one of such appalled disbelief that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing hysterically.

"What," Beron said with deadly precision, "is that?"

"A rabbit," you replied, your voice impressively steady. "Made of fire. Pink fire, specifically."

"I can see that," Beron hissed. "Why is it on your shoulder?"

You considered several responses, discarding each as too flippant or too honest. Finally, you settled on, "It seems to like me?"

"Destroy that... abomination... immediately," Beron commanded, fire flaring at his fingertips.

The bunny, apparently sensing the threat, multiplied. Suddenly, three pink flame rabbits sat on your shoulders and head, all glaring defiantly at the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A sound suspiciously like a suppressed snort came from the direction of Eris, though his face remained carefully blank when you glanced his way.

"I don't think they like being called abominations," you observed mildly, as one of the bunnies started grooming its flaming ears with particular vigor, as if preparing for battle.

"Enough!" Beron roared, rising from his throne in a surge of power that sent flames dancing across the dais. "You will remember your place, daughter, or I will remind you of it in ways you will not enjoy."

The bunnies, displaying more wisdom than their creator, promptly disappeared in puffs of smoke.

All except one—the original, stubborn bunny—which darted into your hair to hide.

"Yes, Father," you said, lowering your eyes in a show of submission that you didn't feel. "I understand."

"I doubt that," Beron replied coldly. "But you will. Guards, escort my daughter to her chambers. She is not to leave without my express permission."

As the guards stepped forward to flank you, you risked one last glance at Eris.

What you did know was that you were now a prisoner in this court, in this body, in this life. The mating bond had anchored you to this world against your will, and now Beron had ensured you couldn't try again to escape it.

As you were escorted from the hall, the tiny flame bunny peeked out from your hair, its warm weight a strange comfort against your scalp.

"Well," you whispered to it as the doors closed behind you, "that could have gone worse."

The bunny sneezed, sending a small shower of sparks cascading over your shoulders.

"Okay, fine," you amended. "It was a complete disaster. But look on the bright side—at least we're not dead."

The bunny gave you a look that suggested it remained unconvinced of the advantages of your continued existence in this world.

"Yeah," you sighed as the guards marched you toward your gilded prison. "I'm not so sure either.”

Three days passed in luxurious imprisonment.

Your chambers, while beautiful, had become a gilded cage—every exit guarded, every window watched. The servants who brought your meals were different each time, preventing you from forming alliances.

Even Briar had been reassigned, replaced by an older female with iron-gray hair and a perpetual frown who refused to engage in conversation.

Your only companion was the stubborn pink flame bunny, who had taken up permanent residence on your pillow.

You'd named him Ember, for lack of a better option, and found yourself talking to him with increasing frequency as isolation wore on your nerves.

"What do you think, Ember?" you asked, pacing the length of your chamber for the hundredth time that morning. "Is drowning still the best option, or should I consider something more creative? Self-immolation would be ironic, given the whole fire magic thing."

Ember squeaked disapprovingly, his tiny flame ears flattening against his head.

"Fine, no self-immolation," you conceded. "Though it might give Beron a heart attack, which would be a bonus."

A knock at your door interrupted your morbid planning session.

You expected the sour-faced servant with your midday meal, but instead found Eris leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Plotting patricide, sister? How delightfully traditional of you."

"Eris," you greeted cautiously. "To what do I owe the displeasure?"

He clutched his chest in mock offense. "You wound me. And here I thought we were developing such a lovely sibling rapport."

Ember, sensing a potential threat, hopped onto your shoulder and puffed himself up to approximately twice his tiny size, looking like an angry cotton ball made of fire.

"Is that..." Eris squinted at the flame bunny. "Is that thing wearing a little crown?"

You glanced at Ember, who indeed had fashioned himself a miniature crown of pink flames. "He's going through a monarchy phase. I think he's planning a coup."

"Against whom, exactly?"

"Me, presumably. Though Beron should watch his back. Ember has ambitions."

Eris blinked, then let out a startled laugh. "You know, if you'd shown this sense of humor centuries ago, family dinners would have been considerably more entertaining."

"I'll be sure to bring my comedy routine to the next one," you said dryly. "Assuming I'm ever allowed out of this room again."

Eris sauntered into your chamber, inspecting your living conditions with casual interest. "That depends entirely on Father's mood, which has been spectacularly foul lately. The Night Court isn't helping matters."

Your heart skipped. "The Night Court?"

"Mmm," Eris confirmed, picking up a delicate figurine from your dresser and examining it with excessive attention. "They've been rather... insistent... about certain matters."

"What matters?" you asked, trying to sound merely curious rather than desperately interested.

Eris replaced the figurine, turning to face you with a gleam in his amber eyes. "You, primarily. Or more specifically, access to you."

The mating bond thrummed beneath your breastbone, responding to even this oblique reference to Azriel. "What do you mean, access?"

"The shadowsinger has been particularly vocal," Eris said, watching your reaction closely. "Demanding an audience, threatening various creative consequences should his request be denied. He's quite inventive with his threats, I must say. Something about anatomically improbable locations for certain body parts."

You felt heat bloom in your cheeks. "And what did Beron say to these... requests?"

"He suggested the shadowsinger perform several physically impossible acts involving his own wings before bursting into literal flames." Eris grinned. "The diplomatic correspondence has been most entertaining. I've been keeping copies for posterity."

"You're enjoying this," you accused.

"Immensely," he admitted without a hint of shame. "It's been centuries since anyone challenged Father so directly. I find it refreshing."

"So he denied the request?"

"With such colorful language that three scribes resigned on the spot." Eris stretched languidly, completely at ease. "The poor messengers had to be escorted from the premises under guard to prevent spontaneous combustion."

Your shoulders slumped slightly. "So that's it? Request denied, end of story?"

"Did you expect something else?" Eris raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps a daring rescue? The shadowsinger swooping in through your window to carry you away in his strong, scarred arms?"

"Of course not," you huffed, though the image sent an unwelcome thrill through you. "I just thought..."

"That I might help?" Eris finished, his expression shifting to something more calculating. "Arrange some clandestine meeting? Risk Father's wrath for the sake of your star-crossed romance?"

"No," you lied.

"Good," Eris said cheerfully. "Because I wouldn't. He may be a tyrant, but he's a predictable one. The shadowsinger, with his shadows and secrets, is an unknown variable I'm not inclined to trust."

Ember chose that moment to hop onto Eris's shoulder and sneeze, sending a shower of tiny pink sparks cascading over his immaculate jacket.

"By the Cauldron!" Eris yelped, brushing frantically at the sparks. "Call off your flaming vermin!"

Ember looked utterly pleased with himself as he returned to your shoulder, making a sound suspiciously like a snicker.

"Sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "He does that when he senses dishonesty."

"Dishonesty?" Eris scoffed, still checking his jacket for scorch marks. "I'm being perfectly transparent for once in my immortal life."

"So you're not here to gloat? To let me know precisely what I'm missing because I'm trapped in this room while Azriel attempts to communicate with me?"

"Well, I wouldn't say gloat," Eris demurred. "Perhaps 'revel in your misfortune' would be more accurate."

"Get out," you said without heat.

"Gladly," he replied, backing toward the door. "Your pet is a menace."

Ember puffed up his flaming chest with pride.

You stared at the door for a long moment, disappointment settling heavily in your chest.

You'd harbored a secret hope that Eris might help, might see some advantage in facilitating a meeting between you and Azriel.

But it seemed even he had his limits when it came to defying Beron.

Ember nuzzled against your cheek, offering wordless comfort. You scratched him gently behind one flaming ear, grateful for his presence despite his occasional pyromania.

"It's fine," you told him, though your voice lacked conviction. "It's not like I expected anything else."

But you had.

Despite everything—the rejection, the coldness, the fury—some part of you had hoped. Had believed that Azriel might try to reach you, might want to explain, might offer... something.

Understanding, perhaps. Or at the very least, closure.

You moved to the window, gazing out at the autumn forests that stretched beyond the castle walls. The trees were impossibly vibrant, their leaves never falling despite the perpetual autumn. You pressed your palm against the glass, feeling the cool barrier between you and freedom.

The mating bond had been restless these past days, tugging and pulsing in your chest as if trying to communicate.

You'd tried to ignore it, to pretend it wasn't there, but in quiet moments like this, its presence was undeniable.

As night fell, casting long shadows across your chambers, the pain began again. It always hurt more at night, as if darkness somehow strengthened the bond's pull. A deep, hollow ache that radiated from your chest outward, like a phantom limb crying out for reconnection.

You curled on your bed, arms wrapped around yourself as if you could physically hold the pain at bay.

This wasn't the sharp, immediate agony of rejection—that had faded after the first day. This was something more insidious, a persistent reminder of what was missing, what had been denied.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you stared into the darkness. You weren't even sure who or what you were crying for—yourself, trapped in a body and a world not your own? The bond, straining across distance and denial? Azriel, who had saved your life only to disappear?

"I want to go home," you whispered into the darkness, the words catching on a sob. "I just want to go home."

But even as you said it, you weren't entirely sure where "home" was anymore. The hospital room with its beeping monitors and antiseptic smell felt increasingly distant, like a half-remembered dream.

This body, this world, this life—as strange and unwelcome as they had been—were becoming familiar in ways that terrified you.

And then there was the bond.

The golden thread that connected you to Azriel, that had pulled you back from death, that ached now with a pain both foreign and intimate. It was part of you now, whether you wanted it or not.

Ember curled against your neck, his warmth a small comfort against the tears that continued to fall. You stroked his tiny form absently, finding solace in the simple connection.

"What am I going to do, Ember?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "I can't stay here, like this, forever. But I can't seem to leave either."

The flame bunny had no answers, only wordless comfort as the night deepened around you and the mating bond continued its relentless pull toward someone who had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with you.

Exhausted by grief and pain, you eventually drifted into uneasy sleep, tears still damp on your cheeks and the golden thread of the bond still pulsing, reaching, connecting you to a shadowsinger who remained as distant and unreachable as the stars themselves.

In your dreams, shadows danced at the edges of your vision, reaching for you with tentative, tender touches before retreating into darkness. And beneath it all, a voice—deep and resonant—whispered words you couldn't quite catch, couldn't quite understand.

Family dinner in the Autumn Court was a lavish, tense affair.

Servants moved silently around the massive mahogany table, placing dishes of succulent game and autumn vegetables before the royal family. The air smelled of cinnamon and smoke, undercut with the acrid scent of tension.

Beron sat at the head of the table, his flame crown burning higher than usual. Eris occupied his right hand, while your three other brothers filled the remaining seats. You sat at the far end, as distant from Beron as the table allowed—a deliberate placement that emphasized your current standing.

Ember had been firmly instructed to remain in your chambers, though you could feel his indignant warmth through your mental connection. He was definitely sulking about missing the meal.

"The Dawn Court negotiations progress favorably," Eris was saying, his voice precisely modulated to hide any actual opinion on the matter. "Lady Nuan has agreed to consider our proposal regarding the eastern trade routes."

Beron merely grunted, tearing into a pheasant with more force than necessary. His mood, never pleasant, had deteriorated further since your "incident" at the lake.

"Perhaps our sister could assist with negotiations," your youngest brother suggested, malice gleaming in his eyes. "I hear drowning makes one uniquely qualified for diplomatic matters."

Eris shot him a warning glance, but the damage was done.

"Indeed," Beron said coldly. "Perhaps my daughter would care to explain how her recent behavior has affected our standing with other courts? The Night Court, in particular, seems unusually interested in our affairs of late."

The mating bond flared at the mention of the Night Court, sending warmth through your chest despite your anxiety.

"I hardly think my personal matters are relevant to court politics," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

Beron's flames intensified. "Everything about you is relevant to court politics. You are the Lady of Autumn. Your... indiscretions... reflect on us all."

"Indiscretions?" You couldn't help the indignation that crept into your voice. "Is that what we're calling near-death experiences now?"

"Watch your tone," Beron warned, fire dancing between his fingers.

You should have heeded the warning. Should have lowered your eyes and apologized.

But the days of imprisonment, the pain of the bond, the constant dismissal of your feelings—all of it bubbled up inside you like magma seeking release.

"My tone is the least of your concerns," you said, setting down your fork with deliberate precision. "Perhaps you should worry more about why your daughter tried to drown herself rather than how it looks politically."

The table went silent. Even the servants froze, horror evident in their carefully averted gazes.

"What did you say to me?" Beron's voice was deadly quiet.

"You heard me." The words tumbled out, unstoppable now. "You don't care that I was drowning. You only care how it reflects on you—that a Night Court warrior had to save me because my own family couldn't be bothered to notice I was missing."

Pink flames flickered at your fingertips, responding to your emotions. One of your brothers edged his chair away from the table.

Beron rose slowly, his power filling the room like a physical pressure. The candles flared, casting grotesque shadows across his face.

"You forget yourself, daughter," he said, flames now engulfing his hand as he stepped around the table toward you. "Perhaps you need a reminder of who and what you are."

You should have been afraid.

The rational part of your brain screamed danger. But something else—something stubborn and defiant��refused to cower.

"I know exactly what I am," you replied, rising to meet him. "And it isn't this."

Beron's hand raised, flames licking higher, ready to strike—

The dining hall doors exploded inward with enough force to rattle the silverware.

Cold night air rushed in, extinguishing candles and dimming the fire in the hearths. Shadows poured across the threshold, swift and purposeful.

And then they were there—Rhysand, High Lord of Night, flanked by his general and his shadowsinger. Power rolled before them like a midnight tide, dark and ancient and unstoppable.

"Apologies for the dramatic entrance," Rhysand said smoothly, though his violet eyes were hard as gems. "Your guards seemed reluctant to announce us."

But your attention wasn't on Rhysand. It was fixed entirely on Azriel.

The shadowsinger stood slightly to Rhysand's left, his wings tucked neatly against his back, his face an expressionless mask. But his shadows—his shadows told a different story. They writhed and reached, coiling toward Beron's still-raised hand with unmistakable threat.

"Lower your hand, Lord Beron," Azriel said, his voice quiet but carrying easily through the silent hall. The temperature plummeted with each word. "Now."

The command was delivered with such deadly calm that even Beron hesitated. Fire still danced around his fingers, but his arm lowered slightly.

"How dare you enter my court unannounced," Beron hissed, his rage momentarily redirected. "This intrusion—"

"Is nothing compared to what would happen if you touched her," Azriel interrupted, his shadows stretching across the floor between you and Beron.

They formed a barrier—insubstantial yet somehow more solid than stone.

The mating bond sang between you, responding to his defense with a rush of warmth that left you momentarily breathless.

Azriel's gaze finally shifted to you, his eyes assessing, cataloging—checking for injury, you realized with a start.

And for now, that was enough.

Author’s Note: Thank you for diving into this emotional rollercoaster with me! This chapter nearly broke me-Azriel’s rage, our girl’s grief, and the chaos of flaming bunnies… I hope it left your heart aching (in the best way). As always, thank you for reading. 💛 More drama, healing, and accidental arson to come. 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 @moonfawnx @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @willowpains @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @bobbywobbby @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie

[lovelyfawnxx]

baby wake up, new Rhysand art just dropped

🎨 by ignartcio

[highprincessofthenightcourt]

THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS THIS

So many people get Rhysand and Feyre’s dynamic wrong.

Rhys and Feyre are mirrors, they both would and have done the “wrong” thing in order to save the ones they love. They both would rather take on the struggle alone then share the burden. They both don’t view themselves as worthy of what they have, and can only truly love themselves when they love each other. It’s why they work so well, they both mirror the other.

When Feyre says “I see you” to Rhys it’s incredibly powerful because she’s not only seeing him but herself. Feyre only begins to forgive herself for what she did UTM by realizing that she could never condemn Rhys for his actions, because she would have done the same.

Rhys hatred of Nesta over Elain, is because Nesta does not appreciate (at least outwardly) everything Feyre did. It’s not just about Feyre providing for the family and them not, it’s about her treatment she got for sacrificing everything. Rhys knows what’s that like, Rhys has done that and knows what it’s like to be insulted for it. And while he doesn’t ever try to defend himself when insulted he can’t bear to see Feyre insulted over her sacrifices.

It’s the same way Feyre cannot comprehend how people can disregard and insult what Rhys did to save his people. Feyre goes ape shit over any insult towards Rhys, but more or less tolerates Nesta’s abusive comments towards her.

It’s because she’s his mirror, and he is hers.

And if we’re think of in canon, despite all the problems and plotholes with the pregnancy it makes sense that Feyre would be quick to forgive. Feyre would do the same, if she knew Rhys was going to die she would do everything to find a cure before he died. It’s not right, but Feyre takes on the burden of others the same way Rhys does. She understands him and his actions better then anyone else. And he understands her equally as well.

It’s why they work so well and what most people get wrong about them. Feyre does not have “rose colored” glass for Rhys, she understands him. She knows she would make similar choices and she has made similar choices.

[helenaschmalz]

Feyre meeting the wolf in chapter 1 ✨

[redraccoonart]

[SCROLL DOWN TO READ] Sorry Cass, but Rhys won’t share 😅

This is the first scene I wanted to draw once I finished tome 2 😂 I just love how Cassian helps Rhysand free himself from his tension by just taunting him, best friendship ever lol

A Court of Mist And Fury belongs to author Sarah J Maas

[isa-sketches]

Feysand♥

[copypastus]

I want him to be the biggest brat to his parents >:D

[rainingriversofyou]

The Bat Boys - A Court Of Thorns And Roses

Artist: gracerstudios

[jacksdreams]

“And I wondered if love was too weak a word for what he felt, what he’d done for me. For what I felt for him.”

credit @court_of_scetches

[high-queen-feyre]

I lied. Put your clothes back on. We're going to talk about the delicate yet planet-shattering love that Rhysand's had for Feyre since the very first book and how they were endgame since 2009 that they created the concept of books where there are characters like them yet not fully so and the entire concept of "morally grey tattoed shadow daddy" basically came from Rhys but the people in its own fandom think its fun to hate on feysand as if they don't literally dominate romantasy and created the concept of it. Acotar is known to be the first of the romamtasy genre, feysand are the first romamtasy couple and it'll always remain so.

[mahalachives]

Part 8: Everything I Am, Everything I Will Be

Azriel x f!reader

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

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

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

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

Azriel, Are you Okay? - Masterlist

Azriel had first noticed you in Velaris, long before fate had decided to intervene.

It had been an ordinary afternoon in the Rainbow.

Azriel had been returning from a briefing with Rhys, his shadows trailing behind him like gentle wisps of midnight.

Most people gave him a wide berth—the Shadowsinger’s reputation ensuring his solitude even in crowded streets.

She’s coming, his shadows whispered suddenly, their tone unusually bright, almost melodic. The one who speaks to plants.

Azriel tilted his head slightly, curious.

His shadows often brought him snippets of information about the residents of Velaris, but rarely with such… delight.

That’s when he saw you.

You were hurrying along with an armful of ancient scrolls, humming softly to yourself about deadlines and temperamental flora.

Before he could step aside, a particularly ornate scroll adorned with painted lilies slipped from your grasp, rolling toward his feet.

Catch it, his shadows urged eagerly, already curling toward the falling parchment.

He caught it before it could unravel completely, his gloved hand gentle with the delicate parchment, careful not to damage the exquisite illustrations of rare night-blooming plants.

“Oh! Thank you,�� you’d gasped, “These are absolutely irreplaceable botanical records, and my supervisor would have my head if—”

You froze mid-sentence as you finally looked up, eyes widening in recognition, a small pressed flower falling from between the pages of your notebook.

“You’re Azriel,” you whispered. “The Shadowsinger.”

He’d simply nodded, extending the recovered scroll with one hand while quietly retrieving the fallen flower with the other.

Her heartbeat sounds like hummingbird wings, his shadows observed, sounding almost… enchanted. She smells like lavender and old books.

Your fingers brushed as you took both items, a fleeting touch that sent an unexpected warmth shooting up his arm like gentle sparks.

His throat tightened pleasantly, a subtle flutter spreading across his chest as his shadows curled briefly toward you like morning mist reaching for sunlight.

Warm, they murmured happily. Bright. Remember her forever.

“Thank you,” you’d said again, softer this time, a small smile lighting your features.

He'd inclined his head in silent acknowledgment before continuing on his way, gently quieting his shadows when they tried to urge him to follow you, to learn more about the female who’d caused such a stir among them.

We’ll see her again, they whispered confidently as he walked away. She matters to us.

Azriel had dismissed their unusual behavior with fond exasperation.

His shadows could be fanciful at times, prone to innocent fixations that often proved meaningless.

Besides, his heart had belonged to Mor then.

Had for centuries. Would for centuries more, he'd thought.

He was wonderfully wrong.

Five centuries of life had prepared Azriel for many things.

Torture. War.

The darkest corners of Prythian's courts. The weight of secrets that would break lesser males.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for the paralyzing uncertainty of preparing for his first date with his mate.

"You look like you're planning an assassination, not a romantic evening," Cassian drawled from where he lounged against the doorframe of Azriel's private chambers in the House of Wind. He eyed Azriel’s fourth—or was it fifth?—tunic choice of the evening. "I mean, if you’re aiming to impress her with murder skills, go for it. But I’d suggest toning down the ‘serial killer’ energy at least a notch."

Azriel didn't respond, busy adjusting the collar of his tunic for the fourteenth time.

The fabric embroidered with silver stars seemed simultaneously too formal and not formal enough.

He'd never cared about his appearance beyond functionality before.

But tonight... tonight mattered.

You mattered.

"I've never seen you this rattled," Cassian continued, his grin widening. "Not even when we infiltrated the Winter Court during the Frost Solstice and you got cornered by that deranged—"

Azriel shot him a warning look, shadows coiling tightly around his scarred hands. "I'm not rattled."

Liar, his oldest shadow whispered in his ear. Your heart races at the mere thought of her.

His shadows had been insufferable since the day you'd fallen on him in the archives—growing more vocal, more insistent with each passing day.

They'd recognized the mate bond before he had, whispering your name when he tried to sleep, urging him toward you at every opportunity.

Centuries of perfect control, undone by one female with a talent for calamity and eyes that saw straight through his carefully constructed walls.

"Have you decided where you're taking her?" Rhys asked, materializing from the shadows of the hallway. The High Lord's violet eyes gleamed with barely suppressed amusement.

Azriel nodded once. "The oak grove."

Cassian raised an eyebrow. "The treehouse? No one knows about that place."

"Exactly," Azriel replied, finally turning away from the mirror. He didn't need to explain further.

Both males understood the significance—he was sharing something private, something he'd kept hidden for centuries.

Rhys's expression shifted, something knowing gleaming in his eyes. "Interesting choice," he said, the words weighted with meaning Azriel couldn't quite decipher. "There's something... fitting about it."

Before Azriel could respond, Cassian clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make lesser males stagger. "Well, don't keep the lady waiting. And remember—" he winked "—I've got a favorite blade riding on you sealing the bond by the full moon."

Azriel growled low in his throat. "Get out."

Both males laughed as they retreated, though Rhys paused at the doorway.

"Az," he said softly, all humor gone from his voice. "You both deserve this. Remember that."

The words struck deeper than Azriel wanted to admit.

Five centuries of darkness and solitude had convinced him he deserved nothing but shadows.

And then you had crashed into his life—literally—upending everything he thought he knew about himself.

She is your light, his shadow whispered. Your starlight. Your home.

He had one final thing to retrieve before leaving.

From his desk, he took a small wooden box containing the gift he'd spent hours carving.

A ridiculous gesture, perhaps, but one he hoped would make you smile.

That smile.

It haunted him.

Brightened corners of his soul he'd thought long dead.

With a deep breath, he unfurled his wings and stepped to the balcony.

Before launching into the evening sky, he allowed himself one moment of vulnerability, one whispered confession to the sunset.

"I am terrified."

You had faced many terrifying things in your life.

Cave-dwelling monsters with too many teeth.

That one particularly aggressive goose on the mountain trail.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared you for the sheer, overwhelming panic of getting ready for your first official date with Azriel.

"I have nothing to wear," you wailed, flinging another dress onto the growing pile on your bed. "Nothing."

Lira, sprawled on your one comfortable chair, didn't even look up from inspecting her nails. "You have approximately seventeen outfits on that bed alone. Not to mention the three I brought over. And the one Mor sent with a note that said—and I quote—'wear this if you want to see a shadowsinger blush.'"

"None of them are right!" You held up a midnight blue gown with silver accents. "Too formal."

A casual tunic and pants. "Too boring."

A revealing red number that had somehow found its way into your closet. "Too... Mor."

Lira sighed dramatically. "He's seen you with bedhead, covered in mud, drenched in the Sidra, and tripping over literally nothing. If you showed up in a flour sack, he'd probably still look at you like you hung the stars."

"That doesn't help!"

"Fine." Lira finally stood, sifting through the fabric mountain with expert precision. "Wear this. It's pretty but comfortable, and the color brings out your eyes."

She held up a simple but elegant dress in a deep violet hue with subtle silver detailing.

The fabric was light and flowy, perfect for a summer evening in Velaris, yet structured enough to look intentional rather than haphazard—something you desperately needed help with.

"Are you sure?" you asked, taking the garment with reverent hands.

"Positive. Now..." She gestured vaguely at the disaster that was your hair. "Let's tackle that next catastrophe."

An hour later, you stood before your mirror, barely recognizing yourself.

The dress fit perfectly, highlighting curves you didn't know you had. Your hair was pinned in an elegant-but-not-too-fussy style that somehow made you look like you belonged in the Night Court's fashionable circles.

"See?" Lira said smugly, adjusting one final pin. "You clean up nicely when you're not falling into things."

"Don't jinx it," you muttered, nervously touching the moonbloom pendant that hung around your neck.

The delicate flower seemed to pulse with life in the fading evening light, a constant reminder of Azriel's feelings.

Gregory bubbled energetically from his bowl, performing what looked suspiciously like approval laps.

"Even Gregory thinks you look good," Lira commented, tossing a pinch of fish food into the bowl. "And he has very high standards. Don't you, Gregory?"

A loud knock interrupted your nervous fidgeting.

"He's early," you hissed, panic rising again. "He said sunset! It's not sunset yet!"

"It's close enough," Lira pushed you toward the door. "Now go. Be awkward. Be romantic. Be yourself. And for Cauldron's sake, try not to fall into the Sidra again."

With one final glare at your so-called friend, you took a deep breath and opened the door.

And promptly forgot how to breathe.

Azriel stood there, not in his usual Illyrian fighting leathers, but in formal Night Court attire—well-fitted black pants and a deep blue tunic that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. His wings were meticulously groomed, the membranous material almost glowing in the late afternoon light.

But it was his face that caught you off guard.

The usual carefully controlled mask had slipped, revealing raw appreciation as his hazel eyes swept over you.

"You're beautiful," he said, the words coming out rougher than usual, like he hadn't meant to speak them aloud.

Your cheeks heated.

"You too." You winced immediately. "I mean, not beautiful—well, yes, beautiful, but handsome. You look handsome. Good. Nice. I'm going to stop talking now."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward. "I brought you something."

From behind his back, he produced not flowers—which would have been the conventional choice—but a small, intricate wooden box.

"For the menace," he said, gesturing toward Gregory's bowl. "From one guard to another."

You opened it to find a tiny, perfectly carved castle tower—a fish hideout for Gregory's bowl.

"You got my fish a present," you said, staring at the delicate woodwork, complete with miniature windows and a tiny door. "Did you... did you make this?"

A rare flush crept along Azriel's cheekbones. "I had time."

The image of the Night Court's most feared spymaster whittling a tiny castle for your emotional support fish was almost too much to bear.

"Gregory appreciates your dedication to home security," you managed, placing the tower carefully in the fish bowl. Gregory immediately swam through the tiny doorway, clearly approving of his new quarters.

"Shall we?" Azriel offered his arm—a formal, courtly gesture that somehow seemed both foreign and perfectly natural coming from him.

"Where are we going?" you asked, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow and trying not to focus on the firm muscle beneath your fingertips.

His shadows curled playfully around your wrist. "It's a surprise."

Your eyes widen with wonder as you take in the treehouse, your lips parting in surprise.

You can't believe Azriel has brought you here—to a place he built with Cassian centuries ago and maintained alone for three hundred years.

"You're taking me to your secret hideout?" The words tumble from your mouth, wonder filling your voice.

Azriel's hand moves to adjust the moonbloom pendant at your throat, his fingers lingering against your skin.

The touch sends a flutter through your chest, your pulse quickening beneath his fingertips.

"I wanted to share something with you," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "Something private. Something no female has ever seen."

The weight of his admission isn't lost on you.

Five centuries of guarding his privacy, his secrets—and here he is, offering a piece of himself so willingly.

"I'm honored," you say, meaning every word.

"You should be," he replies, a rare lightness in his tone. "Cassian doesn't even know I still come here." He pauses before adding, "The wards only recognize my blood... and now yours."

Your heart skips a beat at the revelation that he'd altered ancient wards for you.

As you climb the stairs, your foot catches on the lip of a step—your usual gracelessness making an appearance at the worst possible moment. Before you can tumble backward, Azriel's hand snaps out to steady you. Instead of a polite rescue, he pulls you flush against him, his palm splayed across the curve of your lower back, fingers edging just a little lower than strictly necessary.

Heat floods your body at the contact.

The thin fabric of your dress does nothing to hide the firmness of his chest against yours, and you can't help the quiet gasp that escapes your lips as you look up at him through half-lowered lashes.

His shadows coil around your legs, bold and hungry.

You can feel them reaching for you, as though they want to slip under your dress and map every inch of your skin.

"Careful," he murmurs, but his dropped voice makes the warning sound more like an invitation.

When you try to straighten, he doesn't let you go immediately.

Instead, his fingers flex over your lower back, pressing you firmly against him. Your breath hitches as something pulses between you—an unspoken promise of what could happen if you just gave in.

With visible effort, he loosens his grip, drawing a shaky breath as he eases you upright. But his thumb grazes the curve of your hip in a final caress that feels like a claim.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "Try not to fall again," he teases softly, his tone laced with sin. "Next time, I might not let go."

"Sorry," you murmur, your cheeks flushing. "Gravity and I have a complicated relationship."

"So I've noticed," he replies, fondness warming his voice.

As you enter the treehouse, you're struck by the beautiful details—floating faelights, a moving star map, a low table set with foods that somehow match exactly what you like.

But it's the walls that truly capture your attention.

Maps, notes, sketches—centuries of observations, thoughts, a private world spread out for you to see.

"What is all this?" you ask, moving closer to examine a map of the Night Court.

"Records," he answers, standing close enough that his wing brushes against your back. A small shiver runs through you at the contact. "Observations. Memories."

You realize what you're looking at—his personal history, his private sanctuary where he keeps the parts of himself he shows to no one.

"Why did you bring me here?" The question comes as a whisper, vulnerability plain in your voice.

"Because you deserve to know me. All of me. Not just what others see."

For a male who has spent centuries in shadows, who has built his life around secrets and silence, the offering is monumental. He is giving you the power to truly know him—and with it, the power to truly hurt him.

"I don't know what to say," you admit.

"You don't have to say anything," he assures you, guiding you to the table with his hand at the small of your back. "Just... be here. With me."

As you sit across from each other, Azriel's shadows refuse to stay contained. They reach for you, wrapping around your wrists, tracing the line of your neck with a boldness that makes your skin heat.

"Your shadows are very... hands-on," you observe, watching as they caress you like living extensions of his desire.

You notice the heat creeping up Azriel's neck. "They've grown fond of you," he says, clearly understating. "They've never... responded to anyone like this before."

"Just the shadows?" you ask, surprising yourself with your boldness.

His eyes drop to your lips, and you can almost feel the phantom touch of his mouth on yours.

"No," he says, his voice dropping to a register that reveals his desire. "No, starlight. Not just the shadows."

The endearment sends warmth blooming in your chest.

Throughout dinner, you watch Azriel relax in a way you've never seen before.

He tells you stories he's never shared with others—mishaps and adventures with the Inner Circle, lighter moments that few would associate with the fearsome shadowsinger.

You laugh freely, entranced by the way he watches you, the way his lips curve when you throw your head back in amusement. Around him, you feel lighter, brighter, more than you've felt in a long time.

Your peaceful dinner is interrupted by a faint sound outside—one that Azriel's trained ears catch immediately.

"Was that...?" you ask, peering into the darkness.

"Ignore it," he sighs.

"But it looked like—"

"Cassian," he confirms, caught between exasperation and amusement. "And if my shadows aren't misleading me, Mor is with him."

Your eyes widen. "Are they spying on us?"

"They're attempting to," he corrects dryly. "Rather poorly."

You burst into laughter at their friends' antics, finding humor where others might find irritation.

"We could give them something to spy on," you suggest, mischief dancing in your eyes.

Azriel arches a brow, heat visible in his gaze. "What did you have in mind?"

The idea of acting out an exaggerated romantic scene to scandalize your friends delights you.

"Oh, Azriel," you exclaim in an exaggerated breathy voice. "I had no idea you could do that with shadows!"

He plays along with surprising enthusiasm, his voice dropping deliberately lower. "It's a rare talent. One I've been saving for the right person. For you."

His shadows put on a dramatic display, swirling around the room with theatrical flair. But some use the opportunity to touch you in more intimate ways—tracing down your arm, caressing your collarbone, stealing touches that make your breath catch.

"The right...angle?" you continue, your tone deliberately suggestive. "Or the right... position?"

When Cassian crashes outside, you have to bite back your laughter. But beneath the amusement is a rising heat, a dangerous awareness of Azriel—of how beautiful he looks with rare humor in his eyes, of how much you want to turn this playacting into reality.

"Both," he says solemnly. "It requires... flexibility. And endurance." He leans forward, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. "Fortunately, I have centuries of practice."

One bold shadow caresses your neck.

You break into laughter, the tension momentarily diffused. "That," you gasp between laughs, "was the most fun I've ever had fully clothed."

When your laughter subsides, you find Azriel studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart race.

"I've existed for over five hundred years," he admits quietly. "And I can't remember the last time I laughed like that."

The vulnerability in his admission touches something deep within you.

"Well, I'm happy to make a fool of myself anytime if it makes you laugh," you say with a warm smile.

"You weren't the fool," he counters, rising and moving to the window. "Come. There's something I want to show you."

When you join him at the window, his wing brushes against your back—a casual touch that sends a shiver down your spine. The view of Velaris at night stretches before you, a tapestry of lights and shadows.

"It's beautiful," you whisper.

"This is how I see the city," he tells you, his voice an intimate murmur. "From above. In shadows and light."

When you turn to face him, he's already watching you—his hazel eyes reflecting the faelight, turning them to liquid gold.

"What are you thinking?" you ask.

"That I never thought I'd have this. That for centuries, I accepted solitude as my due. And then you—" He shakes his head, wonder in his expression. "You fell into my life. Literally."

You reach for his scarred hand, tracing the ancient burns with gentle fingers. The tissue is rough beneath your touch, but you don't hesitate or flinch. These marks are part of him, as essential as his shadows or his wings.

"These are part of you," you say softly. "Just like your shadows. Just like your wings. Parts I wouldn't change." You pause, realizing something. "You haven't worn your gloves since the library incident."

The observation seems to startle him, as if he hadn't realized it himself.

"Why?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

His shadows curl closer as vulnerability passes over his face.

"Because I've spent centuries hiding these scars." His scarred fingers intertwine with yours, the contrast between his damaged skin and your softness both stark and beautiful. "But after you fell on me that day, after you touched me without flinching... I found myself yearning to feel your skin against mine, even if by accident."

He moves closer, the bond between you drawing taut. "Do you know what it's like? To want something so badly you can hardly breathe with it? To have your skin ache for a touch you've convinced yourself you'll never deserve?"

The raw emotion in his voice makes your heart ache.

"Most people avoid touching them," he says, his voice rough as you continue to trace his scars.

"I'm not most people," you remind him, your tone dropping to match his. "I'm your mate."

The word hangs between you—mate—sacred and true. The bond between you flares at the acknowledgment, a rush of warmth that suffuses your entire being.

"Yes," he agrees, his voice rough with possessiveness. "Mine."

He reaches up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your lower lip in a touch that makes you tremble. His scarred hand against your skin feels right—as if you were made to complement each other, to balance his darkness with your light.

"In Illyrian tradition," he says, barely above a whisper, "the first kiss between mates is a sacred vow. A promise more binding than any words." His shadows embrace you both, creating a cocoon of privacy. "I do not make such promises lightly."

Your heart pounds as you understand the weight of the moment.

"What are you promising me, shadowsinger?" you ask, the title feeling right on your lips.

His eyes meet yours, centuries of loneliness and newfound hope converging in his gaze. "Everything I am. Everything I will be."

The words feel ancient, powerful, true.

"I'm going to kiss you now," he declares, the words both a warning and a vow.

"Good," you reply, unable to resist lightening the moment. "Because my knees are about to give out, and I'd hate to fall again."

A smile touches his lips, tender and full of promise. "I'll catch you," he promises. "I always do. I always will."

And then he's leaning in, his eyes never leaving yours. Finding no hesitation, he closes the distance and presses his lips to yours.

The first touch is gentle, reverent—a question, an offering of his heart. His shadows engulf you both, creating a world where only the two of you exist. He cradles your face like you're something precious, something to be cherished.

The mate bond explodes between you, a surge of sensation so intense it nearly buckles your knees. Colors, scents, feelings—all sharper, brighter, more vivid than you've ever experienced. You can feel his heartbeat as if it were your own, can sense his emotions mingling with yours in a tapestry of wonder and desire and rightness.

You slide your fingers into his hair and pull him closer, wanting more. A growl rumbles in his chest as he backs you against the window, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that matches your own. The feeling of him against you is more intoxicating than anything you've ever known.

"Azriel," you gasp against his mouth, unable to contain the emotion swelling within you.

"I can feel it too," he murmurs, wonder threading through his words as the mate bond flares between you. "The bond. It's singing."

Kissing him is like finding a home you never knew you were missing. His taste, his scent, the way he responds to you—it's intoxicating, overwhelming, perfect. His wings curve around you both, shielding you from the world in the most ancient Illyrian tradition.

Your scent and his mingle—your parchment and lavender now blended with his night-chilled cedar, marking you as his. Every nerve ending in your body feels alive, hypersensitive, attuned to each small movement.

You slide your tongue along the seam of his lips, drawing a feral sound from his chest that sends heat pooling low in your belly. He answers with a rough, devouring kiss that makes you moan softly into the quiet space around you.

His shadows take on a life of their own, swirling in a dizzying dance over your shoulders, skimming down your arms and waist—touching, tasting, exploring in ways that make you shiver with need.

The moonbloom pendant at your throat suddenly flares with bright, shimmering light, bathing you both in ethereal glow. You clutch at him, fingers threading into his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him groan.

When you finally pull apart, you're both panting. His eyes gleam possessively, making your breath catch. Your hair is mussed from his restless fingers; your lips feel swollen, tingling with the evidence of his kisses.

"Well," you manage, voice quivering with excitement, "as far as first kisses go, that was…"

"Insufficient," he growls, low and ragged, already leaning back in. He drags his thumb across your lower lip, collecting the lingering taste of your kiss. His wings flare behind him in a display that screams possession. "We should try again. For thoroughness."

Your laugh comes out breathy. "Thoroughness? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

His eyes narrow in challenge, the corners of his lips tilting into a predatory smirk. "I'm over five hundred years old," he reminds you, his voice decadently deep. "I'm no kid. And I'm very, very thorough."

A delicious tension crackles between you, heightened by the knowledge of just how far that promise could go. The mate bond pulses like a physical tether, tightening around your souls.

"Thank the Cauldron for that," you whisper, already tipping your head for another kiss. "Think of all the practice you've had."

His shadows flare, enveloping you both in a cocoon of midnight.

They skim across every curve, every hollow, every dip of your body they can reach, impatient for him to join them in full exploration.

Azriel swallows a groan, every muscle tensing as he fights for control. But one look at your parted lips and the flush darkening your cheeks, and you see the moment he decides to let go, to show you exactly how long he's waited, how desperately he's craved this moment.

"Practice," he echoes roughly, his breath skating across your mouth. "You have no idea."

Then he bends his head and captures your lips again, the kiss far from soft—raw and hungry, a promise that the thoroughness has only just begun.

You practically skip into the Botanical Archives, a goofy smile plastered on your face as you clutch a small bag of pastries in one hand and a steaming cup of tea in the other.

The memory of last night—Azriel’s treehouse, that kiss (kisses!)—still swirls in your mind like a flock of delighted starlings, making your heart flutter every time you replay it.

The Archives are quiet at this hour, mostly hushed librarians and scholars drifting between shelves.

But one voice shatters the hush the moment you step inside.

“Well, well, look who decided to waltz in here like she’s the High Lady of Good Moods,” Lira crows from behind the reception desk. “Did someone have a fun night, perhaps?”

You try to tamp down your giddy grin—but fail spectacularly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you say, setting your tea down and carefully ignoring the fact that you nearly trip over a stack of dusty tomes.

Lira narrows her eyes. “That’s not your I-have-no-idea-what-you’re-talking-about face. That’s your oh-mother-above-I-think-I’m-in-love face.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “Shh! Keep your voice down or the entire Archive will know I have…a reason to be happy.”

She laughs, straightening. “Please. The entire Archive already suspects you have some reason to be happy. You’re glowing like a star under a Cauldron-blessed spotlight.”

You roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth curl upward anyway. “Anyway, are we cataloging the new Day Court scrolls this morning? Or are you just going to stand there and harass me?”

“Bit of both, probably,” Lira says brightly.

She taps a wooden crate with her foot. “We got a new delivery—again—like those Day Courtiers have nothing better to do than bury us in half-translated manuscripts. Go forth and sort.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, picking up the top scroll. “Ah yes, I shall valiantly bury myself in dusty documents for the sake of botanical advancement.”

Lira pretends to salute. “What a trooper. Let me know if you start missing that shadowsinger so much you can’t function.”

You open your mouth for a scathing retort, but she wiggles her fingers in a sassy goodbye and flounces away, leaving you alone with your scrolls, your warm tea, and approximately one million butterflies in your stomach.

You set to work at a large wooden table in a back alcove, where the morning sun filters through high, arched windows.

The gentle hush of the Archives usually soothes you, but today you’re too antsy—your mind keeps wandering to Azriel.

To the feel of his lips against yours, the warmth of his scarred palms, the way he promised to catch you if you fell. (And, to be fair, you are pretty inclined to falling.)

A silly grin curls your lips.

You find yourself humming a jaunty tune, tapping your quill on the table.

At one point, you even spin in a small circle, the skirt of your lilac day-dress flaring around your legs. If any of your coworkers see, you’ll deny it.

Forever.

“Snap out of it,” you mutter, unrolling a parchment with care.

The Day Court has included a thorough treatise on cacti. Instantly, your mind conjures Azriel’s shadows swirling around spiky succulents, and you stifle a giggle.

You’re so lost in daydreams that you almost miss the moment the alcove falls too silent.

A cool draft brushes the back of your neck, sending a ripple of unease across your skin.

Your humming halts.

You glance over your shoulder, expecting to see Lira or one of the other scholars.

But there’s no one—just row upon row of towering shelves and the gentle flicker of faelights.

Maybe it’s just a draft, you think, trying to steady your heartbeat.

You turn back to the Day Court scroll, pressing its corners flat against the table.

Then you hear it—a voice so soft it barely registers over the faint rustle of parchment.

“Hello…”

Your entire body goes rigid.

Slowly, you set your quill down, dread curling in your stomach.

The fine hairs at your nape prickle as a memory stirs—one you can’t quite place.

“Lira?” you call softly, forcing a calm you don’t feel.

No answer. Just eerie silence.

You let out a forced laugh. “I’m hearing things. Perfect.”

You try—try—to read the neat calligraphy on the scroll. But your eyes keep flicking to the edge of your vision, half expecting some lurking figure to emerge.

“She’s here…” another whisper comes, colder this time. “She’s back.”

Your blood runs cold.

The timbre of that voice claws at something old inside your head.

Your hands tremble as you half-rise from your seat.

You open your mouth, intending to speak—but the words never come.

Because suddenly, the hush around you fills with whispers, overlapping voices, some trembling with desperation, others echoing with a cruel, mocking tone.

“Do you remember us…” “You left us…”

Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, and a jolt of raw terror streaks down your spine.

Flashes of old nightmares rise in your mind, a dark corridor, flickering torches, voices that taunted you in the corners of your dreams.

“She hears us again...” “Help us…let us out…” “You never should have run.”

Your vision shivers, the edges going hazy.

This isn’t real, you tell yourself.

Except it feels so real, the air turning frigid, your lungs refusing to draw breath properly.

You clutch your ledger like a shield. “W-who’s there?”

You hate how shaky your voice sounds.

No answer, just a chorus of nearly soundless laughter—both sorrowful and cruel.

It wraps around you like cold fingers.

And in that overlapping cacophony, you catch snippets of an old plea, your plea, from long ago.

“Leave me alone—please—go away!”

You slap your free hand over your ear, as though you can block them out.

“Stop,” you manage, voice cracking.

A chilling breeze seems to swirl around you, rustling the edges of the scroll. The ghosts’ voices crescendo.

“She fears us still…” “She remembers nothing…” “Don’t forget the blood…”

Tears prick your eyes, your throat tight with panic.

You don’t know what they’re talking about—you don’t recall any promise, any them.

“Stop,” you beg again, tears threatening to spill. “Please—”

A hand seizes your shoulder.

You yelp, spinning with your ledger raised defensively—only to find Lira, her face etched with alarm.

“Whoa!” she exclaims, hands up in surrender. “Easy! I come in peace!”

You blink rapidly, tears and panic making everything blur.

The voices vanish as if yanked away by an unseen thread.

Suddenly, you’re in the quiet Archives again, the morning sunlight streaming like nothing’s wrong.

Lira lowers her arms, stepping closer. “You okay? You look like you just saw the Bogge itself.”

“I—” You struggle to breathe normally.

Your pulse still pounds, and your ears ring with phantom echoes. You never should have run. “I thought I heard…” You shake your head, shame creeping in. “It’s nothing. I’m just—tired.”

She lifts a brow, unconvinced. “That was more than just tired. You were talking to someone, or something.”

You swallow, gaze darting to the corner of the alcove.

The weight of old nightmares lingers in the air, but the ghosts are silent now—lurking behind the veil, waiting.

“Maybe I… dozed off for a second,” you finally mumble, the excuse tasting sour in your mouth. “I’m really not sleeping well lately.”

Lira’s expression softens. “Then let’s get you some air. Trust me, inhaling stale parchment fumes isn’t gonna help if you’re feeling faint.”

Normally, you’d protest.

But the thought of staying here, alone, at this table—where those voices might return—makes your stomach churn.

So you nod, following her toward the exit, your heart still hammering.

As you pass through the high-arched doorway, Lira chatters about random Archive gossip, clearly trying to distract you.

You manage a weak smile here and there, but your thoughts remain fixed on those voices, how they echoed the nightmares you once had, how they accused you of leaving them behind.

Leaving who behind?

You can’t remember.

A final chill scutters down your spine as you glance over your shoulder.

In the alcove’s corner, the shadows are thicker than they should be, almost shaped like hunched figures.

Watching. Waiting.

A faint echo flickers in your mind, too familiar—childish whimpers, fear overwhelming your small body as you clung to blankets at night, wishing the voices would go away.

As you hurry after Lira, the rasping whispers claw at your memory.

“Don’t forget the blood… She’s still ours…”

Azriel appears so suddenly you nearly drop your ledger—one moment it’s just you and Lira in the corridor, and the next, the spymaster stands at your side, wings half-flared, shadows swirling restlessly.

His hazel eyes flick over you in a swift, razor-sharp sweep, cataloging every inch as if looking for injuries or signs of distress.

“Az,” you whisper, your voice still shaky from the lingering terror.

Lira startles, almost dropping the scrolls in her arms. “Cauldron,” she mutters, stepping back to give him space. “I’ll just…yeah.” She shoots you a worried look, then disappears around a corner, leaving you alone with Azriel’s intense gaze.

He doesn’t move for a beat—just stares, tension radiating from every line of his body.

The hush of the Archives thickens.

His expression is pure spymaster: unreadable, assessing, tinged with lethal calm.

Finally, in a voice carved from steel, he asks, “What happened?”

A wave of guilt crashes over you. You attempt a weak, tremulous grin. “Nothing. Just—library chaos. You know how it is.”

His jaw clenches, shadows uncoiling around his wrists like they’re ready to hunt.

“Don’t lie,” he says quietly. “I felt your fear through the bond.”

Your chest tightens at the reminder of how strong your panic must’ve been for him to sense it.

“I—” The words stick in your throat.

This man has faced wars, horrors you can’t fathom; the last thing you want is to burden him with ghost stories you can’t even explain. So you plaster on an overly bright smile. “It’s fine. Seriously, you can relax your wings now.”

He doesn’t.

If anything, they flare wider, as though to shield you from whatever threatened you. “Your hands are still shaking,” he observes grimly, eyes flicking to your trembling grip on the ledger.

A lump forms in your throat.

You force a laugh that comes out sounding like a pathetic squeak. “Must’ve been a dizzy spell. Too much dust. Really, Az, stop worrying.”

His nostrils flare with impatience—he’s clearly not convinced. Before you can protest, he steps forward, gathering you into his arms in one swift motion, ledger and all. The sensation of his firm chest against yours sends a jolt through your system that’s part embarrassment, part relief.

“Az!” you protest, cheeks heating. “We’re in the middle of the—”

He lifts you just enough to curve his arm beneath your knees, his other arm bracing your back. A neat little scoop that leaves you clutching at his shoulders, eyes wide. You can practically feel the hush of the Archives intensify as a few onlookers peek around corners.

But Azriel doesn’t seem to care.

His shadows swirl closer, forming a hazy barrier of privacy.

“You’re pale,” he says simply, as though that justifies everything. “And I’m not putting you down until you stop pretending this is nothing.”

“Az, I—” Heat flutters across your cheeks.

You glance around, mortified to be cradled bridal-style in front of whoever might pass by. But there’s no ignoring the steady thump of his heart against your ear, the secure hold of his arms.

It makes you feel…safe.

He looks down at you, his usually controlled features pulled taut with worry and frustration.

“You terrified me,” he admits low enough that only you can hear. “I’ve felt you anxious before, but never that close to panic.”

Guilt churns in your gut. “I’m sorry,” you manage, voice tight. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

His gaze lingers on the lingering tears clinging to your lashes, and the hardness in his face softens just slightly. “Tell me what scared you.”

“It’s nothing you need to hunt, I swear,” you say quickly, wanting to stave off the spymaster in him. Your voice trembles with the weight of the half-truth. “Please—just stop worrying.”

For a moment, he just studies you.

Then, releasing a sigh that ruffles your hair, he nods toward the nearest reading nook, a cozy alcove by a tall window. “We’re talking. Properly. Somewhere less exposed.”

He moves—with you still in his arms.

Your stomach swoops. “Azriel,” you hiss, mortified, “put me down. I can walk!”

His mouth presses into a stubborn line.

“You’re shaking,” he repeats. “Until I see you steady on your feet, I’m carrying you. You can glare all you want.”

You do glare. Furiously.

But you don’t exactly hate the warmth of his hold, or the reassuring solidity of his body. So with a defeated huff, you bury your face in the soft fabric of his tunic, hoping to hide from the curious glances of passing scholars.

It doesn’t take long for him to reach the alcove, where he sets you gently on a cushioned bench. One of his wings curls protectively around you in a half-shield, blocking out the rest of the Archives. Even as your feet touch the floor, he keeps a hand on your shoulder, as if afraid you might vanish.

“Tell me what happened,” he says again, voice firm but edged with a tenderness that tugs at your heart.

Your gaze drops to your ledger, your voice catching.

You can’t bring yourself to explain the whispers, the shadows, the half-buried nightmares you don’t fully understand. “I was just…overwhelmed,” you mumble, blinking rapidly against fresh tears. “I’m so sorry. I know you must have a thousand better things to do than rush here for no reason.”

Azriel’s expression darkens, and you sense that protective fury simmering behind his calm facade. “You are never ‘no reason,’” he says, each word clipped. “I’ll always come if you need me. You know that.”

“But—”

He slides onto the bench beside you, capturing your trembling hands in his. The warmth of his scarred palms steadies your breathing. “I can’t fix what you won’t tell me,” he murmurs, “but I can sit here until you feel safe again.”

The bond pulses gently, your chest loosening. You sniff, nodding gratefully. “I’m okay now,” you whisper, daring to meet his gaze. “Really.”

Azriel’s eyes remain narrowed, but you catch the barest flicker of relief. “If you say so.” His grip tightens just a fraction. “But if I sense that level of fear again, I will tear this place apart until I find the cause.”

The conviction in his voice sends a shiver through you. “Not sure the Head Archivist would appreciate you wrecking her shelves.”

He arches a brow. “Let her try to stop me.”

Despite yourself, a shaky laugh escapes your lips.

The absurd image of Azriel tearing down entire rows of rare scrolls in search of some imaginary threat is enough to dispel a bit of the tension knotting your gut.

“You’re impossible,” you say, but there’s no heat in your words.

He raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Maybe.” Then, more quietly, “I’d rather be impossible than let you face your fear alone.”

The sincerity in his tone nearly breaks you.

Emotion swells behind your eyes, though you manage to keep from crying again. Carefully, he shifts you closer, tucking you against his side. With his free arm, he drapes one dark wing around you like a shield.

Your heart flutters. The pressure of the wing against your back, the lingering hint of his soap-and-leather scent—together, they feel like an unspoken promise of safety.

A heartbeat of silence passes, your pulse steadying in time with his. Then, in a clipped tone that can’t entirely hide his concern, Azriel says, “Next time you sense anything—anything—off, you call me. Immediately.”

You open your mouth to argue—maybe you don’t want to feel like a damsel in distress—but the unyielding determination in his eyes melts your resistance.

“Okay,” you breathe.

He relaxes. Just a fraction, but enough that you feel the tension ebb. “Good.”

For a moment, you sit there in the hush, wrapped in Azriel’s wing, the rustle of his shadows quieting. You can practically hear his mind whirring, but he refrains from interrogating you further. He simply stays, presence unwavering, until the trembling in your limbs finally subsides.

Eventually, Azriel shifts.

You expect another question, another gentle demand for honesty. Instead, he lowers his head, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your forehead. It’s brief—barely more than a brush of his lips—but it speaks volumes.

A silent vow of protection. Of understanding.

Warmth unfolds in your chest, and you lean into him just a little more. Grip the fabric of his tunic a little tighter. Silently thank him for coming.

Even if you can’t tell him everything, even if your nightmares remain locked away, at least he’s here, fierce and unyielding, ready to chase away whatever haunts you.

You might not be entirely free of fear, but in his arms, with his protective wing folded around you, everything feels just a little more bearable.

Author’s Note: Azriel may be the king of quiet brooding, but she is the queen of secrets she doesn’t even know she’s keeping. I adore writing their soft, chaotic romance, and watching the shadows stir as her past begins to claw its way back. Things are only just beginning. 🖤 Tag List: @songbirdpond @tothestarsandwhateverend @lovely-susie @kksbookstuff @ladycaramelswirl @gamarancianne @writtenbypavani @bubybubsters @moonlitscrolls @valyas-corner @iris-lavender @lreadsstuff @nebarious @azrielssgirl @lamimamiii @fantasydreamwalker @dallynjennasgirl @tenshis-cake @lilah-asteria @sweetsugarcoffee @fall-winter-heart97 @lovely-susie @lreadsstuff @sofi03 @songbirdpond @nico707 @justtryingtosurvive02 @yourlocalcancer @saltedcoffeescotch @thatacotargirl @happypeanutstrawberry @theverseoftheblackpearl @tele86 @highladyofhogwarts @fuckingsimp4azriel @thegoddessofnothingness @lovelyflower7777 @stressed-reader @karespocketboyfriends @lreadsstuff @yourdarkroses-blog @plants-w0rld @oldernotwiser26 @ashduv @alittlelostalittlefound-blog @adventure-awaits13 @thegoddessofnothingness @fuckingsimp4azriel @highladyofhogwarts @stainedpomegranatelips @i-am-infinite @arcticfoxxes @hellohauntedturnstudent @yourallaround-simp

[finnick-odairs-slut]

Tempting Fate| Rhysand/Illiryan!Reader

Word count: 3.7k

Desc: Rhysand saves a Illyrian woman, his mother helps, and they grow close before the events of Under the Mountain occur. Why was he drawn to you?

P1 of a series :)

Rhysand’s mother had lived a hard life, and even one still that was hard. 3 growing boys under her care, and with her husband occupied with ideas of war, this left her alone most of the time during the day. She was on a visit to the war camp to see the three boys, they had just completed the blood rite together, for this her husband accompanied her. She could barely believe how fast Rhysand had grown before her, as well as Cassian and Azriel. The three of them meant the world to her.

“Mother! Father!” Rhysand calls out to her, and before she knows it he’s hugging her.

“We did it! We made it to the top!” He beams, his father is calm, almost proud of him she could tell.

“You did as I expected of you.” He states, looking at the winged man. His mother smiles back at him.

“You did great, Rhys.” She whispers to him, pulling him in for another hug. Her boy had really done it, he had proved himself. She was confident enough in him to know he could take care of himself but now the Illiryan warriors would respect him. As she pulled away she flinched, screaming entering the town square. The group of them began to train their eyes on who was screaming. A winged female being carried by two warriors, followed by a few more. The girl looked older than average for a wing clipping. Something Rhysand’s mother knew all too well, how girls would try to stop their bleeding, mothers being arrested or even killed for hiding a daughter. Her heart ached for the girl, watching her dirty feet kick at the two men securing her, she let out another wail.

“Please! Please don’t do this!” They struggle to bind her to the post that sits in the middle of the town. Public wing clippings were common too. There was something different about this girl….Rhysand’s mother thought quizzically, she watches as her son eyes the girl, recoiling when she screams. He looks up to his mother, tugging on her sleeve like he did when he was a little child.

He had seen many wing clippings in his time here at the camps, each time painful, but there was something about this girl to him. He watched her desperation, the way she still continued to fight and try to escape. He frowned, he had recognized you, you helped your mother in the kitchens that fed the soldiers. He had always wondered how you had your wings still, your mothers clipped. Come to think of it, he hadn't seen your mother in almost a month.

“Mother, can you get father to save this one?”

She almost chokes on her breath, looking over to her husband. She goes to him, ready to give him the most pleading look she’d ever mustered. For once his father listened carefully, his ears perking up at the notion his son would want this girl saved.

You don’t know who told the camp leader. Your mother had been procuring herbs for you to hold off on your first bleeding for years, years she had kept you safe. You were almost 19 now, and Illiryan leaders were growing suspicious of you, nothing you couldn’t handle. You’d have to blame your poor biology, perhaps you would never bleed, you joked with the battle hardened general. He gave you a look of disgust and motions you out of his tent.

Your mother turns up missing after this conversation with the general and you had suspicions. Your anxiety grew with each week, your mother only ever brought you enough og the herb to supply a month. You hadn’t had any in almost a week, and you could feel your cramps. Of course the herb never took away the pain your uterus would feel, it did stop the bleeding.

You were preparing vegetables in the kitchen, new women had been brought in after your mothers disappearance to make the kitchen function. You looked at the women around you, cleaning your workspace.

“I’m feeling rather ill today.” You feign, announcing to the women of your departure. You hurry from the kitchen, lunch would be fine without you today, you had hoped that with the blood rite still going on you would be able to avoid any warriors in camp and make it back to your cottage. You wouldn’t risk flying, that would spread the smell of you all over the camp.

Snow was slowly falling, piling up on the plethora that fell the night before. You hugged your cloak tight to your body, the chill in the air causing your wings to shiver.

“Hey Y/N!” A voice rang behind you, you turned to see a soldier you were friendly with. One that you had known for years. You let out a sigh of relief and he caught up to you, you still tried to keep your distance as he trailed behind you.

“Where are you going? Shouldn’t you be at your post?” You ask, raising an eyebrow to the man, he shrugged. His hair was braided back, he looked at you and then to the wilderness around them.

“Shouldn’t you?” He asks, leaning into you, panic shoots through you, almost as if you could sense what was going to happen next you took off. The snow crunching under your slippers as you weave through the shrubbery of the forest.

“Come back Y/N! Don’t make this harder! It's just a little clip!” He charges after you, and you unfortunately can’t outrun an Illiryan warrior.

“How did you think you were going to hide the fact you were on your first bleed?” He shakes his head, bringing you over his shoulder, you were kicking, biting, clawing, anything. He brings you back to camp, and all you can do is scream as the men around him congratulate him, other men begin to help him and follow behind him as brings you to the square.

You were scared, and tired by the time you had been bound to the post. The warrior was sure to strip your top garments off so they could get a good view of your wings.

“The girl will get 20 lashes for her insolence.” The general steps up to the post, whip in hand.

“Bad biology, aye girl?” He chuckles, reaching into his back pocket he throws your mother’s necklace in front of you. The dull copper clattering onto the aged wood platform. The aged metal coated in little droplets of red. You struggle on your knees, looking at the man before you as he stalks behind you. You scream, and scream.

“Please! Please don’t do this!” You scream out, clawing at the rope that binds you.

“Now folks, watch as Y/N L/N receives a punishment fit for her smuggling and lying! A grown woman who hid and stopped her first bleed!” The general yells out, bringing the whip behind him, in one swift motion your back lights up with the most pain you’d ever felt. Worse than the beating you got as a child from the shopkeeper for stealing. A skin cutting lash rewarded to you just between your wings. You were still reeling in pain when a second blow came down onto you. You cry out yet again, and you feel your brain go hazy. Silence from behind you and the feeling of having sand thrown at you. An oddly wet sensation.

“She’ll actually be going home with my wife.” A man's voice spoke, clouded in darkness. You barely know what's going on, your ears ringing, going between struggling and being still in order to try to calm the burning sensation between your wings.

You were unaware of the attention you had just gotten from a purple eyed devil, as well as the fact his father had liquified the general behind you. You looked at the shocked crowd in front of you, warriors barring their teeth. You pant, trying to keep your eyes closed, you didn’t quite understand what just happened. You feel the ropes behind you loosen, and your hands are freed. A soft woman's hand touching your own as she goes to lift your dress back onto your shoulders. Blood drips down your back and onto your dress.

“Come on sweetheart, I’ve got you.” She speaks so softly, so lovingly, you allow her to help you up, she holds you to her side. You feel a rush of wind and clench your eyes shut, the feeling of falling while you're trying to fall asleep overtakes you.

“This is my house dear, you will stay with us.” She takes you by the hand and shows you around the house.

From that day on Rhysand’s mother took you in. showing you the Court of Dreams, tutoring you and teaching you skills you needed, she even showed you tricks she had learned while flying. She had taken great care in healing your back and you could not have been more grateful. She had given you the chance at life, a happy one at that free from the social bounds of the soldiers on the mountains. She gave you time before she allowed the boys to meet you officially, you preferred babysitting Rhysand’s sister to socializing anyhow.

You were in the kitchen, pinching the dough of the loaf of bread you were trying to perfect. You heard them before you saw them, his mother, like a mother goose, walks in with the men following her. All three of them are handsome, your cheeks flush and you brush your hands on your apron, untying it and setting it on the counter. You approach them, a nervous smile on your lips.

Rhysand could hardly believe his eyes, from the battered girl he asked his mother to save to seeing you in front of him was a complete difference. You were so…ethereal. It was different to him, he couldn’t place it. The call to save you was something he’d never had before. When your eyes met his, he melted, your eyes so full of life. The dress that his mother had made for you hugging you in such a way, the grey fabric tailored to your curves. The way a streak of flour ghosted your cheek. He just wanted to brush it away himself.

He controls himself, with his mother and his brothers by his side.

You were weary of the boys, his mother had told you how Rhysand urged her to save you, but you still couldn’t quite shake the fact they were warriors. Ones that had completed the blood-rite. It terrified you, but you didn’t let it show as you attempted to warmly greet the trio.

“Y/n.” You say with a nod, the three introduce themselves and you somehow get trapped in a conversation with the boys, his mother chiming in here and there as she pleases. The boys seemed to take a liking to you. You guys were quick to get to know one another, and they were quick to accept you. It felt nice to feel accepted by a group of winged men, not to just serve them.

They visited you at least once a week after that, coming to raid the kitchen after one of your evenings baking or even just to sit with you by the fireplace. You appreciated the company of the men when they came, and then slowly over time they came less and less.

“This is the best thing that's ever been in my mouth, unless you want a turn?” The mischievous prince of the Night court licks his lips, and sucks his thumb free of the jam of a pasty you’d made.

You nearly choke on your tea, putting the saucer down as you nudge the raven haired male's shoulder. Your cheeks turn red, the warm feeling creeping up the back of your neck

“Rhys, shut up!” You shook your head at him, looking away. God, you loathed how he flirted with you, or did you really? The idea of Rhys coming home and finding you engrossed in one of your hobbies, perhaps perfecting a new recipe. His hands slipping around your waist, fingers tips digging hungrily into the flesh, his breath hot against your neck, crawling down your shoulders and tickling your wings. You could imagine the words he would whisper ‘Y/N, my sweet dove’, his lips attaching to your neck. You go stiff, clearing your throat as you look back at Rhysand. His sweet features, you smiled at him, but he went cold. He stands up,

“Thank you for lunch Y/N.” He says and then he winnows away. You can’t help but frown as you throw yourself back in frustration. Rhysand was being so short with you lately, you couldn’t tell what you had done wrong. By the time he visits you again, the thought is weighing on you heavily. You guys walk through the court of Dreams, shopping around and just enjoying the warm air.

“Rhys, what do I keep saying wrong? I feel like every time you come to see me, you leave while in such a cold mood.” You frown, turning to look at the man. He acts surprised for a moment, as if he was actually taken aback that you would question his behavior.

“You don’t say a thing wrong, dove.” He responds, hurt that you thought you were doing something wrong. You ice over, he had never– He had never called you that actually, only in the fantasies in your head. Simply you continued on the conversation but the look of a startled woodland creature had been enough to amuse the Illiyan man.

“So… how's the war?” You ask quickly trying to move on, but Rhysand understood more quickly than you did, the way you tugged at his heart. He wanted nothing more than to kiss the woman he had wanted saved all those years ago. He thinks that's when it happened, or perhaps when he watched the way you fit in with everyone in his life, the way you would argue with him and never let him have the last words. There were so many times he could count when he was sure the bond had snapped for him. He knew how you felt but he didn’t want to do anything until he was sure the bond snapped for you too. He promised that to himself.

You understood that Rhysand’s father had split the trio up to lead their own sections in the war, and at one point they stopped coming all together.

One last visit with Azriel really put your last interaction with Rhys into place, you were unaware of the fact that the prince was looking into your mind as you guys spoke. You felt too embarrassed that Rhys hadn’t told you. Daemati were rare, and you now knew you needed to watch what you thought around the dark haired man.

Still if you chose so, when his mother went to the camps to visit when one would stop in. You however couldn’t find it in yourself to go to the cabin with his mother and sister. It terrified you to be so close to the camps. So close to where everything happened so long ago, you were sure some of the men were bound to remember.

This continued for years, you grew better at your hobbies, baking, sewing as instructed by Rhysand’s mother. She truly was such a good person.

There really was no way you could repay the family for saving you and taking you in with no questions asked.

The fateful day still came about though, Rhysands mom and sister went to the cabin as per usual for the weekend, but they never came back.

It wasn’t until Rhysand returned to the mansion, that you learned the events of what had happened. Tamlin’s father had murdered them both, and when Rhysand and his father had found out they went to the Spring court for vengeance. Rhysand’s father falls as well. He had made it back home though. That's all that kept him going, there was no warm mother to greet him anymore, just you.

When he broke the news to you, you had collapsed into him, fitful sobs escaping your lips. He felt different, the way the power radiated off of him. It comforted but also terrified you as you pressed closer into him. You broke into him, curled into him for most of the night as you both took turns crying and remembering. You both tell stories about his family, how silly his little sister was when she was away from his mother. How his mother was always watching them. You guys discuss what is to come next, as Rhysand was now the Highlord of the Night Court. You were just an Illiyan woman, and you didn’t know what he had planned yet, but he wanted you in his inner circle. You spend the night in Rhysand’s room, waking up curled into the satin sheets. You look around slowly, Rhys is sitting at the edge of the bed, he’s looking at you.

“I am going to be gone for a while. Not a very long time, but I have to meet with someone in the depths of Pythian. I will have Morrigan stop by and check on you. I promise, I’m coming home to you. You’re not losing me too. I’m not losing you.” He says as if trying to convince himself, as if he were nervous of what was going to happen next.

Still laying down you revel in the ability to just look at Rhys in the silence, he's been so busy for so many years with his training and the war. Your meetings had grown more random, and you grew to miss the raven haired male. You knew you were going to get lonely in this house, you would have to venture out into the town and actually make friends at some point.

“Thank you, Rhys. I really mean it. For everything you and your family have done for me. I really thought my life was going to be living in that village for the rest of my life, married off to one of the men. I wouldn’t have a choice, I would have to carry his child, and pray to the cauldron that its a boy and not a baby girl. I don’t know why you gave me a chance, I’ll never forget it.” You smile, you sit up and stretch out, you are able to stretch your wings out as well, taking a large breath and letting it out as a sigh. You could find strength in the power that Rhys’ mother left you, the freedom.

“You don’t have to thank me. You deserved more than that. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you as they brought you into the square. I had seen you around before, never got the courage to talk to you, but I knew how sweet you were. I remember the extra portions you would give the boys and I. You are kind and cunning. I watched them try… I watched them try to take what little freedom you had and I couldn’t bear to see you in that pain.” The words flowed through Rhys, unable to stop himself.

“Something in me just snapped.” He gives you a half smile and stands from the bed, he runs his hands through his hair. He was already dressed, definitely in a hurry for sure.

You stand as well, still wearing the dress from yesterday, your hair slightly tousled.

“I really have to go dove, I don’t want to keep these people waiting.” He gives you another sad smile, opening his arms. You step forward into his embrace, his arms holding you strongly. You take a deep inhale, taking in Rhysand’s scent. A gentle salty sea breeze, mixed with a creamy lemon smell. Kind of like a tart? You could get lost in his embrace, it was the first time in many years you weren’t rushing downstairs to try to help with breakfast for everyone.

You find yourself stroking his arm, pulling away you meet his gaze. Your head felt heavy, it felt like you could barely keep your own head from toppling off your neck, the warm feeling spreading across your back. You keep your eyes on Rhysand and he looks at you quizzically. You felt like you were frozen in place by his gaze, and then you felt the tug on your heart. All at once something happened to you, the way you were looking at each other, the way you felt. Every emotion swirled in the air and crashed down on you, and pulled you closer to him.

“Rhys, I think-”

He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead.

“I know.”

He says and the entire planet feels like it freezes. You knew what you felt for him, what he had felt for you. You realized he probably felt it far before you did.

“I’m sorry.” You sigh

“Don’t be.” He grins, cupping your cheek as he leans down to kiss you. The kiss is slow, soft, and passionate, as if you could sense his relief in the way that you connected with him. You both were at peace, it would be hard, but you would have each other. He pulls away first.

“I’ll see you. I owe you a meal the next time we meet.” You marveled at the idea of cooking for him, for him to accept you.

“Of course. I will make it home to you. My precious dove.” He turns and looks at the window and looks down at the city. He pauses for a moment before pulling away, he hugs you and kisses your forehead before he's gone in a blink of an eye. You were always jealous he could do that. You giggled to yourself and crawled back into Rhys bed. The smell of your mate almost setting the room on fire. Your mate. He was your mate, and you were his. It excited you to no end, you weren’t sure of the concepts of mates beforehand, but looking at him you knew everything was going to be okay.

Although, Rhysand wouldn’t come home for another 50 years, and you were completely unaware of that fact as you drifted off to sleep.

[ghosttownheart]

If I could just add all of the citations from UtM to this, I would

feyre's attraction to rhys in early acotar will never not be funny and most pleasing to me

tamlin very obviously doesn't like rhys and feyre is still blushing at rhys having a sexy voice like ooo i'd be sick jfgshnkjfn

FEYRE CONTROL ITT

can't help but to add that he has a "perfect face." mind you her man who hates him is three feet away, being taunted in his own home fdjkshgskjg

she's in pain here...

"slid along my bones, warming my blood" oh, i'm sure

these are only a few examples of many where she's attracted to rhys even when she supposedly hates him. not even including how many times she thinks about being drawn to him and being able to be more honest and herself with him than anyone.

#REAL lovers

[my-acotar-thoughts]

This just annoys me…

Rhysand tells Feyre the story how Rhysand and Tamlin were BOTH involved in the deaths of each other’s families but all she takes out of that is Tamlin is the bad guy…

Rhysand clearly mentions how Tamlin couldn’t go against his father, how Rhysand wanted Tamlin spared. It was a tragedy, truly. But how the hell does she come out of that with only empathy for Rhysand??? Even Rhysand, despite his issues with Tamlin, clearly felt sympathy for Tamlin because he knew that Tamlin had it even worse than Beron’s boys. Yeah, he’s pissed his family is dead, but it seemed pretty clear both Tamlin’s and Rhysand’s fathers were the truly evil ones in that moment and the boys were caught up in their fathers’ feud.

I swear, Feyre was just looking for a reason to excuse her guilt for emotionally cheating and abandoning Spring Court with essentially a break up text.