#Rhysand

[mahalachives]

Part 5: Azriel, Please—There Are Easier Ways to Say You Like Me

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

You were not mated.

Not officially. Not even close.

And yet, somehow, everyone in Velaris had decided that you and Azriel were doomed soulmates bound by fate itself.

You had no idea how this happened.

One moment, you were living a perfectly normal existence.

The next, the entire city had turned into a gossip-infested hellscape in which your love life (or, more accurately, lack of a love life) had become Velaris’s newest favorite spectator sport.

And the first sign that things had spiraled violently out of control?

The bakery.

You had only gone in for a cup of tea and a pastry.

A normal day.

A normal errand.

Nothing suspicious.

No mating-related catastrophes.

And then the old fae woman behind the counter, the same sweet baker who had been selling you lemon tarts since you were a child, looked at you with The Look.

The kind of look only old women were capable of—the one that suggested they knew things.

You froze. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She merely folded her hands, serene, all-knowing. “Oh, nothing, dear. Just wondering if you’ll be ordering extra today. You know—since you’re eating for two now.”

You nearly choked on air. “WHAT?!”

The baker sighed, as if you were being difficult. “Not like that, dear. I mean the bond. Surely you need extra sustenance now that you and Azriel are practically joined at the soul.”

Your eye twitched. “We are not joined at the soul.”

She patted your hand. As if you were a child throwing a tantrum. As if you hadn’t just narrowly escaped a full-body aneurysm.

“Of course not, dear.”

You stared at her. Open-mouthed.

And then, without another word, you turned and stormed out of the shop—without your lemon tart.

That’s how serious this was.

And then, It got worse.

Because when you walked into the market, people started smiling at you.

Not friendly smiles.

No, these were knowing smiles.

And then came the greetings.

“Oh, finally, my lady! Congratulations!”

“Velaris’s very own romance novel come to life!”

“When’s the ceremony? I need time to find a dress!”

You sputtered, heat rising so fast it practically burned. “I—what? What ceremony?!”

The shopkeeper just winked and handed you your change.

And then…

And then.

You saw it.

The massive chalkboard posted outside the café.

Your stomach dropped.

OFFICIAL MATING BOND POOL Mating ceremony is confirmed this month – 5:1 odds The Spymaster admits confesses first – 3:1 odds She runs for another month before giving up – 2:1 odds Cassian or Mor forces them to kiss – EVEN ODDS They somehow deny it for the next century – 100:1 odds (Please, Mother, no)

You made a small, strangled noise.

“Oh, for the love of the Cauldron—” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

And then—as if summoned by your sheer, agonizing suffering—Mor appeared.

“Oh, good,” she said, grinning ear to ear. “You saw the betting pool!”

You snapped your head up, pure betrayal in your eyes. “You did this, didn’t you?”

Mor batted her lashes. “Me? Oh no. This is entirely a community effort.”

Your jaw dropped. “A whole city-wide betting pool is a community effort?!”

She grinned. “You’d be surprised how invested people are in Az’s love life.”

Your face burned. “But there is no love life!”

Mor sighed. “Sweetheart. You blush every time he looks at you.”

You froze. “I do not!”

Mor gave you a look.

You crossed your arms. “I—okay, maybe sometimes, but that’s—irrelevant!”

Mor just smirked. “Uh-huh.”

You turned to flee.

But Mor—predictably evil—hooked her arm around your shoulders, dragging you toward the café.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” she purred, far too delighted. “You’re not escaping this.”

You were going to kill someone.

Preferably Mor.

Maybe Cassian.

Probably the High Lord.

The café was packed—because of course it was.

Because Velaris was full of nosy degenerates with nothing better to do than wager actual money on your nonexistent love life.

The betting pool had doubled in size since you last saw it.

Someone had even added flourishes.

And, Cauldron damn it, someone had drawn little hearts around your name and Azriel’s.

You didn’t know whether to scream or simply lay down and accept death.

“Oh, look,” Mor mused, guiding you toward a table like this wasn’t the worst moment of your life. “Cassian’s added a new bet.”

You should not have looked.

You absolutely should not have looked.

But Mor was a fiend and your curiosity was a disease, so your eyes flicked up to the newest entry on the board:

• Cassian makes an inappropriate joke that forces Azriel to confess—1:2 odds

You turned to Mor, seething. “I hate you.”

Mor only beamed. “Oh, sweetheart, no you don’t. You love me.”

Before you could respond—probably with a crime—Cassian himself came bounding in through the door, clearly pleased about something.

And then you saw him.

Azriel.

Standing in the doorway. Looking as composed as ever.

Your mate.

The subject of Velaris’s worst gossip fever dream.

The male who had somehow, inexplicably, remained completely unaware of the utter hellstorm surrounding him.

He still looked unaware.

Like he had no idea his love life was being scrutinized at a level usually reserved for Royal engagements.

It was maddening.

You stiffened. “Don’t say anything,” you hissed at Mor.

Mor, naturally, ignored you.

“Az!” she called, far too cheerful. “You’re just in time.”

Azriel—blessedly unaware, infuriatingly unreadable—tilted his head in silent question.

Mor gestured at the chalkboard.

Azriel followed her gaze.

You held your breath.

Waited.

And—

He blinked once.

Slowly.

Then turned back to Mor.

“I see Cassian’s gotten worse.”

That was it.

That was his only reaction.

Not horror.

Not confusion.

Just a mild acknowledgment that his best friend had lost what was left of his dignity.

You gawked at him.

“Azriel,” you started, feeling wild. “Did you see the board?”

He nodded. “I saw it.”

You waited.

Surely, surely, he was going to say something.

Surely, he was going to deny it.

To shut this entire thing down.

To put an end to this nightmare.

Instead, he just turned to Cassian and said, calm as ever, “What are my odds?”

You made an ungodly sound.

Cassian grinned. “Depends. You planning on making a move soon?”

Azriel didn’t even blink. “If I say yes, do my odds improve?”

You choked.

Cassian cackled. “Oh, this is my favorite day.”

Mor was in tears.

And you—

You needed to leave.

Immediately.

Before you combusted.

So you whirled on your heel and stormed out of the café.

Without looking back.

Without responding.

Because if you stayed one second longer, you were either going to murder someone or—

Or—

You didn’t know.

But one thing was certain.

Velaris was never going to let this go.

Azriel was known across Prythian for many things—stealth, murder, trauma, a voice like warm velvet sin, and the ability to make people confess state secrets with a single glare.

What he wasn’t known for?

Social skills.

And yet here he was, standing in the doorway of your apartment at eight in the evening, looking like someone had dared him to knock and then bet their wings he wouldn’t.

His shadows twitched like caffeinated bats. His expression was trying very hard to stay unreadable and failing.

“I brought you something,” he said, like this was normal and not the intro to a Hallmark holiday special with knives.

You blinked at him. “You… brought me something?”

He nodded. Slowly. Like he was afraid sudden movements would startle you or the gift. Then—like a magician doing a very underwhelming trick—he reached into his jacket.

And pulled out a bowl.

With water.

And a single, bobbing, totally unbothered goldfish.

"...Is that a fish?" you asked, because what the actual hell else do you say in this situation?

Azriel’s lips twitched. He was trying not to smile, and you hated how much you wanted him to fail.

“Gregory needed a home,” he said solemnly, like this was a wartime adoption and not the fallout of your completely fake emotional support fish lie from three weeks ago.

You stared.

Then stared at the fish.

Then stared at Azriel.

“You got me a fish.”

“You said your beloved fish needed you,” he replied, like he wasn’t casually weaponizing your own lie against you. “I thought you might appreciate having actual evidence to back up your story.”

Azriel—Mister I Have Seven Knives on Me at All Times—brought you a fish. Named Gregory.

Because you invented a fish to dodge a conversation.

And this man took it personally.

You gawked. “I—I don’t know whether to thank you or throttle you.”

His eyes gleamed like the bastard liked that answer. “I’m prepared for either.”

You let out a laugh—a full-blown snort-laugh—and immediately covered your face like the sound had summoned the Cauldron to smite you.

Azriel just smiled.

Not a twitch. Not a sarcastic smirk. An actual, full, tooth-baring, mortal-realm-illegal smile. Like he hadn’t just delivered a fish to your home like it was a bouquet of roses and a threat.

Your knees briefly forgot how to function.

“So,” he said, holding out the bowl. “Will you accept Gregory into your home?”

You took it, blinking down at the world’s most emotionally charged fish. “I guess I don’t have much of a choice. Can’t have him developing attachment issues.”

Azriel’s shadows twirled playfully across your ceiling, which felt rude, like they were silently judging you for not already naming your firstborn after him.

“A true tragedy,” he murmured.

You hesitated, trying not to sound like you were casually asking the Night Court’s deadliest male on a domestic date. “Would you… want to come in? For tea… ”

“I’d like that.”

Oh no. Oh no. He said it like he meant it.

You set Gregory (bless his tiny orange soul) gently on the counter, praying he wouldn't die in the next 24 hours because you were definitely not emotionally stable enough to lose a symbolic fish right now.

Azriel was watching you.

Quiet.

Focused.

Dangerous in the way hot people are when they make direct eye contact.

“What?” you asked, cheeks heating.

“Nothing,” he said. Then—the audacity—he added, “Just thinking Gregory is a lucky fish.”

You nearly combusted.

“Because I’m a devoted fish mom?”

His lips twitched again. “Because he gets to see you every day.”

DEAD. YOU WERE DEAD.

The man brought a fish and now he was flirting like this was the final scene in a fae rom-com. (Working title: “Something Fishy This Way Comes.”)

“Tea?” you squeaked, already boiling in your own emotions.

“Please.”

You busied yourself with the kettle, your back to him, panic-simmering like the water, while Azriel—the lethal, soft-spoken, emotionally unavailable HIMBO of the Night Court—sat at your kitchen counter like this was all normal.

And maybe it was.

Because Gregory was swimming contentedly.

Azriel’s shadows were doing suspiciously cutesy spirals.

And somehow, impossibly, this felt right.

Which meant you were in danger.

Of catching very real feelings.

And possibly, accidentally falling in love.

With a man who used a fish as a flirting strategy.

The bar? In hell.

You? Entirely, deeply doomed.

The next morning, you were awakened by a knock on your door.

Correction: you were violently yanked from your dreams of screaming jellybeans and sexy shadows by someone attempting to break your door down with enthusiasm.

You staggered to your feet, hair looking like you'd survived a hurricane, one sock on, and yanked the door open with the grace of a drunk squirrel.

Lira stood there like she’d just been summoned by the Cauldron itself. Bouncing. Sparkling. Dangerously caffeinated.

"So?" she demanded like a feral news reporter chasing scandal.

You blinked at her. "...So what?"

Her eyes gleamed with the kind of glee that should be illegal in all 7 Courts. "So how was your date with the Shadowsinger?"

You froze like you'd just been hit with another surprise mating bond. "It wasn’t a date."

“Mmm-hmm.” She shoved past you like a tiny tornado and flopped on your couch. “That’s not what I heard.”

Your stomach dropped to your knees. “What did you hear?”

She inspected her nails. “Oh nothing. Just that Azriel brought you a gift, stayed for hours, and left at sunrise with his shadows humming a lullaby. No big deal.”

"He brought me a fish!" you shrieked.

“A fish?” She blinked. “Wait. Like... the imaginary fish you told him about during that wine-fueled rant about emotional support pets?”

“Yes!” you wailed, collapsing next to her. “And he named it Gregory!”

Lira clutched her chest like she’d been shot. “Mother above. That’s—that’s actually adorable.”

“It’s a threat to my dignity.”

“It’s romantic,” she corrected. Then her eyes found the bowl on your counter. “Oh my gods. There it is. That’s Gregory.”

She sprinted to the bowl like it was the Holy Grail. “Hello, Gregory! Welcome to the family, you precious aquatic warlock!”

“He’s not family,” you muttered. “He’s a trap.”

“A trap would be a dead fish. This is courtship,” Lira replied like a fae Jane Austen.

You chucked a pillow at her.

She caught it midair, yeeted it back at you without looking. “How long did he stay?”

You hesitated. “...A while.”

“Define ‘a while.’”

You mumbled, “...Three hours?”

Lira’s eyebrows ascended to the Moon. “Three hours? That’s not a chat. That’s a romantic epic. What did you do, exchange life stories and share trauma-flavored tea?”

“We just talked,” you groaned.

She gasped. “Talked? The spymaster? The male who communicates exclusively in shrugs and shadow vibes? You must’ve unlocked a secret dialogue tree.”

Before you could retaliate with a muffin-based assault, another knock came at your door.

You opened it with a sense of doom.

It was Mor, glowing like a goddess of gossip, holding a basket of muffins and unfiltered chaos.

“Good morning!” she sang, sailing in. “Ooooh, Lira’s already here. Perfect.”

“Why are you both here?” you asked, already done with this timeline.

“For the debrief, obviously,” Mor said. “We brought snacks. Also, I may or may not have enchanted the muffins with mood-detection spells.”

“The what?”

“The debrief,” Lira nodded solemnly. “We need details.”

“It wasn’t a DATE!” you shouted to the heavens.

Mor pulled a tiny piece of paper from her cleavage. “Ahem. ‘Spending private time, giving gifts, emotionally bonding, and speaking in full sentences counts as a date.’ –Cassian’s Official Dating Protocol for Azriel, 2nd Edition.”

You blinked. “Did you just quote a glossary entry?”

“He wrote it for Az,” Mor said cheerfully. “After the last time Az tried to claim holding hands for fifteen minutes was ‘a strategic alliance.’”

You looked between them in horror. “You interrogated him?!”

“Cassian did,” Lira chirped. “Wouldn’t stop following him around making kissy noises until Az threatened to hang him upside down from the House of Wind by his toenails.”

You sank to the floor. “This can’t be happening.”

“Oh, it’s so happening,” Mor cooed. “There’s a betting pool. It’s going great. Rhys had to update the odds after the fish incident.”

“Rhys? THE HIGH LORD?!”

“Well, someone has to manage the board,” Mor said reasonably. “And he does have nice hand writing.”

You curled up in fetal position. “This can’t be happening.”

Mor bit her lip. “Az… may have placed a bet.”

You stared in open-mouthed betrayal. “He what?”

“Cassian fainted,” Lira confirmed. “He bet that you’d be the one to make the first move.”

You made a noise that was half shriek, half goat. “Why would he bet on me!?”

“Because you’ve been gazing at him like he’s the last slice of cake at the Starfall Ball for months,” Lira deadpanned.

You spluttered. “That’s—HE’S—THIS IS TREASON.”

“It’s romance,” Mor said smugly.

You stared at them. “This is a conspiracy.”

“Not against you,” Lira said. “For you. Also, Gregory needs a father figure.”

You threw a muffin at her face.

Mor dodged a flying crumb with fae reflexes, plucking it from the air and popping it in her mouth. "Oh! Before I forget why I actually came here—"

"You mean beyond tormenting me?" you grumbled, still sprawled on the floor in defeat.

"Beyond the primary objective, yes," Mor grinned. She twirled a golden curl around her finger, the gleam in her eyes somehow intensifying. "Rhys is throwing a little get-together tonight at the river house."

"Little?" Lira snorted. "The last 'little' gathering he threw required three days of cleanup and Amren threatened to bottle someone's soul."

"That was only because Cassian tried to prove he could throw knives blindfolded after eight glasses of faerie wine," Mor waved dismissively. "This will be much more... intimate."

Your stomach twisted. "How intimate?"

"Oh, you know," Mor examined her nails with deliberate casualness. "Just the Inner Circle. A few close friends. Nothing special."

"The entire Inner Circle?" you choked out, knowing exactly who that included.

"Yes, of course," Mor said, her smile turning absolutely predatory. "Rhys and Feyre, Cassian, Nesta, Elain, Amren..." She paused for dramatic effect. "And Azriel."

Lira let out a delighted squeal that could have shattered crystal. "Perfect! This is the perfect opportunity for our little fish mom to advance the subplot!"

"It's not a subplot," you protested weakly. "And I can't go. I'm busy. With... fish things."

"Fish things?" Mor raised an eyebrow.

"Gregory has... an appointment. For scales. Scale... polishing."

Lira burst into uncontrollable cackles. "Scale polishing? That's the best you could come up with?"

"You're coming," Mor declared, the cheerful tone containing steel beneath it. "Or we'll tell Az you backed out because you were too nervous to see him again."

Your jaw dropped. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, we absolutely would," Lira nodded enthusiastically. "We'd make it sound tragically romantic too. Maybe add in that you've been writing his name surrounded by little hearts."

"I hate both of you," you groaned, dropping your head into your hands.

"No you don't," Mor said cheerfully. "Be ready by seven. Wear something that makes Az's shadows get flustered. Which reminds me—" She reached into her basket, pulling out a bottle of shimmering liquid. "Special bath oils. They react to emotion. The more flustered you get, the more you'll sparkle."

"I don't want to sparkle!" you protested.

"Everyone wants to sparkle," Lira countered. "Even Gregory wants to sparkle. Don't you, Gregory?" She cooed at the fish.

You were fairly certain the fish gave you a look of betrayal.

"Seven o'clock," Mor reminded, heading for the door. "And don't worry about bringing anything except yourself and all that tension you and Az have been cultivating."

"Like fine wine," Lira added with a chef's kiss.

You slumped further into the floor, wondering if it was too late to fake your own death and move to the mortal lands.

"Oh, and wear sexy heels," Mor called over her shoulder.

As the door closed behind her, you looked hopelessly at Gregory.

"Do you see what I'm dealing with?" you asked the fish.

Gregory bubbled back, somehow looking smug.

The River House was always impressive, but at night, lit by floating magic lights, enchanted candles, and someone’s tragically tasteful faelight disco ball, it was extra. Like "High-Lord-has-too-much-time-on-his-hands" levels of extra.

Rhys was throwing a party.

Officially? To celebrate a new trade deal with the Summer Court.

Unofficially? Because it was Tuesday and he gets twitchy if he hasn’t hosted a soirée in 48 hours.

You hadn’t wanted to come.

Not with the entire Inner Circle there.

Not with him there.

But Lira had shown up at your door like the unholy blend of a personal stylist, therapist, and war general.

"It's just a party," she'd said, holding up a midnight-blue dress like it was a battle standard. "You're allowed to have fun. And by fun, I mean aggressively flirting with Azriel until he melts into a puddle of shadows and repressed feelings."

So now here you were. Clutching your wine glass like a lifeline. Trying to look casual.

Trying not to scan the room for one specific brooding spymaster.

Which meant, of course, you were scanning for him like a bat signal had gone up.

"He's not here yet."

You yelped—yelped—as Rhys appeared beside you, looking like he'd just walked off the cover of Fae GQ: High Lord Edition.

"Who?" you said, voice going an octave too high. Smooth.

Rhys’s violet eyes sparkled. That smug bastard. "My Spymaster. The one you've been staring around the room for like you're trying to summon him with sheer willpower."

You sighed. “Am I that obvious?”

Rhys took a sip of his wine like a man who enjoyed meddling far too much. "Only to the people who’ve been watching the two of you circle each other like emotionally stunted hawks for weeks.”

You groaned. “Not you too.”

"I'm the High Lord," he said, all casual amusement. “It’s literally my job to know everything that happens in my court. Including your highly entertaining romantic crises."

“Including my personal life?”

“Especially when it involves one of my brothers,” he said with all the gravity of someone who once casually told Tamlin to choke.

You tensed. “Is this the part where you warn me not to hurt him?”

“Actually,” he continued, brightening in the way people do when they’re about to say something terrible, “I was going to ask if you’d like to place a bet.”

You blinked. “A bet?”

He gestured vaguely toward a corner where Cassian and Mor were hunched over what could only be described as a tactical map of your situationship.

Strings. Charts. Tiny figurines.

Was that Gregory in mini form?

“The pot’s gotten quite substantial,” Rhys added with a grin. “You could win a week’s worth of pastries, three bottles of wine, and the title of Velaris’s Most Anticipated Mating Bond.”

You choked on your drink. “You’re a menace.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, clearly proud of it.

But then something... shifted.

But as those violet eyes settled on you, something strange happened.

His smile faltered, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with a sudden intensity that made you uncomfortable.

"Is something wrong?" you asked.

The question seemed to pull him from whatever thought had captured him.

"No," he said, his easy smile returning. "Just had the oddest sense of déjà vu."

You laughed nervously. "I have one of those faces. Very forgettable."

"I wouldn't say that," he replied, his tone light once more, but there was something in his eyes—a shadow of memory, perhaps—that hadn't been there before.

You felt a gentle brush against your mind—the lightest touch, almost unconscious on his part.

Your mental shields slammed into place instinctively, hard and fast.

If Rhys noticed your response, he gave no indication.

His attention had already shifted to something over your shoulder, his expression returning to its usual mask of lazy amusement.

Behind his eyes, however, something entirely different was happening.

In the fortress under the mountain, centuries earlier, a young Rhysand walked the shadowed corridors, seeking escape from his father's latest cruel display of power. The visiting dignitaries had looked sickened, but none had dared speak against the High Lord of the Night Court.

None but one woman—tall and proud, with features so similar to your own.

"You go too far," she had said, her voice low but steady. "This is not what we agreed upon."

His father's laugh had been cold. "Plans change. Priorities shift."

"Not like this. Never like this."

The argument had escalated, voices rising, power crackling in the air. Rhysand had slipped away, unwilling to witness yet another example of his father's brutality.

In the quiet of a small courtyard, he'd found her—a little girl, perhaps five or six, sitting on a stone bench beneath a twisted tree that somehow managed to bloom even in the constant darkness.

She was tiny, even for her age, with round cheeks and wide, curious eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. Her hair had been pulled into two uneven braids, with wisps escaping in every direction as if she'd been running through the wind. A smudge of something that might have been chocolate decorated one cheek, and her small feet, dangling well above the ground, swung back and forth in an endless rhythm.

She'd looked up as he approached, unafraid.

"Hello," he'd said cautiously, unsure why a child would be here, in this place of darkness and cruelty.

She'd studied him with bright, intelligent eyes. Then, to his surprise, she'd smiled—a gap-toothed grin that transformed her solemn little face. "Hello, brother."

He'd blinked, startled by the term. "I'm not your brother. I already have a sister, and she's taller than you."

The little girl hadn't been deterred in the slightest. She'd bounced slightly on the bench, her small hands clasped together in excitement. "I'll be the baby sister then!" she'd declared with absolute conviction, as if the matter were perfectly settled.

Something in his chest had eased at her words—a tightness he hadn't realized was there. This strange, fearless child with her matter-of-fact way of claiming him as family.

"Would you like to see the stars?" he'd asked impulsively.

Her face had lit up with such pure wonder that it had made his heart ache. "Can we? Really-really? Mother says they're hidden here."

"They are," he'd confirmed, unable to stop his own smile. "But I know a place."

He'd led her to a high balcony, one of the few spots where the mountain's perpetual darkness gave way to open sky. There, together, they'd watched the stars emerge, one by one.

"They're dancing," she'd whispered, wonder in her voice as she clutched at his hand with tiny fingers. "Dancing just for us!"

And for a moment—a brief, precious moment—he'd seen them through her eyes. Not as cold, distant points of light, but as living things, joyful and free.

The moment had been shattered by her mother's arrival. She had swept onto the balcony, her face streaked with tears, her eyes wild with some emotion he couldn't name. Without a word, she'd grabbed the child's arm, jerking her away from Rhysand with such force that the little girl had cried out.

"Owie!" The child's face had crumpled in confusion and pain as she was dragged from the balcony. Her other hand had reached back toward Rhysand, as if seeking his protection or perhaps just wanting to hold on to their moment together.

"Stay away from her," the woman had hissed, though the fear in her eyes suggested the words weren't meant as an insult, but as a warning—for him or for them, he couldn't tell.

The little girl had looked back over her mother's shoulder, confusion and hurt written across her small face. Something in her eyes—a wisdom beyond her years—had seemed to understand more than a child should.

He never saw them again after that night. They left suddenly, without farewell. When he'd asked about them, his father's rage had been terrible to behold.

"They are no longer your concern," his father had snarled. "That woman and her bastard child are nothing to us. Forget them."

And over the centuries, he had. Until now.

Author’s Note:

Look. I don’t know how this turned into a romantic espionage comedy where Azriel weaponizes a goldfish, Rhys runs an underground gossip syndicate, and Gregory the fish is Velaris’s emotional support mascot, but here we are. I don’t make the rules. I just write the chaos.

Thanks for reading. Please hug your fish. Or your emotionally constipated Illyrian. Preferably both. 🐟

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[romanticatheartt]

Nyx💙 Feyre💖 Rhysand💜

[jacksdreams]

“You’re a High Lord—don’t you have better things to do?”

“Of course. But none as enjoyable as seeing you squirm.”

Artist

[crimsonfrostx]

A Road Well Traveled (Azriel x Reader)

Part 3

Word Count: 2028 Warnings: Anger, mild language Part 1 Part 2

Cassian's grin falters, his expression softening at your apology. He rubs a hand over his face, the excitement now replaced with a hint of remorse. "Oh, come on," he groans, walking over to you. "Don't do the guilty act. You know it doesn't suit you." He slowly pulls you in for a hug, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. You wrap your arms around him tightly, hoping they couldn't see how close to breaking you really were. The thickness in the room dissipated slowly, but never fully. "You really are a pain in my ass, you know that?" he mutters, resting his chin on the top of your head.

Amren hums, catching your attention as you release Cassian and turn towards the strange, small female. "Amren. You seem...different," you say carefully, unsure how to explain it. Amren raises an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth tilting into a slight smirk. "Different? Is that your way of saying I've lost my touch, girl?" she asks, her voice smooth and slightly mocking.

You grin slowly. "I would never," you say earnestly.

Amren's smirk widens into a rare smile that reaches her eyes. "I always knew I liked you for a reason," she replies, her gaze flickering over your form. "You are different, as well, are you not?" she observes, her eyes narrowing. 

You tense, your own eyes narrowing. "That's enough, Amren," you say, voice firm. Fear had never ruled over your relationship with Amren, and it wouldn't start now.

Amren holds your gaze for a moment before nodding slightly, recognizing the firmness in your voice. She had a strange relationship with you, one built upon harsh words and respect, but not friendship. "Very well. But remember, I see through your facade," she replies softly, her silver eyes glinting with a knowing look.

You purposely ignored Azriel’s searching gaze, stepping away from the table. You glanced towards the last two strangers you hadn't yet greeted. "You must be Nesta," you eye the fierce looking female seated next to Cassian. Then, you meet soft doe eyes across the table. "Making you, Elain."

Nesta’s sharp, grey-blue eyes narrowed as they fixed upon you, her gaze assessing you carefully. She offers a slight incline of her head, a sign of acknowledgment, but her expression remains guarded. Elain, on the other hand, offers you a gentle smile, her warm, doe-like eyes filled with curiosity. "Yes, I'm Elain," she replies softly, her voice carrying a soft, velveteen undertone.

You open your mouth to say something when Rhysand tilts his head. "Incoming," he warns, his voice warm with affection. A young boy with small bat-like wings comes sprinting in, arms spread wide and barreling into his father. Your expression melts at the youngest and newest addition to the family.

The boy, Nyx, hugs his father’s legs, his wings spread wide and batting at the air as he giggles uncontrollably. Rhysand effortlessly lifts the young boy up into his arms, chuckling warmly as Nyx clings to him. Cassian snorts a laugh, a fond smile on his face as he watches the father and son. "That boy is going to be a nightmare, just you watch," he mutters.

You take small steps forward, eyes latched onto the boy who looked just like Rhysand. "I have missed too much," you murmur softly. You had always promised to stick by your family, had late night discussions with Mor about how you would spoil any child born to this chaotic group. 

Rhysand turns towards you, his gaze softening as he takes in your expression. "You're here now," he replies, a faint hint of sadness in his eyes, knowing how much you missed their lives after leaving. Nyx, noticing you for the first time, turns his head, his wide blue eyes studying your face curiously. "Who 'at?" he asks in a small voice, pointing a chubby finger at you.

Rhysand chuckles softly, a loving smile on his face as he turns Nyx to face you, holding him up in the air in front of you. "This is an old friend, Nyx. She went away for a while but has finally come home." Nyx stares at you with wide eyes, his curiosity piqued, then looks back at his father. "But why?" he asks, his small wings flapping gently as he tries to get a better look at you. You can feel your heart break slowly at the little boy's question.

You can feel everyone’s eyes back on you, and you think you’d run out the front door if it didn’t look like Azriel would catch you within the first 30 seconds. Rhysand’s expression softens, sensing your pain. He strokes Nyx's soft black hair, trying to figure out how to answer his son’s question. “People have to go away sometimes, buddy," he starts gently, tilting Nyx's face up towards him. "Sometimes they need some space or to find new adventures." 

Rhysand's gaze flicks over to you, his expression shifting to a mixture of understanding and sadness. "But they always come back eventually," he continues, his tone hopeful. Nyx stares at Rhysand for a moment, his youthful innocence struggling to comprehend the concept. He turns his head back to you, his gaze fixated on your face. "You back now," he says, his small wings flapping again.

You nod slowly, a sad smile gracing your face. "I am," you confirm softly, stepping close and rustling his black hair. Nyx's tiny wings twitch with excitement as you brush your fingers through his hair, a wide smile spreading across his face. "Stay again?" he asks innocently, reaching a small hand out to pat your cheek.

You feel your chest ache painfully, and you nod quickly, eyes glancing up to Rhysand before looking around at the important people in your life, and the fresh additions. “I’m not going anywhere,” you state, eyes pausing on Azriel’s hazel orbs.

Nyx's face lights up with joy at your acceptance, his small hand still resting on your cheek. "Yay!" he squeals, flapping his wings even more vigorously. Rhysand chuckles, giving you a small nod in acknowledgement of your declaration. “You always have a home here,” he says, voice tinged with warmth and understanding. 

You pull away, breathing in harshly like you’ve been deprived of oxygen. You retreat completely and round the table, stepping back towards Azriel and the entrance. "I brought wine! I don't know if it's up to your standards, but I know it's strong!"

You could feel their eyes on your back as you rushed into the next room and towards your bag by the front door. Pausing, you debate on leaving now, before you have the chance to panic again and mess everything up. A shadow twirls a piece of your hair and you glance back to the entrance of the dining room to find Azriel watching you carefully, his eyes filled with concern. Hand raised in a wave, you turn back and breathe slowly through your nose and open your bag, grabbing the bottle of wine you had packed on a whim. You couldn’t abandon them after declaring that you wouldn’t leave again.

You turn and walk back to the dining room, passing an expressionless Azriel who’s eyes never once left you. Raising the bottle in one hand, you wiggle it a little. “I return bearing gifts!” You declare loudly, proud of yourself for not shaking like a leaf.

Cassian lets out a low whistle, his gaze flickering between you and the bottle you’re holding. "You never fail to show up unannounced and bearing gifts," he says, his tone lighthearted. Feyre chuckles softly, eyeing the bottle curiously. "What’d you bring?" she asks curiously, her gaze flicking to Rhysand, who seems to be carefully observing you and taking his seat with Nyx on his lap.

"I picked it up at the local inn on the main continent a while ago. The locals wouldn't stop singing its praises so I bought a couple of bottles. It's like...strawberries. Fancy strawberries. "

Cassian's interest peaks at your words, his eyes widening. "Strawberries?" he repeats, an intrigued grin spreading on his face. "You got my attention," he says, his gaze fixed on the bottle. "I didn’t think I’d ever see the day where you brought a quality drink."

You wrinkle your nose. "I pick good drinks," you argued, passing the bottle to Mor to do the honors of pouring it around. Mor takes the bottle, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "I swear to the Mother, if this tastes like piss I’m going to laugh in your face," she mutters, pouring the drink into each wine glass presented.

You shake your head with a grumble, dragging Azriel to the table and taking a seat by Elain and Azriel on your other side. Azriel allows you to drag him to the table, his expression neutral but his gaze never leaving you.

Mor hands the glasses to the different members of the table, her gaze flickering to you with amusement before taking a small sip of the drink. "Not as piss worthy as I anticipated," she muses, taking another few sips. Hums of agreement sound from around the table, you take a sip and you sigh at the sweetness coating your tongue. “I told you I bring good drinks,” you grin, feeling smug at the line of faces that are clearly pleased.

Everyone relaxes into comfortable silence for a moment as they all begin to enjoy the drink. Cassian glances over at you from across the table, a small frown tugging at his lips. He can’t help but notice the tension still in your shoulders, despite the light conversation around the table. "You still look like you're ready to jump ship at any given moment," he comments, his tone lighthearted but his gaze betraying concern.

Your gaze jumps to his, and you force your expression to remain neutral. "I don't know what you mean, Cass." Everyone can hear the warning tone beneath it, eyes flitting between the two. 

He raises an eyebrow at your response, his gaze narrowing. "Oh, really?" he huffs, scoffing at your response. "You look like the wrong thing said will get the whole table stabbed," he says bluntly, but his gaze remains concerned.

Your eyes darken, feeling Azriel’s quiet presence beside you, shadows twisting around your hands. "Drop it, Cassian." Your voice firm, eyes darkening. Nyx holds onto Feyre with wide eyes, having been passed to his mother as Rhysand’s gaze sharpens at the scene before him.

Cassian pauses at your sharp tone, his eyes narrowing in frustration. He can see the warning in your eyes, the silent request to drop the conversation, but his worry gets the better of him. "You can't just show up after disappearing for 76 years and expect us not to have questions," he says, his tone growing impatient. You can’t blame him, knowing that you would have to come clean sooner or later. But his tone is getting to you, that dark power flaring to life within your chest and you feel like you’re about to snap, the air around you thickening.

"Cass," Azriel warns, feeling you coil tighter beside him. Your eyes flash, the room dimming. "I expect a single, peaceful evening with my family again." You growl slowly.

Cassian bristles, his hands clenching at the table. "And I expect some damn answers!" he growls back, not entirely his own temper, flaring. You stand slowly, your body tensing for a fight. An unnatural fear creeps around the room and Nyx whimpers. 

Rhysand's expression darkens as he feels the tension in the room thicken. His gaze flickers to your poised form, ready for a fight, and he intervenes quickly. "Cassian." His voice is low as he warns his friend to stand down, but his tone leaves no room for argument. Cassian looks over at his High Lord, his frustration replaced by a reluctant obedience. He lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping as he relents.

You don't feel the release of tension, Azriel carefully wrapping a shadow around your shoulders. You turn your piercing eyes to him, and he guides you with a hand on your back, wordlessly leading you away from the table and towards the balcony.

[highlord-rizzand]

All you need to know about Rhys.

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - II Word Count: 6.4k A/N: Insert dramatic music here. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

The letter arrived before you could properly get Jurian up to speed—before he could even begin to wrap his head around the fact that Fae walked these halls freely, laughing and talking with the very humans they had once been at war with.

"You’ve been busy, I’ll give you that," Jurian muttered under his breath that morning, seated beside you at the long dining table. His eyes flickered over the gathered council, studying them like a battlefield he had yet to understand.

The human and Fae councils sat side by side, conversing easily. The only person missing was Vassa.

Meanwhile, Estella was perched happily in the lap of Eosara, the Peregryn Fae who represented the Dawn Court. Her tropical colored wings were tucked neatly against her back, eyes bright as she murmured something soft to the little girl curled against her.

A trusted guide to flight. A mentor. One who had fought in the war and had chosen to stay.

She was young, but stubborn, unyielding in her will. A trait she shared with Estella, which made their friendship even more surprising.

"It was a long process," you murmured, lifting your cup to your lips. "Please don’t fuck it up."

Jurian let out a soft, disbelieving huff, but whatever snide remark he had prepared was cut short as the doors swung open and a courier entered the room, balancing a golden tray stacked with letters.

You barely glanced at the first three—more complaints from lords and ladies whining to the crown. Those, you swiftly passed to Vassa’s advisors.

Another letter, from a different kingdom, seethed at Scythia for harboring Fae. That one, you crumpled up without a second thought.

But the last one—that made your breath catch. 

The wax seal pressed into the envelope. A rising dawn. Your fingers tightened around the letter, the rest of the room fading into the background.

This wasn’t addressed to Vassa. It wasn’t addressed to the mortal queen or anyone in the human court.

It was addressed to you. To the Lady of the Night. Your full name and title. The ink burned into the parchment like a brand. Jurian must have noticed the shift in your demeanor because his voice lowered, words laced with curiosity. "What is it?"

You said nothing.

Just stared at the dawn wax seal. 

"Eosara."

The name left your lips before you could even think, the sound sharper than you intended.

The Peregryn looked up from where she had been gently braiding a loose strand of Estella’s hair, her eyes blinking at you curiously.

"Yes, M’lady?"

You hesitated for only a second before asking, "Did you see your brother? At the battle?"

Her face lit up instantly, her wings twitching in excitement.

"Yes!" she beamed, nearly bouncing in her seat. "He was shocked to see that I was alive and well—we both cried. Oh! And the stars you read were right! High Lord Thesan and him are an official thing! Only took them how many years."

A Fae from the Summer Court let out a soft scoff, muttering, "About damn time."

Eosara ignored him entirely, too swept up in her own story.

"And even the High Lord hugged me," she continued, "though it’s a little weird to think that we’ll be family one day, you know?"

Your fingers flexed around the letter, the parchment rough beneath your fingertips.

"Eosara," you said again, voice calmer now, more stable. "Did you… mention anything? To them?"

She blinked, tilting her head. "Mention anything?"

"About the others. About who survived."

The Peregryn’s brow furrowed, and for the first time, some of her excitement dampened. "I—" she hesitated, shifting slightly. "I didn’t say much. I mean, I told them I had been safe all these years, that I had found shelter, that I had found—"

She stopped, eyes flickering with uncertainty.

And you knew.

The way her wings tucked in tighter, the way her fingers clenched the hem of Estella’s sleeve.

You knew.

Her throat bobbed. "I… might have let it slip. Not about everyone—just that I wasn’t alone. That I wasn’t the only one to make it out."

Jurian let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. "Oh, this just keeps getting better."

"Did you say my name?"

The Peregryn’s wings twitched, her gaze dropping. "No," she said quickly. "I mean—no, not exactly. But I think—Lord Thesan might have guessed."

Your stomach twisted. Thesan was not a fool. He was one of the most observant High Lords in Prythian.. If she had so much as hinted—

If she had spoken of you in any way—

Then he knew. And that meant this letter…

You looked down at the wax seal once more. "Shit," you muttered under your breath, your fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before breaking the seal. The parchment unfolding smoothly:

Lady of the Night,

If what I have been led to believe is true, then I am glad that you are alive, and I sincerely hope you are well. It has been many years, and though I understand why you have remained away, I will not pretend that your absence has not been felt.

I cannot blame you for not returning, not after… certain circumstances within your court. But my friend, know that you are always welcome in Dawn, should you ever wish it. You, and all those who fled with you. I extend this offer without expectation or condition—merely as a standing truth. Especially after everything you have done for Eosara, and by extension, for my court.

I was admittedly surprised when she declined the invitation to return home, as I was by every Fae who stood with the mortal queen and chose to follow her back instead of seeking refuge with their former courts. Not one dared to speak of how they lived, how they survived, even when we were told the Weaver had eaten her fill that night.

I will not lie to you—Helion suspects. He would not voice it, not for Rhysand’s sake nor for the High Lady’s, but he requested an audience with me regarding the matter. It is both a hope and a fear for him, and I suspect he dreads the answer as much as he longs for it.

Court politics aside, I hope you might grant me an audience—not just for the sake of Prythian, but because I send this letter in good faith. There is much we could discuss, including the possibility of establishing ties with the human territory you have deemed worthy enough to protect.

And, if nothing else, my captain would be overjoyed to see his baby sister again. He has not stopped worrying for her since the end of the war, and I suspect no order I give will ease his mind until he hears it from her own lips.

I ask that you allow Eosara to deliver your response and grant her permission to explain what happened. Whatever your answer may be, I will respect it.

With sincerity,ThesanHigh Lord of the Dawn Court

The words blurred for a moment as you read them over again. Once. Twice. 

Thesan’s letter was carefully worded, diplomatic, but you knew the truth beneath his polite phrasing. A slow breath slipped past your lips as you set the letter down beside your plate, fingers pressing into the parchment as if it might run away.

"Well?" Jurian drawled, breaking the silence. "Anything scandalous? Or should I be disappointed?"

You huffed a quiet laugh, leaning back into your chair. “I think I need a drink.”

Jurian’s brows flicked up.

“Something strong enough to knock me on my ass for a few days,” you clarified, rubbing your fingers against your temples.

The rest of the room buzzed with chatter, the hum of conversation a distant, unimportant thing. You could have tossed the letter into the fire right then and there—no one would be the wiser. Let the flames consume it, let the ashes scatter into nothingness, as if Thesan had never written it at all.

But Scythia was a land of trade, a land that had flourished on the backs of merchants and contracts, on the careful threading of alliances. A trade agreement with the Dawn Court would introduce new goods, new wealth, new influence.

And if war broke out between the human queens—if their fragile alliances shattered, if blood once again stained these lands—then having a court’s backing could be instrumental in ensuring Scythia’s survival. More than survival. Expansion.

The thought curled through your mind, enticing, logical, a strategy as old as time. But it was cut short as quickly as it rose.

No.

Scythia had been content as a small kingdom, one that did not hunger for more, one that did not seek to stretch its grasp beyond what it could hold. It was an option you had proposed time and time again, a vision of stability, of safety. And time and time again, Vassa had rejected it—just as her mother had before her.

Still, the thought itched at the edges of your mind. A court’s backing. A court’s wealth. A court’s protection.

You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, then said—loudly—“How would Scythia feel about hosting a High Lord in our grasp?”

The room went silent. Conversation cut off mid-sentence. Several pairs of eyes turned to you, brows raising, spines straightening. Some in curiosity, some in suspicion.

Slowly, you lifted the letter, letting the parchment catch the daylight. “The Dawn Court requests an audience,” you announced, voice carrying through the hall. “And I think we can time this with Vassa being a part of it.”

“Court, court!” Estella chirped, her illyrian wings popping out in excitement. 

The room unraveled all at once. Voices rose, tangling over one another—arguments, ideas, concerns. Someone banged a fist against the table, another sighed heavily, already weary of whatever this would bring.

“What does he want?” someone demanded.

“Can we afford to host a High Lord? What would be expected of us?” another countered.

“If we deny him, what message does that send?”

“If we accept, do we risk becoming entangled in Fae politics?”

“We already are,” you muttered, but no one heard you over the din. 

By mid-noon, the letter of response was finished. The room waited anxiously as you read it aloud,

High Lord Thesan,

It has been a long time, and though I hesitate to confirm your belief, I find myself unable to ignore it. If what you suspect is true, then I am glad that it is you who has discovered it.

I had expected some resentment from you—for leaving you all beneath the Bitch Queen’s thumb, for not returning to Prythian even after her reign ended. I will not lie and say I do not still wake in the dead of night, expecting to find myself trapped Under the Mountain once more.

I am sorry that I could not rescue you as well. But know this—those who left with me are alive. They are thriving. They are living as they should, free from the shadows that once loomed over us.

Perhaps one day, I will take you up on your offer—to settle in the Dawn Court, to walk its halls once more. I have missed your palace, our talks. Next time we meet, perhaps I will read the stars for you again. As for my home, I do not wish to cause more trouble than my departure already has. If he is happy, then I will ask for nothing more.

For my High Lord of Night.

For my once-husband.

I ask only that you tell no one. Not for their sake, but for mine. This entire situation has left me on edge, and I know you will understand why.

On the matter of diplomacy, I extend an invitation—you and yours are welcome within the walls of Scythia. I urge you to winnow if you can—it is quite the journey across the sea, and I doubt you would find it pleasant. But know this: you will be stepping into a human kingdom, one that offered sanctuary when no one else dared.

These are a people who took us in when we had nowhere else to go, who shielded us. They are to be treated with respect—with honor. I would find great insult should any of yours disregard them.

As for what happened all those years ago…

It is not a story for Eosara to tell.

It is one you must hear from me. I leave her in your care so that she may guide you to our refuge, so that she may show you the life we have built here.

I look forward to seeing an old friend again.

Yours,

Do I even call myself the Lady of the Night anymore? Perhaps, Starseer then?

As simply as that, the letter was sealed, handed off to Eosara, and within moments, she had been winnowed back to her birthlands, the place she had once called home. From there, she would fly the rest of the way.

Two weeks.

That was the date you had provided.

Hopefully, it would be enough time to get this city into shape—to prepare, to fortify, to anticipate what it would mean to welcome a High Lord Fae into a human kingdom.

And yet—

That was also the night the dreams changed.

They had started a few months ago, and always the same. The grassy field stretching wide before you, the manor behind you, its presence looming even when you did not turn to look at it. Human lands. You were certain of that much. The air smelled of earth and green things, of summer turning to autumn. You always sat at the same small table, drinking your tea, alone.

And yet, you had never been alone. Not truly.

There had always been a presence within that manor—silent, hidden, watching. You had felt it ever since the wall had fallen, since that barrier between humans and Fae had shattered. The very day this dream had begun its relentless cycle.

That presence had never been warm, never comforting. It was a sliver of a blaze, distant yet unbending. Hardly ever the night sky anymore—never the stars.

Dreams were odd things, so similar to reality, yet so... wrong.

Tonight, there were two chairs.

You had assumed, if someone came, it would be someone you knew. A ghost of your past, a specter of memory made flesh.

But the Fae woman who stopped several feet from the manor entrance was no one you knew.

A queen, perhaps?

Devastatingly beautiful, without a doubt. But not in just the way of the Fae. Not in the effortless, gilded beauty of their kind. No, this was something sharper, something carved out of wrath and resilience. Those piercing blue-gray eyes held far more emotion than a Fae should allow. Anger was its shining center, but beneath it—something deeper, something buried.

You held her gaze for a long moment before tilting your head and gesturing to the empty seat.

"There is no point in standing there looking like I've done you wrong," you joked, leaning back.

A heartbeat of silence.

Then—her voice, flat and edged like a blade casually dragged across stone.

"Aren't you supposed to be with the Mother? Or whatever nonsense afterlife Fae believe in?"

No fear. No reverence.

Just disdain, as if she found your very existence mildly inconvenient at best, utterly irrelevant at worst.

You glanced up at the sky, unconcerned, and shrugged. "Suppose she didn’t want me."

The woman huffed, arms crossing over her chest, her weight shifting in a way that made her irritation obvious. “So, you’ve come to plague my dreams like your and my sister’s court don’t do that enough?”

You blinked.

Your court? Her sister’s court?

There was no missing the venom in her tone, the way the words curled with something bitter and long-standing, something older than whatever had drawn her here tonight.

Who the hell was she?

And why did she speak as if she already knew you?

"You assume I have control over this," you said, studying her. "I assure you, I don’t make a habit of haunting strangers."

"Strangers," she echoed, her lips twisting slightly. 

A test. A taunt.

You didn’t rise to it. Instead, you gestured toward the empty chair again. "If I’m already in your dream, you might as well sit. Unless you’d rather stand there glaring at me the entire time you sleep."

She held your gaze, unflinching. Stoic.

Then, with a sigh—one that sounded less like surrender and more like exhaustion—she moved.

Slow. Careful. As a predator on the hunt.

She pulled out the chair opposite you and sat—not in a way that suggested comfort, but rather control. Back straight, arms folding over her chest as if daring you to think for a second she had relaxed.

"You’re awfully calm for a ghost who doesn’t know where they are," she mused.

"You’re awfully defensive for someone who acts like they don’t care," you countered.

Something flickered in her expression. Surprise, irritation—it was hard to tell.

"You don’t speak like them," she said at last.

"Them?"

Her mouth pressed into a thin line, as if she had already said too much.

You studied her—the steel-cut posture, the restrained fury beneath her skin, the way she spoke of Fae courts as if they had disappointed her in ways only someone intimately familiar with them could understand.

Your lips parted. "Well, I’m—"

"I know who you are."

The words landed like a sentence, final and irrefutable.

You frowned slightly. "Then I am at a disadvantage here, Miss...?"

A long, tense silence.

It took a long minute to realize that last name, why it had such an impact that you practically yanked yourself out of that dream.

"Nesta. Nesta Archeron."

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

“Why do you look like Doomsday is around the corner?” Jurian snorted, breaking the silence.

From her place beside him, Estella peeked over his armrest, her violet eyes curious as she studied you. She’d already been awake—waiting when you startled up. You hadn’t even opened your eyes before you'd felt her there, hovering quietly beside the bed like a little ghost.

It was an odd habit she’d developed lately—if she woke before you, she’d sit and watch, as if waiting for the precise moment your breathing shifted. Never spoke. Never touched. Just... watched.

You weren’t sure if it was endearing or unsettling.

You exhaled heavily, rubbing your temples before muttering, “I fear that I’ve started haunting the Kingslayer’s dreams.”

Then, before either of them could pry, you summoned a bottle of Fae wine.

It was early, but after that, a drink was already needed.

“What? You can do that?” 

“No.” Dream-hopping had never been a power you possessed. No, this had to be something else. Something not of your own making.

The Mother.

You pulled the cork from the bottle with a pop and took a long sip before saying, “And do you really think I’d choose her dream to haunt of all people? You’d be first on my list.”

Jurian scowled. “Please don’t. Seeing you every day has already reminded me why we were always two seconds from stabbing each other during the war.”

You smirked over the rim of your glass. “Then maybe I’ll start showing up in your dreams just to make sure you don’t forget.”

Before he could retort, a soft voice cut through the conversation.

“Sad?”

You blinked, turning toward Estella. She had climbed onto Jurian’s chair, her small hands gripping the edge of the armrest as she peered at you with a serious expression.

"I'm not sad," you clarified, brows knitting slightly.

Estella made a face, like you were missing something obvious. Then she sighed. Actually sighed, like a miniature adult disappointed in your inability to keep up.

"Not you, Mama," she said, matter-of-fact, before promptly deciding the conversation was beneath her.

With all the flair of someone who knew exactly how dramatic she was being, Estella hopped off the chair and disappeared under the table.

Jurian raised a brow.

You exhaled, “I have no idea. She’s on a high horse today.”

He gave a dry hum of agreement.

For as young as she was, Estella already had every telltale sign of her father’s personality—observant, amused by things going wrong, and entirely too good at making you feel like you were the ridiculous one in the room.

Gods help you when she was older.

The table moved on—several conversations sparking up around you, clinking dishes and low laughter weaving into the lazy rhythm of the morning. You had just started to relax, letting the dream slip from your mind, when a small finger poked your thigh.

You glanced down.

Estella stood beside you and in that same calm, certain voice she’d used before, she murmured—

“Kingslayer. Seer. Cursebreaker.”

You stilled.

Her gaze didn’t waver.

You simply reached out and patted her head.

Because you didn’t know what else to do.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

It had been nearly a week before the Kingslayer returned to your dreams.

She had not appeared again in that field—not a flicker, not a whisper. For nights, it had been just you at the small table, in the same quiet meadow, with the manor looming at your back.

But tonight—

Tonight, as you drifted into sleep, she was already there.

Sitting.

Waiting.

Nesta Archeron.

Neither of you said anything as you took your usual seat.

No words. No glares. No accusations. Just… presence.

And that’s how the next three nights went.

No dreams but this one. No visitors but her.

She said nothing. You said nothing. But the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it became useful. Time suspended outside of politics, outside of reality—a still place where thoughts could unfurl freely.

These dreams, oddly enough, had become productive.

You used the stillness to think—to plan. Thesan’s impending arrival weighed heavily on everyone, and there had been more than a few hiccups in the preparations.

Vassa had been debriefed the night the letter arrived, and as expected, she’d had more than a few opinions to share. She wasn’t against the idea of making Scythia the largest trading outpost in the human realms—not if an alliance with Dawn could guarantee it.

But she had crushed any suggestion of invading the sister lands before it could take root.

“We trade. We expand. We do not conquer,” she had said, voice firm, eyes hard.

It had all come to a head during one of your late meetings when Jurian had said something that shocked both of you.

“Your dear Starseer is right,” he said, casually swirling a glass of wine like he wasn’t dropping a verbal match into dry grass. “If the other queens were willing to toss you aside that simply, they’ll be willing to wage war with you, too. Take your wins the moment they show weakness.”

You remembered how still Vassa went.

How the room seemed to inhale, waiting.

And then—

She kicked both of you out.

Literally.

You and Jurian had barely cleared the threshold of her war room before the door slammed shut behind you, lock clicking into place.

“Do you—”

The voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You turned slightly.

Nesta wasn’t looking at you. She sat rigid in her chair, hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white from the effort. Not trembling. Not weak. Just… contained. Controlled.

“Do you regret what you’ve done?”

The question came out too quickly to be soft, but too quiet to be a challenge.

A blade, held point-down.

You let it hang between you for a long moment.

“I don’t know what you’ve suffered,” you said finally. “And I don’t know what you go through now.”

Her eyes flicked toward you—the faintest movement, but there.

“If you’re asking for your sake,” you continued, “and hoping my answer might somehow condemn us both, I’ll spare you the effort.”

You met her gaze then. 

“No. I don’t regret what I’ve done. Not who I’ve hurt. Not who I’ve killed. Not the ones I made suffer.”

The words slipped out like truth carved into stone. Not cruel. Not boastful.

Just fact.

“I do not know you,” she said. “And yet why is it you—who is dead—who haunts me?”

Her hands were no longer in her lap. One now gripped the armrest of her chair like she might crush it.

“I know you from a painting,” she went on, “and from stories the Illyrian brute had let slip when he’s distracted. That’s it. That’s all.”

She looked at you then—truly looked. 

“Out of all the dead,” she said, practically hissing the words through clenched teeth, “it’s a woman I have no connection to—no bond with—who keeps showing up, night after night.”

She paused. Her voice dropped, bitter and frayed at the edges.

“I figured if I got drunk enough, you wouldn’t come back.”

You let her words sit between you like a storm on the verge of breaking.

Then, simply, calmly, you answered, "Your guess is as good as mine. I do not know why the Mother has deemed us to share this space. If anything, it should be your High Lady."

"Not my High Lady."

The words came out a hiss—immediate.

That took you by surprise.

You studied her again, more carefully this time. “She is your sister, is she not? From my understanding, you sit within her court, no?”

Nesta’s jaw clenched, her eyes flashing. “I never asked to be this,” she bit out, each word rough and raw, like it cost her something to say it aloud. “It is the least she can do—letting me stay—for dragging Elain and me into this mess.”

The bitterness in her tone was layered. And despite the fire still simmering in her gaze, for the first time, you saw it—the hurt underneath.

Not weakness. Not regret.

Just the kind of wound that never quite scabbed over.

“Interesting,” you murmured, watching her carefully. “I’ve known humans who would give anything to become Fae. Yet you resent it.” A soft pause. “Why? Because this was a fate you were forced to take?”

“What does a dead woman know?”

You didn’t flinch. Just tilted your head.

“I know what it is to have someone else dictate your life. Down to who you’ll marry, how you’ll serve, when you’ll speak. For me, Rhysand, for what it’s worth, wasn’t the worst option for a husband.”

She snorted. “He’s a prick.”

“He has his moments.”

That caught her off guard.

You laughed softly, not unkind.

“Oh, I’ll be the first to admit the Inner Court is far from perfect.” You shrugged. “But no one is.”

She didn’t respond right away. Something in her had… shifted. Just a fraction. But you noticed.

“Even yourself?” 

You snorted. “Especially myself. Whatever they’ve told you, don’t believe it.” There was no heat behind the words, only the easy comfort of truth long since accepted. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you lifted a brow, eyes flicking toward her like you were letting her in on a secret you rarely shared. “I’m a wicked woman who loves power.”

Nesta blinked—startled, maybe. Like she hadn’t expected the confession to come so effortlessly, so unapologetically. Just a heartbeat of hesitation, of something shifting behind her eyes. And then—barely there, but unmistakable—her lips twitched. Not quite a smile, not quite approval. But something real. Something human. It vanished a second later, wiped clean like a crack sealed with frost. Still, you saw it. And she knew you did.

The silence that followed didn’t feel cold this time. It felt suspended. Waiting. And maybe that’s why you said what you did next—not out of cruelty, but because there was no one else who would say it. Not like this. Not to her.

“You forge your own path. If your soul cannot bear this existence, Nesta Archeron,” you said quietly, the words dropping between you like a stone in still water, “then simply cease to exist. Be remembered only as the Kingslayer. Let that name be the last thing you let the world remember you by.”

Nesta didn’t flinch, but she didn’t breathe, either.

“Why suffer?” you continued as the dream began to shift. That familiar pull stirred at the edge of your awareness, the weightlessness that always signaled you were being drawn back—back into your body, into waking. The meadow around you dimmed, blurred at the edges, but still you held her gaze.

“And should you choose to go,” you added, finality ringing beneath the calm in your tone, “you won’t see me again. I will not follow. That is a death I cannot follow in.”

Then the world dissolved around you, unraveling like thread through fingers—slow, soundless, inevitable. 

And when your eyes fluttered open, Estella was already there, perched just above you on the edge of the bed, her little brows pulled together in a tiny frown of concentration.

She blinked once, solemn and confused. You barely had a moment to register the expression before you reached for her, arms wrapping around her small body and pulling her close until her cheek was squished against your chest.

She huffed in your arms—an exaggerated little sigh far too dramatic for someone so small, her wings fluttering once in protest.

“Why her?” she mumbled against your nightgown, voice muffled, still thick with sleep. “Why not the ‘nother one?”

You stilled, heart thudding softly.

Estella shifted a little, her hand grabbing the fabric near your shoulder in a tight, toddler-sized fist. “She yours. And you hers. That’s what they said.” Her words were slurred and messy, tangled together in the way only young children speak when their minds move faster than their mouths.

Then, a whisper—curious and oddly knowing.

“But you don’t dream of her. Or him.”

You had no idea how to answer her.

Your hand stilled where it had been brushing over her hair.

“Sweetling… are you watching my dreams?”

A flicker of worry laced your voice, soft but rough at the edges. Had she started coming into her magic? Was this the beginning of something—too early, too much?

She shook her head against you, the motion small and stubborn.

“No.” Her voice was quiet. “I feel.”

Then, after a pause, one hand resting over your chest like she was trying to anchor herself:

“I dunno what you said ...but they’re there. I feel them. But…They don’t see me. See us. You... you block us out.”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight.

She wasn’t accusing you. Just stating it—like it was simply a truth of the world, the way the sun rose or rain fell.

And then, as toddlers do, the moment was gone.

Estella suddenly wriggled and rolled off you with all the grace of a sleepy cat tumbling out of bed.

“Mama! Food!” she declared, as if the past minute hadn’t caused you more confusion than these dreams.

She toddled toward the door like her words alone would summon breakfast.

~ ✦ ~ ✦ ~

“Esoara will arrive home tomorrow, then?” Vassa asked, cutting into her dinner with careful precision. Her tone was casual, but the tone beneath it wasn’t lost on you. This was the final dinner before hosting a High Lord—before the balance of power might shift, one way or another.

“They’ll be joining us around lunch tomorrow,” you confirmed, reaching for the breadbasket and handing a small roll to the tiny Fae beside you.

Estella clutched it with both hands, then looked up at you, eyes wide.

“Friends?” she asked hopefully. “Tonight?”

“Tomorrow,” you corrected gently.

She gave a very serious frown, clearly unconvinced by this injustice, but began gnawing on the roll anyway.

All the preparations had been set. Every contingency considered. Every piece on the board placed just right. And yet, the closer dawn crept, the more it felt like something was coming that no amount of planning could stop.

“Are we all ignoring the elephant in the room?” Jurian muttered, stabbing his fork into his food like it had offended him. “When, exactly, did Lucien get invited to be part of this?”

At the mention of his name, the one-eyed High Fae looked up from his plate with a raised brow. 

Vassa’s knife clinked a little too hard against her plate. “When you and her”—” she stabbed a glare in your direction—“came to an agreement to invade the other lands.”

You threw your hands up. “No one is invading anything.”

“Yet,” Jurian added under his breath, just loud enough.

You glared at him, but he only smirked, thoroughly unbothered.

Turning back to Lucien, you forced your voice pleasant. “You are more than welcome here, if Vassa has invited you to be part of her court.”

Lucien leaned back, gaze flicking between the three of you. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just here to observe.” 

“And not report back to the Night Court?” Jurian cut in, voice dry and dripping sarcasm, “as their Emissary? That their precious Lady of the Night is alive and well and their High Lord has a daughter?”

“We’ve already gone over the threats when he first found out,” you reminded flatly, not bothering to hide the warning in your tone.

Jurian made a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a grunt and a groan.

“Now that’s boring,” 

You shot him a look. “Try diplomacy sometime.”

“I have. That’s why I prefer swords.”

Lucien let out a low hum, studying the two of you with mild amusement. “I’d have figured you two would have nothing but disdain for each other.”

You didn’t miss the twitch of a smile at the corner of Jurian’s mouth.

“You should see how he and Vassa argue,” you said, sipping your wine. “It’s less debate, more bloodsport.”

“She’s the one who throws things,” Jurian muttered.

“Only because you talk like that,” Vassa snapped, not looking up from her plate.

You stared at the three of them for a beat. Vassa stabbing her roast with a bit too much force. Jurian smug as ever. Estella happily chewing on a stolen piece of bread and whispering to her cup like it might answer her.

You were surrounded by children.

Truly.

And somehow, that realization tugged at something in your chest—something you’d buried.

It crept in uninvited, that ache of memory. Of home.

Of the Inner Court.

Of Cassian challenging you to a drinking contest and losing spectacularly, his laughter echoing into the night. Of Mor and Cassian shouting at the top of their lungs to see whose drunken voice would carry farther. Of Azriel sitting beside you in the shadows, silently snorting before asking if he needed to go drag them apart. Of Amren muttering under her breath about why she stayed in this court of fools in the first place.

And of Rhys.

Rhys, who would simply snort, kiss your forehead, and murmur, “Come on, my dear—let’s sneak away and leave the drunks to their fun.”

You blinked, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Those nights were lifetimes ago. And still, some part of you felt them—echoing.

You set your glass down. Carefully.

Because if you let yourself fall into that feeling, if you truly allowed yourself to spiral into the ache curling in your chest like a long-forgotten flame, you weren’t sure you’d find your way back out again. You had spent so long containing it—pressing your grief, your longing, your history into neat corners of yourself, shoving it all down where it couldn't touch anything tender. But it was still there, waiting in the hollows. And tonight, in the quiet of the garden, in the lull between breaths and stars, it stirred.

I want to go home.

The thought didn’t just rise—it split through you. Choking and sudden. Like lightning flashing down your spine, lighting every dark corner you’d sealed away with that single truth.

And that had been dangerous to think.

Because in a world like this—where magic listened, where power didn’t always respect boundaries—desire had weight. It was a tether, a beacon. A whisper that could become a call. And when you let yourself want something badly enough, the world had a habit of listening. Of answering.

You should have known better.

And yet—tonight, the sky had been so impossibly beautiful. The kind of beauty that made you forget the years, the wars, the politics, the fear. Stars scattered like a blessing across the velvet dark, glowing long after the palace had settled into silence.

You’d wandered into the palace gardens barefoot, the stone cool beneath your soles, the scent of night-blooming flowers curling through the air like silk. There was no sound beyond the hush of wind in the hedges and the soft rustle of leaves. And in that stillness, you stood utterly alone—wrapped in the gentle hush of a world not watching. The kind of quiet you’d forgotten you missed. The kind that only came when no one else was listening.

That was when you felt it.

A brush of cold across your skin—too precise to be wind.

A whisper at your shoulder—not sound, not touch, but something in between. A ripple in the world around you, like a memory trying to take shape.

Your breath caught.

And then they came.

The shadows.

They slithered over the stone like ink through water, curling gently around your ankle, brushing along your wrist—not grasping, not threatening. Just… remembering. They wove through your hair like a breeze that hadn’t been there a moment before.

Because you knew them. Even now, after everything, you knew them.

Azriel’s shadows.

You hadn’t felt them in a long time, they hardly ever left his side. The way they moved. The way they lingered. The way they never pressed unless invited.

They weren’t urgent now. They weren’t warning you or dragging you away from danger.

They were just... here.

Searching. Remembering. Recognizing.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Not even when the air behind you shifted, when the stillness turned thick and heavy, like the entire garden had gone breathless. Not even when instinct told you you were no longer alone.

You stayed still—frozen in the moment between one life and the next.

Until you heard it.

Soft. Rough around the edges. A voice like gravel and shadow, like dusk curling into midnight.

“You’re alive.”

Your eyes slipped closed.

Because you knew that voice was family.

And when you finally turned, slow and unwilling, he was there.

Azriel.

Standing just beyond the hedges, wrapped in his shadows like he had never left them.

Like he had stepped out of memory itself.

Like seeing a beloved dead person hadn’t just shattered his world completely.

[velaris-fic-repository]

The Perfect Ceremony

@starfallweek 2025 March 23rd Prompt: It’s a Starfall mating ceremony, the dreamiest night of the year!

A/N: I originally wasn’t going to do this one, but I decided to try and it ended up grabbing my hand and running away with it! I hope you enjoy! Also, I need more platonic! Rhys fics in my life.

It was only the beginning of the week leading up to Starfall, and you were already exhausted. The entire world wanted a piece of you. You were stuck in meeting after meeting around Velaris for your duties, everyone wanting things handled immediately so they wouldn’t have to work the rest of the week. Never mind that you were having more and more things piled onto your plate by them, but such is the burden of the Inner Circle this time of year.

You were already stretched thin, wanting nothing more than to return home to Azriel, your mate, for some much needed cuddly comfort. You two hadn’t accepted the bond yet, but had every intention to. Starfall being so close to when things snapped for you both, you’d wanted it to be special. After everything the two of you had been through, both together and apart, romantically and not, you both thought you deserved the happily ever after treatment.

Your mistake had been telling Rhys that.

No sooner had you walked through the door of the townhouse, intent on dropping your stuff on the nearest surface and collapsing into the nearest soft thing, Rhysand poked his head out into the foyer.

His face lit up, star filled in its own right, and immediately pulled you into his arms, saying your name with childlike excitement. “Just the female I wanted to see.”

“Hi Rhys,” you said, unable to keep the exhaustion from your voice. Likely your mind as well, you hadn’t thought about your shields in a long time.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your and Azriel’s ceremony.”

A wave of tiredness rolled through you at the thought of yet another discussion. “Rhys,” you pleaded, “when I told you-“

Rhys was not paying attention, it did not even appear he had heard you. “I have so many ideas to run by you. You were right, you both deserve something special, and I want to help you make it perfect.”

He looked down at you with shiny eyes and you faltered for a minute. Curse your loving heart.

With a failing social battery, you tried the one card you had. Feyre would understand you, she always did. If you could get Feyre to rein him in… “Wouldn’t Feyre want to help as well?”

“The studio’s awfully busy this week I’m afraid. I know you know the feeling, and I do apologize for that, love. Think of this as my apology to my soon-to-be sister-in-law?” The last part came out like a question and your flimsy resolve broke.

You sighed, “okay, Rhys.”

He beamed, simultaneously lifting your spirits and raising your apprehension, before grabbing your shoulders and winnowing you two away.

Unbeknownst to you, Azriel had arrived upstairs moments before.

He’d sensed your sheer exhaustion and strangled acquiescence and had tried to get to you as soon as he could. You had been here, not too long ago if your scent was still this strong in the house. He’d almost believed you were still here, calling out your name until he picked up on Rhys’s as well.

A groan worked its way unbidden from his throat.

Of course. Rhysand had intercepted you before he could get here. The High Lord had told him how excited he was for the two of you. Azriel should have assumed something like this would happen. He’d likely been waiting for you to get home, eager to make preparations.

Azriel trudged downstairs, lightly agitated. His shadows flickered along his back, flared in response to his emotions. He picked up your discarded work bag and returned it to the place you always kept it in your room. As he held the strap, felt the weight of it, his heart sank. Tiredness radiated out from your side of the bond. He had half a mind to wrench you from his brother’s clutches and return you safely home.

To him.

But he knew you. Knew you wanted to make everyone else happy, even to your own detriment. It was something he simultaneously loved and hated about you. He knew the earful he’d receive if he pulled you out.

But oh, that little protective impulse.

Little. Who was he kidding?

When he saw you tonight he’d talk to you about that little habit of yours. Then hopefully, you’d finally let yourself get some sleep.

He sent a pulse of adoration over to you, pleased at the weak - but very much there - echo of it you sent back.

Just a little longer, he told himself, then no one will be seeing either of us for months. He didn’t just mean the frenzy, either. Both of you could more than use the time off relishing in the arms of the one you love.

A soothing pulse reached his chest and he realized he’d been gripping the strap of your bag with white knuckles. He must have projected his protectiveness through the bond to you. You were reminding him to relax.

He would. He just had to find a way for both of you to.

Having errands of his own to run, he did not return home again until much later. He made his way softly to the room you two had taken to sharing. He was the Spymaster, so he made no sound at all as he entered the room, expecting to find you asleep in bed.

Instead, you were at the desk with a candle burned down nearly to the bottom of the jar that contained it. Paperwork was strewn about as your head lay on some of them. Ink stained your fingers in little wisps, either smudged where your hands brushed it when it had been wet or simply there due to your frenzied writing style. Shadows of a sort.

You were knocked out though. He sighed, tilting his head. His shadows reached for you, more indicative of his longing for you than creatures of their own.

He wiped the ink off your fingers, careful not to disturb your much needed rest, before moving you to the bed. You didn’t wake as he pulled you to him, hugging you close like a teddy bear. He draped a wing over you and pressed a kiss to your forehead before joining you in the realms of sleep.

You were awoken by Rhys’s voice in your head. “Rise and shine! You and Feyre have a seamstress appointment!”

Had you really been that out of it that he could just barge into your brain and wake you up?

“Apparently, yes. She’s waiting for you downstairs. She didn’t want to bother you.”

Huh. Maybe someone could learn a thing or two from his mate.

His laughter reverberated in your mind. “Hurtful. She’s got the day off and so do you. Only ceremony planning today, and I mean it. Have fun!”

Thanks. Then you built your mental walls back up. Days off are great when you aren’t behind on work and aren’t forced into planning an elaborate mating ceremony, you thought privately. Anxiety itched around your mind.

You slowly realized your surroundings now that you were more awake. You were exactly where you wanted to be, in Azriel’s arms. But Feyre was waiting downstairs, waiting to help you find your dress. You couldn’t just leave her. Tired as you were, they truly did mean well. This was something you needed to do. Along with everything else you had on your to-do list.

So, you tried to pull yourself from Azriel’s hold. Predictably, he groaned and pulled you closer, wrapping his arms tighter around you. It was adorable, but you’d made up your mind to leave. He was not helping.

“Az, love, I’ve gotta go.”

He buried his head further into your neck. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do,” you chuckled.

“Work?”

“No.”

“Rhys?”

“Sort of. Feyre’s waiting for me downstairs.”

“Ceremony stuff?” his muffled voice said.

“Something like that.”

“You would really deny me the presence of my mate?”

You chuckled, “we aren’t mated yet, Az.”

“We are to me.”

Your heart squeezed. You kissed the crown of his head and said, “two more days.”

He reluctantly let you go, shadows chasing half-heartedly after you.

“Have fun being the artist’s dress up doll,” he teased as he leaned in the doorway, you in the hall.

You smirked back at him, “be careful how you speak of my High Lady.”

“Sense of humor, yet another reason to love you.”

You shook your head. “I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work.”

“That flush suggests otherwise.”

“Az.”

He held his hands up in surrender, “can you blame a male in love for trying?”

Feyre could hear you both from the stairs by now and snickered at your, “good-bye, Azriel.”

He watched you go from the door of the house, feeling the weight of the world bearing down on you. He knew you wanted things to be perfect, both for Starfall and the ceremony, but he couldn’t care less for that perfection, least of which when it affected you like this. To him, it would be perfect just because of you. He’d have everything he’d want for the ceremony anyway. Just you. He didn’t need you wearing the perfect dress, didn’t need the perfect decorations, the perfect food. He’d eat the crumbs off your plate if you’d offered them to him.

Maybe that had been his mistake. He’d assumed you’d known that. Maybe he should’ve told you. He still could. Put an end to the massive undertaking his family had turned your wishes into. He loved that they wanted to help, but this was getting out of hand.

That was a conversation he needed to have. The next time he saw you, that’s what he’d do.

He, unfortunately, did not have the opportunity. After spending three hours trying on dresses before you found one you liked, Feyre pulled you around for another two hours with additional ceremony prep. Then after that, you were running around catching up on the work you hadn’t completed the previous day. You barely stopped to eat as Velaris became your personal obstacle course.

You crashed on the couch, but woke up in bed again, Azriel next to you. You pulled yourself out of bed, not waking him this time, and left him a note. There was still a lot for you to do the day of Starfall. You’d see him that night, when the work was all over.

Cassian had been your chosen mode of transportation up to the House of Wind for the events of the day, once all your work was done. You’d managed to get everything done just before sunset and found Cassian with renewed energy and enthusiasm.

He’d grinned at you, ribbing you over the events of the evening and ferried you up to the house with the two of you laughing the whole way.

Once deposited, you walked inside the house, finding your family setting up your decorations. Gwyn had kindly offered to officiate the ceremony tonight and the rest of the family were helping with the decorations.

“Alright,” you said, rubbing your hands together, “what still needs doing?”

“You need to get ready, and that’s all we’re allowing you to do,” Feyre said, firmly.

“But-“

“No-“

Amren dropped the decoration she had been fighting against and spun you around. “Out, girl.”

“But-“

With her pushing you out of the room by your back, you could not see her, but you could feel the glare she was sending you and promptly shut up.

You teetered slightly on your feet, attempting to find some kind of excuse so you could still help, but found none. Your family sent you soft and amused smiles and you were silently on your way.

The laces on the back of your dress had been giving you trouble, and just as you were getting frustrated, emotions of the day still pulling at you, the door opened.

“Feyre, can you-“

You turned. Feyre was not the one who’d entered the room.

He was dressed up, at least as far as he was likely willing to. The deep blue outfit was not anywhere near Rhys level, but it was beautiful. He was beautiful.

His eyes were wide, staring at you in such awe that you had to look away.

“You look-“

“It’s too much isn’t it? I thought so. I had a feeling about the other one. It’s all too much isn’t it? Everything’s-“

Azriel stopped you by reaching forward, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger, gently stroking the bottom of your lip.

“You look stunning. It’s not too much. It’s not too little.” He punctuated this sentence with a soft, passionate kiss.

“It’s perfect.” Another kiss, this one longer than the first.

“Any type of ceremony, any timing, any and all details in any configuration, would be perfect. You want to know something?”

Words could not find you, so you nodded.

“There is no way this night could be anything other than perfect for me, because it’s you. You are everything I want, everything I could ever need. I couldn’t care what you’re wearing or what the room looks like, so long as I get to look at you.”

Tears lined your eyes as you said, “Me too.”

“That being said, let’s go enjoy the work you did. Just promise me you won’t run yourself into the ground over details again, okay? I don’t take kindly to my mate buried under mountains of work.”

“I promise,” you said, kissing him, “so long as you promise me the same.”

“I swear it, sweets.”

“And help me lace up the back of this?”

You both exited the room and slowly walked to the now fully decorated room. Your family noticed your quiet smiles and followed your lead, sobering the whole affair a bit. It was quiet and soft, but in a good way. The feeling you get as you open a brand new book. The feeling of lying down in your bed and staring at the ceiling.

There was a dreamy quality about the whole thing as you all moved to the balcony. Rhys and Feyre’s smiles were twinged with apologies but you waved them off, Azriel’s steady hand on your shoulder.

In the anticipation of Starfall before you, you both softly said your vows to each other, your family watching on with wistful smiles. You had planned something elaborate, in terms of the food you wanted to offer. A recreation of the meal you shared on your first date. It would have taken awhile, and was meant to be symbolic, but at the last minute, you decided to swap it out in favor of a spare cookie the two of you had made together the weekend before. It wasn’t perfect, but it was food the two of you had laughed over when you shared the experience of making it. Indicative of your love and a promise of what your future would be. Maybe it was perfect after all.

You each offered each other a bite as Gwyn guided you through the ceremony.

“Why were they so dry?” Azriel said, humorously, despite himself.

“I swore we put the right amount of milk in,” you laughed.

Gwyn smiled at the two of you as she slowly bound your hands together with a ribbon. As she concluded, lights began to flash across the sky. You watched it for a moment before you leaned in and shared a kiss, this time as mates. It was everything you could have wanted. It was perfect.

[umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken]

ACOTAR p.394

Rhys's reaction to finding out Amarantha wants Feyre to stab Tamlin

That's his husband right there.

[acourtofmishapandmistakes]

Rhysand: So, fill me in. What's going on?

Azriel: You want the long version or the short version?

Rhysand, hesitantly: The short one, I guess?

Cassian: Shit's fucked.

Rhysand: Oh. Well, yeah, that's definitely not the optimal situation.

[erisweekofficial]

ACOTAR Airplane Seat Game Round 1 of 4

How to play: all you need to do is tell us where you'd sit on the flight by voting in the poll below. Bonus points if you tell us why in comments/reblogs/tags.

And...don't worry these get progressively worse 😈🔥

[etsukomoonbeam]

Going Back Home (Prologue)

Summary: After being trapped in the Spring Court for centuries, Rhysand’s little sister ,Syra, finds herself in the city Lunathion on the planet Midgard. She creates a whole new life there but is brought back to Prythian unexpectedly where she comes face-to-face with her family.

________________________________________________________

Being born as a half-Illyrian, half-high fae female who also just so happens to be the youngest child of the High Lord of the Night Court might sound like it’s all unicorns and rainbows, but my life was far from it. From scholarly lessons and being taught how to be a ‘lady’ to watching my brother from the sidelines at Windhaven, my life could be considered very busy, but not easy.

When Rhys was 137 years old, I was brought into this world. From the stories Cassian had told me, it seemed Rhys wasn’t happy that our parents conceived me in the first place, but I never let that affect our relationship. I understood early on that my brother and father would never get along, and his harsh words were only meant in disdain towards my father, not me.

It took me until the age of 15 for me to finally convince my father to allow me to visit Windhaven with my mother, but it all went terribly wrong. While traveling to the camp, my mother had suggested we stop for rest before we went the rest of the route to the point where Rhys was supposed to meet up with us. However, the High Lord of the Spring Court, Tamlin’s father, and his sons attacked us.

We tried desperately to fight back, but unfortunately, not only did my mother not make it out of that attack alive, but neither did my wings. The Spring nobles tied me up and threw me in a cell below their manor, and I remember being scared, not knowing how Rhysand would find me, but knowing he would was the torch that kept my hope alive. Until it died one day.

Eventually, time passed, but due to being detained, I wasn’t sure how long it had been. But one day, the youngest son of the Autumn High Lord, Lucian, made his way down to the dungeon. He knew not of the prisoner that Tamlin’s father had kept in the cells and after the massacre between Night and Spring (Which I would not know of for quite some time) it was no wonder that I was forgotten.

“Syra?” Lucien tried softly.

“Lucien.” I responded as I grabbed the cell bars, looking at the Autumn son, pleading with him to open the cell. He reached for a key on a ring that was held on a hook by the door across the way. He turned back and started to unlock the cell door.

“Syra….what happened? Nobody has seen you in years, everyone thought you were killed along with..” He didn’t finish, knowing I knew he was talking about my mother.

“Please, Lucien. Let me out…please.” I plead again.

He halts, making eye contact with me, before turning his attention back to the lock. Once the lock was undone, he started to slide the door open, when I suddenly rushed to the door, shoving past him and up the stairs leading out of the dungeon.

“Syra! Wait!” He yelled after me, but I did not wait. I did not stop.

Running past, surprisingly, no one, I make my way out of the manor and into the woods.

Should I be in the woods? No.

Are there Naga out here? Yes, but I don’t care.

Eventually I come to a slow stop, looking around the forest and let out a deep sigh. After insuring that a certain Spring emissary did not follow me out here, I leaned against a tree to catch my breath.

Free. Finally free.

No thanks to Rhysand.

I continued walking in the direction I was originally heading in when a blue florescent beam of light caught my attention. I turned in the direction the light was emitting and there among the tall trees of the Spring Court forest was a pool of starlight.

“Come Come. Get in”, someone whispered. I looked around the body of starlight but did not see anyone. “Come on”

“Who are you?” I asked while completing a full sweep of to forest, but still no one showed.

“We are you’re future, step into the starlight and all will be revealed.”

“How do I know I can trust you?” I asked, unsure of what exactly would happen if I stepped into the starlight, but knowing with certainty that anything was better than the cell I had been trapped in for centuries it seemed.

“We would never forget to save you.”

And that was the magic sentence that made my mind up.

It was the sentence that would persuade me to step into a pool of starlight.

It was the start of a new life.

And with that, I stepped into the starlight where a bright light blinded me of what was on the other side.

Little did I know, that my life was about to change completely.

_________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: Thank you everyone for reading! This is the prologue for fic idea that I’ve had for a long time and I’m excited to finally have the time to write it! Let me know what you think will happen!

[theegemini92]

Rhysand is Abusive:

If you don’t want to listen to the whole video that’s fine long story short this is the part where Rhysand was also abusive and even more than Tamlin. Just because he didn’t lay hands on her doesn’t mean he didn’t show it. It’s sick how Rapesand pros love him.

[littlest-w01f]

Falling

Rhysand x Reader(+ Venom)

For @starfallweek [hosted by: @azsazz and @writingsbychlo]

Starfall Week 2025 Masterlist

Day 3 - Character A is confused about the meaning of Starfall and misinterprets the entire evening.

Summary: While exploring an Illyrian mountain, a meteorite crashed into place, carrying an alien species that now called you its host, leaving you to explain that Starfall wasn't the end of the world.

Cw: Just silly fun, Venom is jumping universes again.

a/n: I was really thinking hard about this prompt, redid it twice... Then I had a dream of Rhys and Venom in Reader, it was like destiny... So... I had to. And I present to you, Venom in the Maasverse.

"STARFALL!? YOUR "MATE" WANTS TO CELEBRATE STARS FALLING?" The panicked voice of the creature that now lived inside you said in your head, a black gooey substance rising from your arms as it went back down, "HE WANTS TO KILL US."

You groaned, head pressing in your hands, as you sat in front of the vanity mirror, "Please stop yelling at me..." You knew you should be more careful of an alien sharing your body, but it wasn't the weirdest that had ever happened to you. "That's not what Starfall is and Rhys doesn't want us dead..."

The being pulsed within you, tendrils of shadowy black substance snaking through your veins. "YELL? I am merely expressing concern for our mutual survival! This... Rhys, he is an unknown variable. His intentions could be anything!"

"He is not unknown, you are unknown." You pointed to your vanity, where beside your head a creature of a being fully black, apart from the white eyes looking at you, "Cauldron boil me, don't looking at me all judging..."

The entity's form shimmered and shifted on the vanity, its shadowy tendrils curling in agitation. "I am simply assessing the situation with the logical perspective only I can provide!" It paused, it talked like you, studying you intently with those piercing white eyes. "Tell me then, what IS this 'Starfall' celebration? And why would your mate wish to partake in such an event involving celestial bodies plummeting from the sky?"

Picking up a blush, you dabbed some on a brush, putting it on the creature's cheek, hoping to annoy it into going back inside, making it shake the powder off, "Its not actual stars falling, it's starlight, sprirts are carried through the sky tonight, it's actually gorgeous. So please, just enjoy the night."

The entity shuddered as the powder brushed its skin, a flicker of curiosity sparking in those pale eyes despite itself. "Starlight spirits... How whimsical. Illogical." It leaned closer, studying your face intently. "It would be better with actual stars. More chaotic."

"And how logical is an alien creature who calls itself Venom, of all things, landing in a universe where apparently magic is real and wherever you were before it wasn't?" You sighed, exasperated. "Just... Be normal tonight, only my mate knows about you and I would rater you not try to eat the head of my friends."

The dark being rippled, shadows swirling around its form as it considered your words. After a long moment, it inclined its head in a gesture almost like a nod. "Very well. I will try to blend in. To appear normal." Its voice took on a slightly mocking tone. "Far be it from me to cause a scene at your little celestial party."

"Not quite celestial. You're impossible." You muttered, setting your make-up down, this was like arguing with yourself, you couldn't wait for Rhysand to pull this thing out of you and send it home.

"Are you ready, my dear?" Rhysand knocked on the door to your shared room and walked in, "Mother, I need to get used to seeing that thing..." He blinked at the sight of you and your new, acquired alien, arguing. "If you don't want Azriel's shadows to see completion you better keep it away... I must say, darling, you never fail to surprise me. An alien parasite, really? How delightfully macabre."

"I'M NOT A PARACITE!" The creature yelled at Rhysand, glaring at the male. You sighed as now they argued, busy admiring the gown you were wearing.

Rhysand sauntered over to the vanity, looming behind the entity, darkness rising with each step. "Now then, let's establish some ground rules, shall we? Rule one: no trying to possess or otherwise harm my mate. Rule two: you attend this little gathering on your best behavior. If you do any of it I will rip you apart in ways you haven't seen before."

"SEE HE THREATENS US!" The creature turned to you, as expectant as a child complaining to their mother.

You rolled your eyes at the melodramatic display from both parties. "Enough, both of you." You fixed the creature with a stern look. "You, I know you just want to surive, but Rhys isn't going to hurt us. He's my mate, my love. I trust him completely."

Turning to Rhysand, you smiled softly. "And darling, please don't threaten it. I know it's strange having an extra presence around, but until we find a way to send it home, it's a part of me... It's here to stay for a while." Your hand came up to cup his cheek affectionately, you knew he was agitated, the creature had added a layer of protection to your mental shields, Rhysand had said it looked like dark spikes all over, forcing him outside your mind.

Rhysand's expression softened almost imperceptibly at your touch and gentle words. He placed his hand over yours, calloused fingers brushing your skin. "As you wish, my heart. I will endeavor to tolerate our uninvited guest." His gaze flicked to the creature, eyes glinting with warning. "But know this - her safety and happiness are paramount. Anything threatening that, and there will be consequences beyond your comprehension."

"Isn't this perfect?" You smiled wide, getting up, the creature melting into your form, you could feel it in your head, missing Rhysand's presence, "Come on, let's go out there, enjoy Starfall."

"CELESTIAL BODIES."

"Please stop yelling, I will literally stab myself in the head."

{General Taglist- @lilah-asteria @paleidiot @dee-writes-angst @adalia-jaycee @anarchiii @alwayshave-faith @velarisnightsky444 @minnieoo @mellowmusings @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tele86}

{Rhysand Taglist- @yeonalie}

[crimsonfrostx]

A Road Well Traveled (Azriel x Reader)

Part 2

Word Count: 1377 Warnings: Mild language, slight violence Part 1 Part 3

Azriel turns his gaze towards Mor as she appears around the corner, his hand still holding yours, grounding you in the present moment. You watch as Mor's gasp fills the air, her eyes widening in surprise. Azriel can sense your nervous energy, your sudden need to flee, but your hand remains tightly held in his as if to say, you’re not going anywhere. Not again.

You let out a nervous chuckle, meeting Mor's brown eyes. "Hey, Mor," you greet softly, waiting to see your friend's next move. Mor stands frozen in place, her eyes wide with surprise as she gazes at you. But a moment later, she lunges forward, her arms encircling you in a fierce hug. "Is it really you?" She exclaims, her voice filled with relief and joy. 

You release a held breath, letting go of Azriel's hand to wrap your own arms around the taller female, letting yourself feel the sweet relief of your friend's happiness at your return. Mor clings to you, her grip tight and possessive. "Where have you been?" she demands, her voice muffled against your shoulder. Mor pulls back slightly, her wide-eyed gaze roaming over your face, as if afraid you’d disappear if she looked away.

You smile sheepishly, pleasantly surprised that the sharp sting of jealousy from Mor's beauty never comes. "I've been traveling. Seen my fair share of the world now," the half lie comes out easier than expected. It was true enough, having seen breathtaking scenes that you could never hope to master in your sketchbook.

Mor leans back further, her hands still holding your shoulders as she studies your face, her gaze narrowing slightly. "Traveling, huh?" she muses, a hint of suspicion in her voice. But despite her questioning look, she grins, her earlier disbelief replaced with a glimmer of excitement. "You have to tell me all about it. Come on," she urges, grabbing your hand and tugging you towards the dining room.

You stammer, not getting a word in as you’re dragged along, Azriel trailing behind you as Mor leads you into the dining room. Six pairs of eyes land on you the moment your feet enter the room, and you’re sure you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

Cassian, Rhysand, and several unknown strangers' eyes all widen in surprise at your sudden appearance in the room, their expressions varying from shock to joy. For a brief moment, the room is eerily silent, only the crackling fire in the hearth providing noise.

Finally, Rhysand stands from his seat, his gaze taking in your form. "Well, I'll be damned," he breathes out, a stunned smile playing on his lips.

You slowly smile back, taking in his healthy appearance. You had left before he had been trapped Under the Mountain, the word of the Night Court's fearsome High Lord reached you. Stories of the war with Hybern followed not too long after. Standing before you now though, he looked good. Happy. A gorgeous female had been seated next to him, her curious blue eyes assessing you. That must be Feyre. You dip your head towards your High Lord. "Rhys. Happiness suits you, friend," you meet his violet gaze, smiling sincerely.

Rhysand's lips twist into a cocky smirk in response to your greeting, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. He gestures to the female beside him, saying, "Allow me to introduce my mate, Feyre."

Feyre, who had been quietly observing the interaction, smiles warmly and offers a polite nod in greeting. "It's nice to meet you," she says softly, her voice warm and gentle, a contrast to Rhysand's rough yet charming demeanor.

"Pleasure is mine, my High Lady," you bow your head, giving her the respect she rightly deserved from all you’ve heard. The reason why Prythian had been set free. Feyre's eyes soften at the gesture, a small smile playing on her lips. "Please, there's no need to be so formal," she says gently, her voice carrying a note of warmth.

Cassian snorts from his seat closest to Rhysand, his gaze roaming over you before settling on your face. "Formal? From the female who disappeared without a word for years. No letter, no sign, nothing. Sounds pretty informal to me."

Your smile fades as you meet Cassian's narrowed eyes. You hadn't expected him to be the one to hold a grudge against you. Though you couldn't blame him. "Cass," you greet softly, wary eyes holding his gaze. 

Cassian crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing as he studies you, a mixture of emotions flickering across his face. "Don't 'Cass' me. Where have you been, you little shadow of a fae?" he demands, his voice gruff and tinged with annoyance.

Rhysand and Feyre exchange a glance, noticing the tension between you and Cassian. Even Azriel remains motionless, his gaze fixed on the interaction. The female next to him, you assumed Nesta, grabbed her wine glass and sipped with a hint of excitement. Amren watched from the other end of the table, not having said a word since you’ve entered.

"I've been around," you say carefully, lifting your head up. No matter how upset he was with you, he was one of your closest friends beside Azriel. He'd come around, you were sure of it. They all would. They’d understand.

Cassian huffs, his arms crossing over his chest. "Around, huh? Nice vague answer, really helps explain the past few years," he retorts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Rhysand watches them both, a knowing look in his eyes. He glances at Azriel, noticing how his shadows seem to hover protectively around your form, silently offering support. Mor promptly picks up her wine glass, knowing the inevitable outcome.

"Don't think I still can't land you on your ass, Cassian," you say firmly, familiar power reeling up inside you. You had trained with them at a young age, knowing how to hold your own was an understatement. You had knocked each of the males around the table down a peg or two through the centuries. You had no problem doing it again.

Cassian's eyes narrow dangerously, his mouth pulling into a snarl at your comment. He leans forward, the gleam of challenge in his eyes. "Oh, really? You think you can still take me on, after all this time? After 76 years!?" he mocks, his gaze flicking to your curled fist.

You gave in to Cassian's provoking, leaning forward as your eyes lit up with that fury you kept such a tight leash on. "I can take you on with twice as much ease." The deadly seriousness in which you spoke heated the room. A strange darkness seemed to have settled over you, leeching throughout the room. Everyone felt the subtle twitch of fury spiking in their own bodies. Rhysand narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

Cassian's smirk widened, his eyes glinting with excitement at your response. "Oh, really? You think you can beat me?" he taunted, his hand gripping the back of the chair tightly as he slowly stood. The others in the room remained silent, their gazes moving between you and Cassian, anticipating a potential sparring match. Feyre glanced at Mor and Amren, deciding to pick up her own wine glass, just in case.

You moved across the room in a blink of an eye, landing a solid blow upon his chest. His feet lift from the ground, before he's falling through the air and landing on his ass. You look down at him, the feral energy you’ve kept at bay for so long wrapping around you, making it hard to breathe as you narrow your fierce eyes.

Cassian hits the ground hard, a surprised grunt escaping him as he lands on his ass. He stares up at you, a mixture of shock and awe replacing the earlier annoyance and anger. A slow grin spreads across his face, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Not too bad," he says, pushing himself off the ground and dusting himself off. "I guess some things don't change." Rhysand and the others watch the interaction, their expressions ranging from surprise to amusement.

You blink, the power fading from your limbs just as quickly and you step away, looking nervous. "I'm sorry, Cass. I really am," you say softly. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back. You’re not ready.

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - II.I Word Count: 4.0k A/N: I'm on a roll with this fic. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next ✦ Ao3

How do you honor a dead Lady?

Prayers?

Fires?

Leaving her favorite pastries by that quiet lake she loved, hoping the scent might somehow reach her across the veil?

For someone as intimately familiar with grief as Azriel was—someone who had walked through death more times than he could count—this grief lodged in his chest in a way nothing else ever had, settled in the same spot as if Rhysand’s mother and sister died all over again.

He’d tried. Mother, he’d tried. For Rhys, who had barely spoken about it again since his return that first day and he told them all what happened. For Cassian, who threw himself into training so violently Az had to pull him out of the ring before he destroyed something—or someone. For Mor, who shut the doors to her chambers for three straight days and only opened them again when he brought her the wine you'd once sworn she’d hoard if the world ended.

But mostly—he tried for you.

He’d imagined what you’d say if you saw them unraveling.

“If you even dare let this court fall to pieces because I kicked the bucket, I’ll come back from the dead just to stab every one of you.”

You’d meant it, too. Gods, he could see you—hands on your hips, that haughty smirk on your face, as if death was nothing more than an inconvenience you’d eventually bully into submission.

So he gave himself a week. One week to mourn you.

Seven days of slipping into silence. Of flying to the places you used to haunt—the library balcony, the cliffs above the sea, the roof of the Court of Nightmares where you’d once dragged him for “peace and quiet” while you spied on the drama unfolding below.

You’d grin over the rim of your cup and say, “Spymaster, ShadowSinger, Prince of Brooding—gods help us if they knew you liked lavender tarts.”

He didn’t like them. Not really.

He just liked that you did.

And then a week turned into two. And then two into two months.

And it started to settle in. Not the kind of grief that screams and breaks. But the kind that lingers. That lives in the silence after someone says something funny and you turn, ready to share it with them—only to remember they’re not there.

That was the worst of it.

Because no one else had filled the space you left behind.

Not for Azriel.

Who else would he share the wildest Court gossip with and not feel ridiculous doing it? Who else would wink at him across a room, raise an eyebrow, and silently convey every sarcastic thought in your head before he’d even opened his mouth?

He didn’t tell anyone else what he learned now—not the juicy things, not the petty things. Only Amren asked. Because Amren knew.

She’d raise an eyebrow and mutter, “She would’ve loved this,” when he muttered some ridiculous tale of scandal from Hewn City.

And Az would just grunt, trying not to let it show that the silence after hurt more than the story itself.

There had been afternoons—hundreds of them, if he let himself count—when the two of you had lounged on sun-warmed balconies or curled in shadowy corners of the House of Wind, sipping tea and wine and trading secrets like coins. You, barefoot in your silk robes, legs tucked beneath you with all the elegance of a Queen and none of the formality. Him, still in leathers, shadows clinging to his shoulders, pretending to be uninterested in your antics—though it was always him who lingered longest.

“You’re the only male I trust not to ruin my tea set,” you’d teased once, swirling your cup like it held far more than tea.

“That’s because Cassian shattered three,” he’d muttered.

“And Rhys poured wine in the sugar jar.”

“He said it was an experiment.”

“He said it was romantic.”

You both had laughed.

And now… you were gone.

Gone so completely, so violently, without fanfare or warning, that perhaps he’d never known how to grieve you properly. That perhaps none of them had. The Inner Circle had fought wars and monsters, had faced a thousand different versions of sorrow.

You were not meant to be one of the losses.

Even Rhys, who had twenty years to process, and still nearly lost himself to the thought of it. The rest of them had two months to accept the silence.

Two months to unlearn the sound of your voice in rooms you once filled.

Azriel had tried to make peace with it. For your sake. For the court’s.

He told himself you'd want them to move forward, to keep going, to protect what mattered.

And yet—when the High Lady was first brought to the Night Court, half-wild and afraid, his very first thought wasn’t of how to secure her help or assess her power.

It was to find The Lady of the Night.

To ask how to make her feel more welcome.

Because it had always been you who knew what to say to strangers. You who could read a room in a single glance, then wield your words with surgical precision or devastating kindness. You who saw through armor better than anyone, even him.

But you weren’t there.

He hadn’t wanted Feyre to feel like a replacement. Hadn’t wanted her to feel the shadow of you hanging over her shoulder. So he’d said nothing. They had said nothing. He thought they all would remain silent until Rhysand chose to tell her.

But it hadn’t been Rhys.

It had been Mor.

She’d told Feyre one night, unprompted, in front of a portrait in that same soft fierceness she always used when talking about people she loved. Azriel hadn’t been there when it happened, but he knew the way Mor would’ve spoken—honest, reverent, a little sad around the edges.

And Feyre…

She hadn’t flinched from it.

Hadn’t been made smaller by your memory. She’d simply taken it in, let it settle, and carried it with grace.

And somehow, after that, something shifted.

Azriel found a strange sense of peace in Feyre—not because she filled the space you left, but because she never tried to.

Helping her train, teaching her to fly, guiding her through the endless frustration of learning to navigate her new body—it gave him purpose. A way to be useful again.

And maybe, in some quiet way, it helped him mourn.

And it hadn’t been Cassian or Amren that Feyre went to after her return from spring. Once she was sure her sisters were safe.

It had been him.

She found him on the balcony just before dawn, the wind curling through his wings. Her steps had been cautious, not hesitant—but respectful.

“I’m sorry,” she had said softly, voice barely louder than the wind.

And Azriel had known, without asking, what she meant.

She wasn’t apologizing for being High Lady.

She was apologizing for not discussing the marriage with them.

For stepping into a space they once imagined belonged to you.

But it was never about one replacing the other.

You were the Last Lady of the Night. That was what Amren still called without apology. That title—your title—had not been stripped or passed on. Feyre was their High Lady. Rhysand’s mate. The rightful ruler of a court she helped save.

There was no resentment in Azriel. No bitterness. No jealousy.

He had never once blamed Rhysand. Never blamed Feyre.

A part of him, even, was glad. Genuinely. That Rhys could know happiness. That the court could be rebuilt stronger after the war. That Feyre had brought them light.

And Feyre… She had never tried to erase you. She encouraged them to speak of you when they could. When they needed. She had looked him in the eye that morning and said, “She mattered to all of you. I would never ask you to pretend she didn’t.”

It had stunned him, how simply she understood.

He hadn’t known what to say at first. The words weren’t there, not fully formed. But eventually, as the sun began to crest the horizon, he found himself murmuring,

“You two would’ve balanced each other. Personalities, I mean.”

Feyre had smiled—small, sad, knowing.

Maybe that’s why he’d told her.

Why the next words slipped out before he had time to second-guess them.

“Did Rhys tell you she was older than us?”

Feyre blinked, clearly not expecting him to share anything more.

“No,” she said gently.

“The betrothal contract was signed when Rhys was eight. She was seventeen. We met her for the first time when Rhys was twelve. The last High Lord finally stopped stalling and brought her to the Illyrian camps.”

He could still remember that day. Every detail.

You’d walked into the training ring like you didn’t care that the snow was half-melted or that mud clung to your boots. Like you didn’t notice the way every male there had gone silent the moment you appeared.

You’d been beautiful, of course. All High Fae were, to some degree—but you had something else. That stillness. That grace. That regality that made even Cassian shut his mouth. For a moment, at least.

Dangerous. Cold. Composed.

Azriel had expected you to be like the others—distant, stiff, too proud to look twice at a camp full of winged brutes.

And then you’d tilted your head, looked straight at Cassian, and said:

“You look like trouble.”

It had startled a laugh out of Rhysand. Cassian had puffed up with mock offense.

And you had just smiled—not cold, not haughty. Just amused. Like you’d already decided they weren’t beneath you. Like you’d seen something in them worth noticing.

“Rhys’s mother hated the arrangement,” he added after a beat. “Wouldn’t let him return to Velaris long enough to meet her properly if she could help it. Kept hoping it would all fall apart. At first at least.” 

It hadn’t been a secret—not really.

Everyone knew the former Lady of the Night Court had resented the match, no matter how politically smart it had been. But politics had never impressed her much, and she hadn’t liked the idea of someone being chosen for her son. Especially someone she hadn’t approved of herself.

Cassian had reminded you of that fact every couple of years—usually when you teased him too hard or made him suffer through another formal event in polished armor and a tight cravat. He’d elbow you in the ribs and mutter, “You know, you weren’t even supposed to stick around.”

And you—Mother, you’d grin like you’d just won a war. A smug, feral little thing, flashing teeth and mischief and pride.

“But guess who ended up being her favorite?” you’d sing-song, sticking your tongue out at him with no regard for rank or dignity.

Azriel didn’t smile, not now, but the memory lit in his chest like an ember.

It wasn’t his story to tell—not the whole of it. Not the reasons why you’d become the Lady of the Night long before you ever officially wore the title.

Not how, after the first meeting, you had been the one winnowing in and out under High Lord orders. Quietly. Efficiently.

To check in.

To report back.

To observe.

You’d hated it. Gods, how you’d hated it.

Not the court, not the males—just the cold.

You made that fact perfectly clear, too. Never subtle, not with the way you bundled yourself in thick furs and spelled your boots to be self-heating. Rhys’s little sister, Estelle, had been the one to rat you out—tugging on Azriel’s arm one winter morning and whispering with a conspiratorial smile, “She says she’d rather be thrown in a volcano than have to watch another snowstorm roll through. Don’t tell her I told you.”

But Estelle had loved you. You’d visit her as often as you were allowed. She’d wanted to know her brother’s betrothed, had insisted.

And so you’d come. Again and again.

Winnowing through snowstorms with ice in your hair and a scowl on your face, dragging news and updates and biting sarcasm behind you like a cloak. You never complained directly—not in front of Rhys, at least—but Azriel remembered the way your hands never left your coat, the way your nose was always red, and how your curses in the cold became increasingly creative with each visit.

And still, you came.

Again and again.

And somewhere between those reluctant visits and those scouting trips into Illyria, between the way you learned every name in the camp and the way you watched their sparring matches with arms crossed and eyes noting details, you stopped being the political stranger they were told to tolerate…

And started becoming theirs.

The shift was subtle. Gradual. The kind of change that only makes sense in hindsight.

And maybe it became undeniable the first time Rhys’s mother had brought out her sewing kit one evening and began to stitch.

No one had dared ask at first.

But the truth slipped out in the way she muttered about “proper materials” for Illyrian winters and how “that girl’s coats are utterly useless.”

She didn’t say your name. She didn’t have to.

Because the next time you arrived, your coat had been replaced with one of her making. Lined with thick black velvet, buttons enchanted against frostbite, and seams so tight they wouldn’t let the wind through if it begged.

And she’d hovered. Gods, she’d hovered. Adjusting the collar. Tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Muttering about how "you’d catch your death otherwise."

Dotting on you like a mother hen.

And that was when they knew—when they all knew—that she had accepted it.

That she had accepted you.

Not because she’d been told to. Not because of a contract.

But because somewhere in those snow-covered camps and quiet exchanges, you’d become real to her.

Not a title. Not a duty. Someone.

And later when Rhys turned eighteen, it became clear just how deep that shift had settled.

His mother had told him, without room for argument, that the first dance of his birthday celebration would go to his betrothed. To you.

And no one questioned it. Not Rhys. Not Cassian. Not Azriel.

Because by then, there was no doubt.

You’d become a part of them.

And when the High Lord had grown fearful—had split Azriel from his brother to keep the court’s weapons separate—it was you he worked with most.

He had found something like peace in telling Feyre little things about you in passing. Letting himself accept the truth of your absence.

Until the night Mor found him.

She’d come to the lake just outside Velaris, breathless and pale, and spoken your name. Just once.

It was all it took.

And then—Elain’s words. The portrait. The vision. The way Mor’s voice trembled when she said, "Say I’m wrong. Say it’s impossible."

Azriel had listened to it all, stone-faced and silent.

And though he hadn’t said it aloud—hadn’t needed to—the stillness of his shadows, the way they pulled closer, tighter, was answer enough.

He hadn’t denied it.

Because deep down, in the quiet places even he rarely acknowledged…

He had wondered, too.

And when Mor finally whispered, “If there’s even a chance…”

He’d looked out over the water, exhaled slowly—

And said, “There’s a rumor.”

It had started during his investigation of the mortal queens, a sliver of information buried beneath layers of lies and manipulation. At the time, it had seemed like just another tactic—something Hybern had planted to distract, to confuse, to throw their enemies into disarray. And yet… something about it had stuck with him. 

And then, during the battle, they arrived.

Fae who had once been marked as fallen. As lost. As dead.

They came with Vassa, the mortal queen cloaked in fire, who walked beside those who should not have walked at all.

Azriel had watched them enter the camp, watched the way they held themselves—too quiet, too careful. Watched the way their eyes scanned the crowd, not searching for allies, but avoiding the ones who might recognize what they weren’t saying.

He had approached.

Asked the questions he wasn’t sure he was ready to have answered.

And they had only looked at him. Not with pity. Not with cruelty.

Just silence.

Intentional silence.

The kind that made his shadows curl tighter around him. The kind that said more than words ever could.

They knew something.

And none of them would speak.

But Azriel had seen it—that flicker of recognition, so brief most would’ve missed it. The twitch in one Fae’s mouth when your name passed his lips. The way another avoided his eyes, too quick to excuse herself. And the third—the one who glanced toward the sea like it might reveal a truth he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. It had been subtle, careful. But not careful enough. He was the Shadowsinger. He noticed what others didn’t. And what he saw in those silences was enough.

Mor had not brought it up again. He hadn’t told a soul. And no one had questioned him when he said there were rumors to follow, things that didn’t quite add up, stories left unfinished in the aftermath of war. No one asked what those rumors were.

It had taken longer than he expected to slip past the magical defenses encasing the borders of the Kingdom of Scythia. Not human-made, not even new. These were old wards—woven with purpose, with age, with a kind of knowing only Fae magic possessed. The kind meant to keep eyes like his away. And it almost did. But Azriel was patient. Shadows knew how to wait. And so did he.

For a time, he only observed. Let his shadows weave through the marketplace, the temples, the gardens and palaces, listening as if the air itself might confess something. There were Fae here, that much was clear—some from every court, mingling with humans as if no war had ever passed between them. Comfortable. Settled. As though the divisions that had carved their world in two had never mattered here. Yet no one spoke of you directly. Not by name.

There were whispers, though. Talks of their Lady among Vassa’s inner circle—one not bound by title or bloodline. A woman whose voice could silence a room, who walked through fire and shadow without blinking. Azriel almost left then. The information was valuable, more than enough to return with. Something Rhys needed to know. And he had almost turned away, until he felt it.

It wasn’t a word. Not a voice in his mind. It was... a sensation. Younger. Curious. Like being watched by a presence—one that felt oddly familiar, like catching a note of a song you hadn’t heard a full tune for. The echo of Rhysand’s magic—but it wasn’t him. It was something else. Someone else. And then—just like that—it was gone. Cut off.

Still, he waited. Another three days. And on the third, the court began to shift. New enchantments. New wards. The Dawn Court was coming. The castle readied itself for guests, and the magic in the walls responded accordingly. And then—his shadows stirred.

Familiar magic moved through the air, brushing against him like a sigh through silk. Recognition struck so fast he didn’t have time to think, only feel. His shadows peeled away from him, darting into the darkness like hounds catching a scent, and he didn’t stop them.

He moved through the palace like smoke, silent and unseen, his footsteps swallowed by stone and darkness. He didn’t question where he was going. His shadows had found something. 

Barefoot in the garden. Face tilted to the stars as if they were telling a story. The world so still besides the shadows that flickered across your shoulders. 

And Azriel… he couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

The crushing weight in his chest returned with a vengeance—as if he was being told for the first time all over again that you were gone. Only now, that grief was warping, twisting—turning into something too vast to name.

You were here.

He stepped forward, his voice catching somewhere between disbelief and inevitability, the words slipping out of him like they had waited for permission.

“You’re alive.”

Then he dropped. One knee to the earth, as if his body remembered how to honor you before his mind could catch up. It wasn’t planned—it was instinct. Respect. Reverence. The kind of devotion that couldn’t be shaken by time or distance or death. His gaze fixed on the ground, refusing to lift, because if he looked up… if he looked at you and you weren’t really there, if this was some cruel trick—he wasn’t sure he’d recover.

The garden was quiet, save for the whisper of leaves.

Then, gently, the grass shifted in front of him. A whisper of fabric stirred in the breeze, and he caught sight of the hem of a dark nightdress. Then, a hand. Gentle. Warm. Fingers curling over his shoulder with a tenderness that shattered something deep in his chest.

Your voice broke softly across the silence.

“…Hello, Azriel.”

It cracked at the edges, like it wasn’t used to forming his name. Like it hurt to say it. 

“It’s been too long.”

And then—just like that—you were crying.

He heard it in the tremble of your breath, felt it in the way your hand trembled against him. His own eyes burned, the tears rising before he could stop them. He looked up—finally, truly looked—and saw you. Not a dream. Not a shadow. Not a ghost.

You.

And he wasn’t sure if it was you who moved first or him. Only that, suddenly, he was in your arms, or you were in his, and none of it mattered. There was no hesitation, no decorum, no court or duty. Just the crushing, desperate ache of reunion.

You clung to each other beneath the garden’s starlit hush, your breaths unsteady, your bodies shaking—not from fear or cold, but from the sheer force of emotion neither of you could name. It wasn’t grace. It wasn’t beauty. It was raw, the kind of reunion that cracked open the places you thought had long since scarred over.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Azriel’s wings dropped.

They sagged behind him, the powerful muscles trembling too hard to hold them aloft. His wings touched the ground—an unforgivable gesture for any Illyrian, a sign of exhaustion, defeat, or despair. But right now, he didn’t care. 

But then—your hands were on his chest, gently but urgently pushing back. Not far, just enough to look at him. And he saw it then—the fear that had been buried beneath the tears, beneath the relief.

“You can’t tell.”

The words spilled past your lips in a whisper—rushed, desperate. Your eyes searched his face like they already knew the battle that might follow.

“You can’t tell anyone,” you breathed, voice cracking. “I know what I’m asking, I know I have no right anymore, I’m not your Lady—”

He stiffened, his hands still loosely on your arms, his shadows curling tight behind him.

You were wrong. So deeply, devastatingly wrong.

You were still his Lady.

You were still theirs.

He opened his mouth to tell you just that. To remind you who you were. Who you still were, even now—

“Mama?”

A small, sleepy voice carried into the stillness.

Azriel froze.

He turned, slowly, as if moving too fast would make the sound vanish.

And there—emerging from the shadows of a pillar, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists—was a little girl.

And for a moment, for a heartbeat that seemed to shatter everything he thought he understood, he thought he was looking at a baby version of Estelle.

But no—no, not quite. The features were younger. Softer. But so unmistakably familiar it felt like being knocked breathless.

Rhysand.

It was Rhysand’s face—his High Lord’s face, down to the curve of the cheekbones, the deep violet eyes blinking up at him with sleep-heavy curiosity.

She smiled at him—gentle, like he was something soft and safe.

“Friend? Family?”

And Azriel understood.

Understood everything.