#also getting distracted by morrigans tits........

[ambrosykim]

ill be honest im having the time of my life lezzing out in origins lmao

[undermounts]

Empire of Light—Chapter 4: The Ties That Bind

AO3 | Table of Contents  | Ashes and Embers | Playlist

Fic Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of Ash, the party travels across Morella in search of allies to defeat the Empire of Ash, once and for all.

Chapter Summary: Back in Flotilla, Imtura makes a risky move to secure her mother’s fleet.

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Imtura had expected a lot of things to happen when the Wraith docked at Flotilla last night. She had expected the Flotillan guards to swamp her ship—which they did—and fuss over her, flinging royal titles left and right as they knelt at her feet like a pack of obedient dogs—which they also did.

She did not, however, expect to find that her mother was gone. 

“What do you mean, ‘she’s not here?’” Imtura snarled, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Behind her, Kraglin and the rest of the crew set about unloading the Wraith’s cargo hold of old supplies and preparing the ship for a few days at port. No one knew how long they would be docked at Flotilla; Imtura supposed it depended on how stubborn her mother decided to be. 

The guards before her stiffened, taken aback by the viciousness of her tone. “Her Majesty is away on business—”

Imtura’s brows lowered. “What kind of business?”

“It is not for us to say, Your High—”

“Then what good are you?” she snapped before the man could eke out that wretched title. She glanced at Kraglin, who stood behind her, then Morrigan, who stood beside him, gazing at the floating city with unmasked wonder.  Imtura sighed, biting at her lip ring. “When will she be back?”

“We don’t know for certain. It could be as late as tomorrow evening,” one of the guards replied cautiously.

“Tomo—” Imtura cut herself off, reining in her anger. She closed her eyes shut and took a deep, steadying breath, reminding herself that these men were not responsible for her mother’s activities. No one was, aside from Ventra herself. When Imtura opened her eyes again, her temper had cooled somewhat, although her irritation remained. She shook her head, unable to stop her gaze from wandering to the eastern horizon. “I can’t wait that long.”

But left with no other options, she had waited.

After a restless sleep on the Wraith, Imtura dedicated the next morning to giving Morrigan a thorough tour of the sprawling maze of floating walkways and retired vessels of Flotilla, tossing out the names of her favorite ships as she went. The Black Spire, the Copper Thief, the Bloodkraken, the Maiden of the Sea… Imtura did not even realize she knew the names of all of these places until the words were spilling out of her mouth, her voice taking on a tinge of excitement every time she urged Morrigan to take notice of something she loved so dearly. 

There was her favorite tavern, the Sailor’s Lament, which had ale that tasted like stale seawater, but she’d be damned if it wasn’t one of the cheapest and strongest drinks in Flotilla. They passed the supply mill that always gave her a few extra bags of salt for meat, not because she was Princess Imtura, but Captain Tal Kaelen, and here in the reaches of Flotilla that knew Imtura better than Ventra—out there on the roiling waves of the Cartesian Sea—she was respected as such. 

Morrigan had gone red with laughter as Imtura pointed out an old, repurposed ship that was charmingly named Taldaro’s Tit, after the legendary orc Vinestra of Clan Taldaro, who was not only known for inventing the modern warship and her incredible prowess in battle, but also her equally incredible prowess in the bedroom. Taldaro’s Tit—yes, tit singular, not plural, and if anyone bothered to ask, the Flotillans swore up and down that it was specifically, “the right tit not the left”—was the best place to go dancing after downing a few drinks in the taverns.

“You must love this place,” Morrigan noted, as she reverently ran her fingertips along the hull of a bobbing ship as they passed, the feathers of her wings whispering in the briny breeze that swept through the city. “Flotilla, I mean.”

Imtura lifted a brow, glancing over her shoulder at Morrigan as she swaggered down the wooden walkways. It was a bit of a strange feeling, to finally have to look up at someone else as she spoke. Morrigan wasn’t built like Imtura, but she did have a good couple of inches on the orc captain, and Imtura knew that her strength wasn’t something to scoff at.

“You think so, birdie?” she questioned.

Morrigan nodded, gazing around. “The way you talk about Flotilla… It’s the same way my brother talks about the Aerie. With such fondness and familiarity.”

Imtura shrugged, shoving her hands into her pockets as she ambled along. “I’m fond of it, yeah. And I know the city like the back of my hand. It’s familiar.” 

“Well,” Morrigan said casually, glancing over at Imtura. “Maybe knowing something and loving something aren’t all that different.”

Imtura thought that over for a few moments, then bobbed her head. “Maybe you’ve got a point. I know all about the less than amazing parts of the city, and sometimes… Well, sometimes coming back here bums me out,” she confessed. “Feels a bit like swapping out the sea for some shackles.” She shook her head and shrugged. “But no matter what happens, it’ll always be home.”

Imtura mulled this conversation over as she sat at a rickety, ale-stained table in a cozy corner of the Sailor’s Lament, an untouched stein resting by her elbow. After wrapping up her tour with Morrigan, Imtura spent the next few hours whipping the Wraith into tip top shape. She swabbed the deck, replaced frayed sections of the rigging, and chipped barnacles off the hull—it was menial work, housekeeping chores that Imtura had not done since she herself was a swabbie. 

That must have been…  almost a decade ago, at least. Imtura could not wrap her head around the fact that it had been nearly ten years since that fateful evening, when she had ran away from Flotilla and stowed herself away on the infamous Sea King. But that was another story.

Repairing the Wraith was not stimulating work, but it was distracting, and Imtura was more than happy to take on the tasks, if only so she could have something to do while she waited for her dreaded mother to finally grace her with an appearance. 

But the crew—namely Kraglin, with his damned big heart—put their foot down when Imtura started polishing the Wraith’s hull. 

“What kind of pirate lets their captain do all of the work?” Kraglin had exclaimed jovially before stooping to grab Imtura’s legs while his twin brother, Marglin, grabbed her shoulders and began to haul her, kicking and spewing obscenities, off the ship. “You’ve got to have some fun, boss.” 

They dragged her, and consequently, Morrigan, into the Flotillan nightlife, down the bobbing, uneven avenues, all the way to the Sailor’s Lament, where her quartermaster and boatswain ordered a round of ale for the entire crew, including that yellow-bellied, doe-eyed, Parnassus cabin boy.

“This is coming out of your coin, not mine,” Imtura snarled as they set her down at a booth in the far corner of the tavern and gave her a tankard, much to their merry amusement.

“Sure thing, boss,” Marglin promised placatingly, ordering a platter of roasted octopus, fried fish heads, and seaweed skewers for the table. “Sure thing.”

With a mixture of warmth and amusement, Imtura watched her crewmates guzzle down their rounds from her spot in the secluded booth, ale sloshing over the edges of their tankards, and Morrigan sandwiched in between them. She was glad to see that her crew had quickly taken the winged woman in, treating her like one of their own, and Morrigan, to her credit, had no problem in keeping up with their revelry. 

By the Moon, Morrigan matched Iskra—the Wraith’s navigator—pint for pint without losing her wits, and that woman could drink most orcs under the table. Morrigan also didn’t even bat an eye at the strange array of food. Imtura reckoned that in Rysoth, she’d probably seen stranger.

Imtura wished she could join them, that she could laugh, and dance, and get so irrefutably drunk, she couldn't even remember her own damn name. But for the first time in her swashbuckling life, she did not drink.

She simply couldn’t. There was too much resting on this meeting with Ventra, and even though being a little drunk may have been the only hope she had of getting through said meeting with her sanity intact, it would do no good to anyone for her to show up boozed off her feet. Her mother was already disappointed in her enough.

Imtura watched Morrigan, the members of her crew, and the other Flotillans with a warm sort of contentment that wriggled its way into her anxious heart. She supposed that even if this whole meeting with Ventra went to complete and utter shit, there was one good thing that came out of her return to Flotilla: she got to bring her crew home once more, got to give them this small slice of normalcy before the world went arse up again.

Imtura reached into her pocket and pulled out a single gold doubloon. It was an old piece, dated from before the current Morellian currency was established, and was the first bit of gold Imtura had ever earned as a pirate, a gift from one great captain to another. Only Imtura hadn’t been a captain then. Just a runaway princess, trying to find where she belonged.

Imtura flipped the coin on her thumb and caught it, weighing it thoughtfully in her palm. On one side, it featured a familiar curving symbol. At the bottom, there was a curled arch that looked like a wave poised to crash. Above that was a seashell-like spiral, with two great horns sprouting from the sides. The symbol of her people. The other side featured a crude depiction of land and sea meeting beneath a sky full of stars.

Both faces were worn, both from age and years of Imtura rubbing her thumb against its surface whenever she felt the weight of leadership to be particularly heavy upon her shoulders. She set it on the old, wooden table and spun it on its edge, the lantern lights of the tavern flickering on its golden face.

If I ever find it… I’ll let you know. 

The coin spun and spun, then wobbled and wavered.

Then, you can bring our people home.

It was a foolish plan, a dreamer’s hope. Imtura knew that place was long gone, lost to fire, to the sea, and to time itself. To go looking for it… That was like chasing a child’s fairytale.

But… 

She had seen many impossible things, even before getting involved with this Shadow Realm business. She had seen so many wonders… What was one more?

Imtura caught the doubloon as it fell, swiping her thumb over the surface that featured the landscape. Then, she pocketed it and stood.

After leaving a quick word with Kraglin, Imtura ducked out of the Sailor’s Lament and made her way across the bobbing walkways of Flotilla, acknowledging the passing nods of respect she got as Captain and ignoring the deferential inclinations she received as Princess.

Officially, Flotilla had no temples or shrines dedicated to elements of nature the orcs worshipped: the Skies, the Winds, the Ocean, the Earth, the Sun, the Stars, and the Moon. Unlike the Faith of the Light and the Shared Pantheon, religion among the orcs was decentralized, piety left to the individual. But there were places in the floating city in which Imtura’s people liked to leave their offerings.

The Sea Nymph was one such place. 

Imtura crossed the gangway onto an old, barnacle-covered ship, reaching out to affectionately pat its hull as she boarded. On the bow of the ancient vessel, the name was painted in flowing script, the white paint faded with age. 

Barely an adolescent, Imtura had not been around when Ventra officially won over all of the orc fleets and established Flotilla as her capital. Instead, she had been hidden away on a ship with a few trusted orcs of the Minurva Clan, far away from all of the danger and political turmoil as her mother upended centuries of tradition. 

But Imtura heard that at the time, when Flotilla was little more than a small cluster of old ships and floating shacks, the Sea Nymph had already been stationed here, with a small collection of oddities already hidden inside. There were even rumors that the Sea Nymph was the first ship in Flotilla, the starting point around which the rest of the floating city had been constructed. 

Imtura did not know if those rumors were true, but the Sea Nymph was certainly weathered enough to fit the tale, and in the last decade, no one had ever claimed ownership of the vessel. As such, its wellbeing was left in the collective hands of the Flotillans, which was probably why it had fallen into a state of such disrepair.

As she crossed the deck of the orphaned vessel and descended the stairs that led into its belly, Imtura found herself wishing she could have seen the Sea Nymph in its heyday. Even with all of its rotted wood and the massive holes that gaped in the floors, there were still vestiges of its past glory—faded gold filigree on the bannister, waterlogged wool rugs, chipped carvings of mermaids laid into the creaking walls… 

Once, it must have been beautiful.

But now, Imtura supposed the ship had a different kind of beauty, and if she was being honest, she preferred it. Deep in the vessel’s cargo hold, Imtura was surrounded by the multitude of offerings orcs from all across the Cartesian Sea had left here for the elements. 

Windchimes and sparkling bits of glass hung from the ceiling, tinkling softly with the swaying motion of the ship and the lazy breeze that streamed through the cracks in the hull—offerings to the Skies and the Winds.

An old fur rug sat in the back corner, right in the path of the moonlight that streamed into the room through a hole in the side of the ship. On top of the rug sat precious gemstones and silver dimes, offerings laid out for the Moon and the Stars.

Imtura crossed to the ship’s stern and clambered up a ladder made of rope, hauling herself into what had once been the quarters of the Sea Nymph’s captain. The bedroom was in no better shape than the rest of the ship—the main entrance was obstructed by fallen beams and splintered wood, the velvet canopy of the bed was peppered with holes and coated in dust. But it still held an air of sanctity and whispers of grandeur.

The doors to the balcony had been left open by the last visitor, the tattered curtains flowing like strands of spider silk. Imtura crossed onto the balcony, which served as yet another shrine. Shells, broken bits of coral, and even small pieces of ships—the knob of a wheel, a shredded flag—were balanced atop the railing or laid on the ground. But the majority of the offerings made to the Ocean were dropped over the side of the balustrade, right into the sea itself.

Imtura reached into her pockets, fingers scrounging around for anything she could offer up to the elements. All she had was a bit of lint, a few ribbons to tie her off her braids, and that golden doubloon. For a moment, Imtura contemplated flipping the coin over the side of the ship, but sentimentality—and perhaps a bit of child-like hope—had her pocketing the gold piece once more. Instead, Imtura took her ribbons and tied them around the wooden posts that upheld the railing.

She watched them flutter in the wind for a moment, taking that as a sign nature had accepted her meager offering, and was about to turn when a voice behind her spoke up.

“The tavern wasn’t fun enough, for you?”

Imtura half-turned, bracing her hand against the wooden banister. A single sand dollar was nudged out of the way by her fingers and fell into the gentle waves with a plunk!

“Morrigan.” Imtura relaxed slightly, dropping the hand that had instinctively moved to hover over one of her axes. “Like sneaking up on me, do you?”

Morrigan shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. You were just…” she shrugged, her gaze roaming over Imtura’s head. “Deep into your own thoughts, I suppose. What is this place?” she asked, looking around the captain’s cabin with an unreadable expression. “It’s…”

Imtura half-expected her to say “old” or “a wreck” or perhaps “a rotting shithole” and frankly, she would have been right to do so. 

But instead, Morrigan said, “Incredible.”

Imtura let out a little breath, lips easing into a casual smile. “Isn’t it? This is where we orcs sometimes come to give up offerings to the elements. There’s no other place in Flotilla like it.”

“Give up offerings?” Morrigan asked, joining Imtura on the balcony. She tucked her wings in tight behind her, taking care to avoid knocking over any of the items strewn about. “Is that what you were doing just now? Making an offering?”

“Yeah,” Imtura shrugged, glancing down at the ribbons that danced in the breeze. “S’pose so.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious type,” Morrigan noted although there was no judgment or accusation in her voice. 

“I’m not, really,” Imtura admitted, tapping her fingers against the railing. “At least not in the way that the humans, elves, and your folk are. I didn’t even believe in the gods until recently.” She turned away, fixing her attention on the slivers of the dark horizon that were visible in between other ships and bobbing structures. “We orcs don’t have temples or priests or anything like that. These offerings… they’re just meant to give back to what made us. The elements. And maybe get a little good luck along the way.”

“Good luck?” Morrigan asked, lifting a coppery brow. In the moonlight, the freckles that splashed across her cheeks looked like little stars. She smiled slightly, nudging Imtura’s elbow with her own. “What does a fearsome orc captain like you need luck for?”

Imtura huffed through her nose. “Meet my mother and then you’ll understand.”

Morrigan raised her eyebrows at Imtura for a moment, then nodded. “Ah. So, it’s like that,” she mused aloud. “You think you’ll have difficulty convincing your mother to send the fleet to Morella’s aid.”

“Without question,” Imtura replied. “She harbors no love for human kings. And as far as she’s concerned, the elves can go right on ahead and isolate themselves into extinction.”

“Harsh,” Morrigan muttered and Imtura shrugged.

“Sometimes, I can’t blame her,” she confessed, nudging aside a few offerings to brace her forearms on the railing. “I don’t agree with her, but… There was a time when my people were thought of as the scum of Morella. By some people, we still are. That’s why you’ll never find an orc east of Port Parnassus. Not just because we can’t live without the sea, but because no town would ever have us.”

Imtura laughed, the sound more harsh and bitter than she had intended it to be. “‘We lay no roots,’” she stated, shaking her head. “That’s our motto. It’s what my people have lived by ever since we lost Kell D’hana. My ancestors promised to never settle, to always seek adventure, and to chase the thrill of conquest. But look at Flotilla. A bunch of stationary ships and floating buildings.”

“By your principles, Flotilla should not exist,” Morrigan said slowly, picking up on Imtura’s line of thought.

“Exactly.” Imtura nodded, sighing heavily. “If you ask me, the reason we’re so proud to be a seafaring race is because it goes against the one thing we want but can’t have.”

“And what’s that?”

“A home,” Imtura stated somberly. “Not just Flotilla, but a real home. A place to belong. One that won’t go up in flames if a single lantern drops.”

She’d never spoken about this before, to anyone. In fact, she rarely ever gave these thoughts any time, for just thinking them felt almost treasonous. Even when she reminisced with the party, she usually only told them about how much she missed sailing and her crew. They’d always understood. But maybe that was why it was easier to talk to Morrigan. Because Morrigan didn’t understand. She didn’t know the orcs like Morellians did, didn’t know what they were and weren’t supposed to be.

“It’s all material, though,” Imtura added, feeling a bit of warmth rush to her cheeks at her confession, the uncomfortable sense of vulnerability she now felt. “I know that as long as I’ve got my crew and my freedom, I’ll be alright. ‘Home is where the heart is’ and all that.”

“Are you trying to make me believe that or are you trying to convince yourself?”

Imtura let out a startled huff, surprised—and a little impressed—by Morrigan’s bluntness. “You’re nosy aren’t you?”

Morrigan shrugged, shaking her head. “You sound like you have some stuff you’ve got to work through. I’m just trying to help you figure out what that is.”

Imtura eyed the other woman cautiously. Morrigan was fun. Fun to flirt with, fun to banter with, and Imtura was certain that there was a great deal of other kinds of fun they could get up to together. But now, Imtura began to wonder if whatever flirtation they had between them could ever be more than just fun.

She could stand to find out.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she confessed softly, tugging at the ends of her hair. “But I feel like there’s a part of me missing. Like I’m searching for a place I’ve never been, a place that I’ve never seen. But deep down, I know it and it knows me. Even though we have never met.”

“A home,” Morrigan said, her voice equally soft.

Imtura nodded, trying not to shy away from Morrigan’s green gaze. “Yeah.”

“Do you think a place like that exists out there?” Morrigan asked.

“I don’t know that, either,” Imtura admitted. She supposed that for an adventurer, there was a lot about the world she did not know. “Maybe. I once…” She shook her head, turning her gaze to stare into the depths of the sea below them, the dark waves reflecting the silver moonlight. “I once knew a woman who planned to find out. I’ll never know if she did.”

“Well, just so you know…” Morrigan said after a few moments had passed in silence. “Whether a place like that exists or not, if you ever decide to quit swashbuckling and settle down, the Aerie would gladly have you.”

Imtura smiled at that, leaning her weight on one elbow as she looked over at Morrigan. “Well, just so you know… You’ll always have a place at my hearth. And on my ship.” Then she winked and added, “In case you ever find a storm you can’t handle.”

Morrigan grinned, shifting a little closer. “I’ve been told that the captain’s quarters are the warmest place on the Wraith. Is that true?”

“I’d say so,” Imtura replied, pushing away from the railing to take a step toward Morrigan. She reached out, fingers brushing aside a coppery strand of Morrigan’s unbound hair from her cheek. It was so rare that the Avian woman wore it outside of a plait, and Imtura was possessed by the sudden urge to run her hands through it. “But you are welcome to find out for yourself any time.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” Morrigan whispered, her cheeks rounding against Imtura’s fingertips as she smiled and began to lean in.

“As you should,” Imtura murmured, sliding her hand from Morrigan’s cheek to the back of her neck as she closed her eyes. She felt Morrigan’s breath on her skin and thought faintly that she smelled like a storm, wild and reckless. Imtura wondered if she tasted like one, too.

“Captain?” 

Sunken hells.

Stifling a groan, Imtura turned away, prepared to bite the head off of whoever just interrupted them. But when she saw her quartermaster, Kraglin, standing in the captain’s quarters of the Sea Nymph, his face uncharacteristically sober, she stiffened. She knew why he had come.

Kraglin nodded, catching the look of understanding that crossed Imtura’s face.

“It’s time.”

Read the rest of the chapter on AO3!

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[featherymalignancy]

Tender Jar: An Elriel Experiment                            

            “Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness, and the infinite                                              tenderness shattered you like a jar”                                         -Pablo Neruda

Synopsis: Six months after the war, Elain is still mourning all that the cauldron took from her, and it’s only Azriel she trusts not to judge her for her brokenness. However, when she has a vision concerning both Lucien and Graysen, she steels her courage and braves first the Spring Court and then the Mortal World, Azriel at her side. When lines are drawn and Elain is pushed to her emotional limit, she must decide whether she will let her past shatter her or give in to the desires of her tender heart.Warnings: Elriel with brief Elucien. NSFW. Contains some graphic depictions of sex and foul language, and minor violence.

See The Masterlist here

                          Previously on Tender Jar…

“Az,” she said, daring a step forward to brush her fingers to his broad back. As always, he stiffened when she made contact. He’d been careful to keep their physical contact to a minimum since that night in his room, and she tried not to feel stung at how much her touch clearly repelled him. “What is it?” she pressed. "Has something happened?”

He didn’t respond, though his wings flared slightly in agitation, the way Illyrians' often did when they were experiencing some extreme emotion.

“Is it something I—“ she began, but she was cut off as he abruptly turned, wings snapping to his back as he backed her against the wall and kissed her.

Part VI: Azriel

Azriel winnowed deep into the hedge maze at the Southern end of Tamlin’s lurid estate, wrapping himself in darkness and snarling his pained frustration. When he was done, he let his body go limp, resting his forehead on the cool lip of a nearby fountain as he tried to gentle the roaring hiss of secrets the shadows whispered into his ear. He’d trained for nearly half a millennia to master them, and normally with his unassailable control, they were easy to filter. However, what happened with Elain had fractured his composure, and with the floodgates broken, Azriel was struggling not to drown in them.

Your absence has been noted. Three sentries disbatched to follow. The wraiths are with the girl. The Autumn lordling is looking for her as well. He suspects—

Azriel let out another pained snarl, struggling to overpower a foreign sensation clawing up his chest that was making it difficult to breathe. He hadn’t felt anything like it since the day the Illyrians had dragged him out of his father’s house screaming nearly six centuries ago. He took a shuddering breath, fighting to lower his pulse. It was only after he mastered the feeling and took a full, deep breath that he recognized it for what it was: the urge to cry.

Azriel had once heard Rhys describe him as a creature of icy rage, and his brother was right; Azriel had always kept himself cocooned in ice, because to him, heat was nothing more than pain. Heat was the scorch of the oil on his hands as they caught alight. It was the ruination of his flesh, the smell of his skin as it burned off his bones. Heat was the look in Morrigan’s eyes as they fell on Cassian that day in the camp, and the searing pain when he’d learned that she had chosen his best friend over him.

So Azriel plunged his heart, ravaged by all he’d seen and endured, into a darkness so frigid that it too had burned, and he’d held it under the cold until it had hardened to bitter ice, and nothing could touch it. Not his desire for Mor nor his hatred of his brothers, and not the searing knowledge that in both instances, he’d been unwanted, unworthy. The numbness, though imperfect, had worked, and for hundreds of years his heart had remained that way: savagely frozen, impervious to heat.

But Lucien had been right; Elain was like Spring. She was the warmth of new beginning, and like all wintery things, Azriel’s frigidity had thawed under her careful touch. She’d done it with her smiles, and her fragile courage, and her enduring belief that no matter how bitter the winter, the flowers would bloom again at the turn of the seasons.

He’d known it had been happening for awhile, known it since the day he’d risked everything to go to Hybern and rescue her, and had tried to guard himself against it, but the last few weeks had completely undone him. Seeing her smile at him, hearing her laugh and cry—both of which were so achingly honest—it had all worn away what little resistance he’d still had.

And tonight, when he’d seen her with Lucien, watched them dance and heard the shadows whispering to him the offers the spoiled little lordling had made her, Azriel had felt a heat, unfamiliar and dangerous, blooming in his chest.

It was anger, first and foremost, anger towards the cauldron for granting an unworthy vulpine like Lucien Vanserra Elain as a mate. It was also jealousy, the same he’d felt towards Cassian when he’d bedded the female he loved. It was the white-hot pain at the realization that just as it had been with Mor, it could’ve been him that Elain had chosen, but wasn't.

More than anything, though, it was desire. He wanted Elain, had wanted her for a long time, and as he'd listened to his newly-revived heart pounding hot blood into his ears, he’d been nearly overcome with the need to have her, mind, body, and soul.

And when she’d come to him, when she’d left Vanserra to seek him out, he'd snapped. He’d spent centuries honing his control, teaching himself patience and restraint, and she’d shattered it all in a single evening.

He could still feel the soft material of her gown under his fingertips, and the press of her gorgeous breasts against his chest. And when she’d touched his wings, Cauldron damn him, he’d been ready to push up her skirts and fuck her in the hall, he’d been so blinded by want.

But had only taken two syllables from her to bring it all down, and in point of fact, it had been perhaps the only word capable of breaking the fugue her touch and taste had thrown him into.

Lucien.

And the way she said it, the desperation and need in it, it had broken Azriel. He felt all of it—everything he’d spent centuries holding at bay—crash into him all at once.

Whatever slow, slouching agony Azriel had endured over Mor, whatever lessons he thought it might have taught him about managing disappointment, hearing Elain say another male’s name while she was in his arms had been so much  worse. At least with Mor, he’d never allowed himself to touch her, or to fully acknowledge just how badly he wanted her to return his affections, however pathetic and unrequited. That last little distance—that barest stretch of dignity he’d retained by not seeking her out—had been his salvation through centuries of wanting.

But with Elain…

He’d ceded the majority of hope he’d ever had of not wanting her for the rest of eternity when he’d let her touch his wings that night in his bedroom, and he’d yielded the rest when he’d kissed her tonight and let himself fully imagine what it would be like to be loved by her, to have her always at his side.

He let out yet another pained snarl, banging his fist on the fountain’s lip so hard that the water within shuddered in fear.

The shadows continued to roar in his ears, but even through the chaotic, cacophonous disappointment eddying his thoughts, he felt something foreign lurking at the edge of the poisonous fog that made up his mental shield, seeking permission to enter. He rolled his neck and let go of his strangling grip on the shadows, allowing the presence into the antechamber of his mind.

What the hell is going on? Rhys’s voice echoed. Mother’s tits, I can feel you seething from here.

Azriel clenched his jaw but didn’t reply. He couldn’t bare to voice what had happened, even knowing Rhys of all people would understand.

Talk  Rhys commanded. What’s going on? Is Elain alright?

"She’s—beautiful, brave, in love with another male—she’s fine."

And you?

“You know me.”

Yes, I do. That’s why I’m asking.

Azriel felt the prescense in his mind rallying its strength, seeking to gain further entry.

“Get out my head,” he snarled, snapping at a tendril of Rhys’s power with a barbed one of his own.

Then tell me what’s going on with you! I can feel your distress from Velaris!

“I’m not distressed.”

Unhinged, then. Seriously, I—

"Can you never mind your own damn business?”

Azriel felt Rhys’s energy change, felt it sharpen and grow dark.

I’m still your High Lord. Tell me what’s going on or I swear to The Mother Az, I will unleash Nesta Archeron on you. Or maybe I’ll have Cassian kick your ass, I haven’t decided.

"Go ahead,” Azriel snarled quietly.

He could take Cassian and they both knew it. Besides, a few broken ribs would be a welcome distraction from the evening so far. Anything to numb the memory of Elain's hands sliding through his hair, down his chest...

Is it Vanserra? Has he—done something? Said something to you or Elain?

"He’s a child; I can handle him."

Yes, but does he need handling?

"It’s nothing,” Azriel replied, clenching and unclenching his left fist. He needed to hit something. Or better yet, someone.

Fine, Rhys snapped. But I want you back in Velaris in three days, or I will send Feyre and Nesta to sort whatever this is out.

“We leave for the mortal lands tomorrow. Depending on what happens with the boy, we could be back in Velaris by sundown.”

I will hold you to that, then.

“Fine,” Azriel said. “We’ll speak when I return.”

There was silence on the other end of the sinuous connection, but Azriel could feel Rhys’s presence linger.

Az, are you sure you’re alright?

“I said I was fine.”

Is this about you and Elain?

Azriel’s throat ached with the effort of keeping his voice even.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You don’t have to lie to me, brother. I see the way y—

Azriel snapped down his shields without so much as a goodbye, feeling with grim satisfaction as Rhys’s voice was smothered by the dark fog.

He stood alone in the darkness for several more minutes, fighting to force his pain back into the icy chest he’d kept it in all these years.

Some sick, tortured part of him yearned to go to Elain even now, to hear what she’d been about to say when he’d disappeared. She’d kissed him back, after all, and the way she’d touched his wings with such careful intent and writhed against him…

No, he wouldn’t. She’d made it clear enough where her heart lay. He wouldn’t burden her with the odious task of formally rejecting him, and he couldn’t trust his fractured composure not to betray him. No, he would stay here until he could master himself, even if it took all night. He had no choice but to face her when they left the following morning, but he promised himself that by then, he would be in control again. He didn’t have a choice: their mission was far from complete, and the journey would only get more difficult from here.

He forced all the tension, all the frustration and pain, from his shoulders and back, down his arms and stomach until the power of it was concentrated in his scarred hands, his favourite reminder of just how unworthy he’d always been, always would be. He snarled, and he felt the lip of the fountain strain beneath his grip, a thin tracery of  cracks spidering through the marble.

The violence of it made him feel—if not better—at least less manic, and he let out a shuddering breath, head hanging low enough that he felt his shoulder blades touching, his wings forming a dark mandorla behind him that shielded him from prying eyes. Tamlin's sentries where still trying to sniff him out, the shadows warned him. Azriel let himself fade deeper into darkness. If someone were to pick a fight with him now, he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold back from tearing them apart, and he didn’t relish in the prospect of igniting a war with Spring over something so petty and selfish.

He tensed when he felt a shadowy presence appear behind him, but he forced himself to relax as Nuala approached. She stopped a measured distance away, waiting calmly for him to speak.

“Report,” he said, forcing his voice flat.

“Three sentinels were dispatched to find you, but they have been misdirected. The Lady Elain is in her room, and Cerridwen is with her.”

She paused, and he knew what she was hesitant to say.

“And the Autumn lordling?” he asked for her.

“Still at the festivity. Though he’s begun to make inquiries after her. Would you like me to…keep him distracted?”

Azriel clenched and unclenched his fist, tempted—so bloody tempted—to say yes. Because he’d seen the way Lucien had been looking at Elain, heard the subtle offer he’d made her. Not that Azriel could blame the spoiled prick for wanting Elain. She was his mate, after all, and she was so unbearably beautiful—the most beautiful female Azriel had ever seen. Even now, he could feel his own desire for her roiling like poison in his gut.

“No,” he bit out after a beat. “Just…keep an eye on him, and tell me where he goes.”

Nuala paused again. She’d been in his service enough to know his moods, and she must sense how black it was at present, how snarled and jagged the usually polished edges of his demeanor had grown.

“And if he should come to My Lady’s room?” she asked finally.

Azriel felt a surge of fetid emotion swell at the thought of Lucien’s hands on Elain, his lips on her bare skin…

“If she wishes to invite him in, that is her choice. I am her companion, not her keeper.”

He felt Nuala’s consideration as she debated commenting. He prayed she wouldn’t. He knew he’d trained her too well and that she’d seen too much of what had passed between him and Elain not to know the score by now, but he couldn’t bear the humiliation of all of it being dragged into the open.

“And you?” she said at length.

He felt more than heard as she chanced a small step forward. Not close enough to touch him, but enough that he could feel her shadows, cool and nimble, twining with his.

His own surged at the quiet caress, rising to whisper her silent invitation in her ear.

Ask her to your bed. She will not refuse. She will be attentive, she will—

Azriel turned, forcing himself to meet Nuala’s obsidian eyes. It would not be the first time he’d bedded her, but this was different. He could sense her offer, though sincere, was perfunctory, not born of any real desire for him. He wouldn’t be so selfish as to use her sense of duty against her. She was a loyal lieutenant, and she deserved better than to be a stand-in or a warm body. Besides, even if he hadn’t respected her as much as he did, he doubted bedding another female could lessen the pain of wanting Elain.

“I’ve heard the scouts report of trouble along the Northeastern border,” he said in answer. “I want to find out more before we leave. If Beron Vanserra is up to something, I would know what it is before we leave here.”

She nodded, stepping back dutifully.

“Of course,” she said, giving a small bow. “I will stay here.”

He nodded too, wishing he could find a way to express his gratitude to her without losing his grip on the reigns of the weak bit he’d managed to wrestle between his pain’s sharp, stubborn teeth.

“Thank you, Nuala,” he managed, and she inclined her head again.

“Anything, my lord.”

He bristled at the title, an ill-fitting moniker only the wraiths ever forced on him, despite centuries of protestation. Unable to find the strength to fight her on it tonight, he unfurled his wings in tacit farewell, offering her only the barest nod before exploding into the night with a leathery boom.

Azriel stayed awake until dawn, flying unseen over the territory, all the way to the outskirts of the Autumnal border. There he listened to the scout’s reports of what they’d seen, of the few Autumn spies they’d caught lurking to close to the demarcation line between their two terrorities. None of them seemed to know what they wanted, even Tamlin, who showed up to receive reports of his own just before daybreak. Lucien, Azriel noted, was not with him, and Azriel tried to assure himself it was because he was no longer Tamlin’s emissary, and that despite their professed friendship, he was no longer privy to Tamlin’s secrets. It was a desperate hope, but Azriel clung to it, not able to bear the alternative. He’d heard nothing from Nuala after he’d left her, but she seemed to understand the situation well enough that she likely would have withheld any information she knew would hurt him, unless it compromised Elain’s safety.

Azriel arrived back to his room in the early hours of morning, feeling weary to his very bones. He’d expected to have a better grip on his emotions by now, but he still felt hollowed out and raw. A few more days, he reassured himself. It was only a few more days, and when he got back to Velaris, he’d beg Rhys for something—anything—to take him out of the city and away from Elain and Lucien for a time. He hoped the distance might lend him perspective, and peace, and that when he returned, he and Elain could go back to the friendship they’d shared before all this, just as he and Mor had done so many centuries ago.

It was the prospect of losing that, he realized, that scared him more than having to watch her mate another male. He wanted Elain, yes, he likely always would, but it was her spirit—her soul—he loved best about her, and it would be worth any other pain to be allowed to keep spending time with her as they’d done in the months after Hybern’s defeat. He only prayed now that she would accept it, and that as her mate, Lucien would find the restraint to bear it.

Once in his room, he practically tore the fine velvet jacket he still wore in his haste to get the garment off. It still smelled faintly of Elain, he realized, and the scent had been quietly driving him to madness all evening, even as he struggled to get her out of his thoughts. He tried not to breathe in as he wrestled the monstrosity over his head, but he couldn’t escape the whisper of rose and magnolia that brushed against his senses. Even now, even after everything that had happened, he could feel his body react to the smell, to the memory of her soft body undulating against—

He growled, ripping off his boots and hurling one at the wall hard enough to crack some of the gilded moulding. Satisfied, he prowled into the bathing room, filling the tub with scalding hot water and generous amounts of eucalyptus to cool his sizzling nerves. He still didn’t feel entirely in control of himself, and he feared what would happen if he faced Elain with anything other than full restraint.

He felt his shadows rise in a flare, whispering to him as he settled into the bath.

The lordling did not visit her during the night, but he is with her now. They are sharing a private meal. She is calmed by his presence.

Azriel considered this before pushing the shadows outward, letting them slip from beneath the door and slither across the hall, until they could hear what was being said in the room beyond.

“You retired early last night,” Lucien commented. His tone was light, carefully observational, but the shadows could sense the underlying desperation in the question.

He suspects, they whispered to Azriel. He fears that Elain sought you out. He wishes to reassure himself.

“I’m sorry,” Elain said in response to Lucien’s unspoken question. “It’s been a trying few weeks, and I just wanted to be well-rested for our journey.”

Lucien remained silent as he considered. The shadows noted his elevated pulse, the way he seemed to fight to keep him muscles relaxed.

“I hope it isn’t because of what I said,” he finally managed. “I would never want you to feel as if I expect…“

He trailed off, and the shadows drank in the younger male’s quiet desperation.

“I don’t,” Elain assured him, and there was a soft affection in her tone. Azriel knew she could sense Lucien’s distress as well, and it wasn’t in her nature to allow someone to flounder in their own pain, particularly not someone with whom she shared such a holy bond. “I am flattered you find me so...“

She trailed off, and the shadow noted as Lucien’s heart rate continued to climb.

“I do,” Lucien said in a soft, intent voice. “More than any other female I’ve ever met. Elain—“

Azriel let out a pained snarl, withdrawing his shadows to avoid hearing any more. He watched as they bled into the water of the bath instead, leeching the it’s warmth and mirror-bright reflection until the water was obsidian and bitterly cold. Azriel forced himself to remain for several minutes, letting the chill center him. Only when he felt his muscles begin to go numb from cold did he let himself get out, dressing with brutal Illyrian efficiency. Even still, he felt his fingers trembling slightly as he attached Truth-teller to his leg. He flexed his hands several times in an effort to dispel their shaking.

He could do this. He’d faced far worse than this in his life, and he wasn’t seventeen anymore. Rolling his shoulders and letting his wings flex in agitation, he finally tucked them to his back, feeling better as he slid his sword home into the sheath along his spine. He was free from the insidious restraints of court, he reminded himself, and it made him feel a fraction less manic. An hour, tops, and he would be free of this place and the mess he’d made for himself here. If he was lucky, it would be a hundred years before he was forced to return here, if not longer.

Touching Truth-teller’s hilt to steel his nerve, he crossed the hall and knocked on Elain’s door.

“Who is it?” Lucien called, and Azriel grit his teeth in irritation.

He debated a sharp retort, the same kind Vanserra himself would have given were their positions reversed. Instead he merely admitted himself, closing the door behind him with a soft snick.

He forced his eyes to pass over Elain in an assessing arc, as if merely insuring she was safe and suitably outfitted for travel. In reality, seeing her, having her scent wash over him, was the most exquisite agony, a twisting of the knife the previous evening have jammed into his gut.

Elain was dressed in a simple gown in midnight blue, which set off her creamy ivory skin and made her brown eyes seem almost gold. Someone—likely Cerridwen—had plaited her hair down her back, and even now, Azriel had to fight down the urge to run the silken rope of its length through his fingers. He settled for flexing them instead, letting his expression grow harder as he turned to Lucien.

“Alright, let’s hear this plan of yours.”

Lucien had—to Azriel’s furious chagrin—kept their travel route to himself for the past several weeks, insisting that its secret needed to be guarded until it was absolutely necessary to divulge it. Azriel had bristled at the enduring insult of the gesture, of the suggestion he either couldn’t or wouldn’t keep the stupid, spoiled lordling’s secrets if asked.

Lucien crossed his arms.

“We winnow to the coast, and take a ship to the continent from there.”

“A ship?” Azriel repeated incredulously.

“A clever invention to safely transport one across a body of water,”  Lucien replied in a glib tone, giving Elain a small wink that had Azriel seeing red. “Have you truly never heard of one?”

Azriel loosed a soft growl, fighting to keep his wings from unfurling to express the full measure of his agitation. It was Illyrian instinct to show one’s wings when challenged, and the urge was especially strong when a contested female was present. He’d already slipped up and done it once in front of Vanserra. He couldn’t afford a second time. Besides, he reminded himself, there would be no more contesting for Elain’s favor from his end.

“We don’t have time for your childish games, Vanserra,” he warned in a quiet, deadly voice. “It’s more than a week to the kingdom by sea, and we’ll be vulnerable to attack.”

“Attack from whom, Shadowsinger? No one knows where we’re going.”

“Tamlin knows,” Azriel shot back coolly. “That’s more than enough threat for me.”

Lucien bristled at the insult to his friend, and Azriel felt his fury growing. How Vanserra could stand there, after everything Tamlin had put Azriel’s family through—put Lucien’s own mate through—and still defend the prick, Azriel would never understand.

“The kingdom’s borders are warded,” Lucien said prudently instead. "Vassa’s guards have orders to shoot anyone who tampers with them on sight.”

“Leave that to me,” Azriel said. “I can get through a few wards.”

“And if you do?” Lucien said. “How will you explain our presence at court if we simply appear out of thin air?”

“Perhaps if I’d known this was your plan three weeks ago, I would have an answer to that question.”

“Spare me. You couldn’t even—“ Lucien began, but Elain cut him off.

“Please, let’s not fight,” she said, worrying a pair of soft riding gloves in her hands. “Azriel, if Lucien says this is the best way, I think we ought to trust him.”

Azriel felt the knife sinking in just that much deeper, and he had to keep himself from flinching at her words, and the realization that lay behind them. It was Lucien she trusted, Lucien she’d chosen to follow.

“Az,” she said, and he stiffened at the gentleness of her tone, and the intimacy in evoking a diminutive he’d only allowed a handful of people to ever use. “Please.”

He couldn’t help it; he glanced up at her, and the look she was giving him was enough to make him regret it. Her expression was a bare echo of the pained one she’d given him the previous evening, after things had gone so terribly wrong between them. Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to undermine her decision by refusing to honor it, and anyways, he wasn’t sure he could resist attacking Vanserra if they kept arguing.

“Fine,” he said, needing to get out of this room, out of this damn territory. “But if something should go awry, Vanserra, know that it’ll be on your head.”

Lucien rolled his eyes like the petulant child he still seemed to Azriel, and he had to fight not to spring at the other male. He flexed his left hand to keep it from straying to Truth-teller’s hilt.

“Make your preparations, then,” Azriel said. “We’ll leave at nine bells.”

Lucien bristled at the command in Azriel’s tone, but he ignored the younger male, letting his eyes pass over Elain and hoping she couldn’t see all the things he was still longing to say. 

With a bare nod to her, he left the room, crossing into his own and making for a small table in the back arranged with a number of ornate liquor bottles. Not bothering with one of the crystal glasses, Azriel unstoppered one and took a long, bitter swig. It burned going down, but he ignored the cloying taste, taking another sizable draught, then another.

“Is that wise, My Lord?” a soft voice echoed. “You have a long journey ahead of you.”

Azriel didn’t turn, but he did set down the bottle he was holding, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and his empty stomach rioted in protest at the liquor now heaving in his belly.

“Not now, Nuala. Please.”

“I would not see you make yourself sick, My Lord.”

Azriel grit his teeth, even as his stomach continued to roil.

“If I wanted a lecture,” he said. “I would have brought Morrigan.”

She didn’t reply to this, and Azriel knew her training was telling her she’d said what she needed to.

“I need you to go back to Velaris,” he said. “The plan has changed, and Rhys needs to be informed.”

“My Lord—“ she began, but he turned, holding up a hand.

“It’s not a dismissal, Nuala,” he assured her. “But I don’t have a way to reach The High Lord, and I gave him my word that I’d be back in Velaris by last light.”

It wasn’t strictly true, he could drop his mental shields and call out, but he was still having some difficulty keeping his shadows on a leash, and he didn’t want Rhys to know, though he likely already suspected.

“You could send Cerridwen,” she pointed out.

“I could,” he agreed. “But I am sending you. Can I trust you to follow my orders?”

She nodded, and he felt a whisper of her darkness brush against his in a gesture of silent comfort.

“Thank you,” he said, and she nodded again, already blurring into shadow.

Azriel let out a long breath when she was gone, resisting the urge to take another swallow from the bottle. Nuala was right, it was a long journey, and he wasn’t Cassian; he knew better try and drown his problems in liquor. In the end, they never died, only resurfaced gorged on drink.

Retreating into the bathing room, he washed out his mouth instead, splashing cold water on his face and neck.

The High Lord waits in the Receiving Hall. Your presence is expected. The guard has been doubled, and they grow restless.

Steeling himself, Azriel strode from the room, trying to ignore the faint lingering scent from the night Elain had healed his wings. Without even fully realizing it, he’d been preserving it, not allowing it to fade. It had been a foolish decision, especially as it tortured him one final time, but he couldn’t help clinging to it, nor could he deny that with the exception of the night before, her familiar aroma had helped him sleep better than he had in decades. Centuries, even.

Letting the door slam shut behind him, he swiftly made his way down to the Receiving Hall, where Elain, Lucien, Tamlin, and—indeed—a small army of guards awaited.

“I’m not accustomed to being made to wait, Shadowsinger,” Tamlin said in greeting, and Azriel only clenched his jaw in response. He was so close to freedom, there didn’t seem much point in souring it by punching the smarmy bastard in the face.

There was a beat of charged silence before Lucien stepped from Elain’s side, extending a hand to his friend. Tamlin accepted the gesture, and the two males gripped one another at the elbow before embracing.

“See you soon, Tam,” Lucien assured him, pulling away. Tamlin didn’t reply, but his expression was warmer than usual, and when his eyes fell on Elain, he held out a hand for hers.

Elain hesitated so briefly Azriel was sure that only he and the shadows noticed before slipping her gloved hand into his. Tamlin pressed a courtly kiss onto the supple suede sheathing her knuckles.

“It's been an honor, Elain Archeron,” he said in a flat, cordial tone. “And I was right in my predictions. Despite your…” he glanced up at Lucien. “...situation, I have been inundated with requests for your hand in marriage, Princess of Thorns or no.”

Lucien let out a low snarl Azriel himself only barely managed to keep back.

“Tell me the hands,” Lucien said, tone acerbic. “So I can cut them off.”

Tamlin gave a light laugh, and Elain used the opportunity to retract her hand and retreat back to Lucien’s side.

“Don’t worry, Lucien,” he chided, the bitterness edging back into his tone as he watched his friend press a reassuring hand to Elain’s back. “It seems you have little to fear where your mate is concerned.”

Elain flushed scarlet, and Azriel felt his own temper straining at the leash. He knew that Elain already felt enough pressure to fulfill expectations and mate Lucien. It made Azriel’s blood boil to see her goaded about it. Or perhaps that was simply his jealousy rearing its ugly head at the prospect of Elain becoming another male’s bride. No, not another male, he reminded herself. Her match, Cauldron-divined and Mother-blessed.

It was here, while Azriel was still fighting to keep his expression blank, that Tamlin’s eyes slid to him and went cold.

"Tell your High Lord that I expect an invitation to his fabled city of stars. I think after this visit I’m owed the same plunder of secrets that my territory just endured from you.”

Azriel felt his ire bend to near breaking. The shadows told him he was on dangerous ground, furiously noted the rising heartbeats of the soldiers around him. He crossed his arms to keep from going for Truth-teller, and his back was screaming with the effort of keeping his wings tucked in behind him.

"The next time he leaves my High Lady’s bed for more than an hour,” he spat quietly. "I will be sure to let him know."

Tamlin unsheathed his claws and snarled, and Azriel felt his siphons flaring, all the pain and frustration of the previous evening sizzling under his skin, trying to fight free.

“How dare you,” Tamlin seethed, and Azriel only bared his teeth, wings tearing open in obvious challenge.

He would apologize to Rhys later, he thought as he felt the sentries moving in on him. As long as he didn’t kill anyone, he doubted Tamlin would have the balls to go to war over this.

“If I may,” Elain interjected breathlessly, sliding from Lucien’s side until she was in Tamlin’s line of sight, blocking his view of Azriel. Azriel’s agitation grew at seeing the female he loved so close to those lethal claws. “The Shadowsinger doesn’t speak for Rhysand or my sister. If it’s an invitation you’ve been waiting for, then perhaps you’d accept one from me on their behalf. Come for the Winter Solstice and dine as a guest of honour at the High Lord and Lady’s table. I think you’ve find they are both eager to mend the hurt between your two households.”

Tamlin considered Elain, chest still heaving, but something in her expression must have assuaged him, because after a second his claws retracted. Or perhaps it was simply her loveliness that had turned him. It was no exaggeration that she had a face designed to bring males to their knees, a face so exquisite in its rendering that the Cauldron itself had fallen in love with her, besotted enough to give her a gift It granted few others.

“You’ve taught her well, Lucien,” Tamlin said after a breath, still drinking Elain in. Azriel could sense her revulsion, but it didn’t show on her face as she continued to hold the High Lord’s gaze. "I accept your invitation, Lady. And you,” He turned back to Azriel, who let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding since Elain jumped in Tamlin’s path. "If you ever step foot in my territory again, your life will be forfeit. That’s a promise.”

Azriel, feeling at the end of his rope, simply wrapped himself in shadow and vanished, trying to calm himself down, cool the burning in his chest that had ignited the minute he’d heard Elain leave the party to come after him. He winnowed to the first checkpoint he and Lucien had agreed on, flexing and unflexing his fighting hand as he paced.

At the sound of a small pop he turned, sneering at Lucien as he advanced.

"What the hell is wrong with you?” Lucien said, shoving Azriel and nearly unraveling his tenuous control.

“Don’t touch me,” Azriel seethed, itching to teach this stupid, arrogant, unworthy welp the same lesson he’d been itching to teach the High Lord.

"Whatever it is you’re sulking about Illyrian, I suggest you get over it."

Azriel bared his teeth, wishing Cassian was there to knock the prick on his ass.

"I don’t sulk,” he snarled quietly.

Lucien gave a bitter laugh, ignoring Elain’s fretful glance darting between the two males.

"What’s wrong?” he jeered, making Azriel see red. "One of your wraiths refuse to suck your—"

Azriel flexed his power the same way one might a muscle, and his siphons flared, a Quarterstaff of blue admanant appearing in his left hand. He twirled it deftly as he used his right had to block a burst of autumnal fire before swinging it with blinding speed, knocking the spoiled lordling to the ground. Quick as an asp, he’d halved the staff into two wicked batons, turning to square off with Vanserra where he now stood, blade drawn.

“Stop!” Elain cried, breaking the blinding rage Azriel had slipped into. He could see the batons’ azure glow reflected in her eyes, and he let the power slip until they disappeared. “Lucien’s right,” she continued, gaze harder than usual. “That’s enough.”

Lucien was still snarling as he pulled her away from Azriel, as if to protect her. And she—Azriel felt the vice in his chest tighten. She let him, let him sweep her behind him.

Because he was her mate. Because they’d been made—designed—to protect one another from outside threats, just as they were doing now. And Azriel—he was that threat. He’d often felt uncomfortable in his own skin, especially with his scars, but he’d never felt so monstrous as he did watching Elain avoid his gaze from behind Lucien’s shoulder.

“Let’s go,” Lucien said, turning his back to Azriel and igniting Azriel’s savage Illyrian instinct to drive Truth-Teller between the bastard's eleventh and twelfth vertabrae, piercing his heart and severing his spine in one deft move.

Azriel felt another wave of acrid jealousy course through him as Lucien smoothed the tail of Elain’s braid between his thumb and forefinger, and in an instant he had his wings unfurled, flexing them wide before leaping into the air.

“Wait!” Elain cried, her hair whipping in the gust he’d created. “Where are you going?”

Away from you. Away from your scent, your smile, that pleading look in your—

“To scout ahead,” he said flatly. “I will meet you at the harbor no later than midday."

“Stay out of sight,” Lucien warned. “We’re close enough to the coast that Tamlin could claim plausible deniability if he had one of his sentries shoot you out of the sky."

Azriel bared his pearly teeth in a snarl.

“Let him try,” he said before shooting through the cloud bank and out of sight.

It was colder the higher he climbed, but he found the farther he got from Lucien and Elain, the easier it was to breathe. He let the chill soak into his skin, his hair, willing it to cool his blood. He could do this, he’d done it before, for almost five hundred years. That was different, though. So, so, different.

With Mor, he’d been little older than a child, unsure of himself and unable to control his desperate emotions. Besides, he’d been given a small reprieve from his pining for her when, sometime during Rhys’s exile Under the Mountain, Mor had come home one evening smelling of wine, sweat, and female desire and dropped, drunk, into Azriel’s bed.

At first he’d thought it was her own, and the realization that she’d come from another male’s bed had nearly undone him. However, as he’d lain there, trying not to breathe her in, he realized that while there was a foreign scent of desire clinging to her, it too was female. It was in that moment that the shadows whispered to him the secret he’d somehow never been able to see.

She’s taken a female lover, not her first. She is perhaps falling in love, and comes to you because she trusts you, thinks you a safe harbor.

It didn’t lessen the sense of unworthiness he’d always felt where Mor was concerned, the feeling too deeply ingrained to be erased in a single evening, but it was at least a small reprieve. It had still been painful to learn she’d bedded the Lord of Day during the war, but he also knew Mor well enough by then to understand why she’d done it. He was still waiting to hear it all from her, but knowing that it wasn’t Cassian she’d chosen, but freedom from her future, had been a balm.

But what he’d done last night…

With Mor, it had been misguided infatuation, and one that she’d always been careful not to encourage. With Elain, he could no longer deny that he was catastrophically in love with her, and it was a feeling he knew not even eternity would ever diminish.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the boom of his wings and the howl of the wind to calm himself. He’d been foolish to think he could ever go back to being her friend, and the realization rocked him so thoroughly he nearly lost his balance and tumbled from the sky like a felled bird. He’d ruined the best and most perfect thing that had ever been his when he’d crossed that line between them last night and taken advantage in a way she perhaps hadn’t even understood. He didn’t deserve her or her friendship, and he could no longer be around her, would have to do everything in his power to keep her away.

He was spent by the time he reached the coast and spotted the small schooner docked and waiting for them. It was crewed by mortals, he realized, all of whom bore Vassa’s crest. They all shrank back as Azriel landed on the deck, but he ignored them, grateful at least that to hear that Elain was taking a nap below. It meant that she was safe, and that he would be spared the agony of having to face her for at least a few more hours.

Giving the deck a final assessing sweep, he made to take back to the skies. If he stayed away long enough, she would be asleep again when he returned.

So he flew aimlessly back and forth up the coast, half-heartedly checking for threats and making sure to give the wards at the mortal shores a wide berth. Lucien had been right when he said they were well-protected, though Azriel would never admit as much  aloud. It needled at Azriel, another reminder of his failure to infiltrate the other queen’s courts during the war, a failure which had cost them 78 lives in the attack on Velaris. As he ruminated on his own shortcomings, and the fact Lucien had not only managed what he couldn't, but that his alliance with Vassa and Elain’s father had likely helped turn the tide during the final battle, he felt himself fraying at the seams. It was no wonder Elain preferred him, mate or no. He’d done what Azriel could not; he’d saved them.

It was dark by the time he arrived back on the ship’s deck, back aching from so many hours in flight. He ought to rest, he could feel the lack of sleep tugging at him. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to go below decks. On top of everything, he realized he was eager to get back to the Night Court lands, and being under the stars, dim though they were in this part of the country, helped ease some of his distress.

As he stood, eyes closed as the night breeze rustled his hair, he felt his shadows rise, hearing their whispered warning a moment too late.

“We thought perhaps you weren’t coming back.”

Azriel fought not to tense as Elain’s sweet earthen scent washed over him. It was the most exquisite agony to be this close to her again, especially in a darkness so like the one they’d held each other in last night. Unsure of what to say, he didn’t reply, nor did he look at her as Elain swept forward to stand beside him. Her hair was unbound, and he felt it’s phantom brush on his arm, even through his leathers.

“So is this your plan?” she said softly.  “To simply never speak to me again?”

He clenched his jaw, fighting the tightening in his throat again.

“What would you have me say?” he finally managed, his voice a hoarse croak. “Tell me, and I will."

She gripped the rail so tight he could see her knuckles through her ivory skin. Gone were the tears from last night. He could tell from her hammering pulse she was angry, perhaps angrier than he’d ever seen her.

"Tell me the truth,” she said, grabbing his arm so he was forced to look at her. “Tell me what you feel for me."

Azriel’s jaw ached from the effort of keeping the truth from tumbling out.

I love you. I will love you to the end of darkness itself.

"You have my loyalty and my respect,” he said finally. "You know that."

She gave a whine of frustration, eyes growing glassy.

"That’s not what I want from you!"

“What do you want, then?” he breathed in muted pain, wishing he had the strength to brush the tear that escaped down her cheek without pulling her into his arms and never letting go.

"Your honesty!” she snarled. "You say that we are friends, but this—“ she gestured to the space between then. “This is not friendship. And neither was what happened last night. So tell me the truth, Azriel: what is it you feel for me?"

"I respect—

"You’ve already said that! That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it!”

He was choking, drowning in the ocean of snarling, foaming, broken nothing that lay between them. The distance, which had been merely an unbridgeable canal between them before last night, was now on treacherous sea not even the stupidest soul would dare cross.

“Elain, I—I’m sorry."

She stamped her foot, more tears falling.

“Damn your sorry!"

"What is it you want from me, then, if not an apology?” he begged, panicking at the realization that she would not stop until she’d wrenched the truth from him, and his last bit of dignity with it.

"The truth!” she repeated, voice a touch pleading now. “Why did you kiss me the way you did? Why did you kiss me at all? Please, Azriel, help me to understand!"

“I—“ he began, nearly gagging on the three words he was dying to say to her. He made the mistake of glancing down at her devastating beauty, at the heart-rending warmth in her eyes. If he told her, she would try and forgive him for it, tell him it didn’t matter, and he couldn’t bear it.

Better she think him a cad than a heartsick pup. Better she hate him than pity him.

The hideous lie burned on his tongue, but he forced it out.

"You are a very desirable female, and I…I am not blind.”

She recoiled, and the horror on her face, the humiliation and pain, drove the knife home, cleaving his very being in two.

“You don’t mean that,” she breathed, bringing a hand to her chest as fresh tears welled.

“Elain,” he began, and he could see the barest glimmer of hope in her eyes that the male she’d admired, her friend, was still there. Azriel wanted to be that male for her, but he just…couldn’t. Couldn’t find the strength to spare her this pain by offering her the ugliest and most broken of all his truths: the female he loved did not—could not—love him back. “I’m sor—“

His neck snapped to the side as she hit him with all her fae strength, and his cheek burned from the pain of it. Still, he made no move to stop her as she drew her hand back and slapped him again.

“Elain—“ he pleaded, sense flooding in to drown his own selfish pain and urge him to set things right. To tell her the truth, no matter what it cost him.

It was too late. She hit him a third time, the force of it hard enough to break the skin. When he forced himself to look back at her, her face was a mess of tears, but as he instinctually reached for her, she backed away, the horror and sadness replaced with a scalding emnity that burnt him to cinders.

“You have no honor,” she snarled through strangled sobs. “And you are not the male I thought you were.”

“Elain—“

“I hate you,” she seethed, wiping at her eyes as she retreated into the darkness. “Never speak to me again.”

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