#gladiator!azriel

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales 5

Summary: A celebration of Amarantha's victories in Illyria reveals just how bad the Empire has become.

Content Warnings: Blood and Descriptions of Injuries; Crucifixions and Mentions of Torture; Slavery

Pt 1, 2, 3, 4

--------

Sleep is elusive. I find myself staring at the ceiling, watching the cream colored walls change colors as the sun slowly begins to rise. 

I have to be the worst mate in history. Well, my Father murdered his mate, so maybe a close second. Even if Rhysand did reach into my head and use me to brand them, I’d still held that iron, hadn’t fought it like I should have. Now, I can’t even say I made it right by getting them the hell out of here! I’m now actively giving them ways to stay, not just in the Empire, or in the arena, but in the middle of a game with my Father they can’t possibly hope to win. I should have pressed the issue harder. I should have ignored their call and waited til morning when Anise had found passage out of here and hauled them onto the ship. I most definitely should not be calling for a tailor as soon as the sun is up to make sure they’re fitted for clothes for this stupid parade. 

I’m tempted to think Rhysand has found a way to make me do this for him, but I know he can’t reach me this far. The tether in my chest that links me to them feels strained from being so far away. It’s as if it’s a living thing beneath my skin that knows there’s too much distance between us. 

Anise worms her way back into my room as I dismiss the tailor and tell her to send the healer my way for a report on the injuries the Illyrians finally let her treat once I’d left their room last night. 

“I found what you were looking for,” she says as she shuts the door. I expected her to find an excuse not to do what I’d asked, especially after she’d given me the royal inquisition about what I’d been doing once I came back through the secret entrance last night. But her emerald gaze sweeps conspiratorially over my empty room, even as she hands me something that smells like a contraceptive tea.

I try to pass it off on my bedside table. “You know I don’t need this.”

“Drink,” she sits herself on the edge of my bed with a sigh. “Can’t have a boat disappearing into the Wastes while you grow with child.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Anise!”

She shrugs, “I suppose your Father would kill it anyway.”

“Get to the point, Anise.”

“Drink the tea first.”

To appease her, I pinch the bridge of my nose to avoid the awful smell and force the amber colored liquid down my throat. 

“There’s a merchant ship that takes the long way around the Wastes to reach the Human Lands. Passage can be acquired for a hefty fee.”

“Not a problem,” my stomach rises in my throat and I have to take a moment to let it settle before finishing the tea. 

“There is a matter of it only being available for another three days before it’s gone for six months.”

That complicates things. How am I supposed to convince them in the next three days that they need to be on that ship?

“Thank you for looking,” I pass the, now empty, cup back to her. “I will need you on standby. Hopefully, I can find a way to convince them to get on board before it’s too late.”

Anise chews on her wooden thumbnail. “There’s a rumor, around the house, that they’re insurrectionists, is that true?”

I push the curtain blocking the bathroom aside. I might as well change and prepare for the parade now. If I give myself enough time, maybe I can slip back into the secret passage and strategize with my stubborn set of mates on how we handle today. I don’t like going into this blind, and I certainly don’t like having to be responsible for their well-being knowing that they’re just winging it. 

How have they managed to get this far?

“More or less,” I say as I slip my sleep clothes off my shoulders. I frown at my reflection in the mirror. Too thin. Too pale. I need to get back into training; I need to get some color back into my face. All my clothes hang a little too much off my shoulders. Mother would have never let me hear the end of it if she knew how long I’d wasted away in this house over her. She hated mourners. Hated having an excuse not to be on top of training, in every area of life. 

“And what-” Anise comes to stand in the doorway, frowning at the outfit I’ve chosen for the day. She snatches it out of my hands before I can put it on and comes back with something cobalt instead. “-do they have on you?”

“I don’t follow?”

“What are they using against you to get you to do this for them?” She fusses over the loose fabric, lining the seams up along my shoulders, tucking in loose bits of cloth here and there, slipping other strands through a golden belt around my waist. 

“You think they have some kind of leverage on me?”

“I think this is unlike you. I think you’ve been a shell of a person locked in a dark house for months and months and suddenly now you care about parties and parades and those gods-awful Games. It is strange. I think I should send for a Healer to look at your head.”

I let her fidget and fuss so she has something to take the edge off her anxiety. “I went to plenty of parties and parades… before…” I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. 

“You went for her, because she forced you too, this is different. You keep insisting there is nothing sexual happening, yet you drink the tea and sneak into their rooms and won’t tell me what’s going on.”

I turn away from the mirror to look at her, reaching for her gnarled hands. “They’re good males, I just want to help them, is all. Father doesn’t exactly smile on simple favors.”

She huffs, “Your heart has always been bigger than your head.”

“I feel… kind of like I’ve been asleep for a long time and when I woke up I didn’t recognize who I was in the mirror. I’m just trying to find myself again.” It’s the closest to the truth as I can get. “I’m sorry that I’ve worried you.”

She frees herself from my grip to touch my cheek gently. “Just promise me that you will be careful. If anything were to happen to you…”

“I promise.”

She nods then takes my shoulders and spins me back to face the mirror. “Good, then let’s fix this awful hair of yours!”

Better to have her focusing on making me presentable than all the possible dangers we have to face just by leaving the room. I feel terrible, leaving her in the dark about it all, but I can’t tell her the truth, not yet. It is too soon; it leaves too much to chance. I still have hope that I can find a way by the end of the day to convince them to get on that boat and then she will never have to think about it again. The worst will be behind us.

--

I may have underestimated just how bad this was going to be.

For one thing, I didn’t anticipate Amarantha showing up at the front gates before I had a chance to slip into the Illyrians’ room. Let alone bring a whole entourage of slaves and guards, all painted in her colors and dressed for the parade. The sight of her in my sanctum makes me want to start hurling things at her head, but I manage to keep a poker face as she dismounts from her chariot, pulled by a white horse with a speckle of gray across its glossy coat. One of Father’s prized war horses; a gift from a battle years ago. 

“General, you honor me with this surprise visit,” the words taste like bile. Why is she here in my place of refuge? She’s never bothered to venture this far away from the Capitol before. 

She glances around warily, like something might pop out of the sprawling gardens and bite her. “I came to check on your progress.”

“How kind of you.” I intentionally don’t draw attention to the path that leads to the guest house. “Would you like some refreshments? You must be tired from your journey.” The last thing I need is her poking around. 

“No. We need to be on our way. I assumed you’d need help leading your new pets out.”

“Not at all. I have everything under control.” Bitch.

She grins but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good, then let’s get moving, shall we? Don’t want to keep your Father waiting.”

This is all happening a lot faster than I anticipated, but I will have to make the most of it. Her being here means they were right last night, I really had thrown Father off his game. Now he’s trying to compensate by sending her to feel out how I’ve managed this far. I keep my shoulders back as I tell one of the guards to bring the males out. I must remain in control. 

I must keep my well-trained mask of courtly manners in place.

That’s a lot harder when the second curveball of the day comes hurling my way: I’d sent my tailor with an order to find my mates suitable pants, boots, and tunics. We weren’t going to have the time for anything fancy. With a few more hours I might have been able to find armor suitable for a Gladiator to wear out in public. A moot point one way or the other, because they wouldn’t have worn it. Not one of them is wearing the outfit I selected. In fact, I’d barely call the swatch of fabric adorning their bronze skin clothing. It’s closer to a toga, one half of the beige fabric pinned over their left shoulders, draping down in gentle waves down their waists, where it eventually falls to their upper thighs, one side slit nearly all the way open. It leaves half their tattooed chests bare, the swirls of tattoos on stark display. There’s so much open across Rhysand’s ensemble that I can very clearly see the curvature of his ass if he’s standing in any direction that’s not looking at me directly. 

It is an effort to keep my jaw off the floor. What the fuck are they doing?

I don’t know if the guards attached leashes to the gorsian collars around their throats or if they did that themselves; at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me.

“I’ve underestimated you, Highness,” Amarantha says.

The words might as well have been spoken by a fly, they don’t even register. I can’t stop staring at them, at the miles of bare skin and muscle on display. Ember did a good job putting them back together last night, the bruises fading, the smaller cuts and scrapes nothing more than a swatch of fresh skin. Rhysand’s arm is still bandaged, as are Azriel’s wings, but they do not drape on the floor today. They all stand ready, heads high. The posture feels like a challenge; they should be defeated, they lost the battle, they’re chained here to me, but they don’t look it. They command the space around them.

I feel a flash of pride when I look at them. Even with all my training, I’d never be able to be this confident. Despite all their losses, they haven’t given up.

“I might have to challenge your claim on them,” Amarantha says, her gaze lingering too long on Rhysand for my liking.

Something ugly and possessive rears its head inside me and all I see is red. My hands ball into fists at my sides as my powers flare in my palms. Keep it together! Keep it together!

“And miss the parade in your honor?” I say as sweetly as I can. “My Father would be so disappointed.”

She sneers at me, perfectly white teeth flashing, “Wouldn’t be much of a challenge for me, would it, Highness?”

I’ve never shown anyone the full extent of what I’m capable of; it would be too dangerous to unleash that much power on the world. It won’t do me any good now to try and boast about what I keep hidden beneath my skin. “You’ve done enough fighting, save the challenges for your Attor.”

She huffs as she climbs back into her golden chariot. 

It’s not really a victory, but it is the best I can hope for. Time will be the only thing keeping her in check today. If it wasn’t for the parade, she might be tempted to keep pushing the issue, and as much as I’d love an opportunity to shove a blast of obsidian power through her chest, I have bigger issues to deal with. I can’t let her get in the way of the plan. 

My mates watch the exchange closely. Azriel hovers a little closer than someone supposed to be shackled to me should. His shadows are missing. Hidden somewhere, maybe behind his wings to avoid detection, or the sunlight, but the intensity in his gaze reminds me that there isn’t anything happening he isn’t aware of. 

Rhysand gives me the subtlest of nods as the stable boy brings my own horse out. Anise must have sent them for me; she’s undoubtedly watching from the window. I have never been more keenly aware of how many sets of eyes are watching my every move, which is saying something, considering I’ve never left this house without a squadron of guards or some form of chaperone. Every breath I take feels like it’s being monitored, which is unfortunate, because the next issue of the day becomes the moment I realize the guards left with the wagon yesterday and I don’t have any other horses. How am I supposed to get them all the way across the Capitol?

I’m out of my element. It’s one thing to freeze in front of some guards who don’t know me well enough to see the panic in my eyes, it’s entirely another to in front of Amarantha, who can smell fear like a fucking bloodhound. She won’t stop grinning at me either, like she’s a cat watching a mouse creep slowly up to a baited trap. We’ve just started this, I can’t already fail!

The invisible force that is Rhysand slips right into my mind again as panic freezes me in place. My body moves for me, tethering the leashes in my hand to the saddle of my horse. 

Amarantha’s grin falters.

I am not making my mates walk behind me the entire time! This, somehow, feels worse than the brand!

 But I can’t fight his grip on me. My shields were low enough, I’d forgotten to enforce them, he’d slipped right in and taken control just like he had yesterday. I can’t do this!

“You can,” that silky smooth voice is like a caress against the inside of my skull as he moves me into the saddle of my horse. 

I can feel Cassian’s glare between my shoulderblades, as if he’s imagining exactly where he’d drive his sword. The tether that links us feels even more frayed than it had yesterday, as if someone is taking a knife and swaying it away fiber by fiber. Worse, that someone is me. 

Rhysand brushes a mental hand down my spine and my whole body trembles as if it had been physical. “It’s all right. You’re just doing what we asked you too.”

Amarantha starts moving, the grin now a full scowl. This is not at all how she thought this morning would go. I’m grateful she’s so distracted by the failure that she isn’t paying attention to the tears pooling in the corners of my eyes. This is beyond cruel and unfair!

“We’ve endured a lot worse than this,” he explains as he uses me to get my horse moving. 

The collars around their throat rattle as they get yanked along behind me and I think I might never get that godsdamned sound out of my head as long as I live.

“When we lost that battle in Illyria, they kept all of my soldiers chained together, naked and bleeding in the snow. They made them watch as they burned our cities to the ground, with their families locked inside the Temple.”

Revulsion rolls its way through my stomach, as I flick my gaze to Amarantha; she’s always been a monster, she’s never bothered to hide it, but I’d never known the gory details. Father praised her for doing whatever was necessary to win, I knew that involved a lot of shed blood, but I’d never seen the true cost of her victories.

Maybe I’d never wanted to see. It had been easier to just keep my head down and accept that this was how the world I lived in worked. I’d been too terrified of what might happen if I challenged it; hell, I’d been too terrified of what would happen to even look at it. It had always been easier to turn and hide from it, withdrawing into myself where the monsters couldn’t reach me. How many people have I hurt by turning a blind eye?

“Amarantha made Cassian pick which of his men would live. Five out of every group of ten to be taken as slaves. The other five to be crucified. She did it in waves, five for every city we stopped at for supplies. Five to be a warning to the other Courts. Until we came to the Arena; then the question became which of us would fight and die. He chose us, so that, at least, the rest of his men may find a chance to escape.”

Rhysand won’t loosen his grip on me enough to let me turn in the saddle to look at them. He probably thinks I’ll lose my nerve if I do. My chest aches for them and what they’ve had to endure on the way here.

“If you hadn’t stepped in yesterday, Hybern would have killed Cassian and Azriel.”

“But not you?” His hold on me is not so strong that I can’t, at the very least, talk back to him. The connection soon becomes soothing, instead of like fighting against adamant. As time goes on, I can begin to feel the distinction in the tethers that link our souls. While they are still thin, and tangled in the heart of it, there is a glittering, starlight lined piece that leads me to him, and the connection feels like it builds on top of itself little by little as we go. Maybe the bond is not, totally, unsalvageable.

“I caught a glimpse in Hybern’s head. He was too far away for a good look, but I saw enough. At least for a little while, he wants me alive. I don’t know why. I assume to make a bigger display of my failure than Amarantha has already made, but I can’t be sure. I think that he might have let me live yesterday and killed them as punishment for speaking out. Judging by the way Amarantha’s acting today, I think that she expected to get me as a prize afterwards.”

My teeth clench involuntarily at the thought.

“I know that what I’ve asked of you is uncomfortable. It will be a hard role to play, but it is not without advantages.” Despite Cassian’s misgivings during their argument last night, him and Azriel had seemed to be in agreement that they needed me for this. If I cannot spare them entirely from pain, at least I can keep them out of Amarantha’s claws. A tiny victory, but still a victory. 

The road ahead of us is long, physically speaking the trek into the city is several miles, and figuratively because there’s a lot of hoops to jump through and masks to wear and angles to work. This will not be an overnight endeavor. That ship with their freedom quickly feels like its slipping out of my reach. 

“But are there not advantages to leaving while you have the chance?” There is nothing but a long, winding road lined with hills of rolling wheat between us and the outskirts of the city, I might as well make my attempt now.

“Not if it means abandoning my people.”

Stubborn male. 

“This will be your Empire one day, do you not feel responsible for the people within it?”

As the sun continues to climb, so does the temperature. Sweat begins to bead its way across my hairline.

“It will not be my Empire,” I counter; especially considering what I had bargained to ensure their freedom. “My Father doesn’t think I know it, but he added a clause to his will that states, in the event of his death, my husband will take the throne.”

Through the mental connection, I feel him stiffen behind me.

And maybe because I’m desperate for any possible chance to push them towards that ship, I add, “And make no mistake, my Father has already chosen which male to pawn me off to.”

Anger flashes its way across the bond. A sign, I should think, that he at least knows there’s something there. 

“He would leave you no choice?”

The question is laughable. For all the terrible things my Father has done, he truly thinks he’d still care about my consent in any aspect of my life? “He pretended for a while that I did, but his displeasure was always made clear. Not that it matters, now. I’ve already agreed to marry whoever he wishes.”

A growl works its way down the bond between us. “Why?”

“Did you think he would spare your lives for free?” A low blow and I know it, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how Cassian had called me a spoiled little princess who’d never felt the effects of this Empire. My suffering has been nothing compared to theirs. No life time could ever compensate for that kind of torture. There is no contest here. But I am not immune to my Father’s whims either and I need them to understand that this is not the better option. They need to be on that ship. And if they feel the bond at all, if there is any push to be near me, I need to use it to get them to see how dangerous it is to be around me. I can shield them a little bit. I can stand between Amarantha. I can stay my Father’s hand on occasion. But it will not last. Nothing lasts long against them. 

Rhysand is silent for a long time. Long enough that I feel his grip on me slip away, allowing me to turn my head and watch the three of them. They’re keeping pace easy enough, even with the bandage around Cassian’s thigh and the added weight of the bandages around Azriel’s wings. But it’s their eyes that catch my attention: Glazed over like they’re not seeing me at all. I’ve seen that look before, when the twins reach into someone’s head. The collar must limit his ability to reach out to more than one person at the time. He’s withdrawn to speak with them instead.

I keep my shields down, waiting for him to come back, praying to the Mother that it worked, that they’re at least, reconsidering this foolhardy notion of theirs. 

Amarantha’s men must have cleared the streets on their way down here, usually, the twisting pathways of hard packed earth are crowded with carts and beasts of burden as they tend to the budding wheat stalks, but there are none. It is a strange silence, there are usually workers singing in between the rows as they weed and water and remove pests from the grounds. No birds sing. It’s as if the whole area knows a red-headed predator walks among them.

I find myself studying her, careful not to let the rage I feel at the thought of what she’d done to my mate’s rises back to the surface. Silence has always been dangerous for me, it gives me too long to think. And right now, all I can think about is how easy it would be to blast her in the back of the head with the dark ether that prowls beneath my skin. One of her slaves carries her helmet, the dark horse hair plume billowing in the warm summer breeze. None of her guards rides close enough to block the blow. Sure they’ll be an issue afterwards, but they won’t be able to save her.  She’d be nothing more than a blood stain in the rode.

And then what? What would it help? It can’t erase what she’s already done to them. Even if I could take out the guards and we all made a break for that ship, Father would never let it go. He’d blame them, probably lie to the people and say I’d been kidnapped or brainwashed into doing it, and then he and everyone in the Empire would hunt us down until we were dragged back or killed. They’d never have any rest. No, I need to get them to get that ship and I need to find a way to make sure that no one comes looking. 

My head hurts. This is a lot more complicated than I thought it would be. There’s a lot more pieces to play than just moving them onto a ship. I resist the urge to rub my temples. How could someone’s life become so incredibly complex in less than 24 hours? 

Rhysand finally returns, his arrival a brush of night kissed shadow that contrasts the summer heat. “Why did you agree to help us?” His voice sounds farther away, it must be a tremendous effort to keep this up for so long around that collar.

“Because I didn’t want to be like him.” That is as close to the truth as I will allow myself to admit to anyone. 

His mental hand brushes down my spine, caressing, soothing. I close my eyes for the briefest of moments to savor it. I should not let myself indulge it. I should push it away before he has time to understand why it means so much, but I can’t. I really am a broken, selfish thing, but I can’t push him away like I should.

“Has he given you a time frame for the marriage?”

“No, but I’m sure he will soon.”

As we crest a hill, the walled edges of the capitol finally come into view, Father’s crimson banner billowing from the parapets. As we draw closer, I can start to see another banner hanging from the great, stone walls: Amarantha’s familial crest, emblazoned on a black banner, the great beast in the center, edged in crimson. The shape of the crest always bothered me. The edges were never smooth and even, like someone had put too much ink on the pen, letting it bleed. Maybe that was the point. Amarantha’s whole family line had clawed its way to power by shedding someone else’s blood. 

It’s jarring to see her banner hang next to my Father’s. No one has that kind of power in the Empire. Not even my Mother had the sway to earn a banner in her name, no matter the exploits she’d brought within the Capitol’s walls.

My stomach twists. 

“Then we may need to rush our plans a little.”

I pretend to fiddle with something in the saddle so I can look back at him. Sweat drips down his forehead, trailing lines down his exposed chest. There is nothing short of sheer determination etched into every line of his face.

Beside him, Azriel keeps pace, shadows peeking out from behind his wings in agitated waves. A look that would be intimidating on its own, but only worsened by the promise of violence in his eyes.

So much for making the ship.

“Don’t be rash and do something stupid,” I retort, as the sound of trumpets draws my attention off of them. There’s a cluster of horses and people waiting up ahead. As we draw nearer, I can start to make out the familiar faces of Father’s Praetorian Guards. Then Brannagh and Dagdan, atop their auburn steeds, bought at a hefty price from the Autumn Court. And finally, in his own golden chariot, pulled by a prized war horse, a golden laurel wreath atop his salt and pepper hair, stands my Father.

I swallow the lump in my throat. 

“I mean it, Rhysand,” I snarl when he doesn’t answer me. “If you do something stupid now he’ll kill all of you. No pleading on my part will save you.” 

I’m suddenly not sitting on the horse anymore, the world around me spinning and twisting and the trumpets and horns starting to play along the roadside sound like execution bells. My stomach rises in my throat; heart echoing to an octave that sounds like beating drums. I can’t see them, I can’t see the parade of people assembling all I can see is my Mother in those awful, dull gray robes, stripped of all the finery she always adorned herself, walking right to the executioner's block in chains.

“Breathe.” I must have been holding my breath because the memory comes to a grinding halt before I can rewatch her head roll off her shoulders and Rhysand is back in my head, gently shaking the memory from my grip. 

“It’s over. You’re all right. Take another deep breath for me.”

My horse won’t stop moving and I swear my Father doesn’t blink the entire time he watches us approach. That slate gray gaze, so similar to my own, is empty and cold and it pierces through me like an ice pick. 

“We’re not doing anything today, remember? Just observing. We need to see what we’re up against.”

I have to fight every instinct not to turn and look at him. I need to keep my head up, I need to not look like I’m going to throw up all over the floor. I cannot ruin this. 

Father’s mood shifts when he turns his attention to Amarantha, and smiles. “General,” he calls out, the horde of people surrounding him parting so he can move to greet her. “I see you had no issues on your way here.”

“Dick,” Rhysand hisses as I sit there getting ignored. 

“Please, just stick to observing. I can’t…” I shake off the memory as best I can, embarrassed that I showed him in the first place. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

The bond flickers with understanding, a moment of shared grief passing between us. I don’t know what else he has lost, but the emotion that flits between us is enough to show me it’s not mere pity. “Don’t worry, there’s not going to be room to do anything in this crowd,” he assures. 

And he’s right, starting at the open gates is a whole crowd of people, all waving flags and streamers and cheering. The whole city is packed against the main road, held back by a thin barrier or red tinted magic. Every house in the Capitol has to be empty. Someone has thrown roses down onto the road, the perfume so strong I can smell it from here.

Behind us, more beings begin to arrive. I note some of Amarantha’s commanding officers and a few Senators. A couple of the Lords who have bent the knee and submitted to Father’s reign follow. 

Amarantha stands a little straighter as they approach, preening under all the attention. 

A steward with a very long scroll shuffles around in the chaos, trying to organize everybody into rows, his shrill voice echoing above the crowd with a little help from some lesser magic. Drummond has been in the service of the Empire since my great-grandfather was Emperor, he’s gotten pretty good at getting people to listen to him. 

We’re quickly organized into sections, with Father and Amarantha in the front and everyone following in line behind them by rank and station. There is a large gap in between where Father and Amarantha ride and where I sit with my mates, just ahead of the other nobility. My birthright keeps me close to the front, but the gap between me and them is noticeable. I am not a part of their inner circle, I’ve only ended up ahead of they’re favored elites because I have the face of the Illyrian rebellion chained to my horse. It is not as if I want to be close to them, in fact, the distance helps me breathe a little easier, but the space between my Father and I has never felt so visible. We are two ships on opposite sides of an ocean. Mother used to whisper, when she thought I couldn’t hear, that the Goddess had cursed him by giving him me. Not only was I not the son he’d prayed for, I was not even a daughter he could benefit from having. He’d tried to hide that from his closest confidants, it’s why he allowed the River House. It kept me close enough to not become a problem, and far enough away to hide his shame. It used to bother me, now I can’t help but wonder if perhaps there was a reason I’d never belonged here. Maybe the distance had given me the eyes I’d needed to see my mates for what they were. If I had been born different, if I had become someone like Brannagh or Amarantha, would I have ended up here?

My musings are interrupted by Dummond as he side-steps Cassian, giving the General a far wider berth than necessary as he looks back and forth between his scroll and us. “Hmmm, should be a enough room I suppose?” He mutters, pen furiously scratching in the margins of what looks to be a very well filled out list. 

Cassian’s wings suddenly unfurl behind him, as if he’s stretching his arms, the great, leathery membrane catching the early afternoon sun, as the spiked tip catches Dummond in the back of the head hard enough to make him drop the scroll.

The aging elf gives a yelp of surprise as he skitters after it like it’s made of gold. “Gods-damned Illyrian brute!” 

“Cass,” Rhysand warns as the guards shift in our direction.

“What? My wings were cramping,” Cassian counters, looking smug, even as he snaps his wings shut behind his large body. I could watch him do that all day. If I’d had the supplies, I’d attempt to paint the way the sunlight reflects the hints of red and blue, highlighting all the scars that map their way across his wings. How many battles do you have to fight to have scars like that?

Dummond scurries past us to intercept a caravan of wagons, keeping his precious scroll clutched tight to his chest this time. He’s always been a little skittish--who isn’t around my Father?--but today looks like it’s worn down his nerves. I can practically hear his knees shaking as he directs the wagons down the little path that converges on the mainroad. The closer it gets, the louder the sound of rattling chains becomes.

Grief consumes me, so hot and heavy the three of them might as well have screamed themselves hoarse down the bond simultaneously. It is an effort not to grasp at my chest, as if they’re pain is a physical wound I can hold in my hands. I don’t need to see what comes our way to know what it is, but their arrival plays out in slow motion ahead of us. The wagons are all built to be moveable cages, walls of gorsian stone bars holding in too many bodies to count. There’s a padlocked door at the back of each and when a guard swings it open, a jumble of winged bodies tumble outward. Chains clank and rattle and male after winged male gets shoved into even lines ahead of us. They’re all a mess of blood soaked bandages and dirt; the number of wings more twisted than Azriel’s had been is too high to number. Once a wagon is empty it is directed out of the way and another takes its place, just as full as the last. There has to be at least a hundred Illyrians, all shackled and beaten ahead of us.

Dummond stays a healthy distance from them, counting down the numbers on his list to ensure they’re all in place. Not that it would be necessary, none of them fight it. Most stand with their heads to their bare chests--gods above half of them are still naked! 

Rhysand has withdrawn himself from my head again, but I can still feel his pain down the bond just as well. These are his people, and he can’t save them from this.

Cassian’s pain soon turns sharp as a blade, rage pulsing down the bond. 

I wish I had the words to comfort them; the power to make this all stop, but I am as helpless as I always have been. No words will soothe this offense.

How could Father do this? 

Dummond carries on as if he is organizing cattle. The guards use the butts of their spears to keep any male that moves too far from the group back in line. Their force is excessive. The blow knocks the already beaten males into each other, causing a domino effect that brings a third of the Illyrians down into the dirt. I can’t make out the words, but I can hear the whimpers of pain; hear the coughing and wheezing that comes from untreated injuries and illnesses that only come when too many people are crammed together for too long.

There isn’t enough time to process the full scope of what’s happening before a set of trumpets starts blowing from the city’s outer walls. Shit it’s starting!

It’s like a bad dream as the procession begins to move, Father and Amarantha first. There are mages positioned down the fairway, their hands outstretched towards the sky as they weave colorful ribbons of magic like streamers above our heads. The bands move in time to the music, flashing in Amarantha’s colors first, then Father’s. Small children throw more roses into the street as the Emperor and esteemed General make their way into the city.

“All hail the Emperor!” Roars the crowd. “All hail Amarantha the Conqueror!” 

Conqueror. The Illyrian captives are forced to follow after them, shuffling on bare feet and boots that are falling apart across cobblestones that have to be burning as the sun continues to rise across the cloudless sky.

There are small children in attendance, sitting on their parents shoulders, waving miniature versions of Amarantha’s crest. This feels like the most heinous part of the whole ordeal; are we to encourage this brutality in our children? They let their toddlers throw roses and dance along to the music, enthralled by the light show that flashes overhead as the procession moves through the city. 

Dummond makes sure to leave plenty of room between the last row of Ilyrians and us, as if they’re scared to let them get too close to Rhysand. As if, the mere proximity of him might incite an uproar all over again. 

At this point I’d welcome it. I’d happily watch the whole procession go up in flames.

Power rumbles through my veins and I’m forced to tear my gaze away from the crowd to keep anything from escaping out of my skin.

“Steady,” Rhysand warns as we inch closer to the front gates. The crowd continues to cheer and celebrate ahead of us as the procession follows the path to the Imperial Palace several miles into the city. It will be a long road ahead of us, yet it feels like it’s been happening for ages.

“I’m sorry.” Sorry is not strong enough an emotion. No sorry’s will ever be enough.

“Do you see why we need your help?” He counters as a wisp of Azriel’s shadow crawls up my shoulder and dives beneath my hair. The little ether of power slithers like a snake up around my ear, hidden under my hair, observing with a gentle hiss. I wonder if he’s using it to see what’s coming ahead of us.

The road up ahead makes me wish he wasn’t here to see any of it at all. Being on the horse gives me a vantage point, lets me see around the corner we take to get to the heart of the capitol. The crowd has thickened even further here, bodies pushing up against the magic barriers, chanting and shouting to be heard. Except, the closer we get, the clearer the jumbled words become. As Amarantha’s chariot passes through, the noise soon turns from cheers and celebration to boos and curses. It’s the first hint that something is about to go terribly wrong and I feel my powers once again flair in defence.

The shift in the crowd is not the worst of it, even when they start hurling rotting vegetables and rocks at their captive entertainment. Blood splatters as someone gets hit in the head, nearly knocking down a whole row of males in the chaos.

I don’t even have time to flinch before Rhysand is once again holding me in place in the saddle. This time I’m not sure if it’s my nerves or his. The bond bleeds like an open wound between us, agony dripping into my consciousness.

More of Azriel’s shadows cluster beneath my hair, sitting like a snake, coiled and hissing as we go deeper into the city. This crowd will easily become a mob given the slightest provocation.

“Traitors!” The crowd shouts. “Send the Illyrian dogs back where they belong!”

The guards keeping the Illyrians in line don’t do anything to quell the crowd, letting rotting tomatoes and hearts of moldy lettuce get hurled like projectiles at a group of wounded males too beaten to fight back.

My stomach sits like a rock in my throat.

The deeper we get into the city, the worse it gets, and not just because there are more people here, but because, as we draw up to the center of town, there are crosses along the walkway, all holding a male with wings nailed to the cross beams. 

The males in the front of the line freeze at the sight. One of them wails and falls to his knees, only to be forceable hauled up by the Praetorian. 

“Crucify the lot of them!” The crowd roars.

“Send the bastards back to the arena!”

A rock comes hurtling towards my head so fast I don’t even have time to shield, my only saving grace Azriel’s shadow that goes flying out in front of me to catch it and let it fall to the ground beside me. Rhysand won’t turn to let me thank him; won’t let me do anything but keep my eyes straight ahead of me. Not even when I hear the sound of something hitting one of them.

I’d cry if I had the ability, but he seems to have locked that away from me too. I feel like a statue as we continue forward, slowly crawling towards the Imperial Palace, unable to move or react. Even as we pass closer to the bodies, blood still dripping from open gashes across their tattooed chests. Some of the males are, mercifully, already dead, but the street is long and the number of them soon becomes hard to track when you can just make out the ones still gasping for air. This is by far the worst thing I’ve ever seen the Empire do.

I tear my gaze away from the carnage to find my Father, waving cheerfully to the crowd ahead of us, as if this is some sort of game. How could one man be so cruel? 

“Remember how I said you could ask me about that boat today?” Rhysand says, but his voice is strained. I can feel his pain as if it is my own and I don’t know how he, or any of them, is even upright. It’s debilitating. I feel it crawl into every crevice of my being. My muscles fight the hold he has on me to try and curl up into a ball to avoid it. 

“Still think it’s a good idea?”

Like he can feel my gaze, the Emperor turns to catch my eye, one brow furrowed as if in question. For the first time in my life, I don’t shy away from the appraisal. Pain has walked alongside me my whole life, it has been a companion I have learned to hold hands with. But this? Having to live with the knowledge that these are wounds inflicted on my mates because no one has stood up to the Empire?

I’ve accepted a lot of shitty things in my life. I looked the other way when I couldn’t. But no more.

This ends. 

And it ends with me.

“No. I don’t.” I snarl.

I can feel Rhysand’s grin through the bond. “Then welcome to the Rebellion, Princess.”

--------

Tag List:

@sirenpearldust, @saltedcoffeescotch, @littlemissfix-itfic, @waka-babe, @raisam

//

@anainkandpaper, @rafeecameronsbitch, @whothehelliskayleigh, @lifetobeareader, @blimpintime

//

@hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd, @urfunnyvalentin3, @mack234-blog1, @kissesfromnovalie

//

@marrass, @lia-h-r, @celestialzdiviner, @daughterofthemoons-stuff

Thank you all for your patience I know this chapter took me a little longer than usual to write! <3 As always, if you want to be added to the tag list let me know =)

[ch3rrybbie]

🫧masterlist🫧

From:

Randall kirkland

- Need

You can’t seem to stay away from Randall, you’re yet to speak and he can’t stop staring. Why do you feel like you know him? What does he want? What do you need?

- Want (part 2 of need )

When things take a turn for the worst you begin the question Randall’s interest in you even more than you maybe should…

-Have (part 3)

to have and to hold.

One shots:

-Sunsetz

basking in the bliss of a cold winter afternoon and overpacking.

-Joyride

you attempt to be a good neighbour becomes a little too good for the both of you.

———

ACOTAR:

Azriel

- Afterglow

Reader yearns for Az as she feels the bond set in she confesses and takes comfort in Lucien and Az does care. Does he?

———

The Boys:

Homelander

-Please,please,please

He’s fucked you over again and he’d do anything to make it right, he starts with begging.

-Messy (Please,please,please part 2)

he’s back like a cat with a dead bird.

The Deep

-Itch to scratch

it’s ovulation week and 🎶 you need a hero🎶 sorry himbo, you need a himbo.

———

SEND IN REQUESTS!🫵

Fandoms/characters i wanna write for:

- Vikings

- Billy hargrove/stranger things

- Most House of the Dragon+Game of thrones characters

- Gen V + the boys

homelander x reader one shot request (coming soon)

- Sauron (can you blame me have you seen him in RoP)

- Joel Miller, The Last of Us

- Gladiator 2 (after i see it asap)

- Outerbanks

-Dune

-Grishaverse

———

FEEL FREE TO SEND REQUESTS FOR OTHER FANDOMS!!! I might not know them or i could’ve forgotten to add them to the list! worst i can say is no 😉

[onebadassunicorn]

His Blue-Eyed Angel

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: some smut and some serious angst :(

word count: 12.8k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Story tags: @bravo-delta-eccho @tele86 @tiredsleepyhead @celestialgilb @theflowerswillbloom @fuckingsimp4azriel @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret

Image owned by Dream World Dweller.

For more amazing artwork by this artist, join Patreon and become a subscriber to this artist's collections!

***************

Chapter 12

Y/n POV 

Velaris’s streets had been transformed for the night’s grand masquerade, and there was no shortage of inventive costumes. But as Rhysand and Feyre stepped into the lamplight, they easily stole the show. They descended the marble steps of the townhouse wearing sleek, tailored ensembles inspired by a distant, unknown legend—perhaps something Rhysand had glimpsed in one of Amren’s stranger tomes or a curious book Feyre had found hidden in a dusty corner of the House of Wind’s library.

Rhysand’s attire was cut from the finest black leather, molded to his tall, lean frame. A sweeping cloak of midnight velvet draped from his shoulders, and the chest piece bore a stylized emblem—a black bat silhouetted against a subtle gray background—stitched with shimmering thread that caught the city lights. He wore a cowl that covered the upper half of his face, leaving his strong jaw and mischievous smirk visible beneath it. His wings were cleverly glamoured beneath the cape, making him seem more mysterious, more mortal, like a mythic vigilante prowling the cobbled streets of Velaris.

Feyre’s outfit mirrored Rhysand’s, though fitted to her graceful curves. She wore a sleek, black bodysuit with subtle accents in midnight-blue stitching. A shorter cape fell to her lower back, flaring slightly when she moved. Like Rhysand’s chest piece, hers displayed the same emblem—a silent declaration that she stood as his equal, his partner. Her cowl, more streamlined than his, framed her face elegantly, leaving her mouth and a hint of her high cheekbones bare. She had refused to hide her hair entirely, allowing a few strands of her brown locks to tumble artfully from beneath the mask.

Under the glow of faelight, the two of them drew gazes from every passerby. Rhysand grinned beneath the mask, his violet eyes gleaming through the narrow slits. Feyre moved lightly at his side, a confident tilt to her chin. They looked as if they’d stepped straight from a storybook—two daring shadows come to life, ready to protect their city with wit and cunning rather than brute force.

As they crossed through the square on their way to Rita’s, the crowd parted as if drawn by a silent understanding of who they were—even if they could not guess the story behind the strange, winged creatures on their chests. Feyre teased Rhysand, whispering into his ear that he looked rather intimidating in his mask, while he countered that she looked ready to outsmart a hundred villains with just one glare.

Mor led the way, her laughter ringing out like music over the cobblestones. She was dressed as a red devil, and she owned it. The sleek, crimson bodysuit clung to her like a second skin, the plunging neckline a testament to her confidence. A pair of small, curved horns perched on her head, glittering faintly under the moonlight, and her long blonde hair fell in golden waves down her back. In her hand, she carried a red pitchfork, twirling it idly as her sharp heels clicked with purpose.

“Let me guess,” Mor said, turning back to the others with a wicked grin, her golden eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re all secretly jealous of my horns. Admit it.”

Cassian, striding beside her in his costume as a gladiator—complete with a bronze chest plate and leather skirt—snorted. “Jealous? You look like you escaped from a child’s nightmare.”

Mor gasped dramatically, clutching her chest as though wounded. “You’re just mad because my costume is better than yours. Admit it, Cass. You couldn’t pull off red even if your life depended on it.”

“I don’t need to pull off red,” Cassian shot back, his grin matching her wickedness. “I pull off bronze just fine, don’t I?” He flexed his arms for emphasis, making Feyre roll her eyes.

“Stop flirting,” Rhysand drawled lazily from the back of the group, though his violet eyes glinted with amusement. He walked arm in arm with Feyre, who bumped her shoulder into him, her smile fond as she whispered something that made his smirk widen. 

I walked beside them, in my pirate costume Mor I insisted I buy for tonight’s party.  My heart beating a little faster than usual, I was still growing accustomed to this place—Velaris, with its endless kindness and charm, still learning to ease my guard in the presence of those who had quickly begun to feel like family. 

Azriel trailed slightly behind, his costume drawing more than a few curious stares. The green and red suit accentuated his tall, lean frame, and the black mask only made him more striking. His shadows seemed oddly muted tonight, curling lazily around him as though taking a break from their usual restlessness. But his hazel eyes were sharp, scanning the crowd even as he remained silent.

Elain walked beside Azriel, the golden-haired Archeron sister dazzling as an Amazon warrior in her red and gold armor, her soft smile lighting up the path ahead. She said something quietly to Azriel, her tone warm, and he nodded once, though his gaze drifted briefly to me before returning to the street ahead.

Amren had chosen a severe, structured outfit of sharp lines and fine velvet, paired with a mask that elongated at the sides like sweeping horns. She walked a pace behind, unimpressed by the theatrics but enjoying the night’s promise of good wine and entertainment.

“I think I see Rita’s up ahead,” Feyre said, pointing toward the glowing entrance where a line of fae in elaborate costumes waited to enter.

Mor twirled her pitchfork again, a wicked grin curling her lips. “Ah, Rita’s. A place where bad decisions are made, and bad ideas thrive. Let’s make it a night to remember, shall we?”

“You mean a night for you to make bad decisions,” Cassian quipped, earning a sly wink from Mor.

As they reached the door, Mor turned back to the group, her grin widening as she gestured grandly with her pitchfork. “Come on, my loyal mortals,” she said dramatically. “The devil commands you to party like it’s your last night in Prythian.”

Feyre laughed, Rhys shook his head fondly, and Cassian muttered something under his breath about needing more alcohol. Azriel remained silent, his gaze flickering briefly to me again before he stepped inside with the rest of the group, shadows trailing at his heels.

And as the doors to Rita’s opened and the music spilled out into the night, Mor led the way, her horns glittering and her laughter echoing like the promise of chaos.

******

Y/n POV

The exterior had been draped in silks of various colors—amethyst, emerald, and gold. Paper lanterns dangled overhead, and Harpys—a local acrobatic troupe—performed on a makeshift platform, their movements reflected in the polished windows.

Inside, the music surged, a lively tune that urged everyone to dance. Costumed revelers pressed in from all sides and Rita’s sprawling bar was backed by mirrors that caught and multiplied the twinkling fairy lights strung across the ceiling.

I found myself at the back of the group as we made our way through the crowd toward the bar. Feyre deftly slipped between partygoers, Rhysand following with an easy confidence that parted the crowds. Cassian’s booming laugh rolled ahead of them, turning a few heads, while Mor and Amren drifted behind, keeping their own easy pace. Azriel settled beside Elain, guiding her gently with a subtle press of his elbow so she didn’t lose them in the throng.

At the bar, the bartender—a fae with a smiling fox mask—tipped his head in greeting. Colorful bottles lined the shelves, potions and liquors in every hue. Cassian ordered something strong and sweet, while Mor demanded a sparkling concoction said to taste like summer rain. Feyre and Rhysand exchanged a private look before they each requested a signature Rita’s special—whatever that might be tonight. Amren quietly asked for her usual: a blood-red wine, dry and full-bodied.

And when the bartender turned to me, I hesitated, uncertain. I looked to Mor, who offered an encouraging grin. 

I finally spoke over the din, “I’ll have what Feyre’s having.” A safe choice, a link between myself and these people who had welcomed me into their fold. As the bartender got to work, I relaxed a fraction. Surrounded by friends—by family—I began to believe I could belong here, in this kaleidoscope of laughter, music, and shimmering costumes.

******

Azriel POV 

Later that evening, as the clamor and brightness of Rita’s masquerade party swelled behind him, Azriel slipped out onto one of the bar’s balcony landings. He rarely took center stage in such festivities; he preferred to linger in the quiet margins, in watchful shadows. But tonight, thanks to Rhysand’s and Feyre’s outlandish costumes, the entire Inner Circle had indulged in their shared whimsy. Which meant he was dressed in a style he’d never have chosen for himself: a fitted outfit of red and green leather, high boots that glinted with polished leather, and a short cape in a brilliant shade of yellow. He had glamoured his wings because they just didn’t seem to fit with his costume theme. A simple half-mask, black and angular, framed his eyes and seemed to sharpen his gaze.

He looked, well… like a sidekick, he supposed. A guardian-in-training. A bright dash of color no one would have expected from the Night Court’s spymaster. Yet, when Rhysand had hinted that this costume would “suit his quiet valor,” and Mor had jokingly nudged him with, “You’ll look adorable,” Azriel had decided to humor them. It was just one night, after all. One night to be something different.

The gentle hush of the night air and a hint of distant music drifted around him as he rested his forearms on the balcony’s railing. He hadn’t expected to be followed, least of all by her. 

Y/n walked out on the balcony, her dark hair cascading down her back like a shimmering curtain of midnight. But it wasn’t her hair that held his attention—it was the outfit. She was dressed as a pirate, but not the type who’d be hidden away on a ship. Her leather corset hugged her curves perfectly, laced tightly at the front and accentuating her small waist. A deep crimson skirt with slits up both sides revealed her toned legs with every step she took, and tall thigh high black boots completed the look. A black hat with a crimson feather perched at a rakish angle on her head, and her usual confidence was amplified by the mischievous smile playing on her lips.

Time seemed to pause for Azriel in that moment, the noise fading into the background as his gaze drank her in. She was breathtaking, striking in a way that made his chest ache.

His hazel eyes traced every detail of her costume, from the glint of the gold chains at her hip to the dagger sheathed at her thigh—an authentic touch that made his lips twitch. Even here, at a costume party, she carried a weapon. 

Of course she does, he thought with a flicker of admiration.

But it wasn’t just her outfit that drew him—it was the way she carried herself. He tore his gaze away for a moment, trying to focus on anything else, but it was impossible. She was magnetic, her presence pulling at him as if the bond thrumming faintly in his chest refused to let him look away.

When she spotted him on the balcony as well, her smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, her gaze locking with his. The moment stretched between them, her eyes wide, as if surprised by his focus on her. Azriel’s jaw tightened, his shadows shifting slightly around his shoulders, betraying the tension coiling within him.

What are you doing, Azriel? he berated himself. He shouldn’t be looking at her like this. Shouldn’t be imagining what it would feel like to trail his fingers along the exposed skin of her thigh, to tug at the laces of that corset and see what lay beneath. He clenched his hands into fists, his knuckles brushing the edge of the railing as he forced himself to look away.

But it was useless. His gaze flicked back to her almost immediately, drawn by some unseen force. 

And then she stopped—right beside him.

She took in his costume one careful inch at a time, her gaze traveling over the rich hues, the sleek mask, the embroidered emblem on his chest. A faint, disbelieving smile curved at the corners of her lips.

“This is unexpected,” she said, voice soft, yet threaded with amusement. “I never thought I’d see you in… something so bright.”

Azriel felt heat creep along his neck, though he managed a small half-smile. “I’m still not entirely sure how Rhysand talked me into this.” He tugged gently at the edge of his cape, as though trying to smooth a wrinkle—or maybe hide behind it. “He said it would fit the theme.”

She stepped closer. The moonlight shimmered over the dark waves of her hair, and the scent of jasmine and sea salt clung faintly to her skin. She tilted her head, her blue eyes catching the light. “Robin, isn’t that what he called you tonight?” The name rolled off her tongue with a teasing lilt.

Azriel cleared his throat. “It’s from the same strange story they plucked their costumes from. Robin is… a trusted partner, I gather. Someone who stands beside the hero.” A subtle shrug of his shoulders. He let the implication hang in the warm night air: that he was a supporting role, a reliable presence, never the main character.

Y/n’s eyes softened. “Standing beside someone doesn’t make you any less important. I’ve heard rumors about this… hero and sidekick. Robin’s loyalty, his quick thinking, and his willingness to step into danger for others. It sounds… familiar.” Her voice held a gentle note, a rare warmth directed just at him.

Azriel’s throat tightened at that, the faint praise laced with understanding. He tried to formulate a response that wouldn’t betray the swirl of emotion within him, but she saved him by leaning in slightly, a playful sparkle in her eyes. “If you ask me,” Y/n said, her tone conspiratorial, “you wear it well. I think this Robin would be proud to have you in his stead.”

Azriel blinked, surprised pleasure flickering in his gaze. He didn’t know if it was the mask granting him courage, but he allowed himself a quieter, warmer smile than usual. “You think so?”

She nodded, stepping just close enough that he caught the shine of starlight in her eyes. “I do. I’m glad I got to see this side of you.” Her gaze flicked briefly over his shoulders, at the colored cape. “The colors suit you in a way I wouldn’t have imagined. It’s… a reminder that even shadows can wear bright things, if only for a night.”

Azriel exhaled softly, a sound that could have been the start of a laugh. He found himself grateful for the mask that concealed enough of his face to hide the full extent of his surprise—and pleasure. “Then maybe I’ll have to keep it,” he teased, surprising himself with the lightness in his tone. “Wear it around Velaris sometime, just to keep everyone on their toes.”

Y/n smiled, a real, radiant one that softened the edges of the night. “I’d like that,” she said, her voice quiet. For a moment, the music and laughter from inside faded into the background, and the two of them stood there, side by side under the Velaris moon. Azriel’s then turned back to her, his gaze lingered over her curves and costume as he drank her in. 

“Enjoying the view, Spymaster?” she teased, her voice low and playful as she tilted her head, the crimson feather in her hat swaying with the movement. Her lips curled into a sly smile, her eyes glinting with amusement as she leaned slightly closer, the scent of her teasing his senses.

Azriel’s throat tightened, his usually steady demeanor slipping for a moment as he struggled to find words. “It’s… a bold costume,” he managed, his voice rougher than usual.

Her smile widened, and there was something almost daring in her expression. “Bold is one word for it,” she said lightly.

His shadows curled tighter, betraying his emotions even as he forced himself to keep his expression neutral. “It suits you,” he said quietly, his gaze flickering down her figure to the dagger sheathed at her thigh before he dragged it back to her face. “Dangerous and beautiful.”

Y/n stilled, the teasing glint in her eyes softening as a faint flush colored her cheeks. 

“I need to go back inside,” he said abruptly, stepping back from the railing. His shadows swirled tighter around him, agitated and restless, reflecting the turmoil he was so carefully trying to hide. “Enjoy the party, Y/n.”

******

Y/n POV

The air on the balcony was cool and refreshing, a stark contrast to the heat and noise inside Rita’s. I leaned against the railing, the city lights of Velaris shimmering below me as Itook a deep breath, trying to steady the flurry of emotions racing through my chest. The party inside was in full swing, the music and laughter spilling out into the night, but I’d needed a moment to myself. Seeing Azriel tonight, the way his eyes had lingered on me in my costume, had stirred something deep inside me—something confusing and raw.

I adjusted the brim of my pirate hat, my fingers brushing the crimson feather as I shook my head. Don’t be ridiculous, I told myself. He’s with Elain. He’s always been with Elain.

The soft sound of boots against the stone pulled me from my thoughts, and I turned just as Lucien stepped out onto the balcony. The golden glow of the city lights danced across his face, highlighting his sharp features and the striking contrast of his long auburn red hair. He was dressed as a pirate too, though his outfit was a little more rugged—dark leather trousers tucked into polished boots, a loose shirt opened to show his chiseled chest with a fitted brown suede vest. He had several pendants around his neck and his weapons hung off the belts around his waist. He topped it off with a sexy black eyepatch over his mechanical eye. 

“Well, well,” he said, a playful smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned casually against the railing beside me. “It seems we’ve had the same idea tonight. Did you plan this?”

I raised a brow, trying to suppress the small smile threatening to form. “Hardly. I think you’re the one copying me, Lucien.”

His smirk widened as he tilted his head, gleaming with mischief. “If I am, it’s only because you wear it so well. But I must say…” He straightened, gesturing between our matching costumes. “We make quite the pair, don’t we?”

I rolled my eyes, though my smile slipped through this time. “Don’t let Mor hear you say that. She’d take credit for both of our costumes.”

Lucien chuckled, his deep, rich laugh warming the cool night air. “That does sound like her,” he admitted. He paused, studying me for a moment before his expression softened. “You look incredible, Y/n. The costume suits you.”

My cheeks flushed faintly, and I turned back toward the city, fiddling with the edge of my hat. “Thanks,” I said quietly, the genuine sincerity in his voice catching me off guard. “You… don’t look so bad yourself.”

He chuckled again, but it was softer this time, and he leaned closer, resting his forearms on the railing as he looked at me. “What are you doing out here, anyway? The party’s inside.”

I sighed, my gaze fixed on the shimmering waters of the Sidra in the distance. “Just needed a breather,” I said after a moment. “It’s a bit overwhelming in there.”

“Ah,” Lucien said knowingly, his voice laced with understanding. “Too many fae in one place, too much noise, and one brooding Shadowsinger staring at you like he’s never seen a woman before?”

My head snapped toward him, my wide eyes meeting his amused gaze. “What are you talking about?” I asked, though the heat rising in my cheeks betrayed me.

Lucien’s smirk deepened, as he straightened. “Oh, come on, Y/n. I’ve known Azriel long enough to recognize that look. He might think he’s subtle, but I’ve seen the way he watches you.” He tilted his head, studying my reaction. “And the way you watch him.”

I swallowed, my hands gripping the railing tightly. “He doesn’t watch me,” I said quickly, though my voice lacked conviction. “He’s… he’s with Elain.”

Lucien’s expression shifted, his smirk fading into something softer, more thoughtful. “Is he?” he asked quietly. “Because from where I’m standing, he seems to be more focused on you than anyone else.”

My heart clenched at his words, but I forced myself to shake my head, turning away again. “You’re wrong,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Lucien didn’t press me further. Instead, he reached out and gently tugged on the brim of my hat, a faint smile returning to his lips. “Well, if he’s too blind to see what’s in front of him, that’s his loss,” he said lightly. “Because if you ask me, you’re the most stunning woman at this party.”

My breath caught, and I turned to him in surprise, my heart racing at the warmth in his gaze. Before I could respond, Lucien offered me a small bow, the perfect image of a charming pirate. “Now, shall we head back in, Captain?” he asked, holding out his arm with an exaggerated flourish.

Despite myself, I laughed, the tension in my chest easing slightly as I took his arm. “Fine,” I said, shaking my head. “But only if you promise not to call me Captain again.”

“No promises,” Lucien said with a wink, leading me back inside.

But as we re-entered the crowded bar, I felt a familiar pair of hazel eyes on me, sharp and unyielding, even from across the room. When I glanced in Azriel’s direction, his gaze was fixed on where my hand rested on Lucien’s arm, shadows flickering darkly around his shoulders.

And for a moment, the heat of his gaze was almost enough to make me forget everything else. Almost.

******

Y/n POV 

The music at Rita’s had settled into a steady, enticing rhythm as the evening wore on. The costume party was in full swing, and every corner of the bar seemed touched by some fantasy or legend. When I stepped away from the balcony with Lucien and waded back through the throng of revelers, I caught sight of Elain at the far end of the long, polished counter. Elain, usually gentle and understated, had embraced the night’s playful absurdity. She wore armor-like cuffs on her wrists, a gleaming tiara in her softly curling hair, and a red and blue ensemble that paid homage to a warrior woman of legend—an Amazon princess named Diana, Feyre had called her. She radiated confidence and warmth, turning heads as she passed. The pair looked like they had stepped out of a storybook, a flawless couple destined for one another.

“Interesting costume choices, don’t you think?” Mor’s voice cut through my thoughts, a teasing lilt in her tone. I turned to see my friend watching me with a knowing smirk, her sharp gaze darting between me and Azriel.

“Robin suits him,” I replied, my voice carefully neutral as I forced a smile. “And Elain looks… stunning.” I hated how stiff the words sounded, hated how the knot in my chest tightened further as I said them.

“She does,” Mor agreed, though her smirk didn’t fade. “But you didn’t answer my real question.”

I arched a brow, feigning ignorance. “And what question is that?”

Mor’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “What you really think about Azriel and Elain.”

My smile faltered, my gaze dropping to my glass. “I think they look good together,” I said after a moment, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

Mor tilted her head, studying me with a knowing look. “Interesting,” she murmured, her tone too light to be innocent. “I think they look mismatched.”

My head snapped up, surprise flickering in my eyes. “What do you mean?”

Mor shrugged, a sly smile playing on her lips. “I mean, Azriel may be standing there with her, but I know him well enough to see where his mind is.”

I frowned, my heart thudding in her chest. “And where is that, exactly?”

Mor leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “On the sexy pirate who has him so tied up in knots, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”

My cheeks flushed, my heart stuttering at the implication. I opened my mouth to argue, to deny it, but Mor had already turned back to the crowd, her smirk widening as she watched Azriel glance in our direction.

My stomach flipped as my gaze followed his, catching the brief flicker of something in his hazel eyes as they locked onto mine for the briefest moment. And then he turned back to Elain, his attention shifting seamlessly as though nothing had happened.

I paused, hovering just at the edge of a knot of partygoers. From my vantage point, I saw Azriel leaning against the bar, his dark hair falling slightly into his eyes, the edges of his robin-themed mask catching the light. He wore it well, even with his shoulders squared as if expecting some danger that would never come. He’d seemed relaxed with me on the balcony before Lucien’s arrival, even teased me lightly. Now, watching him from a distance, I realized that sense of comfort I’d felt moments before was not mine alone to share.

Elain approached him with a gentle smile, and Azriel inclined his head, acknowledging her presence. She said something—I couldn’t make out the words—and Azriel’s lips curved into a quiet, subdued smile in return. They stood close, close enough that Elain’s glossy curls brushed near his shoulder, close enough that my chest tightened at the sight. There was nothing overtly intimate about their stance, yet the ease between them was undeniable. Elain’s laughter, soft and melodic, reached my ears even over the hum of conversation.

I tried to quell the envy, the insecurity coursing through my veins. It was unfair to Elain, who had been nothing but kind, open, and gracious since my arrival. Still, seeing them together—Elain as regal and radiant as a warrior queen, Azriel so at ease by her side—caused a quiet ache in my chest.

It wasn’t the playful banter, or even the teasing glances they exchanged that bothered me. It was the way Azriel, normally so reserved and distant, was allowing it. He was letting Elain into his space, into his proximity in a way that stung deeper than I wanted to admit. My heart twisted painfully in my chest as I watched them, the distance between he and I growing more and more significant with each passing moment. 

And at that moment realized it hit me.

I was in love with Azriel.

And what made it hurt was that Azriel had made his choice...and it wasn’t me.

He had chosen her.

My own costume felt suffocating—too tight around my chest, as though it was somehow mocking me. The corset I wore seemed to accentuate my discomfort, but it was nothing compared to the way my heart twisted as I watched him with Elain. The jealousy that boiled inside me was thick and painful, settling deep in my stomach, making it hard to breathe.

But I couldn’t help the way my eyes were drawn back to them, time and time again. Azriel’s attention was completely focused on Elain, and for some reason, it felt like everything inside me had shattered. The realization that I couldn’t get close enough to him and that it felt like he was slipping away from me—was almost unbearable.

Azriel’s gaze lifted momentarily and swept through the crowd—did he feel me watching him? He straightened a fraction, shadows gathering subtly near his shoulders. Then, as if he found what he was looking for, his eyes met mine across the space, catching me in the act of observing. He didn’t smile, didn’t beckon me over, but something in his gaze hardened. Like I was intruding into something I shouldn’t be. 

And with that thought, I felt something inside me close off. I wouldn’t let him see how much it hurt. 

Not now. 

Not in front of anyone. 

So, I turned away, my heart heavier with each step, determined to hold onto the fragments of myself that were slipping away with every glance I cast in his direction. 

My pulse fluttered. I had no right to jealousy, had no claim over him and yet, the jealous feeling remained, a lump in my throat that wouldn’t subside. I managed a small nod, and forced myself to move, to drift along the bar’s length. I’d find Lucien or Mor, find a reason to laugh, to enjoy the night as I was meant to. 

Still, as I wove through the costumed guests searching for Lucien or Mor, I couldn’t shake the image of them standing side by side. Azriel and Elain—the spymaster and the gentle dreamer turned warrior-goddess for a night.

I met up with Lucien again near the edge of the dance floor, where the crowd thinned just enough for me to spot his distinctive auburn hair.

He straightened as I neared, a grin curving his lips, and welcomed me with an easy bow, offering his hand as the music shifted to a sultry, rhythmic tune. Rita’s had cleared a small space in the center for dancing, and as we stepped into that open circle, I felt the weight of dozens of curious gazes—one in particular.

******

Azriel POV

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his chest tightening with a sharp pang of jealousy as he watched her approach Lucien, and his offering of his hand to her. Then she looked up at him and laughed at whatever Lucien had said. Her smile was radiant, her gaze lighting up in a way that made Azriel’s heart clench. And yet, there was something deeper in his hazel eyes as he watched her—something that burned like a smoldering fire, unyielding and all-consuming.

They were dressed as pirates, the perfect pair. Y/n’s outfit hugged her figure, a corseted jacket of deep black leather. She looked fierce and radiant, her confidence a magnet for every eye in the room. Lucien matched her, his rugged attire equally striking. They looked as if they’d stepped from the pages of a sea-bound epic, a swashbuckling duo come to life.

Azriel’s chest tightened as he watched her laugh at something Lucien said, her hand brushing his arm in a gesture that seemed too familiar, too easy. She looked happy—carefree in a way. And while he knew he had no right to begrudge her joy, the jealousy clawed at him anyway, hot and insistent.

Even as she laughed with Lucien, Azriel couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was everything—his bond, his mate and his self-control was seriously beginning to erode. 

Azriel’s grip on his glass tightened, the cool edge of the tumbler biting into his fingers. His shadows stirred uneasily at his feet, mirroring the storm brewing in his chest. He didn’t need to look around to know others had noticed her too—the way heads turned, admiring glances from fae males trailing her every step. But it wasn’t the others that sparked his jealousy, and it wasn't just her appearance that had his attention-it was who she was dancing with.

Lucien.

Azriel's jaw clenched as he watched them.

Lucien's hands rested on Y/n’s waist, far too comfortably for Azriel's liking, his fingers dangerously close to the lower curve of her back. Every now and then, Lucien's hands would slide lower, just enough to make Azriel's shadows writhe with agitation.

Then there was the way Lucien leaned into her neck, his lips hovering mere inches from her skin as he spoke to her. Whatever he was saying made her laugh softly, and the sound, combined with the way she tilted her head slightly to listen, exposed the delicate line of her throat. Lucien lingered there longer than necessary, his lips so close to her skin that Azriel swore he saw the faintest brush of air between them.

Lucien straightened, his hand on her waist tightening slightly as they danced closer, their bodies almost touching. Their faces were mere inches apart now, their breath mingling as they moved in perfect rhythm to the sultry beat. When she spun, the curls of her hair brushed his cheek; when she stepped forward, her knee slipped between his, bringing them momentarily closer than polite society would ever allow. Her hands went around his neck as they moved and gyrated their hips in a sultry, synchronous dance. The music thrummed, sensual and hypnotic, and their laughter mixed with its pulse.

Y/n’s blue eyes locked onto Lucien's, and the intensity in her gaze made Azriel's chest tighten. Lucien stared back at her as though she were the only person in the room, his gaze fixed on her with a reverence that made Azriel's blood boil.

Their lips were almost touching, their gazes locked, and Lucien seemed utterly lost in her.

He told himself he had no right to feel this way, that she owed him nothing. Fate had bound him to her, but she was free, her desires her own. Still, the quiet ache in his chest refused to fade. His fingertips tapped an erratic rhythm against the bar’s edge as he tried—and failed—to keep his gaze from drifting back to the dancing pair. He motioned the bartender for another shot and slammed it as he motioned again for another one, gripping the glass in a deathlike vice. 

“Careful, Az,” came a voice at his side. He turned to find Cassian leaning casually against the bar, a knowing smirk on his face. “You’re going to shatter that drink with how hard you’re gripping it.”

“I’m fine,” Azriel replied curtly, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

A spin brought Y/n face-to-face with Lucien, closer still, and Azriel’s breath caught. The gentle curve of her smile, the glow in her eyes—he knew that glow. He’d seen it on others who found Lucien’s charm enchanting. At that moment, Azriel would have given anything to be the one in front of her, to feel her body responding to the music against his own, to coax that laugh from her lips.

But he remained at a distance, leaning against the bar just off the dance floor, keeping a watchful eye on her. He’d had to swallow down his jealousy more than once tonight as others noticed what he considered to be his. 

His beautiful mate. 

He tried to appear calm, though his posture tense, a subtle sign of the turmoil within him. But the sight of her with Lucien started to become his undoing. 

Lucien’s hand shifted slightly, his thumb brushing a soft circle over her hip, and Azriel's fists clenched at his sides. The way Lucien looked at her-as though she were his—made something dark and possessive roar to life within Azriel.

Beside him, Cassian leaned casually against the bar, swirling his drink in his hand. He followed Azriel's line of sight, his brows rising as he took in the scene on the dance floor.

The music shifted to a an even slower, sultrier beat, and Y/n moved with an effortless grace that made Azriel’s heart twist. Lucien matched her step for step, his hands resting on her hips as he pulled her flush with his body, her arms wrapping tighter around his neck. They swayed together, their bodies so close that Azriel could not see any space between them, their bodies far too close for Azriel’s liking.

Azriel’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought the urge to march onto the dance floor and tear them apart. He could feel the bond between him and Y/n thrumming faintly, an unspoken connection that was only known to him and fueled his jealousy as he watched her smile at Lucien, her body melting more into his they moved.

Azriel's knuckles whitened as he slammed his drink onto the bar with enough force to make the glass rattle. Cassian's gaze snapped back to him.

"Oh shit," Cassian muttered, his eyes darting back to Y/n and Lucien. "This is about to get interesting."

Azriel’s shadows lashed out violently, curling and writhing at his feet as he pushed off the bar and strode toward them. The room seemed to quiet in his mind, the music and laughter fading into the background as his focus narrowed to the two of them.

"That's enough," Azriel said, his voice low but cutting as he grabbed her wrist. His touch wasn't rough, but it was firm, and the intensity in his hazel eyes made her stop mid-step.

"Azriel, what-" she began, her brows knitting in confusion.

"We're talking. Outside. Now," he said sharply, his shadows curling around his boots as he pulled her toward the door.

Lucien started to step forward, but Azriel shot him a look that froze him in place. "Stay out of this," Azriel growled, his voice edged with a warning that even Lucien couldn't ignore.

Y/n barely had time to process what was happening as Azriel guided her outside, the cool night air hitting her face as they stepped into the quiet alley behind Rita's. She yanked her wrist free. 

“What the hell, Az?”

Azriel turned to face her, his hazel eyes blazing. "What the hell were you doing in there? Dancing with him like that? Letting him put his hands all over you?"

Her eyes widened in shock. "Dancing, Azriel. It was just dancing. Why do you care?"

"Why do I care?" he repeated, his voice rising.

The glamour on his wings dissolved, his wings then flaring behind him, and his shadows lashed at the ground. "Because he had his scent all over you. His scent. And you two looked like-like—"

"Like what?" she snapped, stepping closer. "Like a couple? Is that what you're so upset about?"

"Yes!" Azriel yelled, his voice raw with frustration. "You're dressed like pirates together, looking like you walked out of some stupid fantasy book, and you don't even realize how it looks. How it feels to see you with him like that. Lucien—" He stopped abruptly, his chest heaving, before finishing. "Lucien is Elain's mate, Y/n. Don't you think about what that must make Elain feel? How awkward it must be for her?"

Y/n’s eyes narrowed, anger flashing in her stormy blue eyes, the color changing to a deep-sea blue where the ocean water darkens in color as the light can no longer reach it. She was livid, her anger coiled like a snake and ready to strike.

“Elain doesn’t give a shit about Lucien.” She snapped, stepping forward to get in his face. "She's made that very clear. And if you didn't notice, Elain is quite taken with you, Azriel." Her words were sharp, cutting, as she added, "So why does it matter to you?"

Azriel froze, her question hanging heavily in the air. His jaw clenched, his wings twitching as his gaze locked onto hers. "Because you don't belong to him," he said finally, his voice low but filled with unspoken emotion.

Y/n blinked, her breath hitching as she took a step back. "Go back inside, Azriel," she said quietly, crossing her arms as though trying to shield herself. "Go back to Elain. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"No," Azriel said firmly, his voice trembling with the intensity of the word.

"Azriel," she hissed again, her tone sharper now.

"Go back inside. Go back to Elain." She pointed to the door.

"I said no!" Azriel shouted, his voice breaking through the quiet night air as he stepped closer to her, the tension between them was palpable. 

Y/n opened her mouth to argue, but before she could speak, Azriel surged forward, his hands cupping her face as he crushed his lips to hers in a kiss filled with heat, frustration, and something deeper.

She froze for a moment, shocked, but the warmth of his lips, the desperate way he kissed her, broke through her defenses. Slowly, her body relaxed against his, and she kissed him back, her hands moving to his chest, then his shoulders as the kiss deepened.

Azriel groaned softly as her fingers moved up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. His hands slid from her face to her waist, gripping her tightly as he pressed her against the wall, their bodies flush.

His shadows coiled around them, blocking out the world, and he could feel her trembling beneath his touch as he pressed his hard cock against her stomach, wanting her to feel him, feel how she was driving him insane. 

“Gods, angel,” he murmured, as he trailed kisses down her jawline and her neck. “What are you doing to me?” 

She whimpered and the scent of her arousal hit him like a tsunami, mingling with his own, and it nearly undid him. His hands grabbed hers and held them over her head and he pinned her hands down. As his kisses increased in intensity, he held her wrists with one hand and moved the other down her body. She responded with equal intensity, as a soft moan escaped her lips, a sound that sent heat rushing through him, his blood thundering in his veins. 

“You. Are. Mine.” He growled between kisses as his free hand slid up from her waist to her corset, caressing and palming her breast as his mouth continued to devour hers. 

Y/n arched her back against him, seeking the friction she desperately needed against her core as his hand moved down from her breast to the slit in her skirt. He slid his hand up her inner thigh to her lace panties, where he felt the dampness at the apex of her thighs…and he snapped. 

His mouth moved back down to her neck, kissing, licking and biting her skin, her breath coming out in pants. He moved his mouth back up to hers as abruptly pulled her panties aside and ran his fingers over her, his fingers immediately wet from her pussy.

“Mother above, baby, your body is so responsive to me.” He smiled against her mouth as his tongue danced with hers. 

As he his fingers slowly caressed her clit in circles, he swallowed her moans and inserted a finger inside of her, slowly pumping it inside and out.

Fuck, she was intoxicating, and he wanted to just get drunk on her for the rest of eternity. 

“Azriel,” she moaned as he slid another finger inside her. She was sopping wet for him and all he wanted to do was drop his to his knees, pull her leg over his shoulder and feast on her as the scent of her overcame him. 

But then, reality slammed into him.

Azriel pulled away abruptly, his breathing ragged, his hazel eyes wide, pupils blown, with a mix of longing and regret. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I shouldn't have – this was a mistake"

"Azriel, wait," Y/n began, reaching for him, but he stepped back, shaking his head.

"I can't... I can't do this right now," he said, his voice breaking as he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving her alone in the alley with the taste of him still on her lips. 

Back inside, Cassian stood at the bar, watching Azriel storm back in and Y/n’s stunned face visible just outside the door. He shook his head with a low whistle, muttering to himself, "Oh shit." He downed the rest of his drink, knowing full well he'd probably be hearing about this later.

******

Y/n POV

I stood in the cool night air, my back against the wall of the alley behind Rita’s, my chest rising and falling as I tried to steady my breathing. The sounds of the party still filtered faintly through the door, but the world around me felt impossibly quiet, as though the kiss had stolen all sound along with my composure.

My fingers trembled as they brushed against my lips, still tingling from the heat of Azriel’s kiss. I could feel him there, the ghost of his touch lingering like a brand. It had been fiery, raw, and so filled with emotion that it left me reeling. I could still feel the pressure of his hands on my face, the weight of his body against mine, the way his shadows had seemed to cocoon us from the rest of the world.

The cool air brushing against face did nothing to calm the storm inside me. I closed my eyes, trying to push away the memory of his hazel eyes blazing with intensity, of the possessiveness in his voice when he’d said I didn’t belong to Lucien and claimed me as his.  

Confusion swirled through my mind, mixing with anger and longing in equal measure. Why had he kissed me? Why had he acted so… possessive? He’d stormed out of the party, dragging me away from Lucien, chastising me as though I’d done something wrong. But I hadn’t. Had I?

My brows furrowed as my thoughts turned to Lucien. We’d been dancing—close, yes, but it had been harmless. Or at least, I’d thought it was. Lucien was my friend, nothing more. The idea that Azriel had thought otherwise made my chest tighten with frustration. 

But Azriel’s words lingered, cutting through my confusion like shards of glass. “Because you don’t belong to him.” His voice had been filled with something raw, something I couldn’t ignore. And the way he’d looked at me… like I was his entire world, like the very idea of me with someone else was unbearable.

My fingers curled into fists at my sides as I opened my eyes, staring out into the dark alley. I didn’t know what to think, didn’t know how to process the whirlwind of emotions that the kiss had stirred within me. All I knew was that it had awakened something in me, something I could no longer ignore.

My heart pounded as I replayed the moment in my mind, over and over again. The warmth of his lips, the way his scent—cedar, mist, and shadows—had wrapped around me, the way he’d kissed me and touched me like he was claiming me, like I was his. It had left me breathless, confused, and yearning for him.

But then he’d pulled away, his expression filled with regret, and his apology had stung more than I cared to admit. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—” The words echoed in my mind, leaving a hollow ache in my chest. He’d walked away, disappearing into the shadows without giving me a chance to respond, to ask him what it all meant.

I pressed my hand against my chest, trying to calm the erratic beat of my heart. I didn’t know what to do with this—didn’t know how to handle the fire he’d ignited within me. All I knew was that I still felt him, in the warmth lingering on my lips, in the way my body ached to be close to him again, to feels his strong hands all over me.

I shook my head, letting out a shaky breath as I straightened. I couldn’t stay out here, couldn’t let myself get lost in the confusion and longing that threatened to overwhelm me. But as I stepped back toward the party, my thoughts were still consumed by him—by the kiss, by the emotions he’d unleashed, and by the way my heart seemed to ache in his absence.

I didn’t know what to think, didn’t know what to feel. All I knew was that Azriel had left his mark on me in a way that felt as permanent as the stars, and I wasn’t sure if I could ever let it go.

“Y/n?”

The voice startled me, and I turned to see Mor standing in the doorway, her golden hair catching the dim light spilling from Rita’s. Mor’s expression shifted from curiosity to concern as she took in my flushed face and the slightly dazed look in my eyes.

“What happened?” Mor asked, stepping closer, her voice softer now but laced with determination.

I hesitated, my fingers brushing my lips again before I let out a shaky breath. “Azriel,” I said simply, the name heavy with emotion.

Mor’s brows shot up, and she tilted her head, urging me to continue.

“He—he pulled me out here,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “We argued about Lucien, about dancing with him. And then… he kissed me.”

Mor’s eyes widened, and she let out a low whistle, crossing her arms as she leaned against the wall beside me. “Well,” she said, dragging the word out. “That’s a development. What did you do?”

I pulled my hat off and ran a hand through my hair, as I tried to find the right words. “I kissed him back,” I admitted, my cheeks flushing. “But then he pulled away and apologized. And then he… he just walked away.”

Mor frowned, her expression darkening as she considered my words. “That idiot,” she muttered under her breath.

I turned to her, confused. “What do you think is happening, Mor? Why would he… why would he do that?”

Mor let out a sigh, shaking her head. “Azriel has spent his entire life keeping his emotions locked up, trying to convince himself he doesn’t deserve happiness. But you…” She gestured at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re the first person I’ve seen him look at like this. Like he can’t breathe when you’re not near him.”

I blinked, my breath hitching at Mor’s words. “But he apologized. He looked… regretful. Like it was a mistake.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot,” Mor said flatly, rolling her eyes. “He’s terrified, Y/n. He doesn’t know how to handle what he feels for you, and instead of facing it, he’s going to pretend it’s not there. Classic Az.”

I frowned, my confusion deepening. “What am I supposed to do with that? Just… wait for him to figure it out?”

Mor turned to me fully, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Absolutely not,” she said firmly. “What you’re going to do is refuse to let him ruin your night.”

Before I could respond, Mor grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the door. “The night is still young, and you’re not going to stand out here sulking because Azriel can’t get his head out of his ass.”

“Wait, Mor—” I started, but Mor cut her off with a determined shake of her head.

“Nope,” Mor said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving. We’re going to have fun. And I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Once inside, Mor scanned the room until her eyes landed on Lucien, still standing near the edge of the dance floor, looking mildly confused. She marched over with me reluctantly trailing behind her.

“Lucien,” Mor said, her tone bright and cheerful as she looped her arm through his. “We’re taking Y/n somewhere else. Another bar, something more fun. You in?”

Lucien glanced between Mor and I, his eye narrowing slightly as he seemed to piece together what had happened. But then he smiled, a small, knowing grin tugging at his lips. “Absolutely,” he said, his voice warm. “Lead the way.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Mor silenced me with a pointed look. “You’re coming too, Y/n,” Mor said, tugging me along. “No arguments.”

Mor dropped Lucien’s arm, and he placed his hand on the small of my back to lead me out of the bar. As we turned toward the door, I froze for a moment, my heart skipping a beat. Azriel was standing near the bar, his arms crossed over his chest, his hazel eyes blazing as he watched us. The shadows around his feet were restless, curling and snapping in agitation, and his jaw was set in a hard line.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but his expression said everything. He was furious. With himself or with me, I wasn’t sure which. 

I swallowed hard, my heart twisting at the sight of him, but Mor didn’t give me time to linger. She tugged me toward the exit, and Lucien with his hand at the small of my back, leading me out of of Rita’s and into the night.

I could still feel Azriel’s gaze burning into my back as we walked away, my thoughts a tangled mess of confusion, longing, and frustration. And as we headed down the street to another bar, I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight was far from over.

******

Azriel POV

Azriel stormed back into the bar, the door slamming shut behind him as his shadows curled and snapped around his boots, reflecting the storm raging inside him. The kiss still burned on his lips, the feel of Y/n pressed against him seared into his memory, her moaning his name as his fingers found her wet and ready for him to take her. And yet, he had apologized. Called it a mistake. Even though every fiber of his being screamed that it wasn’t.

He made his way back to the bar, his jaw clenched and his hazel eyes blazing with frustration. Without a word, he motioned the bartender for a shot and swallowed it down, motioning for another and another drink, shooting them in succession, his throat burning, but it did nothing to dull the emotions tearing him apart.

“Azriel?” a soft voice called, tentative and concerned.

He turned his head slightly to see Elain approaching, her brows knitted together in worry. She looked delicate and lovely, as always, her voice a balm to some. But not to him. Not now.

“Are you alright?” she asked, stepping closer. Her hand reached out to touch his arm, a light, comforting gesture, but it only made his muscles tense further. “You seem… upset.”

Azriel didn’t answer, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on the door. And then, she walked back in.

Y/n.

Her blue eyes found his almost instantly, and the weight of her gaze made his chest tighten. She looked confused, vulnerable, and achingly beautiful as the faint glow of the lights caught on her dark hair. Lucien, his arm linked with Mor, came up beside her. Lucien moved his hand to rest lightly on the small of Y/n’s back as they moved through the crowd. The sight made Azriel’s grip on his glass tighten until it threatened to shatter.

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment, her expression sad, almost pleading, before she turned her gaze away and let Lucien lead her out of the bar, his hand still resting on the small of her back. 

Azriel’s breath hitched, the ache in his chest unbearable. He barely noticed Elain leaning closer, her voice soft in his ear as she tried to offer more words of comfort. “Azriel, do you want to talk? Maybe we can—”

“Not now,” Azriel snapped, his voice low but sharp. He shook her off, stepping away from her touch.

Elain blinked, startled by his tone, and took a step back, her lips parting as though she wanted to say more. But Azriel’s focus wasn’t on her. His hazel eyes remained locked on Y/n as she moved toward the door with Lucien.

When she disappeared from sight, Azriel let out a harsh breath and turned back to the bar, signaling the bartender for another shot. He drank heavily, his shadows swirling more erratically now, their movements mirroring the turmoil within him.

Cassian appeared beside him, his brows furrowed as he leaned against the bar. “What the hell is going on, Az?” he asked, his voice low but laced with concern. “You’ve been storming around like you’re ready to kill someone. And what was that with Elain?”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the glass in his hand as though it held answers to questions he couldn’t ask.

Cassian narrowed his eyes, his tone sharper now. “Fine. If you don’t want to talk about Elain, then let’s talk about Y/n. What happened with her?”

Azriel’s grip on his glass tightened, the tension in his body palpable. He exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching as he muttered, “Nothing worth talking about.”

“Bullshit,” Cassian said, crossing his arms. “You’re drinking like a madman, glaring at Lucien like you want to rip his head off, and Y/n looked like she’d just been through hell. What. Happened?”

Azriel’s hazel eyes darkened, his shadows flaring briefly as he shot Cassian a warning look. “Leave it, Cassian.”

But Cassian didn’t back down. “Brother,” he said, his voice quieter but no less firm, “if you don’t claim her, someone else will.”

A low growl rumbled in Azriel’s chest, quiet but unmistakable. His shadows snapped around his boots, restless and agitated, as his wings flared slightly. “Don’t,” he warned, his voice edged with fury.

Cassian raised a brow, unfazed by the reaction. “I don’t understand you,” he said, his tone laced with frustration. “You’re clearly losing your mind over her, but instead of doing something about it, you’re standing here drinking yourself into a rage.”

Azriel turned away, his hands gripping the edge of the bar as he tried to steady himself. “It’s not that simple,” he said finally, his voice low and rough.

Cassian shook his head, a mixture of sympathy and exasperation crossing his face. “You’re going to lose her, Az. And when you do, you’ll only have yourself to blame.”

Azriel didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the glass in his hand. The shadows around him stilled briefly, as though even they were holding their breath.

But Cassian’s words lingered, cutting through the haze of anger and confusion like a blade. And as Azriel poured himself another drink, his mind raced with the one thought he couldn’t escape: he didn’t deserve her. But gods, how he wanted her anyway.

******

Y/n POV

As the three of us walked down the bustling streets of Velaris, the music and chatter of Rita’s fading behind us, Lucien glanced down at me, his amber eye gleaming with curiosity. He shifted slightly, then draped his arm casually around my shoulders, pulling me close enough to block the chill of the night air.

“All right,” he said, his tone light but probing. “Are you going to tell me what happened back there, or do I have to guess?”

I tensed slightly under his arm, and glanced up at him, my eyes still shadowed with the confusion and emotions swirling inside me. “It’s… complicated,” I said finally, my voice quiet.

“Complicated?” Lucien echoed, his brows arching as he studied me. “Y/n, you looked like you’d seen a ghost when Mor dragged you back inside. Then there’s Azriel, glaring at me like he’s about to summon the shadows to throttle me. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘complicated.’ It screams drama.”

Before I could answer, Mor let out a snort of laughter, her golden hair catching the moonlight as she turned to look at us. “Oh, it’s definitely drama,” she said, her tone teasing but edged with a knowing sharpness.

Lucien tilted his head at Mor. “Care to share, oh wise one?”

Mor grinned, tossing a glance at me, who groaned softly in response. “Azriel kissed her,” Mor said matter-of-factly, her grin widening as Lucien’s eyebrows shot up.

“Kissed her?” Lucien repeated, his voice filled with surprise. He looked down at me again, his arm still resting comfortably across my shoulders. “That’s what this is about? The Shadowsinger finally made a move and then what, freaked out and left?”

I let out a shaky sigh, wrapping my arms around myself as we walked. “We argued about… you,” I admitted, my cheeks flushing slightly. “He was upset about us dancing, about how it looked. And then, out of nowhere, he kissed me. But then he apologized and walked away like it was a mistake.”

Lucien whistled low under his breath, his grip on my shoulder tightening slightly in a reassuring gesture. “That explains the death glare,” he said, his voice laced with dry humor. “But why in the world would he think it was a mistake?”

Mor rolled her eyes, her pace quickening as she turned to walk backward so she could face us. “Because Azriel is Azriel,” she said, her tone exasperated. “He’s terrified of his feelings, convinced he doesn’t deserve happiness, and instead of owning up to what he clearly feels for her, he’s probably sulking back at Rita’s, brooding and feeling sorry for himself.”

Lucien raised a brow at her, his smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ve had plenty of practice when it comes to Azriel and his brooding,” Mor replied, her grin sharp. She turned to me, pointing a finger at me. “But you, my dear, are not going to let him ruin your night. If he wants to sit there sulking in the corner, that’s on him. You? You’re going to have fun.”

I glanced between Mor and Lucien, my chest tightening as I tried to process everything that had happened. I could still feel the heat of Azriel’s kiss, the way his shadows had curled around us like they were in our own world. But then there was the regret in his eyes as he pulled away, the way he’d disappeared into the night like he couldn’t face what he’d done.

“I don’t know what to think,” I admitted softly, my voice barely audible over the buzz of the city.

Lucien’s arm tightened around my shoulders again, and he tilted his head to catch my gaze. “Then don’t think,” he said gently. “Just let yourself have a good time tonight. Whatever Azriel’s deal is, it’s his to figure out. You don’t owe him anything, Y/n.”

Mor nodded firmly, spinning back around as they approached the glowing lights of another bar. “Exactly. Let him stew in his own mess while we drink and dance and remind Velaris why we’re the most fun people in this court.”

I couldn’t help but laugh softly at Mor’s enthusiasm, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Fine,” I said, my voice a little stronger. “You’re both impossible, but fine.”

“That’s the spirit,” Mor said, grabbing Lucien’s other arm and pulling him toward the bar. “Come on, let’s show this place what a real party looks like.”

And as we stepped inside, I allowed myself, for just a little while, to focus on the warmth of my friends and the noise of the crowd. But no matter how much I tried to push it away, the feel of Azriel’s lips on mine, and the fire he’d ignited, lingered in the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the storm waiting for me when the night finally ended.

******

Azriel POV

Azriel returned to the House of Wind in the dead of night, the city lights of Velaris twinkling faintly behind him as he stepped into the quiet halls. His shadows curled around him, restless and agitated, mirroring the storm inside his chest. The memory of Y/n —her lips, her scent, her touch—was etched into his mind, refusing to fade no matter how hard he tried to drown it out.

He made his way to the sitting room, bypassing the dimly glowing hearth to grab the bottle of whiskey on the side table. Without bothering to pour a glass, he sank into one of the chairs, his wings drooping behind him as he uncorked the bottle and took a long drink. The burn down his throat was sharp and welcome, but it did little to numb the ache in his chest.

He wanted her. Gods, how he wanted her. It wasn’t just her beauty—though that alone could bring him to his knees. It was her strength, her fire, the way her laugh lit up a room and the way she met him as an equal, challenging him at every turn. She had walked into his life and completely undone him, and now he didn’t know how to exist without her.

But she didn’t know. She didn’t know about the bond thrumming between them, didn’t know that every glance, every touch, every word they exchanged felt like a piece of his soul being stitched back together. And she couldn’t know. Because no matter how much he wanted her—needed her—he couldn’t allow himself to have her.

He took another long swig from the bottle, his hazel eyes narrowing as his mind replayed the events of the night. The way Lucien’s hand had rested so casually on her waist, the way they had laughed together like they shared secrets no one else could touch. The way Lucien had touched what was his.

A low growl rumbled in Azriel’s chest, his shadows lashing out and curling along the edges of the room. 

Lucien.

He had wanted to rip him apart right there in the bar, to throw him against the wall and make it clear that Y/n wasn’t his to touch. 

Azriel’s grip tightened around the bottle, his knuckles whitening as he tried to steady the fury building inside him. He hated the possessiveness that roared to life whenever he saw her with someone else, hated how it made him feel out of control, like a beast barely contained. But what he hated most was the jealousy—the quiet, insidious voice in his mind that whispered he might lose her to someone else. To someone better.

Because he didn’t deserve her.

That truth had always loomed over him like a shadow. His past was steeped in blood and darkness, his hands stained with the lives he had taken, the lives he had ruined. He was broken, fractured in ways that could never be healed, and he had spent centuries convincing himself that he wasn’t worthy of happiness. Of love.

Y/n deserved more than him. She deserved light and laughter and someone who could give her the world without the weight of shadows dragging her down. And even though every part of him screamed to claim her, to tell her the truth, he knew he couldn’t.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the flickering firelight. The bottle dangled loosely from his hand, forgotten for the moment as his mind raced. He had to push her away, no matter how much it hurt. No matter how much it killed him to see her sad, to see her confused, to see her walking away with someone who wasn’t him.

This was better. Safer. For her, if not for him.

But as the night dragged on and the whiskey did little to dull the longing that consumed him, Azriel couldn’t help but wonder if he was lying to himself. If, perhaps, pushing her away wasn’t about protecting her—but about punishing himself.

The thought lingered as he took another swig, the shadows coiling tighter around him like they could hold him together. But even they couldn’t drown out the bond humming faintly in the back of his mind, reminding him of what could never be.

Azriel leaned back in the chair, the bottle of whiskey dangling loosely from his fingers as he took another long drink. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows over the sharp planes of his jaw and the tight set of his lips. He barely felt the burn anymore; the alcohol did nothing to quiet the storm in his chest.

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling as he let out a slow, shaky breath. But the memory of her wouldn’t leave him. Her azure-blue eyes, the way they had looked at him when she thought he wasn’t watching. The softness of her lips against his, the fire in her touch when she kissed him back. It had been everything he had ever wanted, everything he hadn’t dared to dream of—and he had thrown it away.

This was a mistake.

The words had left his mouth like a blade, cutting through the moment they had shared, tearing apart something he hadn’t even allowed himself to fully acknowledge. Because how could he admit it? That she was his. That the bond between them hummed in his chest like a constant reminder, one she knew nothing about, an ache that grew stronger every time he pushed her away.

He took another drink, the liquid spilling slightly over his lips as his grip tightened around the bottle. His shadows swirled restlessly, curling around his boots and stretching toward the empty room like they were searching for something—someone. They knew what he wanted. Who he wanted.

She. Is. Mine. 

The thought slammed into him, raw and possessive. Lucien’s hand on her waist, the way he had looked at her like she belonged to him. Azriel growled low in his throat, the sound rumbling in the silence as his shadows snapped angrily around him. 

The words echoed in his mind, unspoken but undeniable. His hand clenched around the neck of the bottle, his knuckles white as the jealousy roared to life again. He could still see it—Lucien’s fingers resting too low on her waist, the way he leaned into her laugh like he had a right to be close to her. It made Azriel’s blood boil, the possessive fury threatening to consume him.

He drained the bottle, the whiskey burning as it slid down his throat, but it wasn’t enough. He grabbed another from the side table, his movements jerky and frustrated as he uncorked it and took a deep swig. He wanted to rip Lucien apart, to tear him limb from limb for daring to touch what wasn’t his. 

As the fire burned low and the night stretched on, Azriel drank and brooded, drowning in the desperate, aching need for the mate he couldn’t have—and the fury at anyone who dared to touch her. 

******

Y/n POV

The House of Wind was quiet as Lucien and I stepped inside, the chill of the night air following them. Lucien’s arm rested comfortably around my waist, his touch light but familiar as we walked together. We were laughing softly, an inside joke from our walk still lingering between us, the warmth of the evening’s distraction temporarily easing the tension that had haunted me since leaving Rita’s.

My soft laugh echoed in the quiet hall, but it quickly faded when we stepped into the main sitting room and saw Azriel.

He was slouched in one of the armchairs near the fire, a bottle of amber liquid in his hand, his wings draped loosely over the sides of the chair. The flickering firelight cast sharp shadows over his face, but his expression was clear—dark, brooding, and furious. His hazel eyes immediately locked onto both of us, narrowing as his gaze fell to Lucien’s arm around my waist.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

Lucien’s laugh died in his throat, his posture shifting slightly as he caught Azriel’s glare. He didn’t remove his arm from my waist, though I stiffened under his touch as I felt the tension radiating from the Spymaster.

“Well,” Lucien said lightly, his voice breaking the heavy silence, though his amber eye remained fixed on Azriel. “I think that’s my cue to disappear.” He gave me a small smile, his grip on my waist tightening briefly before he let his arm fall away. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Lucien turned to Azriel briefly, offering him a polite nod, but Azriel didn’t respond. Instead, a sharp, sarcastic laugh escaped him, cold and cutting as his shadows curled more tightly around his boots. The sound stopped Lucien in his tracks, his eye narrowing as he looked back over his shoulder, but he didn’t say anything. After a brief pause, he continued up the stairs, leaving me and Azriel alone.

My heart pounded as I turned to face Azriel, unsure of what to expect. His hazel eyes burned into mine, blazing with intensity as he sat forward in his chair, his wings shifting slightly behind him. His shadows were restless, agitated, curling and snapping at the ground as though reflecting the storm raging within him.

“Y/n,” he said, his voice low and rough, cutting through the silence.

I hesitated, unsure if I wanted to confront whatever this was. But despite myself, I stepped closer.

“I’m sorry,” Azriel said, his tone softer now but filled with a heaviness that made my chest tighten. “For what happened in the alley.”

My stomach twisted at his words, the memory of his kiss rushing back with vivid clarity. My lips parted, but before I could speak, he continued.

“Kissing you was a mistake,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though the words were hard to say. His hazel eyes searched mine, filled with conflict and something that looked like longing. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

I froze, the words sinking into me like a heavy stone. I crossed my arms tightly over my chest, my wings, now un-glamoured, twitching slightly as I stood there, staring at him.

“I let my emotions get the better of me,” Azriel said, his jaw tightening as he looked away. “It wasn’t… right.”

I didn’t respond. The weight of his words left me breathless, and the look in his eyes only deepened the ache in my chest. 

A mistake. 

Kissing me was a mistake. 

A mistake he regretted making. 

Without a word, I turned and walked toward the stairs, my steps deliberate and measured. I was determined I was not going to break down in front of him. I didn’t look back, but I could feel his gaze on me, burning into me like the firelight that flickered around him.

As I ascended the stairs, my thoughts swirled with confusion and frustration, Azriel’s words echoed in my mind. 

When I reached my room and closed the door softly behind me, the silence was deafening. And as I leaned against the door, my hands trembling slightly, I realized I wasn’t sure if I was angrier at him for calling the kiss a mistake—or at myself for how much I had wanted it not to be.

My chest ached as the sound of the latch clicking into place echoed in the silence. The weight of the night pressed down on me, the tension, the confusion, and Azriel’s words swirling in my mind like a storm I couldn’t escape.

The words hit me over and over, sharp and cutting, as though they were etched into my soul. I leaned back against the door, my wings trembling slightly as my knees gave way. Slowly, I slid down to the floor, my arms wrapping tightly around myself as the first tear slipped down my cheek.

I tried to hold it back, tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but the dam broke, and a quiet sob escaped my lips. My hands pressed against my face as my shoulders shook, the pain in my chest overwhelming. I wanted him so badly—wanted his touch, his warmth, his love. But he didn’t want me. He wanted Elain. He chose her.

The thought gutted me. I had seen the way Azriel looked at Elain, the softness in his hazel eyes, the careful way he spoke to her. Even if Elain was distant, even if she hadn’t chosen him, it didn’t matter. I knew Azriel’s heart wasn’t mine to claim. And that knowledge left me feeling hollow.

So why did he kiss me? I thought, the memory of his lips against mine flooding my mind. Why did it feel so real? But then, he’d pulled away, apologized, and called it a mistake. The pain of it felt unbearable, a wound that cut deeper than I wanted to admit.

My cries softened after a while, turning into quiet, trembling breaths as I sat there on the floor, my head resting against the door, the ache in my chest grow stronger.

******

Azriel POV

Azriel stood at the base of the stairs, staring up at the quiet hallway where Y/n had disappeared moments ago. His bottle sat abandoned in the sitting room, the firelight dimming in his absence. His wings shifted slightly, his shadows curling around him as though urging him to follow her.

He didn’t know why he was doing this. He didn’t know why he had let the argument escalate, why he had kissed her, or why he had apologized afterward. The only thing he did know was that it had taken everything in him to pull away from her. Because kissing her, feeling his arousal for him on his fingers, her scent enveloping him… it hadn’t felt like a mistake. It had felt like everything. 

Slowly, he ascended the stairs, his steps light but deliberate. He didn’t stop until he was outside her door, his shadows curling under the crack and pressing against the barrier like they wanted to reach her. He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes briefly, trying to steady the storm inside him.

Then he heard it.

The soft sound of her crying.

The noise pierced through him, shattering the fragile control he had been clinging to. He straightened, his hand hovering just above the door as his heart twisted in his chest. He wanted to go in, to pull her into his arms, to tell her he hadn’t meant what he’d said—that she wasn’t a mistake, that she could never be a mistake.

But he didn’t.

His hand fell to his side, his jaw tightening as he took a step back. He knew better. He wasn’t good enough for her. He never would be. She deserved someone who could offer her everything, someone who wasn’t broken, who didn’t carry the shadows of his past like chains around his soul. Someone who wasn’t him.

He closed his eyes again, forcing himself to turn away from the door. As much as it hurt to hear her cry, to know that he had caused her pain, he told himself this was the right thing to do. Pushing her away now was better—better for her, better for them both. He couldn’t be what she needed, no matter how much he wanted to.

Azriel’s wings drooped slightly as he moved down the hall, his steps heavy, his shadows unusually subdued. And as he disappeared into the darkness of his own room, the sound of her quiet sobs echoed in his mind, a reminder of everything he wanted but would never allow himself to have.

Chapter 13

[heavensoared]

isn’t that DARIUS AURELIUS ALARIC SKYWARDEN? i’ve seen them wearing the crest of VISSAI. i hear they’re 49, but they’re also a DRAGONRIDER. they’ve risen up the ranks to become THE CROWN PRINCE OF THE VISSAI KINGDOM. they seem to be LOYAL & RESOURCEFUL, but also AMBITIOUS & RASH. if you look closely, you'll see their aesthetics include BLOOD SPLATTERED OVER ROYAL GARB, CALLOUSED HANDS, SAND AND DIRT CRUSTED UNDER SHORT FINGERNAILS, GOLDEN DECOR IN THE FORM OF A PROUD DRAGON ON DARK LEATHER ARMOR.

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: [ DARIUS AURELIUS ALARIC SKYWARDEN ] NICKNAME: [ DAR, PRINCE, RIDER, LITTLE KING, DARI ] AGE: [ 49 ] GENDER, PRONOUNS: [ MALE, HE/HIM ] TITLE: [ CROWN PRINCE ] SPECIES: [ HUMAN ISH ] KINGDOM: [ VISSAI ] HOUSE WORDS: [ ON WINGS OF VALOR, WE RISE ] CASTLE NAME: [ REGIA IGNIS (LOCATED IN DRAKEREACH) ] OCCUPATION: [ DRAGONRIDER ] RELIGION: [ THE WINGED BEAST / SPRINKLES OF THE HORNED STEAD ] LANGUAGE: [ VISSAIC, DRACONIC, COMMON (ALL DIALECTS) ] ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: [ HOMOROMANTIC ] SEXUAL ORIENTATION: [ HOMOSEXUAL ] SEXUAL TEMPERAMENT: [ BOTTOM-SUB (occasionally a lil dom outside of bed)] SEXUAL POSITION: [ BOTTOM ]

RELATIONSHIPS

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: [ TBA ] CHILDREN: [ NONE ...YET ] PARENTS: [ KING ALARIC GAIUS SKYWARDEN (DRAGONRIDER) + QUEEN IGNATIA. (SORCERER) ] SIBLINGS: [ DANTE SKYWARDEN, TBA. ] FRIENDS: [ RYKER FEINHALNAAR, KLOGROG, BALTHOR MILEDON, ELENORIUS DRAKNOR ]

PHYSICAL TRAITS

FACE CLAIM: [ PEDRO PASCAL ] EYE COLOUR: [ BROWN ] HAIR COLOUR: [ BROWN ] HEIGHT: [ 1.81 METRES / 5'11 FT ] BODY BUILD: [ BIG AND BEEFY WITH A SLUTTY LITTLE WAIST PERFECT FOR GRABBING ] FACIAL HAIR: [ LIGHT BEARD CENTRED AROUND THE MOUTH, EXTENDING TO THE SIDE OF HIS FACE, SUBTLE STACHE. ] TATTOOS + PIERCINGS: [ PIERCING TOP OF HIS EAR. VISSAIAN CREST INKED ACROSS HIS BACK, DRAGON'S WINGS STRETCHING AROUND HIS SIDE TO HIS FRONT ] NOTABLE PHYSICAL TRAITS: [ NECKLACE WITH THE VISSAIAN CREST AROUND HIS NECK, SIGNET RING OF THE ROYAL FORCE, BIG-ISH SCAR ALONG THE RIGHT SIDE OF HIS FACE (AS PER GLADIATOR GIFS) / ONE ACROSS THE BRIDGE OF HIS NOSE, A HANDFUL OF SMALLER ONES SCATTERED ACROSS HIS BODY ]

PHOBIAS AND DISORDERS

PHOBIAS/FEARS: [ NOT BEING GOOD ENOUGH/STRONG ENOUGH, ENDING UP ALONE, DISAPPOINTING HIS FAMILY/FATHER, NEVER ACTUALLY BECOMING KING. ] MENTAL DISORDERS: [ LETS NOT GET INTO THAT JUST YET HE HE. ]

PERSONALITY

INTELLIGENCE: [ NOT THE SMARTEST COOKIE, BUT HE'S HAD GOOD EDUCATION + IS QUITE THE STRATEGIST. ] LIKES: [ HIS DRAGON, FIGHTING/SPARRING, NATURE, MEAT, SWEET TREATS, MUSIC, ANIMALS IN GENERAL. ] DISLIKES: [ BRATS, COWARDLY BEHAVIOR, LACK OF HONOR IN OTHERS, LAWBREAKERS, VEGETABLES, HEAT, BEING DISTURBED WHEN HE TRAINS. ] POSITIVE ATTRIBUTES: [ LOYAL, HONORABLE, KIND, DETERMINED, HARD-WORKING, RESOURCEFUL ] NEGATIVE ATTRIBUTES: [ RASH, AMBITIOUS, HEART > MIND SOMETIMES, IMPATIENT, GRUMPY ]

AESTHETICS

AESTHETICS: [ BLOOD SPLATTERED OVER ROYAL GARB, CALLOUSED HANDS, SAND AND DIRT CRUSTED UNDER SHORT FINGERNAILS, GOLDEN DECOR IN THE FORM OF A PROUD DRAGON ON DARK LEATHER ARMOR, DARK WINGS SPREAD ACROSS SKIN, VELVETY VOICE ECHOING THROUGH THE HALLS AT NIGHT, THE DIMLIT SHINE OF FIRE MIRRORED IN THE GOLDEN ORNAMENTS ON BATTLE ARMOR. ] INSPO: [ CASTLE BY HALSEY, SOUR CANDY BY BLACKPINK/LADY GAGA, HEAVY IS THE CROWN BY LINKIN PARK, IGNITE BY ZEDD, FLESH BY SIMON CURTIS, ROSENROT BY RAMMSTEIN, SILVERSPOON BY LOUDEN SWAIN, I JUST CAN'T WAIT TO BE KING BY THE LION KING, SEVEN NATION ARMY BY THE WHITE STRIPES, EVERYBODY WANTS TO RULE THE WORLD BY LORDE, BELIEVER + WARRIORS BY IMAGINE DRAGONS, TAKE ME TO CHURCH BY HOZIER, THE ARCHER BY TAYLOR SWIFT, RUNAWAY BY AURORA, PRINCESS LEA, ROBB STARK, HECTOR (TROY), GLADIOLUS (FFXV), AZRIEL (ACOTA) ]

KINKS

KINKS: [ POST-WORKOUT/SPARRING MAKE-OUT SESSIONS. BREEDING. FINGERS. IN. HIS. MOUTH. COLLARS. VERBAL FEMINISATION. CHOKING. PUBLIC. PRAISE. WORSHIP. HUMILIATION. DEGRADATION. SOMNOPHILIA. WATERSPORTS. FACE FUCKING. TEASING. AFFECTION. MARKING. TOYS. ] ANTI-KINKS: [ VORE. SCAT. INFANTILISM. ]

BIOGRAPHY

darius alaric aurelius skywarden was born beneath a rare alignment of stars, their golden glow bathing the peaks of vissai’s towering mountains. his birth was heralded as a fortuitous event, an omen of strength & wisdom, fitting for the crown prince of a kingdom revered for its dragonriders & its enduring ties to the skies. the eldest son of king alaric & queen ignatia, darius came into the world with the weight of destiny pressing gently upon him, though he would only come to understand its significance as the years unfolded.

from the moment he could walk, darius was immersed in the traditions & responsibilities of his lineage as a direct descendant of the skywardens. at the age of three, he was presented with a dragon egg—a shimmering sphere of gold & crimson (in his case)—a rite of passage for all royal children of vissai. darius’ egg was notably stubborn, refusing to hatch for years despite his unwavering dedication. yet, this taught him patience & perseverance, qualities that would define him as a leader. when the egg finally cracked & seraphina — a majestic dragon with iridescent scales & piercing blue eyes, emerged. their bond was immediate & profound. the pair grew together, their connection deepening with every flight above the mountain peaks.

his first flight on seraphina remains one of his most cherished memories. it was a crisp autumn morning, the air filled with the scent of pine & the soft rustle of leaves. darius, barely thirteen, stood nervously at the edge of a rocky outcrop, the vast expanse of sky stretching endlessly before him. seraphina nudged him gently with her snout, as if reassuring him that she would not let him fall. “are you ready, my friend?” darius had whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of excitement & fear. seraphina let out a low, rumbling purr before spreading her massive wings.

with a deep breath, darius climbed into the specially crafted saddle secured on her back, designed to ensure a rider’s stability during flight & adorned with the traditionally vissaian sigils & golden accents. he adjusted the straps carefully, his hands steady despite the flutter in his chest. “let’s fly.” he had said & with a powerful leap, seraphina launched them into the air. the rush of wind stole his breath & for a moment, his heart raced with terror. but as they soared higher, the fear melted away, replaced by an overwhelming sense of freedom. the world below seemed tiny, a patchwork of greens & golds & the sky around them felt infinite. darius laughed aloud, the sound carried away by the wind & seraphina let out a triumphant roar. they spent hours in the air that day, dancing among the clouds & diving through beams of sunlight. when they finally landed, darius dismounted with shaky legs & a heart full of wonder. “that was incredible..” he had murmured, pressing his forehead against seraphina’s. their bond had deepened in those few hours, sealing their partnership for life.

as darius matured, his days were filled with rigorous training. he mastered swordsmanship under the kingdom’s most skilled knights, learned the languages of the other kingdoms & studied diplomacy & governance with his father. the young prince’s discipline was unmatched, his every action guided by a desire to honor his family’s legacy & meet the expectations placed upon him. though he exuded strength & stoicism, those closest to him knew of his tender heart. he was known to comfort frightened stable boys, ensure his servants were well cared for & protect his younger brother, dante, with a fierceness that belied his calm demeanor.

whenever the royal family of varlinnis visited vissai during darius’ youth, he was tasked with looking after their youngest prince, ryker. what began as an obligation blossomed into a deep & enduring bond. darius became ryker’s mentor, teaching him the arts of leadership (even though he knew the chances of the youngest to reign over varlinnis were slim), combat & dragon lore while ryker helped tickle out the magic in darius. their shared moments, from sparring sessions to quiet conversations under starlit skies, forged a brotherhood that evolved into something more profound as they grew older. darius, who had never previously shown interest in romantic relationships, found himself drawn to ryker in a way he didn’t fully understand. the love that grew between them was a secret, hidden from the world. as the crown prince, darius knew his marriage would one day need to serve the kingdom’s interests, not his own heart. this knowledge weighed heavily on him & he kept their connection shrouded in secrecy, unsure of whether their love could ever truly be.

in his late twenties, darius undertook a diplomatic mission (his first solo mission with big stakes) to a distant kingdom in the west, a land famed for its intricate clockwork technology & towering crystal spires. accompanied by seraphina, he negotiated trade agreements that brought innovations to vissai while ensuring mutual respect between the kingdoms. the journey deepened his understanding of the world beyond the mountains, solidifying his reputation as a statesman.

for several years after turning thirty & seeing the world beyond the known, darius wrestled with a growing restlessness. the weight of his duties & the crown’s expectations began to feel stifling. there were days when he would stand on the edge of the cliffs, gazing out at the horizon & imagine what it would be like to leave it all behind. the thought of taking seraphina & flying far away, to live a life free from obligations, tempted him more than he cared to admit. yet, his sense of duty always won out, grounding him in vissai even as his heart yearned for a freedom it barely knew.

during his forties, darius faced one of his greatest challenges to date: a rogue dragon that had taken residence near the trade routes, endangering caravans & villages. though it pained him to confront one of seraphina’s kin, darius led a carefully planned expedition to subdue the beast. the battle was fierce, with fire lighting up the night sky, but his strategic mind & unshakable bond with seraphina ensured victory. rather than slaying the dragon, he managed to calm it, earning its reluctant respect & guiding it to an uninhabited region in the north where it could live without harm.

now, nearing his fiftieth year, darius finds himself reflecting on a life dedicated to service & sacrifice. though he has not yet ascended to the throne, he is a beloved figure in the kingdom, admired for his unwavering commitment to his people & his family. his relationship with his father, though marked by duty & reverence, carries an unspoken warmth & though a growing impatience has taken root within the cornw prince's heart, darius harbors a quiet hope that he will inherit the crown only when his father is ready to relinquish it, not through loss.

the approach of his fiftieth birthday would potentially spark a kingdom-wide celebration. the peaks of vissai would adorned with banners of gold & crimson (his & vessai's colors combined) & the air would soon be filled with the hum of anticipation. the event already promised to be a grand affair, with dignitaries from across the realm arriving to honor the crown prince - much to his demise, because it would only undermine a worry darius carried within his heart at all times to begin with: that he'd lose his life to duty & the eternal wait for his time on the throne to come.

regardless of his fears & the royal house's plans, darius remains true to himself: steadfast, kind & ever ready to protect the legacy of his house. with seraphina by his side & the love of those he holds dear, he stands as a symbol of vissai’s enduring strength, rising ever higher on wings of valor.

[theladyofdeath]

Secret admirer elriel!!

A/N: I feel like I don't fulfill enough elriel prompts, which is ridiculous considering how much I love them. Thank you for sending in your prompt! I hope you enjoy. x

I may have to make a part II for this one...

Warnings: language, alcohol

~ Azriel ~

It's Valentine's Day and I'm sitting at home alone, drinking. There was a point when I would have thought such a thing would be pathetic as fuck, but now...

Well, you hit your mid-twenties and you're single long enough, and suddenly drinking at home alone on Valentine's Day doesn't seem so bad. Cassian and Rhys are both out with their girlfriends, leaving me alone in the townhouse we share until sometime tomorrow. So here I am, sitting on the couch in nothing but my underwear. Not that none of us have ever been on the couch in our underwear while the rest of us are home, but it's a little more freeing when you're alone.

I take another shot of whiskey to shut my thoughts up.

10 Things I Hate About You is on the t.v. and Julia Stiles just poured her heart out to Heath Ledger, may he rest in peace, in the middle of a classroom. I turn the station. The Notebook is on, and Noah is building Allie's dream home even though she's already moved on with her life. Imagine loving someone that much.

Imagine.

I take another shot.

My phone vibrates from somewhere in the couch and I'm slightly embarrassed how long it takes me to find it.

Elain's name pops up on my screen. After swiping right, I see her text.

Which awful romcom are you subjecting yourself to this evening?

I chuckle and toss out a lie. Don't do romcoms. Watching Gladiator.

Three little dots pop up and I stare at my phone, awaiting her reply.

I know that's a lie. I'm watching 27 Dresses. Classic.

Too cliche, I reply. At least have a drink with it.

She sends me a picture of a full glass of red wine. I send her one of my half empty bottle of whiskey.

OMG, I can't wait to text you in the morning and see how miserable you are. Drink water.

I send her a middle finger emoji.

She sends me one back.

I grin foolishly to myself. Why aren't you out tonight?

She has options, I know she does. Men follow her around like loyal puppies, fawning over her beauty and bright demeanor.

She doesn't reply for a minute and I suddenly feel like I've pried too much. I take another drink.

My phone eventually vibrates. Thought it was better to stay in. I've spent too many V-days debating all the ways I can sneak out of a restaurant lol

Fair enough. I'd hate to be the guy that bores you that much.

You could never bore me that much.

My thumbs hover over the keypad, wondering how I should respond. It's almost like she's flirting. I take another drink.

Elain and I have been friends for years, since her sisters started dating my roommates, my best friends, my family. We've always just been friends, though. Never anything more. Even though I've always wondered if there could be something more between us.

The fact that she's sitting at home alone on Valentine's Day saddens me. Maybe it's the alcohol. Alcohol always makes me feel more, even though I'm sure it's meant to have the opposite effect.

We'll see about that, I reply, at last, and throw myself off the couch. Even if Elain has vowed to spend the night alone, she should at least know that someone cares about her.

And I do. Care about her.

It takes me about ten minutes to toss on a pair of sweats, a hoodie, my shoes, and grab my wallet. The nice thing about Velaris is I don't have to drive anywhere, and in moments like this where I should never get behind the wheel, I'm grateful for the city life.

There's a floral shop on the corner and not only are flowers the most Valentine's Day-like gift known to humanity, but Elain loves flowers more than anything, so I spend the next half hour walking to the shop and looking around.

The shop is nearly empty, but considering what day it is, that makes sense.

I make it out with half a dozen white roses, two tulips, and a lily. An interesting bouquet, but a bouquet nonetheless.

My phone vibrates the second I'm in the back of my Uber.

Sorry, I ordered takeout and got really into the eggrolls. Didn't mean to leave you on read.

I chuckle, earning a look from my Uber driver in the rearview mirror. Never apologize for the power of eggrolls. Some things we just can't control.

Damn, I'm drunk. The second I hit send, I'm regretting it.

She responds with laughter, though, so I guess I can't complain at my stupidity. I text her back with, Eat one for me. I ate half a box of Cocopuffs for dinner.

Five minutes later, we're stopping in front of Elain's apartment complex. I ask the Uber driver if he has a pen and a piece of paper, to which he gives me an old, crumbled up receipt and a broken pencil.

It works.

Elain texts, Cocopuffs? You're the only man I know that survives off cereal that was made for children.

I reply, Just because you got takeout doesn't mean you can be judgmental about my dietary choices.

I jot down a little note on the back of the receipt before I can think better of it and hurry up to apartment 3b, where I leave the flowers and the note on Elain's welcome mat before I knock on the door and run away, back toward the elevator. I nearly trip as I enter the small, compact room, and nearly fall over once again when the elevator starts moving down.

I didn't stop to see if Elain opened the door.

I feel like I should be nervous, but I'm not. I thank the alcohol coursing through my veins. I can imagine the smile on Elain's face as she opens the door and sees the gift left by her secret admirer. I hope she likes it. I hope it makes her smile. I hope it makes her feel less alone because no matter what she says, I know she's bummed to be at home alone on Valentine's Day.

It's not until I'm back home and back on the couch in my underwear that I realize Elain never texted me back. I can't tell if that's a good thing or not.

I'm thinking not.

Suddenly regretting every decision I've ever made, I take another drink.

[azsteris]

movies i think that the batboys would love 🖤

rhysand 🦇

labyrinth (1986)

knives out (2019)

taken (2008)

titanic (1997)

cassian ⚔️

the entire fast and the furious franchise

cars (2006)

gladiator (2000)

mean girls (2004)

azriel ⛓️

the princess bride (1987)

the lion king (1994)

tár (2022)

black widow (2021)

[ivys-library]

Hey there! You've landed on the Rules page. Please read the information below for more information about the blog and before requesting.

If you submit a request, you are automatically agreeing to these rules even if you haven't read them.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ About the Blog ｡✧:˚*:･｡

This is primarily a reader-insert blog but I'm open to writing character x character.

Most pieces are gender neutral, but any NSFW/smut requests are written with a fem!reader.

I have the right to refuse any requests that I choose.

Any moodboards and/or images posted are not intended to display any single nationality, race, or physical appearance and are solely for aesthetic purposes.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ Rules ｡✧:˚*:･｡

I only accept requests through the ask box, NOT through chats.

Please ensure that your request follows all of the rules explained here. Check my character list below to see who I accept requests for and make sure that your request is complete and makes sense before sending it!!!

Be specific.

Please be patient as I update.

Be respectful to me and all others if interacting with this blog or any of its posts/content. Opinions are welcome but no bashing.

I do write NSFW/18+ content. There will be a MDNI warning on any applicable posts. Minors—you are responsible for your own media consumption.

I do NOT write: r@pe/SA, incest, pedophilia, miscarriage, suicide, abuse, graphic violence, or yandere.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ Types of Requests ｡✧:˚*:･｡

𝐅𝐢𝐜𝐬 ↬ written story | 300+ words

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 ↬ written story | 100-300 words

𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ↬ ideas via bullet point | word count varies by request

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠* ↬ send a love letter or have a conversation with your favorite characters. I will respond to your ask as if I were that person.

𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 ↬ Kinktober, writing challenges, etc.

*I don't write for OCs but will accept Dear Darling requests for them! If you wish to have the character interact with your OC, please include a short description (less than 100 words) about your OC. This description can be included in the same ask—just put it before the request.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ Character List ｡✧:˚*:･｡

.☘︎ ݁˖ A Court of Thorns and Roses

Azriel, Cassian, Eris, Jurian, Lucien, Nesta, Rhys, Tamlin, Tarquin

.☘︎ ݁˖ Avatar the Last Airbender

Aang, Azula, Katara, Mai, Sokka, Suki, Ty Lee, Zuko

.☘︎ ݁˖ Baldur's Gate 3

Astarion, Dammon, Gale, Halsin, Karlach, Lae'zel, Minthara, Wyll

.☘︎ ݁˖ Gladiator / Gladiator II

Caracalla, Geta, Lucius, Marcus Acacius, Maximus

.☘︎ ݁˖ House of the Dragon

Aemond, Alicent, Daemon, Helaena, Jacaerys, Rhaenyra

.☘︎ ݁˖ The Silmarillion / The Hobbit / Lord of the Rings / Rings of Power

✧ Aegnor, Angrod, Caranthir, Celebrimbor, Celegorm, Curufin, Ecthelion, Feanor, Finarfin, Fingolfin, Fingon, Finrod, Galdor, Gil-Galad, Glorfindel, Maedhros, Maeglin, Maglor, Nerdanel, Rog, Turgon ✧ Bard, Bilbo, Feren, Fili, Kili, Lindir, Meludir, Tauriel, Thorin, Thranduil ✧ Aragorn, Arwen, Celeborn, Elrond, Eomer, Eowyn, Faramir, Frodo, Galadriel, Haldir, Legolas, Merry, Pippin, Sam ✧ Adar, Arondir, Sauron/Annatar

.☘︎ ݁˖ Star Wars

Ahsoka, Anakin, Darth Maul, Din Djarin, Obi-Wan, Padme, Rex

[tswaney17]

What do you think the inner circles (ACOTAR) preferences are for a perfect vacation ?

Eg.

Feyre- big city to see art and architecture! (Paris in the spring?)

Hi nonnie!

Such a good question. Okay, let me think about this...

Feyre: Feyre has a bucket list of art museums all over the world that she wants to see, so she picks one to visit and makes a vacation out of it. The Louvre Museum in Paris, The Vatican in Italy, etc.

Rhys: Rhys, much like his mate, has a bucket list of museums for his obsession with space and the universe. He'd go to the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, but he really wants to take Feyre to see the Northern Lights.

Elain: Elain is 100% going to the Tulip Fields near Amsterdam. Her dream is to frolic in the flowers and then tour different parts of Amsterdam and the Netherlands.

Azriel: Azriel just wants to take Elain on every adventure her heart desires. He doesn't care where they end up. But his perfect spot is an isolated cabin in the woods, away from the hustle and bustle of the city where he can just relax in peace. With Elain, of course. 😉

Nesta: Nesta is like a scholar and always wants to explore different ruins and historically rich sites. The great pyramids in Egypt are at the top of her list. She may also tag along with Cassian to check out some of the ancient ruins of Europe.

Cassian: Cassian is obsessed with warriors and gladiators of ancient times, so he spends his vacation time touring the Colosseum Arena in Italy and other similar architectural pieces of Italy and Greece.

Mor: Mor is spending every vacation at fashion week in Millan. Or she's shopping in New York. Wherever she goes, she's always coming home with a new wardrobe.

Amren: Amren is jewel shopping. That's it. That's the vacation. Buying large, ostentatious pieces from around the world.

[azlovesem]

I dont care whst snyone thinks sboytvehst i say shout some soic nanee pedro fuck that guy hes orobsbly tiny. Three sploes hogh like denzie abd sll their shrimp ducked cock tails. Im funny Nicola amd sexier than tiny hollywoid theyre all fycon tiny n shoet and nobe if yhem have a decent sense of humour like me. Deutchland eh. Well im sure you might have sonething maybe itslian or doanish blood. Sosnish women i love never ever got slong eiyh yjeir nen and ive hurt yhem hirrubkt iver the years sbd milurdwree msny. Fuck chapo yhat guys a bitch his fsmily usxa bifcg i fuckn ended him. Uiu nnow the chapo i mean oedro you wanna dfyck arpund hollywood. Oll fucking rip that bitch ass sctir yo pieces in front if snykne. Hea a bitch not a fuckn gladiator. Yesh me and dosnish men hsteceach other fuck thise people thats whet i say. But ill take their eomen sny dsy. Eh machismo nooo i di you a bitch punk ass dpanish mother fucked. You aint no hladiator i sm ill shove that gladius up uour ass chump. Nivcola i fund hollywood men are a bunch of raoe hpynd none ass marks, im King Azriel youd be better off dating ne. Sip denzie? My nigga, talk more shut oll bury you and anyone you got. Oprah sny of uou bitch. I said fuck yiu denzie ill find you doin. Nag ur times up time to die.

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales II

Summary: Princess!Reader makes a deal with the Emperor to try and save her mates.

Content Warnings: Violence, Blood and Gore, Gladiator Tournament, Physical Abuse.

Part One

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

I can’t breathe. The world spins in dizzying swirls around me. Mates.

Not one.

Not two.

Three!

All of them enemies of the Empire. Rebels scheduled for execution. Fate has always been a cruel bastard in all matters concerning me, but this feels like a personal attack on my existence. Someone in the Celestial Plain is laughing at this twisted attempt of a joke. How could I be so close to happiness and be forced to sit here and watch it be ripped from me one blood splatter at a time?

The Game Maker starts speaking again, his voice booming across the arena. I can’t make out any of the words; they’re all muddled together in my ears. This cannot be happening to me! It’s not fair! I’ve been the perfect daughter, even when it shattered me; I was a model student; I’ve upheld the law to the very letter; I make weekly sacrifices to the Mother; I built my own lararium to offer nightly prayers to the gods. I have been devought and loyal to both the gods and the Empire and this is the thanks I get?

I can’t tear my eyes away from where the three of them stand in the center of the Pit, waiting for the gates to open again. The violet eyed one, Rhysand-- gods even his name is pretty--won’t stop staring at my Father, challenging him to speak, to fight, to do something other than sit there like a coward while someone else kills for him. 

My Father must understand the challenge in that gaze, because he finally stands and goes to the edge of the booth, weathered hands splayed out against the worn stones bearing a flag with his crest embroidered upon it. “Citizens of the Empire!”

The crowd gives a raucous shout.

I simply scoot a little closer to Brannagh to be able to see around Father.

My movements do not break the silent battle happening with Rhysand, but it does draw the eye of Azriel, who’s bloodied head tilts to the side quizzically as he takes me in. I feel a blush creep its way up my cheeks, the booth suddenly too hot as I try to meet his gaze. That hazel gaze bears an intensity that keeps me in place, but I cannot help but feel like I’ve been stripped bare, as if he can see straight into my chest, where my heart still pounds an uneven beat. 

“Before you stands that which threatens our peace, our security, and most importantly the prosperity that our people hold so dear.”

The tall one, Cassian frowns at that, but Rhysand grins, as if he has won whatever silent battle he’s been having with my Father. He tips his head back and bellows, so that not a single soul here misses it, “There is no prosperity or peace in the Empire! There is only enslavement and death!”

The boos that had started coming from the crowd die, as if someone had collectively cut off their air supply. 

The muscles in my Father’s back tighten as he realizes what is happening.

“Outside these walls we all starve! Supplies to every corner of the Empire have dwindled to single bags of grain, meant only to feed the soldiers that terrorize us in every corner of the world. You do not hear from your families in the far reaches because your mail is censored. Your loved ones have been dragged from their beds and crucified without trial. The only prosperity in this Empire is for Hybern himself.”

I finally tear my gaze away from Azriel’s silent study to look at Amarantha for confirmation that it is true. 

“You should have slit his throat on the battlefield,” Dagdan snarls in her direction. 

The power seeping from my fingers tears a hole through my skirts, singing across my thighs. The errant strand only hidden by the way I keep the fabric bunched in my hands. I do not allow myself to wince against the sting and give myself away.

“Those were not my orders!” Amarantha snarls, her teeth flashing as she stands. Her slaves jump out of her way, cowering against each other for safety. “Your Highness, silence him before he incites a riot!”

No! No! No! This can’t be happening to me! Not again. It is like watching my Mother be taken away all over again. I had just stood there. Unable to cry or scream or fight. I could only watch. That was what she trained me to do. She had even nodded her approval to my stillness as they’d dragged her away, as if it had been right. None of it was right. None of this was right!

“Your Master will tell you pretty stories but we are all his slaves in the end. Illyria has had enough! We will not sit by and let our women and children starve! If that makes us rebels and traitors to the crown, so be it! But what would you do if it was your children in the streets? Your wives being carted off to service foreign elites? Your sons forced to kill and die for an Empire that can’t even feed you?” Rhysand screams.

My Father, silently, motions to one of his Praetorians, a crossbow already swinging from the clip at his back. 

The pounding of my heart in my ears will swallow me. Everything in the world slows and narrows into the motion of an arrow being fit into the crossbow.

Move! Move! Move! A dark ether of my power slithers up my wrists, catching Brannagh’s attention. She must make some snide remark about it, because I, distantly, see her lips move but no sound ever reaches my ears. I have to stop this. I have to do something!

I’m on my feet without conscious thought of what I’m doing. “Father, wait!” My hands reach for him, the sizzle of pain as my power skitters across his skin enough to make him turn and face me. I don’t know what I’m doing, or what I’m saying, the words spew as if they have a mind of their own.

“If you kill him now like this you will incite a riot!”

His face twists, a snarl slipping past his clenched teeth. I have royally pissed him off, disgraced him here in front of his Inner Circle, where they watch from nearby booths. The thought would usually send me cowering like a dog with its tail between its legs, but the fear I feel for him is nothing against the fear I feel for them. The thing that links our souls together burns and rattles beneath my rib cage, needing to defend, to fight.

“Call off your guard!” I hiss, reaching out a hand and letting that dark power that lives inside me show. I’ll strike him dead if he so much as moves a finger towards the trigger. “Let us be diplomatic about this.”

“Who are you,” Father snarls, taking an advancing step towards me. The booth shakes as his own dark power rises to meet mine. “To challenge me, child?!”

I hold my ground, even though my body trembles. It is only the dutiful teachings of my Mother that keep my chin up instead of bowing it to my chest as every muscle screams for me to do. “I am not challenging you, I am trying to think about our people.”

I clench my fists again, dimming my power in feigned submission. “Go about this a different way. Show the people that ruthlessness is not always the answer to our nation’s problems.”

“Are you suggesting I spare an enemy?” Father snarls.

I honestly don’t know what my plan is here. I’m just throwing things against the wall and hoping something, anything, sticks, otherwise my only option is to fling myself down into the Pit and hope the power thrumming in my veins is enough to save my mates.

“No,” if I am to keep all of our heads, I must be crafty. I must play the games my Father plays. My gaze flicks to where Amarantha’s slaves remain huddled together, a desperate thought forming in my head. My stomach turns at the mere idea, but if it can save them…?

“You mean to entertain the people and quell all possible chances of further rebellion, but we have seen time and time again that no execution or crucifixion has done that. We merely make martyr after martyr. We encourage others to take up the cause.”

“Let them fight,” I’m going to be sick! It feels like there’s a knot forming in my chest. “And if they survive, let them live, let them be gladiators.” It’s unthinkable, it puts them in danger time and time again. “The betting will be astronomical. The people will return time and time again in hopes of seeing them fall. That money can provide support to the edges of the Empire. Prove him wrong by sending extra aid to those outside our walls.”

To his credit, my Father does listen to me ramble. The Mother has smiled on me for once, if he had been in one of his fits today he would have had Amarantha kill me where I stood. It is a miracle the Praetorian didn’t take me out for wielding so close to him in the first place.

 “And you would have them what? Live in the slave quarters where they can incite a riot with all the dregs?” Amarantha hisses.

I’ll lose him if I let her forked tongue keep whispering in his ear. I am not blind, I know that she has more favor with him than I ever have. “No. Leaving them free to whisper with the other gladiators would be a mistake. Let someone claim responsibility for them.” 

The plan forms in my mind as I speak. I don’t like it. I’m not sure that it’ll even work, but I have to try and save them. I cannot let them die while I stand here uselessly watching as I did with my Mother. I will never be useless or silent again. “Give them to me.”

Brannagh chokes on her wine behind me.

Amarantha’s jaw actually drops in shock.

“I will take responsibility for them. They will be monitored by my guard. To our people it will look  like you mean to humiliate three great warriors, by shackling them to me. It is no secret what our people think of me.”

Dagdan’s snort is proof enough how weak I look in the eyes of our people. I am nothing but a sheltered, pampered princess to them. Up until today they didn’t even know that I’d inherited my Father’s powers. Good, let them all think me weak and useless and meek, they will never know the claws and fangs that hide beneath my skin until it is too late. Father included.

“She is not strong enough to keep them in check,” Amarantha hisses. “If you are to do it, give them to me.”

I barely reign in my powers, barely keep my teeth behind my lips. They are mine and I will be damned before I let her put her grubby little paws on them! 

“You may monitor them as often or as random as you wish, Father,” I speak over her instead, fighting to keep his attention. “I will move back into the Palace. I will sit in every meeting. I…” There is one sure thing that will guarantee his approval of this awful plan of mine. “I will marry whoever you choose for me.”

His dark brows raise in surprise. “And what would prompt this sudden loyalty to me, child?”

I raise my chin. “I have sat too long in the dark, and I could not see it until…” I have already bartered my soul, what will some more empty words mean in the end? “I could not see it until you removed that traitor and her poisoned tongue from the house. I see it now. I have failed our people and I mean to make it right.”

He flicks his gaze over his shoulder, down into the Pit. “The gorsian stone should keep Rhysand in line. And with enough guards, you might be able to keep them locked up. If they should survive the fight.”

“Sometimes death is a mercy,” I say, the words tasting like bile. 

He takes a step closer, so we’re nearly nose to nose. “And if you fail to keep them in line, it will be you that dies in this arena, do you understand?”

Better me than them. 

“You cannot be serious, Your Highness!” Amarantha squeaks, her voice shrill.

I nod, trying not to gloat in my victory over her. “I understand.”

Father grins, pleased with himself as he snags my hand and brings me back into view of the arena. “Please forgive the delay, the Princess and I were just discussing what our guests had to say about the state of our Empire.”

I feel three sets of eyes settle on me like a brand. The bond, still so new and raw in my chest, feels like chains rattling against my ribcage. I cannot tell if it is their anxiety or my own. 

“Let it be known that this Empire is a democracy, and that I, as your Emperor, care about the state of affairs that all of our people live in.”

 I try to meet the gaze of the senators and highly decorated soldiers sitting in the booths that line the upper ring of the arena. These will be the most upset by the news. The next ring of wealthy merchants and shopkeepers, tradesmen and fleet keeps will be the ones that take what they hear here back to the streets. Word will spread. The people will know what happened here, how the Emperor suddenly decided to care about them. It will be a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

I try to not look down at the Pit; try not to think about the life I’m condemning them to. 

“Our beloved Princess is very concerned about your well-being,” Father continues and there’s a collective cheer from the lower levels. “And so, we have decided not to execute these rebels today.”

The tone immediately shifts to one of confusion.

“They will compete as gladiators. Should they prove resourceful enough to survive, they will be branded as gladiators, and sponsored by our Princess.” Great, not only do they have to survive the damned arena, they have to survive any threats from other gladiators who will seek to take out well-sponsored competition. 

Even from our vantage point I hear Cassian curse in disbelief. 

“She has so graciously decided that all their winnings will be sent to any hurting corners of the Empire, should there be any to be found.”

The crowd takes a moment to process what he says. It even takes me a minute to comprehend the last part. He’d really send all the money that I’d earn as their sponsor to the poor? That’s a hefty bit of charity, even for him. There has to be some sort of catch?

“So, let these males fight! Let’s see how far they are willing to go for their people.”

There it is. They could choose to sit down and die in the arena, making themselves martyrs as Amarantha thinks they intended, and then, instead, they would look like they were not willing to make sacrifices for their people. If they fought, competed for whatever earnings were bet on them, then they would be heroes. A symbol of strength only the great Emperor Hybern could make. Father really is the best at these political games.

The crowd roars as trumpets blow three times.

Father motions me back to our seats.

“You don’t really think they can win, do you, cousin?” Dagdan questions.

The ground shakes as a giant strolls out of the tunnels. The creature is so large he has to bend over nearly double to fit. When he stands to his full height, his bald head is practically even with the edge of our booth. Terrible scars crisscross over his body like spiderwebs. Hybern went to war first with the land of Giants, the war had lasted decades. My Grandfather had taken many giants as slaves and forced them to kill each other in this arena. Some gladiators were able to earn their freedom, but the devastation that the Giants had wrought on our people made my Grandfather declare that no Giant could ever be made free. The poor creature had probably been chained here, fighting in the Pit long before I was even born.

“They survived Amarantha,” I retort.

The General bristles. “I thought you didn’t place bets on the first day?”

I reach for another glass of wine, trying to settle my nerves. “There’s a first time for everything.” Perhaps making an enemy out of her is unwise, but the bond chafes against my ribcage at the thought of her being anywhere near any of them. Better to keep her attention on me than on them. 

Another horn blows, prompting the giant to move and I hold my breath as he reaches a meaty hand down to grab one of the Illyrians. The males scatter, Cassian going into a roll between the Giant’s legs, using the blind spot to his advantage while Rhysand drags Azriel out of the way with an arm around his waist. He’s practically carrying Azriel now, who’s broken wings seem to be getting heavier by the minute. 

Cassian roars as he stretches out a hand, a wave of red tinted energy blasting from his palm. The arch or power slams into the Giant’s calf, blasting away a chunk of skin and muscle, splattering blood across the nearest wall. 

The Giant roars as he falls to one knee.

Cassian sprints behind him, out of reach of the hand that comes sweeping down at him. This time, he’s the distraction as Rhysand uses the hand not holding Azriel upright to unleash a blast of dark, obsidian power. 

My own magic flares in response. It is a darkness so like my own, the sight of it a siren call that has me leaning forward in my seat. If he can unleash a blast powerful enough to leave a gash across the Giant’s bare chest with those gorsian chains around his neck, how much damage can he do without it?

The Giant’s cries of pain echo throughout the amphitheater; using the distraction, Cassian continues to blast away at it’s leg while Rhys throws blow after blow at it’s chest. They fair far better than I anticipated they would, but I know better than to let hope get the better of me. It is far too easily ripped away in this arena. 

As if on cue, the gates open again and a pack of wargs come sprinting into the arena.

The crowd erupts in cheers, and my heart once again thunders in my chest. What have I done? It takes all my training to not start chewing on my thumbnail. How am I supposed to save them from this?

Amarantha claps gleefully as one of the wargs breaks away from the pack to lunge straight for Azriel’s throat. 

No! No! No- Azriel raises a scarred hand to blast the beast backward with a wave of blue tinted magic. There isn’t enough time to sigh in relief, not as the rest of the pack splits in two, one circling Rhysand and Azriel, the other taking a shot at the Giant. Those rows of razor sharp and needle thin teeth sink into the Giant’s already bleeding leg, momentarily distracting it as it swings wildly around the arena, arms pinwheeling as it fights to balance on one leg while the other flails in an attempt to shake the beasts off. 

“They’re not supposed to attack the Giant!” Brannagh whines. 

I gulp down my wine, hoping it will push the wave of nausea that rolls through me down. I’ve signed their death warrants. I’ve gotten my mates killed. 

Cassian, in the chaos, has managed to find half of a spear, the blade rusted from the recent rain, but he hurls it with acute precision nonetheless, piercing through the oddly shaped skull of a warg snapping at Azriel’s wings. 

Rhysand and Azriel have moved to stand back to back, their varying shades of magic weaving between their fingers as they prepare to strike the snapping beasts that circle them. 

The Giant topples over as the three wargs held tight to it’s wounded calf find a nerve. There’s not enough room in the arena to let him fall without incident. The poor creature topples right into the wall opposite us, knocking away a section of stone and nearly dragging a Senator and his mistress into the Pit.

The Praetorians launch from our booth to aid the screaming couple.

It might have been funny under different circumstances, but I cannot peel my eyes away from my mates as the blast beast after beast away with their magic. Even wounded, even stunted by the chains, they are the most powerful wielders I’ve ever seen. Even if Cassian’s and Azriel’s magic sprays with less precision than usual without the siphons Illyrians are known for, every blow is calculated. They do not miss. Warg after warg falls, their leathery skin blistered or blasted away from multiple blows. Even wounded, the males remain in perfect sync, filling in any gaps the other might lack. They manage to kill five of the eight beasts, the other three still mercilessly tearing through the Giant’s leg, even as the guards try to push him off the wall.

Brannagh laughs at the tears that fall from the Giant’s eyes as he swats uselessly at the beasts. No matter how many times his massive fists slams against them, they will not let go. His blood runs like a river through the center of the Pit.

Many of the crowd laugh too.

These are my people? This is what I am to inherit? This misery and suffering and apathy towards the suffering of others? We are monsters!

As soon as I can get my mates out of this godsforsaken Pit, I will find a way to get them far, far away from this place, where it can never hurt them again. And then, when I know they are safe, I will make sure that this place burns.

Rhysand seems to take pity on his opponent, as he steps away from Azriel’s back to blast one of the remaining wargs off the Giant’s calf. From the distance across the arena, the blow is not a killing one, and aggravated, the warg turns its attack to Rhysand.

My breath hitches in my throat as he lowers himself into a crouch, hands splaying in the damp earth. There is a sword a couple feet from him, if he runs, he might make it there first. But he doesn’t run, he waits until the beast gets close before hurling dust in it’s eyes. While it’s distracted, a rope of star studded magic unfurls from his palm and wraps around the beast’s throat. Instead of killing it, he hurls it back at the others, knocking all of them free from the Giant’s leg.

The crowd boos.

My heart clenches in my chest. He could have let them end this fight now, could have let those beasts tear clean through the Giant’s leg and won by default, but he didn’t. He chose to fight fair, to do the dirty work himself.

The three beasts turn on him as he sprints for the sword. There’s just enough time for him to get a firm grip on the hilt before the first lunges, its claws tearing through his forearm as he fights to get the angle he needs to win. Blood splatters, those handsome features twisting in pain as he adjusts his stance. Cassian runs towards him, but he won’t make it in time. 

There’s no more wine to distract me, I’ve fully bitten through my lip now. Please if there are any gods left to hear me, don’t let him die here!

Rhysand moves with the grace of a well-practiced swordsman, each step flowing into the next like a dance as he cleaves through one beast's head, and severs the paw of a second. In mere seconds, he manages to dispatch the rest, leaving the mangled bodies at his feet. His chest heaves as he fights to catch his breath and under different circumstances I might have been too distracted by his beauty to notice the Giant move. 

Rhysand might have been the better male, but that didn’t save him from the Giant’s hand as it swatted him across the battlefield like he was a pesky fly. I bite deeper through my lip to keep back a scream as his body bounces across the muddy floor until he meets a wall. 

Cassian and Azriel roar in outrage and the tether that sits in my chest rattles so hard against my rib cage I think it might rip right out of me. This can’t be happening!

The Giant rises on shaking legs, then falls back onto its knees, using its meaty fists to bash against the arena floor, in what looks like the world’s deadliest game of Whack-A-Mole. Red and blue magic flashes across the arena as the Illyrian’s throw blow after blow, leaving bleeding gashes in the Giant’s fist. Across the arena, Rhysand rolls onto his back, forehead covered in blood as he struggles to get upright. He’s alive at least. Barely. But alive.

I vow to the Mother and any other god that can hear me that if they survive the fight I will find somewhere safe for them. I will do whatever it takes to keep them out of this arena for good. 

“They are persistent, I’ll give them that,” Dagdan muses. 

I feel rather than see my Father’s frown as he takes in all the chaos with the experience of a seasoned strategist. I know that he is calculating their odds, mapping out every possible outcome. I wonder if Cassian launching into the air, wings beating so hard to get him airborne that I feel a gust of hot air on my face, was part of his calculations? If he could have foreseen the blast of energy Cassian’s hurls into the Giant’s eyes, blinding him?

The Giant abandons his attempts at smashing them to grab at his eyes, large hands clawing at his sizzling flesh. The whole arena can smell burnt skin, but Cassian doesn’t let up, he aims blow after blow at the Giant’s head, until he finally falls over backwards, neck slamming hard against the already broken stone.

I look away, stomach in my throat as the resounding crack fills the amphitheater. 

The crowd roars in disbelief as Cassian tucks in his wings and descends back into the Pit. He hits the ground running, footfalls heavy in the mud as he rushes to Rhysand’s side. Azriel is not far behind him. With their combined strength, they manage to get Rhysand back on his feet. 

I pinch myself to make sure I’m awake. They’re alive!

Father stands and makes his way to the edge of the booth again. “For whatever reason, the Goddess has smiled upon you three today! Today, you will live. Let us hope you remain in Her favor.” He doesn’t sound super thrilled by the prospect as he turns his back to the crowd, slate gray eyes pinched as they fall to me.

“Walk with me.”

I stand, trying to keep my singed skirts in my hands so he cannot see the damage I’d done. Or the blood from my palms. If he suspects I was at all nervous for the outcome, I could ruin everything. I must keep my composure.

And not run down the stairs to the gates and throw myself at my mates like every fiber of my being screams at me to do. 

The guards follow as we exit the booth. In moments there will be chaos as beings scatter to find the Games Keepers and collect their winnings, or pay their debts, but for a moment, the crowd lingers in their seats, watching as the Illyrians are led out of the Pit.

“You embarrassed us today,” he hisses once we’re out of Amarantha’s earshot. The anger in his tone is enough to make me try and take a step away from him, but he throws an arm around my shoulders to keep me against his side. To any onlookers, we are just father and daughter having a chat. His voice is low enough that no one will hear the threats he hisses in my ear.

“You hide away in the River House for months, mourning a traitor who was plotting to overthrow me and now you make a spectacle of yourself! I should have you cast out into the streets!”

My only way out is to placate him. “I am sorry, Father.”

“Sorry,” he snarls, fingers digging tight enough into my shoulder to bruise. “Your apologies mean nothing! I swear, if you do not do everything you promised to do today, I will throw you into this arena! And I will use your own advice to keep you alive long enough to ensure you have a couple matches to prolong your suffering.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I meant what I said, Father.” Mostly. Perhaps I can secure passage for all of us out of here and we never have to think about the Empire again. The more I think about it, the more pleased I am with the idea. Yes, I just need to make it look like I am taking them as slaves, and once we’re out from the watchful eye of my Father, we can all run far, far away. Maybe I am more clever than I thought.

He leads us down the steps to a door that will eventually lead us to the gladiator cages and a guard swings open the heavy iron for us. Once we’re out from under the eye of the people, the rough stone walls closing in tight--a means to ensure none of the larger gladiators can make a run for the door and escape--he releases his grip on me. 

Torches line the walls casting his face in near shadow as he pauses at the bottom of a second, smaller, set of stairs. I shiver despite myself as the door slams shut, sealing me in. I suppose at this point I should be prepared, but I’m not, and when his open hand slams across my cheek I lose my balance and slip down the last two steps of the staircase. 

“Don’t ever question me again!” He hisses.

The guards pretend to not notice, as they always have.

I grit my teeth against the ringing in my ears, against the hot tears that threaten to escape me, focusing instead on carefully getting back on my feet. Stay down too long he’ll kick in my ribs like he used to when I was a child. Get up too fast and he’ll assume he hadn’t hit me hard enough. I put over emphasis into finding a handhold in the wall, making sure I keep my stinging cheek against my shoulder. The tremor in my hands is not feigned fear, I’ve been terrified of him my entire life, but I do exaggerate it just as my Mother taught me. 

“Spoiled brat!” He grumbles as he stalks forward into the tunnel. “I coddled you too much.”

I glare at his back once I’m sure he’s no longer looking at me. I hate him! I’ve hated him my entire fucking life. He’s ruined everything. Taken everything from me. Everything I’d ever loved he’d wiped off the face of the earth, all because I had the misfortune of being a female. All because he couldn’t have a precious son.

I grit my teeth so hard they hurt as I brush my skirts off and follow after him. I will be glad when I am finally out of his sight. Far, far away from this stupid Empire. At least I have mates; someone out in this Mother forsaken world who will care about me; who won’t hate me just for existing. At least there is one thing he can’t ruin for me.

I am too distracted with my thoughts to note the paths we take. I distantly hear the sound of injured men groaning, catch a whiff of filth and animal waste, but it’s all a blur. This will all be a bad dream soon. Soon I will have my mates and I will never have to deal with him again. I can be happy. I will be happy.

By the time he finally stops walking, I’ve schooled my features into a perfect mask; have brushed a few loose strands of hair in front of my face to hide the red mark across my cheek. He will suspect nothing until it is too late. Then he can have his precious Empire. It will be the only thing left he can control.

A guard opens what looks like a cage door, the iron old and rusted, and the guards that have been trailing behind us step in first.

“Against the wall!” They bark. 

There’s no light in the cell, just the flickering of the torch on the wall behind us. I don’t know what to expect.

“Fuck you, Imperial Pig!” Cassian.

I bite my tongue to keep back the grin that threatens to escape me, my mask slipping. He’s not so hurt that he can’t put up a fight. The thought warms something in my chest. Headstrong, stubborn, if the sound of scuffling coming from inside the dark cell is anything to go by, and sarcastic--everything I need to counter my reserved nature. I need that energy. I need him. The surety of that makes me square my shoulders. 

“Easy, Cass.” Rhysand. His voice is smooth as silk, even if the words are a little slurred. “We don’t want trouble.”

“The fuck we don’t!” Cassian shouts. “I’m no one’s fucking pet!”

The guard at the door, once sure the others inside are secure, steps away to grab the torch off its perch in the hallway, and sets it into an old rung on the inside of the cell, bathing the room in its soft glow. 

Father steps in first.

For a moment, I hesitate, heart in my throat. I need them. I need that strength I saw in the arena. Need that fire Cassian spews. The surety that Rhysand carries himself with. I need them. And if I show any sign of that, they're dead.

The guard, now back at the door, eyes me quizzically.

I draw a shaky breath and school my features back into a perfectly bored mask. 

I can do this.

I will do this.

I won’t let Hybern take anything else from me, no matter the games I have to play. 

I tell it to myself over and over as I step into the cell.

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

Taglist: @hjgdhghoe, @krowiathemythologynerd,

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! =)

[kissedyourneck]

ACOTAR Characters as Lorde's  Lyrics

Feyre: "but i got my fingers laced together and i made a little prison and i'm locking up everyone who ever laid a finger on me"

Rhysand: "this dream isn't feeling sweet. we're reeling through the midnight streets and i've never felt more alone"

Cassian: "you could try and take us but we're the gladiators. everyone a rager but secretly they're saviors... glory and gore go hand in hand"

Mor: "but lover, you're the one to blame all that you're doing, can you hear the violence? megaphone to my chest, broadcast the boom boom boom boom and make 'em all dance to it"

Azriel: "don't you think that it's boring how people talk? making smart with their words again, well i'm bored"

Nesta: "so i guess i'll go home into the arms of the girl that i love the only love i haven't screwed up [...] we slow dance in the living room but all that a stranger would see is one girl swaying alone, stroking her cheek"

Amren: "i'm little but i'm coming for you. i'm little but i'm coming for the title held by everyone who's up"

Lucien: "alone with the hard feelings of love. god, i wish i believed you when you told me this was my home"

Elain: "the men up on the news, they try to tell us all that we will lose but it's so easy in this blue, where everything is good and i'll never go home again"

Tamlin: "i am my mother's child. i'll love you til my breathing stops. i'll love you til you call the cops on me. but in our darkest hours, i stumbled on a secret power

i'll find a way to be without you, babe"

[shadowhunterssizzy]

Are you a elriel shipper?

For some reason this question made me laugh. Yes, I am. I know i’m the black sheep because i never had hope for them and after his pov i want to take a step back and i refuse to have hope until sarah says something. I spend years wanting them. Since acomaf i wanted them together, more even than nessian (and look at where we are right now). I felt that it might be a crack ship but i never stop shipping them after acowar. If you ask me about present time, i still want them together but i feel manipulated by sarah’s writing because i don’t know where she’s heading and i think she confirmed us we were never wrong about them being into each other just to take a different route and make azriel endgame with another person. I know it’s too soon to say but that’s how i feel right now. I really, really hope elriel are canon. Believe me. I want the angst, i want the rejection of the mating bond and i want someone in this damned series not to have a mate. I want people to have a choice, to go against the universe and say listen you want a thing but I’m my own person and this is what i want. The mating bond is primary. The fact that they can fight to death just because of a person shows that there’s a possesion. Azriel having to fight for elain against lucien and kill him shows once again that the mate is just a PRICE. A price you have to earn and if it’s taken away from you, you will have to kill that person. It’s sick actually. It’s like gladiators when they went to the ring to fight. Just shows up once again that in the end what happens with the other person that CHOOSE?. Does that person have to see the other DIE?. Isnt that enough? why the universe can’t let two people choose each other? Not to mention how cliche is that EVERY person out there has a mate. What happens with the whole mates are rare and unique. Because so far everyone and their mother has a mate. Right away from book 2 everyone has a pair and now it seems azriel found another mate?. These people have no choice

[sappholovell]

okay we might need to talk because I’m writing a Carry On-esque queer Acotar retelling and I’d like your opinion. So far I’ve got:

Masc Bi Feyre (Roslin or “Ross”)

Femme plus sized (or midsized, I’ll let non-skinny people figure out what label they find appropriate) Rhys (Seraphina or “Sera”)

Possibly keeping Lucien as a guy??? Just because the level of devotion he has for Tamlin has lots of potential behind it

Butch she/they Cassian (still picking a name, possibly Kiera)

They/them Azriel, might sneak in some disability rep here

Obviously Nesta and Elaine are there and queer, not sure how yet

Under the Mountain in a gladiator ring-style place where this version of Amarantha makes her enemies fight to the death for her entertainment

I have a whole plot planned but I literally only have two paragraphs written and my NaNoWriMo is kicking my ass rn

okay here is my pitch for gay acotar if I had millions of dollars to make it, a thing literally nobody wanted:

lucien is a tall hot redheaded lesbian who is exactly the same otherwise

rhysand is openly bisexual

feyre is bisexual too but kind of too dumb to figure it out so all the pages that describe what Morrigan is wearing are all weirdly homoerotic and there's no explanation for why

azriel is also a lesbian. she still does daddy dom roleplays though

elain now has TWO hot lesbian suitors and they all end up in a stable happy polyamorous relationship

nesta has a threesome with the other valkyries and they don't repeat it but they do learn and grow from the experience and I think that's beautiful

cassian is just here for a good time and doesn't care who it's with

amren gets an incredible amount of pussy onscreen

mor has the same messy-ass coming out story because being messy is a lesbian rite of passage BUT she doesn't say shit like "I have sex with men because I like it" during her coming out speech

tamlin is still straight though. sorry timtam

[fyrapartnersearch]

M/M and M/F!

Hey! It’s Viv here. Late twenties, female rper and hoarder of books. It’s been quite a while since my last post but the writing bug has bitten me last autumn and after quite some solo-writing practice the last few months I would absolutely love a roleplaying buddy (or two) to be my partner in crime. Please be 21+ when you contact me and let me know what you’re interested in! I’m super excited to get back into roleplaying and love to know what gets others excited/ inspired. The easiest way to contact me is through Discord:hungryfangs#9072 (Feel free to add me, I’ll assume you’re a fellow rper :) ) or email:visforviv@gmail.com (You can also @ at me on hangouts) With that being said my main squeeze is MxM but I’d absolutely be up for MxF as well. My main muses tend to be male but I’m open to write any gender. Especially when we work with doubling/secondary pairings/ background characters ect. My posts vary but 2- 7 lengthy paragraphs tend to be my norm and I strongly favour 3rd person past tense. (Feel free to ask for a sample) I’m aware I have a great deal of original genres/themes that get me excited. We can always mix (some of) them together and create something amazing. I also have some fandoms (not all are taggable) I hope some might be interested in. Settings/themes/ideas/ect. Secret societies | Fantasy (modern/historical/any) | Morally grey characters | Shapeshifters | sci-fi | cold appearances, hiding soft hearts | pirates and space pirates | Dystopian | Clashing personalities | Neo-noir | Vampires | Dragons and dragon riding society | Age gaps where everyone is an adult | slow-burn | Mutual Pining | Arranged marriages and relationships | Different cultures | rivalries | Fangs | The enemies to lovers trope | Historical fiction | Royalty | old money vs newly found wealth | made-up societies | Soldiers | Fae courts | Steampunk | Monsters | ABO dynamics | Soulmates | Starcrossed lovers | Affairs | Mutual banter | Superpowers | Magic and magic users/wielders | Vikings | Mechanically enhanced humans | Rebellions | Curses | werewolves | Big cities | old flames | Gladiators | Made up fantasy and scifi races | secret lovers | Clashing egos | losing it all and having to rebuild | Wild west | Hidden worlds | If any of these and of course my ad speak to you feel free to contact me and we’ll pick it up from there! - I’m also always on the hunt to play with made-up fantasy races, their societies and to play around with that. I have some loose ideas for a dragon shapeshifting and shapeshifting races in general but open to anything! I get super giddy just playing around with concepts and getting to play/write with them. If that’s something you’re interested in defiantly contact me! - What I love about roleplaying is the plotting and getting excited together. Give me your ideas and let me share mine! I love hearing people’’s input and in the end writing on plots we both love. - I love slowburn but I also love lust-filled relationships that slowly grow into something romantic and anything in between. - I’m not too strict on bedroom positions. If you want to write a more submissive character feel free! As long as their preference does not define their personality I don’t mind at all. I do love myself some surprising dynamics with powerbottoms, gentle tops and always up for power struggles! Fandoms: For all fandoms I’m open to playing around in canon or having fun with an AU granted we’re not going for a coffee shop or College AU. I’m bitter like unflavoured coffee about those ;) Bold means I have a preference for that muse but nothing is set in stone and you can ask me to write the other. Attack on titan: Erwin/Levi, Reiner/ Bertolt, Reiner/ Porko A court of thorns and roses: rhysand/ Feyre, Lucian/ Elaine, Azriel/ Elaine or Oc Transformers: I seriously just miss writing in this fandom! I’m most fammiliar with the resently ended IDW comics, prime and Animated.Open to pretty much any pairing. My main muses are: everyone. Also, write Oc’s with me in this fandom and I’ll love you forever! (Not looking for human x mech romances though. sorry :c) OverWatch: Hanzo/ Jesse, Jesse/Genji, Gabriel/Jack Smut: Yes! just yes. In all seriousness, I like smut in my plots. Kinda like the topping of something that is already amazing (like a slice of cheesecake) but I’m totally okay with us fading to black is that’s more comfortable for you Limits and deal breakers: Everyone has things they rather not write and I’m no different. First, and I might sound pretty bitter here. I’m not looking for male writing partners right now. Especially not in M/F plots. Sorry dudes :c I just had one too many bad experiences. Second, I’m not looking to write smut with underage characters. Actually, I’d prefer if every character in any smut scene is 20+ or an equivalent of that if we’re speaking of fantasy races that might age differently. Other than that my limits are very basic: kinks like vore, necrophilia ect aren’t my cup of tea. Okay, I’ll stop here and hope I caught the attention of some of you! Have a lovely day either way and I hope to get some exciting plots going :)

[faewylds]

Angels

 Immortality has its price. When you live for eons, when you watch the universe slowly bloom into existence, everything repeats again and again. It gets boring, so, so boring. Boring enough to make you wish you would just disappear, if only you could.

And then something happens. Something minuscule turns into something bigger, and life is born. A playground blooms before your eyes. And wouldn’t someone who waited for that for hundreds, thousands, millions of years, do anything to get there the second that someone showed them how? Of course they’d do anything. They’d even fall.

 Abasdarhon was the angel of the 5th hour of the night, and they still are. Torn jeans and low cut tank tops have replaced their toga, blue hair shines instead of a halo and the temples they visit pulse with music and moving bodies. They relish in the burn of alcohol rushing down their throats as they line shot after shot, they celebrate life by dancing along with the crowd as the club fills to bursting, drawn by the siren’s call of their power. They worship the night along with their new flock, screaming out lyrics of  today’s hymns and anthems.

 Ariel was the angel of protection, and he still is. There’s no more right or wrong for him, he just does his work for whoever is the highest bidder, and the highest bidders pay well, very well. So he protects, though his armor no longer steel, but kevlar hidden under jackets, and his weapon is no longer his sword but a gun tucked behind his belt. He has traded bloodbathed battlefronts to either rundown streets of stylish parties, but the red of the fight is still the same color as he remembers it.

 Asteraoh was the angel who thwarted power, and he still does. Anarchist is what they call him as he makes sure that the higher a person rises, the harder they will fall. It’s quite easy, really. A bit of blackmail here, a bit of planted evidence there, and suddenly the highest are dragged down to share their cells with the lowest. Or maybe a whisper here, a suggestion there, and they bring themselves down on their own accord. He’s there to watch them crash and burn.

 Azrael was the angel of death, Azriel was the angel of destruction, and the two siblings still do their work. Their work is silent, but its consequences resonate loudly. A missing piece in one place, a small defect in another, then all they have to do is wait for the first domino to fall and set the chain into motion. Nuclear meltdowns, collapsed buildings, car explosions, they celebrate it all. And when that is not enough, they create bombs and weapons and let humanity do their work for them.

 Barman was the angel of intelligence, and she still is. In the age of information, her job became considerably easier. The world is connected, and most of humanity’s knowledge, good or bad, is at the press of a button. The rest? There’s a way. Connect, break in, collect, repeat. She's the exhausted girl you see with bloodshot and empty eyes, for she has seen too much and yet has not seen enough to quit her search. Maybe she finds things some people better want hidden, or maybe she finds things too horrible to seek out purposefully. And maybe she clicks share.

 Baruchiel was the angel with power over strife, and he still has it. What he says, happens. He asks for peace - he gets peace, he asks for a fight - he gets a fight, and right now he most often asks for the later. He’s a ringleader, yelling into a megaphone and riding the high of the crowd screaming for blood which soon follows. He yells encouragements for the modern gladiators of his choice and watches them win every time. Sometimes he goes overboard, and the bloodthirst rises to a lethal level. Fun has its price, he pays his due in blood and lives.

 Israfil was the angel called “the burning one”, and they still live up to the name. They remember when people burned sacrifices and offerings for their god, and even now they follow the tradition. Arson is their living. Crossed electric wires or simple lighters, ordinary wood or gasoline, all works, all burns. They watch news where people cry and mourn all the lives lost in the latest house fire, and then the pyromaniac strikes another match.

 Nathanael was the angel of hidden things, fire, and vengeance, and he still is. In this age, he’s a detective. He sees all things hidden, he finds clues and evidence everyone else has missed. Yet no matter what he finds, all the cases in his charge fall through. But what few people ever notice is that the killers he chases never come back to kill again. Angelic vengeance pays back any wrong sevenfold, and he really doesn’t hold back.

 Shepherd was the angel of repentance, and he makes sure that he remains so. He embraces sin as wholeheartedly as he once embraced his belief in god. He drinks, he fucks, he cheats, he fights, he does all that he never could. Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, pride and jealousy, he tries them all again and again. Laws are nothing to him, and the opinions of men are even lower than that. He breaks heart, souls and bodies. He makes sure that he has something to repent for.

  Sraosha was the angel who set the world in motion, and she still does her work. Humanity strives on one thing, and one thing only. Chaos. Only then do they truly shine, the times when they have to fight for their survival, when wars rage and earth shatters. Nothing fuels men more to come together or break apart, to learn and create new things, or destroy themselves and their surroundings. So she becomes chaos, creates war, causes crisis. She forces the world to spin. 

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales

Summary: A Princess!Reader x Gladiator!Bat Boys fic that's been swimming around in my head for weeks after watching Gladiator I and II

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Mentions of Torture, Slavery, and Assault

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

“So good of you to finally join us, cousin.” The din of the crowd nearly drowns out the words, the feverish cheers echoing off the massive stone pillars that hold the auditorium seats up and away from the stench of death and decay that permeates from the mud soaked pit beneath the plush outdoor auditorium. There are rows of decadent booths along the pit's edge, each box set with plush chases and golden edged pillows. Slaves with palm fronds fan ornately dressed royals, their faces obscured by gold lined veils. The auditorium oozes wealth and luxury, offers decadent food and drink and deep enough betting pools to make the strictest penny pinchers among the elite crawl out of their caves to try their luck.

The altar for the Mother gleams golden in the afternoon sunlight, the carved statue standing with arms and feathered wings outstretched in welcome. Beckoning those to come and offer a bit of blood in hopes of trading it for some luck. Luck for the gamblers, of course, never the males, and sometimes females, who fight and die in the muddy pit far beneath the first row of booths. My father says they made the Games to punish our enemies, and to reward our soldiers, but both fight and die as equals all the same. 

I frown first at the statue, how could our most beloved Goddess reward this kind of brutality? Then at my cousin, who I remember, is still waiting for me to speak. Dagdan sports his military regalia, the glittering medals across his chest all pinned there by my father for his service to our great empire. Service he never actually participated in. Dagdan can wield a sword because of the patience of his tutors, he’s never raised it in battle, despite the stories he tells at every possible turn. 

“Father said the Games would be impressive this year,” I reply, trying to keep the bite out of my tone. Mother raised me to be demure, to keep my chin up, to never let an enemy see what I was feeling. She had been good at that, too good, perhaps that was why she had been publicly executed. For all her poise, she had not been able to outmatch my Father’s paranoia.

Beside him, Dagdan’s twin sister Brannagh grins, her pearly white teeth a harsh contrast to her otherwise impassive face. It’s like watching a shark try to grin. “The Uprising in the Courts made for a lot of candidates this year.”

My stomach turns. The Empire is vast, spreading across continents and oceans. The Courts in Prythian were the last of the fae to fall in line before Father turned his attention to the Human Lands. Each year, more and more slaves and captives are carted in through the iron gates far beneath the smooth stones we stand on, all tossed into the mud to fight each other for a slim possibility of survival. Some come willingly, chasing fortune and gold; some are sponsors of Father’s Inner Circle, their armor always pristine, their weapons always sharp. But most of the gladiators are slaves, crammed into dingy cells in the catacombs beneath the arena. Despite the decadence of the auditorium, one visit down into the bowels of this awful place was enough to scar me for life. As Father intended, I’m sure. Our esteemed Emperor had not been shy about his disdain for not being able to produce a son and his paranoia often convinced him that I would one day find a husband crafty enough to steal his Throne before he found a match he thought suitable, he often dragged me to these things to remind me the brutality he was capable of if I stepped out of line. No doubt it was why he’d insisted I come out today. I had not been out in public in some time, not after the grief of losing my mother had so thoroughly consumed me. My grief had shamed him; had made some in his Inner Circle suspect I was also plotting against him. My presence here was as much a check into my loyalties as it was to remind me of what fate could befall me if I kept on wallowing away in the dark.

I smooth my hands over my skirts, putting thoughts of my Mother aside. It always feels like a gaping wound in my chest, nerve and sinew exposed and open for every onlooker to see. I must reign it in. For the sake of my future. 

“We’ll see a lot of Fae, then?” There were a lot of elves last year and shifters the year before that. There is no prejudice in the games. Race and gender matter little in a battle of survival. 

The twins follow me as I find my way through the bustling crowd to our booth, where I know Father will already be waiting. 

“Some humans for the first round,” Dagdan spits like he’s tasted something vile. 

“Some half-breeds and mutts for the second,” Brannagh finishes with far more delight than her brother. Their eagerness from blood is one of the few reasons Father didn’t name their heir in my place. Brutality is necessary, but bloodlust turns a well rounded Empire on its head. Father placates them by giving them titles, parading them around like their important so they remain loyal, but he will never truly give them the power they seek. They’re simply not smart enough to see it.

“But the final round will be entertaining,” Dagdan says, gray eyes twinkling as the wall of guards at attention in Father’s booth part for us. 

Our esteemed emperor sits on a throne made entirely of gold, a goblet of wine already in his hands. A circlet of gold leaf perches on top of his salt and pepper hair, the sharp edges reflecting the light along the crimson curtains that help keep out the summer heat. We all bow to him as we enter, and Father reaches out a hand for mine without ever looking at us. 

“It is good to see you outside again, daughter,” he says, chapped lips brushing over my knuckles in a brief display of affection. 

“I’m sorry it has been so long, Father,” I keep my voice even, unbothered. I will not let any of them see how much I hate all of this. 

He guides me to sit on the couch beside the throne, where I have ample view of the uneven floor below. Yesterday’s rain has filled the giant pit with mud. Mud that could have easily been covered and smoothed out to make the playing field fair for all, but that is not how these Games work. Bones still litter the uneven ground, a rib cage protruding from a mound of dirt, a crumbling arrow still caught inside it. There’s the skull of an animal turned upside down, a stream of muddy water running out the eye sockets like some sort of twisted water fountain. Old weapons lay scattered around the arena floor; a wagon weaves around boulders and mounds of loose earth to scatter more. 

“I trust you’re feeling better?” The question is pointed, for the sake of my cousins. He has been telling people the shock of my Mother’s supposed betrayal had been too much on my health and I’d been bed ridden. It’s not entirely far from the truth. 

“Yes, Father. The sunlight does me good.” Not far from the truth either. It is nice to be away from the palace and all the chaos that comes with it. 

Brannagh sits beside me, a slave scurrying behind her with a fan, a second not far behind with some wine. She stretches her long legs out in front of her with a sigh, the sunlight drifting through the curtains making her pale skin look translucent. “Do you have a favorite to win today, Uncle?”

My Father sips from his goblet, a bit of wine caught in his graying beard. “Just a favorite to lose,” he chuckles. Though he is getting older, the gleam in his slate gray eyes is still sharp and youthful. Even with his bouts of paranoia, his mind is still sharp and calculating. 

“Do tell, before it’s too late for me to change my bets,” Dagdan quips. Though I doubt it is all in jest, my cousin is far more in debt than he realizes. 

Horns blare from the upper rings of the arena, signalling those still milling about placing bets and finding food to get to their seats. The Games will start soon. My stomach twists itself into a new knot. There is no shortage of ways my Father will have found to torment the poor souls who find themselves in the pit today, I am not eager to see what they are. 

“There was some… trouble in the mountain regions of the Courts,” he says carefully. 

I force myself not to turn and look at him. Trouble for my father usually means rebellion, or outright war, anything else is too insignificant to mention. In my seclusion, I had not even caught wind of it. 

“We have a few insurrectionists I’d like to see fall today.”

Few are foolish enough to raise a hand against the Empire. It usually means their provinces go without food and aid in the harsher months of the year. I am curious to see who would be foolish enough to risk the lives of their people. 

“Those great wings of theirs would make an excellent trophy on my wall,” Father finishes. 

A shiver runs down my spine. It would not be the first gruesome trophy of his, but still, the outright admittance to such cruelty still makes me tremble. My unease is only heightened by the arrival of my Father’s General, who enters the booth followed by a handful of male slaves, all barely dressed.

“Amarantha!” It is no secret that my Father has always wished I shared the temperament and constitution of his beloved General. If he had to be cursed with a female for an heir, he wanted ruthlessness, cunning, and a smile that could peel paint. All things the red headed fae oozed in abundance. 

All things my Father was convinced I lacked. I’d take it. His disdain was better than being exactly like her. I can’t help the way my nose crinkles at the sight of her. Brannagh moves closer to the edge of the couch, in hopes of ending up in her line of vision, eager to swap stories before the Games officially start. Brannagh wants to be just like her, the gaggle of pleasure slaves included. The two of them would unleash hell on the world if my Father ever put the two of them together. 

“Your Highness,” Amarantha bows, the loose fabric of her nearly sheer gown spilling to give my Father ample view of her cleavage. I stopped allowing myself to question the nature of their relationship long ago; my stomach turns thinking about it. 

“It is a good day for betting, don’t you think?” She asks. Her voice is like gravel, fitting since its the color of her eyes. A finger bone dangles from her neck, an eye encased in glass sitting atop her finger; though she is lean, she is stronger and more deadly than most people assume at first glance. Everything about her is dangerously sharp. 

“I was just telling Dagdan the same thing,” my Father says.

Those dark eyes flick briefly to my cousin, who puffs up his chest, but she ignores him entirely as her gaze settles on me. “Princess! I didn’t know you’d be joining us today. What a monumental occasion!”

“I thought the fresh air would do me some good,” I say simply. What else is there to say to Evil Incarnate? Perhaps I should put more energy into being clever, I know that if Amarantha saw a benefit to cleaving my head from my shoulders, she’d take it--power is all she cares about, so far we haven’t faced each other because she doesn’t think I have enough to steal--but I cannot summon the energy. Ever since the incident with my Mother, I have not managed to find much in me at all. Especially not for Amarantha and her social climbing. 

“Nothing like a little blood sport to invigorate the mind,” she purrs as she lowers herself into the seat at my Father’s right hand. One of her slaves perches on the arm of her chair, bare chest glinting with oils in the harsh sunlight. Another sits at her feet, and her nails, sharpened to points, drift harshly through his thick curls. 

I watch my cousin run her tongue over her lips at the sight. 

“Did you place any bets, Princess?” Amarantha continues as someone brings her a goblet of wine. She sniffs suspiciously at it before instructing one of her slaves to test it first. Perhaps poison would be a mercy. 

Never admit weakness. Never admit that my solitude has kept me out of the loop and left me ill prepared for whatever is about to happen in the Pit beneath us. Instead, I say, “We have several days of entertainment, I prefer to observe on the first day.”

To his credit, my Father does reach over and pat my shoulder in approval. 

“Clever,” she says, but there’s enough bite in it to not make it a compliment. 

“My money is on your Attor, as always, General,” Brannagh says with the eagerness of a child with a crush. 

Amarantha huffs in annoyance, as if my cousin is a fly buzzing around her ear, “He’s too good, its almost boring at this point.”

Brannagh deflates, but before she can come up with something witty in response, the final warning horn blows from the rafters. The Games will begin. 

I turn my attention away from my company, watching brightly dressed royals rush to their booths. There are all sorts of creatures here to watch: Elves and Fae and Fawn, a few Goblins and Giants, observing from a standing platform opposite us. There is room for most, save for humans, within the Empire, as long as they prove their usefulness. That is my Father’s crowning achievement, the Hybern Empire has room for all, if you play your cards right and never step out of line. 

The groaning of the gates draws my attention away from the spectators and down into the Pit beneath us, where a whole cart of humans appears from the gloom of one of the entrances. They look small; mud and blood splattered as several Praetorian guards usher them out of the cart with spears bigger than most of their heads. The guards do not remove their shackles, leaving all twelve of them tethered together in the center of the Pit.

The cart rolls away, the guards with it, only once their out does another gate open to let out the challenger: Amarantha’s hulking Attor. The creature is battle scarred, lines criss-crossing over its leathery skin. Its giant wings flutter on the breeze behind it as it stalks into the center, Amarantha’s crest painted in blood red over its chest. 

The crowd goes wild as it enters the pit, clawed hands swinging wildly around its hulking body. “ATTOR! ATTOR! ATTOR!” The monster has always been the crowd favorite.

Amarantha yawns. She’ll make thousands off the creature, but that is nothing to her. Money is trivial, unless it can buy her the power she craves. 

I glance at my Father as the Games Maker starts addressing the crowd and explaining the match up. “Would it not be more entertaining to unchain them?” They’re all going to die anyway, surely this gives them a fighting chance to die with some honor. “We all know the Attor will win, why make it easy for it?”

Amarantha nearly spits out her wine, a gurgling sound coming out of her as she tries to maintain her composure. 

I do not let myself grin at the victory.

Father runs a hand over his graying beard in thought. “Perhaps your solitude did you some good, Daughter.”

I do not shutter. I cannot save any of them, as pitiful and helpless as they look alongside the Attor. It will give them all gruesome deaths purely for the fun of it. But perhaps the Mother will take pity; may the chance to die fighting grant them peace in the afterlife. 

Father stands and motions for the Game Maker to quiet. “Let the humans be unchained!”

The crowd erupts into varying shouts of surprise and approval. 

“Let us test the skill of the Attor!”

This pleases the crowd, but it makes Amarantha’s cheeks flush crimson. She hides a grimace behind her wine as my Father returns to his seat. 

A single guard returns with keys, and the crowd falls into a hushed silence, waiting for chaos to ensue. I force myself not to look away; to face what I have done. One of the humans cranes its head to look up at our box and flashes us his middle finger.

Dagdan bristles in his seat next to his sister. “He should pay for that!”

They will. There will be no rescue. There is none to be found. The Empire comes for all of us eventually, best that we can do is go into it with our heads up. I am trying to accept my fate in this, what other choice do I have, lest I end up dead or locked away. 

Once the guard is clear, the horns once again blow, telling the Attor he can start his hunt. Those great wings at his back kick up loose dirt as he launches into the air with a roar that makes the arena tremble. 

The crowd cheers, leaning forward in their seats to watch as the monster swoops down and gets its great jaws around the head of the first human. Brannagh giggles at the splatter of blood that erupts from the poor creature’s neck. 

I clench my hands in my lap. 

The second human tries to run, scrambling for purchase in the thick mud. It doesn’t help that they’re all barefoot. The Attor’s claws tear through the human’s back like butter, the poor thing going down with a wail that makes my heart lurch painfully in my chest.

The third manages to find a sword, the blade rusted from the rain; the man gets a good swipe in, nicking the inside of the Attor’s palm before it gets shredded to pieces.

Each human tries a little harder than the last, getting further each time. One manages to weave around the debris and avoid being swooped down on like the first, but the uneven terrain catches her ankle, sending her sprawling down with a shout as her leg is left twisted and broken. Another manages to get an arrow into the Attor’s back, but not deep enough to do damage. They all go down fighting, and each new one has me saying a mental prayer to the Mother on their behalf, but none survive. Much to the crowd’s glee.

“Wonderful!” Brannagh says, clapping as the Attor roars in victory. 

Amarantha shrugs. “Boring.”

The Attor exits the Pit, ever the victor. The bodies it left aren’t even carted away. No one comes to pick up the pieces. No one will bury them. Their bones will rot and decay into the Pit floor.

I ask one of my Father’s servants for some wine to try and settle the nausea that rolls in my stomach, but even the smoothest of wine does not dull it. 

My Father watches me carefully, calculating every move. I do my best to keep my features neutral. 

“What did you think, Daughter?”

I take another sip of wine before speaking, giving myself time to collect my thoughts. “Humans don’t make very good gladiators.”

He laughs at that and my cousins join in, as if it was the funniest thing ever. 

“Humans don’t make good anything,” Dagdan says.

“Except for a snack,” Brannagh adds.

“Worms,” Amarantha spits.

Father raises his cup in salute to me. “May the next match be more exciting for you.”

I ignore my revulsion and return the gesture. I cannot wait for this to be over. I shall retire back into my gloomy quarters with the curtains drawn and try to scrub the gory images from my brain. Perhaps my solitude would be more comforting than this.

The horns blow announcing the next match and the Games Maker drones on and on about where these next gladiators hail from. One side are all sponsored by royal families, all males trying to make a name for themselves and some coin to feed their families. They’re all well trained and well equipped for the task. They’re a filler spot, to give the rest of the Game Makers time to prepare the next victims of the Empire’s wrath. Beneath the Pit floor, in the dark of the catacombs, the next round of war captives are likely being hauled out of their cells and prepped. I can’t help but wonder if they can hear the roaring of the Bogges and Gladiator’s alike from down there. Do they understand what is about to happen? Are they saying their final prayers to the Mother?

I can’t help but glance at Her altar. What kind of world is this that we live in? Brutal and cruel and blood splattered. If we are so favored, how could our lives look like this? It is thoughts like these that have kept me sequestered in my room. I do not know what I am supposed to live for, or who I am supposed to be any more. My life feels like it is stretching out before me, and someone else is pulling on the strings, making me a puppet that moves at their will. I no longer have the protection of my Mother. Father will soon throw me to the wolves if I am not smart or careful or cunning. The world is different and dark and I have utterly lost my way.

I am so wrapped up in my thoughts I barely register the fight. One of the males gets eaten by the terrifying Bogge, his screams echoing off the great walls. The crowd eats it up, cheering and screaming and jumping from their seats. The more blood that flows the louder they yell and cheer. These are my people? These are who I am to rule one day? What does that make me?

Dagdan huffs about his losses as the gladiators exit the arena, the Bogge all dead. He drowns his sorrows in his cup as if the solution to his terrible gambling habit might lie in the bottom. 

“Finally, now we can get to the part I’ve been waiting for!” Amarantha declares. 

Father grins. “I take it they gave you trouble on the way here?”

She spits again, a nasty habit that doesn’t bother anybody but me, apparently. “Damned Illyrians! Had to use faebane on them the whole way, otherwise they tore through the damn chains!”

Father shakes his head. “I have to admit they surprised me-” certainly a feat few have ever accomplished in his lifetime “-usually their kind throw themselves on their swords before they get caught. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

I’ll chalk that up to his paranoia talking, but I have to admit, I am intrigued by the conversation. Anyone who can surprise my Father must be very skilled. Despite my disdain for these Games, I find myself leaning forward to get a better look into the arena when I hear the grates open for the third time. 

“What is there to be surprised about?” Amarantha counters, but her words feel farther away as I catch sight of movement from the dark tunnel behind the entrance of the arena. “They’re rebels, their deaths will make martyrs out of them. They want a public execution.”

The world feels as if it has narrowed into this moment. The din of the crowd starts to fade in and out of focus. I am suddenly very aware of the roaring of my heartbeat in my own ears.

The first male steps out of the tunnel, stripped to the waist, his bronze chest smattered with cuts and scrapes and bruises so dark they’re nearly black. Dark twisting tattoos trace their way up his broad chest and over his shoulders and back, until they meet great, leathery wings like that of a bat’s. Long, dark hair, matted with mud and what might be blood, clings to his face, but despite the disheveled state, his hazel eyes remain clear and bright. 

The crowd boos when they see him. A few people hurl food at him. 

“Cassian,” Amarantha scoffs. “The rebels call him their General.”

Father frowns. “As foolish as their militia was, do not forget how many of our soldiers he killed.” 

I cannot take my eyes off him. He’s taller than the guard that leads him by his bound wrists into the Pit. Larger too. Those broad shoulders and defined abs speak volumes about how skilled in swordplay he must be.

“Will you keep his wings when he dies, Uncle?” Brannagh asks.

The wine threatens to come up at the thought of having to see such beautiful wings pinned to a wall in Father’s study. The male clearly cares for them. When the guard gets too close he flicks them out of reach. While there are some nicks in the leathery membrane, the wings are the least scarred part of him. He has to take good care of them for someone so battle hardened to keep them looking like that.

“Happily,” Father says.

Even if I wanted to look at him, I couldn’t, not as the second male enters the arena. He’s a little shorter than the first, his hair shorter, the dark onyx locks curling gently around his forehead. Blood still drips from an open gash across his temple, staining his cheek and neck crimson. Like the first, his chest is bare and marked with the same swirling tattoos, but unlike the first, his great wings hang limp behind him. One drags along the mud like a cape, the leathery membrane ripped open and bleeding, the other is twisted at an angle sharp enough to make me wince at the sight. The urge to run down to him is overwhelming. My hands drift down to the seat cushion and hold tight to keep myself still.

The crowd continues to boo and throw things as he tries to keep his head up and meet the other male in the center of the Pit. 

“Azriel,” Father says to Amarantha, “ was quite a challenge for you, I hear?”

His beloved General frowns. “The shadow wielder managed to get a few good blows in, I’ll admit. But surprise only gets you so far.”

My eyes drift from his broken wings to his hands, covered entirely in scars, like someone burned him. The thought makes my chest heavy. 

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I have never been so obviously shaken by the Games, not since the first time I’d come. Father had made me sit through weeks of slaughter, watching as gladiator after gladiator fell prey to a magic storm and a slew of magic beasts. Even then I had managed to hold it together until I’d made it home to vomit, but now I feel as if I cannot keep my body in its seat!

The magic that lives caged beneath my, usually, pristine facade cracks through, a bit of dark mist seeping out from between my fingers. I unfurl my fists and take my hands carefully into my lap, using a bit of my skirts to hide the errant flow of power. I’ve been neglecting my studies, have not given myself an outlet, this is a terrible time for a flare up! I try to focus on my breathing, the pounding of my heart isn’t helping. I need to remain calm. I need to remain in control. 

A feat that feels utterly impossible as the third and final male exits the tunnel. Time comes to a grinding halt, every footfall against the Pit floor a drumming, haunting echo in my ears. I have utterly forgotten how to breathe; how to think. The male is by far the most beautiful male I’ve ever seen, violet eyes twinkling with a thousand glittering stars. He sports the same tattoos as the others, the same bronze skin and battle hardened muscle, but it is the expression on his face that gets me. He is as battered and bloody as the second male, cheek split open, a slash mark clean down the middle of his chest; most of his body is a bruise, but he doesn’t wince at all. He keeps his chin high, high enough to look Father right in the eyes with every step he takes into the Pit. There’s a clear challenge there, unhindered by the chains around his neck and wrists. Those gorsian stone chains don’t often make an appearance, unless the person attached to them is exceptionally skilled with magic. 

“Rhysand,” this time Amarantha’s voice is an excited purr and the power trying to escape through my fingers slips faster from my palms. I dig my nails so tight into my palms they bleed. 

“I do admit, it’s a shame you have to kill him,” she continues. “He’d make such a pretty addition to my collection.” 

It is all I can do to not turn and hurl a blast of dark, obsidian power at her. I keep my gaze on the Pit instead, as the final rebel joins the others in the center. Its only once he’s there that something clicks into place in my mind. If Amarantha still speaks I can’t hear her. Time freezes again, the only signal of its passing the pounding of my heart in my ears.

They’re my mates!

And I’m about to watch them die.