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meli-writes · 2 months ago

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/// CW: peril (gunpoint), dubious consent, impact play, partial nudity, whorephobia, and mention of transphobia. ///

The handle came away with an unsettling clatter but, greatly relieving for Lili, could tumble safely away to the carpet. Every other mansion she’d seen was floored-to-ceiling’d with rich, deepening hardwoods as percussive as they were unethically imported.

Someone at last had the unwise taste to make things a bit softer, and no one would hear Lili’s heels clacking away then back to the evening’s do.

She pressed the door openly, slipping through the gap into a gently-lit abyss. No one would notice. Lili turned to peer behind the door and felt a warm, metal cylinder press itself against her cheek. At least that’s what she thought.

The fireplace twinkled and crackled slowly in the shadow’s eyes, Lili looked away burning with terror while her body froze in place. “Gotcha.”

“Goodness me, awfully sorry Mam. Just— getting myself lost is all now.” Perhaps the definitely mob-affiliated lady, tucked away in a dead-quiet study, hadn't just heard several minutes of failed lockpicking, followed by some furious few minutes of unscrewing.

“Hmm. I don’t think I’m as sure, my eyes have followed you all evening, darling. Has something been making you nervous?”

“No no, Mam. Quite ordinary for my face, always greeting with anxiety. And come to mention it, I’m here with��” Smack.

Before she could dare wonder where the barrel was the shadow had circled round and spanked her, then pressed the pistol harshly into the curve of her back, forcing her forward into the room’s centre, away from escape.

“What is it you're looking for?”

“Oh nothing important— please— just, the bathroom?”

Lili hadn’t hydrated for hours beforehand, spiro would get in her way, so even a few sips of dinner’s rosy pairing had left her lightheaded. The shadow’s disbelief smouldered in the pause, before it slammed the door shut and sent Lili’s nails digging into her palms.

“You’ll have your knees on my rug now, darling. Any other move and pop.”

She would have stayed frozen without the fire, it wasn’t the worst to sink down next to it, and most of her was pretty bare at the moment.

Lili held herself close, and still, but her eyes searched till she spied the iron poker just outwith her reach. It was a bit of hope.

“Now, I’m going to need you to answer at least one of my questions properly, or your evening will be much less pleasant than the rest of my guests.”

My rug. My guests. Oh no. “Who do you work for?”

“I was oh—” The shadow uncast itself and she was— incredible. High-heeled boots fell away to a dark and silken affair that made sure to demonstrate every muscle on her.

Lili shuddered, and not only from base intimidation, as a clutch bag was plucked from her fingers. “—accompanying a gentleman, Mam. I work a shop, but… sometimes find myself needing the help.”

The lady pulled a high-cheek higher — stretching lips, painted like dark chocolate, into a grimace. She was perusing through the bag, tossing out six sizes of condom, a packet of makeup wipes, a small granola bar and—

“Hmm, lying.”

—the German-made subcombat was perhaps too much of an upgrade over the typical prostitute’s derringer. It was disarmed quickly and placed on the desk, far out of reach.

“Don’t tell me it’s for self-protection.”

Technically that wasn’t a question, so Lili kept silent. She looked again at the poker — that was closer, for now — but the lady could see her twitching in place. Ca-click.

“Bend over.”

Lili’s breath roared over the flames, hot and heavy with muffled panic.

“I told you, if you won’t tell me when I ask you, then you’ll tell me when I hurt you. Now bend the fuck over.”

Her head juddered, trying to stay up as she bent herself down. Suddenly, desperately, she pulled back up. “Wait! It’s— there’s a rival. But I can’t say more—”

A boot hoisted itself over Lili’s shoulder and stomped her into the carpet, sending her dress rising over her ass. “Because they’ll kill you?”

The sharpened heel dug into her shoulder blade. A smile from above watched as Lili chafed her cheek against the floor, nodding in awkward terror.

The heel pulled free so the lady might kneel down and draw Lili’s face up to hers, the other hand finding itself wrapped around the taught hem of her dress. “Darling, if that’s all you plan to say then I’m going to be the one killing you. And there’s a lot that could happen between when I would, and when they would."

She pulled, exposing terribly insubstantial lingerie and sending the thief sprawling into her own bosom, face blooming red as the thief attempted to withdraw.

“Back down, darling.”

Lili pressed her face against the rug, felt the heat licking at her nearly bare arse, not seeing the crop now resting in the lady’s hands. “It’s, respectfully, more complicated than that, Mam. They’re holding something that I rather need— AHhh.”

The pain was quick, sharp, and heavy. The only relief a better, if bitter, understanding for her present position.

“Continue.” That was just her testing Lili, enjoying her.

“She’s got a hold on all my— Ahh.” Lighter. Lili had slipped and not noticed. “—meds, she has my medication. AHHHh.” Harder, the lady’s twisted version of a reward.

“What kind?” Crop falling before Lili could speak again.

“EEek. Hormones, they’re hormones. I’m—” Lili felt it resting on her, waiting. “Fuck, Mam. I’m a tranny, okay?” She felt the pad drawn up her back, shivering as it slowly pulled away.

“Quite the blasphemous word for yourself, darling. And who is she?”

Lili couldn’t answer that, she couldn’t. If she wasn’t screwed already this would kill her for sure. The rug was stained by a few heated tears, but she hadn’t felt it come back down—

Thwack. The lady’s sympathies had harsh, impatient limits it seemed.

“YAAAHaha. Fuckin’ hells. It’s Coloski, Reb Coloski.”

Lili tried to peek up but was quickly shoved back down, crop pressing against her temple as the lady mused. “Fucking bitch. And how’d you end up stealing for her?”

“I was—” Lili breathed in, and out. It was too late to deal out half-truths. “I ran out of my meds, and they refused me anymore and I couldn’t go back, okay? So, worked the few connections I had, Mam, and I guess it— worked its way up the chain.”

The lady eyed Reb’s thief, her thief now. Every family traded in debts but Coloski always loved to play with vulnerability.

“And now you don’t get any more — until a job is done?”

“No, I— Ahh.”

Not that she didn’t love it also, but this kind was insulting — and not for her to play with.

“Straighten up, darling. Pull those legs apart for me.” Even if the dress wasn’t hiked it wouldn’t have helped now.

Her cock pressed against the ungenerous mesh at her front, the lady brushing her crop against it, drawing it along her thigh, begging to drive out more answers. Or perhaps just a few more squeals.

“She make you do anything else?”

“I’ve had to do things for jobs, Mam, but not for her— Eeeh.” It stinged much more here. The lady need only swipe over, not under, and leave Lili with little padding to save her. “But, she promised she’d help me — Ahh — promised I’d be out of her debt for this job."

“She set you up.”

Lili shivered and blinked, looked at her with dumb shock. A quick smack was enough to squeal her back to her senses. “Eeee-ahh. W-What do you mean?”

“She’s done it before.” The lady nodded her head to the side. “How much do you know about the Victorinos?”

“Only that is their mansion. Boss went missing some years back but then in comes this woman, sister I think, and takes over in his stead. Not my place to ask why, Mam.”

She bent down, graced Lili’s lips for a terrifying moment. Her hair was composed into long, black waves, with a rather predominant nose imposing its own beauty on her face.

She looked in Lili’s eyes and purred.

“This woman.”

“M-m-m-miss Victorino?”

“Yes, darling?” This thief was all hers now. “Did you think I was another lost guest, like you?”

Lili tried, unsure of what she’d even say, to answer. “I— AHHHhh.” It was swift, and hard, and landed much closer to her centre than was bearable.

Vic — Miss Victoria Victorino — was talking now, and her thief needed to shush.

“Bitch sent you into Dante’s Inferno, where it would be quite undue on my reputation for anyone to walk out.”

She started padding the crop against Lili, who tensed at its rhythm and found herself blushing and hardening in response. “There’s a mutual agreement I think, if one meant to test me, to let me dispose of one of her more useless tools, from time to time.”

“Dispose?” THWACK. “YAAAaaah.”

“Kill.”

Vic narrowly missed the luridly pitched lace between Lili’s legs. On purpose — the threat brought her enough joy and there wasn’t quite such an evocative pain to draw from messy, jumbled parts.

Tears parted from the thief’s eyes. “Are you gonna?”

Vic sighed, giving Lili a soft, crooning show of sympathy. Laying the crop behind her and sinking down to Lili’s side, holding stiff as Vic’s arms wrapped around her.

“You’re still a thief, and a liar, and I can’t let you go— but—”

She grabbed Lili by the chin, squishing her cheeks and forcing her to look at a very, very particular cabinet, its contents exposed by crystal glass.

“—do you know what your prescription is?”

---

Lili was still scrambling herself back together as she hurried back to the lobby, pulling her dress the pitiful distance down she could. Miss Victorino was shortly behind her, and even if she tried to run first she’d have to get past—

“There you are, whore. What’re you doing?” Lili's gentleman had his fingers clutched viciously around the whole of her arm, pulling her against a dusty, velvet coat. “Waiting till I’m drunk so you can sneak off without doing what I paid you so damn much for?”

The cheapest bastards always expected the most for it. “N-no sir, but—”

“But nothing. I paid you. You fuckin’ belong to me—”

Lili could hear boots where the carpet ended. Feeling a far tighter grip work its way around her other arm, as the man began to stutter. “W-w-woah, hey! Boss Vic! Man!”

“This one’s mine now, Harv.” Lili saw his eyes widen, for a moment in annoyance, then in fear. He gave way as Vic pulled. “Tell the footman what she owes you, and the right amount. You’ll get double that for your trouble.”

“Of course, ‘course Boss. I won’t forget to—”

“Now. And don’t fucking harass the staff on the way out.” He scrambled, and at least wasn’t Lili’s problem anymore.

Vic groaned in frustration. “And, he in on it?”

Lili was too close to look up, so just shook her head. This part wasn’t a lie. Coloski gave her medication, but Lili still needed the money. And she couldn’t be blamed for a double booking when it’s what got her in here.

“Shame. He calls me man again and he’ll be wishing it was merely treachery. Now, about you– hmm.”

Vic’s closeness was having a certain effect on Lili. She belonged to Vic now, her mind familiar with an ecstatic mote of what that meant.

But whether it was better or worse than Reb, it wasn’t good — the humiliating delirium that fear held over her was clearly visible to Vic. And, to everyone else in view.

Vic pulled Lili close to her chest, running fingers through her hair, bestowing a dignity though only so she could make her lose it again later.

“I think I've entertained enough guests for tonight, you however have scarcely begun.”

---

(Masterpost)

originally written on cohost 10/12/2023, in response to Make Up A Criminal's prompt:

Mob Boss who looks a lot different than they used to

#8 Minute Read #Melinoë Writes #f/f #make up a criminal #mob boss who #thief who

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utterlyazriel · 4 days ago

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whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: if you have stuck around and waited u are INCREDIBLE thank u so much for ur patience <3 esp cos i'm still testing it with my slowburn lmao + tell me what u think lovelies and as always, enjoy

word count: 4.1k

synopsis: Azriel's shadows find a new way to torment their master. The question of forgiveness follows you. Cassian gets you in the ring, testing out newly learnt skills.

CHAPTER TEN :: SHADOWS

Azriel is a spy by his very nature.

It makes sense; the gift of Shadowsinger is never bestowed so lightly so that it could ever leave any doubt of the user. Shadowsingers are spies, even well before their gifts revealed themselves. Always watching. Always listening.

It was, then, a tad against his disposition to keep his nose out business that wasn't his — as that was precisely what Azriel did best.

But his decision was resolute. Azriel had promised himself he would not be the first to break the distance between you two.

However, for a fae over five-hundred years old, it's quite unsettling to yet again feel the pangs of impatience. Years of practicing restraint and then, in a mere few months, his hard earned patent for patience begins to fray at the ends. You'll be his undoing, he's sure of it.

Like a young and fresh-faced warrior itching for battle, it's almost embarrassing how Azriel can't seem to stay away from you. His feet wander and all paths lead to you.

His shadows are not helping.

Azriel thinks they've managed to get more insistent, which he hadn't really believe was possible. They've proven him oh-so wrong. When he walks the halls of the House of Wind, the dark wisps dart out, as though trying to tug him along.

He had trusted them all of two times before, face flushed and with an ungraceful but thankfully unnoticed exit, he learned just where they were leading him.

They were following the invisible thread between you, taking him to see his mate.

When it became clear he wasn't going to be coerced along, his shadows had only got more devious.

It's a particular brand of torture, Azriel thinks, to be delivered little parcels of knowledge of the person he's not allowing himself to see.

And they're ruthless about it. Whispers about how you're healing and the growing steadiness of your feet, the way you stand a little taller each day, about the tentative trust extended to Cassian.

Gods, that one had made his hand jerk across the paper in surprise, spilling a patch of ink onto the report he was in the middle of.

You were talking to Cassian— no, you were nearly friends with Cassian. The magnanimous hope had ballooned within him before Azriel remembered to stomp it back down.

Mor had teased him for the black stains on his hands during dinner.

He studies them now, nearly washed away completely, before he lifts his head. In the cool air of dusk, Azriel surveils the training ring from the shadows of the door, eyes scanning across the balcony.

It's empty, as expected. The rising moon is his only company.

You've stuck to training in the mornings, of course.

He's relieved and disappointed all at once—then Azriel forces that disappointment out of his system with a frustrated huff.

He is not allowed to be disappointed. Your trust is something he still needs to claw his way back to, to earn, and that required waiting and accepting that.

Azriel would see you... when you wanted to see him.

Despite his resolve, the thread between you still gives a futile tug before he can stop it. Scowling at himself, he rubs at his chest meanly, banishing the feeling. He steps down onto the balcony and heads towards the equipment.

As his scarred hands reach out and pluck one of the training staffs off the rack, his shadows twirls and trill, an almost teasing motion. It takes one pointed whisper, one tug on his heartstrings —they used that one just earlier today— before his hands are glowing warm from the second-hand touch.

His fingers spring apart and the staff hits the tiles with a loud clatter. Even though it's just him out on the balcony, he still casts an awkward glance around him. Gods

If his brothers could see him now, Azriel thinks dryly.

He swats at the shadow that had unhelpfully fed him the information. It dances away from him, swooping down to circle the staff on the ground with its others, a mass of black surrounding it.

Azriel bends down and gingerly picks up the staff, his hazel eyes staring at it for a long moment. Where your hands have been.

After a moment, his fingers curl around it. His marred hands feel like they're glowing again, warm and tingling, even if he knows it's all in his mind. Even so, he swears the golden thread between you hums, just ever so slightly.

He'll allow himself this, just this once, Azriel decides. His grip tightens and he heads to the ring, preparing to train, his hands where yours were just mere hours before.

—

The day after you had met Cassian, as the dawn breaks over sky, you find him on the training balcony before you.

You're a little later than you'd normally be, the sun actually rising before you do. You're moving a little more sluggishly too, but for once it's for a better reason.

Sleep, normally light and fitful for you, had actually been a reprieve last night. You slept deeply, falling into dreamless slumber and resting properly.

When morning crept in, dragging your eyelids up had felt like a mountainous amount of effort. Part of you wonders if it's because of the male across the balcony from you.

Allies, you had agreed upon.

It's a little easier to rest when you've made one less enemy.

Watching him now, stretching his supple and bulging arms, you have to force down the instilled anxiety that festers up, a force of habit that's kept you safe all these years.

You're not in Exordor anymore. You're not keeping any secrets.

Cassian clocks your hesitant stance in the doorway as he turns, a wide grin breaking across his face. His wings perk up, a genuine sign of his excitement. He stops his stretching momentarily to wave.

"Morning!" He calls out, despite the fact the distance between you doesn't require him to do so.

"Ally." He adds pointedly, leaning over to give an over the top wink.

Somewhere buried deep inside you, a laugh almost wants to wriggle free, but it's smothered before you can think too hard. You give him a wry smile instead, the best you can manage, and take a tentative step down onto the balcony. Your wings give a tiny shiver in the passing breeze.

"Good morning," You manage to return, the words sticking in your throat on the way up. It's awkward but nothing in Cassian's friendly demeanor changes to indicate he's noticed. Your feet lead you over towards the weapons rack.

It's as you reach them do you realise your heart is rabbiting wildly, pounding in your chest, stewing you in discomfort. The hair on the back of your neck rises, prickling with unease. Your back is turned to a fierce warrior, one that could very well attack you.

And worse, you'll be training next to him, still not healed, still stumbling on your feet—revealing all the ways to strike you down.

You—you haven't done this, ever. You haven't trained with someone completely as yourself, with no facade to hide beneath. It suddenly becomes incredibly vulnerable.

Your hand trembles as you reach out for the training staff and you try your best to swallow down your nerves.

Cassian has kept his distance, resuming his stretches, but you don't miss how his eyes dance over to you every couple of seconds. For a moment, it alarms you but as you find a place and settle into your stance, you steal another glimpse.

It's more like... a dog wagging its tail, you think faintly.

You press down the urge to smile and begin your exercises.

There's all of ten minutes of silence before it gets broken.

"How do you like Velaris?"

You pause in your motions, huffing to catch your breath as your grip the training staff loosens. You cast a glance over at Cassian who's now picked up one of the broadswords, beginning to throw its weight around easily.

You blink and for a moment, your eyes dart out over the edge of the balcony, to the city teeming with life, so close and yet so far from you. A part of you aches fiercely to see it.

"I... haven't been into the city." You answer honestly. It comes out curt and doesn't exactly answer his question.

Eyeing his sword nervously, your force your aching muscles through another series of exercises. You're a sliver better than the day before but when your ear twinges loudly, you still stumble, a minuscule motion. Your heart lurches up your throat, frustration welling like a tidal wave within you.

"Okay, then how do you like the House of Wind?"

You pause again, looking over to Cassian tentatively, the pain in your ear momentarily forgotten. The rising frustration in you dissipates at the distraction. He waves a casual hand over to the house you've been residing in since you arrived in Velaris and smiles once more.

You swallow thickly. What is his angle here?

"I haven't..." You struggle to put your thoughts into words. It's... different. New. Unsettling. You don't want to say the wrong thing. For all you know, this may well be his home.

Eventually, you find your voice. "I like my room. It's—" Several words ping to the front of your mind. "—big."

You cringe. Some compliment that is. You're too honest even if it is true; you're far too used to the familiar cramped space of your own cabin. Even sharing walls with others is foreign to you and you're incredibly thankful you haven't run into anyone unexpectedly in any corridors yet.

It doesn't occur to you that it might entirely be by design, thanks to Rhys' strict instruction.

Cassian grins. "Yes, I recall Illyria being hardly known for it's roomy cabins."

He swings the sword around with a flick of his wrist, more like an idle motion than anything. Your eyes still flicker down keenly, watching for any threat, just in case.

"So, you haven't explored the house much then?" Cassian continues, feigning a stab forward with the sword, his eyes on his motions but his attention still focused primarily on you.

You follow his lead and swing the training staff again, in an arching whoosh. You shake your head in answer to his question.

"Do you want to?"

"Do you always talk this much during training?"

The words come out before you can think to check them, sucking in a sharp breath as you realise how snappy that sounded. Like you're looking for a fight.

You ready yourself to sink into a defensive stance, before you realise that Cassian has only laughed in response. A curl of his tied back hair comes loose as he shakes his head, the action almost... fond.

"Only when I'm trying to make friends." He grins warmly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Sorry, I'll stop prying."

You swallow and nod slightly, hoping it won't be read as rude. Though you'd had a hard time believing it, Cassian had been true to his word; no fighting unless it was in the ring. You hadn't dared to go near it yet.

Readjusting your stance, you prepared to go through the motions once more. It's still a bit more of the juvenile exercises than you're used to—forced back to the basics as you retrain your body—but also because you're solitary training. You're used to sparring with others.

Stealing a glimpse at Cassian, you ponder if—if you might, eventually that is, train alongside him as you had done with Azriel.

Moving the training staff deftly, you thrust it forward and twist your lithe body to dart forward again, a small patter of your feet on the stone.

It's maneuver used for rushing opponents, throwing them off their balance and driving them backwards. It works for you, mostly, but the way your wings cut through the air, the slightest whistle through the holey scars, makes you a little unsteady.

"You fight like you're bigger than you are."

Straightening up, you breathe heavily and peer around the edges of your wings back at Cassian—who apparently isn't done talking at all.

He nods to you, in reference the maneuver you've just performed. "That is a move usually far better suited for someone of a larger stature."

You clear your throat, wings curling in a bit closer around you. "Yes. Azriel, he- he was trying to rectify that. There's only one way to train Illyrians, as I'm sure you know."

Cassian nods again, lowering the sword to hang at his side. "That I do. However, I feel Azriel may have been taking the wrong approach given... the information he was not privy to at the time."

Your brows knit together, something wrong twisting tightly in your chest.

"Because I'm..."

Female.

"Not a male?"

The words come out sharp without meaning to.

Cassian's picks up on your defensiveness, his expression softening. He gives a little so-so motion with his free hand, his wings rustling behind him. "A bit, but not for reasons you may think."

When you don't speak, he continues, his explanation unfurling.

"Your centre of gravity is different to ours. That actually changes the best way for you to fight. More of your strength comes from these—"

He slaps his hands down onto his thighs with a grin.

"—than from your arms. For that reason, there are moves you will be better at than what you've been taught."

Cassian cocks his head, his dark eyes squinting for a moment, deep in thought. "Azriel likely switched your training to agility based, didn't he?"

You nod gingerly. You had no idea if what he was said was true. If there was a fighting style suited to females. That would require... female warriors which, for all you've ever known, is a highly unlikely thing to exist.

Though, being he is the General of the Night Court's armies, you'd likely assume Cassian knows what he's talking about.

He nods, that same easy smile. "He was right to do so. Most camps focus on brute strength and stamina. Makes for good warriors that can take hits and keep going. You can train that way if you still wish but you might find you excel when your efforts are put elsewhere."

It takes a long moment before you realise exactly what his words mean.

An offer. He's offering to train you, to teach you.

Pleasant surprise blooms inside you, warm, curling up behind your ribs like a purring cat. Cassian's eyes are light and friendly, his body language relaxed as though if you turn him down, it'd be of no consequence to him. Merely an offer.

You turn it over in your mind, back and forth. The gentle wind from the mountains caresses across your cheekbones, a warm touch.

Inside, deep in your chest, there's something telling you to trust. To take the step forward, to accept Cassian's outstretched proposal. That you might regret it if you didn't.

"How?" Your eyes skirt up and down on instinct, still on alert for a threat that isn't coming.

Cassian grins infectiously, not even attempting to hide his glee. He rolls his shoulders back and assesses you once more.

"Have you ever heard of the headscissor takedown?"

—

Flesh hits stone, a large shuddering bang that echoes out the courtyard. In the distance, a couple birds take flight, squawking loudly. Pain ricochets through your knees, a warbling and jarring pain that has you gritting your teeth.

"You're..." Cassian's breath comes out raggedly. "Incredible!"

He beams from where he's pinned beneath you and your pain dashes away in a moment, something gleaning and prideful taking its place.

There's a rivulet of blood under his nose, his hair knocked loose, and you know hitting the ground as hard as he did won't have been nice. He continues on as if he hasn't.

"That was perfect form. You're a Cauldron-born natural!"

You huff a breath that might be an actual laugh this time and quickly retract yourself, standing to your feet. You waver momentarily, hesitance poisoning your thoughts, before you decide. Holding out your hand to help, Cassian is quick to put his hand in your own and use it to lug himself up.

When he gets to his feet, his grip loosens but he doesn't let go altogether.

"Hey," He says, more serious this time. His fingers around your wrist, soft and warm, still make your pulse jump nervously. You force yourself to meet his gaze, still friendlier than ever. "Seriously. You're very skilled and you're a fast learner. You've got the makings to be lethal. The Night Court is lucky to have you on our side."

His hand slips back, grazing your wrist, and you wonder if he can feel the way your heart skips a beat.

No one has ever been... lucky to have you. It's so foreign that hearing someone say it aloud makes you forget to breath for one long second.

"I—" The word pushes out before you think about it. "That's... You-"

Praise is not a part of Illyrian training. You fumble with it, feeling entirely out of your depth, feeling oddly proud of yourself. It feels like your cheeks are warmer than usual.

Cassian chuckles, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. "You're welcome." He says pointedly, making you realise you're supposed to say thank you after someone compliments you.

You flounder for another second, making Cassian laugh again, louder this time. He reaches forward and lightly taps you on the shoulder, a faux punch.

"You'll get used to it." He says. Part of you really, really wants to. "Now, c'mon. Let's go again. Hit me."

—

You think that now Cassian's got what he wanted—the two of you training together, learning the plethora of new moves, stances, blocks he has in his repertoire—he wouldn't have anymore questions.

You're sorely, sorely, wrong.

Two mornings later, the pair of you prepare for some sparring with the swords in the ring. Cassian's purposefully picked one of the heavier ones for himself, broad and long, but he'd put aside a blade for you.

It's smaller, lighter. It reminds you of Heartstriker.

Which reminds you of Azriel.

The mere thought of him has your heart humming, miserable and elated all at once. You're still not sure if you'd like to see him just yet, the confusing twist of betrayal too fresh, but still, some part of you seeks him out, consciously or not.

You want to wander the halls until you find the door to leads to him.

It's because he was your first friend. You reason, as you step up towards the sparring ring. He was the first person you trusted. Was? Is—maybe.

Do you still trust him?

Cassian is already in the ring, waiting as patiently as he can. His rustling wings give him away, even as casual as he looks leaned up against one of the corner posts.

His wings are stretched out, towards the sun's rays that are just beginning to slip over the horizon, trying to steal some of their warmth.

A yawn slips past your lips. The night of restful sleep was an outlier it seemed, the tendrils of a calming, easy sleep stolen away just as quickly.

Fingers curling around the hilt of the short sword, you step gingerly into the ring, eyes casting across to your opponent. You roll your shoulders back, warming up the muscles a bit more, and give your own wings a little shake. A shiver wracks through you in response, the chill of the morning touching on sensitive scars.

"Is there a particular reason Azriel is avoiding you?"

Your head snaps up at the sound of Cassian's voice, cool and calm.

He hasn't shifted, though his wings are tucked back in now. His sword is still relaxed at his side, his worn hand tucked around the hilt of it freely.

The usual chattiness that Cassian has been able to coax out of you these last few days shrivels up. Azriel is avoiding you? You hadn't wanted to see him but this—something curls up inside you, sour and foul. You swallow hard.

"I hadn't realised." You murmur, unable to keep the bitterness from seeping into your words.

Cassian blinks and seems to realise his mistake. He waves a hand dismissively, as if it can scratch away his last words. "I misspoke. I believe he is... keeping his distance."

He furrows his brow, face pinched, picking his words carefully. "For your sake." He adds.

You... don't know how you feel about that. On one hand, you're relieved. It's not by pure chance that you haven't seen him yet, it's purposeful—he's keeping out of your way, giving you peace.

On the other hand, something twined in your chest pangs sorrowfully, mourning the distance between you.

While Cassian's presence as an ally (or perhaps, you'll even admit, a friend) is comforting, you'll admit it does not fill the same shape in you as Azriel does. You miss him, quite terribly so.

"What makes you think he's avoiding me?" You ask.

Cassian gives an little shrug, his head tilting to the side just a bit. He smiles in a way that tells you he knows more than he lets on. Or maybe, he simply knows Azriel far better than you do.

"He usually trains in the morning." He explains nonchalantly. "He's taken to training at night since your arrival."

You frown at the new information. You don't want Azriel to be changing things for you, to bend and warp his routines in his home, just for you. You don't want him to avoid you either, even if you're beginning to think you might never be brave enough to face him.

He left you. He was your first friend and the betrayal of that is entirely too new— but you don't know where to draw the line.

You don't know for how long you're allowed to be upset — or how long you can let this go on before you're punishing yourself just as much as you are him.

Flexing your grip on the sword, you stare across at Cassian and when you open your mouth, the words tumble out with warning.

"He..." Your breath hitches.

Something awful hooks into your chest, remembering the way he had folded himself into shadows, away from you. The look on his face.

"He left me. When I needed him more than ever." You admit.

Your voice doesn't waver but Cassian can still see the slight tremble in your shoulders, rolling in. Your eyes have dropped to study the floor of the sparring ring, seemingly lost in the memory.

Cassian's face softens, his heart aching for you. You don't even notice how your own wings have begun to curl in, a soft, comforting blanket around yourself.

It's clear you're struggling to juggle the myriad of emotions that haunt you and he gets it, Mother, does he get it. It had been hard the first time, during those first tentative months of friendship with Rhys, before Azriel was even in the picture. Cassian had one emotion that served him any purpose and that was spite.

Spite kept him alive. Spite told him who to knock down and who to put down.

Friendships and spite are not the greatest combination. When Rhys had done something Cassian had vehemently disagreed with, it had felt like a deception, stinging as badly as the backhand from Lord Devlon, sneering the word bastard.

It took time to undo the messy tangle of emotions, to learn that not all betrayal fell into the same box. That forgiveness for some people was not weakness at all.

So, Cassian asks. "Did he come back?"

You glance up at him, eyes flickering with emotion at the question. After a moment, you swallow and say. "Yes. He did."

Cassian nods. He stretches his wings out a bit and reaches up to push a stray piece of hair behind his ear.

"Alright. How long do you intend to punish him for that mistake?"

You freeze at that question and Cassian can tell he's hit the right spot. You're unsure how long you should—because all you know is that you're hurt. And when you're hurt, you don't know any other way to deal with it.

There's only one pathway ingrained for when someone hurts you. Cassian realises suddenly, Mother help him, that he must try to be good at the talking side of things. He needs to show you there's other ways you can go.

"Because," He continues, not waiting for your answer. "I can assure you that Azriel will punish himself for far longer and far harsher than you ever will. I've known my brother a long time. If there anyone who understands the gravity of his actions and will torture himself over them, it's Azriel."

A hesitant expression shutters across your face, your brows furrowing slightly. Cassian doesn't need Rhys' daemati gift to understand the conflict that's battling within you.

"You think I should forgive him."

You don't pose it as a question. A little bit more of that iciness has bled back into your voice, on guard again.

Cassian can tell that, like him, you don't take well to being told what to do. That's fine; Cassian has no intention of doing that whatsoever.

"I think that is your decision entirely." Cassian says, letting the words breathe so they truly sink in. He watches as your eyes narrow momentarily and then your shoulders relax, sinking down an inch.

"But," He says gingerly. "If you avoid each other, you might never move past this. Might never move forward. It might be worth considering what you really want at the end of the day."

The sun has properly broken across the mountain ridges, no longer just sparse rays. You turn your face, facing towards the warmth. There's still that scrunch between your eyebrows, betraying your deep thought, but Cassian has said enough for now.

He moves his sword and taps the end of it against the stone, a soft steel ping grabbing your attention. You whip your head back to face him and Cassian grins, raising his sword.

"Enough talking. More fighting."

You smile, a little hesitant but entirely genuine, and raise your sword in response. That's one thing you're sure you know how to do right.

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