Warnings: 18+, mentions of/some sexual behaviour and tension. Scars and physical torture mentioned.
Part 1
💬 1 🔁 1 ❤️ 25 · Chapter 1: shadowed sentinel · Azriel x reader
Warnings: none other than mentions of violence.
Summary: being kidnapped
The House of Wind was too quiet at night.
You should’ve been asleep, needed to be asleep, really, after weeks of exhaustion and pain. But your mind wouldn’t stop replaying the clink of chains and the gleam of shears in torchlight. So you did what you always did when rest refused to come, wandered barefoot through the halls like a ghost haunting its own body, seeing as though flying was not going to happen for a few more days. The balcony doors were already open when you reached them. A familiar silhouette stood framed against the moonlight, wings tucked close but shadows restless around his boots. Azriel didn’t turn as your uneven footsteps echoed behind him… but his shoulders tensed anyway,like he knew it was you without looking. Of course he did.
"You should be resting," he murmured into the dark. His voice was rough from disuse or maybe from swallowing curses every time someone asked if he'd slept yet either.
You leaned against the railing beside him. “So should you." The words were light, but when his gaze flickered down to you, it was hard to keep that restraint.
A beat passed before calloused fingers brushed yours lightly over cold marble. His shadows Commanding him to breathe. Silence stretched again between you bot. You both knew better than most how silence could carve people hollow given enough time… until finally “Tell me something real az, something to make me feel like I am home and not.. there.” Not about dungeons or vengeance or wounds needing mending. Just anything else so this weight crushing chest might loosen even fractionally under starlight. The stars watching above you both, silently witnessing everything unfolding beneath its indifferent glow...
Azriel was silent for a long moment, his gaze drifting up to the starlit sky as if searching for answers up there. When he finally spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper, rough-edged with some unnameable emotion.
"Remember the night we first met."
You looked at him questioningly, but he was still staring up the glittering constellations above, his profile sharp and unguarded in the silver light. "when rhysand took me in off the streets”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of Azriel’s lips,rare as starlight in daylight. "You were six," he murmured, shadows curling lazily around his fingers where they rested against the balcony railing. "And you charged at me like a wild hellion the second Rhys brought me through the door."
The memory flickered to life in your mind, tiny fists clenched, shouting that no one got to be part of your brother’s circle unless they could earn it. And him promptly getting tossed on his ass by a six year-old. But the boy barely even flinched.
"You bit me," he added drily, but with a smirk and his hazel eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement as he finally turned his head toward you.
You snorted into the night air. "And you dislocated my shoulder."
His thumb brushed absently over a faded scar on his wrist at your teeth marks. They were still there centuries later. His voice dropped lower, rough like gravel but warm as embers: "Worth it” with a smile.
Your breath hitched at that—just a little. Enough that his shadows stirred in response, brushing against your arm like a question.
Azriel didn’t pull away this time.
Instead, he tilted his head toward the sky again, but now closer—so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke next.
"You were chaos on two legs even then." A pause, loaded with something heavy and unnamed between you both before he added: "And I was already done for."
There it was,a tiny admission neither of you had ever dared speak aloud before now carved into starlight and silence. Where no one else could hear it but the night itself. You opened your mouth to reply but no words came out. How to respond when he was looking at you like that, like you were the only light in a world full of shadows. Before you could summon any reply, he spoke again, voice quiet. "I was lost the second I saw those eyes glaring up at me." His gaze dropped from the stars to your face, your own eyes a replica of the stars above him.
Your breath caught in your throat. The night air seemed to still around you, the world narrowing to nothing but the heat of Azriel's body beside you and the way his shadows curled possessively around your fingers where they rested on the railing. His fingers, usually so controlled, traced the railing until they brushed yours again,light as a shadow’s touch. "You were fire and fury in a tiny frame," he murmured. "And I..." His voice caught, just slightly. "i knew even then that you'd ruin me” His thumb brushed over your knuckles before he pulled away slightly,not out of hesitation but restraint. As if even now he couldn't trust himself not to claim what wasn't fully his yet... not without permission first.
Somewhere below in Velaris music began drifting up towards you both from some tavern still alive despite late hour while starlight painted silver over skin.
"You're staring Shadowsinger" comes soft tease trying desperately break tension thickening between two souls too used walking edges blades than admitting truths aloud.
A heartbeat passes before hazel eyes flicker down meet yours again with intensity makes knees weak despite centuries knowing this male inside out “ and I Can’t help it." Voice rough like gravel dragged through firelight... “Never could.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest where they belonged all along. They nestled right beside every other unspoken thing that had ever existed between since day one when six year-old demoness decided bite him rather shake hands properly. The silence between you was heavy, but not suffocating:like the quiet before a storm breaks. Azriel’s shadows coiled around your wrist, tracing idle patterns over your pulse point as if memorizing the rhythm of your heartbeat. His gaze never wavered from yours, hazel eyes dark with something unspoken.
And then..
A crash from inside the House shattered the moment like glass hitting stone. Cassian’s voice bellowed down the hall “If you two don’t stop eye-fucking each other out there, I’m throwing myself off this balcony.” Followed by you brother Rhysand's dry reply, “Please do."
Azriel didn’t so much as flinch, but his jaw tightened in a way that promised violence later. specifically for Cassian. You sighed dramatically toward the stars but then couldn’t help let out a laugh. Instead of wanting to throttling them both right then and there because of course they were lurking nearby like nosy children eavesdropping on private conversations. Like your brother and Cassian always had.
But when you turned back toward Azriel. The corner of his mouth had twitched upward ever so slightly despite it all… because even five centuries hadn't dulled how utterly predictable and infuriating this family could be when it came to meddling in each other's business. Especially where matters of love were involved. The sound of Cassian and Rhysand bickering faded into the background noise as Azriel stepped closer again, eyes searching yours with a vulnerability you'd never seen from him before.
He opened his mouth but paused, as if unsure of how to begin, then finally murmuring "Y/N". His hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face.
His fingers lingered against your cheek, calloused but achingly gentle. The stars above seemed to hold their breath, the shadows around you both curling tighter as if bracing for what came next.
"I almost lost you," he said quietly, his voice rough with the weight of that truth. "And I..” A sharp inhale from him, something so rare for the ever-composed Shadowsinger. His thumb traced your jawline once before his hand slid behind your neck, anchoring himself to you like a lifeline in stormy seas.
“I won't lose another second."
No hesitation this time as he closed that final distance between you both—his lips brushing yours with barely restrained hunger despite its softness at first contact… until it wasn’t soft anymore because centuries worth waiting had boiled over into this single moment under starlight where nothing else existed except him tasting like night wind and promises kept too long silent. A soft gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the kiss that consumed you both:a desperate collision of emotions years in the making. His arms wound around you, pulling you flush against him like he feared you might vanish if he ever let go again.
His tongue swept across your bottom lip, requesting,no, demanding entry, and you yielded instantly. The world disappeared to nothing but heat and desire and pleasure as he kissed you deeper.
He tasted like smoke and rain and shadow, and you couldn't get enough.
He backed you gently against the cool stone of the balcony, pinning you in place with the weight of his body against yours. His hand slid down your side to grip your hip, fingers digging in possessively as if marking his territory.
His lips found your neck, lips tracing a path of fire along your jawline then sucking at the pulse point of your throat like he wanted to brand you with his touch. You shivered under his ministrations, your own fingers tangling in his hair to pull him even closer. More, more, more,whispered that desperate desire.
As if hearing the silent plea in your touch, Azriel growled against your neck, one hand slipping under your shirt to find the bare skin beneath. He traced patterns over your stomach, the touch like a flame sparking along your nerve endings. He returned to your lips, capturing them in another searing kiss, as his free hand slid lower to grip the back of your thigh and hoist you up against him. With nothing but the railing to support you both, your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His hand tightened on your thigh, pulling you even tighter against the hard planes of his body. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the muscles in his back taut and straining, like he was barely holding himself back from ravishing you then and there.
A low hiss escaped him as you nipped at his earlobe, his fingers digging into your skin almost painfully. "Gods, Y/N..", he breathed, his voice raw and ragged. "You drive me insane."
His mouth found your jaw again, his teeth grazing against the sensitive skin there. His other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to give him better access to the exposed length of your neck. He was relentless, his lips and teeth and tongue trailing a scorching path down your throat, leaving no patch of skin untouched. You could feel his arousal pressed hard against your stomach, and it was taking every last ounce of his self control not to strip you bare and claim you right there on the balcony under the stars.
Azriel's lips trailed lower, his teeth scraping over your collarbone with a possessive growl that sent heat pooling between your thighs. His hands gripped your waist like he was moments away from tearing the thin fabric of your nightclothes to shreds.
“RHYS, COME HERE, I TOLD YOU, YOU OWE ME, NOW PAY UP” Cassian’s triumphant roar shattered the night like a blade through silk.
From the open window, Rhysand’s groan of disgust echoed across the balcony: “Oh For fuck's sake, Cassian, my eyes” rhysand then a crash of a vase. As rhysand aggressively but playfully pushes Cassian. “AND I TOLD YOU I WASNT FUCKING BETTING MY SISTER BEING MAULED BY MY.BEST.FUCKING. FRIEND”
Azriel froze against you with a snarl so vicious even his shadows recoiled,his head whipping toward where Cassian was leaning halfway out the window grinning like a madman while Rhys stood behind him looking physically pained. "I will skin you alive," Azriel promised lowly but genuinely meant it too if that gleam in hazel eyes said anything at all about current murderous intent brewing there...
You couldn't help laughing despite frustration still buzzing under skin because of course this happened now. And judging by how tightly Azriel held onto you even as he flipped off both males watching shamelessly from inside without breaking contact once which honestly just made whole thing funnier somehow. Cass would definitely be found hanging upside down from training ring rafters by his own damn Siphon straps next morning. Though whether it be Rhys or Azriel who does it.
He finally pulled back, his breathing ragged and eyes dark as he glared at the window with deadly precision. The shadows around him writhed with his barely-contained anger, coiling and uncoiling like vipers ready to strike.
Cassian's laugh echoed through the open window, and Azriel's shoulders tensed. Then Rhysand was dragging Cassian away and shouting specifically so Azriel and you could hear him. "I am not acknowledging this..” he tried to keep his eyes shut. “Also, for my sake, please get a fucking room" and the window was shut with an audible snap.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Azriel's grip on your waist remained painfully tight, the muscles in his jaw working overtime to keep his temper in check. Finally, he let out a rough exhale. "Remind me to murder Cassian tomorrow."
A slow, wicked smirk curled your lips as you slid your hand out to Ariel’s. Your fingers sliding between Azriel’s and tugging him toward the doors leading back inside. His shadows lashed out hungrily at the contact, wrapping around your joined hands like chains.
“what are you doing?” Ariel spoke softly.
“Doing what my brother asked,"you purred, stepping backward to pull him with you. “Taking you somewhere far more... private."
Azriel's pupils blew wide, his wings twitching behind him as he let himself be dragged forward.
Azriel's heart hammered in his chest as you led him back inside, the touch of your hand in his like a shock to his system. His shadows coiled tighter around you, as if desperate to never let go. He couldn't keep the low growl from escaping as you spoke of someplace more private, as if every instinct in his body wasn't already screaming that this, right here with you, was where he was supposed to be.
His body was coiled taut with tension, every muscle thrumming with barely leashed desire.
A Song for the Silent {An ACOTAR Fan Fiction} - Part 1
plot summary: Raised amid the harsh brutality of Illyria, Kallista has never known kindness. Only survival. When her abusive father sells her to an Illyrian war camp, the warriors’ cruelty seems endless, until Cassian rescues her and brings her to Rhysand’s townhouse. There, surrounded by the most powerful fae of the Night Court, she is offered safety, healing, and a promise of peace she’s never dared to believe in. Among them is Azriel, the brooding shadowsinger whose watchful eyes unsettle her as much as they draw her in. But as fragile trust begins to take root, the darkness of her past waits, ready to reclaim her. Can she truly call this place home—or will the shadows drag her back under?
pairings: azriel x oc
word count: 4,443
TW: mentions of rape, mentions of violence, mentions of abuse
Chapter 1: A Fragile Promise
The darkness cracked open like an eggshell, and Kallista surfaced from unconsciousness with a gasp that felt like swallowing shards of glass.
Silk sheets whispered against her skin as she struggled to focus on the unfamiliar ceiling above, painted with intricate gold patterns that seemed to dance in the flickering candlelight. This wasn't her modest quarters at the training grounds. This wasn't anywhere she recognized. The air carried the scent of expensive oils and something else, something masculine and cedar-warm that made her pulse quicken despite her confusion.
Her body screamed in protest as she tried to sit up. Every muscle felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry, every bone aching with a deep, persistent throb that spoke of serious injury. The memories crashed over her then, brutal and unforgiving. The Illyrian camp, the sound of tearing fabric, hands that gripped too tight, pain that had consumed everything until blessed darkness took her.
She forced herself to inventory the damage with clinical detachment. Bruises painted her arms in shades of purple and yellow, expertly wrapped bandages covered what felt like deep cuts along her ribs, and her left wrist was immobilized in a precise splint. Someone had tended to her with skill. Someone who knew what they were doing.
The thought should have comforted her. Instead, it sent ice through her veins. Who had found her? And what did they want in return? She was nothing, a pleasure slave to the Illyrian warrior camp her father had sold her to. And she had been able to do nothing about it.
Kallista swallowed hard and tried once more to rise, gripping the edge of the mattress for leverage. Her legs trembled beneath her weight, refusing to hold. She collapsed back onto the bed with a muffled cry, pain lancing through her ribs.
Footsteps approached from beyond the ornate door across the room. Steady, purposeful strides that made her heart hammer against her bruised chest. Kallista's gaze darted around for a weapon, anything to defend herself with, but even the delicate crystal vase on the nightstand seemed impossibly far away in her current state.
The footsteps stopped outside the door. A pause, then the soft click of the latch turning.
Kallista forced her breathing to steady, though each inhale sent fire through her ribs. She wouldn't show fear. Wouldn't give whoever entered the satisfaction of seeing her cower, no matter what they intended to do with her. She'd endured too much already to break now.
The door swung open on silent hinges, revealing a tall male silhouette backlit by the hallway's golden glow. Broad shoulders, powerful wings folded tight against his back. Illyrian. Her pulse spiked as memories flashed…cruel laughter, the weight of bodies pinning her down.
But this wasn't one of her attackers. This Illyrian male carried a wooden tray laden with steaming food, and as he stepped into the light, Kallista recognized him with a jolt that made her bruised ribs ache.
Cassian. The general of the Night Court's armies. The legendary warrior whose prowess was whispered about even in the remote camps where she'd been held.
"You're awake," he said, his deep voice gentler than she would have expected from someone of his reputation. "That's good. You've been unconscious for three days."
Three days? Kallista tried to process this information as he approached, every muscle in her body tensing despite the pain. She pressed herself against the headboard, ignoring the protest of her injuries.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Cassian said, stopping a respectful distance from the bed. He set the tray down on a nearby table, the aroma of rich broth and fresh bread making her stomach clench with unexpected hunger. "You're safe here."
Safe. The word seemed foreign, a concept so distant she barely remembered its meaning. Kallista's eyes narrowed, searching his face for deception.
"Where am I?" Her voice emerged as a rasp, her throat raw from screaming or disuse. Perhaps both.
"You're in the High Lord's townhouse in Velaris," Cassian said, his hazel eyes steady on hers. "Rhysand's personal residence."
Kallista's breath caught. The High Lord of the Night Court? She'd heard whispers of him in the camps, of his ruthlessness, his power, the way he'd slaughtered his enemies during the war with Hybern. And now she was in his home? She scanned the room again, noticing for the first time the subtle luxury that surrounded her, the midnight blue draperies, the silver constellations woven into the carpet.
"Why?" The question came out sharper than she intended, laced with suspicion.
Cassian's expression softened slightly. “I found you when I was checking in on the Illyrian warrior camps for Rhys. You were half dead, bloodied and bruised. I took you despite the protests from the general of the camp saying you were sold to them. When I told Rhys and Az what those warriors did…” His jaw tightened, a muscle flickering beneath the tanned skin. "Let's just say they won't be hurting anyone else."
Kallista wasn't sure how to feel about that. Relief, perhaps. But mostly numbness where vengeance should have been sweet.
"No one will touch you here," Cassian continued, taking a tentative step closer. "This house is warded against anyone who means harm. The only people who can enter are Rhys, Feyre, Azriel, Mor, Amren, Nesta and Elain. Our family.”
Family. The word hit her like a physical blow, unexpected in its tenderness. Kallista had no reference for such a concept. Not the kind he spoke of with such quiet reverence. Her father had sold her for coin and a political favor. Her mother had died when she was too young to remember warmth or protection.
"I don't understand." She hated how small her voice sounded, how the words cracked at the edges. "You don't know me. I'm nothing. A slave."
Something dangerous flickered across Cassian's features, gone so quickly she almost missed it. "You're not a slave. Not anymore. And you're not nothing."
The certainty in his voice made something twist uncomfortably in her chest. She studied his face, searching for the lie, the angle, the inevitable demand that would come. Men like him, powerful and legendary, didn't rescue broken girls without expecting payment. She'd learned that lesson carved into her skin.
"What do you want from me?" The question came out harder than she'd intended, but she needed to know. Better to understand the terms now than be blindsided later.
Cassian's brows drew together, confusion replacing the gentle concern. "Want from you?"
"Payment. Service. Whatever you call it." Heat crawled up her neck despite the chill that had settled in her bones. "Men don't save women like me out of kindness."
The silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Cassian's hands clenched at his sides. “I don’t want anything from you. And I have a mate who would threaten you within an inch of your life if you suggested otherwise.” His smile was warm and humorous as he spoke about his mate.
Mate. The word ricocheted through Kallista's mind, carrying implications she hadn't considered. Of course someone like him would be mated. Probably to some powerful High Fae female with perfect features and deadly grace. The kind of woman who belonged in places like this, who understood the intricate dance of court politics and never had to calculate the cost of survival in heartbeats and bruises.
She studied his face again, noting the way his expression had shifted when he mentioned his mate. There was something fierce and protective there, but also... fond. Amused, even. As if the thought of this female threatening anyone brought him genuine joy.
"She sounds formidable," Kallista managed, her voice still rough.
"You have no idea." Cassian's grin widened, and for a moment he looked younger, less like the legendary general and more like a male thoroughly besotted with his partner. "Nesta could probably take down half the Night Court's enemies with nothing but a withering stare and some carefully chosen words."
Despite everything, the pain, the confusion, the bone-deep wariness that had kept her alive this long, Kallista felt her lips twitch. Almost a smile. The expression felt foreign on her face, muscles unused to the movement.
Cassian noticed. His own smile softened into something warmer, less overwhelming. "There. That's better."
He gestured toward the tray. "You should eat something. Madja, our healer, said you'd need to rebuild your strength."
The aroma of the food hit Kallista again, making her stomach clench painfully. How long had it been since she'd eaten? Before the attack, certainly, and then three days unconscious... Her body suddenly felt hollow, aching with hunger, but wariness kept her still.
"It's not poisoned, if that's what you're thinking," Cassian said, his tone light but his eyes watchful. "Though I can't promise it's any good. Elain made the soup, and she's an excellent cook, but I carried it up here, and I've been known to ruin perfectly good food just by looking at it wrong."
Kallista's gaze shifted between the steaming bowl and Cassian's face.
"I can taste it first, if that would help." He reached for the spoon.
"No." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. She swallowed hard. "That's not necessary."
Still, she made no move toward the food. In the camps, meals had often come with conditions. With expectations. With hands that wandered while she tried to eat the meager portions they allowed her.
Cassian studied her for a moment, then did something unexpected. He moved the small table closer to the bed, within her reach, and then backed away several paces, giving her space. He settled into a chair near the window, far enough that she'd have plenty of warning if he tried to approach.
"Take your time," he said. "No rush."
The soup smelled of herbs and root vegetables, rich and hearty. Her stomach growled loudly enough that she knew he must have heard it. Humiliation burned her cheeks, but hunger was winning the battle against caution.
With trembling fingers, Kallista reached for the spoon. The first taste made her eyes close involuntarily. Salt and thyme and something sweet, maybe parsnip, warming her from the inside out. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten something prepared with such care.
"Good?" Cassian asked, but didn't move from his position by the window.
She nodded once, already dipping the spoon back into the bowl. The bread was still warm, crusty on the outside and soft within. She tore off a piece, using it to soak up the broth.
"Elain will be pleased. She's been fussing over that soup for hours, adding this and that, making sure it would be gentle enough for your stomach but nourishing."
Kallista paused, a spoonful halfway to her mouth. "She made this... specifically for me?"
"Of course." Cassian said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world, to prepare special meals for strangers. "Everyone's been worried."
Everyone. The word felt foreign, impossible. The idea that multiple people had concerned themselves with her well-being was so alien that Kallista couldn't quite grasp it.
She ate in silence for several minutes, each bite easing the hollow ache in her stomach. When she'd finished half the bowl, she found herself slowing, the exhaustion of even this small effort making itself known.
Cassian seemed to notice. He stood, but didn't approach. "You should rest more. Your body's been through hell."
"The others," she said, suddenly remembering what he'd said about a family, about people who were curious. "They'll want to know who I am."
"They can wait," Cassian said firmly. "Rhys and Feyre understand, and they'll keep the others at bay until you're ready. No one will bother you until you feel up to it."
Kallista set the spoon down, suddenly overwhelmed by the simple kindness of it all. In her experience, kindness always came with strings attached, with debts to be paid. Yet here was this male, this legendary warrior, treating her recovery as if it were the most important thing in the world.
"Madja will be back this evening to check on your wounds," Cassian continued, moving toward the door. "She's the best healer in Velaris—cranky as a wet cat sometimes, but she's patched me up more times than I can count."
"Thank you," Kallista managed, the words feeling rusty in her mouth. When was the last time she'd had cause to thank anyone? "For the food. And for..." She gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the enormity of what he'd done. “And…my name is Kallista.”
Cassian paused at the door, his expression solemn. "You don't need to thank me for basic decency, Kallista." The way he said her name, not as a possession or an object, but as a person worthy of respect, made something tight in her chest loosen ever so slightly.
"Rest," he said again. "You're safe here. I promise."
As the door closed behind him, Kallista stared at the half-eaten meal, at the luxurious room around her, at the bandages on her wrists. Safe. It was a word she'd stopped believing in long ago.
But for the first time in years, a tiny, fragile part of her wanted to believe it might be possible.
***
Shadows moved where they shouldn't have.
Kallista stared at the darkened corner of her room, breath caught in her throat. She had fallen asleep and woken up in the middle of the night and it had settled heavily around the townhouse, but this darkness was different. It breathed.
She pushed herself up against the headboard, ignoring the protest of her healing ribs. Cassian had said she was safe. Maybe she was just seeing things in the dark. Old instincts died hard.
"Who's there?" Her voice emerged steadier than she felt, one hand sliding beneath her pillow for the small knife she'd stolen from the dinner tray Madja had brought when she came to see about her wounds.
The shadows peeled away from the wall like a living thing, coalescing into the form of a male. Tall, broad-shouldered, with magnificent wings folded tight against his back.
Kallista's fingers tightened around the knife. Another Illyrian. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her expression neutral as her eyes adjusted to make out his features.
"You won't need that," he said, his voice low and rough, like stone grinding against stone. He nodded toward her hand beneath the pillow.
Kallista didn't move. "You're Azriel, the shadowsinger.”
He was as well known as Cassian. The spymaster of the Night Court. Shadows seemed to cling to him, whispering around his shoulders and fingers like loyal pets.
"I am." He remained utterly still, watching her with eyes that seemed to absorb rather than reflect light. "Cassian mentioned you'd taken a knife."
Heat crept up Kallista's neck. “I didn’t know anyone had noticed.”
Something that might have been understanding flickered across his face. He didn't approach closer, didn't try to persuade her to relinquish the weapon. Instead, he simply stood there, a statue carved from shadow and steel.
"Is there a reason you're in my room in the middle of the night?" Kallista asked.
"I was checking the wards." His gaze swept over her, clinical and assessing. Not the hungry look she was accustomed to from males, but something more detached. "I heard you wake."
"So you decided to lurk in the corner?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something that suggested he might remember how to form one. "Force of habit."
Silence settled between them, neither uncomfortable nor comfortable. Just... waiting. Kallista studied him as he studied her, this male who commanded shadows and secrets. There was something different about him compared to Cassian. A stillness, a coldness that wasn't cruelty but something else entirely. Restraint, perhaps. Or isolation.
“I was making sure you were okay,” Azriel admitted, hands in his pockets, “Your attack was so brutal, Cassian, who has seen centuries of war, was shaken when he found you.” Something dangerous lurked beneath the surface of his voice. “Your scars suggest this wasn’t the first time.”
The knife felt suddenly heavier in her palm. Kallista forced her breathing to remain even, measured. “I had been there for a month.”
He leaned against the wall, deceptively casual. "Tell me about the Illyrian camp where Cassian found you."
"There's nothing to tell. It was a camp like any other."
"With males who felt entitled to take whatever they wanted."
Her heart stuttered. "Most Illryian warriors are like that."
Azriel's expression remained unreadable, but she caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "Not all of them."
The certainty in his voice made something twist in Kallista's chest. She wanted to argue, to tell him about the years of evidence she'd collected, the catalog of cruelties she'd witnessed and endured. But exhaustion weighed heavy on her bones, and this conversation felt like walking across broken glass in bare feet.
"Why does it matter?" she asked instead. “Didn’t you kill them?”
“Not all of them.” His shadows stirred restlessly around his shoulders. “And there might be others like you. Other camps where females are being sold and brutalized.”
Kallista's grip on the knife loosened slightly. “It’s a pretty common practice amongst the poor people in Illryia. War camps will pay handsomely for a pretty face.” A humorless laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “They paid my father five hundred gold marks for me.”
Azriel's shadows darkened, swirling more aggressively around his scarred hands. She noticed them then. Brutal scars that spoke of torture, not battle. Something about those hands made her heart squeeze in her chest.
"Your father," Azriel said, the words careful, measured. "He was the one who sold you?"
"Who else?" The bitterness in her voice surprised even her. "He needed the money. I was an asset to liquidate."
Azriel remained silent for a long moment, his face unreadable in the darkness. But his shadows betrayed him, writhing and hissing as if they carried his rage for him.
"You should know," he finally said, "that Rhysand has outlawed the practice of selling females to the camps. It's been forbidden for fifty years."
A coldness washed through her. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still happen.”
“I’m not surprised.” His voice had roughened further. "The warlords who run those remote camps often flout his edicts, believing themselves beyond his reach."
"They are beyond his reach," Kallista said. "No High Lord has ever cared what happens in those mountains."
Azriel pushed away from the wall, his wings adjusting slightly. "Rhysand isn't like other High Lords."
She studied his face, searching for the lie, for the fanatical gleam of a soldier blindly following his commander. But all she found was a steady certainty that made her uncomfortable in its conviction.
"You believe that," she said, surprised.
"I know it." His shadows pulsed once, as if in agreement. "Rhysand is different."
Kallista shifted against the pillows, her ribs throbbing. The knife was still in her hand, but it felt less necessary now. Something about this male with his shadows and scars made her believe he understood more than most what it meant to be powerless.
"The males who hurt you," Azriel said, his voice dropping even lower. "Do you remember their names?"
The question caught her off guard. "Why?"
"Because I want to know who to find."
A chill ran down her spine at the casual way he said it, as if he were discussing the weather rather than hunting down Illyrian warriors. "I thought they were dead.”
"Some. Not all."
Kallista swallowed hard, memories flashing unbidden behind her eyes. Hands holding her down. Laughter. Pain that had nearly broken her completely. “I don’t know their names.”
"I understand." Azriel's voice gentled, though his shadows continued their restless dance.
Kallista found herself studying his face more intently, noting the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the way the shadows seemed to caress his skin like old friends. There was something almost hypnotic about the way they moved around him, as if they were extensions of his will rather than separate entities.
"Your shadows," she said, surprising herself with the observation. "Do they ever stop moving?"
Azriel glanced down at his hands, where tendrils of darkness wound between his scarred fingers. "Not often. They're... restless creatures."
"Like you?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it, too personal, too presumptuous. But instead of taking offense, Azriel's mouth curved in what might have been the ghost of a smile.
"Perhaps."
Something in his tone made her chest tighten, a recognition she couldn't name.
"You should try to sleep," he said, straightening from the wall. "Healing takes time, and rest helps."
Kallista hesitated, the knife still clutched in her palm. Sleep seemed impossible with the memories that had been stirred up, but exhaustion pulled at her bones like an anchor.
"I'll try," she finally said.
Azriel nodded once, a barely perceptible movement. "If you need anything, someone will hear you." His shadows enveloped him completely. One moment he was there, solid and real; the next, he had melted into the darkness as if he'd never existed at all.
Kallista stared at the empty corner where he'd stood, a strange emptiness settling in her chest. The knife in her hand suddenly felt foolish, unnecessary against someone who could command darkness itself. She slipped it back beneath her pillow anyway.
***
Azriel slipped through the shadows between realms, letting the darkness carry him away from Kallista's room. The journey took mere seconds, though he traversed the entire width of Velaris. The shadows deposited him on a secluded balcony overlooking the Sidra, the river's surface glittering with the reflection of stars.
The cool night air did nothing to calm the storm brewing inside him. His shadows coiled tightly around his scarred hands, agitated by the rage he kept carefully controlled. Five hundred gold marks. The price of a female's freedom, her body, her life. The casual way she'd mentioned it, as if her own worth could be quantified in coins, had unleashed something primal in him.
He flexed his fingers, watching the shadows dance between them. The camp where Cassian had found her was just one of many. How many others suffered the same fate even now? The thought burned like acid.
"I thought I might find you here."
Azriel didn't turn. He'd sensed Rhysand's approach even before the High Lord had spoken.
Rhys moved to stand beside him at the railing, his violet eyes reflecting the starlight. “You went to her room, didn’t you? To make sure she was okay?”
Azriel's jaw tightened. "I wanted to see her for myself."
"And?"
"Her father sold her. Five hundred gold marks." The words tasted like ash in his mouth.
Rhysand's silence stretched between them, heavy with implications. When the High Lord finally spoke, his voice carried the lethal edge that had once made enemies tremble. "We need to find him."
"Her father?" Azriel's shadows writhed, sensing the violence in his thoughts. "He's likely long gone by now. Men like that don't linger after a transaction they know is illegal." He'd seen the clinical way Kallista had spoken of her sale, the practiced numbness that came from accepting the unacceptable. It wasn't resignation. It was survival. He recognized it because he'd worn the same armor once.
"These other camps," Rhys said, leaning against the railing. "We need to investigate them."
Azriel nodded once, sharply. "I've already started. My shadows are gathering information from the most remote regions of the Illyrian Mountains."
"Good." Rhys stared out at the glittering river. "This goes beyond just enforcing my edicts. If there are others like her..."
"There are. She said it’s pretty common for poor Illyrian men to sell their daughters to war camps.”
"I want them shut down," Rhys said, his voice deceptively soft. "All of them."
Azriel's shadows coiled tighter around his wrists, responding to the darkening of his thoughts. "Consider it done."
They stood in silence for a moment, two males forged in different kinds of darkness, united in their disgust for what had been allowed to fester in their territory.
"There's something else," Azriel finally said, the words emerging reluctantly. "Something about her..."
Rhys turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised in silent question.
"My shadows react to her." Azriel flexed his scarred fingers, watching the darkness twist and curl between his knuckles. "They seem... drawn to her somehow. I've never felt them respond to someone this way before."
"Interesting." Rhys studied his spymaster's face. "In what way?"
Azriel struggled to articulate the sensation. It wasn't something he could easily explain, this strange pull his shadows felt toward the female. "They're... curious about her. Almost protective." He frowned. "It's unsettling."
"Your shadows have always had their own intelligence," Rhys said. "Perhaps they sense something about her that you don't yet understand."
The thought had occurred to Azriel as well, though he wasn't ready to examine it too closely. His shadows had been his companions for centuries, his tools, his weapons, his curse. They whispered secrets to him, showed him hidden truths, but they had never before seemed to develop an interest in a particular person.
"She took a knife from her dinner tray," he said instead, changing the subject slightly. "Sleeps with it under her pillow."
Rhys's mouth quirked. "Smart girl."
"She doesn't trust us."
"Would you, in her position? We’re strangers and you, me and Cassian are Illryians.”
The question hit closer to home than Rhys could have known. Azriel remembered all too well what it was like to be at the mercy of others, to sleep with one eye open, to assume the worst of everyone. "No," he admitted. "I wouldn't."
"Give her time.” Rhys patted Azriel on the back.
Time. He didn’t know if he could. They way his shadows reacted around her, the way he reacted around her. It had never happened before. It scared him in ways he couldn’t explain and didn’t even know if he wanted to try to. Azriel knew how he could bide his time though. By finding every one of the Illryian soldiers that had hurt Kallista and rip their intestines out with his bare hands. And he would have fun doing it. The thought made his shadows writhe with pleasure.
“I’ll start the investigation tomorrow,” Azriel said finally meeting Rhys’s eye again.
The High Lord knew that look in his friend’s eyes. Rhys had seen it countless times and it was never there without just cause. If he was a different man, he might feel bad for the fate that awaited those soldiers. But he didn’t feel one ounce of sympathy. “Good.”
Plot: As the Fourth Archeron sister, who also gets thrown into the Cauldron and having been the people pleaser of the family you’re whole life. You cannot stand it any longer.
Time.
You’d had a lot of it since being thrown out the Cauldron.
Time.
It had been quicker since she’d emerged from the Cauldron.
Time.
It never felt like she was running on her time since she she’d stepped up off the floor helping Elain and Nesta up.
Time.
It was a precious thing …
Y/N Archeron the youngest Archeron sister. You were younger than Feyre by two years. Only 6 when your mother died and you didn’t understand what had gone on until many years later.
When Feyre started hunting at 14, you’d followed her into the woods. You watched her shoot and miss the first few times. While you watched you made snares, they were easy to use and caught smaller creatures such as rabbits and squirrels. When Feyre couldn’t catch something big enough your snares saved you both many times.
Feyre hated that you were the sister that came with her. She’d wanted her older sisters to step up and help her but it was you, her little sister barley even old enough for Nesta to allow her to light candles in their wooden shack was the one who came with her and healed her when she got hurt.
It wasn’t until the night of your 17 birthday, Feyre had told you to stay home and she’d find something big. You’d refused saying you wanted to come to play in the snow after you were done.
“I’m trying to get you a birthday meal Dusky” Feyre smiles using the nickname you’d always hated. Feyre always said you reminded her of that time of Day.
Dusk, because you were the last bit of light in their family before darkness occurred. You hated it really it made you feel like the little kid of the family and you were far from that.
“Please! I’m in need of a walk Feyre! I feel like I’ve been under these planks my whole life” you groan to your sister dramatically.
“Fine, we’re going to go a little further today tho, is that okay?” She asks and you nod excitedly before pulling on your boots and handing Feyre her coat.
“Let’s go let’s go come on!” You grin as you make a start for the door before pausing seeing Feyre not joining you, watching you with a small smile on her face.
“Despite everything, you’re always so cheerful! You give me a reason to wake up … Dusky” Feyre smiles, tracing a caring and sisterly thumb down your cheek, wiping away whatever soot was there from you cooking the oats for breakfast after Nesta and Elain had refused.
“Come let’s go!” You smile brightly pulling her out of the entryway and into the biting cold. Feyre was ahead of you venturing more and more north from your calculations of the way the wind was blowing through the icicle heavy trees.
Feyre paused as she started looking around for animal droppings or tracks. Anything to notify her that there was some kind of animal alive.
You had other plans, your hands had become so red from the ball of snow you’d been carefully forming before chucking it at your sister giggling delightedly as it her her right in the back of her fur hood. She turned round, a teasing sort of glare on her face as she looked at you.
“Now that wasn’t very nice” she smiles, playing along for you. She was very cold but it was your birthday after all and she wanted you to have the best day despite nobody buying you presents this year. Nesta had brought some new boots and Elain had brought a new coat.
You being the smartest saved yours up, you were able to buy spices so not every meal was bland and soaps so that all of you could smell presentable.
You both played in the snow until you’d run away quicker than Feyre could blink leaving no sign of where you’d gone. It was like you’d simply vanished, she stalked a little further until she heard a gut wrenching scream. One she never wanted to hear come from her little sisters mouth, or anyone for that matter again.
“FEYRE” you cried after you’d ran straight into a huge wolf whose teeth were bearing at you as it towered over you, drool oozing from its mouth dripping down onto your skin, now that the wolf’s claws had ripped it open when it dragged you further down the forest bank that you’d ran up to get away from your sister in the game of chase.
Feyre ran, she didn’t think she’d ever run this quick but all she kept thinking about was time.
Time.
Time that she wouldn’t get there in and you’d be dead at the hands of whatever had terrified you so.
A million things were running through your sisters head and as she neared you, seeing the beast above you she held to her bow and arrow.
She didn’t know why she hesitated. But she did, and before she knew it, she didn’t even feel like she was in control. The quiver releasing from the bow and landing into the wolf.
It had died and after you’d calmed down you and Feyre dragged it back.
You’d never expected Feyre killing a wolf would be the start of everything that had happened since your birthday.
A day you now resented in the calendar. You did not celebrate or even mention it when you’d turned 18 the next year. Feyre had been missing a year, and every time you tried to cross the border into the Fae world to find her, Tamlin would always send someone or something to stop you. The first was another wolf that had chased you all the way back into town before retreating. The second was a tall tree in the spring court giving way and almost crushing you.
It happened every time and it wasn’t until Feyre came back.
You’d sat silently.
After Feyre left you didn’t have much to say. And nobody from the night court really seemed to notice you enough to talk to you. So you did what you thought was best, staying quiet until called upon. You’d listened to your oldest sister belittle Feyre and hated how you’d bitten your tongue. Watched as Elain cast cautious gazes as the three large men now in your house.
You’d looked at each of them too. Studied them and watched.
You’d noticed how Rhysand would look at Feyre, like she’d hung the starts for him. But when he felt awkward about admitting something or wasn’t telling the full truth his brow would twitch. And if you weren’t watching closely it was so minor you’d probably miss it.
You’d noticed how despite Cassian showed himself off as the loud and funny friend to Feyre that he second guessed everything he said in the way he would zone out after laughing at one of his own jokes the minute the conversation moved attention off of him.
And Azriel, strikingly beautiful with his creamy hazel eyes and tanned skin and dark black hair like the night sky on its darkest day. But what you really noticed was how he observed. How he observed everyone … but you.
You didn’t think the male looked at you once his eyes watching everyone else around the table who’d been pitching in.
Once the formalities were done and they were leaving you told your sisters you’d see them out. Nesta nodded and left for upstairs, Elain curtsying before following after her sister.
“Feyre I-“ you begin but flinch hard as she whirls her body round to look at you. A harsh glare on her face, not like the one you remembered from your birthday in the snow.
“You know what!? I thought atleast you’d have my back. Or you’d be worried about me?! Or try and come find me as but no. You stayed with THEM! You did nothing to help me, whilst I was forced down this path all alone” she screamed at you. Only calming down when Rhysand hand wove into her.
“I-“ you start, swallowing down the frog that had risen in your throat.
“Can’t even speak. Let’s go” Feyre grunts out leaving you as she flew off with her new family. Tears sprung in your eyes as you went running. You’d run for so long and didn’t know where you ended up, but you were so exhausted from the day that you curled up by the stream and passed out.
The next thing you knew was waking up to being in the fae realm and with their King. And evil king too.
He’d told you about the Cauldron and its abilities, what he planned to do to you.
You don’t remember much of your time there, you loud mouthed everyone just so that you’d take the beatings rather than your sisters not being able to bear the sight of them being injured knowing their was something you could do.
You’d been so worried when you entered the room. Everyone was in bad shape and it looked like there was no way out if this with everyone alive.
Elain was the first to be chucked in. You watched as your sister accepted her fate whilst you lashed against the guard that had a hold of you. You watched her come out, having been given something by the Cauldron who practically purred in her presence, as a faerie. She had pointy ears and was now glowing beauty.
Nesta was next and you fought hard as you kicked and shunted watching your sister kick and scream and throw vulgar gestures around as she continued to remain under the surface of the boiling water. When she emerged all could sense the power she’d taken from the Cauldron.
You were next and time seemed to freeze as you went into the Cauldron. You didn’t kick scream or fight anymore. It was … peaceful under the waters surface. No noise, just you and a soft bubbling sound. You remained their as you felt the Cauldron reach out you you.
An offer. And it was yours to accept or deny.
You were neither angry or upset about Hybern only worried about your sisters and everyone out there who was fighting and becoming hurt. So you accepted the offer being given to you.
On the outside everyone was watching with their own worry. It had been over 8 minutes since you went under and everyone was wondering if you had drowned.
Nesta was clutching Elain, fussing over her and making sure she was okay and as far away from Lucien as possible.
They’d both recognised the mate bond and your sister actually felt calm around Lucien until common sense pooled in her mind at the prospect of what was happening.
Eventually you too emerged from the Cauldron, your sheer nightgown leaving nothing to the imagination making Mor, Lucien, Tamlin, Cassian and Rhysand all look away as you stood up.
Everyone could tell the same thing had happened to you by your now pointy ears and the feeling or sheer ancient power that was rolling off you.
Elain had been gifted sight that dreadful day. For the first few months stuck in a loop of visions she’d see of unnamed and uncertain futures.
Nesta had taken the same silver flames that had liked at all three of your skin as you’d been cooked inside the steaming pot.
And you, well let’s just say that a clock cannot tell the time without its handles.
Amount all the madness just before the fourth queen had entered your gaze followed a pleasant sent. One you found comfort in, you gaze found Azriel.
Azriel had managed to glance up at you through his weakened state, and if he’d kept his eyes open a little longer, held into his consciousness maybe, just maybe he would have felt that tug to you, that you’d felt towards him. And maybe the whole mess about to unravel wouldn’t have occurred.
Summary: He only ever felt peace in her presence, just for a moment, he let himself believe things might be okay. A fool’s wish, peace never lasts in Autumn. The moment is torn from him, leaving Eris raw with fury, vulnerability, and the haunting fear of what is to come next.
Warnings: mentions of blood and battlefield aftermath, hypervigilance, insomnia, emotional detachment, references to physical injuries and past violence, mating bond dynamics, emotional intensity, internalised resistance, power imbalance.
Strong emotional themes: trauma, vulnerability and reluctant intimacy (not sexual)
Word count: 5,734
Series: The Healer - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Eris couldn’t help glancing over at his mate.
She’d kicked off her shoes and curled beneath one of the thick throws, quill between her teeth, brow furrowed in concentration. Her eyes tracked the words on the page, once, then again, methodically, before she jotted something down on her notepad.
The room was quiet, except for the rustle of parchment and the crackle of fire. He tried, truly tried, to focus on the treaty proposal sprawled across his lap. The latest draft between the fae and humans.
She scoffed under her breath. Not loud, but enough to cut through his thoughts.
Eris didn’t need to ask. He knew the exact line she’d reached. The one where the healers were called lazy, unfit for leadership, and liabilities in the war effort.
Shameful lies.
He had watched the healers, their hands stained with blood, and darkness lingering under their eyes, as they gave their all in desperate attempts to save lives. Meanwhile, Autumn Court soldiers stomped through the triage area as if it were theirs to command. High-ranking personnel, favoured by his father, undermined the very individuals who were trying to keep their comrades alive.
She stilled, then looked up, and their eyes met.
“They’re not serious,” she said.
Her jaw clenched, and her fingers gripped the notepad in quiet fury.
“Unfortunately,” Eris said, leaning forward with a sigh, “they are.”
She turned, shifting on the lounge to face him fully. Her blanket slipped from one shoulder, and her expression was hard: beautiful yet sharp.
“You know why they failed,” she said. “And I won’t pretend they didn’t, but it wasn’t the healers. It was the structure. It was Autumn.”
Her hand gestured to the report, nearly trembling with restrained anger.
“These soldiers, your soldiers, ignored every protocol. They took over the tents and hoarded supplies. The healers were buried in chaos.”
“I know,” he murmured, shame coiling beneath his ribs.
She searched his face. “Do you agree with this?”
Her voice cracked slightly, with fury. The kind of fury born from compassion.
“No,” Eris said, his voice low, “I don’t, but my father is—”
“Deranged,” she muttered.
A laugh escaped him, quiet and sharp, almost foreign. Her eyes darted to his, and for a moment, she seemed startled by the sound, a subtle pink flush rising to her cheeks.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your father.”
“No, please,” Eris murmured, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Say more.”
She sighed and sank deeper into the cushions, her hand lifting to cradle her cheek. Wrapped in an oversized throw, she looked soft, tired, and real, a sight that took his breath away.
He watched her work, watching the firelight warm her skin as her ink-stained fingers trailed across the parchment. The silver embroidery woven into her robe shifted hue beneath the hearth’s glow. It no longer shimmered like starlight; now it was burnished amber, as though the Autumn Court itself had reached for her, wrapped her in its hues, and marked her.
The protection sigils along her hem whispered with magic. He could feel the spellwork pulsing faintly from where he sat, wards woven into the fabric.
He shifted slightly in his chair, fingers curling over the edge of the worn wooden armrest. There was so much he wanted to say, but none of it would come out right.
She glanced at him again, meeting his gaze with a softer look this time, not fury or judgment.
“I know Autumn isn’t like the Night Court,” she said, voice quieter now, “But how do you live like this?”
That fear returned quickly and sharply, that she would ask to leave. That she would see him the way others viewed his court. That she would think this world reflected him.
“I wait,” Eris said after a pause. “For the day I can change it.”
She hesitated.
“Will he hurt me?”
That question broke something in him.
“No,” he said. “He wouldn’t dare.”
“But he’ll use me,” she said. Not a question this time.
He didn’t answer, didn’t need to.
She saw it, the guilt in his silence and the truth in his eyes.
Eris remembered the look on his father’s face when he first told him about her. The way Beron had smiled was sharp and calculating. The way his brothers had laughed over dinner, about mating frenzies and ruined bedsheets, what she must’ve offered to earn his favour so quickly. The way his fire had surged, almost uncontrolled, until the wood cracked and his father’s eyes narrowed in warning.
“He will,” Eris said quietly, the words scraping out of him like something sharp. “My father’s cruel. He only understands power, and he’ll see you as leverage.”
He paused, jaw tight.
“Having you here reminds me why I am doing this. For our future.”
“I make it worthwhile?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
He looked at her, at the way the firelight kissed her skin, the softness in her expression that somehow defied everything this place represented.
“You’re the only reason I haven’t turned this cursed court to ash,” he said, “Your letters—”
He took a shaky breath.
“They were the only thing that kept me here. While I drowned in guilt over my men, the healers, the people I was supposed to protect, it was you. The thought of you. The hope that maybe you’d still come.”
She didn’t speak, only looked at him, her eyes soft and shimmering.
“My family promised us space. A few days, at least. Time to settle before it all begins,” he said, pushing to his feet too quickly, too abruptly, like the weight of his honesty had become too much.
“Okay,” she murmured, watching as he gathered the empty plate and cup. She didn’t try to stop him.
In the kitchen, his hands trembled. He placed the porcelain gently on the counter, bracing himself against the edge of the table.
His head bowed.
She wasn’t going to stay. Not when Beron turned his gaze on her. Not when the Autumn Court showed its teeth. They’d use her to get to him.
Break her.
Break him.
“Eris?”
Her voice pulled him back.
She was beside him now, hip brushing his.
“It’s okay,” she said gently. “I’m not saying I don’t want to be here. I just… I need to understand what I’ve stepped into.”
He exhaled slowly, resisting the pull to lean fully into her touch, but he shifted, just slightly, drawn by instinct more than permission.
“I’m terrified,” he admitted, the words scraped raw. “Of you deciding I’m no different from them.”
She was quiet.
“That you’ll see my father in me,” he went on. “That your fear of this court will be justified. That you’ll run, and I’ll deserve it.”
She sighed softly, a sound that melted some of the ice in his chest.
“Eris… I knew.”
His heart gave a violent jump.
“I knew what Autumn was like,” she continued. “The rumours. The stories. Your letters didn’t hide any of it, you told me the truth, from the beginning.”
He said nothing; he couldn’t.
“I’m not going to run or disappear into the night,” she added. “You brought me here, and that matters. I am not fragile, Eris. I can handle this.”
His chest tightened. The image, her leaving without a word, without a trace, was something he couldn’t let himself imagine. He wouldn’t survive it.
“I don’t think you’re fragile,” he said quietly, voice almost breaking. “I never did.”
Her expression softened, a hint of tenderness flickering in her gaze.
“I just…” He swallowed, but the words still caught in his throat.
She didn’t push, didn’t demand more.
“You’re okay, Eris,” she whispered, and somehow it was more secure than any spell, any ward, any weapon he’d ever held. “You’re allowed to feel like this.”
Her expression softened, and for a moment, the tenderness in her eyes made him feel unbearably small, seen in a way that stripped him down to the rawest parts of himself.
She saw him beginning to spiral, and instead of trying to fix it, she offered a way out.
“You mentioned hounds,” she said, voice lighter, gently tugging him from the edge. “I’ve never seen one.”
“No?” he asked, eyes flicking to her in quiet surprise.
She shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “No. The Night Court doesn’t do pets.”
He let out a huff.
“I’m not surprised. I can show you,” he offered. Not bothering to hide the flicker of hope that crept into his voice.
“I’d like that,” she said. “Very much.”
Eris straightened, not with pride, but with an aching sort of hope.
“You’ll need your shoes,” he said, glancing down at her bare feet, then back to her eyes.
A blush crept up her cheeks. “Right.”
She padded through the estate, and when she returned, shoes now on, Eris gave a small nod, motioning for her to follow. A near-smile tugged at his lips.
They wandered the winding halls, golden sunlight spilling through tall windows. The opposite walls displayed paintings of bloody victories, enchanted woods, and weapons that still hummed faintly with dormant power. She glanced at them only once or twice before returning her gaze to him, saying nothing.
He led her down a sweeping staircase, past quiet training rooms lined with gleaming blades, through a conservatory of glass, sunlight catching on crystalline leaves that shivered like wind chimes. Finally, they reached the main gardens.
The moment the Autumn air touched her skin, she stopped. The sun was at its peak, gold pouring through trees dressed in flame-red, amber, and copper leaves. She tilted her face toward the light, and the sight of her, bathed in warmth, eyes soft, hit him like a blow to the chest.
The gardens unfurled into a vast, wild stretch of forest. Raised beds brimmed with herbs, medicinal roots, and Night Court blooms he’d spent weeks, and more coin than he’d ever admit, acquiring just for her. As her eyes widened, lips parting in a quiet, surprised breath, he didn’t regret a single coin.
She stepped forward first. He watched as she paused to inhale the scent of a flower and trailed her fingers along a glowing vine.
At the far edge of the garden, a wrought-iron gate marked the boundary to the hound run, a wide, open grove, half-wild, half-enchanted, bordered by dense woodland. He opened the gate for her.
She stepped through.
He whistled, low and sharp.
She jumped, stepping instinctively closer. Her arm brushed his, then her fingers found his.
A rustle.
Then another.
Six smokehounds emerged from the underbrush, tall spectral figures, sleek-furred and smoky-grey, gliding from the brush like shadows given shape. Not quite canine. Not quite fae. Something in between, ancient and enchanted.
Smoke drifted off their coats like mist. Their eyes gleamed, molten gold in the sunlight.
She gasped, clutching his arm. More hounds burst into view, bounding toward them at a run, pressing herself fully against his side. Her fingers clung to his tunic.
“They look like they bite,” she whispered, as the pack began sniffing around her cloak and boots, circling like wolves around an injured doe.
“They’re called smokehounds,” he murmured, voice lower now, more serious. “They’re bound to the Autumn Court. Fiercely loyal. They protect what’s ours.”
“I think they’re trying to eat me,” she hissed, still clinging to him as one brushed her hip.
“This one’s Alev,” he said, nodding to the hound nearest her. “She doesn’t approach anyone unless she likes them.”
Her body trembled, eyes squeezed shut. Eris reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek.
“You’re safe,” he whispered. “They won’t hurt you. I swear it.”
She peeked one eye open. “You promise?”
“I swear it,” he repeated. He slowly guided her hand forward. “You’re safe, with them, with me.”
She hesitated, but only a moment, then extended one shaky hand.
Alev sniffed her fingers, then nudged gently into her palm.
“She likes scratches behind the ears,” Eris said softly, heart thundering.
Still trembling, she obeyed. Her fingers brushed the hound’s smoky fur, then scratched.
Alev melted into her touch.
One by one, the rest of the pack edged closer, tails low, heads down, waiting. She let out a nervous laugh as her hands moved among them, tentative, awkward, and soft.
She crouched, and five hounds instantly crowded her. Her laughter bubbled up, quiet and uncertain, as one nudged her with enough force to topple her over.
Another tried to lick her cheek.
“Eris!” she gasped, overwhelmed.
He grinned, truly grinned, as he watched her.
She wrestled with them for a moment before giving in, collapsing into the grass, arms flung wide. The hounds sprawled with her, on her, around her. One laid its head across her thighs. Another curled up beside her ribs.
“You could’ve helped me,” she huffed, catching his gaze.
Her smile, playful, bright, just for him, stole the breath from his lungs.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, stepping closer. The hounds shifted just enough to make space.
He sat beside her in the grass.
Not as heir. Not as a son or soldier.
Just a man. A mate.
Their knees brushed.
She looked at him, and something tender, curious, devastatingly warm bloomed in her eyes. He felt it wrap around his ribs like a slow, steady ache.
She tilted her head, then fell back against the grass again, smiling at the canopy above.
Alev curled between his legs, her head resting on his thigh.
“Are they always this friendly?” she asked.
“No,” he said honestly. “They aren’t known to be gentle.”
“They seem gentle to me,” she whispered, running her fingers along Agni’s heavy head. The massive hound lay across her torso like a protective soldier.
“You thought they were going to eat you.”
“That was before they attacked me with kisses,” she said, her laugh light and airy.
Eris leaned back on his hands beside her.
For the first time in years, maybe longer, peace crept into his chest. The sun warmed his skin. The hounds flanked them like sentries, and beside him, his mate. Here. Laughing.
For a heartbeat, it almost felt like he had a family.
She stroked Agni’s thick fur, her eyelids fluttering lower, her breath slowed.
Even Agni, fierce, territorial Agni, let out a low, contented sigh.
Eris closed his eyes, letting the sunlight wash over him.
He hadn’t rested. Not truly. Long before the war.
Not until now.
“You really do look like the Prince of Autumn like this,” she murmured suddenly.
His eyes opened slowly.
She was watching him again, her arm slung lazily over Agni.
He turned toward her, something raw unfurled in his chest.
“And you look beautiful,” he said, no hesitation.
Her cheeks flushed. She ducked her head, smile blooming even as she shook it.
“All charm, Eris,” she teased, eyes dancing.
Her voice echoed in his mind long after the sun dipped behind the trees.
You look like the Prince of Autumn like this.
Not just the words, but the way she said them, with affection and content.
He had stayed longer than he should’ve, lying beside her in the grass while the hounds dozed in a loose, protective ring. Her laughter lingered in the air, woven into the golden light. For one impossible hour, he’d felt peace and that terrified him more than anything.
Because peace never lasted here.
Not in Autumn. Not in his father’s house. Not in him.
The rustle of footsteps broke the quiet. He didn’t move at first, just cracked one eye open.
A handmaid stood a few paces away, fingers twisted tightly in her robes, face pale and eyes red-rimmed, terrified. She didn’t dare speak until he turned his head fully toward her.
“My lord,” she said, voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where to find you.”
Eris pushed up on his elbows. The moment shattered like glass, and cold rushed in to fill the warmth.
“What is it?” he asked sharply.
“Your father. He’s demanding your presence. There are reports. Documents. He said it’s urgent. Something about death compensations, and—”
Her voice faltered.
“He’s angry. Very angry.”
She glanced past him, to her. The shift in her body was immediate. Rigid, nervous, submissive.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” she whispered. “Forgive me for interrupting.”
The handmaid then turned and fled, nearly tripping in her haste.
Eris sat for a moment, breathing through the sudden fury building in his chest.
The pull of responsibility, of guilt and failure.
“What just happened?” his mate asked.
He stood.
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
She was on her feet immediately. “Eris.”
He stopped at the gate.
“Tell me.”
His jaw flexed. “My father is a tyrant. He promised me time. Promised to leave us alone.” His lip curled. “And I believed him. God, I actually believed him.”
They walked through the garden in silence, but by the time they reached the stairs, Eris’s steps had grown sharp and fast, each one louder than the last.
“What is he asking for?” she asked, matching his pace.
“A meeting,” Eris snapped. “About the compensation for the dead, and documentation, I can’t finish because he’s holding the final war reports hostage. Without them, I can’t authorise a bloody thing.”
By the time they reached the war room, his hands were shaking.
He didn’t try to hide it.
The fury needed somewhere to go.
He yanked open drawers, snatching up files, maps, and casualty ledgers. His breath was uneven, and his pulse thundered in his ears.
“Eris,” she said again, softly.
He ignored her.
“He’s doing this now,” Eris growled, “because he wants to remind me who holds the leash, because he doesn’t want to pay what’s owed, and he’s turning grief into a power play.”
A folder hit the table with a sharp crack, and papers spilled.
“Wait,” she said, trying to understand, but his anger was overwhelming.
“He’s stalling,” Eris spat. “We’ve been arguing about it since the war ended. He says the dead were ‘necessary losses.’ That they weeded out the weak, and now he wants to offer their final wages as some grand gesture despite starving them for months.”
Her face paled. “So their families—”
“—Have had nothing,” he finished. “No coin. No food. No closure. Not even a letter of honour, and I’ve done nothing but argue with that man because he refuses to pay for the dead.”
Silence fell again, heavier now.
“This matters a lot to you,” she said gently. “Doesn’t it?”
He stared at the names on the scattered sheets. At the tally marks beside them.
“This was supposed to be the one thing I could fix,” he whispered. “The one thing I could give back. They followed me into a graveyard, trusting strategies I didn’t believe in, on orders I didn’t give but didn’t stop. They died, and I lived. Now I sit here, in this golden palace, dressed in fine clothes, with this title, while their families and children starve.”
His voice broke then, just slightly. Shame.
She moved closer, carefully, like she knew he was a breath away from shattering.
“My father knows that guilt lives under my skin,” Eris said bitterly. “He knows I carry it like a brand. That’s why he’s doing this now. On this day. The one moment I had. I’ve waited months to see you. To feel, even for a breath, that I was chosen. That I was enough.”
His voice cracked, but he didn’t stop.
“He wants to take that from me. Rip it out of my hands. Make me crawl back, admit what he already knows: that I sent my men to die. That their blood is on my hands. That I am weak. That I am still his.”
His breath hitched, chest tightening.
“Eris,” she breathed. “You never told me that.”
“Because it’s ugly,” he rasped. “Because I didn’t want you to see this part of me. I thought I could fix it before you saw all of this.”
He turned away, hands braced on the edge of the war table, arms trembling with restrained fury.
“You don’t have to do this alone.”
He stilled.
Not because he didn’t believe her, but because he wanted to believe her so badly that it hurt.
You don’t have to.
She stepped closer. Light from the tall windows caught her face, her anger, her beauty, her pain.
“I’m sorry,” he said, quiet and broken.
“You don’t need to apologise.”
“I do,” he whispered. “For bringing you here. Into this. Into a house ruled by a man who hoards gold, power and pain. Who uses my guilt like a leash. Who breaks my ribs just to count them. I can barely keep myself upright. I am—” he stopped, a bitter laugh catching in his throat, “A mess. Angry. Shackled. Used.”
She reached out and brushed his forearm, just a touch, barely there.
“What can I do?” she asked.
His throat tightened.
“Nothing,” he said, honestly. “Just... thank you for not running.”
The silence that followed was softer. Still raw but not burning with untamed fury.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
His heart twisted, but he knew that when Beron saw her, he would view his mate not as a person, but as a tool.
A threat.
A weapon to gut him with.
“I want you with me more than anything,” he said. “But not yet.”
She nodded and didn’t step back.
“Then come back to me after,” she said. “No matter how bad it is.”
He met her eyes.
“I promise.”
He meant it.
When he returned that night, Eris was still shaking.
The cruel sneer of his father was etched into his mind like a fresh scar. Beron had known exactly what he was doing, bringing up the compensation, twisting the knife of failure, dragging it out until well past midnight, until the weight of it threatened to collapse Eris’s chest. He was raw with fury, tension still thrumming beneath his skin like a live wire.
Beron’s plan had worked.
Eris had raged, spilled his grief and guilt until his voice went hoarse, the words searing his throat.
He had wanted to be here. Wanted to share that first night, even if only across a table. The thought of her dining alone, waiting, hoping he’d still come, ached worse than anything Beron had said. It made his hands tremble more than rage ever had.
By the time he stepped through the estate doors, the house was quiet and still. Only the faelights of the crystal chandeliers remained, casting warm golden light across the floor. The Night Court blooms shimmered more beautifully in the low light than they had in the sun.
He moved quietly, exhausted, heading toward the war room, but then stopped. The living room is alight with the flames from the hearth. Her blanket was half-thrown across the lounge, a teacup sat near her messy stack of notes, and her shoes were still resting where she’d left them.
His chest tightened at the sight.
Then he heard it, the soft sound of footsteps padding down the stairs.
He turned toward the sound, and there she was.
In fur-lined slippers, bundled in a fluffy robe over sleep clothes, her hair slightly tousled, eyes wide the moment they met his, and without hesitation, she rushed to him.
He barely had time to brace himself before she collided with him, arms thrown around his neck. His feet stumbled, but he caught her, out of instinct more than grace.
His hands gripped her waist, then her back, and finally settled in the space between her shoulder blades. His arms tightened slowly, deliberately, until she was pressed against him like a lifeline. His breathing stayed shallow, but something loosened behind his ribs.
“Eris,” she breathed, voice trembling like she was holding back tears. “I was waiting for you. I just went to get a book, I swear I was waiting.”
He didn’t speak; he couldn’t.
He just held her tighter, eyes shut, breathing her in as if she could undo hours of fury.
The memory of Beron’s voice echoed in his skull, cutting, calculated. Designed to enrage, and it had.
“I was worried,” she whispered into his ear. “The handmaids said you’d be back soon, but it was hours. I waited…”
“I’m sorry,” Eris murmured, voice rough, his face buried in her hair.
She smelled like his court, with spiced oils and a hint of something floral. The ends of her hair were still damp from a bath.
Shame filled him once more; she’d been alone on their first night.
She melted further into his touch, legs lifting slightly off the ground as he held her. Her heartbeat fluttered against his chest.
“I had them keep dinner,” she said softly, breath brushing his neck. “If you’re hungry…”
She’d waited for him.
Eventually, he eased her back to the floor, releasing her gently. She avoided his gaze, as if she didn’t want to pressure him. “I haven’t eaten yet either, but the heating charms held.”
He knew too well how those worked; he’d spent more nights eating meals warmed by magic than freshly cooked.
“They work well,” he said, voice low, following her toward the dining room.
Two plates still waited at the end of the long, ornate table, filled with roasted meats, root vegetables, warm bread, and a rich soup that continued to steam under enchantments, but what made his breath hitch was the place settings.
His at the head of the table, and hers, which she’d clearly moved from the far end to sit just beside his.
It was such a small thing, but it undid him.
She sat first, pulling her robe tighter around herself, suddenly unsure.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk,” she said gently. “But I didn’t want to go to bed until you were home.”
He took the seat beside her, his thigh brushing hers under the table.
“This is all I wanted,” he said, barely above a whisper.
They ate in comfortable silence. Halfway through the meal, she looked up at him, eyes soft in the low candlelight.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he lied.
She knew he was lying through his teeth, but she left it as it was.
She nodded once, returning to her wine.
“How were the handmaids?” he asked, trying to change the subject away from his father.
Her mouth twitched to a near smile.
“Vera startled me. I almost hit her with a vase.”
He huffed faintly. “You know her name?”
“She told me, before I could throw it.”
Eris let out a breath, something between amusement and exhaustion.
“They rang the bell, didn’t they?”
“They did. I had no idea what it meant, just this sound. Then there were people in the sitting room. I thought I was under attack.”
He allowed a small smile. “I forget. You’re not used to all this.”
“No. I’m not royalty,” she said, glancing sidelong at him. “The bath alone felt like a ritual. Oils, flower petals, crystals.”
“I told them to do that.”
“I know,” she said. “You remembered everything I ever wrote. Every remedy, every oil that helped me sleep. Everything that made me feel safe. You remembered it all.”
She took a slow sip of her wine, then added, almost shyly.
“I had them do the same for you. I asked for your bath to be prepared with the same things. Thought maybe it would help… after your father.”
His hands stilled on his silverware.
“I could use it,” he said after a long moment. “Though I imagine mine isn’t as elaborate.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” she said, lips curling faintly.
That earned a quiet breath from him. Not quite laughter, but close.
“You think I need calming baths now?” he asked, looking at her with something unreadable behind his eyes.
“I think,” she said carefully, “you may need it more than you know.”
He didn’t deny it.
They finished the meal in silence. The warmth between them lingered like the wine on his tongue, soft, slow, and burning just beneath the surface.
At her bedroom door, she touched his arm gently.
“Goodnight,” she murmured, and as she turned away, the hem of her robe brushed against his knuckles.
The corridor to his chambers was dim, cloaked in shadowed stillness.
When he stepped inside his room, it felt hollow, lacking her warmth.
He dropped the file of documents onto the desk. It landed with a dull thud that seemed to echo far too loudly.
Maybe she was right. Maybe the bath would help.
He turned toward the bathing chamber and opened the door.
Heat met him first, damp, fragrant, then came the glow.
Candles floated low over the water, their flames swaying gently against the marble walls. The surface shimmered with oils, herbs, and petals in hues of red, purple, and gold. Crystals ringed the tub: amethyst, rose quartz, and lapis lazuli. All the ones he’d once suggested might help.
He stepped further in, the door clicked shut behind him.
The air was thick with the scents of lavender, orange blossom, and rose. Scents pulled straight from her letters, nights spent rereading her words until the ink blurred and his eyes burned. She had named every flower, every oil, every stone that brought her peace. Every tiny thing that eased the weight inside her mind.
Eris shrugged off his coat. Then his tunic. Then the thin shirt beneath.
Each layer peeled away more than cloth. The heir. The general. The mask.
Bare at last, he stepped into the bath.
The heat stung at first, then softened, easing into the tightness in his shoulders, the knots along his spine, the hollow behind his ribs. His breath caught as he sank deeper, water curling around him to the collarbone. Petals clung to his chest.
He closed his eyes.
Beron’s voice uncoiled in his mind like smoke, oily and cold. That sneer. That venomous tone. “She is a Night Court spy. A soft-bellied manipulator. She’ll undo you from the inside out, and you are pathetic enough to believe she is real.”
Maybe he was pathetic enough to believe she’d waited for him. That when she had hugged him, it had meant something. She had held him like he was breakable. Like she knew if she didn’t hold him tightly enough, he might shatter.
The heat didn’t scald; it ached. Deep and slow, like it had memorised the shape of his sorrow and was trying to smooth it out. The oils slipped across his skin, clinging to old scars. Her scent filled the steam, wrapping around him.
Eris pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, his body trembling under the weight of it.
He sank lower, chin brushing the water’s surface, petals clinging to his throat.
He wanted, desperately, to believe she would stay. That his fears were wrong. That he wasn’t meant to be alone, but he was so tired. So vulnerable. So completely unworthy of her.
✦ WARNINGS: language, cussing, angst, a brief appearance of the green monster, self-deprecation and feelings of inadequacy are a soulmate thing ig, brief mention of torture. Proofread but i'm so sure i missed something.
✦ MAY'S RADIO: i'm posting this now because if i read it one more time i'll keep changing things 🫠 i think it was a good idea to split it into two chapters tho—this one has so much emotions woven into it. it's blowing my mind all the love this series is receiving—thank you so much, angels!! 🥹🖤 i really hope you guys like this one,,, if you don't,,, well, fuck.
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Cassian’s mouth fell open. “What the fuck—”
But he stopped himself.
The woman standing in front of the hearth, hood still drawn over her features, was the one who had vanished again after refusing Azriel’s outstretched hand. And at the same time, the one who once dragged him into the kitchens in the middle of the night to steal a pie—and then somehow made him take the blame when Rhys’ mom caught them.
She came home.
Azriel took a single step forward. The shadows that lingered between them stilled—then split down the middle, as if granting him passage.
She didn’t bother lowering her hood. Didn’t need to. The firelight reached beneath it anyway, casting golden arcs across the scars that hadn’t been there two hundred years ago. Eyes gold as ever. A little haunted. A little dangerous.
She didn’t smile.
The tension in the room was suffocating.
The scent of lightning still hung heavy in the room, threaded with scorched cedar and something bitter—like ozone before a storm. Feyre said nothing, her arms tight around Nyx. Rhysand hadn’t moved.
And there she was. The female who had once fought and laughed beside them, who’d whispered war plans with Cassian on balconies and stolen wine with Mor in the library. Who’d told Azriel secrets in the dark.
Now she looked at them like strangers.
Cassian’s stomach twisted.
Ghosts don’t walk, he told himself. Don’t smell like crushed spices and ash and saltwater. But he still stared at her like he was seeing a ghost. Everyday since, he’s been struggling with accepting the knowledge of her being alive.
“No. No way.”
She tilted her head. “Surprised?”
His eyes narrowed. Then widened.
“Wait a damn minute—” His gaze darted to Rhysand, then Azriel, then back to her. “You–You’re the one who—”
“Sent half your soldiers running in circles? Lit up your wards like Solstice lights?” Her lips curved—not into a smile exactly, but something crooked. “Yes. That was me.”
Cassian let out a sound—half a laugh, half a curse. His heart was pounding in his chest.
Gods, she was really here.
Even after she’d sworn she never would be again.
“You really do know how to make a fucking entrance,” he muttered, running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair.
But he didn’t move closer.
Not yet. Not unless she let him.
Because part of him still wanted to grab her and shake her and demand why.
And another part—deep down—was afraid that if he got too close, she’d vanish again.
(And this time, he might not survive it.)
She took a step forward, shadows curling up her back like half-formed wings. Azriel still hadn’t moved. But she felt his gaze—like a hand at her spine. Tracking every breath. Every shift.
Cassian’s arms crossed. Not defensive. Just bracing. “So, what—after all this time, you’re suddenly here to…do what exactly?”
“You said you needed help fighting Koschei,” she said smoothly.
Cassian folded his arms. “So? Why now?”
Her brows lifted beneath the shadow of her hood. “Well, you asked.”
Cassian blinked. “What?”
Her eyes flicked to him. Unbothered. “That’s what you asked me to do, isn’t it? To help you?”
“That was four months ago,” he said, voice low, but sharp enough to cut. “You told us to go fuck ourselves and vanished into the wind, remember?”
“I do. Vividly. And yet, here I am,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “You wanted help against Koschei. Now you have it.”
Cassian laughed—short, humorless. “Forgive me if I’m not falling over with gratitude.”
She raised a brow. “That’s fine. I’m not here for thanks.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you here?”
A pause. “Strategy.”
“That’s not an answer,” he snapped.
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
His wings shifted behind him, like a reflex. “Why now?” he pressed again. “Why show up now? How do we know this isn’t a trap?”
Her smile was slow and razor-sharp. “You think I’m working for Koschei?”
“I think,” Cassian said carefully, “that the male who raised me like a brother left you to die. And I think I’d be a fool not to ask who you’re really loyal to.”
That landed. Her expression didn’t change, but the air around her sharpened—grew colder, heavier. A faint pressure curled inward, as if the room itself had taken a breath and was holding it. The scent of ozone threaded through the air.
A bead of condensation gathered on the nearest glass.
Her voice was quiet, lethal. “You think I’d put myself in the same room as this asshole for fun?”
Feyre’s grip on Nyx instinctively tightened.
Cassian didn’t flinch, but he didn’t back down, either. “I think I don’t know you anymore.”
A beat of silence. The air loosened—just slightly. The invisible pressure receded, the tension ebbing like the hush after distant thunder.
Then—
“Well,” she said, flicking a hand, “maybe you never did.”
Cassian huffed a bitter breath, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something softer. “That’s not true.”
She tilted her head. “Isn’t it?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then shook his head, muttering, “Gods, you’re still such a pain in the ass.”
That crooked smile ghosted her lips again. “You used to call it charming.”
Cassian gave a snort. “I used to be stupider.”
“Used to be?” she echoed, mock-surprised.
Even Azriel blinked at that, a flicker of something almost like amusement passing through those shadows. Feyre glanced between them, brows lifting slightly. Rhysand remained stone-still, but his gaze was locked on her like he was trying to crack open her skull and see what had changed.
She didn’t give him the satisfaction.
Cassian threw up his hands. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You vanish for two centuries, walk in here like it’s nothing, and the first thing you do is insult me,” he whined.
“Some things never change,” she said airily.
“No,” he agreed, voice quieter now. “Some things don’t.”
The pause that followed didn’t feel like silence. It felt like something fragile being held between them.
It was too easy, the banter.
She saw the moment he realized it too—that despite everything, despite the pain and the betrayal and the impossible distance of time, this rhythm between them was still there.
Still alive. Still theirs.
Cassian looked at her the way someone might look at a memory they thought they’d lost. One that hurt to remember—but hurt even more to forget.
She saw it. Felt it. And something in her cracked, just a little. A flicker of warmth. Of familiarity.
She’d told herself it was gone. That the person she was with him—who she used to be—had died long ago.
But for one blink of a moment, it felt like stepping into the past. Like that old rhythm between them was still there, buried under everything.
Then Feyre shifted Nyx in her arms, and the small noise was enough to snap her back.
Her spine straightened. Her face smoothed over again into something unreadable.
The mask slammed back into place.
She turned back to the fire. “Don’t mistake this for something it’s not. This isn’t a family reunion. It’s a war council. Let’s not confuse the two.”
But Cassian—stupid, soft Cassian—did.
The General’s chest tightened. He nodded once, solemnly. But he couldn’t stop the way his eyes lingered on her face—just for a moment longer.
Because even if she’d shut the door, he’d seen it.
That flicker.
That piece of her—the real her—still buried underneath the bitterness and bone-deep hurt.
And for the first time in two hundred years, it had looked back at him.
Her voice cut through the room, clear and cold. “I'm here because we have a common enemy.”
Cassian’s brows knit. His arms remained crossed, “So what—you figured we were convenient?”
“I decided,” she said, gaze hard as flint, “you were the lesser of two evils. That’s it.”
That landed harder than he expected. His mouth pressed into a line. For once, he didn’t have a snarky comeback.
There was no warmth in her tone. No room for argument or emotion. Just strategy. Cold, clinical. Calculated.
And in that moment, as he stared at her, he saw it. The Commander of the Night Court’s army. His right-hand soldier. The blade-sharp edge of her that had once led thousands into battle without hesitation.
Next to him, there was no motion from Azriel, no flicker of expression. The weight of his stare alone felt like pressure against her ribs. His eyes locked on her—deep, still, assessing. Like he was watching for signs of damage. Or for truth.
She didn’t flinch under the weight of it. But gods, she felt it.
That pull. That old, terrible pull.
Like standing too close to a cliff’s edge and pretending the wind at your back isn’t temptation.
His eyes devoured her—like he was cataloguing every inch. Lingering on the scars. On his shadows that now curled around her shoulders like armor. Like she might disappear again if he blinked.
The silence stretched until footsteps echoed down the hall.
Not heavy ones like Cassian’s. Not the silent, predatory gait she knew belonged to Azriel or Rhysand.
These were lighter. Hesitant.
The door creaked open.
A female stepped through. Her presence was all polished grace and gentle hesitance. There was a kind of stillness about her—like spring dew clinging to a blade.
She paused just over the threshold in a sweep of soft fabric and garden-blushed perfume, her hand still on the doorknob. “I heard voices—”
Her words died when her eyes landed on the hooded female standing before the fire.
The room seemed to shift.
The female’s gaze moved slowly—from Rhysand to Feyre, to the shadows gathered male in the corner. It lingered there a moment too long before flicking back to the stranger at the hearth.
Only… not quite a stranger.
Not with the way a few of Azriel’s shadows were wrapped around her like they were tethered. Not with the way Cassian stood taller, broader—like a shield he didn’t realize he was trying to become. Or the way Rhysand’s eyes seemed to be stuck on her, a weird mix of softness and wariness in them.
Elain blinked, her expression uncertain. “Is… everything alright?”
The hooded female made no move to greet her. Only turned slightly, shadows hiding most of her face, and offered nothing but silence.
Feyre’s voice broke through, too soft to startle. “Elain.” A faint edge of worry laced her words, though she kept her tone calm—for the sake of the child in her arms. “It’s alright. You should head back to your room.”
But the female—Elain—didn’t move.
Didn’t listen.
She could feel it, after all. The tension hanging in the air. The sharp alertness of those she called family. The way they stood like they were braced for a fight.
(Who was going to fight who wasn't clear, though.)
So Elain stepped forward instead, crossing the room in soft, deliberate steps and stopped beside Azriel.
(Too close.)
The dark-cloaked figure kept her eyes ahead, focused on the hearth, but she felt it—the closeness of Elain’s hand near Azriel’s, the tilt of her body turned subtly toward him. Heard it in the way Elain spoke quietly to him, a question only he could hear.
And maybe it was the softness in her voice. Or the way she reached out to gently touch his arm.
But something sharp twisted in the female’s gut.
She wasn’t sure if it was instinct—or the ghost of something far older.
Whatever it was, it made her shoulders stiffen.
Azriel didn’t answer Elain right away. His eyes were still on her.
Because his shadows—traitorous little spies—slithered away from her and coiled at his ear, whispering the truth directly into his ear.
She’d tensed the moment Elain stepped beside him.
Tensed like something in her had bristled. Like instinct. Like a wound prodded open.
Something inside him stirred and purred pleased.
His shadows curled inward for a breath, then slithered away again, like smoke drawn back into a flame, as if relaying the message had been enough.
But one tendril lingered. Slipped back toward her like a question, like a breath. Her jaw tensed, but she didn’t stop it. It brushed the edge of her hood and gave the faintest tug—just enough to let the firelight catch her face. Just enough for him to see.
As he instinctively took a step in her direction, the air shimmered—
And Morrigan winnowed into the room, voice already mid-rant. “What the hell is going on? I swear if you made me share the same air as Keir just to—”
She froze.
She stared.
The blood drained from her face.
“No,” Mor whispered. “No. That’s not—”
Her voice cracked. She took a step forward. And then another, slower. Almost afraid. “We thought you were—Rhys said you were gone. We grieved you.”
Her expression softened. Just slightly. “I know.”
“You died,” Mor choked. “I—”
“I didn’t.”
Her voice wasn’t cold. Just tired.
“Mother above,” Mor breathed. “It’s really you.”
And then Amren appeared, in a swish of silver and cold.
She scanned the room. Took one long look at the cloaked figure. And unlike the others, didn’t freeze.
She tilted her head.
“Well,” Amren said coolly. “I’ll be damned.”
The second-in-command female gave her a once-over, arms folded. “Still using chaos as your calling card?”
The golden-eyed revenant arched a brow, not once breaking eye contact. “Still collecting trinkets and terrifying males?”
Amren’s lip twitched. “I should’ve known the attacks had your signature on them. Subtle as ever.”
The woman shrugged. “Subtle doesn’t get messages across.”
A beat of quiet.
Amren tilted her head, a glint of something like approval flickering in her ancient gaze. “Good,” she murmured. “I’d hate to think you’d gone soft.”
The female’s mouth curved—barely. “You always did have a warped idea of softness.”
But the tension between them wasn’t harsh. Not quite. There was a flicker of familiarity. Of something like respect.
And then silence again. The kind that meant there was too much to say—and no time to say it.
Still, she could feel it. The weight of a gaze locked on her.
Hazel eyes. Unmoving. Watching.
She met them, finally.
A second passed. One heartbeat.
Two.
And it felt like the whole room tilted.
So many words unsaid.
So much weight.
But it wasn’t just his gaze she felt.
Just beyond him, she caught the brown-eyed female. Lovely, all delicate features. Draped in softness, in sweetness, in everything she never was. She noticed the way the girl’s hand hovered near his, too casual to be coincidence. Familiar. Intentional.
The scent of flowers and honey curled in her throat. She almost gagged on it.
Something in her chest coiled, but she smothered it before it could rise.
She looked away first.
“Wait–Hold on. Where have you been? How are you here?” Mor’s voice wavered, thin and disbelieving, cutting through the charged silence and dragging her gaze from the male standing motionless—as if carved from stone—and his lovely shadow dressed in bloom. “I saw you fall and–and Rhys confirmed to us you died. I–I mourned you.” Her final words cracked around the edges, barely holding together. Her eyes scanned the female as if trying to find the seams in the illusion. As if convinced she’d dissolve if Mor blinked too long. “And now…now you are here.” Her voice dipped into a breathless whisper, as if the truth of them had only just landed—and it hit hard. Too hard. Her expression twisted—shock still warring with something darker. Like she wanted to be angry, needed to be, just to hold back the grief clawing at her edges.
“Standing in front of us as if nothing has happened.” Her voice sharpened. “Why would you do that? How could you do that?” To me. She didn’t need to say it aloud but the weight of it was there. It settled between them like ash.
The female didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Only said, “I could explain to you the hows and whys, but I think it would be more fun to hear it coming from the one who orchestrated everything, don’t you think?” Her voice was calm—almost too calm. But there was something simmering underneath it. A glint of challenge. A thread of buried fury woven into silk.
She turned her head slowly toward him. “What’d you think, Rhysand? I always did enjoy listening to a good storyteller.”
All eyes turned to the High Lord, who until now had kept to the shadows of the room. He stood with Feyre and their son positioned protectively behind him—his silence no longer a shield but a spotlight.
His posture was a practiced stillness—one he’d mastered over centuries of war and diplomacy. But inside… his heart was thundering. The sight of her—alive, standing, breathing—was a blow he hadn’t prepared for. Not even in his nightmares. Not even in his hopes.
And now, every lie he’d told to keep his court together, every excuse he’d spun, was unraveling—thread by thread.
“What does she mean, Rhys?” Feyre’s voice was quiet. Controlled. But her hand had gripped his arm, tightly.
He didn’t answer.
Because her eyes were still on him. Pinning him like a butterfly beneath glass. There was no softness in them. No mercy. Rhysand could feel the weight of it—her gaze, like a blade held at his throat. Daring him to lie. Daring him to not say it. And from either side of the room, four more gazes pressed in.
Cassian’s: wide with disbelief, waiting—needing—answers.
Azriel’s: colder. Sharper. Burning with a fury so quiet it could only have come from grief.
To the side, Mor stood frozen mid-step, golden hair catching the firelight. Her mouth parted, but no sound came out. She looked between her cousin and the female she hadn’t seen in centuries. Her face was pale, the beginnings of realization dawning like a storm behind her eyes.
Amren sat back in her chair, her expression unreadable, but her silver eyes narrowed on Rhysand with laser precision. She hadn’t said a word either—but she was watching. Not just the scene unfolding, but everyone. Measuring truths. Measuring lies. Her stillness was a warning in itself.
“Would you like for me to make an introduction or would you prefer taking center stage?” Her tone was laced with mockery, but just beneath the sarcasm lurked the sharp edge of frustration—like a long-held dam threatening to break.
Cassian breathed her name like a plea—soft, like it would settle her. It didn’t. It only helped to light a fuse beneath her skin. The weight of it, the familiarity, the audacity. Was he seriously trying to play peacekeeper now? After everything she’d already been forced to carry alone?
Her voice snapped like a whip. “Shut up.”
She turned to Rhys once more. If they were going to stand there and pretend ignorance, then fine. She’d spell it out for them.
“Won’t you like to know how your brother handed me over to the enemy like I was just some fucking inconvenience?” Her voice rose—not in volume, but in fury. Low and shaking and sharp. “Or how he watched me beg for help when, suddenly, my body didn’t respond to me?” A brittle laugh broke from her lips, all edges and old wounds. There was no humor in it. No cruelty either. Just the brutal edge of a wound that had never healed.
Rhysand’s stomach hollowed.
It scraped through the room like shattered glass.
“Oh, would you like to explain to them why that happened, Rhys?”
Silence fell. Total. Suffocating.
Rhysand opened his mouth. Then closed it.
Azriel’s shadows coiled tighter now, pulsing around him like restless sentries. As if they could sense something his body hadn’t yet allowed itself to feel.
He couldn’t stop watching her.
The cut of her jaw, sharper now. The way her stance held weight, not just from the steel at her back, but from something deeper—grief calcified into bone. The tilt of her chin, defiant and exhausted in equal measure. The brief sight of new, faint tattooed lines, branching out and resembling lightning, going up her arms and disappearing under her leathers; ones that were worn and plain, travel-stained and practical. No jewels, no flourish. Just her—and somehow, that made her more striking than he remembered.
But it wasn’t just how she looked.
It was the silence she carried like a cloak.
It was the stillness in her eyes, the kind you only learn after you’ve lost too much, too young, for too long.
What made him excel at his job was the fact that he had always been good at reading people—at seeing what was buried beneath the surface. And with her… he saw it all.
The fury in her voice might have been aimed at Rhys, but beneath it, Azriel could feel the pulse of something else. Something cracked and quietly bleeding. A kind of tired that didn’t sleep. A sorrow that didn’t speak its name.
She was angry, yes.
But she was also hurting.
And he understood that hurt more than most would.
He’d known the girl she’d once been. The girl who laughed too loudly at Cassian’s jokes and used to steal his books. Who slept with her head against the armrest whenever he was reading just to keep him company. The one he’d sparred with in quiet corners, who thought silence was safer than asking for help.
And this female before him?
She was still her. But not.
There was a new stillness to her. Like standing before a frozen lake—you could admire the beauty of it, the sheer, clean edge of the ice, but beneath it ran dark, cold currents you’d drown in if you weren’t careful.
Azriel couldn’t look away.
He didn’t know what he expected to feel when he saw her again—if he’d feel anger for the way she vanished, or guilt for how they’d failed her. But all he could feel was the weight of the distance between them. A distance not just of time, but of everything unsaid. Everything broken.
She had every fucking reason to be this angry, this wounded, this hard. And still, all he wanted—all he wanted—was to step between her and the pain. To reach for her, steady her, shield her from all of it like he hadn’t done when she’d truly needed it.
But would she even let him?
Would she flinch from his touch the way she had flinched all those months ago?
He wanted to protect her.
Even if she didn’t need it now. Even if she might stab him for trying.
She had survived something none of them had seen. Had endured far beyond what they’d all assumed she couldn’t. And he—
He wanted to know her.
He wanted to know what had been carved away and what had been built in its place. What had been lost. But he also wanted to learn the new pieces—the armor she’d had to forge, the edges she’d had to sharpen just to make it back alive. Just to exist again.
What still lived behind those eyes he used to know better than his own reflection?
What had she sacrificed to stand here now, cloaked in silence and fury?
What had it cost her?
Could he ever be worthy of even asking?
And maybe if she’d let him, he wanted to earn the right to stand beside her again.
Whatever she’d become in the years she’d been gone… a part of him had never stopped looking.
Not really.
Not when she became the only silence he could never quite find peace in.
Azriel couldn’t look at Rhys without feeling something twist inside him.
He had followed Rhysand into war, into darkness, into every impossible choice—and never once flinched.
Until now.
His brother was composed, too composed. Still as stone, jaw tight, gaze unreadable. But Azriel knew him too well. He saw the tension in the way Rhys’s hand subtly shifted in front of Feyre, the careful way he stood between her and their son—as if the female across the room posed a threat.
She had posed a threat. But only to the truth.
And that, Azriel realized, was what Rhys feared most in this moment. Not her wrath. Not her return.
But what she might say.
And wasn’t that telling?
Azriel’s jaw clenched. Because even now—after all this time, after all this pain—Rhys hadn’t said a word. No denial. No explanation. Just silence.
A silence Azriel might’ve once interpreted as strategy. Restraint.
Now it felt like cowardice.
He didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t want to believe that Rhysand, who had once sworn to protect them all like family, had made a choice that damned her. That left her to rot in some prison of shadows while they grieved a ghost.
He’d seen the wound beneath her calm.
Something Rhys had put there.
And that… that was harder to swallow than anything else.
Because if it was true—
If Rhys had let her fall…
If he had decided she was expendable, a sacrifice made in the name of some greater good—
Then what did that mean for everything they were?
Azriel kept his face blank. His shadows knew better than to react.
But inside, a slow, cold fury was building. Not explosive like Cassian’s, not loud.
Something quieter. Sharper.
Rhys hadn’t just miscalculated.
He had lied.
And whatever came next… Azriel would not forget that.
Not when it had cost her everything.
But Azriel had always known how to bury things.
Pain. Doubt. Longing. He was a master of silence, of shadow, of holding truths in his mouth like they were knives too dangerous to set loose. Loyalty had always been a clean line for him—clear, unwavering, etched in stone. Rhysand was his brother, his High Lord. The one who had pulled him out of the hells of his childhood, who had given him purpose, a place, a voice—even if that voice was most often used in whispers.
But tonight, that line blurred.
He watched her speak, saw how she looked not at the floor or the ceiling but straight through Rhys, eyes sharp as blades honed in silence and survival. The same eyes that used to hold mischief, defiance, the fierce fire of someone who trusted the people around her. That fire was different now. Still burning, but colder. More dangerous.
And Mother help him, Azriel understood.
Because he knew the way people broke quietly—how they bled out belief, drop by agonizing drop, until the only thing left to believe in was yourself.
And he knew Rhysand. Knew how far his brother would go to protect the bigger picture—even if it meant cutting pieces out of the frame.
So he began to do what he always did when the world tilted.
He started sorting things.
Loyalty to Rhysand.
Loyalty to this Court.
Loyalty to her.
He didn’t know yet which would win out. But he understood now, with a cold clarity, that they might no longer be the same thing.
And it terrified him.
Because if Rhys had truly done what she implied—if he had let her be taken, if he had made the call and never told them, never told him—then Azriel would have to ask himself a question he’d never dared to before:
What happens when the person you trust most turns out to be the reason someone else you care about suffered?
He wasn’t ready to answer it. Not yet.
But in the corner of his mind, he began building the walls anyway.
Not to shut Rhys out entirely.
But to protect himself if—when—he had to choose.
Because he wasn’t just watching her now.
He was watching Rhys too.
And for the first time in centuries, he wasn’t sure which of them he’d follow if those paths ever split.
Mor finally found her voice. “Rhys…” she whispered. “What did you do?” But even she didn’t seem sure whether it was a question or an accusation.
Amren, from her seat, gave a soft snort. “Well? Say something, boy, before she tears your spine out and feeds it to your own pet shadows.”
No one laughed.
Not even Cassian, whose hands had curled into fists, trembling slightly at his sides. Who looked like he might be sick.
“Well?” she asked.
Time was up.
Rhysand couldn’t run from this anymore.
Feyre’s voice cut in, tight and confused. “Rhys, for Cauldron’s sake, what is going on?”
Nyx was quietly in her arms, one small hand clutched in her gown. But his violet eyes were locked—not on his father, or his mother, but on the female across the room.
Rhysand straightened, gaze never wavering from the female across from him. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse—but steady. “I had to make a choice.”
The silence pulled taut, a thread ready to snap.
“A choice,” she repeated, soft and disbelieving. “That’s what you’re calling it?”
He inclined his head. “It wasn’t an easy one. You were outnumbered, surrounded. We had seconds. And the information we had… it pointed to a trap. One that risked not just your life, but hundreds of others.”
Her laugh was low. Empty. “You violated my trust.”
She took a step forward. Rhys didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his eyes as her next words fell, deliberate and quiet:
“It took me time to realize why I couldn’t move. Why my body didn’t respond—why I couldn’t even scream. I saw you above me. Stone-faced. Still. And then I felt it, faint but there—velvet and cold. Your talons in my mind. Wrapping around it. Silencing it. Holding me down.”
Her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury so raw it scraped bone.
“You made yourself judge, jury, and executioner. And you handed me over—gift-wrapped—to our enemy.”
A sharp inhale echoed from Feyre. Cassian muttered something under his breath, a curse swallowed by disbelief.
“I didn’t understand at first,” she went on, tone tight. “I kept asking myself why. Why would my brother leave me there? Why would he do that? Why would he betray me?” Her fingers clenched at her sides. “I kept asking myself that as the first arrow struck. And the second. And the third. Each one laced with faebane. And then… then I asked it again for years. In a dark hole beneath the earth, as they tore pieces from me and stitched them back together just to start all over again. For ninety years.”
The room was stone-still.
She paused, her jaw trembling before she forced the words out.
“I became their entertainment. Their toy. But even then, even as they carved me up and left me bleeding and barely alive in the dark—I never gave them anything. Not a single name. Not a secret.” Her eyes burned now, fixed on Rhys. “I protected this Court, even as it abandoned me.”
Rhys's composure wavered—only just. He opened his mouth.
“Don’t,” she snapped.
She stepped forward again, and Azriel found himself shifting slightly, instinct tightening in his gut. She didn’t need protection—he knew that. But his body itched to offer it anyway.
“I shouldn’t have cared if it burned.” she said. “But I’m not you, Rhys. I don’t betray my people. And the people here aren’t to blame for the monster they follow. The people didn’t betray me. You did.”
Her words cracked the air.
Across from her, Rhysand stood motionless—no longer the powerful High Lord of the Night Court, but something far more raw. More haunted. He stared at her as if trying to hold onto the shape of her now that the truth was laid bare between them. But there was no shape he could mold her into that would make this easier.
So he spoke.
Low. Rough. A voice trying not to tremble.
“There was a prophecy.”
The room stilled again. Even Nyx looked up at the change in his father’s tone.
“It was passed down to me once. A long time ago. From my father.” Rhysand’s eyes didn’t leave hers.
Her confusion etched plainly across her face. Rhys reached for the worn leather-bound tome resting on the desk beside him—a translation of the scrolls passed down from High Lord to High Lord. The pages crackled faintly as he turned to the marked passage, careful, reverent. The ink was faded in places, but the translation was still legible, scrawled in the slanted handwriting of a High Priestess long dead.
He read aloud, his words slow and deliberate:
“And when the final storm awakens, the skies shall be torn asunder.
Lightning shall carve the heavens, and thunder shall shatter the earth.
Their fury shall be unrelenting; their wrath, unyielding.
And where they walk, ruin shall follow— For they are the storm that ends all wars.”
He looked up slowly as the words settled between them, hanging in the air like smoke—dense and clinging, curling through her thoughts and refusing to clear.
It didn’t make sense.
It made too much sense.
“Should the storm be unleashed, the world shall bow—or be undone.”
The line surfaced unbidden, echoing in her mind—familiar in a way that made her stomach tighten. Older. Deeper. From the dreams that returned night after night, always ending in fire and ash and her—wreathed in lightning, standing where the world had cracked.
Her breath caught in her chest, shallow and too fast, as if her lungs suddenly forgot how to work properly. Her body remained still, but inside, she felt like she was falling—spiraling down through every memory, every unanswered question, through nightmares, through a prophecy that had always worn her face.
She was drowning in the space between then and now. Between the moment Rhysand chose to let her fall, and the truth he was finally speaking into the open.
A prophecy.
A storm.
A destroyer.
Rhysand’s voice pulled her back. “It was translated from an old tongue,” he added. “At first I naively thought it was about a warrior. A symbol of hope. I thought it meant someone would rise to help end our suffering. A weapon the world needed to break free. But that night, when I saw what was beginning to awaken in you…” He exhaled. “I understood. The prophecy wasn’t about salvation. It was a warning.”
Cassian spoke softly. “You never mentioned it before.”
“I didn’t think it mattered,” Rhys said. “Not then. I grew up with old stories and half-burned scrolls. Riddles dressed as legends. None of it ever felt real. I didn’t care much for myths.”
He drew a breath, the next words slower.
“But then I saw her. I’m guessing high emotions triggered it…” She looked away. Lowered her eyes like they were too heavy to hold his gaze. Because she remembered—
The way Azriel had fallen.
The sickening sound of his body hitting the ground.
And how something ancient and foreign inside her had cracked open.
“...The sky began to bend around her. The air itself went still. Like the world was holding its breath.”
A silence fell over them again. Uneasy. Unwilling.
“I saw the power waking up inside her,” he said. “And I realized—this prophecy wasn’t about ending the war or saving us. It was about ending everything.”
He turned his gaze fully on her. “If you had let go—if you’d truly given in—there wouldn’t have been anything left. Not of our enemies. Not of Prythian. Not even of us.” He swallowed. “So I did the only thing I could. I stopped you. I stopped the storm.”
A pause. A whisper. “And I lost you forever.”
Her heart thundered so loud she could barely hear him. Her mind raced, trying to catch up, trying to make sense of the ground shifting beneath her.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
This wasn’t supposed to be her.
Mor’s voice broke the silence. “Is that all the texts said?”
“No,” Amren murmured, her silver eyes distant. “I’ve read them too. Before the scrolls vanished.”
Rhys blinked. “You can read Iskra’tan?”
The old tongue. Most scholars could barely decipher fragments—let alone speak it. And yet Amren said it like she’d lived with it.
“Yes,” Amren said simply.
Cassian frowned. “How the fuck do you even know it?”
Amren didn’t answer at first. Only tilted her head, silver eyes glinting. “I remember it,” she said simply.
Mor’s brows knitted. “From where?”
Amren’s smile faded. “From before.”
She continued, lifting a shoulder. “It’s older than the mountains. Difficult to translate without... context.”
“Context?” Feyre echoed warily.
Amren’s smile was slow. Unreadable. “It is not a language you learn in books, girl,” she went on, tone distant now. “Iskra’tan is… primal. It was never meant to be transcribed—I’m impressed someone managed to, somehow.” She explained. “It was carved into the world before your kind ever walked it. You don’t read it. You listen.”
They stared.
“And you understand it?” Feyre asked, disbelieving.
A glimmer of amusement sparked in Amren’s eyes. “Well enough.”
Silence again.
Then Amren turned her attention back to her. Her silver eyes, usually so sharp and dismissive, were watching her as though she were a blade unsheathed. Something like awe in her gaze.
“They spoke of a lost kingdom,” Amren said. “A bloodline that should have died out. It was said their very existence threatened the balance of this world. Not because they were evil—no, the Gods do not fear monsters.” She tilted her head. “They feared what could not be controlled.”
The words slammed into her chest.
“They could bend the skies,” Amren went on. “Crack the fabric of reality itself. Maybe more. No one really knows. But it was believed that, if one of them ever reached their full potential, they wouldn’t just defeat their enemies—they’d shatter the world.” She held her gaze. “The only reason it never happened before was because they were wiped out before they could reach that point. Hunted until none remained.”
Amren paused.
“Or so they thought.”
The room blurred.
Her thoughts scattered. Dizzy, jagged, directionless.
Too much. It was too much.
Was this who she was?
Some... ancient weapon?
“And you think she’s one of them?” Feyre asked quietly.
Rhysand didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
The truth was already written in the set of his shoulders. In the way he couldn’t look away from her.
In the way he’d let her fall. Chosen it.
Her fingers curled at her sides to stop the trembling, to ground herself in something, anything. But the ache in her chest kept growing. A raw, trembling weight behind her sternum, pressing into her lungs, into her spine, into the very seams of her bones.
Her voice had vanished somewhere. Her mind scrambled to process it all—the betrayal, the prophecy, the bloodline she had never heard of, the things she had felt inside her and never dared to name.
And worse still—the dreams.
The dreams she'd had for years. A ruined kingdom, crumbling towers choked in ivy and ash. A river that bled red. The unfamiliar symbols etched in stone walls that felt too familiar. The cold marble beneath her feet as bodies reached for her. The deafening screams and the storms that always followed.
Had those dreams not been nightmares?
Had they been memories?
Were those people—the ones who called to her across the veil, who screamed her name as the walls cracked and the skies turned black—hers?
Was that ruined place where she came from?
Was she the reason it fell?
Her thoughts spiraled faster than she could catch them. Doubt sank in like ice water in her lungs.
Maybe this was why Rhysand had done it.
Maybe he had been right to let them take her.
She tried to be angry again, to stoke the fire that had burned so hot a moment ago—but it flickered now, dimmed by the overwhelming certainty that maybe—maybe—she had never been meant to survive.
That she shouldn’t have.
She had begged for death in that dungeon more times than she could count. Had hoped for it. And maybe—maybe if it had come, the world would’ve been safer for it.
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she wouldn’t let them fall.
She couldn’t.
Because how could she let them see that underneath the fury, underneath the wounded pride and rage, there was only this:
A female who didn’t understand what she was.
Who never had.
Who wished she could go back in time and never listen to Theron when he told her to come here. Who wished she'd stayed hidden with him, far from the Night Court and its shadows and its history and its truths.
Ignorance would have been a kindness.
They could have stayed by the sea, in that sun-warmed villa, chasing chaos across distant lands, letting the world forget she ever existed.
And maybe—maybe she should have been forgotten.
Maybe that was the only mercy she’d been denied.
Her heart pounded, her breath caught—and across the room, Azriel saw it all.
She wasn’t saying a word, but she may as well have been screaming.
Because every emotion painted itself on her face like a storm rolling in: confusion, grief, a dawning terror. The look of someone suddenly unmade. And Azriel—he watched as if each crack in her resolve echoed in his own ribs.
He didn’t move, but his shadows did.
They hovered near her, restless and reaching, as if unsure whether to touch her or not. As if unsure whether she would shatter or unleash a force that would level them all.
Her throat worked around a breath, rough and thin. Like her lungs had forgotten how to function.
She didn’t look at anyone. She just stared at the far wall—at nothing—as her voice finally slipped free.
Soft. Tired.
“Maybe you were right,” she said, her eyes cast down. A breath in. A breath out. “Maybe I am something to be afraid of.”
The words hung there. Flat. Lifeless. As if even she didn’t know whether she meant them. The silence that followed pressed in from all sides.
“No,” Azriel said. Quietly. Firmly. The first word he’d spoken since she’d arrived.
She looked up, slowly, into his face.
His shadows stirred gently at her side, not in warning, but in comfort.
“You’re not a monster,” Azriel went on, voice low but steady. “You never were.”
Her throat worked around the knot lodged there. But she said nothing.
Rhysand’s mouth opened slightly—but no words came. Maybe because he heard what everyone else did:
She wasn’t accusing him anymore.
She was accepting it.
Worse.
He stepped forward. Slowly. No High Lord mask now—just a male who looked older than she remembered, more tired than she’d ever seen him.
“I thought I was protecting everyone,” he said, voice hoarse. “I thought I was protecting you.”
The apology wasn’t eloquent.
It wasn’t enough.
“I didn’t need your protection,” she replied, not with venom, but exhaustion. “I needed my brother.”
Surprisingly, Amren was the one who stepped forward next.
Only a step—but it was something. The silver in her eyes shimmered, the faintest trace of what they’d once been. She didn’t speak right away. Just looked at her like someone who saw too much.
Her voice was low, quiet, but unmistakably steady. “You weren’t born for shelter, girl. You were born from the storm itself. Wild. Unwritten. You’ll never fit in their neat little kingdoms. You were meant for something greater.” A faint curve pulled at her lips. “You keep trying to be understood. Stop. You weren’t made for understanding. You were made to be felt.”
The female didn’t answer. Didn’t acknowledge it. But the words found her anyway. Sank deep.
Cassian shifted next—just a little, his arms folding over his chest again like he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise. The look in his eyes said it all. That big brother kind of grief. The helpless kind.
He cleared his throat. His voice was a poor cover for the emotion choking it. “I was supposed to protect you,” he muttered. “Back then. I—I didn’t. And I don’t know how to make that right.” She turned to him, just slightly. “But you’re not alone. Not now. Not ever again. I don’t care if the whole damn mountain shakes when you breathe. You’re still my sister.”
The female blinked once. Just once.
Mor… Mor had tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She made no move to hide them.
“You were my sister,” she whispered. “You are. And I don’t care if you can split the skies in two. That never scared me. And it never will.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. The room was too much—too many truths, too many eyes, too many pieces of herself scattered across the floor like someone had taken a blade to her past and split it wide open.
Her throat tightened. The room blurred at the edges. She didn’t want to cry in front of them. Something in her locked down, like a gate slamming shut in a crumbling hall.
Her gaze dropped to the floor. Her shoulders drew back—but not in pride.
In armor.
A fortress rebuilt in a blink.
“I’m tired,” she said finally. The words scraped against her throat. “I need—” she broke off, then tried again, “I need to go.”
Cassian moved instantly, almost panicked. “Wait—don’t—”
“Please,” Mor said, already circling to intercept, her voice trembling. “You just got back—”
They all felt it—that same gut-deep instinct the winged Illyrian males felt in the forest, the same one that screamed if she leaves, we may never find her again.
Her gaze swept the room. The hurt in it. The confusion. The hope no one dared name.
“I’ll come back,” she said, quiet but sure.
“No one will stop you,” Rhysand said, but his voice was hollow. Ash in the wind. “But please—don’t disappear again.”
A hundred words waited on her tongue. But she swallowed them down. Too raw. Too unfinished.
“You can stay here—” Feyre rushed to offer.
“No, I can’t.” she shook her head slightly.
Then she exhaled—and vanished.
The air around her warped.
Like lightning through glass.
A shimmer along the seams of the world, threads of raw pressure and storm cracking outward in thin, silvery lines. The space she occupied seemed to fold in on itself, pressure building so fast it made the walls hum, the fire gutter. The temperature dropped. The scent of ozone rushed in. Sparks—real sparks—danced in the air, gold and white and pale blue.
And then the room shuddered with a sound like distant thunder.
She was gone.
Just… gone.
Like the storm had come for her and taken her back.
And the room—so full of tension and hurt and grief—stood still again.
Except for Azriel.
Who hadn’t stopped watching the place where she’d stood.
Not even when Mor sank into a chair, shell-shocked. Not even when Cassian cursed under his breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. Not when Elain moved towards her sister and nephew.
The silence she left behind wasn’t quiet.
It thrummed. It sang. It ached.
And as the others stood frozen in the echo of her departure, Azriel only breathed her in.
Because some fools ran from the storm.
But he—
He’d always been the kind to step into it, head bowed, heart bare, hoping it would swallow him whole.
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💬⚡ — if you wanna be added to the taglist, just leave me a comment below! – i do expect a reblog and/or a comment once i tag you tho 🫵🏽🤨 also, there's a few accounts i can't tag so you might wanna check your settings for it x
✦ WARNINGS: ANGST, violence, language, brief mentions of torture, Girlie's eye color is described (this is needed, it'll make sense later. Apart from that, I try to keep her description vague), Rhys being cryptic. No beta'd.
✦ MAY'S RADIO: When there's angst involved I cannot hold myself back, sorry 🥺😞 (🤪). In this chapter we learn a little bit more about her story and how every action has its consequence. Oh also, Rhys can fuck off.
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The Sidra flowed in endless, shimmering ribbons along the River House, its gentle currents betraying nothing of the storm brewing beyond its waters. The sky stretched dark above Velaris, stars hidden behind shifting clouds, as if the city itself braced for the unknown.
Rhysand stood at the window, hands clasped behind his back, his violet eyes fixed on the water but seeing something far beyond it. The weight of the looming war pressed against his bones, a familiar, suffocating pressure that had never truly left him—not since Hybern, not since the battles that had nearly cost him everything. His violet eyes burned with exhaustion, his mind a restless storm of calculations, possibilities, and the fragile thread of hope he clung to.
An old god stirring. A war creeping ever closer. The pieces shifting, unseen, on the board.
The shadows curled in the corner of the room. Silent, seamless, inevitable. From them Azriel emerged.
The High Lord did not startle, did not turn from the window as his brother materialized behind him. The scent of night and cedar filled the room, the crackling remnants of his shadows still whispering before fading back into him.
Rhysand didn’t turn. “That was quick.”
Azriel took a step forward, the scent of cold wind clinging to him. “It was urgent.”
At that, Rhysand finally looked away from the river. “What did your spies find?”
Azriel’s wings fold neatly at his back. “The same rumors we’ve heard for centuries, but this time…” He hesitated for only a breath. “This time, I believe them.”
Azriel’s expression did not shift, but the air in the room did—heavier, charged, like a storm waiting to break. “One of my spies in Autumn sent word.” He paused, as if considering how best to say it. “A village was attacked by raiders near the western border.”
Rhysand arched a brow. “Not uncommon for Beron’s lands.”
Azriel nodded once. “Only one raider survived.”
The High Lord hummed, taking a seat at his desk, a silent invitation for his brother to continue.
“The survivor stumbled into a tavern. Raving. Terrified,” the Shadowsinger said, voice low, edged in quiet interest. “He spoke of a living myth.”
That piqued Rhysand’s interest, his brow furrowed. “A myth?”
Azriel’s fingers curled at his side, as if gripping something invisible. “He claimed lightning came alive. That it took form in a female—wielded as if by her command.”
The High Lord said nothing, but the sharp flicker in his violet eyes spoke volumes.
Recognition.
It flashed, brief as a heartbeat, before he could school his expression. Could it be—?
Hope—wild, reckless, unbearable—filled his veins, making his breath hitch imperceptibly. Then, just as quickly, guilt crashed into him, drowning out the momentary relief. It swallowed him whole, clawing at his insides like a beast set free.
No one knew what he had done. No one knew the choice he had been forced to make to keep his people alive. And he preferred it stayed that way.
But if the ancient texts and prophecies were true… If lightning had truly taken form…
Azriel continued. “He described her as swift, deadly. The air itself turned to electricity when she moved. He barely escaped with his life. The others weren’t so lucky.”
A beat of silence. The quiet hum of magic in the walls, of the Sidra flowing endlessly outside the windows.
“Her?” Rhysand echoed, brushing an invisible speck of lint from the sleeve of his immaculate suit, a gesture of feigned nonchalance. “So it's believed to be a female.” His voice was smooth, casual, almost idle—an act meant to veil the way the words had stolen the air from his lungs. He tried to sound intrigued, but not personally so. Detached. Just another thread of information in a web of many.
He forced himself to push the past into the grave where it belonged.
Rhysand kept his eyes fixed on the imaginary speck clinging to his sleeve, as if brushing it away could erase the tremor in his chest. Only when he was certain his mask was firmly in place did he lift his gaze to meet Azriel’s. His face was unreadable—smooth, calm, a mask honed over centuries.
But Azriel, sharp-eyed and silent as shadow, studied him with that same quiet intensity that made even seasoned warriors falter. A flicker in his violet eyes. A twitch too subtle for most to notice, but Azriel saw it. Felt it.
“It appears so, yes,” the Spymaster said at last, voice low and even.
The Lord of Night gave a slow, deliberate nod. “You truly believe there’s truth in his words, brother?”
Azriel’s voice was calm, but Rhysand caught the question buried beneath the words—the one he knew his brother would never voice. Why had Rhys been so insistent on this lead, this myth? Why now?
But Azriel didn’t ask. He never would. Not outright. Still, he was watching—always watching. And while most would see nothing amiss in the Night Court’s High Lord sitting still behind a desk, fingers idly trailing over a stack of ancient tomes, Azriel saw it all. The tightness in Rhysand’s jaw. The way he avoided looking directly at him for just a moment too long. The controlled stillness that only ever surfaced when something dug too deep to name.
He had known Rhys for centuries—had lived more years knowing him than not. And he recognized the signs. The buried weight of something unspoken.
But so did Rhysand, and he didn’t need to hear the question to understand the curious look in his brother's eyes.
“They’ve been studying something,” he said quietly, his fingertip dragging along the cracked spine of the topmost book in the stack. “Amren and the priestesses. Old records. Fragments of theories scrawled by half-mad scholars who’ve been dust for millennia.”
He tapped the leather-bound cover with a measured rhythm. “It’s mostly nonsense. But there are... threads. Echoes.”
Azriel said nothing, waiting.
Rhys opened the book with deliberate care, flipping through pages filled with brittle, ink-stained script. He paused, tracing a single passage—translated by the ancient one,—with his fingertip before reading aloud.
“There was once a kingdom lost to time. A bloodline so feared, so unnatural, that even the Gods sought to erase their existence. Magic woven into the fabric of the world itself, ancient beyond reckoning. It could call storms. Bend energy. Fracture reality.”
He lifted his gaze to meet his brother’s. “The accounts say their power was so uncontrollable, so raw, that entire civilizations were wiped from existence because of it.”
Azriel’s expression didn’t shift, but his shadows whispered, twisting uneasily around him.
Rhysand continued, voice softer now, like he was speaking of something that should never have been forgotten. “The only reason it never destroyed this world? Because their people were hunted. Killed. Wiped from history before any of them could reach the full extent of their power.”
Azriel’s jaw tightened. “But if one survived…”
Rhys hummed in agreement to his lingering thoughts. He tilted his head, studying his brother’s face, as if he was trying to find something there. “We've heard the stories that have spread across Prythian for the last two centuries. Legends of a being made of lightning.” He glanced up. “A ghost.”
“But no one has ever seen them–her clearly enough to tell what she is. Some believe she is a spirit of vengeance. Others call her an omen.” Azriel’s voice darkened slightly.
Rhys exhaled slowly, standing up and moving to pour himself a glass of wine and offering another to the spymaster.
“There are those who claim this ghost has helped them,” Azriel continued, softly shaking his head to the offer. “Killed bandits, slayed offenders, torn apart those who prey on the weak. Others tell their stories in hushed voices, speaking of something terrible. Something they barely survived. A legend. But not a savior.”
Rhysand’s heart thundered in his chest.
He had always known.
He turned a blind eye, but he had always known that—
After centuries, he had not dared to believe. Not dared to let himself think she might have survived after what he had done.
But if it was true—if she was alive, if it was truly her these stories spoke of—then she was the only one who could save them.
The priestesses had scoured the old texts, desperate for answers, for something that could turn the tide against Koschei and the war slithering toward them like a slow, inevitable death.
A storm given flesh. A force of nature woven into the world itself.
They who walk between energy and ruin. Between power and oblivion.
An old prophecy’s fragment echoed in his head.
Now, they had one last chance.
One last chance to find her.
To convince her to fight.
Because if she was truly what the legends whispered of, then she was not just another weapon.
Rhys’s throat tightened, his hands curling tighter around his glass. “Find her.” He met Azriel’s eyes. “Take Cassian with you. I’ll contact Eris to let him know of your presence in his court.”
Azriel didn’t need to be told twice. He gave a curt nod before shadows swallowed him whole, pulling him into the night.
Rhysand let out a slow breath, his fingers pressing into his temple. A storm was coming—one of his own making, and not even he could predict how it would end.
Find her.
The words echoed in his skull like a decree from the Mother herself. It would be the hardest encounter he and his brothers had ever faced—not a battle of steel, but of truth. Of past sins laid bare.
His throat tightened. He knew what would happen the moment they found her, the moment the shadows pulled back and revealed what had been hiding in plain sight all these years. The initial shock of realizing that the ghost of legend was not just a story—was not a total unknown face—would consume them all. But once that shock faded, once the reality of what he had done settled in…
His brothers would resent him for it.
Cassian, whose loyalty was unshakable—who had always stood by him, even in the darkest of times—would struggle to reconcile his faith in him with the truth.
Azriel… Azriel would take it the hardest.
Rhys had kept this from them. Had kept her from them.
And he would pay for it.
But still—despite the dread curling in his gut, despite the weight of the past pressing down on his bones—there was something else beneath it all.
Excitement.
A selfish, wicked part of him itched to see her again. To look into those aurulent eyes that had once burned so brightly, to see what two centuries of solitude and survival had turned her into. Had she changed? Had she hardened? Or was there still something left of the one he had known?
A fool’s hope, perhaps.
Still, Rhysand lifted his gaze to the window, to the starless sky beyond, and let himself whisper the one truth he dared not voice aloud.
Mother help me, I want to see her again.
The shack was nothing more than a skeleton now—wood warped and rotting, the roof half-collapsed beneath the weight of centuries. Moss clung to the stone, vines curling over what remained of a door, as if nature itself had tried to swallow it whole. The wind whispered through the cracks like a forgotten lullaby.
Cassian landed first, boots crunching against the brittle grass outside, his wings stretching once before tucking in. Azriel followed silently, shadows coiling close to his body like they, too, sensed something long buried.
They stepped through the broken threshold, into silence.
Dust coated every surface. Ash from the long-cold hearth drifted in the still air. No signs of recent life. No footprints. No fire. No warmth.
And yet—
Azriel froze.
A scent. Faint. Fainter than memory.
Like charred cedar, with the metallic bite of ozone just before lightning strikes. Of rare blossoms blooming under foreign stars, wild and untamed. And beneath it all, the ghost of amber resin and the haunting uniqueness of crushed spices.
His knees nearly buckled.
It was hers.
The breath caught in his chest so violently it hurt. His throat burned with something dangerously close to grief. To hope.
No.
It couldn’t be. It was impossible. She had vanished. Died, if the stories were to be believed. Rhysand had said she was lost. That whatever she had once been was gone.
But the scent wrapped around him like a memory too vivid to ignore.
He clenched his fists, trying to steady himself, but the ache was too much. Too familiar. His mind spiraled with the weight of it. Why now? Why here?
The shadows began to stir.
Not in warning—but with urgency. They spun around him, pulling, tugging toward the open world beyond the crumbling shack.
Forest.
Forest.
Come.
“Az?” Cassian asked, brow furrowed. “What is it?”
Couldn’t he smell it, too?
Didn’t he recognize it?
Azriel’s voice was tight. “She was here.”
Cassian stilled.
The silence stretched before Azriel turned sharply on his heel and strode out into the air. His wings flared as he launched upward, his brother right behind him. They soared through the twilight sky, the dying gold of evening bleeding into dusk, heading north—toward the dense forest that bordered Autumn’s edge.
The scent grew stronger.
Sharper.
Azriel’s shadows danced around him, eager, frantic. But the moment they descended into the thicket, into the place where magic still clung to every branch like breathless anticipation—
Everything went still.
Not a single leaf stirred. No animals scurried. The world was watching.
Azriel touched down first, scanning the woods. Nothing.
But the scent—
It was everywhere.
He couldn’t see her, couldn’t hear her—but every instinct inside him screamed that something—someone—was near.
And then—
His shadows recoiled—not with fear, but with something far more primal. As if fleeing from a force they did not wish to challenge. Yet even as they retreated, they hovered at the edge of him, stretching out over his shoulders and wings like they were trying to catch a glimpse of something just beyond his line of sight. There was no whispering now. Only a breathless stillness. As if even they were waiting. Watching.
They didn’t understand it—this thing that called to them. They only knew it was ancient. Dangerous. A power that had not stirred in centuries, one they should dread. And yet… there was something familiar laced within the dread. A memory not their own. A presence they somehow remembered.
Cassian landed beside him with a soft thud, wings tucking in as his boots sank into the damp, leaf-strewn forest floor. His brows were furrowed, eyes flicking to his brother and then the eerie stillness of the clearing.
“What is it?” he asked, voice low, eyes scanning.
Azriel didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
Azriel’s heart pounded once, hard. The scent from before—a pleasant honeysuckle-like scent, petrichor emanating from grass, and something older, something that tasted of magic buried deep in the roots of the world—was stronger here. Lingering like an echo in the trees.
Cassian’s eyes narrowed, his battle instincts flaring awake. The hairs on his arms stood on end. “Something’s not right.”
There was no wind. No birdsong. No rustle of branches. No creatures stirring in the underbrush. Not even the distant howl of the Autumn Court’s foxes.
Just… silence.
Azriel took a step forward, his hand twitching near the hilt of Truth-Teller.
A sudden understanding came to him—
They weren't predators here.
They were prey.
A blur of movement. The snap of air being torn apart. And then—
A cloaked figure erupted from the treeline like a bolt of black lightning, faster than either of them could process. Cassian barely got a word out before the force of the blow sent him flying. His body slammed against the thick trunk of an oak with a sickening crack, bark splintering on impact. He hit the ground in a crumpled heap, groaning, dazed.
Azriel’s siphons flared, twin stars igniting on his hands. He didn’t hesitate—he lunged, blades out, shadows snapping to attention in a panic.
But then he stopped.
Mid-step. Mid-breath.
She stood between them and the forest like a phantom stepped out of an ancient tale, the hood of her cloak drawn low. Azriel couldn’t see her face—only the golden glow of her eyes beneath the shadowed cowl.
Golden… but not like sunlight. Not like the gentle warmth of the day. No, they burned. Like topaz struck by lightning. Like the molten gem his mother once showed him as a boy, hidden deep in a carved box beneath layers of silken cloth, gleaming with a fire that looked like it could bite. Golden, yes—but alive. Raging. And watching him now with a predator’s patience.
Azriel’s fingers twitched over the hilt of Truth-Teller.
Cassian, already pulling himself up from where he’d landed against the tree, groaned as he rose and muttered, “What the hell was that—”
But she was already moving.
She exploded into motion, faster than either of them anticipated. The fight didn’t begin. It simply was.
Steel clashed with raw magic. The air crackled with energy, lightning and shadows surging together. Azriel’s blade was blocked—barely. Cassian's siphons lit the clearing like flares, his power sending roots and dirt ripping from the earth, but she danced around it like a storm unchained, fluid and precise. Her blows were vicious. Her movements fueled by fury. Controlled, yet wild. Not sloppy rage—but the kind born of centuries of discipline sharpened by grief.
Every strike she made seemed to cut the air itself, her cloak whipping around her like black fire. She didn’t hesitate. Not once. She met them both head-on—two of the most powerful Illyrians alive—and drove them back again and again.
They tried to flank her, moving in silent rhythm, but she anticipated every move, twisting, vanishing between them, only to slam an elbow into Azriel’s gut hard enough to knock the wind out of him before launching Cassian backward with a burst of raw, unfiltered power.
He could see a curved blade strapped to her back, but she didn't wield the weapon—but gods, she didn't need to.
Azriel’s shadows were a frenzy around him now—snapping like a thousand whispering tongues, confused, awed, terrified. Still… expectant. Still trying to see her.
She was relentless. The three of them clashed again and again in a whirlwind of flame, shadow, and bone-deep strength. And just as Azriel ducked beneath her arm and brought Truth-Teller slashing toward her side—Cassian’s wings flaring behind her with another strike—
Her hood slipped.
It wasn’t a dramatic reveal. No slow-motion unraveling. No gust of wind.
Just one wrong twist in the fight, one precise step backwards to avoid Cassian’s fist—and her hood fell away.
Her face was bare to them now.
The breath was stolen from Azriel’s lungs. He faltered, nearly dropped his blade.
Cassian froze mid-step, panting, wide-eyed.
They stood there—just for a heartbeat—locked in a triangle of disbelief and breathlessness, all of them bruised and bleeding, their chests rising and falling with exertion.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Because now they could see her. Truly see her.
And it wasn’t just the familiar shape of her face, or the distinct high cheekbones, or the strands of hair touching her jaw.
It was her eyes.
Those golden, topaz-lit eyes.
Feral. Fierce. Beautiful.
Eyes Azriel had only ever been able to see in dreams, for so long now. Eyes he had thought lost to time and story.
He staggered a step back.
“By the Mother,” Cassian whispered.
She stood tall, lips parted, chest heaving.
And rage burned in her gaze as they stared each other down, waiting for the next blow. For the next strike in a battle that suddenly meant something far more than either of them had expected.
Azriel took a step forward, shadows curling tight around his shoulders like they, too, dared not speak.
His voice came rough, nearly broken. “It can’t be…”
His lips parted again, forming a name that had not been spoken aloud in over two centuries.
Cassian was slower, mouth open as if air itself had been stolen from his lungs. His face was pale beneath the streaks of dirt and blood. “No,” he breathed. “No, it’s not possible—”
The moment she realized what he was about to say, her expression twisted. Not with confusion.
With fury.
Raw, blinding fury.
Before the name could leave his lips, she lunged.
Azriel barely managed to raise Truth-Teller in time to deflect her strike, the sheer force of it sending him skidding back through the leaves and dirt. Cassian moved to intercept, blocking her next hit with a crossed arm, his body groaning under the impact.
But they didn’t strike back.
Not now.
Not after what they saw. Not after what they felt.
Never again.
Cassian’s heart thundered as he watched her—a vision made flesh, all storm and shadow, her cloak fluttering in the dying wind like the wings of death itself.
“I don’t understand…” Cassian couldn’t finish the sentence. His hands lifted slightly, as if to calm her. As if she were some wounded creature about to bolt.
Azriel didn’t speak again. He just watched her with something hollow and cracking inside his chest, because this was impossible. This was madness.
And yet—
There she stood.
Alive.
A ghost in the golden flesh. Hauntingly beautiful. Terrifying.
There was grief in every breath she took. Grief layered over grief, pain etched deep in her stance, in the tremble of her shoulders. In the way her fists stayed curled tight at her sides, as if she were holding herself together by sheer force of will.
Azriel’s shadows, once wild and panicked, now circled around her feet like they’d found the sun after years in darkness. Hesitant. Drawn. Awed.
Cassian lowered his arms slowly, voice gentle now, a thread pulled tight between heartbreak and disbelief.
“…How are you here?”
But her lips curled into something cold. Sharp. So unlike the one they remembered.
And she said nothing.
She just watched them, chest rising and falling, as if still trying to decide whether she should end them after all.
She didn’t look back.
The door of the shack creaked once behind her before it closed forever, swallowed by silence and the slow breath of the hill. She moved through the remains of the small space she’d called home for too long, boots quiet over the hard-packed dirt floor as she gathered her few things.
The curved blade resting on the table was the first she reached for—its edge kissed with shadows, the hilt worn perfectly to her grip. She slid it into the sheath strapped across her back. A handful of throwing knives disappeared into hidden pockets, her belt. A leather satchel, worn and patched and stitched with years of wandering, was slung over her shoulder.
That was it. That was all she ever allowed herself.
She was never meant to stay. Not anywhere. She had stayed too long this time, and it had made her slow.
Soft.
She left the ruins of the shack behind her, eyes fixed on the horizon. The border to Autumn wasn’t far now—two, maybe three days’ time if she cut through the deeper woods. And then… maybe Summer. Or she might head north to Winter. She hadn’t decided. It didn’t matter, really. Only that she kept moving.
The trees grew denser as the morning stretched on, shadows long and damp with dew, the scent of earth and falling leaves thick in the air. Her steps were silent, practiced. Every sound in the woods registered in the back of her mind—a rustling squirrel, a shifting breeze.
But then—The forest went still.
Too still.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
And then she saw it.
A shadow passed above the trees, dark and massive, blotting out the sun for a heartbeat.
Her blood ran cold.
That was no bird. Not even close.
She stilled, hidden behind a thick cluster of evergreens, breath held in her throat. Her eyes tracked the silhouette as it circled above the canopy—broad wings catching the last rays of sunlight before it descended. She pressed further into the brush, nearly melting into it. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
When the figure finally landed in the clearing just ahead, the earth groaned beneath the weight. She didn’t need to see his face.
Not when she saw the wings—those massive, powerful wings of onyx membrane stretching wide—and the way the shadows curled protectively around the figure’s shoulders, the cobalt light that shimmered faintly against the forest floor—
Her breath hitched.
Sharp.
Cutting.
The name lodged in her throat like ash. It struck her like a blade to the ribs. No warning. No mercy.
The Night Court’s Spymaster.
Pain cracked open inside her chest. Sharp. Sudden. Unforgiving.
The echo of another life, another time. Before betrayal. Before everything was lost.
And then another figure dropped from the sky beside him—taller, broader. Wild, wind-blown hair tied in a messy bun, red siphons pulsing faintly with power. Power that radiated off him in waves.
The Night Court’s General.
She could barely breathe.
The ache inside her unraveled—grief curdling into rage. Rage for the silence that followed her name, even when she had screamed. Rage for the world that kept spinning as she bled and burned and broke.
She had buried the past deep enough it should have never found her.
But it had.
She rose in one smooth motion, quiet as death, hidden as shadow.
She didn’t hesitate.
She was upon them.
There was no hesitation in her body. No restraint. She didn’t allow herself the luxury of second thoughts, or the pain threatening to claw up her throat. There was only movement. Precision. Power.
She fought like the years had cost her something she could never get back.
Her rage wasn’t loud. It was not clumsy or wild. It was silent, honed, and cold. A fury kept on ice for two hundred years, forged into blade and instinct. And it was earned.
Every step, every blow, was rooted in memory. In loss. In silence.
She knew their movements better than she remembered her own. Azriel’s shadows darting before his strikes, Cassian’s siphons blazing in warning. She felt the familiar rhythm of their coordination, but this time she moved faster. Smarter.
She was not the same female they had once known.
And gods, she didn’t care if they bled.
Cassian tried to flank her, but she rolled low, slamming her heel into his knee before twisting to parry Azriel’s blade. Their powers crackled through the clearing—wind and shadow, flame and fury—and still she did not relent.
Her heart was thundering. But not from fear.
From rage.
She hadn’t seen them in centuries. Hadn’t wanted to. She had buried them with her name. With the loyalty they let die.
When the strike came that pulled back her hood—
She hated it.
Hated how their eyes changed. How they stopped fighting.
She had spent years preparing for the moment they’d find her again. If they ever did. She had imagined every possible scenario, every twisted dream of vengeance or reunion or fury. But none of it had prepared her for the look in their eyes. That wrecked softness.
That grief.
She wanted to scoff. How dare they look at her like that?
Cassian whispered something—her name, maybe. She didn’t let it register. Didn’t let it exist.
She saw Azriel's lips move, forming the name she buried long ago.
And that was when she snapped.
She lunged again, letting fury carry her past the pain in her ribs, the blood on her tongue. Azriel raised Truth-Teller in time, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care that Cassian moved to block her again instead of countering. She didn’t care that their stances had shifted—not to kill, not to win—but to protect.
To shield.
From her.
The thought made her sick.
She struck again. And again. Until their feet dragged across the clearing, until the scent of blood and sweat mingled with pine and broken leaves.
Until they both stopped.
Azriel’s shadows curled not in defense now—but toward her. Familiar. Gentle. Like they remembered her, even when he couldn’t say it.
Cassian spoke—something trembling, confused. She didn’t let herself process the words. Didn’t let them in.
Because if she did, it would all come crashing down.
She stood there, hands shaking as raw energy cracked from them. Her chest heaving. Her teeth clenched so tightly her jaw ached.
She could barely hear over the roar in her head.
Two hundred years.
They had let her die.
And now—now they looked at her like she was some myth come to life. Like they had been the ones left behind.
So she said nothing.
She just watched them—watched the two males who had once sworn they’d never leave her side. Who had once said her name like it was something precious, alongside a third male.
Cassian, who had called her little sister before she even knew what family felt like.
Rhysand, who had sworn to protect her from the moment she crossed into their court.
And Azriel—
Azriel, who had always been different.
Not in words. Never in words.
To him, she was a sister too. A comrade. A shadowed comfort.
She had prayed, once, that he would see her the way she saw him.
But he never did.
And after a while, she stopped hoping. Buried that love like she’d buried everything else.
So now, standing before them, seeing the war raging in Azriel’s eyes—It felt like a cruel echo. A lie dressed in grief.
Her jaw clenched. Her chest still heaved.
Azriel took a step forward, the wind shifting with his shadows, gentle now, uncertain.
Like he still didn’t know what to say.
But she did.
Her voice, when it finally came, was hoarse from disuse.
Low. Worn. Cold.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she rasped. “Don’t you dare.”
Azriel’s lips parted, his breath shallow.
She turned to Cassian then—his face stricken, barely able to comprehend that she was real, that she was alive.
“You left me.” Her voice splintered the air like lightning cleaving through bone. “You both left me.”
“No—” Cassian breathed, shaking his head. “We—”
“Don’t lie to me!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the trees like a thunderclap.
They flinched, both of them.
“I begged,” she seethed. “I screamed for you. For days. I crawled through mud and blood with my ribs shattered and fire in my lungs. I waited for you to come back. I waited, even when they dragged me into their pits and tore me apart piece by piece. I kept waiting. Because I believed you would come.”
Tears were threatening now, but she didn’t let them fall.
Her voice dropped to something quieter. Darker. “But you never did. Because you chose not to.”
Cassian stepped forward like his soul might break. “We thought you—”
“Don’t.” Her eyes snapped to him, burning. “You don’t get to mourn me now. You don’t get to speak my name like it still means something to you.”
Azriel’s shadows clung close to him, tense and flickering. His expression was hollow. Haunted.
She turned her fury on him next.
“You,” she said, venom in every syllable. “You lied and made me believe that you cared. But when it came to it—when it mattered—you watched me fall and walked away.”
His face went pale. He shook his head once, jaw clenched.
“I died behind enemy lines, broken and burning and alone. And you never looked back.”
They didn’t know what to say—because they believed she had died too. They believed they’d buried her in their hearts centuries ago.
She delivered the final blow, her voice a rasp of steel and ash:
“You left me to die like I was nothing. So don’t you dare stand here now and look at me like I’m some fucking miracle.”
And with that, she turned—every inch of her trembling with restrained agony—and started to walk away, into the shadows, into the trees.
But Cassian called out, hoarse and desperate, “Wait—please—just listen—”
Azriel moved, shadows reaching, as if they might tether her there.
But she didn’t stop.
“Wait.”
The word came from Azriel, ragged and cracked open.
His voice was softer than she remembered, or maybe it had always been soft with her—velvet wrapped around steel. But now, it trembled.
She paused.
Didn’t turn, but the slightest hitch in her step betrayed that she’d heard.
Azriel took a breath like it hurt to fill his lungs. Shadows trembled at his shoulders like they didn’t know whether to hold him together or follow her.
“I didn’t walk away,” he rasped. “I—gods, I couldn’t—”
His voice broke, and he swallowed it down like blood. “We thought you were gone. We thought you died a hero. That you sacrificed yourself so we could survive. Rhys—he told us—he—”
She turned then. Slowly. Her golden eyes locked on his hazel ones, and it felt like a blade slicing through him.
Her expression—no longer rage.
It was devastation.
And that made it worse.
Because now Azriel saw the wreckage they'd left behind—not just in a battlefield, but in her. She was fury, yes. But also grief incarnate. She hadn’t just been abandoned—she’d lived with that abandonment like a splinter in her soul for centuries.
“I would’ve died for you,” she whispered. “And you let me believe that I was never worth saving.”
Azriel staggered back a step like the words had physically struck him.
Cassian, with tears lining his eyes, lowered his mental shields and screamed his thoughts, hoping his brother was listening, even from this far away.
Rhys, he called. Rhys, she’s alive.
He said her name for the first time—each letter pronounced as if it were sacred. For so long, none of them had dared speak it. They buried it deep beneath layers and layers of grief, as though saying it aloud would unravel the fragile threads that held them together. After all, what was left to say of someone who had become nothing but a memory, too painful to bear?
At the same time, Azriel’s voice, broken and raw, echoed into the abyss:
She’s here. She’s real.
Silence.
Then—
A deep voice in both their minds, calm but fraying at the edges.
Bring her home.
She turned once more, the cloak fluttering behind her, her heart thunderous in her ears. She didn’t know where she was going—only that she couldn’t stay.
Cassian stepped forward instinctively.
Azriel’s shadows surged forward too, not toward her but around her—careful, hesitant. Like a prayer spoken in the dark.
She flinched.
“Don’t,” she said.
It was too much. Too late.
Azriel stepped forward despite the warning. His wings spread wide, not to intimidate, but to keep her in his line of sight—as if turning away again might undo him entirely.
“I–We would've crawled through every realm to bring you back,” he said carefully, his voice laden with regret, “If we’d known… If we had even the slightest hope—”
A humorless laugh escaped her lips, cutting through the silence like glass.
“Don’t make me laugh,” she snapped, eyes gleaming with something unspoken, something broken. “Hope? You think this is about hope?”
Azriel flinched.
“When I needed you, you weren’t there,” she continued, “You weren’t even looking. You mourned me, gave your eulogies, and then moved the fuck on.”
“We didn’t know,” Cassian said, voice strained.
She turned on him, voice razor-sharp. “And why is that? What did he tell you?”
Azriel hesitated, shadows curling tighter around him like they could protect him from the answer.
She blinked, realization dawning.
“You don’t know,” she whispered, more to herself than them. Her gaze cut to Azriel. “What did Rhysand say?”
Azriel shook his head once, like it physically pained him to admit it. “He said… you were gone. That you died saving us.”
A bitter smile curved her mouth, void of joy or softness. “How convenient.”
She didn’t say more. She didn’t need to.
Azriel stepped forward, barely a pace. “Please… whatever you think happened, just come with us. Let us explain, let Rhys—”
“No,” she said coldly. “I don’t give a fuck about what your High Lord has to say.”
Azriel’s wings drooped slightly, his shadows writhed.
“Then tell us what will make you come home,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me what it’ll take. Anything. I’ll do it.”
“You can’t fix this,” she said, already turning again.
He could feel her slipping away, slipping through their fingers like she had the first time. And this time, she wouldn’t vanish into death—but into exile.
So he tried one last thing.
“We need you,” Azriel said.
She paused.
But didn’t turn.
Not until he added, “There’s a war coming. Against an Old God—Koschei.”
That name landed in the forest like a dropped blade.
Her body reacted before her mind could catch up—shoulders tensing, breath catching, a tremor working its way down her spine. She gritted her teeth, but her knees threatened to buckle as something cold—dark—coiled in her chest.
Panic flared in her veins.
Not fear. Not the kind that came from logic or memory.
This was instinct—a warning shot fired from somewhere deep inside her. As if her body remembered something she didn’t.
Fuck. Where was this coming from?
It made no sense. She’s never heard that name in all her centuries alive.
But the way her chest tightened, the way her vision narrowed and her pulse roared like thunder in her ears—it was as if her bones remembered. As if her body had tasted something dark and wretched and still bore the echo of it.
She staggered a half-step forward, her hand twitching at her side.
Azriel saw it.
So did Cassian.
Slowly, her head turned slightly over her shoulder. The dying light caught the edge of her jaw, the line of an old scar half-concealed beneath her collar.
But just as quickly, her walls slammed back into place. The mask returned. Blank. Cold. In control.
“Tell your High Lord,” she said quietly, “that he can go fuck himself.”
Her gaze swept from Cassian to Azriel—held them there, rooted, silenced.
“And to take his spymaster and war general with him.”
Azriel staggered back a step. Cassian looked like he’d been struck.
And then she was moving again—swift and silent, melting into the forest like the ghost they’d all believed she was for centuries.
Azriel didn’t chase her.
Cassian didn’t speak.
The forest exhaled once more as if it, too, had been holding its breath.
Far in their minds, Rhysand’s voice whispered again.
Bring her home.
But home was a bleeding wound to her now.
And they were the ones who’d torn it open.
The shadows told him what his heart already knew.
She wasn’t ready.
Not when her wounds had festered into scars made of fury.
Not when every memory she had of them bled betrayal.
Not until the truth they thought they knew was torn open.
Summary: After centuries apart, you see him again — Azriel, the boy who once kept you safe in the shadows of Windhaven.
But now he’s a stranger and you’re left wondering: does he remember? And is your connection, fated or forgotten, still strong enough to bring you together?
Warnings: mentions of difficult home life, most likely angst in future chapters (and potential smut)
A/N: I still can't believe how many of you interacted with the first part of this! From the bottom of my heart, thank you!! A little bit more back story in this chapter. Hopefully the switching of POV's isn't too confusing. As always, any feedback more than welcome.
ps, let me know if you want me to make a taglist
Word count 2.25K
Part 1
The day you left Windhaven was one of the worst ones of your life.
You had overheard your father tell one of his friends that he had promised you to a male named Kaelen, a warrior from Frost Edge, a nearby camp known for its strong traditional views and values on the treatment of Illyrian females.
Now that your 18th birthday had come he could finally send you away, to him. You were to become his wife.
You’re a unique Illyrian female. Born to a high fae mother and Illyiran father, you never had wings of your own but did possess Illyrian anatomy, something that was extremely rare.
For centuries, your father had pursued high fae females in the hope he’d one day have a wingless child.
He picked young, impressionable fae, females that did not know about the dangers of giving birth to a winged babe. Your mother fell right into his trap and after a short courtship she fell pregnant. When you were born, wingless as your father had always dreamed off, he was convinced that they were cauldron blessed. It was so incredibly rare, the mother must have granted him the ultimate gift.
He became obsessed with having another child. Your mother fell pregnant again within the year and died when giving birth to your brother. You didn’t remember her, he didn't survive.
Your wingless back was your fathers pride, the ultimate “clipping”, a daughter born to serve on the ground not soar in the skies.
His voice was filled with pride as he told the other male that you were send away to be used for breeding. As if you were some prize mare that was only good for producing offspring. Wing clipping was standard in Frost Edge and wingless females were worshipped above all. They had heard of your rare anatomy and hoped you would be able to pass your rare genetics on to the next generation.
You shouldn’t have been surprised, he’d never seen you as anything more than a cleaner and a cook.
Your father did always say you had ridiculous notions. Wanting to have a job, wanting to travel and see the other courts. Whenever you expressed wanting to do anything besides cleaning his house and looking after him, he would shut you down immediately.
He had treated you like this from a young age, and as you grew older you became more and more isolated. Your father forbade you to interact with any of the Illyrian males in the camp, and the other females were afraid to come near you because of your father's reputation. Your friendship with Azriel was the only thing keeping you sane.
The colour drained from your face as you heard your father's words.
You knew you couldn’t stay. You would have to leave, get out as fast as you could. You headed back into your room and started packing the few belongings you had as the reality of it all hid you.
You could never come back, it would never be safe. Not until your father was gone, or dead.
You were furious, tears streaming down your face as you thought of what leaving really meant. You would lose him, Azriel.
You grabbed a pen and a bit of paper. You had to leave him a note, you had to tell him how much he meant to you. You stared at the sheet for what felt like an eternity, trying to find the words that could convey the depth of your feelings. Nothing came to mind. In the end you opted for a short explanation of the situation at hand instead. You told him you had to leave Windhaven for your own safety, and you told him that you loved him more than anything in the world.
When your father had left the house, oblivious to you overhearing his earlier conversation, you sneaked out into the forest to leave the note in your hiding place.
And then you were gone.
You fled to Velaris hoping you would be able to find passage on a ship that could take you to the day court. In your first days there you noticed one of Ariel's shadows. He had sent one after you as soon as he realised you were gone and it had followed you all the way to the city. His gifts were still untrained and his shadows were young, but they were drawn to you like moths to a flame. Sending one after you to find you had been easy.
You felt its presence, being so used to the feeling of having them close. They couldn' t hide from you.
You whispered to it to return to its master, that it wasn’t safe for you to be tracked. You told it to tell Azriel that he needed to let you go. You made a promise you would try and find your way back to him one day when it was safe for you to return.
You had never thought it would take more than 500 years for you to do so.
—————-
Present day, Azriel’s POV
He knows you are here as soon as you walk through the door. His shadows calm in a way they have not done for over 500 years. A quiet, soothing feeling. It’s as if they say he can stop looking, he can relax, you are here.
“Alive,” they whisper in his ear; “found, safe.”
His heart rate picks up, his palms become sweaty. This is it, the moment he has been dreaming of for centuries. Confirmation that you are okay, that you are still breathing. Now that it has arrived he is unsure of what to do with himself.
Even though he can sense you are there he has no idea if you’ll remember who he is.
He’s sitting with his back to you and even though he is the Spymaster of the night court (and one of the most feared warriors in Illyrian history), the thought of turning around and looking at you leaves him feeling unsettled.
The reality of it all is utterly terrifying.
What if he finds your gaze and there is no recognition in your eyes? Or worse. What if you do recognise him and are disappointed by the male he has become?
He’d rather keep looking forward and stay oblivious for all eternity than live in that reality.
Azriel is so different from the boy he used to be. He’s learned to close himself off over the centuries. He’s become guarded, distanced, learned to keep his cards close to his chest. Some would even describe him as cold.
Years of training as an illyrian warrior and being the Spymaster of the night court will do that to a male.
The open vulnerability he had displayed towards you as a child was for you and you alone. When you disappeared out of his life you took that part of him with you.
How is he meant to live up to the image you undeniably still have of him?
The image of a boy untainted by murder and violence. Your best friend who would wrap you in his shadows and cloak you in darkness whenever you needed to feel safe. You once explained to him the feeling of them made you feel grounded, protected. You saw them as something beautiful. No one else had ever looked at them that way.
You knew him as a boy that had only ever used his shadows for good, not the illyrian warrior who had hurt and tortured countless people. Who had used his shadows to instill fear rather than offer them to people as a safety blanket.
The only similarity between him and who he had once been are the boyish curls framing his face and the scarred hands clenching his drink.
He is scarred, broken.
He tries to ground himself by bringing his attention back to his family. Mor is waving her arms around enthusiastically as she recalls something adorable Nyx had done when she’d last visited the river house.
He’s hoping his frequent nodding and occasional “hmhm-ing” will be enough to convince her he is fully engaged in whatever story she is telling him.
“And then Nyx picked up Cassian and threw him across the room.”
Azriel snaps out of his trance at her latest words. “Nyx did what now?”
“Finally! I’ve been spouting nonsense at you for ages. Rhys and I have been having a bet going for the last 5 minutes to see how long it would take for you to notice." She turns to Rhys with a triumphant smile on her face. “Pay up.”
Rhys rolls his eyes. “Don’t pretend I don’t already pay for everything your heart desires, dear cousin.” he says, a feline smile gracing his lips. “I think we can probably call it even.”
Mor gasps and grabs her chest as if wounded. “Me, spending your money? I would never.” she says in mock exasperation.
This immediately results in a discussion about Mor's spending habits as Rhys starts listing the countless things Mor has bought with his money in the last week alone.
Offering the perfect opportunity for Azriel to let his thoughts wander back to you.
His shadows start whispering again, reporting your movements to him. “Watching.” They whisper. “Staring.”
Is it because you recognise who he is? Or is it because the sight of an Illyrian sitting in a crowded bar in Velaris has grabbed your attention?
If your shared past is anything to go off, the sight of one of your own kind will undeniably have put your guard up. You might be watching him out of habit, to make sure he doesn’t do anything unpredictable.
Rhys’ voice suddenly crowds the space inside his mind. “As much as I enjoy watching whatever inner conflict you are having brother, I just wanted to inform you that there’s an incredibly beautiful female staring at your back.”
Azriel’s breath hitches at his brother's comment and he feels a pang of jealousy knowing that Rhys has seen you before he has had the chance. The high lord raises his eyebrows when he notices the effect of his words.
“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. Some Spymaster you are. Should I be reconsidering your position in my court?” he continues, a teasing tone lacing his words.
Azriel just glares at him in response, resulting in Mor pouting at the both of them when she notices the exchange. “Oi, stop having conversations in your head you two. It’s rude to gossip in the presence of a lady.”
Rhys just snorts at that remark and brings his attention back to her as their bickering continues.
This time the High Lord opts for commentary on the mountain of incredibly unladylike situations he has seen his cousin in while out at Rita’s.
“Moving.” his shadows whisper “Getting up. Walking.”
Azriel’s shadows start to stir, becoming restless just like their master. Were you leaving?
Still too scared to turn around, he sends one of his shadows after you to investigate your movements.
“Bar” it reports back and Azriel lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. You weren’t going anywhere.
Good. This was good. He just needed a little bit more time.
—————-
Reader POV
You need another drink. You’ve been staring at Azriel for god knows how long and since you can’t seem to find the courage to approach him, you need something to distract your busy mind.
A trip to the bar will have to do. Maybe an additional drink (or 5, or 10) will help you find the courage you need, or at least quiet down your anxious mind.
As soon as you start walking you think you notice something. A presence, something calming. The feeling disappears just as quickly as it had come on. You must be imagining things.
As you make your way over to the bar you realise that if you were to turn around and head back with your drink, you’d have to look at Azriel face on.
Flustered by the idea you decide to settle on one of the bar stools in the corner instead. You take a deep breath and when your drink arrives you hold on to it for dear life. You down it way too fast and order another one, which turns into a third and then a couple of shots.
The pace at which you're drinking seems to keep the other people in the bar at bay. No one really pays you any mind or approaches the corner you are sitting in. Good.
As the alcohol starts to cloud your judgement and you begin to feel its full effects, you decide that it’s time. Consequences be damned, you cannot leave here tonight without speaking to him.
You can’t lose him again.
You turn and jump up from your seat, misjudging the full effect the alcohol has had on you. You stumble forward and you would have fallen face first on the ground had strong, scarred hands not steadied you.
You are many, way too many, drinks deep.
Your eyes grow wide as you look at the hands holding you upright, knowing damn well who they belong to.
As you look up into a pair of hazel eyes, you feel your whole world slow. Your chest fills with warmth and you feel a longing, something familiar but also incredibly new.
It’s as if your heart is reaching out to his. It’s like something is tying your souls together.
It’s that familiar feeling his shadows used to give you. A quiet calm, a steadying comfort.
And that’s when you know. You’d probably always known deep down.
Description: Aemond arrives too late to the Red Keep to prevent the events of Blood and Cheese. His wife, who witnessed the brutal killing is left traumatised and Aemond must set aside his feelings of guilt to comfort her.
Previous part
Writer's note: I'm incapable of being concise so I've split this into 2 parts. This part picks up right after Blood and Cheese and the next part will follow the aftermath and how seeing such a traumatic event impacts on Aemond's wife. Thank you to everyone whose sent such lovely messages about the most recent part. Genuinely makes me so happy :)
Warnings: mentions of blood but nothing graphic. Depictions of PTSD. Pretty angsty but mostly hurt/comfort.
Aemond felt the blood pounding in his ears as he pushed himself to run faster to the upper levels of the keep, shoving past guards and servants alike and taking the steps three at a time. Each step he took filled him with increasing trepidation at what he would find once he reached his mother's quarters. Panicked shouts met his ears as he turned the next corridor, and his heart dropped into his stomach as he recognised the voice of Y/N, laced with hysteria among the din. He picked up his pace as he heard her shout his name, as if she already knew he was coming. He practically growled at the King's guard occupying the hall.
"Step aside." The guards immediately scattered, allowing Aemond to push past them into his mother's chambers. He had no doubt that his rage and desperation was plain to see on his face. All this seemed to fall away in the instant he saw his wife holding her knees to her chest on the floor as she frantically pushed two maesters and his mother away from her. Nothing mattered now except her, not vengeance, not the painful mixture of grief and guilt that wracked his own body.
He crossed the room in several large strides, angered by the way the maesters crowded around his wife when she was so clearly in a state of shock and pushing them forcibly away.
"What is the meaning of this? Get away from her. Can you not see she is distressed?" At his demanding tone the maesters dispersed, clearly unwilling to face the wrath of the Prince.
Alicent's looked up at the sound of his voice, a look of relief washing over her expression he couldn't understand as she rose from her crouched position by Y/N and hurried towards him.
"Thank the Seven Aemond. She'll allow no one near her and she needs the attentions of a healer." Aemond's eye never left Y/N as his mother spoke, she had not even seemed to notice him enter, her eyes seemingly glazed over as if staring at something he could not see. "Aemond she keeps asking for you."
Aemond did look at his mother then. He would have thought that he would be the last person Y/N would want near her right now....this was his fault. Nevertheless, he had heard Y/N call out for him, he was sure her desperate cry would haunt him forever. He passed by his mother, lowering himself into a crouch next to his wife before reaching out to brush her shoulder. Her glassy expression was immediately replaced by full blown terror as she flinched away from him and shrieked. Aemond quickly retracted his hand, but rushed to offer her assurances. "It me Y/N, it's Aemond. I'm here now. You're safe, I won't let anyone touch you." Y/N looked briefly confused. Though as he held his arms out towards her recognition dawned on her face. Only a moment later she had flung herself into his waiting arms, clutching at him as though for dear life as she sobbed into his shoulder. Aemond held her to him tightly, stroking her hair and whispering soothingly to her. "Sh, my love. No one will touch you again. I'm here now." Aemond felt his mother hovering next to him as Y/N seemed less likely to lash out in his arms.
She whispered into his ear, words that made his blood turn to ice. "She tried to fend off the attackers, grabbed the blade of a dagger with her bare hands to protect Helaena. Aemond, she needs to allow the maester to look at her."
Y/N had heard his mother despite her attempt at being discreet, immediately wriggling closer towards Aemond until she was half in his lap and digging her nails into his shoulders. "No" She gasped out. That decided it for Aemond.
"She said no mother. I won't have them touch her if it distresses her so. I will see to her care myself." With that he rose to stand, lifting his wife up with him as she instinctively wrapped her legs around his torso. "My sister?" Alicent closed her eyes, though tears still ran down his mother's cheek in rivulets. "Aegon is with her now. Physically she is unharmed." Aemond nodded and with one hand wrapped under Y/N's legs to support her, and the other cradling her head to his chest protectively, he strode from the room in the direction of his quarters. Y/N's sniffles, as she pressed her face into the crook of his neck to muffle her sobs, wrenched at his heart strings as they passed along the halls of the Red Keep.
He stroked her hair soothingly and tilted his head down to whisper softly.
"I know, little one. I'm taking you somewhere safe now."
All Y/N could see was red. Dark and sticky blood dripping from a dagger that glinted in the soft glow of candle light, inimical to the horrific sight before her. A gut wrenching scream pierced the quiet of the night, the rest of the inhabitants of the Red Keep still abed. She winced at the shrill sound, full of pain and anguish, before realising belatedly that it was her screaming.
Everything seemed to pass in a blur after the King's guard burst in, managing to capture one of the assailants whilst the other disappeared into the night. She was vaguely aware of someone gripping her by her arm, pulling her along hall after hall until they deposited her in another room entirely. She did not care to look around her to determine where she was or who had unceremoniously dragged her there. As soon as her arm was released her knees buckled and she fell in a heap on the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees and rocking herself, her teeth chattering and limbs trembling in her state of shock.
She felt numb and it was difficult to understand what was being said to her as all the voices around her merged together as one. When she felt hands reaching for her, tugging at her own arm, it was the hands of the assailants she felt, looking down at her own hands she felt even more alarmed to see them covered in red splodges and she could not tell if it was her own blood that drenched her skin or that of the child she had come to love, brutally murdered before her. She screamed, forcefully pushing the hands from her though they kept grabbing for her. Almost without thinking Y/N found herself shouting for Aemond. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind she had a vague recollection that she shouldn't be calling for him, but she couldn't seem to remember why, so muddled and panicked was she.
"Get off me. I want Aemond. Where is he?"
She looked up briefly to see Queen Alicent's large doe eyes staring at her sadly, but the faces of several men had her heart picking up in fright as she thrashed against their hold. What did they want from her? Try as she might she couldn't make out their words through her fear.
The only thought she could hold onto for long was that if Aemond were here they wouldn't dare to touch her against her will. He would help her, protect her as he always had. And his name came from her lips unbidden again.
Only a few moments later a cacophony of sounds outside the room made her wince. First pounding footsteps followed by a voice that boomed and echoed across the hall outside, then the clanging of metal signalling the movement of the guards. Y/N was breathing heavily, exhausted from her efforts to prise the insistent hands from her person, and she felt herself becoming limp. The colours in the room, of the golden flames before her and the deep russet rug beneath her converging until once again all she saw was red. Red so dark it must be blood and she could not determine whether it was real or not. She remained frozen in her horror until she felt a light touch against her shoulder, gentler than the others had been but nonetheless terrifying. Jerking backwards with a shriek, she was relieved when the owner of the hand only retracted it, speaking softly to her in words she couldn't pick out at first.
"It's Aemond."
Y/N looked up quickly at the sound of his name, her senses coming back to her as she recognised both her husband's baritone and elegant features. He'd come for her just as she knew he would, as if she had summoned him with her appellation of his name.
As soon as Aemond opened his arms to her she was falling into them, clutching at him fiercely, somehow knowing through the fog still misted over her mind that he would keep her safe. That nothing would happen to her when she was in his arms.
Tears sprung from her eyes as Aemond began to stroke her hair, assuring her that no one would touch her if she didn't want them to, that he wouldn't let them. She'd started to relax the tension in her body only for it to spring up once again as in a startled animal as she heard Alicent whispering of maesters.
She dug her nails into Aemond's shoulders, clinging to him so they would have to claw her from him if they wanted her. She barely recognised her own panicked cry "No" and worried they simply couldn't understand her. That she had lost her mind and was simply speaking gibberish, and that was why they kept ignoring her pleas for them not to touch her. Perhaps Aemond wouldn't listen to her either.
She needn't have worried. Aemond's voice was a steady anchor as he resolutely ordered the maesters away from her again, suddenly rising to stand and lifting her up with him. She quickly wrapped her arms and legs around him, not caring who saw or if they judged her for her behaviour, only pressing her face into Aemond's perpetually warm shoulder and trying to stifle her cries. She felt sick from crying, her stomach aching and she just wished for the tears to stop flowing so she could make sense of what was happening.
"I know little one, I'm taking you somewhere safe now."
Hearing his pet name for her spoken so tenderly she only cried harder, warmth and a brief sensation of security washing over her despite how scared and confused she felt.
By the time Aemond reached their chambers, Y/N's sobs had dwindled and she'd fallen silent. If it were not for the tension he could feel in her frame and her tight grip on his shoulders he'd almost think she had fallen asleep. In some ways her silence was more disturbing to him, for he could not tell what horrors plagued her mind that left her unable to voice them.
Kicking open the door and closing it behind them, trying not to jostle Y/N too much, he crossed the room and tried to place Y/N down into his armchair so he might collect some supplies he would need to treat her hands. She only clung to him tighter and he had to gently but firmly tug her arms from around his neck. "Just for a moment, my love. I won't leave you."
She let him place her down at his assurance but he could feel the heat of her stare on his back as her eyes followed his every movement as he fumbled around various drawers for what he needed. Placing the bandages, a bowl of water, and ointment he used for any cuts and scrapes he gained from training on a table, he lifted Y/N back into his arms before settling her on his lap, wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her steady.
"I am sorry to ask it of you. But will you allow me to treat your hand, my love? It may sting a little but it is necessary."
Y/N looked inquisitively down at her own hands as if surprised to see the gash that ran across her palm, turning her head away quickly with a sharp intake of breath.
"The blood, Aemond. I can't look at it. I don't know if it's mine or the child's."
Aemond felt his heart falter. He could only imagine what his sweet and gentle wife had borne witness too, pain tearing through him for her, for his sister and for his nephew who he'd loved. He tried to focus on the fact that Y/N needed him and that this was the most she had managed to speak to him, and the most she had sounded like herself.
"You do not need to look, love."
Nodding minutely with a grimace, Y/N pressed her face into his chest, going limp in his arms as she allowed him to take her smaller hands in his own so he could assess the damage. The gash was large and had bled a lot already, but he let out a sigh of relief to see that it was not deep and had already stopped bleeding, though it looked alarming. He took a cloth and wet it with water before starting to clean the blood from Y/N's hands, routinely pressing soft kisses to the top of her head and whispered apologies as she squirmed slightly under his ministrations. He tried to be as gentle as possible, wishing more than anything not to hurt her, but knowing he had to clean the wound before any infection could take hold.
Her voice sounded so soft and quiet and vacant to his ears, like that of a ghost.
"You'll get blood on your hands." Aemond already felt there was blood on his hands borne from his actions but did not voice that fear to Y/N. He only replied "It does not matter" before taking the ointment next and methodically rubbed it over the gash, finally wrapping it with the bandages. Once he was satisfied, he brought her hand to his lips to press a tender kiss upon it.
"You did so well, my love. There is no more blood, you can look know."
Y/N withdrew from his chest to look down upon her hands, and Aemond noted that where before her eyes had seemed misted over and unseeing, likely due to shock, they were now focused and he thought she had started to come back to herself.
"I'm sorry." Her soft whisper shook him from his observations. He couldn't understand what Y/N would have to be sorry for.
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
Y/N shook her head frantically.
"I couldn't stop it. I tried...but they killed the babe anyway."
"Y/N No..."
She interrupted him, her words spilling from her mouth fast and filled with despair.
"I grabbed the knife from the tall one, clawed at him, I'm sure I left scratches on his face, but he just threw me aside like it made no difference at all. And now the little boy is dead. A son for a son they said."
Aemond fought to keep his own breathing steady, to maintain a facade of composure he didn't feel but knew Y/N needed to believe to stay calm herself. He felt anger pulsing within him in the knowledge that someone had hurt his wife and he'd not been there to defend her. Her words resounded in his mind. 'A son for a son.' He knew then what he'd feared from the moment the guard had told him of the attack. This was his fault. Not just because he'd foolishly and selfishly left his wife unprotected. But because he'd let his temper rule him on the day he'd flown to Storm's End, the day he'd killed Lucerys Velaryon. This act of violence was sown by his hands, the vengeance of The Blacks. His eyes flitted to his own hands, half expecting them to be drenched in blood. Luke's blood. Jahaerys' blood.
"Y/N look at me."
Her beautiful eyes bore into his own at his firm command and he kissed her forehead, wrapping both his arms around her now they were no longer preoccupied with bandaging her wound.
"Ñuha nedenka rina. You acted admirably. I will not have you blame yourself. This is my fault. Mine and mine alone."
Y/N ignored his attempts to reclaim the blame, seeming unable to stay on one line of thought for very long. He thought this must be her mind's way of coping.
"What does that mean?"
He assumed she meant the Valyrian. She'd told him once that she found the sound of it soothing and had hoped it would do so now.
"It means 'my brave girl.'"
Y/N slowly lowered herself to rest her head against his chest again her delicate fingers tracing the intricate designs of his brocade.
"You came when I called." Aemond was once again surprised by he turn of their conversation, his eye widening as he gazed down at her.
"Of course, I always will."
"Even though I shouted at you, and told you I wanted separate chambers, and said horrible things to you."
Aemond was surprised by Y/N's directness as she seemed to have fully come back to the present, remembering their disagreement. He quickly interrupted her ramblings.
"Always. Besides, you had every right to be angry with me. This is all my fault" Aemond dropped his gaze, unable to look Y/N in the eyes through his guilt.
"I don't blame you."
He met her gaze oncemore. Unable to believe that he'd heard her correctly.
"What?"
"I said that I don't blame you."
"But I caused all of this with my actions, and then left you unprotected..."
Y/N interrupted him then, pressing her hands to his face.
"You would never have done this. Not if it had been the other way around. I am right about that, aren't I?"
Y/N's expression was full of desperation and silent pleading.
Aemond pressed his hands against hers, holding them in place.
"You are right. It is an act of depravity I had never thought Rhaenyra capable of. It is something I could never do."
Y/N sagged against him, dropping her hands from his face to rest them against his chest as she let her head fall onto his shoulder.
"I know it."
His heart clenched as he felt wet droplets against his neck, and Y/N's body shake with the renewal of her tears. His own voice cracked with emotion. He wished he could take all of the pain and misery she felt from her.
"What can I do?"
"Just hold me." And so he did. Wrapping his arms around her, Aemond held her until her breathing evened out and she fell into a restless sleep. She woke regularly throughout the night, always with him there to reassure her of where she was, that he was there, and that he would not allow anyone to harm her.
Something about being in Aemond's chambers again calmed the frantic beating of Y/N's heart as she focused on it's familiarity, along with the steady rhythm of Aemond's own heart as she laid against his chest. Realising that the red covering her hands was in fact real and not a figment of her imagination almost sent her over the edge again, and it was only Aemond's reassurance that she didn't need to look as he tenderly attended to her wound himself that she was able to get a grip on herself. As he cleaned and bandaged the gash on her hand, the fog that had befuddled her senses and left her feeling confused as to what was happening around her began to diminish. She remembered how she'd injured her hand in the first place, trying to forcibly wrench the assailant's knife away from Helaena, though it did no good at all and the memories that suddenly came flooding like a dam bursting in her mind had her burying herself further into Aemond's tunic in an attempt to smother them.
Aemond. Now she remembered why she had a strange sense that she shouldn't be calling for him to rescue her. She remembered how they'd fought over Luke, how she'd asked him to stay away from her, pushed him away time and time again, and just stopped short of calling him a monster.
And yet he'd still come running when she'd called. Y/N realised she couldn't feel angry with Aemond for Luke's death any longer. It had been an accident and in truth she knew she would have forgiven Aemond eventually for she loved him, more than she thought it possible to love someone. She also could not pretend she had not observed a certain lust for vengeance within him, one that she felt she could now at last understand. She had loved Jahaerys almost as if he were her own child, and for the first time in her life she wished to inflict pain, on whoever had ordered the atrocity. She wanted justice for Helaena, though she knew there was no vengeance that could erase the trauma they would both now share, of losing a beloved child. Y/N didn't know how to deal with the pressing grief she now felt since her mind had cleared enough for her to regain her grip on reality and she almost wished she had gone mad, just so she wouldn't have to feel as if her heart had been replaced by a gaping wound that continued to bleed out.
"What can I do?" Y/n hated to hear how pained Aemond's voice was, like that of a wounded animal.
"Just hold me"
Feeling Aemond's arms around her somehow made the pain lessen and Y/N had the sense that in a way he was holding her together.
summary | "The Dragon can have whatever, and whomever they wish", is what Daemon had told Rhaenyra before she bedded her uncle, Daemon Targaryen. In secret she gave birth, and in secrete she sent the babe away. Years later the girl would return, only to become the object of the Ursurper's affections.
pairing | Aegon x Rhaenyra'd Bastard!Reader
tags | SOME EXPLICIT CONTENT Mentions of bastards, infidelity, swearing, some parts might be 18+, talks of murder, talks of sucicidal thoughts, grief, overall angst, fluff, smut, the whole deal.
note(s) | I will be (trying) to update this every week on Saturday!
a pedro pascal imagine where him and the reader are in a relationship but they are keeping it secret/private and one day they are photographed by the paparazzi while grocery shopping together and their relationship is now known to everyone
**cheese the cat will be in a lot of stories, so here is a photo of cheese
—
Your parents, siblings, and close friends were the only ones who knew you and Pedro were together. With a little age gap in between you two, you didn't want to announce the relationship to the public just yet as your parents were still processing this information and didn't really like the age gap thing.
You and Pedro would posting things of each other but nothing that gave you two away like tattoos or your nails. You would post date nights, shadow pictures, things that made the internet wonder who Pedro Pascal was dating.
You rolled your shoulders back as Pedro's mustache tickled the skin between your shoulder blades down your spine. He kissed your bare skin softly, rubbing his hand down your arm and linking your fingers together with his hand over your knuckles.
"We need to run some errands today. Clean, grocery shopping. It's time to start our day" you hum and Pedro kisses you softly as you roll over. "You are so beautiful when you wake up"
"Oh I love how you love to lie" you smile and he rolls his eyes. He kisses you again before getting up, letting you get ready as he was already ready. He headed downstairs while you did your morning routine, pouting as you reach the bottom step and don't smell coffee brewing.
"I figured we would stop at Starbucks before our errands day. We deserve it” Pedro rubbed your arms and you smile, holding his hands as you stand on your toes to kiss him.
Pedro drove as you took music control, sunglasses on as the windows were cracked half way and you two jammed out. You made sure to hide your face as Pedro pulled up to the window as they recognized him every time he went through.
You moan as you take a sip of your coffee, kissing Pedro with a foam mustache. He giggles and licks his lips, turning up the volume on the radio as he drums his fingers on the wheel, using your hand as a microphone.
This was a moment you recorded for just the two of you. You have an album of you and Pedro. Kissing, his tongue poking your lips, vacation photos, everything that showed you two were together.
Pedro pulled into Target and unbuckled his seatbelt, leaning very close to your face as he sang the song. You laugh and push his face and he shuts off the car. You two get out and he grabs a cart, tapping the handle.
You jump up and Pedro stands behind you, smiling at your giggle as he steers. You huff as your sneakers hit the ground, bowing out of his arms and walking next to him with your hand in his back pocket.
You two walk up and down the aisle, and Pedro insisted on heading to the toy section. “Babe! They have the Disney store Mini Brands!” he gasps as he points at Grogu on the display. “My son, I have to find him”
Pedro grabbed 4 balls and you gasp softly, hitting his bicep. “Pedro! Those are 8 dollars each!”
“Honey, I was in The Mandalorian, we’ll be fine” you laugh and he chuckles as he sneaks a fifth ball in the cart.
“No, baby, you are The Mandalorian!” you smile and he flexes, making you laugh and squeeze his bicep.
You two found a new board game for game night after you clean and eat, then headed to the sections where you actually needed the items, picking up more things you definitely didn’t need.
You guys check out and pay without and hassle, loading up the car quickly and heading out.
You took a pit stop for lunch and ate it at the island before blasting music and cleaning the house.
After 3 hours of deep cleaning, bad karaoke and slow dancing with rubber gloves, candles were lit around the kitchen and living room.
Cheese rested his heavy body on your lap with your feet propped up on the ottoman, wine glass in hand with the tv playing a show.
You look over at Pedro who had a towel swung over his shoulder, the pan sizzling as he made dinner.
You finished the episode and Pedro called you for dinner. Before you passed him in the kitchen, he stopped you and filled your glass.
You hum and he slaps your butt softly as he kisses you quickly. You sat down at the table and Pedro shortly joined after feeding Cheese his meal.
You two made small talk and giggled a bit before your phone started to vibrate against the table. “It’s.. Megan. She never calls” you swallowed your bite and answer the phone call. “Is everything okay?”
Pedro could barely make out what the other person was saying, but by the looks of your eyes it wasn’t good. “Uhm.. well I was eventually going to tell the family, we’re still figuring.. no no.. okay, I’m hanging up”
You pressed the red button. “What?”
You look at Pedro. “Fuck!” you quickly look back at your phone and go on Twitter, hitting the Explore page.
“What is going on?” Pedro flailed his hands and you shake your head, showing him your phone. “How? Oh.. other people inside” he dropped his tone and shoulders and you groan.
“Pedro everyone’s going to be talking about us for days, weeks! You saw what they did with the Daddy shit, this is going to be way worse”
“Oh, I know you’re not happy about the way it came out. We don’t even have to address it, just brush it off or act like it never happened when asked. Deny.. deny.. deny” Pedro smirks and you bite back a smile.
“I’m so grateful for you” you whisper and push your half empty plate towards the middle of the table.
You lean over and kiss him hard, his hands pulling your hips off the chair and onto his lap, standing up and taking you to the bedroom.
Cheese was happy he got extra dinner that night thanks to his parents leaving their plates out.
The war has ended, giving the wizarding world a brighter future, and Melanie Black intends to be anything but ordinary. Will she accomplish this with the help of two red-headed twins?
I wanted this fic to have it’s own Masterlist post! I will be posting these every Wednesday!
*PLEASE NOTE: this fic will be a long one! With a slow burn, and lots of character developement!*
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