I think you would eat up a who did this to you trope with Azriel 😛😛
(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)
Summary: "Who did this to you!?"
Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...
Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.
You knew that long before you decided to train.
Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.
But this?
This was different.
The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.
“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.
You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”
He smirked.
Then he struck.
Hard.
The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.
Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.
The world tilted sickeningly.
You hit the dirt hard.
A few males laughed nearby.
Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.
“Get up,” he barked.
You did.
Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.
And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—
His temper snapped.
The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.
You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.
Something cracked painfully along your ribs.
Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.
The training ring went quiet for half a second.
The male looked almost satisfied.
“You’re weak,” he spat.
You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”
But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.
He eventually grew bored and wandered away.
You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.
You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.
Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.
You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.
Your heart dropped.
Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.
He took one look at your face and froze.
His eyes took everything in.
Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.
The world seemed to go silent around him.
Even his shadows stilled.
“Who did this to you?”
The words were terrifyingly calm.
You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”
“Who.”
You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.
You swallowed hard. “It was training.”
Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.
Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.
His jaw flexed once.
“Training,” he repeated softly.
The shadows around him began writhing violently.
You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“That does not comfort me.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.
Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.
“Let me see.”
You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.
Blood stained his fingers instantly.
He went utterly still.
The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.
You knew it immediately.
“Azriel,” you said carefully.
His hazel eyes lifted to yours.
Cold. Lethal.
“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”
You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.
That was all he needed.
His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.
You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”
His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.
“I need you to go inside.”
You blinked. “What?”
Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.
"Go inside."
"Not unless you come with me."
He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.
You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.
Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.
“Azriel, I'm fine—”
“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”
That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.
Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.
Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.
The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.
His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.
But not you.
That scared you more than the injuries.
“Azriel…”
His eyes flicked upward.
You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
Something painful crossed his face.
“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”
He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.
When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.
Azriel closed his eyes.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Then he stood.
You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”
His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.
“You know I can’t let this go.”
“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”
“He enjoyed it.”
Silence.
Because again—he was right.
Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.
“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.
The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.
You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”
A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.
“I’m going to try not to kill him.”
“Azriel.”
His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.
“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”
You stared at him.
He stared calmly back.
Oh, he meant business.
“Azriel—”
He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.
“Stay here.”
And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.
You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”
It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.
Azriel stepped from them silently.
Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.
He looked entirely uninjured.
Calm.
Too calm.
You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”
Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.
“No.”
Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”
His mouth twitched faintly.
“I didn't kill him.”
“I don't believe you.”
A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.
The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.
He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.
Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.
“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”
You squinted. “Define reminded.”
A pause.
“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”
“Azriel.”
“And perhaps his hand is broken.”
You stared at him in shock.
Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.
“He shouldn’t have touched you.”
The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.
You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”
His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"
You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."
The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.
Azriel ignored you completely.
He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.
Safe.
You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.
“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”
Hi, it’s the same anon again! These are my ideas, both start with Seb and MC not being a couple yet.
This is slightly similar to ‘Letters’ which I loved btw! It’s 6th year, and many boys wish to court the Hero of Hogwarts. In attempts to win her over, they do things like walking her to class, carrying her school supplies, opening doors, pulling her chair out for her in class, buying flowers and whatnot. MC is a little annoyed, as it’s so overbearing that she can’t remember the last time she was simply able to open a door for herself. Sebastian, having loved her since last year and now feeling a mixture of jealousness + competitiveness, joins in on the mayhem and starts doing many of those things himself, even following her around the castle to make sure he beats the other guys to it. He’s kinda over the top, even more so than the others. Already annoyed with it all and with the fact that Seb started this later than the other boys, MC doesn’t take him seriously, thinking he’s only teasing her and making fun of the absurdity of her pursuers. Somewhat true because he’s Sebastian, but his actions are also a genuine desire to court her. I haven’t thought of any endings. Maybe it upsets him that she thinks he’s joking around or she gets annoyed with him, and it gets a lil angsty? Feel free to do whatever you want with it and change things as you wish!
The second one is an Amortentia one. A male friend gives MC chocolates that, unbeknownst to her, have love potion infused (like the ones Ron accidentally ate in Half-Blood Prince). She takes them to breakfast with her to eat for desert. Seb notices and questions her on their origins. He also notices she isn’t wearing her perfume today (important detail 👀). When she eventually opens them to eat some, he’s hit with the strong smell of MC’s perfume. He immediately recognizes it as Amortentia, already knowing what the potion smells like to him due to a past potions class. Meanwhile, MC doesn’t notice any new scents because Sebastian has been right next to her the whole time. He yanks the candy away from her just as she’s about to eat it. Now I don’t know if he’d remain at the table and be forced to explain himself to an angry MC, or if he’d be so mad at the guy he’d go confront him in the Great Hall in front of everyone.
Lmao after typing all this out I realize they probably could be combined if you wanted to. If you have your own ideas with where to take them though please feel free to do so! I’m sorry this is long and I hope you like at least one of them. And thanks again, I’m really happy you wanted to hear my ideas!
Oh my GOOODNESS, I had so much fun with these. You have no idea, Anon. You're a genius. I love you, and I love your prompts. I am RAVENOUS for more. I have been obsessed with this story, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
I am obsessed with your prompts, Anon.
"Amortentia"
MC stared blankly at the boy in front of her. The gaudy purple and white bouquet he was quite literally shoving in her face with his shaking hand, eager for her to accept, tickled her nose and throat.
She was allergic to hyacinths.
If that wasn't annoying enough, she didn't even know this sweaty, anxious Hufflepuff's name. He'd ambushed her immediately outside her Common Room, only to thrust the offensive offering out with a nervous, "Good morning, MC."
Weeks ago, she would have been flattered by the sweet, spontaneous act. Now, after having suffered countless encounters of a similar nature since beginning sixth year, her patience had worn thin.
"Hyacinths make me break out in a rash - sorry." She said flatly, spinning on her heel and rushing away before he could reply.
She did not want to hear his stuttering apologies, excuses, and flattery that would undoubtedly follow her rejection. It felt rather cold, to turn down his gift so bluntly, but she had long since lost the patience to coddle each and every hopeful suitor who crawled from the woodwork, seeking the affections of the Hero of Hogwarts.
Unbeknownst to her, Sebastian Sallow was also waiting for her outside the Common Room. Having witnessed the entire, pathetic exchange from his spot casually leaning against the far wall of the corridor, he pushed off and made to catch up with her - a task made quick thanks to his significantly longer stride.
"Rather than the Hero of Hogwarts, I'm starting to suspect that you endeavor to be known as the Shrew of Hogwarts." He chuckled, falling into stride beside his exasperated companion.
She offered a mocking bark of a laugh in response, rolling her eyes. "Only you would find such humor in my suffering, Sebastian."
"Suffering? I must admit, I'm rather envious of you - droves of strapping young lads falling all over themselves just for the opportunity to carry your books and shower you with gifts. Bet they'd pay a galleon just to have you cast a smile their way." Sebastian said, nudging her with his elbow. "Actually, as your friend, I'm beginning to wonder if there's a business opportunity for me somewhere in all this..."
"Oh? So not only will you make light of my misery, but you now intend to sell me? Am I your whore rather than your friend?" The edge in her tone warned him he was pushing her a bit too far this morning.
"Nothing says you can't be both." With a cheeky grin, he risked one final jab before nonchalantly draping his arm across her shoulders and pulling her close. "A bit of breakfast ought to fix up that notorious temper of yours. Let's get you fed and back in good spirits, eh? We need you on your best behavior if you're to keep our clients, er, suitors coming back for more."
She groaned, deflated, and entirely too drained to continue their banter. Letting Sebastian wheel them both along to the Great Hall, she did feel immense appreciation for his company - the swarms of hopeful admirers were not nearly as bold in the face of Sebastian's domineering presence. She could typically relax by his side.
Typically.
Until breakfast was over, and Sebastian was deep in a heated debate with Ominis over whether or not the Giant Squid actually consumed a diet entirely of toast. They'd heard a rumor that the Headmaster's house elf, Scrope, had been seen by the cove feeding it like a common house cat.
Seeing a window of opportunity while her guard dog was distracted, Everett Clopton wasted no time at all swooping in. Mindlessly collecting her books from the table and getting ready to ask her peers if they could stop arguing about mollusks so they could get to Charms on time, the words fell silent on her tongue when her belongings were snatched without warning from her hands. She turned, startled, to find Everett smiling confidently down at her.
"Thought we could walk to Charms together since it's the only class I have with you this year. I miss our little chats!" He said cheerfully.
"Perhaps if you weren't still in the beginner's flying class, you might find yourself with more time for actual studies, Clopton. I can carry my books on my own - I wouldn't want you tiring your arms before Kogawa's lesson." She said, probably a bit too rudely, but her tolerance was thread-bare.
This was certainly not the first time an inexplicably presumptuous young man had ripped something from her hands without asking - it wasn't even in the first dozen times that month. She struggled to recall the last time she'd carried anything for herself since term began. She felt downright infantile, coddled to the point these insufferable escorts refused to allow her to even open doors for herself.
Everett opened his mouth, likely to insist as was so often the case, until he caught sight of something over MC's shoulder and paled.
"I'll be taking those off your hands now, Clopton." Sebastian's voice came coolly from behind her, and she barely contained a shiver when his body brushed briefly against her side to claim her textbooks.
"R-right, of course. Thought you were busy, Sallow." Everett choked out. Trying to save a bit of face, he turned to MC with an uneasy smile and asked, "See you in class?"
"You know, it's funny. You seem like a helpful chap, Clopton. As it so happens, I've been looking for someone to help me test out a new hex I discovered in the Restricted Section." Sebastian's warning tone wiped what was left of the smile from Everett's face, and the poor boy took off without another word, tail between his legs.
"Sebastian, that was uncalled for. He meant well. Although I must admit, your tactics are far more effective than my own." She offered him a grateful smile and held out her hands. "Thank you for that - may I have my books back now?"
Disregarding her request entirely, he added his own books to the stack in his arms and nodded for her to follow. She usually had to hurry to keep pace with him, but he matched his steps with hers this morning. Unsure why, she found herself fighting to keep down an unwelcome blush. The butterflies in her stomach must have just been from stress.
When they escaped the chaotic bustle of the Great Hall, Sebastian shook his head and laughed bitterly, "How are you not cursing every single one of these fools? It's insulting the way they approach you - so full of themselves, acting like they own you. Then all it takes is one small implication of a threat, and they're practically pissing their trousers. Everyone wants a piece of the Hero of Hogwarts, but none of them have the spine to stand by your side."
This was surprising. Sure, Sebastian could be blunt and rude even on his best days, but the angry flush on his serious face while he ranted showed that he was actually upset. It was rare for him to truly become riled and rarer still to see him dwell on things he found unsavory.
"It's unlike you to be so mean-spirited. Besides, this has been going on all year. What's got your knickers in a twist over someone as innocuous as Clopton?" She asked, curious.
"It's not just Clopton." He sighed, shaking his head. "Sometimes it feels like the entire school is out for a piece of you. I'm annoyed just watching from the sidelines - I can't imagine the toll it's been taking on you."
Warm affection flooded her chest at her best friend's concern for her well-being. For as much of a bastard as he could sometimes be, at the end of the day, she knew she could always rely on him to understand her.
"Frankly, it's amazing anyone even lets me pick out my own wardrobe at this point. Feels like I'm not allowed to simply be anymore." She lamented.
"You do understand this is all because they intend to court you, right? They're pursuing you seriously." He asked slowly.
She balked, turning toward him abruptly while they walked, "Of course I know that - it's what makes the whole thing worse. They all think know they what I want and what's best for me. It's infuriating. Thankfully, I at least have you, Sebastian. Don't know what I'd do if you ever lost your head."
Sebastian stopped suddenly, causing her to crash face-first into his back. She squeaked indignantly, rubbing her nose and glaring up at him when he spun around and grabbed her shoulders, looking at her with a strange expression.
She knew that look. She didn't like that look. It always meant mischief.
"You're right. They don't know what you like. None of them do. I, however, am the perfect man to fill such an illustrious position." That charming smile and the way he said it like he'd realized something incredible made her apprehensive.
"I'm not quite sure what you're implying." She waited for him to elaborate.
"Who else has the backbone and, let's be honest, the right to stand confidently by your side? Of course it's me." He jabbed a thumb into his chest to punctuate the statement. "I'm tossing my hat into the ring as well. I'd be an idiot to simply watch as the rest of these buffoons drooled over you. Waste of your time when we could just be spending our days together like we always do."
Processing, she cocked her head to the side. It almost sounded like Sebastian was informing her of his genuine intention to woo her. That couldn't possibly be the case, however. They'd been thick as thieves since she arrived nearly a year and a half ago, and he'd taken great joy in mocking her for all her would-be romantic partners. If she was mistaken in her assumption, he'd never let her hear the end of it.
'You actually thought that I would offer to court you?' She could practically hear his mocking laughter in her head.
So she settled on the most reasonable explanation.
"So you honestly believe that if you pretend to be serious about me, romantically I mean, that it'll scare off the rest of my suitors? That's an absurd plan, even by your standards, Sebastian. Part of me thinks that you expect to get even more sick enjoyment out of my misfortune if you can actively participate in it, rather than simply watching." She said, expecting him to laugh and try to convince her.
He didn't laugh, however. Rather, the corners of his mouth turned down ever so slightly, a flicker of hurt flashing across his features. Then the odd look vanished and was replaced by another one of his signature grins.
"Very well. I see I have my work cut out for me - starting to feel a bit sympathetic toward the other lads. Fear not, though. I shan't let my intended be without my company for even a moment." He answered jovially, shifting the tall stack of books into the crook of his arm so that he could use the other to loop through the crook of her elbow, keeping her arm pinned tight to him while they walked to class.
-
If Sebastian was joking about seeking her favor, he was making an impressive show of things. True to his word, he spent weeks glued to her side even more than usual. The only times she was without her ever-present companion were in the lavatory and her dorm bed - and even then he'd repeatedly attempted to coax her into sneaking him into her room, insisting it would send a message to anyone who saw then waking up together.
As much as she loathed to say it, this new and overbearing side of Sebastian annoyed her. She grew more exhausted with his antics by the day, and even though he'd succeeded in keeping quite literally everyone else far away from her, she simply couldn't be pleased with the circumstances of their new avoidance.
Having Sebastian dote on her so affectionately made her accept a rather nauseating truth - she was in love with him.
The way he remained so unaffected by their flirtations drove her wild, to the point she would rather be drowning in love letters and praise from strangers again than face the beautiful torture that was allowing the object of her desire to continue unknowingly toying with her emotions. He was entirely ignorant to the impact his every miniscule word and touch held over her very being, and she couldn't help the utter pining consuming her.
Then, she felt quite bitter. For all his bravado and the way he complimented her looks and character, how he seethed when anyone approached her who he deemed unworthy, she wanted to ask, "If I'm so desirable, why don't you claim me for yourself?"
That would be mortifying, however. The sheer thought of exposing her candid feelings to him like that - opening herself up for rejection - left her feeling naked and insecure. Like a coward, however, she continued suffering silently while he wore down her mental state further and further every moment of the day by feigning interest.
The final straw came when she woke to a small box on her nightstand. The package was a deep lilac - her favorite color, and the sprig of Dittany fastened into the bow was a unique gesture. When she lifted it, a note fluttered onto the floor, and she went to pick it up, but a loud banging on her door made her jump and nearly drop the lovely gift.
"Rise and shine, princess. I'm starving!" Sebastian's brash voice rudely called through from the other side of the door while he continued impatiently knocking his fist against it.
Only at times like this, when they were alone, would he behave in a way she was familiar with. The Sebastian Sallow waiting for her in the hall was the real one - obnoxious and crass, comfortable enough in her presence to treat her as an extension of himself who he didn't need to perform in front of. Not the one who pulled out chairs and carried her over mud puddles like something precious.
She stared down at the box in her lap thoughtfully. Someone clearly knew her well enough to know her favorite color and plant - it was sweet and genuine. Nothing at all like the other impersonal things she'd been buried in from those who wanted her but didn't want her.
Sebastian increased the volume with which he pounded on her door.
"Merlin's bloody balls, you're insufferable. I'll be out in a moment, you intolerable bastard." She shouted, unable to bite back the grin when she heard him laugh loudly at her retort.
Sebastian was not a patient person, and so she wasted no time in tossing on a fresh set of clothes and haphazardly smoothing her hair with a brush. So intent on leaving before he could continue his harassment, she decided to head out without the perfume she typically wore. One day without it wouldn't be the end of the world, as much as she enjoyed the fragrance.
Swinging the door open, Sebastian's fist nearly collided with her face, hand poised to begin relentlessly banging against the wood again. She stared up at him, exasperated, before shaking her head and pushing past to march down the stairs. He trailed after her, cackling.
"You're in a mood already, I see. Rough night? Bet you'd sleep better with some company." He teased, and she could practically picture the way he was most certainly wiggling his eyebrows at the innuendo.
"Think you're clever, do you?" She scoffed.
"What's that you've got there?" Taking his place by her side, he made a grab for the purple gift box, and she yanked it out of the way.
"Gift from an admirer. I found it on my nightstand this morning."
Sebastian scowled, looking appalled. "He was in your room? I'm not even allowed in your room."
"I didn't allow him in my room, you pig. It was simply waiting for me there when I woke up. It's actually kind of sweet when you think about it. They know my favorite color and flower. I can't wait to see what's inside." She said dreamily, ignoring the way Sebastian feigned a gagging noise.
"Sounds more like a louse than an admirer. Sneaking into a girl's bedroom, uninvited. Ought to find whoever it is and hex them. Did they leave a note?"
"They did, but unfortunately, I left it behind as I was trying to appease my rather childish friend this morning."
"Pity. I would like to know who I need to put in their place today." He glowered, hand unconsciously sliding into his robe pocket to paw at his wand.
"Oh, enough of that, Sebastian. Aren't you tired of pretending to fawn over me yet? I'm certainly bored with the charade. Maybe this one is actually worth my time." She answered harshly, trying to push back the sour taste the words left on her tongue.
He remained silent after that, stalking along dejectedly beside her. Wondering if she'd scolded him too much, she almost felt guilty until he still chose to wind his arm around her waist and tug her firmly against him while they walked to breakfast. His body felt warmer today, she thought, and she allowed herself to relish in the softness of his hold and the deliciously potent smell of his cologne. She was glad to have left her perfume off that morning, knowing that she would instead smell like Sebastian the remainder of the day.
Seated next to each other, Sebastian continued sulking petulantly by her side. Deciding that the best time to open her gift would be while the sarcastic boy was choosing to bite his tongue, she gently placed it on the table in front of her and loosened the bow.
She could feel Sebastian staring at her while she lifted the lid - it seemed he, too, was curious as to what this particular surprise had in store.
"Chocolates?" She asked no one in particular, perplexed and a bit disappointed.
Sebastian snorted but had the good grace to try covering it up with a cough.
Six chocolate truffles were neatly arranged in the little box. While they certainly did look exquisite as far as confections went, it felt rather dispassionate compared to the consideration the sender had put into the packaging.
Still, it was a thoughtful gift nonetheless, and while chocolate may not have been her favorite treat, she could still appreciate having a bit of dessert to start the day.
Bringing one to her lips, she opened to pop it inside her mouth.
Until Sebastian's hand came flying at her face with absolutely no warning, swatting her hand roughly and knocking the truffle to the floor. She sat there staring between the piece of chocolate on the floor and her struck hand before turning to glare at him, livid.
"And just what the fuck was that about? I know you're in a shit mood since we bickered, but that was immature even by your standards."
"Ha! How about I make you eat that accusation instead of the nasty garbage you just tried to consume." He retorted, and when she gave him a confused frown, he continued, "Go ahead and give one a sniff - don't you dare put it in your mouth, though. I'll pry your jaws open like a dog."
Still baffled beyond all comprehension, she obediently brought another chocolate to her face and inhaled deeply.
"I can't smell anything. What's got you so bothered? Are they spoiled?" She asked.
Groaning, Sebastian gestured impatiently with his hand. "Close your eyes and give it another go."
She did.
Nothing.
"Perhaps you could move back from me for a moment? Your cologne is especially pungent today. It's all I can smell - probably why I'm not picking up on the chocolate."
Sebastian stilled instantly and simply stared at her, gaping. Lost for words, he took an uncomfortably long moment simply attempting to find his voice again, making a sort of funny, choking noise before what he wanted to say finally graced him with its presence.
Softly, he bent his head down to whisper to her, "They're spiked with Amortentia, darling. That's why you can't have them. Someone's tried to drug you."
Like she'd been burned, MC dropped the second piece of chocolate and shoved the box into the center of the table, looking aghast.
"Incendio!" She set the vile box aflame and launched herself off the bench, intent on getting as far from it as possible while it smoldered.
Mortified and frightened, she still picked up on the fact that Sebastian, always so loyal even after she'd lashed out at him, was instantly by her side as they made their way out of the Great Hall together. Shameful tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she furiously wiped at her face, hell-bent on not allowing her emotions to get the better of her over something so ridiculous.
"Hey, easy now. Slow down for a moment." Sebastian caught her wrist gently and pulled her back to him, letting her bury her face into his chest.
He wasted no time at all wrapping his arms around her frame, shushing her gently. His intention was to prevent her from crying, but the tenderness with which he treated her only served to make the task that much harder and she worked to maintain a steady breathing pattern, taking comfort in his scent.
They were standing in the middle of one of the staircases leading to the dungeons. He repositioned them carefully so that she was against the wall, shielding her in case of any passers-by. When he was certain she had successfully contained her burgeoning distress, he pulled back just slightly and nudged her chin up with a finger so that she would look at him.
"There's my girl. Nerves of steel, as always." He smiled fondly at her, but she frowned.
"Oh, please don't mock me right now, Sebastian." Her voice came out thick and cracked, still trying to maintain composure.
His expression softened further, almost apologetic.
"I'm not mocking you. You're the one who was nearly poisoned, yet I'm barely holding it together. Frankly, you're handling this magnificently." He praised, and she could now see that he, too, looked positively beside himself. "Gods, I can't believe you nearly ate that - and right under my nose. I got careless, I'm sorry."
"You? Careless? Sebastian, if it hadn't been for you, who knows what manner of horrid things I might be doing right now. You saved me. I owe you a great debt."
"You owe me nothing, you silly thing. I'm your best friend, and it is my privilege to keep you from harm." He said earnestly, but then his reassuring smile turned to something akin to amusement. "Particularly now that I know you can't smell a simple love potion if I'm in your vicinity."
There it was, the unfortunate detail she'd hoped he would be kind enough to ignore - at least to spare her feelings. Life could never be so easy with Sebastian, however, and she knew damn well he wasn't going to let something that juicy slip.
Flushed brilliantly red, from the tips of her ears to under her clothing, she still met his gaze fearlessly and challenged, "Yeah? So what of it? I smell your cologne in Amortentia. Have since we brewed it in Potions last year."
His eyes widened at the unexpected boldness of her statement, and he wondered just how far he could push her. "You smell my cologne, do you? What else?"
Never one to back down, she continued with more determination than before, "I smell smoke and char - like when you taught me the Blasting Curse. It's probably because it's your favorite spell. Also old books, like the ones you enjoy absconding with from the library."
Sebastian's grin only widened, and he pressed her even further. "You know what it means to associate Amortentia with a specific person?"
"Well, if I'm literate enough to read Sharp's assigned notes on the matter, it means I'm in love with you, unbearable bastard that you are. Why that happens to be is far beyond me, though. I mustn't be in my right mind." She grinned back, daring him to tease her anymore. Honestly, it felt freeing to tell him.
Laughing loudly, Sebastian ruffled her hair affectionately. "Gods, you're just not cute at all, are you? Any other girl would be a mess of tears and shame if their affections were discovered in such a way, but not you, eh?
"Any other boy would be wondering who mixed Felix Felicis into his morning pumpkin juice to have me confessing my affections like this, yet here you stand wholly unconcerned." She quipped.
"We make quite a pair, you and I." Bending down so that his lips brushed against the shell of her ear, Sebastian delighted in the heat radiating from her face before he whispered, "Aren't you curious how I knew it was Amortentia? What I could smell in it?"
She stilled, a thrill running through her as she debated whether or not she actually did want to know the answer.
"I swear, I'll use my ancient magic on you if you say it was Samantha Dale's shampoo."
Pulling back to laugh wholeheartedly, gripping his sides, he mimed wiping a tear from his eye. His broad smile settled on something unfamilar then - vulnerability.
"You're not wearing perfume today. I noticed as soon as you left your room. You didn't put any on, yet all I could smell permeating from that wretched box was the absolutely intoxicating floral you're always wearing." He said, holding her gaze as he spoke. "Then, the subtle tang of Wiggenweld. You always keep a few on hand because you're such a bloody menace."
"And the third note you picked up?" She asked hopefully, voice hardly above a whisper.
Sebastian took a lock of her hair between his fingers and brought it to his lips, kissing the silken strands before continuing. "The Forbidden Forest always lingers here, in your hair, even long after you've come home from one of your adventures - that was there too."
Speechless. That's what she was, for the first time in her life. She searched his face for any hint of his usual teasing and came up dry. She swallowed thickly, nodding her acknowledgment and dumbstruck into silence. He laughed again, clearly enjoying the sight of her so flustered because of him.
"Now that that's out of the way, how about we deal with this unsavory suitor of yours. Then you can finally start taking my attempts to court you seriously. It was a rather large hit to my ego that you thought I was playing around."
Sputtering, she choked out, "Y-you were actually - "
"Afraid so. The whole time, in fact. And you thought I couldn't keep a secret." He winked, tucking her hair back behind her ear and leaning down to kiss her cheek.
The unexpectedly bold act stirred her from her stupor, and she said simply, "I'm an idiot. Why didn't you correct the misunderstanding? It's uncharacteristic of you to remain quiet about much of anything."
"Can you blame me for being nervous in front of the girl I fancy? In fact, I'm still a bundle of nerves at this very moment." He confessed, holding a hand out to prove to her he was shaking.
She reached up to lace her fingers through his, pulling his hand down to her lips to kiss gently along his knuckles, earning a fond sigh from him.
"What's this? The Sebastian Sallow - actually nervous?" She stared up at him mischeviously, stepping forward impossibly closer and dropping their joined hands to the side, so there was nothing blocking her from pressing herself against him, staring up prettily through her eyelashes. He swallowed thickly.
"Perhaps nervous wasn't the right word choice. I'm simply terrified beyond all measure that you'll wake up tomorrow and realize you've made a terrible mistake in choosing me." He admitted weakly.
Unable to wait another moment, she reached her arm up and curled it around the back of his neck, tangling her fingers in his soft hair and pulling him down to crash her lips against his, startling them both by her brazen behavior. Still, Sebastian's nerves melted away in a primal need to take control - he couldn't possibly allow her to manhandle him that way when he should be the one making her swoon.
Shaking his hand free from hers, he moved one to slam against the wall next to her head, the other gripped firmly to her waist, rubbing tantalizing circles into her hip bone with his thumb. When he slid his tongue across her bottom lip, he grinned deviously at her gasp and snaked the wet appendage inside her mouth, groaning when she kissed back with just as much fervor.
He worried he may have pushed her too far when, after lowering the hand on her hip to play with the waistband of her skirt, she pulled away abruptly.
His concerns were short-lived however when she panted out, "Fucking hell, Sebastian. The Undercroft is too far away. Or did you intend to take me on the stairs for all to see?"
"In a hurry, are you? And here I thought I could take my time ravaging you. Guess I'm not the impatient one in this relationship." He said wickedly, but they both knew the truth of the matter was that they were both impossibly eager to sneak away.
"If I don't get you to myself, and soon, I'm going to shamelessly sully both our reputations right here and now." She said, heated.
That was all he needed to spring into action. Earning a startled yelp from MC, he scooped her up by the midsection and tossed her over his shoulder, keeping a hand firmly planted on her ass while she clawed at his back like a cat demanding to be put down.
"I'm your girlfriend, not a sack of potatoes." She whined.
"Remind me later not to kill the lad who attempted to poison you. We do owe him that much for helping you finally see the light." He laughed louder still when she scoffed, grumbling something about how the culprit should be so lucky as to suffer a quick demise.
-
Andrew Larson did not, in fact, die. He did, however, spend a rather extended period of time in the Hospital Wing - having somehow consumed a particularly potent brew of Amortentia before someone discovered him attempting to romance an especially ornery Headmaster Black.
the ONE PIECE live action does a million things right. so here’s a top 15 cinema wins that they pulled off.
look at igaram’s hair. or mr. 9′s facial structure being the exact 3D version of the anime. the clothes. just immaculate. everything is. the series has become perfectly tactile. from mr. 3′s wax acrylic nails to the den den mushi snail telephones. it all feels like you could touch it through the screen. you could pluck robin’s petals right out of the air.
curse of modern day cinema color grading? gone! FINALLY. they know their palettes. it’s all so bright like the anime and oda’s illustrations. from the reflections on robin’s gown to crocodile’s green lighting. humans love vibrant colors, not endless game of thrones night-time grey. 10/10.
even supporting characters like dr. kureha are presented with love and all-in accuracy. no slacking. the wapol actor had a whole water cooling system for his heavy 80 pound/37kg costume that would always heat up to 20 degrees above body temperature and still did most of his stunts all while acting so well he’s basically purple trump. joe (croc actor) said it’s because the makers - unconventionally - didn’t hide that they wanted to “hire for one piece/ask if the person knew one piece” first. that’s how all the actors who are fans came running and got in. bingo.
the powers that be are actually going evil all the way, which ties to our current world (dis-)order, too. OPLA is extremely relevant. it doesn’t mince this. the audience can clearly see those figures don’t benefit the collective, hoard all their influence, but something is actually done to stop them, which is cathartic. if the screenplay makes all of the villains - and one piece truly has a ton - heartfelt sob stories that we can cherish, we’d become more prone to tolerate the faces on the news i fear. so they’re not playing games about authority and wrongdoings. OPLA also succeeds in putting morally ambiguous characters up to debate and highlights the marine = police/military side. so, TL;DR: it’s politically savvy and gives people hope. that is came out in 2026 is no coincidence.
meanwhile, oda can also orchestrate the changes he regrets not having done decades ago. unless it’s overworking everyone involved, that’s a net positive as well. we get to see an alternative.
the makers know everything matters in the story. which means we won’t come too far compared to the anime, but the journey is the goal here, and not having immediate cash-grabbing spinoffs. this one is a safe bank. even the sequel curse was avoided by improving the graphics and keeping some hard-hitting top tier side characters like mihawk.
adapting over time. if a character is supposed to be an airhead, they will be: zoro’s portrayal is inching closer to the original with every episode. charithra also has a huge progression with her acting. we have so much to anticipate, god.
the landscapes are all stunning. people worked hard as hell on those island opening tiles. the CGI is well-placed almost everywhere. and many backgrounds are huge and handmade. those giant wax splinters? all real.
oda said he picks the cast by looks and gut feeling only (hm… is he using haki?), not spoiling it by meeting them and seeing their non-acting personality face to face. he only imagines the finished actor. being more superficial and imaginative like this pays off over being realistic because the cast is a 99% carbon copy of the original now. us OP folk are visual creatures, it’s so satisfying e.g. to see the textures of chopper, luffy’s hat, or spot nami by the orange hair from afar.
the camp factor. double cigar, usopp’s rubber bands, cut crease makeup. dr. hiriluk with his huge hair that holds the hat in place. you can see the faux snow flakes being scrumptiously fake and it’s just fun to look at. OPLA is like anime drag race to become the pirate king of crazy hair.
prop game unmatched. oscar for the costume department, these people sleep with the anime and manga under their pillows. even the extras must have felt significant in their contribution (hire me!)
due to um… very stubborn bigotry, oda regularly alienates half of his fan base and more (thus decimating revenue, even from a marketing perspective on his part this is maximum stupidity), so it’s been a wise change to de-fang creep characters, let female directors tackle things, bring in handsome guys and homoerotic/sapphic undertones for even measure, and cast POC actors at every corner of the naturally diverse pirate world. it suits one piece so much better, attracting the big audience the franchise deserves, reflects and thrives on. i guess casting real people made oda realize every female body has to be shown differently and not like a 6′2 clone barbie, usopp actually speaks AAVE and has a normal nose, vivi as a desert princess and igaram + kobra have actual melanin, koby doesn’t have to match traditional gendered aesthetics, and so on. i hope oda could see that giving up his discriminatory ways benefits everyone and makes OP more successful. the change that the crew members don’t heavily abuse each other physically all the time like in the anime/manga was very much needed.
we get plenty of foreshadowing and details that manga readers will enjoy. they’re not dumbing it down or addressing a completely new audience entirely. but even if you don’t know one piece you can enjoy this big colorful world imo.
i think hardly anybody on that film set hates being a part of this. they are goal-oriented and in love with one piece: i hope this goes on for many seasons. most actors not being famous beforehand helps to fuse them into the project as their priority.
getting serious with action. OP typically doesn’t romanticize blood, violence, death, and abuse. we can actually see characters immobilized, worried, stabbed, sliced, shot, coughing, nose battered, swollen, collapsed, sick. it’s done realistically without slapstick so we can feel with them, not laugh at them (!), because OP is always about the grave repercussions of power. ironically, even a joyful anime adaptation with ridiculously strong characters everywhere is more believable and human than a typical hollywood production there. more of that, please.
unavoidable that you will be the villain in someone else's story. You will be painted in an unfavorable light. You will be the irredeemable one. and all of this will happen despite how nice you might usually be or how kind or how respectful or how warm. and you will just have to move on.
as you get older, you start realizing that you are not always right and there’s a lot of things you could have handled better and many situations where you could have been kinder and all you can really do is forgive yourself and let your mistakes make you a better person.
My favorite thing is seeing people be angry at Benedict for asking Sophie that infamous question like did we all forget the Bridgertons are rich, upper class men who live by different rules than the rest of society? Of course for him it was an offer from a gentleman, by his standards he’s offering her: protection, financial support, affection, and freedom from her stepmother and domestic service. As the sibling who is constantly trying to outrun the fact he’s the “spare,” he’s seen that it’s normal for a man to marry for convenience, status, children, companionship and keep a mistress for fun, happiness, and love. Like Anthony before Kate, Benedict sees marriage as the potential for a love match but not a guarantee.
Another subtle and keen way to show the class difference: Sophie knows about sex. She knows how to touch herself. She knows exactly what Benedict means to do when he wraps her legs around him.
No one guarded her innocence the way ladies of the ton are guarded. No one expects her to be chaste, or delicate, or ‘unspoiled’ because the luxury of purity is a pedestal reserved for the elite, of which she isn’t a part.
Contrast this to the way Francesca is already married and still totally in the dark about the mechanics of it all. It seems like a minor detail but because Bridgerton has been so strict about the currency of a ladies’ virtue, even the basic rudimentary knowledge of sex defines the limits of what working class women can expect to be offered by elite men.
Also, it’s a call back to what Anthony said to Sienna in Season 1: “Not every woman is a lady.”
Do you have any tips for writing enemies to lovers?
Hi, love! Thanks for your question and your patience<3 I’m currently writing somethingsimilar to this, so I hope my experience can help you here!
Enemies-to-lovers is a popular trope, but it’s often treatedcarelessly by writers – especially TV/movie writers who rush through thetransition to fit a single movie or episode arc. There’s nothing worseyou can do in this situation than to rush your arc. Falling in love isalready a time-consuming plotline – but transitioning from enemies, who arealready shutting each other out, to lovers? The quicker it happens, theless believable it becomes.
I have a lot of notes on how to write enemies to lovers, sobear with me as I list them out.
Writing Enemies to Lovers: The Basic Ingredients
1. Give them some similar traits.
No matter what, two people can’t fall in love if they don’trelate on some level. The first step to creating possible love interestsis to find where they’ll connect. Are they a hero and a villain? Evil and good? Night and day? I bet they both love animals. Maybe they’re both way into politics. Maybe they share a commonenemy. Maybe they’re both neat freaks or a bit sassy or super gay or lovethe same music. It can be a few important things or a bunch of superficialthings – just make sure they have something that can tie themtogether.
2. Put them on the same side of something.
When two people are mortal foes, it can be hard for them tosee each other in any other light. Bringing in a common enemy (ananti-hero, a natural disaster, a person in power), or a common interest (amutual friend, a school play, a moral cause), can land foes on a teamtogether. This forces them to become aware of each other’s strengths, andto consider (and worry about) each other’s weaknesses. This is perfectfodder for an eyebrows-raised, “Hey, they don’t suck at this particularthing,” moment.
3. Get them alone.
With other people watching (especiallyfriends/coworkers/allies), little groundwork can be made for your twohate-lovers. If you get your characters alone together, you’re given abounty of opportunities to bond them, including but not limited to: actualconversations, accidental (or faux-accidental) physical contact, the sneakymoment of checking each other out, etc. etc. etc. People are differentwhen you get them away from their friends – less extreme, less rowdy, lessunreachable. If you have to trap your characters in an elevator theold-fashioned way, damn it, you’re the only one who can do it.
4. Let them fight their feelings.
If these two are truly enemies, there isn’t going to be amoment of, “Oh, I like them. Huh. Neato.” Oh, no. There will be internal backlash – they will beat their emotions back with abroom, and deny them to anyone who asks. There will be extra hatefulglares, more middle fingers, and basically anything they can do to remindthemselves that they don’t like this person. If you show thisinternal conflict, it both (a) makes the feelings seem real, organic, and (b)creates a more realistic transition from hate to love.
5. Love can sound like hate.
There’s a reason people say indifference is the trueopposite of love. When your two enemies start to feel things foreach other, this will probably spark a lot of ranting, arguing, anddoor-slamming. It creates a fixation – you sit there and you stew andyou tell your friends, “Remember when they did thatstupid thing? Yeah. Screw them.” Your friends roll theireyes. When will you stop talking about this person? Just kiss themalready.
6. Sexual tension is a powerful tool.
If your characters experience sexual attraction, this is agreat way to accelerate their relationship against their will. It’s theage-old, “My mind says no but my body says yes,” dilemma. Yourcharacters can’t stand each other, or the image they have of each other, butthey’re attracted like magnets and can’t shake it. This can make for somepretty hot – or pretty hilarious – scenes.
7. Give them a moment of horrified realization.
Eventually, the feelings will grow strong enough that one orboth of them will have to sit there, probably on the bathroom floor a littlebit drunk with one sock on, and realize: “I love that f*cker.” It’llbe a scary moment for them. It’s not that they haven’t known it – theyjust have yet to accept that it’s something to deal with, until now. Thiscan be prompted by a dangerous situation, a shared activity, or a failed attemptat another romance – so when they really sit and think about it, theyknow. Then it becomes a question of either “how do I get rid of this?”or “how do I pursue this?”.
8. Try their hand at flirting.
Whether one or both characters have come to accept theirfeelings, someone’s gotta start flirting. A glancing touch across thearm; a small comment that could kind of be construed as amicable; a lingeringglance; that first peek at their enemy’s smile. Something cute and quickand immediately followed by an existential crisis will do in a pinch. Without this water-testing, readers won’t have any image of what thisrelationship will look like – and if it can succeed.
9. Craft the perfect kiss/hug/confession.
When the time is right, create an undeniable display ofattraction to transition into a new phase of their relationship:the “welp-we-both-like-each-other” phase, which comes right beforethe “we-decided-to-(stay-platonic/start-romancin’)” phase. The BigKiss/Confession is the most iconic climactic love scene, in which the twocharacters take a chance and become vulnerable with each other – and kiss, orsay, “I love you,” or do anything that can’t be construed in any otherway. Want to extend the drama? Interrupt them, or have it beone-sided, or let it turn into a fight until they decide, “Forget it, thiswas stupid.” Readers will swoon.
10. Finish up with an awkward adjustment period.
If and when your characters do enter a relationship, makesure it’s a little tentative at the beginning, to keep it realistic. Yourcharacters have made a huge shift in their dynamic – there will be somelingering arguments and love-hate, and maybe a bit of discomfort going publicwith their romance. Then come the usual growing pains of a new relationshipgetting serious – figuring out how to navigate each other’s flaws, learning tobe open with their feelings, dealing with unresolved fights from before theirrelationship. It won’t be perfect right away. That’s the beauty of it.
I hope this helps you, love! I adore love-haterelationships, and I hope you enjoy crafting your own enemies-to-lovers as muchas we’ll all love reading them :) Good luck!
– Mod Joanna ♥️
Ifyou need advice on general writing or fanfiction, you should maybe ask us!
i just discovered this account and i am OBSESSED with your writing!! if you’re feeling crazy im craving an azriel one shot where the reader is fae (bonus points if she’s an archeron sister and his mate but they don’t know it yet) and she gets kidnapped by an enemy to try and lure azriel out, but of course he saves the day and they figure out they’re mates :) and extra bonus points if there’s just enough angst to make us nervous he won’t get there in time and then they accept and celebrate the mating bond at the end accordingly 🙂↕️
Straight to you- Azriel x fem!reader
Summary: Kidnapped and alone, she didn’t know he was already hers.
Warnings: angst, violence, mentions injuries, blood, happy end
A/N: wow! what an emotional yet beautiful ride this was. Thank you anon for the request, I hope it's to your liking🫶
See masterlist
The first blow stole the air from her lungs.
Before she could scream, a rough hand clamped over her mouth, the tang of dirt and sweat filling her senses. The world tilted--boots skidding across cobblestones, her shoulder slamming into a wall hard enough to spark white behind her eyes. She kicked, twisted, but there were too many hands, too much strength.
A strip of coarse cloth yanked over her eyes, knot biting at her skull. Darkness swallowed her whole.
Her wrists were bound before she could form a coherent thought, rope scratching the skin raw. The only sounds were her ragged breaths and the heavy boots dragging her forward, etc step echoing off stone as if the walls themselves were closing in.
Cold. Gods, it was cold. The damp air smelled of mold and rust--of places no one came back from.
She fought to keep track of turns, to memorise the path, but every jolt and shove blurred together until time itself seemed to vanish.
A door groaned open. She was pushed inside, the floor beneath her knees wet and sticky. The blindfold didn't come off.
A voice slithered out of the dark, low and grating. "We need to get to the Shadowsinger," it said, and she could hear the rotting smirk in the words. "Seems capturing one of the Archeron sisters will do just fine."
The pieces clicked with sickening ease.
Of course. She wasn't the prize--she was the bait.
But the revelation didn't stop there--it pulled her backward, years and years, to where this all began.
Azriel had been the only one she could truly call a close friend.
From the moment the Cauldron had dragged her under, lungs burning, bones stretching, senses sharpening into something new, she’d been reborn alongside her two sisters. Elain’s sobs had been soft, Nesta’s silence sharp, but Y/N… she’d stared at her hands, her reflection, her glowing, strange eyes, and felt a thrill deep in her chest. She was immortal now. She had centuries ahead of her to do, see, and be everything she’d once thought impossible.
Being reunited with Feyre, her high lady older sister, had only added to the joy. There had been so much to catch up on, so many moments stolen by months of separation. And after the war--their war--there’d been peace. There had been laughter and dinners in Velaris, quiet mornings watching the city stir awake.
It was in those months after the fighting that she and Azriel had found friendship in each other--not in some grand moment, but through small, consistent ones. A nod across the River House dining room. A conversation on a balcony that stretched until dawn. Training sessions where he corrected her stance with the faintest touch, shadows curling lazily around her. Somewhere between the first sparring match and the first time she made him laugh--really laugh--he’d become her confidant.
For a while, she'd been happy. Truly, blindingly happy. Until her two sisters also found their mates.
It had started subtly: Nesta canceling their weekly sister sleepovers, Elain showing up late and distracted. Then came the excuses, the absences, the drifting away until those nights vanished altogether. No one suggested reinstating them Not even Feyre. No one seemed to notice their absence but her.
Y/N wouldn't lie...it hurt.
One night, she’d confided in Azriel, words spilling out in the quiet of his private balcony. She told him about her fear of never finding her mate, of always being the odd one out. That she felt invisible in her own family, the forgotten sister standing in the shadow of brighter flames.
Azriel had tried to make her laugh--murmuring something about how she was hardly alone, seeing as poor old him had gone 538 years without a mate. But when her voice broke on the next joke, he’d simply sat there with her, shadows curling close, listening as the night turned into morning.
They'd become closer after that.
That was, up until now.
Because now, all she felt was like a burden.
Because of her, her family--and especially Azriel--would be in danger. Or maybe...maybe no one would come for her at all. She was the overlooked one, the forgotten Archeron sister. The one whose absence barely made a ripple.
Y/N smiled sadly beneath the blindfold. At least being an outcast would work in her favor for once.
Azriel rolled the stiffness from his shoulders as he made his way toward the River House dining room. Another long day of hunting down leads and extracting information had left him with the familiar ache in his muscles, the metallic tang of blood still faint on his gloves. Dinner with the others wasn't exactly his idea of unwinding, but Rhys and Feyre insisted on having everyone together tonight.
He slowed without meaning to as he reached the last bend in the hallway. The sound of raised voices spilled toward him--urgent, sharp. The loudest was Feyre's. "...it's not like her- "
Then her name.
Y/N.
Azriel's pulse jumped.
He was moving before the thought fully formed, shadows coiling tighter around him as he burst into the room. Chaos met him on the other side. Feyre stood at the head of the table, eyes bright with worry, Rhys at her shoulder with a hand on her arm as if to keep her steady. Elain's voice broke from where she sat, fingers wringing in her lap.
"She promised she'd be back by the afternoon," Elain said, looking from face to face as though someone might have an answer. "It's well past sunset now--hours past--and she's still not here."
Nesta was pacing near the hearth, arms crossed, her jaw tight. Mor leaned against the wall, uncharacteristically silent, while Amren's sharp gaze cut between them all. Cassian sat forward on his chair, elbows on his knees, tension rolling off him.
"You're certain she went to the market?" Feyre pressed.
"Yes," Elain said, nodding quickly. "She told me this morning. Just to pick up a few things."
"Maybe she got lost on the way back," Rhys said, though his tone hel little conviction. "We should send someone to check- "
Azriel's voice through, cut steel-edged. "Where exactly did she say she'd be in the market?"
The room stilled. Nesta stopped pacing, turning to face him. "Near the fountain. At the far end by the spice vendors. That's her favourite place to visit."
Azriel's eyes went to Rhys. The High Lord's answering nod was all the permission he needed.
He was moving before anyone could say another word, shadows streaming after him, wings flaring in the tight hall. His mind was already spiralling into places he didn't want it to go--every sick, twisted possibility clawing to the surface.
Please be fine, Y/N. Please be fine.
he streets near the fountain were nearly empty now, lamplight spilling in golden puddles across the cobblestones. Azriel's shadows slithered ahead, searching every dark corner, every rooftop. His gaze swept over the crowd, sharp and searching--until a faint thread of scent brushed past him.
Y/N.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he followed it, the shadows pulling him down a narrower street. The scent grew stronger--until it stopped.
There, in the middle of the cold, damp road, lay a basket.
Her basket.
He recognized it instantly--woven with pale wood and lined with soft cream cloth, the one Elain had given her last Winter Solstice. Its contents were scattered across the stones as though dropped mid-step: a loaf of crusty bread, two small jars of honey, and a folded length of deep-blue silk that caught faint moonlight.
People had walked past it without pause, stepping over the mess. To them, it was nothing.
But to Azriel, it was everything.
He knelt beside it, the world narrowing to the sight of those familiar items strewn where she must've stood. His shadows darted out, seeking more of her trail, but came back empty. No scents but hers lingered--not a whiff of the ones who had taken her.
His stomach turned cold. They'd masked their scents. Professional. Deliberate.
Azriel's vision blurred for a moment as his jaw clenched. Slowly, carefully, he gathered the items and set them back into the basket, fingers brushing over the worn handle. His hands were steady only because he forced them to be.
In his mind, the faces of her captors--whoever they were--were already being built from shadows and rage. He would find them. He would destroy them Piece by piece.
It was certain now. She'd been taken.
Azriel straightened, the basket in his hand, and let the rage settle into something colder. Sharper.
Hold strong, Y/N.
Because he would find her.
No matter what.
She had no idea how long it had been.
Minutes, hours--it all bled together in the suffocating dark. Every second felt like an eternity, yet Y/N guessed it had only been a few hours since they'd dragged her here.
The blindfold had stayed on.
They hadn't wasted any time before the pain had began.
A blow to her ribs that stole her breath. The sharp sting of something--metal?--raking across her arm. A boot pressed cruelly into her back when she fell to her knees. Questions hurled at her in voices dripping with malice, each one sharper than the last.
“Tell us about Rhysand.”
“I don’t know anything- ”
A fist to her jaw.
“Where is the Illyrian commander? Where is Cassian?”
“I- please, I don’t- ”
A sharp twist of her hair, forcing her head back.
“What about the Shadowsinger?” A pause, a hiss in her ear. “We know you’re close. Tell us where he is.”
She bit down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. "I don't know anything!"
The blows kept coming, punctuated by jeers that cut deeper than any strike. "Not so high and mighty now, are you?"
"You think you're important, little Archeron? You're nothing but a pretty face playing at power."
"You're right, I'm not the High Lady. Not the Lady of Death. Not even the Seer. So please, let me go!"
She begged. Gods, she begged. Tried to make them see she wasn't what they thought she was. She wasn't Feyre, the High Lady with raw, untamed power. She wasn't Nesta, forged from fire and steel, death in a woman's skin. She wasn't Elain, with visions that could alter the course of war.
She didn't even know what she was.
Whatever 'gift' the Cauldron had given her, if any, had remained silent all this time. And yet they didn't care.
"Your sisters would've fought by now," one sneered. "You? You'll break like glass."
"Maybe we should start taking pieces of you. Send them to Rhysand or Azriel one by one until they answer."
Her chest heaved under the weight of their words, the pain thrumming through every inch of her body. For the first time, she truly began to wonder if she'd make it out alive.
"They want to lure us in," Rhysand said, voice cold enough to frost the air.
Azriel set the basket down on the table. The cream lining was smudged with dirt, the blue silk stained from where it had fallen to the road. “This was hers. I found it near the market fountain. Her trail stops there—no scents but hers.” His jaw tightened. “Whoever took her masked themselves. They knew what they were doing.”
Elain’s hands flew to her mouth, a choked sob breaking loose. She shook her head over and over, whispering, “No, no, not Y/N…” The sound cut through the room like a blade. Mor was at her side in an instant, guiding her toward the door as Elain’s sobs grew ragged, the sound fading only when the door shut behind them.
Nesta’s eyes were sharp and burning, her fists clenching at her sides. Feyre stood stiff, eyes twitching in restrained fury, while Cassian cursed low and vicious under his breath. Amren leaned back in her chair, silver eyes glittering like sharpened steel.
"We don't know who has her, or where," Rhys said, scanning the room. "But if they took her in broad daylight and masked their scents, it's calculated. And if they've gone after her specifically..." His gaze flicked to Feyre.
Feyre's voice trembled, just slightly. "Poor Y/N. The Mother knows what they're doing to her right now."
Azriel's hands curled into fists before he could stop himself. The thought alone--the idea of her in pain, in fear--sent a hot, slicing fury through his chest. His shadows rippled sharply, betraying what he didn't say aloud.
"We can't waste time," he said, each word clipped. "Every second we sit here, they get further."
Rhys gave a single nod. "Agreed. Azriel, Cassian--you'll take the skies. Amren and Nesta, start running the perimeter with anyone available. Also inform Mor. Feyre and I will reach out to our contacts in the city."
Cassian was already halfway to the door. Nesta moved toward him, but her gaze lingered on Azriel. "Find her," she said. It wasn't a request.
"I will," Azriel promised, the vow low and lethal.
As the others moved into motion, his mind was already a map of possibilities--every dark corner, every smuggler's route, every enemy who might dare to try this. But under it all was one clear, unwavering thought:
Hold on, Y/N. I'm coming.
If only he'd known how hard it would be to track her.
Two whole days had passed since Y/N vanished without a trace. In all his long centuries, Azriel had never faced such a challenge as finding her. The bastards who'd taken her were professionals--silent, careful, leaving not so much as a footprint to follow.
His shadows were gone, every last one, under his orders. They were scattered across the Night Court and beyond, creeping through the other courts, combing alleys, forests, docks, tunnels.
And still, nothing.
Azriel hadn’t slept. Not truly. Every hour was spent searching--questioning informants in the slums, scouring every black market and smuggler’s den, slipping through enemy borders without permission. His patience, honed over centuries, frayed more with each dead end. Fury ate at him from the inside out, each passing moment sharpening into the same relentless thought: what if he was too late?
The others were no better. Feyre spent her hours in council and in the skies, her expression hardening more each day. Rhysand was gaunt from exhaustion, spending countless hours raking through the minds of anyone even remotely suspicious...only to find walls or emptiness.
Elain sat for hours in her garden or the quietest corners of the River House, clutching Y/N’s scarf as though it could tether her to a vision. But whatever she tried, the threads remained dark, unspooling into nothing.
Nesta had taken to constant movement: searching the city, flying with Cassian, stalking into every place that might offer a whisper of information. Cassian rarely left her side, his own worry showing in the way he watched her when she wasn’t looking.
Mor and Amren hunted leads in their own ways--Mor slipping into dangerous places where her name still carried weight, Amren leaning over maps and sending out messages through her own web of contacts.
The River House had become a place of hushed voices and quick glances, everyone bracing for news that never came.
Azriel was in Rhysand’s office with Cassian when the door slammed open hard enough to rattle the shelves. Nesta stalked in, eyes bright and dangerous.
“I think I have a plan,” she said, voice low but sharp. “One that might work.”
Time had become a cruel, shapeless thing.
The interrogations didn't stop. Not once. Every few hours--though it could've been minutes or days--they came for her again. Always the same questions.
About Azriel's job.
His secrets that they were so sure he'd shared with her.
"We've been tracking you for a long time, little mouse," one whispered in her ear, the smell of alcohol and something else--something disgusting--blocking her nose. "So we know how close you've been with him. Close enough for him to share his secrets with you."
Then came other types of questions:
His missions.
Where he went when the rest of the Inner Circle didn't see him.
His every move.
She told them the truth. Over and over. I don't know. But the answer never changed their methods.
With each passing minute, the fragile thread of hope she’d been clinging to frayed thinner. At first, she’d tried to hold on--imagining Feyre’s wings blotting out the sun as she landed, Nesta’s steel gaze cutting through chains, Azriel’s shadows spilling into the room before he cut down her captors. But those images came less and less.
Now her mind wandered into darker places.
What if no one was coming?
What if they couldn’t find her?
What if she simply… disappeared?
At some point, they’d torn the blindfold from her eyes. The light in the room had been dim, but it still burned after so long in darkness. And then she’d seen them.
Three faces--if they could be called that. All warped, ugly, monstrous. Their skin looked stretched too tight, their eyes too small for their skulls. She didn’t know them, didn’t recognize anything in them except hunger.
The questions had kept coming. Her begging had stopped.
"I do not know," she murmured again, her voice a rasp. She barely flinched when the slap came, her head snapping to the side.
Her wrists and ankles were bound in heavy chains that dug into her skin, the weight pulling at her shoulders and hips. Every breath was a reminder of the bruises painting her ribs. One shoulder hung at an odd angle, dislocated from when they’d slammed her into the wall earlier.
The pain had dulled to something constant, almost background noise.
It was the anger that burned brighter.
At herself--for being careless.
At her captors--for thinking they could break her.
At life--for making her the one who always seemed easiest to take.
She swallowed, straightened as much as the chains allowed. If this was the end, they would not see her beg again.
Not now. Not ever.
"No."
"No!"
Azriel blinked, and Nesta's shocked, furious glare was met with identical expressions from Rhysand and Cassian.
"What?!" Nesta barked. "But- "
Rhys cut her off, his voice sharp. "You cannot just use the Mask to call the dead to you and command them to search for Y/N!"
"Well, why the hell not?" Nesta snapped. "The Dread Trove is mine! I can do whatever I fucking please with it, can't I?"
Rhysand let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Look...I know you're desperate to find Y/N before it's too late- "
"Watch it, Rhysand," Nesta shot back, eyes flashing.
He didn’t stop. “-we all are. But summoning the dead is extremely dangerous. I understood it during the war, but now? You can’t just summon thousands, if not millions, of dead skeletons, to one place. It’s not just about control. You’d risk catastrophic collateral damage. The dead might not stay contained. The laws of life and death aren’t forgiving.”
Cassian crossed his arms, voice low and steady, though edged with worry. “He’s right, Nesta. It’s too dangerous. The risk to everyone--even to the Night Court--is enormous.”
Azriel’s fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Heat pooled in his chest, sharp and relentless.
“Are you two even hearing yourselves?!” he barked, voice booming over the office. Both Nesta and the others froze mid-gesture. “Y/N IS LOST! GONE! And yet here you are, rejecting a perfectly logical plan because of what? Too many dead roaming our court?!”
He stepped forward, the shadows around him pulsing like living things. “We should be doing EVERYTHING we can to find her. Every possible path, every option! And you’re sitting here squabbling over what could happen if we take a chance? Do you even understand what’s at stake? She’s not just missing--she’s in the hands of monsters who are professionals at keeping her hidden, and we are running out of time!”
His voice dropped to a low, trembling growl, fury mingling with fear. “Do you even hear me? Do you even hear what I’m saying?!”
Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel didn’t wait. He spun on his heel, shadows curling tight around him as he stormed toward the balcony.
“You can argue all you want!” he snarled over his shoulder. “I don’t care about ‘too dangerous’! She’s all that matters right now!”
With a powerful leap, he vaulted over the balcony railing, wings unfurling and catching the wind in a rush of motion. In an instant, he was gone, streaking into the night, the city lights blurring beneath him as every ounce of his being focused on one truth: he would find her. No matter what.
The nights were endless, the city below him a blur of streets and rooftops, shadows stretching and curling with every step. He hunted tirelessly, gliding from court to court, village to village, through forests and along cliffs where smugglers and thieves might hide. The wind tore at his cloak, the stars offering no comfort. Each street corner, each dark alley, was a potential lead, and yet, every time he followed one, it dissolved into nothing.
Sleep had abandoned him. Food, water--he barely noticed. The only thing that mattered was finding her.
And with every failed attempt, every lead that came to a dead end, the anger at himself grew. He should have seen it coming. He should have been faster. How could I have let this happen? The questions clawed at him relentlessly.
Her face came unbidden to his mind--the tilt of her head when she laughed, that spark in her eyes when she’d figured something out before anyone else. The way she’d lean slightly into him during training, a silent trust he hadn’t been sure he deserved. The quiet moments at the River House, the way she had confided in him, sharing her fears and her hopes.
He remembered one night after the war, sitting on a balcony with her, her voice barely above a whisper as she told him she felt forgotten. He had laughed softly then, hiding the weight of his own solitude behind teasing words, shadows coiling around them like silent guardians. That had been a simpler time.
Now, those memories were knives in his chest, reminders of everything at stake--and everything he might fail to save.
Every whisper of movement, every trace of scent, every shadow that shifted in the corner of his vision became a possibility. He followed them all, tortured by the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was too late.
Yet he refused to stop. He couldn’t. She was out there somewhere, and he would not rest until he had her safe, until he had torn her from whatever hell she had been thrown into.
Azriel’s wings beat the cold night air, and his shadow stretched long and furious across the land. Every heartbeat, every pulse, every whispered memory of Y/N drove him onward.
No matter how long it took.
No matter what it cost.
Time blurred. Hours felt like days. She had no sense of the sun, no clue whether it was night or morning. The only constants were the pain and the voices.
The interrogations never stopped. Questions spat at her again and again--about Rhysand’s power, about Cassian’s defenses, about Azriel’s missions. What does he do when he disappears? Where does he go? Who does he kill?
Every time her answer was the same, low and rasped from exhaustion: "I don't know."
The slap would come before she could even draw her next breath. Or the punch. Or the boot to her ribs. Her body was already a map of bruises and bleeding welts. She wanted to cry, but even her tears had run dry. Instead, her silence only made them crueler.
One of them leaned close, his breath rancid as he snarled, "Useless little sister. No wonder your family barely remembers you exist." Then he turned toward his companions and sighed frustratedly. "We should've taken a more useful sister. It's been four fucking days and Azriel still isn't within our reach. Nor do we have any intel on them."
Another male, the one without his left eye, looked at Y/N in disgust and then back at him. "So...what should we do with her?"
All four heads turned towards her as their 'leader' spoke with a smirk. "We kill her and send her body back in pieces."
Her chains rattled as she shifted, her body aching from the cold stone beneath her. Every inhale was a battle, every exhale a reminder of how fragile she felt. Hope had begun to slip through her fingers like sand.
Her lips trembled, but she forced the corners upward into a bitter smile. Maybe being forgotten would work in her favor, just this once. If her family wasn’t dragged into this because of her--if Azriel wasn’t dragged into this--then perhaps it wouldn’t be so terrible to simply… fade away.
The thought twisted like a knife in her chest. And still, she sat there in the dark, body broken, voice hoarse, bracing herself for her death. The next reminder that she was prey, caught and waiting.
The war room was drowning in silence. Four days. Four days without a trace, without a whisper of her, and every passing hour scraped Azriel raw. His shadows hissed and clawed, restless, angry, unable to find what he needed most. He stood by the window, fists clenched so tight his knuckles burned, his gaze fixed on nothing.
And then-
A choked sound tore through the room.
"Elain?" Feyre's voice was sharp, alarmed.
Azriel turned just in time to see her collapse to her knees, a strangled cry ripping from her throat as her hands clutched at her chest. Her eyes glazed--gone white, pupils swallowed by a light that was not of this world.
"Elain!" Nesta was already there, gripping her sister's shoulders. Cassian crouched low beside her, panic flashing in his eyes.
But Rhys's face went deadly still. "No one touch her."
"She's- she's- " Feyre's words faltered as she looked at her sister.
Azriel's heart slammed against his ribs. His shadows went utterly silent, curling tight against him like they knew. A vision.
Elain's body trembled, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She muttered something no one could understand--fragmented words, broken syllables. Then her head snapped back, a cry ripping from her lips that sounded like pure agony.
Nesta shook her again, desperate. "Elain, damn it, tell us what you see!"
Azriel's chest was a cage, every inhale sharp and shallow. He forced the words out, steel and prayer entwined. "Please...let it be about Y/N."
Rhys' eyes narrowed, already reaching out with his power, steady but tense. "It has to be."
And then Elain's voice broke through the storm of fear--ragged, trembling, but clear enough to freeze the blood in Azriel's veins.
"I see her."
The room erupted, voices overlapping--Nesta demanding where, Feyre begging how, Cassian and Mor swearing--but Azriel’s vision tunneled. His heart thundered as he moved closer, every muscle taut.
“Where is she, Elain?” His voice was low, lethal, but underneath--pleading. Tell me. Give me something. Save her.
Elain’s eyes flicked toward him, though she couldn’t possibly see him. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks as her lips trembled, shaping words that would seal their path.
"They're going to kill her."
Her mind was slipping. Threads of memory and hallucination weaving together until she could no longer tell which was which. Her mother’s soft humming. The way sunlight used to filter through the trees when she was small. Azriel’s unreadable hazel eyes watching her too closely. Cassian’s booming laugh. Elain’s gentle hands brushing flour from her cheek.
It all bled together, comforting and cruel, reminders of a world she wasn’t sure she belonged to anymore.
Her body had long since given up screaming at her--numbness had taken over, the ache buried so deep it was almost easier than fighting. It was a miracle she had lasted this long without food, without water. Another cruel gift of being High Fae. Endurance meant only a longer stretch of torment.
Her head lolled to the side, breath shallow, vision blurred with shadows and stars she couldn’t quite blink away. Maybe--maybe if she closed her eyes, she would see her mother again. Maybe she would be waiting. Y/N had always been her mother’s shadow, her little echo. Out of all three sisters, she was the one who had clung to her mother’s warmth the most.
At least think of nice things before it ends.
Her thoughts were severed by the cold bite of iron, the sound of chains scraping against stone as they fastened her to something solid--a boulder, jagged against her spine.
Through the haze she caught the sight of them. The males. Her captors. Standing before her now, blades glinting in the dim light. Predators circling the inevitable end.
Her chest rose once, twice, on a deep inhale that tasted like blood and metal. Slowly, she let her eyes fall shut, surrendering to the darkness. If this was her last moment, she would meet it with calm, not tears.
The scrape of boots drew nearer. The hiss of steel raised.
And then-
The first blow came. A sharp, tearing agony as the sword plunged into her lower stomach.
Her body arched against the stone with the impact, a choked sound strangled in her throat. The pain was fire, white-hot, merciless.
But she did not scream.
Not this time.
The cave was filled with screams before the soldiers even realized what had descended upon them. Shadows erupted like a living storm, snuffing out light, searing fear into every corner. And at the center of it--Azriel. His siphons flared blue, his wings slicing the air, each movement a promise of death.
He had thought, in those endless nights searching, that maybe he’d hold back when he found them. That maybe he’d just incapacitate the bastards so he could take his time later, wring every secret out of them with a blade. But then… he saw her.
Y/N.
Chained, bleeding, body too still. A sword protruding from her lower stomach, crimson staining the stone. Her eyes were half-lidded as if she had already started to drift away.
And Azriel snapped.
He didn’t fight. He slaughtered. Silent, efficient, merciless. Every male who had laid a hand on her was cut down before they could even lift a weapon. Shadows pinned one against the wall as Azriel drove Truth-Teller through his chest. Another tried to flee--his wings were torn from his body before Azriel slit his throat. Not even screams had time to form
Nesta’s fire flared cold and deadly as she ripped through two more, her blade singing with death. Cassian was a whirlwind of brute force, slamming one into the rock hard enough that bones cracked like twigs.
And then--silence.
The three of them stood amidst the carnage, blood dripping, shadows hissing low and restless around Azriel. His siphons pulsed like a heartbeat gone wild. But none of it mattered. None of it compared to the sight of Y/N, broken and barely breathing.
“Cauldron damn them,” Nesta breathed, her voice shaking with rage as she dropped to her knees beside her sister. Her hands hovered uselessly, trembling as she whispered, “What did they do to you, Y/N…”
Cassian’s eyes were burning, fists clenched, chest heaving with fury. “Monsters,” he spat. “Fucking monsters. They’ll never touch you again, I swear- ” His voice cracked.
Azriel didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving, already kneeling, already sliding trembling hands beneath Y/N’s limp body. Blood--her blood--soaked his leathers instantly, hot and suffocating, and he thought he might vomit from the sheer terror choking him.
“Stay with me,” he whispered harshly, pulling her against his chest as carefully as he could. His shadows curled around her, frantic and protective, as if they could hold her soul tethered to her body. “Y/N. Please. Stay with me.”
Her lashes fluttered weakly, her lips parting. A broken breath escaped before she whispered, barely audible, "Azriel...is that you?"
His heart stopped.
And then-
The snap.
It ripped through him like lightning, a tether locking tight around his very core. A bond. A truth. His mate.
Azriel froze, staring down at her in shock, even as her faint, disbelieving gasp echoed the same realization. His mate. His mate.
A thousand emotions warred in him a once: fury at fate for making this moment their beginning, guilt so sharp it could tear him apart, and desperate, desperate hope that she would not leave him now. Not when he had just found her.
He had never had a mate. Had never thought he would. And now--now the Cauldron had given him Y/N, only to try to rip her away on the very same day.
Her trembling hand rose weakly, brushing his chest before her lips moved again, shaping two soft, broken words.
"My mate."
And then her body went limp in his arms.
Two days.
Two entire days since they had dragged her broken, bleeding body back through the wards of Velaris. Two days since she had slipped into a deep, unmoving unconsciousness. Two days that had stretched longer than any of the centuries Azriel had endured before them.
The memory of that return still clawed at him. Feyre’s scream as she caught sight of Y/N in his arms, raw and keening, enough to shake the walls. Rhysand’s immediate roar of command, summoning every healer in the city. Elain stumbling ahead of them, pale and trembling, whispering prayers under her breath as she guided them through rooms. Mor’s sobs, her hands slick with Y/N’s blood as she tried to help stanch wounds that would not stop bleeding. Amren, uncharacteristically silent, her ancient eyes glittering like steel as she barked orders no one dared disobey.
And him, Azriel, who had refused to let anyone pry her from his arms until the healers forced him to. Who had not left her side since. Not once.
He’d braced himself for it, the words he dreaded most. Too late. Nothing we can do. She won’t wake. Every time the healers stepped out of her chamber, he expected it. Every time they sighed, every time they whispered, his heart split further, until he was sure there was nothing left to shatter.
But the words never came.
Still, the silence was its own torment. Her breathing shallow but steady. Her pulse faint but there. He should have felt hope. Instead, Azriel felt only self-loathing.
He had failed her. He had let them take her. He had spent days chasing shadows while she had been chained, beaten, stabbed. He had let himself believe that she would be safe, that he had time. Stupid. Blind. Weak. He had promised himself long ago he would never let someone in only to fail them. And now, the Cauldron had cursed him with a mate he did not deserve.
Maybe he never should have had one at all.
Azriel sat in the dim chamber, shadows curling around him like mourning veils, head in his hands. The scent of her blood still clung to his leathers, even after scrubbing until his skin was raw. It lived in his lungs, choking him, each inhale a reminder of how easily he could lose her.
And if she never woke? If she slipped away before he could ever tell her--before she could even truly know--what she was to him? His chest caved with the thought. He wouldn’t survive it. Not this.
The door burst open.
He shot to his feet instantly, siphons flaring, shadows hissing.
Mor stood in the doorway, breathless, wide-eyed. “She’s awake,” she blurted, not sparing another word before she spun and dashed down the hall.
For a heartbeat, Azriel just stared, the words refusing to register. Awake. Alive. Moving.
Then it hit.
His shadows shrieked with a sound like wind snapping through trees, and he was already moving, heart hammering so hard it hurt, thoughts a blur. Awake. She’s awake. Please, Cauldron, let it be true. Please let me not be too late. Please-
He ran, faster than he’d ever run without flight, hope so sharp it was painful, tearing through the fog of despair that had bound him for two endless days.
The room was packed. The entire Inner Circle crowded around the bed, voices hushed, faces taut with relief and fear alike. Feyre sat perched on the edge, both of Y/N's hands held tightly in hers, her High Lady composure cracked by the tears streaming freely down her face.
Azriel barely saw them. He pushed past bodies, ignoring Cassian’s hand on his shoulder, ignoring Amren’s sharp look, ignoring Elain’s soft sob. His entire world narrowed to the small, fragile figure lying beneath layers of blankets.
Her.
Y/N’s eyes were half-lidded, her skin far too thin, but they were open. Open, and finding him, and--Cauldron help him--she smiled. It was faint, pained, but it was there.
She didn’t move much; every shift made her wince. One arm was tightly bound against her side in a sling, her dislocated shoulder still healing. The bruises had not yet faded from her throat, her cheek, her temple. She looked broken. And still, she looked radiant to him. Alive.
Feyre was whispering something, voice trembling with joy and relief, but Y/N’s gaze didn’t leave his. Slowly, weakly, she slipped one hand from Feyre’s grasp, her fingers trembling with the effort. She lifted it slightly, beckoning him forward.
Azriel’s knees nearly gave out. He moved to her without thinking, sinking down at her side, so close now that he could see every flutter of her lashes, every shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Her hand brushed his jaw, then settled against his cheek. Her skin was fever-warm, her touch barely there, but it undid him.
“My mate,” she whispered, so soft it was almost a breath.
And Azriel...Azriel broke. Centuries of restraint shattered in an instant. His head bowed, his shoulders shaking as tears burned and spilled, as his hand rose to cover hers against his cheek. He didn’t care about the audience, about the Inner Circle watching in stunned silence. He didn’t care that they were seeing him unravel, seeing him feel. All he cared about was her.
He forced himself to lift his head, to meet her gaze through the blur of his tears. “No,” he choked, voice breaking. “No, not yet. Don’t- don’t accept it yet. You’re not well enough. Not like this.”
But she shook her head, slow, weak, stubborn as ever. Her lips curved faintly in a smile that was both fragile and defiant. “Please,” she breathed, voice rough with pain, “I’m… well enough.”
The bond between them snapped taut, a golden thread pulling tight, and Azriel felt it--the certainty, the recognition, the eternity. His soul locked with hers, and there was no undoing it now. Not that he would ever want to.
He pressed his forehead gently to hers, shadows curling protectively around them both. “I’ll always be by your side,” he swore, voice low, steady despite the tremor in his chest. “I’ll never leave you again. This will never happen again. Do you hear me, Y/N? Never.”
Her lashes fluttered, a tear slipping free. Her hand squeezed faintly against his cheek, and her lips curved once more.
“I hear you.”
And though her voice was faint, though her body was weak, the bond between them thrummed with strength, with promise, with the beginning of something Azriel had never dared hope for.
For the first time in his life, he let himself believe.
