summary: when a proposition of marriage comes to azriel for the sake of political benefits, and the shadowsinger decides to make the sacrifice to fulfill his duty to the night court, you’re forced to confront unspoken feelings before losing him forever.
↳ don't let me down | angst
fifty beautiful years you and azriel had spent together, and fifty and more he had promised to you. but when azriel meets the mate he never thought he would, he’s left to grapple with making a decision that may hurt the one person he’d never imagine he could.
Hello :) I was re-reading some of my favorite stories and came across "Don't let me down" and wanted to ask if there will be a part two? I've seen that it's been a long time since you've been here and I hope everything is fine with you. Although I really want to know if there will still be a part 2, your health is much more important and, once again, I hope you are well🥺🥰
hii lovelyy, thank you for checking inn :)) i am doing well rn! i hope you are too <3
its been so long since ive written, but i was so passionate about dlmd. i think i got overwhelmed and was terrified to disappoint so i just dipped 😭
i rlly rlly want to get back into writing again and i hope that i find inspiration for the story! but i wont make promises 🫣🫶
Hi, I really loved "don't let me down" do you have any idea when part 2 will come out?
ik it's been so long im so sorry!! to be so real i didn't anticipate writing a part two when i first posted so i've been trying to figure the best plot and direction. i'm soo critical of my writing and i've been so limited on time (tldr so many exams).
but the deadline i've set for myself is christmas! thank you for being patient :)
hii friends, update on "don't let me down pt. 2" - one of my classes decided it would be fun to have a fourth midterm, right before finals season! so unfortunately, i won't be able to upload pt 2 by the end of this week. so sorry yall!! :(
summary: fifty beautiful years you and azriel had spent together, and fifty and more he had promised to you. but when azriel meets the mate he never thought he would, he’s left to grapple with making a decision that may hurt the one person he’d never imagine he could.
warnings: cheating (ish? not really? for like, a very brief moment at the beginning!), major angst
wc: 3.1
a/n: i didn’t intend to make azriel a cheating bastard but i kind of did at the beginning </3 nothing descriptive or crazy, he just meets his mate and doesn’t tell for a few days
-
He shouldn’t be here, he knows that much. Despite that recognition, the allusive Shadowsinger pushed the glass door open anyways. When a familiar bell chimes above the door, an unusual quickening of his heartbeat occurs. He needs to turn around and leave, his mind insists, but when his own shadows seem to betray his thoughts and push him to move forward, he listens.
One step in front of the other, Azriel continues, until he finds himself face to face with the person he hasn’t been able to rid of since their first meeting. A person he knows isn’t you, a whisper of a doubt plagues him. This isn’t like him. He isn’t this person, he tells himself. But when the woman in front of him flashes a kind smile, the thought evaporates.
“Hi,” her melodic voice reaches him.
“Hi there,” his own gruff voice speaks, unable to stop the hint of a smile that graces the corner of his lips.
-
Azriel stumbled into the cafe one evening by sheer obligation.
It was some random, obscure mission. Rhysand never felt as though it was particularly necessary to dabble in the manners of the mortal world, but Feyre had some insatiable pregnancy craving. A treat from her past live that she used to enjoy long ago, before her family had lost their fortune. Despite the critically acclaimed chefs and magical conjurings of her High Lord husband, the woman had yet to be satisfied, claiming she needed the dessert from one specific family shop.
By the looks of Rhysand when Azriel appeared at their doorstep in the middle of the night, he takes it his friend’s attempt at saying no to the woman who was having a particularly difficult second pregnancy did not go to well. Azriel set off within the next hour to the human lands.
It was where he met her. Evelyn was her name. Evie was what she liked to be called. He swore his heart did somersaults when it rolled off her lips in introduction.
The emotions left him floored at the time. Where was his self-control? In the moment, he returned to the thought of you, tucked in your shared bed, where he pressed a soft kiss to your head before slipping out the doors. But then, she had asked him for his name, and the word tumbled from his lips before he could process it. And from there, despite acquiring the pastries he was requested to retrieve, his feet stayed floored to the cool tiles of the bakery. Before he knew it, he had spent his entire day in there. From closing to opening, it was slow, and Azriel, unlike his usual-self, stayed to simply talk to the human woman.
And at the end of the night, he walked her to her car. He thanked her, he recalls, for the food. She returned the sentiment, thanking him for the company. For a moment, the two of them stood there, staring at each other. It was dark out, the only light casted upon them now was the street lamp that was dangerously dim. She gave him one final smile, hand coming to rest on the bicep of his arm and it just…snapped.
It shook him from the inside out, and a low gasp was let out. It was a warming sensation, spreading from his chest to the tips of his extremities and it was all-consuming of him. It was too much, he realized as he looked back up at her face, now scrunched in concern.
Before she could ask him what was wrong, he fled.
Miles away and miles away, his body screamed at him to turn back and go to her. His shadows pulled him backwards, but he refused, fighting against their force. His chest ached the further the distance grew, and his flying was sporadic as he failed to push the sound of her sweet laughter from his mind. Finally, he landed shakily at the front of your shared apartment door. The trek home was all but a blur to him, and now here he was, at his apartment. Your shared apartment. His home with you.
“Oh Gods,” Azriel breathed. How could he forget about you? A sickening wave of nausea casted over him in that moment, and he hunched over to empty the contents of his stomach into the peonies you fuzzed over so much.
Azriel couldn’t stand to face you that night.
-
The next morning he had casted some excuse about how Rhysand had sent him on back to back missions and it had preoccupied his time longer than he expected. “I’m sorry, love,” he had said, tucking a small strand of hair behind your ear, gently caressing your cheek.
But soon after, he kept disappearing. Day after day he would leave your bed early enough in the mornings that his side would be cold to your touch when you woke, and return in the dead of the night when you’ve long gone fallen asleep.
“Work has been a lot,” he said the first time you asked, eyes shining with curiosity, and a tad bit of anger as well.
“You know Rhys has been taking a step back, focusing on Feyre,” he reassured on the fourth night, when you stayed up to wait for his return.
“It’ll be over soon, I promise,” he wrote on a note and left on your bedside on the sixth night when Mor told him how agonized you’ve been over his behavior.
You weren’t sure how long you would’ve tolerated his behavior for before you would’ve lost it. Maybe a few weeks, you guess. Afterall, Azriel has been known to get himself into moods before. His past was complicated, the challenges of his trauma continue to haunt him despite the years that have come and gone. You knew better than anyone that sometimes Azriel just needed space. Sometimes he just needed to work it out of his system.
How badly do you wish that that was the truth.
-
The silence between the two of you was suffocating. Only the sound of ticking coming from the analog clock the two of you have hung above the fireplace mantel echoed throughout the room. But it’s not as if you hear it anyways. No, the roaring of blood rushing in your ears and your thunderous heartbeat are much too loud.
The fabric of the plush sofa you and Azriel had picked out together after the first week of moving in together scratches against the back of your arms, irritating your skin. But you can’t move. You’re frozen, stuck in place. You don’t think you even remember how to breathe.
You can only stare at the photo frame atop the coffee table. It’s an old picture, taken, Gods, too many years ago for you to even remember now. 40 years ago? You don’t know. You and Azriel beamed brightly at the camera, a twinkle in your eyes that have now since faded. You wonder if you knew then, what you do now, if you would’ve stayed.
“Please say something,” Azriel’s voice drifts across the room. His voice is small, quite unlike him, as he pleads for your response.
You can’t stand to look at him. Throat dry, your voice light as you ask, “What am I to say?” Azriel shuffles uncomfortably, dropping the arms crossed over his chest as he pushes off the wall. You let out a quiet laugh. “You’ve…found your mate.”
That’s where he’s been. While you’ve spent the last few nights, tossing and turning in your all too-big bed without him by your side, he was with…her. The realization makes you close your eyes, tears welling as your heart constricts tightly in your chest. He was with her.
“What can we do?” The couch dips besides you as Azriel takes a seat.
You scoff and turn your face away from him, tears shining brightly as the midafternoon sun shines into them through your large arched window. “‘What can we do?’” you repeat him mockingly, voice monotone. “I hadn’t realize this was a we decision, Azriel.”
His troubled sigh reaches your ears, and when his tentative hand reaches out to touch your arm, you jerk away from him, continuing to refuse to meet his eye. He flinches at your cold behavior, but withdraws. After a moment, Azriel says with conviction, “You are my love.” You wipe the tear that falls. “We have been through the worst of it,” you feel him shake his head. “You are my partner in everything. I would lay my life down for you, and promised it to you. Of course this is a we decision, Y/n.”
You refuse to reply.
“Y/n, please,” Azriel begs, and you hear the crack in his voice. “I hadn’t expected this, I couldn’t have known. A choice is to be made here and I—”
“Oh, you’ve been making plenty choices,” you hiss at him. The decision to hide this, the decision to continue to see her, the decision to abandon you all these nights. Your hands begin to shake at the thought and more tears begin to fall, a mixture of anger and deep sadness.
A week is nothing in the eyes of an immortal and yet, you know that deep down, these mere few days will continue to haunt you for the rest of your eternity. You will never move past this.
When Azriel fails to conjur a response, you scoff and exit the room, no longer able to bear the weight of the conversation.
-
Day bled into night, and night into day.
You and Azriel have yet to exchange words since his initial confession, but he’s here, and he believes that it must count for something.
In silence, the two of you begin to make the bed that you shared together the night before. The few inches of space you made sure to keep between the two of you as you laid in silence for hours felt like miles to Azriel. His heart longed to reach out and touch you, to hold you. Even his shadows began to miss your loving hands despite their traitorous thoughts only days before. But they both had no right. And so he stuck to watching your back all night, praying that you’d cave and turn around to face him. You didn’t.
“Y/n…” he begins. You don’t even acknowledge him. The coexistence was killing him. “Hey,” he reaches over the bed to grab your hand that was agitatedly fluffing the pillows. His contact burns your skin, and you flinch away from him. You wonder where else he’s laid those hands, who he’s laid them on and suppress a shiver snaking up your spine.
Azriel shrinks back in understanding. He hates to do this, but Cassian has been covering for him for the past two weeks. Rhysand has become suspicious. With regret, he attempts to deliver with the most earnest tone he can. “I have to go to the House of Winds today. Rhys has been requesting my presence.” His chest aches at the manner in which you wince. He knows what must be going through your mind, and he insists, “I’ll be back in a few hours. I just need to check in with Rhy, that’s all.”
Unsurprisingly, you don’t reply.
“You know where to find me,” he promises, as if you’d believe him.
-
Rhysand could not say a word in response to Azriel’s predicament, his eyes widening for a mere second before he entered into a moment of silence and a look of calculation overtook his features. Elbows on his desk, face in the palm of his hands, Rhys takes his time to just observe Azriel, who was beginning to grow uncomfortable with the unrelenting attention.
Before Azriel could stand with irritation and yell at his friend to “forget it,” Rhysand finally speaks.
“Well,” the High Lord states, leaning back in his chair with a look of humor on his face. “This certainly explains your absence.” His expression turns sympathetic as he takes in the lack of reception on Azriel’s face at his attempt at lightening the mood. “My instinct is to congratulate you, brother.” Rhys frowns at the way Az turns away. “But I understand your situation is…unique.”
“I love Y/n,” Azriel persists. In an attempt to convince Rhysand or himself? Neither of them could truly tell. “And this other woman she…” the Shadowsinger sighs. “She’s just a human.”
“Complicated indeed,” Rhys comments lightly, encouraging Azriel to continue.
“I didn’t expect this to happen, Rhys,” Azriel explains gently. “I never imagined I’d…” he trails off, and though he hates to admit it, the sentence gleams with a sense of excitement, of hope. His companion could garner the same as he takes in Azriel’s words.
“But I love Y/n,” he agonizes, hands dropping into the palms of his hands, his gaze finding the floor.
Rhysand sighs. “Having a mate is…everything. It is unlike anything you could ever imagine,” his thoughts drift to Feyre, lips curling into a slight smile at the thought of his beautiful family. “It may not be what you expected, Az, but it is hardly a situation you can ignore. It’s fate.” Despite the advice not being what his friend hopes to hear, Rhysand felt an obligation to admit, “Love is rarely simple, Az. You have to make a choice now, for your future. What kind of love do you truly want?”
-
A year, Azriel requests. 356 days.
He stands before you, stance stoic as though he is attempting to keep himself together, as if his words aren’t shredding you to your core.
“What?” you let out breathlessly. It is all you can do, all that you can say in the face of such incredulity.
“It’s only one year, that’s all I’m asking,” Azriel downplays the severity of what he’s asking, and you laugh utter disbelief.
“Only?” you take a deep breath, willing yourself to curb the mix of anger and hurt swirling in your chest. “It is hardly a simply ask,” you seethe.
He knows as much, he knows what an absolute slap in the face this is to you. But, “I need time,” Azriel pleads with you, hoping with every fiber in his being that any piece of you could understand. He knows it’s an unfair thought to have.
A year is nothing to you and him, immortal beings meant to live until the end of time, but a year is much more to a human. Invaluable time for those who won’t even survive the length of your relationship with Azriel. Still, it was a cruel and purely selfish thought. Two things you would have never imagined the man before you to be.
“The Mothers above have made a decision for me,” Azriel begins to explain. “One that you and I believed would never come into fruition and we made promises to each other on that basis.” You turn from him, beginning to walk away, unable to stand there and listen to him lecture you about what the Couldron has blessed him with. Azriel follows you, voice bleeding with desperation, “But things have changed.”
The two of you move into the kitchen, and Az’s voice trails after you. “It changed and I need to know,” he grabs your arm, forcing you to turn around to face him, “I deserve to know!”
Your chest heaves, tears lining your eyes as you will them not to fall. “Where is your loyalty?” you shout. “They call you the Shadowsinger, a man with strength that armys tremble in the face of, with power leaders of Pyrthian envy, and yet here you are,” you sneer at him. “Crumbling in the face of your own fate.”
You rip your arm from Azriel, turning to grip the counter as you collect yourself. The thought of what he is asking of you truly settling in, and rage morphs into despair. Is this truly the extent of Azriel’s love? Were you truly this replaceable to him?
Conflict and sorrow burns into the depths of Azriel’s core. He takes a step closer to you, hand coming to softly rest on your shoulder and you don’t have the strength to push him away. “Y/n, if I don’t do this, we’ll forever wonder.” His voice is just a whisper. “You deserve more than a love tainted with doubt and uncertainty. You deserve to be loved wholly. And I can’t promise you that without doing this.”
Sobs begin to rack through you, unable to withstand it anymore. “How noble of you,” you laugh humorlessly. He prepares to utter apologies once more, but your shaky cries stops him. You stand, gently pushing him off of you. When you turn to face him, you’ve wiped all expression off your face, but your eyes shine with grief. “You want me to stand by, watch as you walk away, and wait for you as you love another? For my greater good, you say?”
Azriel’s eyes mirror yours, and doubt flickers across his face for a moment, but you stop him before he speaks.
“Don’t say another word.” You take a deep breathe, voice growing soft as you say, “Azriel if you choose to do this, I will not be here when you return.”
“Y/n—”
“I will not wait for you,” you say kindly, despite the ache in your chest. “But I will not ask you to stay. So the choice is yours, Az. What is it? Her or me?”
In that moment, Azriel can do nothing but stand frozen, caught between the weight of two worlds. Hesitation grips him like a vice. What he believed to be the only resolution was now not an option at all. As he stares at you, the fear of losing you aches in him.
You watch as his face scrunches in conflict, pain echoing in every line. Was the choice truly so difficult, you wonder. Did the years of passion and joy the two of you share compare lightly to the mere hours he spent with this human woman? The thought of not being enough for him haunts you.
Laden with the burden of a decision that would shape the rest of his life, Azreil voice cracks as he painfully states, “I need to know.”
The disappointment in your eyes weighs him down. Your heart that was once so tightly bound to his sinks in your chest, physically hurting you as you let out a soft exhale. As the two of you stare at each other, you cannot find any other words except, “Then I hope you find what you’re looking for, Azriel.”
And despite the heaviness dragging you down, the two of you share a wistful smile that doesn’t meet either of your eyes. A quiet farewell, for a love you’ve both lost.
Hey, I don't want to be inconvenient or annoying, but do you have any idea when the second part of "don't let me down" will be posted? I just love angst so much and your writing is spectacular, since I read the first part, that's all I can think of.
Sorry if there are a lot of grammatical errors or if something is confusing, English is not my first language. 🤍 Hope you have a nice day
hii hon! dont worry at all, your english is perf 🙈 omfg thank you for being so sweet 😭
tbh im not too sure when the next part will be out! im home for the holidays and ive been a bit busy 😅 im hoping by the end of this upcoming week?
Summary: Reader does what she has to for the information she wants. Talking to Azriel takes an interesting turn. Kaeda’s not doing her job, and she’s feeling a bit sorry for herself — to which Cassian isn’t very sympathetic.
Word Count: 9.6k. OOF. A long one, sorry!
Warnings: None.
You should really just go to sleep. Mind your own business.
But you find yourself waiting. Listening. For some indication that Tathaln has left.
You think it might be hours that pass. Roza has long since passed out in her bed. But there’s no chance of you sleeping, too. Not with all the thoughts that are crammed full in your head and speaking too loudly.
The most pressing of which: Why the fuck would the Lord of Fenlaros be visiting the High Lord in his private home in this private city?
No other camp lords venture here, you’re sure. Don’t even know it exists.
And yet, from that short glimpse you got of Finadar and Tathaln, there was an air of…familiarity, about them. Like it wasn’t the first time they were privately meeting.
Eventually, you grow sick of waiting, wondering. It’s no use. You’re restless and wired and churned up. You need to move, to stretch your legs, grab a drink or something.
The house is eerily still. You take your time traversing the corridors, carefully listening out to catch lowered voices and hushed tones. Even decide to take the longer route — the one that would take you past the High Lord’s study. But even as you pass by the thick wooden door, you hear nothing but the distant sounds of a hooting owl and the slicing wind amidst the mountains.
You’re almost at the kitchen when a figure abruptly rounds the corner on too-light feet. You stop short — and so does the High Lord.
You’re so stunned that you forget yourself. It takes a moment for you to remember to act accordingly. You bow your head in greeting. “My Lord.”
“Y/N.” Your name sounds funny, too familiar, on his tongue. When Rhysand had brought you here at fourteen, Finadar had merely referred to you as that girl. It seems that with age comes at least a little bit of acknowledgment. His eyes rake over you, and you’re suddenly aware of your nightgown, your unbound hair. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“A little, my Lord—”
“Just Fin, please.”
You pause. And then smile a bland smile. “A little…Fin.”
He holds up the object you hadn’t noticed clutched within his hand. A bottle. “I was just about to have a night cap. Perhaps you’d like to join me?”
On instinct, you want to decline. Having a private drink with Rhysand’s father seems…inappropriate, somehow.
But then that curious little voice in your head reminds you that this — this is the perfect opportunity to ask some questions, hopefully garner information. He’s relaxed. Open. In his own environment. What better time than now?
So that bland smile becomes a pretty one, and you dip your chin. “It would be my pleasure.”
With that charming smile of his own, the handsome male leads you to his study and holds the door open for you. Stepping inside feels like breaching somewhere firmly forbidden, and a place of such luxury that it would chew up your poor-to-do self and spit you out. All rich mahogany wood and more books than you’ve ever seen in your life. Trinkets and papers and maps and war strategy. The sight leaves you a little breathless, and for a moment, you forget you’re not alone.
But then the door shuts behind you, and the High Lord is striding past, over to his desk.
“You’ve been a friend of my son’s for a while, now, haven’t you?” He asks casually, rolling the sleeves of his white shirt up to his elbows.
You step closer, nodding. “I have, My Lo—Fin. Nine years, to be exact.”
“And you’re his age?”
“Yes. Twenty.”
A vague smile plays on his lips. “Old enough to drink, then, Please, do sit.”
You do exactly that, taking a seat in one of the plush, cushioned chairs and folding your hands in your lap. And for all you had planned to speak with Fin, now that you’re in front of him, you’re not quite sure what to say. You don’t know how to talk to someone of such high status.
He’s entirely at confident — even arrogant — ease, though. With a wave of a hand, a fire roars to life, breathing heat into the room and bathing it in an intimate glow. He pours two glasses of dark, smoky liquid and hands one to you before taking his own.
Instead of sitting at his desk as you half expect, he’s slumping into the armchair beside yours and tipping his head against its back.
He looks…tired, you note, as you subtly study him over the lip of your glass. Devastatingly beautiful — there’s no doubt about that. Chocolate eyes that remind you of Mor’s and short, reddish-brown hair. His generously muscled arms push through his shirt as he shifts.
And then he says, out of the blue, “I don’t sleep well, either.”
You’re not sure why he’s telling you that, of all things.
“I’m sorry.” It seems like an appropriate response. “I imagine, in being High Lord, you must have a lot on your plate.”
A wry smile graces his lips. “There’s always someone wanting something from you.” His eyes then drink you in again. “What is it you do in Windhaven? I take it you’re unwed. I don’t remember approving a marriage for you.”
“I am. Until recently, I lived with and worked for my father. But my circumstances have changed, and I don’t know what I’ll be doing next.”
“Was it your father who took your wings?”
Heat burns your cheeks. “It was.”
“Is that what you want from me? To punish him?”
You stare back at him, fighting to keep your expression neutral. “Who says I want anything from you?”
“Do you not?”
“…It was you who invited me for a drink, My Lord. I can leave if my company is bothersome to you—”
“It is not.” He lays a hand on your arm, skin far smoother than you expect from somebody so accustomed to weapons. “But there’s no reason we can’t both get something out of this.”
Your eyes fall down to that hand, and your body is so very still. Perhaps you’ve made a grave mistake in seeking him out.
But you dare ask, “What is it you want?”
A chuckle rasps out of him, and he retracts the touch. “Honesty. I get the sense that you’re of the curious sort. Why else would you have been so intently watching me greet my guest earlier this evening?”
So, he’d seen you. Silly, for you to assume that you could slip into the shadows around such a powerful being. You can almost feel that power prowling under his skin right now.
“I am interested,” you admit, “in what Tathaln Baralas was doing here.”
“You’re familiar with him.” He states — and then chuckles again. “Of course, you are. You were one of the ones who snuck off to Fenlaros for a party. I wasn’t best pleased when my son told me.” His head falls into a tilt. “But why would you be interested in Tathaln’s business here?”
“I may not be from Fenlaros, but I am Illyrian. And I imagine that a matter that warrants a meeting at the High Lord’s personal residence is one pressing enough to effect more than just a single camp.”
Full lips — Rhysand’s lips — tilt upwards. “Beautiful, curious and intelligent. Such a waste in a place like Illyria.”
“You’re too kind.”
“And you are too bashful.” A quiet intensity lies within his brown eyes. “I will reward your candour with this: Tathaln Baralas was here to suggest — request — a grand ball.”
For a split second, you falter. Try not to let it show on your face that you do.
The answer is…underwhelming. Perhaps you’re so idle in Velaris that you’re looking for drama where it doesn’t exist.
“A ball.” You repeat the word rather foolishly, like it’s your first time ever saying it. “I…I wasn’t aware that a Camp Lord would need your permission to arrange such a thing.”
“Confined to his own camp, he would not.” Fin tells you. “But the Lord of Fenlaros proposes something on a far larger scale. Something that has never before been done, and something that, I must admit, has piqued my interest.”
“Which is what?”
“Tathaln,” the High Lord stands, draining his glass and returning it to his desk, “has asked me to throw an Illyrian ball — not solely a Fenlarion ball. Meaning the best legions from all Illyrian war camps will be invited, along with their wives, mates, whatever. They will all gather in one place for this event, and interact as they never have before.”
You stare at him.
You do not mean for your indignation to shine through so freely.
He is your High Lord and not to be disrespected.
But you’re studying him, and wondering why the fuck he doesn’t look as alarmed by the suggestion as you feel.
“Why, by the Cauldron, would he want to do that?” The words fall from your mouth, formality forgotten. “There’s a reason it’s never been done before. Rival camps do not mix because Illyrians are hot-headed and driven by ego, and there would be fights and bloodshed and probably death. It’s a terrible idea. I don’t understand why Tathaln Baralas would suggest such a thing.”
A deep chortle husks out of the High Lord, and you could be wrong, but you think there might be a hint of surprise in the sound. Like he’s unused to such brazenness from his subjects — female ones, in particular.
You asked a damn good question, though.
Fin turns to you, and for a lingering moment, he simply stares. And then he says, softly, “Stand.”
You pause. Think that maybe, you’ve spoken too much, crossed a line. But you stand.
The High Lord beckons you closer.
You take one step forward. Another. Another. He lifts a hand and motions for you to stop. You do. You smooth your hands over your nightgown. Think you might be shaking a little.
You do not need a wealth of knowledge nor experience to recognise exactly how it is that he looks at you.
Deep, tawny eyes trail the length of you and seem to miss no detail. Your loose hair and pretty, open face. The sharp lines of your collarbones and the smooth skin of your decolletage. The flowing silk of your nightgown and the bareness of your legs and arms on show beneath it.
He stares at you in a way that makes you feel you’re wearing nothing at all.
And then he’s prowling closer with preternatural grace, and the heat and scent of his body seems to snuff out the heat and scent of the fire.
You can only stand, your legs wobbling a little, as he begins to circle you, peruse you, like a predator assessing its prey. You might hold your breath a little. You’re not sure what he plans to do, whether you’re to be reprimanded for your candidness. When he raises his hand, you hope you don’t flinch. You learned not to do so, not to show your fear, in the years living under your father’s thumb.
But his hand merely cups the curve of your shoulder and sweeps a few strands of your hair back.
“Give me what I want, Y/N.” He says, his voice gritty. “And I will tell you what Tathaln wants.”
This is all starting to feel like a huge oversight. A mistake. If this goes too far — if he suggests something that would disrespect Roza in any way…
You’d sooner be reprimanded, however badly.
Your eyes shutter, and you speak again, “What is it you want?”
Fin slinks round until he’s stood before you. The mild smile on his lips hides so much. “If I’m to oversee an event with all the camps under my rule,” he says, “I want to look good. I’m a victim of extreme vanity, you see. Appearances are everything. And thus, I would go before my subjects with the prettiest little piece at my side.” His eyes drink in your face, unpainted and unguarded. “You would do nicely.”
You’re not certain that your breath of relief is a silent one. The suggestion could be far worse, of course, but anxious butterflies are still all aflutter in your gut.
It would be prudent to remember who you’re talking to — who it is you’re playing games with. To remember that you are just a young female from Windhaven, with no experience outside of it. You are not a seasoned courtier, and you do not know the rules of the game — how to play them, nor how to break them.
You clear your throat, lowering your gaze. “Forgive me, My Lord. Whilst I’m undoubtedly flattered…I must admit to also being confused. Won’t Roza fulfil the role at your side?”
“Roza will attend no more public appearances for the remainder of her pregnancy — a decision we came to together. She is far too tired and must rest. And she’s fully aware that I will need to invite a special guest in her place.”
“But if you’re trying to make an impression before your Illyrian subjects…I am the last female who would bring you any glory. I am ordinary. I do not have wings—”
“You do yourself a disservice, Y/N.” His slow footsteps begin again. “The likes of your father have got into your head, I fear. What I see, looking at you now, is not these.” Warm fingers touch your ruined back, and you jerk a little. “What I see is the embodiment of classic Illyrian beauty. Just as I see in my Roza. You may not know this, but they tried to take her wings, too. Until I stopped them. It — we — would send a message, don’t you think? That your repulsive father may have taken your wings, but he did not take your spirit. Your beauty. And that spirit and beauty earned you a place at the High Lord’s side. Perhaps I’ll invite your father, and his punishment can be the night’s entertainment.”
It's…strange. Conflicting. Because the High Lord is saying things that you so often long to hear. The shattered, self-loathing part of your brain perks up and leans into the compliments like a pampered cat, waiting to hear more, to be stroked.
But then there’s an angry part of you — one that wishes to yell at him that if he truly abhorred the practice of wing clipping, he would ban it altogether instead of keeping himself in the favour of Illyrians and simultaneously bashing their views and traditions behind their backs.
So many feelings. And yet, you try to remember why you’re here.
Because something eats away at you that whatever Tathaln Baralas is up to will impact Azriel somehow. At least as long as he’s with Kaeda.
So you lift your chin and ask, “I agree to be your special guest to the ball, and you tell me what the Lord of Fenlaros is up to? It’s that easy?”
Fin chuckles. Stops in front of you again. “It’s that easy.” He inclines his head. “As I said, I am of the vain sort — and this is merely a thing of vanity. I’d rather enjoy parading one of my son’s pretty playthings on my arm. Letting those Illyrian males know that I could have any of their females if I wanted. And the fact that I don’t particularly care for Tathaln Baralas means that I don’t particularly care to hold on too tightly to his secrets, either.”
You don’t bother correcting him about the nature of yours and Rhys’s relationship. Seems irrelevant, in the grand scheme of things. And if your only role in this is to dress up and look pretty at the High Lord’s side, you reckon you’ve gotten off pretty damn lightly.
For a moment, there, you really thought he might want…more.
“Alright.” You stand up straight. “I will gladly be your guest to the ball.”
He smiles an odd smile, like he knew you would agree all along. With his arm brushing yours as he closely passes, he makes his way back over to his desk. Refills his glass and yours. Hands it to you.
“The reason the Lord of Fenlaros wants an Illyrian ball,” he says, “is because he seeks a situation in which he can have an eye on all camps — and vet their talent.”
“Vet their…” Your brow pinches. “What?”
“Tathaln, Y/N, has a vision in mind.” Fin turns to you, perching on the edge of the desk. “One that, I have to admit, did pique my interest — if it were to work. You see, he’s of the opinion that Illyria should, eventually, do away with the individual camps entirely. He’d sooner have one huge camp — that he would be Lord of, of course, and have a team of the strongest, most powerful Illyrians working alongside him to train the most fearsome army in the entirety of the Fae realm.”
“That’s preposterous. Cramming all Illyrians into one camp under one lord would mean the eye would be taken off the ball quicker than lightning. How could an army that big be adequately trained by a small team of leaders, no matter how powerful? Even the strongest soldiers couldn’t keep command of such numbers. That is why the individual camps work. Weaknesses get smoothed out and strengths are honed.”
The fire in your tone seems to amuse the High Lord. And you wonder if Illyria isn’t unlike a dolls house to him. Figures he can pluck up and move around and pit against each other for his own entertainment.
“Tathaln would disagree with you.” He smiles. “He believes that the individual camps only create room for complacency, a lack of order. He thinks that your kind spend more time drinking and fucking and fighting amongst themselves than they do training for combat. And he thinks that if something isn’t done about it, the next war could wipe Illyria off the map.”
“And he believes himself to be a strong enough Camp Lord to somehow fix that?”
“Alone? Gods, no. He’s an arrogant brute, but not a stupid one. No,” He says again. “See, this unit he would build wouldn’t be just made up of highly-skilled warriors.”
“Then what?”
“Illyrians with further powers. Special abilities.” Fin’s eyes track over your face, waiting for the realisation to dawn. “Like a shadowsinger, for example.”
And finally, it’s like light blotting out the clueless darkness of your head. Suddenly, it all falls into place.
You don’t know why you didn’t see it before.
“Tathaln wants Azriel under his command.” The words are ash on your tongue.
“Yes.” Fin nods. “He does. And there are other males in other camps, too, with their own, unique abilities. Tathaln wants this ball to see them up close. Pick them out. If things go his way, he would have those males defecting from their current camps and making a home in Fenlaros. There, they would train — and begin bringing Tathaln’s vision to life.”
Azriel leaving Windhaven…moving to another camp and not being around to talk to, to spend mindless hours with, to face life with — the thought is like a cold, cruel stab to your heart.
Your friends are what make Windhaven bearable. Together, you’ve built a little home there, a family. And you may all be at each other’s throats right now, but you love each other. Wouldn’t want to lose each other.
The idea of no longer seeing Az makes you want to puke up the two glasses of whiskey now swimming in your stomach.
And even more sickening is the further realisation—
Kaeda is Tathaln’s daughter — his puppet on a string.
It was never a coincidence that she randomly started floating around Windhaven. Wasn’t a natural thing at all, that she’d found interest in Azriel, of all people. The only shadowsinger.
The entire thing had been carefully orchestrated.
Kaeda’s interest in Az isn’t genuine. Her father specifically sent her to Windhaven to get him on side.
You think you might actually be sick. Suddenly, the High Lord’s study seems far too small.
“Why would you allow any of this?” You manage to grit out around your growing panic. “You’re the High Lord…if you tell Tathaln no, he can’t take it any further.”
Fin shrugs a nonchalant shoulder. “As I said — his vision piqued my interest. It’s not a bad idea, provided it would be executed properly. But if it were? Imagine the glory. The power. The Night Court would boast the most steeled army in Prythian. Battle would be mere child’s play to us.”
You…no. No. You can’t sit back and act like you don’t know any of this.
Azriel needs to be told. He needs to know what games Kaeda is playing — that she’s only interested in doing her father’s bidding, pouring honeyed words into Az’s ear to coax him out of Windhaven and into their ready, waiting trap. To use him. Exploit him.
You need to tell him. Even if he goes straight back to being angry with you after, still doesn’t want to speak to you…you need to.
With shaking hands, you place your glass down. “I…I’m quite tired. I think I’ll try, again, to sleep.” There’s no chance of that. “Thank you for the drink. And the conversation.”
Fin’s head falls into a tilt. He looks…intrigued. “Thank you for the company. And I’ve no doubt I can trust you to uphold your end of our arrangement.”
You nod. Hate the words as you speak them. “I will be your guest at the ball.”
“I’ll be in touch, then. Goodnight.”
You only just manage to return the sentiment as you slip out of the room, the cold hallways making a grab for your bare skin. Fin’s words haunt you all the way back to your room. Keep you awake all through the night. Bury themselves deep in your mind, your heart, and fill you with such an icy-cold fear, you feel you may never be warm again.
You have to tell Azriel — or you may lose him for good.
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The next morning, over tea and pastries and your rushed retelling of the night before, Roza stares at you.
Her expression is unreadable.
“You’re angry with me.” You breathe, the very words pinching at your heart. “I understand. But I needed to find out what Tathaln Baralas was up to. I just knew that—”
“Angry with you?” She cuts you off. “No, my love. With Fin? Yes. That he’s even entertaining this idea of that odious Camp Lord’s, and that his ego is so great that he would parade you on his arm like nothing more than prize cattle. That, I am angry with.” Her eyes sweep your face with concern — and a hint of something else. Something like…admiration. “You, however…you remind me exactly of myself when I was your age. Scheming, pushing back against what’s simply wrong…and in the name of love, too. I cannot possibly be angry with you for that.”
Your eyes fall to your plate. Love. That word rings in your ears like a war cry. “I need to do this. For Azriel. He’s being used, and—”
“I know.” Roza reaches over, closing a hand over yours. “Believe me, I know. And you have my full blessing and support. But you also have my concern. The games of Courts and High Lords and Camp Lords are dangerous ones. Do what you need to do for Azriel — for love — but have your wits about you. Do not, at any point, let them best you. And if Fin tries to take your agreement any further and lays a hand on you, come and tell me straight away, and I will fucking castrate him—”
Her words are cut short by a night-chilled shroud, darkness-given-form, despite the morning light that bathes the room.
Rhysand appears out of thin air. “Who will you castrate, mother dear?”
“You.” Roza says without a beat, scowling at her son. “What have I told you about just appearing like that? You’re showing off. It’s rude.”
“But I’m so good at it.” He strides closer, kissing her cheek and then yours. And steals the remainder of your pastry. “Ready to go?”
You’d sent a note a little over an hour ago, asking Rhys to come get you and fly you to Windhaven. You didn’t specify that you were going to talk to Az — and potentially break his heart with the information you’d garnered last night.
Rhys, of course, had written back that he’d be more than willing to oblige — as soon as Zakai was done sucking his cock.
Indeed, your friend looks particularly flushed and sated as he swallows your food and washes it down with a gulp of your tea.
“Rhysand.” Roza scolds. “Have some damn manners. Will you steal food from the babe, too?”
“Well, considering you’ll be breastfeeding her, mother dearest, absolutely not—”
“Her?” You blink between them. “You know it’s a girl?”
Roza smiles softly, sliding a hand over her stomach. “Not for certain. But the healer seems pretty sure. Her magic can detect these things, and she says she’s never gotten it wrong in all her years.”
“Gods, I hope so.” Rhys’s violet eyes glitter. “I’ve said from the start that I’m hoping for a sister.”
And you can see it already — Rhys throwing himself into the role of older brother. Protecting that little girl with his whole heart. She’d be the luckiest child in all of Prythian to have Rhys for a brother. And to have Cassian and Azriel protecting her, too…
That is, if Azriel doesn’t choose to go to Fenlaros.
Your stomach turns all over again at the thought. No — you need to speak with him, to warn him. He wouldn’t leave.
“Let’s go.” You stand abruptly, your breakfast feeling leaden in your stomach.
“Much obliged.” Rhys sketches a flourishing bow, to which Roza rolls her eyes. He kisses her cheek again. “Take it easy. I love you.”
Roza inclines her head. “I love you both.”
Its as you, too, dip down to kiss her cheek, that she lays a gentle hand on your arm. Concern swims in her eyes.
“Be careful, my little dove.” She pleads quietly. “Not just of the game you’re playing — but of your heart, too. Protect it.”
The words echo in your mind too loudly as Rhys takes your hand and steals you away.
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Twenty years in Windhaven should have you at least a little accustomed to the brutal temperatures, but landing your feet on the packed snow makes you wonder if even a whisper of the spring season will kiss these parts. It seems to lurk on the horizon, just out of reach.
As Rhys dusts flecks of snow from his jacket, you glance down at your pathetic, worn boots. The very boots that seemed to start this entire godsdamned situation with Az. It was these that made him scoop you into his arms and carry you to the mead hall, where you shared that first, heated kiss on one of the tables—
“What are you staring at?” Rhys hovers at your side.
“Nothing.” You straighten yourself up. Hope your blush can pass for cold-bitten skin. “Do you know where Azriel is? I’d like to speak with him.”
“Sparring rings, I’d presume.”
You nod, and you go to head off in the other direction, but Rhys’s hand is enclosing around yours. He squeezes gently. “Send word when you want me to come get you.”
The sentiment promises more than just safe transport back to Velaris. It offers support, too — in the likely scenario that this conversation doesn’t go smoothly.
Because you have to consider the possibility that the truth about Kaeda, while needing to be exposed, may not be well received.
Azriel will likely be hurt by it. And you might bear the brunt of that.
Rhysand will be there for you, whatever happens. Even if he has no clue what’s going on.
So you squeeze back, and you offer an unconvincing smile as you let go. “I love you, Rhysand.”
He scowls. “Don’t like it when you call me Rhysand.”
“Sorry, Rhysand.”
“You’re a little shit. But I love you, too.”
You smile wider. That little bit of jesting is what gives you the courage, the strength, to square your shoulders and stroll away from him, snow seeping into your boots with each step.
By the time you get to the sparring rings, you think your feet might be frozen solid. But lo and behold, Azriel is there, currently going head-to-head with another male in his unit.
The very sight is the picture of a hard-trained warrior — a dance, a performance, of flying fists and measured breaths. Az is big and muscled, but he’s lithe and swift, and he moves through each step and dodges each blow and delivers his own as though it’s easy as air. He’s flawless, and for a heartbeat, all you can do is watch, every thought eddying from your mind.
But then he’s dodging a flying fist and pivoting on his feet. His eyes catch you. He’s distracted long enough for his partner to grab the upper hand and knock Az off his feet.
The shadowsinger accepts defeat. He sprawls on his back, panting heavily, and you continue to watch as his opponent grins and offers a hand to help him up.
“Distracted by a female?” He jokes. “I thought you were better than that, shadowsinger.”
A tight smile forms and falls from Az’s lips. He hates losing. “It would seem not. Well fought.”
“I’ll leave you and your lady to it.” The other male says, and you choose to ignore the suggestion in his voice. Azriel ignores it, too. Doesn’t even acknowledge him as he strolls away, no doubt to boast to his insufferable friends that he managed to get one over on the shadowsinger.
Az looks at you in that quiet, assessing way of his. Surveys you head to toe, like he needs to reassure himself that your short stay in Velaris has brought you no harm thus far. It’s good that he still cares, you think. You hope.
“You’re back?” He asks, grabbing a towel to wipe at his face. It’s then that you notice that his lip is bleeding a little.
“Not entirely.” You shake your head. “I…need to talk to you about something. Something important.”
And whether he’s ready to talk to you yet, or not, is irrelevant — he seems to realise that as he studies you once more and nods. “We’ll go to the dorms. Nobody’s there.”
You hate this, you want to tell him. The awkwardness. The…the stagnancy of your relationship. It was never supposed to be like this between you and him. It hurts.
And it makes you realise that love isn’t always beautiful.
But you school your expression as he finally closes the gap between you. He glances down, and a soft sigh escapes him. “Those fucking boots.”
Before you can say something, anything, find some way to defend your continued wearing of those fucking boots, Azriel is grabbing your hand. The unexpected touch jolts you — as does the zip through thin air that has you landing in the kitchenette of the dorms only seconds later.
Despite possessing the ability to winnow, Azriel avoids it at all costs, if he can. Something about the practice unsettles him, and he doesn’t believe he’s ever refined it enough to use it reliably.
So, the fact that he just winnowed you to the dorms either means that he still cares enough to get you out of the cold, or he wants to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible.
Gods, you hope it’s the former.
“Stay there.” He murmurs, and he’s turning on his feet. You want to stop him and tell him it’s imperative that you speak immediately — but you can only watch as he strides in the direction of his room.
Moments later, he’s strolling back through — a pair of his own, thick socks in his hands.
You might just soften and crumble enough to forget about the conversation and throw your arms around him. Even now, he’s still looking out for you, making sure you’re taken care of.
You plead with yourself not to get choked up over a pair of socks. But you just…miss him. Miss this. And you think that shows as you hold a hand out and rasp, “Thank you.”
“Let me.” Is all Az replies. He drops to his knees before you.
Your mind goes quiet.
Gods.
The last thing you expected, from coming here, was to see Az knelt at your feet.
And it’s so fucking inappropriate, but as he begins to unlace your boots, your stupid, pathetic brain begins to lament on what a damn shame it is, that you didn’t get to behold this sight, have him on his knees, when things were still good between you. Maybe there’s something wrong with you.
“You don’t have to do that—”
“Need to make sure you’re warm.” He chucks your sodden boots aside, yanks your socks off. Dries your poor, pinkened feet. Tugs his own socks — so big on you that he has to bunch them at the ankles — onto them. And then rises to his feet. “I’ll get a fire going.”
His fussing over you has always bordered on outright hysterical.
“Azriel.” Finally, you lay a firm hand on his arm. Stop him. “I need to talk to you.”
The way he goes so very still at your touch has you realising — all this fussing is to avoid simply…looking at you. Facing you. He’s trying to busy himself in your presence.
But he does look at you. Lifts his gaze to yours. And there’s grit in his voice as says, “I know I fucked up, Y/N. I shouldn’t have reacted to you and Cassian the way I did. I had no right.”
“I’m not here about that—”
“I was angry because I was so damn jealous. And that’s irrational, and I know it, but I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stand the thought of him…anyone else…putting their hands—”
“It’s Kaeda, Az. She’s using you.”
Finally, you’ve won his silence. His arm tenses under your hand. His eyes burn into yours.
“I learned it from the High Lord himself.” The words are so, so sour on your tongue. You hate this. Hate the truth — for Az. “Tathaln Baralas is trying to round up the most powerful Illyrians of each camp and have them under his command in Fenlaros. Eventually, he wants there to be only one camp — that he rules over. He covets you because you’re a shadowsinger, and he sent Kaeda here to cosy up to you and do his bidding, win you over. She’s been working for him—”
He tugs away from your touch. Takes a step back. And the anger, the hurt, that you expect to find on his face just…isn’t there.
“I know all of this.” He says, simply.
“You—what?”
“I had dinner with Kaeda and her family. Tathaln laid his idea out to me and asked me to go to Fenlaros. He was completely open about it.”
You study him, waiting for some vague indication that he’s angry at Kaeda’s manipulation. But he seems entirely nonchalant.
It stings.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” You hate how small your voice sounds.
“Well, you and I haven’t exactly been talking—”
“I’d think a situation like thiswould override that.”
“Kind of had other things on my mind, though, haven’t I?”
“Well did you tell Tathaln he can shove his fucking vision up his ass?”
Silence.
Silence, and then the rustle of Az’s wings as he shifts on his feet.
Loud, loud silence.
You think your heart might plummet into your stomach. Your mouth goes dry. You stare at him, every inch of him, desperate for some sort of sign that his silence isn’t saying what you fear it’s saying.
But gods, it’s so very telling.
“Please tell me you’re not considering it,” you breathe.
He doesn’t answer straight away. He looks at his feet and shifts on the spot and takes his time answering like your heart isn’t thundering in anticipation.
And then he says, quietly, “I told Kaeda I would consider it.”
The words steal the air from your lungs. The picture of a Windhaven without Azriel’s presence suddenly doesn’t seem like a blurred, unlikely one. Feels like it’s being dangled in front of your face.
“What?” Your voice is weak.
“I just…told her I’d think about it.”
“Why?”
“The idea isn’t a bad one—I could hone my skills, put them to use—”
“You could also kiss goodbye to any ties you have to this place! To your family, to—to me!”
Cauldron fucking damn your voice for cracking the way it does. You’re going to break in front of him, and it’s going to be bad. You can feel your chest tightening, the idea of losing Azriel for good making you breathless and panicked and like you don’t know what to do with yourself, your hands, your entire body.
“Y/N.” Az says softly. “I haven’t given a definitive answer.”
“But you’re thinking about it.” You choke. “You’re considering it—leaving. Do the others know about this? Rhys and Cassian?”
“No. Haven’t really been speaking to them, either.”
“Is that all part of it? Distancing yourself from us until you sever your ties completely? Are you truly so angry with me that you’d choose this? To not see me anymore?”
You know immediately what you’ve said.
To not see me. Rhys and Cassian not included.
Azriel catches it, too. He purses his lips, and he stares at you.
“This isn’t about that.” He insists.
“You never would have considered this before I lay with Cassian—”
“This isn’t about distancing myself because you fucked Cassian! It’s because I want you and that terrifies me!”
The words, hard and solid as iron daggers, are actually enough to calm your growing panic. You feel them land, piercing through your skin and spreading a wanton, longing venom through your veins. You’ve spent days — weeks — caught up in your thoughts, trying to accept the fact that you want Azriel. You want Azriel. More than you ever had before.
And perhaps it says a lot about how you perceive yourself, but it hadn’t occurred to you that he might want you back.
Hearing it is heart-stopping.
You clear away what feels like a patchwork of hoarfrost that’s frozen over your throat. “I—thought you wanted Kaeda.”
Azriel makes a noise; something like a humourless laugh. “Believe me, I tried. But I don’t. I want you, so much that it burns. Burns me worse than what scarred my fucking hands. I’ve never felt like this before. I’m sick with it. I can’t sleep for thinking about you, wanting you beside me. I can’t stop myself aching for you and I’m losing my fucking mind.”
Blow after blow after blow, these words. Sour and sweet, pleasant and horrific, love and hate. You feel like you know everything and nothing at once. Like you understand what he’s saying but not quite.
But your honest response croaks out of you, “And if I want you, too? What then?”
Azriel’s jaw ticks. And he presses himself hard against the wall as if he’s trying to disappear through it. “Then,” he says, “that makes it even worse.”
“Because you’d sooner run off to another camp than give yourself to a pathetic excuse for an Illyrian like me, right?”
“Because I would sooner damn myself to a miserable existence in Fenlaros than allow this to turn into another thing of beauty that could be ripped straight from my hands. I’d sooner not see you at all than have you and lose you. And I’d rather base my decision on hypotheticals and protect my heart than give it away and wish I never had. If that makes me selfish—”
“It makes you,” you grit your teeth hard, blink furiously through forming tears, “a fucking coward.”
He pauses. “Then I’m a coward.”
But he isn’t. Never has been. Not when he was locked up in his hateful father’s keep and forced to bear his half-brothers’ twisted cruelty. Not when he came to Windhaven and was targeted here, too, simply for being different. Not through anything you’ve faced together in nine years of friendship.
Azriel has never been a coward. You will not accept it. You will not let him become one.
If he wants you like he says he does…you’re not going to let him have the sole choice of ruining this. He can try to push you away, but you’ll push back ten times harder.
“You think I’m not scared?” You move away from the counter, taking slow steps closer to him. “I am. I’m petrified. But fear is not cowardice. To fear and to face it head-on is to be brave, Azriel. When have you ever balked from fear?”
He’s watching you near him with what seems to be nerves. He swallows. “Never. But I know which of my battles to pick.”
You slow to a stop in front of him. Your body is inches from his, and his warmth and scent are like a punch to your gut. “It isn’t a battle to want.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it’s a battle to need.” So blatantly — he doesn’t try to hide it — his eyes drift to your mouth. “I was wrong before. I don’t want you. I need you.”
“And you’d rather run from that. You’d rather run than need me.”
“…Yes. I think I would.”
Finally, you close the miniscule gap between your bodies, slamming your hands either side of him, against the wall. You fight the curling of your lips when you hear his breath catch in his throat.
“What are you waiting for, Azriel?” You challenge. “Run.”
He pauses.
He does not run.
He snarls, and he grabs you by your jacket, and he hauls your mouth to his.
He tastes like the tang of sweat and blood, but also like the heavy fir trees that guard the mountains, and the crackling of a roaring fire, and the fresh berries he puts in his breakfast every morning without fail. He tastes like Azriel, and you think that taste might be the answer to every dark thought and doubt that has ever plagued your mind.
Without hesitation, you're bunching your hands in his shirt and pulling yourself against him, close as you can possibly get. This kiss is not a sweet kiss in the name of tentative practice. This kiss is a reckoning, and a choice, and it’s the past nine years in flashing moments that have led you up to this point.
Azriel makes a low, wanting sound and flips the script, using his grip on your jacket to spin you both until you’re the one pushed against the wall, and he’s pressing you there. Slotting a firm, muscled thigh between your legs. He pulls his mouth away from yours to pepper quick, biting kisses along your jaw, down the column of your neck. You gasp, and he gasps back.
“I want you.” His voice almost sounds like a plea — a plea for some solution to this. As though it’s a problem. “I can’t stop myself wanting you.”
“So don’t.” You breathe back, pushing the very centre of you against his thigh. “Stay in Windhaven and forget about everything else. Stay with me. Have me.”
“You make it sound so easy—”
“It is.” You pull his mouth back to yours. “It’s easy. We can be easy. We can be—”
Just down the hall, the opening of the front door cuts your words right off. Footsteps follow. It’ll just be a male returning from training, but it seems to send a tidal wave of ice-cold reality straight over the two of you. Azriel stares down at you, lips parted, still panting.
The nameless male passes by without even sparing either of you a glance. Azriel pulls away.
He turns his back to you and rakes a hand through his hair. You can only watch. So fast, he’s facing you again.
“I—I need you to give me time to register all of this.” He swallows. “I can’t…think right now.”
Do the words sting? Yes. Were you hoping that he would just impulsively let go of his fears and say fuck it? Absolutely.
You should be angry. You should tell him that if he truly wants you, needs you, then he shouldn’t need to think.
But something about the lost expression on his face speaks to you. He’s always been guarded. Always struggled to face his emotions head-on. So many years he spent locked up, trying to convince himself that the loneliness didn’t ache, that his heart didn’t wish.
If you push him right now…it’ll end up with him further away from you.
So it’s the hardest thing in the world to straighten yourself out and pretend your lips aren’t tingling, begging for another taste of his mouth. It’s an effort to put how you feel aside for his sake.
But maybe it’ll be for your sake, too. You are angry…somewhere beneath all the longing, the passion. He didn’t tell you about Tathaln’s proposition. He’d been considering it without consulting any of you. That hurts.
He watches you, waits for you to say something, as you reach for your boots and tug them back on. You came here to tell him what you’d found out, and you’ve done just that — and then some.
When you’ve laced up your shoes, only then do you look at him. Try to hide the bleakness from your face.
“I’ll leave you to your thoughts.” You tell him, and it’s a promise. “But can you do me a favour?”
His eyes sweep over your face, and he nods. “Always.”
“Before you make a decision about Fenlaros…” You actually have to stop yourself and swallow down the lump that forms at the words. You try again, “Before you make a decision about Fenlaros, please just…talk to Rhys and Cass first. The three of you have been a strong unit forever. Forget the troubles that we’ve had and just…just remind yourself of what you’d be leaving behind. Fix things with them. Talk to them.”
He opens his mouth. Snaps it shut again. Nods. “Alright.”
“You don’t need me, Az.” You say as you turn away from him. “But them? You’ll always need them.”
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The strutting confidence with which Kaeda Baralas usually carries herself is entirely absent as she enters her father’s study.
Her wings are limp — a telltale sign of nerves, intimidation — and it’s an effort to keep them from drooping.
Wings are supposed to be worn proudly. Hers were left intact for a reason. Never will she forget that fact.
Tathaln sits behind his desk, oozing authority, even through menial tasks like going through his correspondence. As Kaeda stops before him and threads her fingers together, she feels much like the younger version of herself — that little girl always trying to think of ways to impress her papa.
“Well?” Tathaln asks without looking up.
The female clears her throat. “He still hasn’t given me an answer.”
Her father pauses, goes deathly still. Kaeda hates that stillness. Dreads it. Knows it means she’s disappointed him.
The Camp Lord places his pen down, and he asks, his tone slicing, “And why have your efforts not been enough to glean an answer?”
Kaeda purses her lips. “I’m trying, father. It’s — he’s harder than I anticipated. I didn’t expect him to be so attached to Windhaven.”
She watches, stomach turning, as the great male before her stands and rounds the desk. He perches on the other side of it and studies his daughter.
“Your brothers seem to be having no problems with the missions I gave them.” He tells her. “Why do you let me down?”
How is she supposed to answer that? Azriel is simply…not what she expected. He’s unlike all the Illyrian males she’s surrounded by. He’s profound, sentimental, caring. He values more than just violence, than war.
“I got the go-ahead from the High Lord that the ball can take place.” Tathaln announces. “We will be amongst a room full of males with potential, who may join our cause. But they won’t if we don’t have some ground to work on. If I don’t have something to show them — warriors who can advocate for us. Like the shadowsinger.”
“Yes. You will.” He pushes away from the desk. “Because let me remind you of something, lest you’ve forgotten.” A step closer has him towering over her, and he’s…humongous. “I do not give you the freedoms you have, just so you can waste them. I did not leave your wings intact because I abhor the practice of clipping them. I told you to earn them. To hone yourself into a weapon that I can use.”
“I know, father.”
“And what do I do with weapons that are useless? That can’t be used? I rid myself of them. Make no mistake that I would do the same with you if you can’t give me what I need.” A sneer contorts his brutal, beautiful face. “I don’t care what you have to do to attain it. Trick him, force him, bed him. Just get your ass back to Windhaven, and don’t return until the shadowsinger is on side. The ball will be held on Starfall — you have until then.”
“I—”
“Go.”
End of discussion.
He doesn’t want to hear her excuses, her ideas.
He doesn’t want to know that his daughter, deep down, is not capable of the callousness of which he very much is. That in Azriel, she sees a person who is, perhaps, as lonely as she is, and insecure, and trying not to be, in an environment where those things get you killed.
He doesn’t care to know that all she really wants is for her father to throw his arms around her and tell her he loves her, is proud of her, no matter what.
No. He returns to his seat and doesn’t spare her another glance. She’s dismissed.
She takes to the brutal skies and makes her way from one hollow place to another.
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Cassian decides two chapters into the book that reading isn’t for him.
He’s just so fucking bored. Rhys is somewhere being all moony eyed over Zakai, Roza and Y/N are still in Velaris, and Azriel still doesn’t seem interested in talking through their issues.
So he’s resorted to this — plucking some weird romance novel off the shelf and giving it a go. Some dramatic tale of a human girl who falls in love with a beast who drinks blood and glistens in the sunlight. Two chapters down, he’s tempted to throw it into the fire — but he remembers that it isn’t his book and returns it to the shelf instead.
He could go to a tavern, but those aren’t fun on his own. Could seek out one of his many sexual conquests for a good time, but something about arguing with his closest of friends translates, for some reason, into his dick refusing to get hard. He’s too churned up for an orgasm, and too churned up to give one out.
So, sleep it is. He heaves a deep sigh and drags himself over to the stairs, feeling mighty sorry for himself. He’s barely placed a foot on the bottom step when a knock falls on the door.
He turns, striding over too fast. He hopes for Rhys, or even Az, anyone—
But Kaeda slumps against the door frame, and he immediately wants to scowl.
Her eyes are glazed, her usually pristine appearance a little unkempt, with strands of cherry red hair slipping free from a ponytail and a stain of some sort of liquid on her shirt.
She hiccups, and the smell of booze rolls from her. “Azriel here?”
“No.” Cassian’s jaw ticks.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Probably at the dorms, but he doesn’t tell her that. “Don’t you have a rock to crawl back under?”
She makes a vague noise and bends at the waist, planting her hands on her knees. “Think ‘m going to be sick.”
“Not here, you’re not.”
“Can I just come in? Please? Need…need water.”
Cassian really, really doesn’t want to let her in.
If he had his way, he wouldn’t let her into the camp, let alone his house.
And he’s a shitty enough person that he’s tempted to turn her away…but not shitty enough to actually do so. She’s clearly wasted, and in a place like Windhaven, a lone, drunk female is a target.
So he grits his teeth and steps aside, and Kaeda doesn’t hesitate to stumble in. She heads straight for the couch, slumping down—
“If you puke on that,” Cass tells her, striding over to the kitchen, “I’ll hold you upside down and mop your vomit up with that obscenely red hair.”
Kaeda seems to find it funny. She snorts. Cassian ignores her and fills a glass with water.
He stalks back over. More or less slams the glass down on the coffee table and then sits at the far end of the same couch. “Your water. Drink it.”
The female grabs the glass and gulps it down, droplets rolling down her chin. Cassian has never seen her so…normal.
“Why are you drunk?” He asks.
She returns the empty glass to the table. “I drank alcohol.”
“Give me a straight answer.”
She sighs, and swivels on the seat so that she’s facing him. She’s a little unsteady as she tucks her legs beneath her and says, “Because I’m a desperately unhappy person, and I can’t do anything right.”
Cass stares at her. He isn’t convinced. She seems mighty happy every time she struts through Windhaven, giving pretty, sultry smiles to different males and revelling in their attention.
“I have so much pressure on my shoulders.” Kaeda says. “I can’t afford to get it all wrong.”
“Everyone has pressure on their shoulders. Welcome to the real world, princess.”
Another snort. She shakes her head. Never seems bothered by Cassian’s sharp-edged words. “You don’t get it.”
But Cass reckons he does. He narrows his eyes as he looks at her — thinks that her perfect outfit probably costs more than his entire wardrobe. Thinks that the fact that she’s got to her age, as a female, and hasn’t had her wings and spirit ripped away from her, is a very lucky thing.
“Oh, I get it.” He bites back. “I know exactly what I’m looking at. A spoilt girl who gets everything she wishes for and still wants more. You have riches and a good standing, and you never have to worry about where your next meal is coming from.”
“…Don’t have any friends, though, do I? Not like you and yours.”
“Perhaps that’s because you’re such an insufferable toad.”
Kaeda stares at him, and he stares back. Gods, he really cannot stand her. Even the way she looks at him makes him want to punch something.
But then she throws her head back, and she bellows a great, loud laugh.
That annoys him, too — that nothing he says, however harsh, seems to bother her. Maybe he simply wishes that he could be like that. So strong.
“Why is it that you hate me so much, Cassian?” Her laughter ebbs into a quiet chuckle, and she’s leaning forward to crack him a smile that has sent better males to their knees. “Tell me.”
Cassian, too, leans forward — tries to scowl that smile out of existence. “Because I think you’re up to something.” He answers. “And I think you’re going to hurt my friends. And if you hurt my friends, princess, I hurt you. It’s that simple.”
He means it. Kaeda can see he means it. And the threat should intimidate her, but it doesn’t.
It makes her hungry. Ravenous.
His hate for her is a challenge that she wants to chase. Every barbed word, every scathing glance —
It sets her on fire.
And she’s happily not thinking about Tathaln, or Fenlaros, or Azriel, as she grips Cassian by the cheeks and slants her mouth over his. She kisses him with such heat that for a moment, he forgets who she is. Her tongue makes its way past his lips—
He shoves her off him, probably too hard. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Before she can answer, the front door opens, and Azriel is wandering in.
He takes in the sight of them and stops. Stares between them.
His expression is…indifferent. Like he knows what he’s looking at, but he really could not give a fuck.
And then he clears his throat, and turns to Kaeda. “You should leave.” He says. “Cassian and I need to talk.”
Summary: Backstreet’s back, ALRIGHT! Or rather, the Bat Boys™️ sort their issues out. Tathaln’s ball is officially announced. Azriel gives Kaeda a piece of his mind. Fin has no business being the sexy dad he is. Roza’s worried about reader.
Word count: 6.3k.
Warnings: None for this part.
All is silent, save for the rhythmic tick-tick-ticking of the clock. Cassian has always hated that clock. Finds it fucking annoying.
But it fills the vacant hole that exists in the absence of conversation. That hole is open and gaping between Cassian and Azriel. It’s not a table that sits between them — it’s a dangerous, yawning chasm.
Az stares at Cass, and Cass feels uncomfortable. He’s seen that cold gaze be levelled on people hundreds of times, thousands. To be on the receiving end feels a little like staring death in the face. He actually kind of wishes that Kaeda hadn’t been sent off to the dorms to sleep off her drunken state, because at least then he wouldn’t be the only one here, being subjected to…this.
So, he stands up, so abruptly that his chair almost topples over, and asks, “Want me to make you some tea?” The question feels stupid the second it leaves his lips.
Azriel’s eyes track him, drink in every uneasy shift and twitch. It’s not that Cass is afraid of Az — though anybody with half a brain cell would be — just that he’s not good in these situations. Situations where he has to be serious and…and listen.
“Cassian.” The shadowsinger’s cold voice stops him before he can move. “When, in our years of friendship, have you ever once made me tea?”
Cass peers over a broad shoulder and shrugs half-heartedly. “First time for everything…”
“Sit.”
The word brooks no room for argument. Cassian does, indeed, sit.
It’s then that Azriel heaves a deep sigh, his entire body taut as a bowstring, and says, “I’m sorry.”
Cass blinks. “What?”
“I’m sorry—for what I did in the mead hall. I…had no right.”
“…But Y/N and I…”
“It’s not for me to dictate whether the two of you should or shouldn’t lie together. My…jealousy…is my problem, and mine alone.”
This is hard, Cassian realises — for Az to say this. For him to face it. And Cass can relate to that. Not everyone can be as silver-tongued as Rhysand. The Mother knows, Cass himself isn’t.
But he also isn’t an idiot. Some people may believe him to be, and that’s their mistake, because being proved wrong is usually the last thing they remember before waking up to a healer standing over them. He’s aware enough of his surroundings to know that something was brewing between Azriel and Y/N for years before Cass took her to bed…or kitchen counter, or…whatever.
“I need to be better,” Cassian offers, “at thinking before I act. Thinking about who I might hurt with my decisions. I’m working on it.”
Az studies his friend, and he feels no anger. If anything, it’s guilt that claws at the shadowsinger. He gave poor Cass a pretty good hiding over something that was, essentially, none of his business. And it could have all been different if Az simply wasn’t a coward, afraid of his feelings.
Something he needs to work on.
And perhaps he’s doing that as, rather than burying the topic, he asks, “What…what actually happened? How did you end up sleeping together? I mean…do you have feelings—”
“No.” Cassian cuts him off, blinking. “Gods, no. I love Y/N, you know that. But not romantically. I just…I felt so damn useless that night, Az. If you’d seen the way Y/N was…the self-loathing. I didn’t know how to help.”
“Because of what her father did to her. When we were flying to Fenlaros, and she was the only one being carried in…”
Azriel slumps back in his chair, feeling like a godsdamned idiot.
He blinks forward and wonders what the fuck the point is in being born a shadowsinger when he obviously can’t read situations very well. Within seconds, it’s clicking into place.
“And then you started that fight with that Fenlarion male,” Cass continued. “and Kaeda just declared that it was her you were fighting over…and everyone has a limit, you know? I think that night was just all too much for Y/N. And she was so upset, so downtrodden…talking about how she hated herself. And I’m not good with words like Rhys is, and I’m not as observant as you are, but I am good at physical touch. Physical comfort. And it seemed like the only thing I could offer in that moment to take that bleakness away from her. But I should have thought about how you would feel—”
“I’m glad you were there for her.” Azriel blurts, realising, with every word, how much he means them. “I wasn’t. I failed her that night.”
“I really didn’t know that the two of you had been exploring things. If I did, I wouldn’t have done it. I mean…that fight you started wasn’t over Kaeda at all, was it?”
Az’s eyes shutter. And it goes against every natural instinct of his to strip himself bare and just…be honest. Every steel wall he’s ever built up is screeching in its effort to stand strong and not be caved in. And those walls were necessary in a life of darkness and hate…but that life is long gone.
What good do those walls do him in an environment where he has love, has people who genuinely care for him? As much as he wants to run and hide from his feelings as he always has…he thinks that the key to happiness may be on the other side of those walls. That a new bravery lays in letting some light filter through the cracks and warm a guarded heart.
His voice is quiet, laced with a self-preserving fear, as he admits, “No. It was not.”
Before Cassian can offer an encouraging response, the front door is swinging open, and Rhysand is kicking snow from his boots and trudging in. Azriel tenses like a threatened animal — but there is no threat here. Only safety, only love. He forces his shoulders to relax.
The violet-eyed male takes in the sight before him. Goes still as he looks between his two friends. “Please tell me this is a positive conversation.”
Cassian inclines his head. “Work in progress. Why don’t you make some tea?”
“Fuck you, make your own tea—”
“Make me some tea—”
“Kiss my ass, dickhole—”
“I’m in love with Y/N.” Azriel blurts.
It promptly shuts the other two males up.
They turn away from their bickering to look at the shadowsinger. He looks…shocked, by his own confession.
“I’m in love with her,” he breathes.
Cass and Rhys share a glance, and then Rhys is slowly approaching the table, carefully taking a seat like he doesn’t want to startle Azriel out of the moment.
“We know, Az.” Rhys tells him gently. “I mean…I think we always suspected…”
“I started that fight in Fenlaros because I was jealous of that damn male having his hands all over her. Saying the things he was saying. It was nothing to do with Kaeda.”
“You should really tell her — Y/N, I mean. Tell her how you feel.”
Azriel’s eyes trace a mark in the table as he admits, “Kind of already have. When she came to speak to me earlier today.”
Another glance is shared between Cassian and Rhys. And both are equally surprised — figure they would have heard something about it. Unless…unless it hadn’t gone down well.
And now that Rhys thinks about it, Y/N had been tense whilst he’d flown her back to Velaris. Taut in his arms and barely uttering a few words. Perhaps this was why.
“Did she…not take it well?” Rhys hedges. He wants to be delicate, not go blasting in at full-force. So rarely do they get to see such a vulnerable side to Az.
Azriel shakes his head once. “It’s not that, it’s…” He clears his throat. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“How?” Cass pushes, and Rhys shoots him a warning glance.
But Azriel doesn’t balk from it, doesn’t slink back in his seat. Instead, he lifts his head, and he levels his friends with a desperate look.
“There’s more that I haven’t told you.” He says.
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A short while later, Az thinks that maybe talking through his feelings is a good thing. Just saying the words has a little bit of weight easing from his chest, his shoulders.
But Cass and Rhys aren’t saying anything at all. Cass and Rhys are staring at him like he has two damn heads.
And then Cassian sits up, barking, “Tathaln Baralas wants what?”
“Exactly what I told you.” Azriel shakes his head. “He wants me to move to Fenlaros and work alongside him. Has some sort of backing from the High Lord, though I’m not sure how much. In a nutshell, Kaeda’s interest in me has always been driven by her father.”
“I knew that little wasp was up to something. You know she tried to kiss me tonight?”
Az shrugs. Really could not give a fuck. “I figured something had happened from the look on your face.”
“I never liked her. Nor her father—”
“Her father,” Rhys cuts in, “walks a very fine line in presuming to exceed in his role as a Camp Lord. His ego and title are going to his head a little, it would seem, if he believes he has the authority to scheme such ideas.”
“It’s a terrible idea.” Cass says. Neither of the other two noticed him get up, but he’s returning to his seat, speaking around a mouthful of food. “All Illyrians in one big camp? They’ll kill each other.”
Rhys is inclined to agree. But he turns a neutral — maybe gentle — expression on Az and asks him, “Do you want to go to Fenlaros?”
It would kill him if Az said yes. Would kill Cass, too. These recent days of being torn apart by tension has been bad enough. Being in different camps and not seeing each other is an almost unbearable thought.
But they would find a way to live with it, if Az decided he wanted to go. They’d find a way to be okay with it.
Such thick silence fills the room that the thudding of all three of their hearts is audible.
But then Azriel replies quietly, “No.”
Neither Rhys nor Cassian bother to hide their relief.
“I told Kaeda I would think about it.” Azriel goes on. “And I told Y/N that I’d promised Kaeda that. But I don’t think I’ve ever really intended to think about it — or needed to. I think…I think I was just using it to bide my time. To create space for myself and…avoid everything else.”
“By everything else,” Cassian chomps into a loaf of bread, “do you mean facing your feelings for Y/N?”
Azriel can’t deny it. He nods. “It’s not an easy thing to face…to be vulnerable. Hiding behind this Fenlaros situation has just been easier. Cowardly, yes, but…easier.”
“You can’t keep pushing her away, though, Az.” Rhys says. “You can’t let her think that you might be leaving if you have no intention of doing so.”
The shadowsinger’s eyes flutter shut, thick, dark lashes grazing his cheekbones. “Do you think I’ve fucked it beyond repair?”
“No.” Cassian offers. “But you will, if you don’t start handling this the right way. Tell Kaeda and Tathaln to fuck off. Tell Y/N you’re in love with her and want to see her naked—”
“Watch it.” Azriel warns quietly, but Cass continues, unperturbed.
“Just start letting more people in. And I’ll stop letting so many people in, because it gets me into trouble. I think…I think we all need to grow up a little. Do better.”
Rhysand’s brow pinches. “What do you mean, we all do? I’ve done nothing other than put my own pleasure aside to advise you idiots. What could I possibly need to do better?”
Cassian shrugs. “That haircut, for one. It’s annoying.”
“And when was the last time your hair saw a comb, Cassian?”
“When was the last time you were generous and made tea for your good, long-suffering friend?”
“So this is about the tea.”
“Of course it’s about the tea, jackass. Zakai clearly isn’t with you for your observational skills…”
Azriel sits back, allowing their bickering to become background noise. There’s a warmth to the sight, the sound, that makes him realise he never again wants a repeat of this situation — of being apart from his friends for days, tension thick between them.
He loves Rhys and Cassian. Loves them dearly.
Another reason why he could never, ever turn his back on this place.
And he finds himself actually being…grateful…that Cass was there for Y/N that night. That she didn’t have to suffer her self-loathing alone.
There’s still a lot to get through, of course. Daunting emotions and truths to face head-on. But as he watches the two loveable idiots in front of him take verbal swipes at each other, it’s the first time in a while that he wonders if things might actually be okay.
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The news is announced the next day, when Lord Devlon gathers a rather colourful bunch of his soldiers in the mead hall and stands at the front, silencing them all with a single shout. Rhys, Cassian and Azriel stand against the far back wall, their arms folded over their chests.
Gods, they hope it’s not another training exercise. Not so soon. Az has things he wants to resolve before he saunters off and possibly gets himself killed.
But Devlon reads the roll of parchment in his hands, a frown contorting his features. He looks up, his eyes very deliberately finding Rhysand as he announces to the room, “A message from the High Lord.”
And every other gaze is then swivelling to turn on Rhys, too. There’s something accusatory about it, like they’re assuming he’s privy to whatever it is their asses have been dragged out of bed to hear.
He isn’t. He wants to be in bed, too.
“Looks like you pricks better get your dancing shoes ready.” Devlon raises his eyebrows. “The High Lord is calling for a ball. Legions from all camps invited.”
This — this is exciting news for the brutish males who could fill the mead hall with their egos alone. Not because they have a particular affinity for dancing, but because amongst themselves, they’re already murmuring about which particular camps they dislike for some reason or other, and what they plan to do about it. So many bloodthirsty streaks are painted in those males’ eyes, stamping out the tiredness that lay there only moments before.
Nothing pricks an Illyrian male’s ears up quite like the prospect of a fight.
“The legions from each camp have been carefully selected, and you lucky fuckers will be representing Windhaven.” The Camp Lord continues, disdain dripping from his voice. He wants his men out there training in the cold, not prancing around a dance floor. “Plus-ones are allowed, also, so it might be time to splash out on a pretty gown for whoever is warming your bed these days. The ball is to be held on Starfall, at a neutral venue of the High Lord’s choosing, and I expect you all to make Windhaven — and me — look good. Any questions?”
“Do we actually have to dance?” One male asks, while another one pipes up with, “Will those pricks from Camp Steelshore be there?”
Rhys shuts out the litany of battling voices as he turns a concerned look on Az and Cass. Their expressions mirror his own. Something about this feels…off.
So while he looks like he’s merely lounging against the wall, hands in his pockets, he sends his inner claws spearing straight for Devlon’s mind. He doesn’t give away what he’s doing, not even slightly, as he roots around in the Camp Lord’s thoughts and grabs for his glimpse of the letter. Rhys scans it, drops the thought, and he’s out of Devlon’s mind and straightening himself up before the male can so much as flinch.
“Let’s go.” He tells his friends, and not Devlon nor the males around them seem to care as Azriel and Cassian follow him, the formidable trio traipsing out into the thawing snow, regardless of whether the meeting is over or not.
They’re halfway back to the house, safely out of earshot, when Cassian finally barks, “A ball? What the fuck?”
“At the request of Tathaln Baralas.” Rhys reveals. “That’s what the letter said. He took the idea to my father, and the asshole is humouring him. This has all got to be part of Tathaln’s plan.”
Cassian scowls and spits his disdain at the ground. “Someone needs to drive a poison arrow through that prick’s heart already. I don’t like this one bit.”
“It’s my father’s intentions I’m worried about.” Rhys shakes his head. “Tathaln only has the power that my father gives him. One word from him and this idea could be snuffed out and never mentioned again. And I expected that to be the case. Arrogant as fuck he may be, but my father isn’t stupid. He’ll know what a terrible idea this is, and I would have predicted that he’d laugh in Tathaln’s face for mentioning it. I didn’t think he’d actually entertain it…which means—”
“There’s something in it for him.” Azriel finishes.
Rhysand nods. “Every single move and choice my father makes is, ultimately, for his own gain. He would never agree to anything if he weren’t getting something out of it himself. Whatever Tathaln has proposed to him…my father will be using it for his own gain.”
Cassian opens the door to the cottage and strides in, forgetting — as always — to kick the snow from his boots. “What, though?” He asks. “What could Tathaln have that your father could want?”
Rhys shrugs and waves a hand, magic promptly mopping up the wet, melting trail left in Cassian’s wake. “That, I don’t know.”
“So what do we do?” Az watches him closely, trying to read the thoughts on the male’s face. His shadows reach out to him, too. “Are you going to talk to your father? Make him see how ridiculous this idea is?”
“No,” Rhys shakes his head. “There would be no point. I could lay a whole host of truths out to my father, and he’d go against them on ego alone. He must want something badly enough for him to be throwing money into it. This ball won’t be cheap.”
“And it won’t be a ball, either.” Cassian cocks an eyebrow. Roots through the kitchen cupboards for food. “Blood will be spilled. And you can’t dance on blood. I’ve tried. Too slippy.”
Rhys chooses to ignore that little scrap of information. Mostly because he doesn’t doubt it for a second. “I don’t want us to pre-empt anything.” He says. “If I go straight to my father with concerns about any of this, it could blow up in our faces, instead. For the time being, I think we should just…go along with it. Watch it play out, and see what happens. My father is unpredictable. Even I can’t tell you what goes on in his head.”
“I can speak with Kaeda.” Az clears his throat. “See if she’ll tell me anything.”
“You have fun with that.” Cassian mumbles, biting into something. “I’d sooner chop my balls off and nail them to the front door.”
“Such a way with words. It’s no wonder, really, that females fall at your feet.”
Cass shoots him a wicked grin. And this…this is nice. What they’ve both missed. This is normal.
“I’ll keep an eye and ear out for anything.” Rhys drags them back to the subject at hand. “But my father’s good at not letting anyone know things until he wants them to know them. And he’s clearly serious about this.”
Cassian swallows. Takes another bite. “And until then? Until we know what he’s even serious about?”
Violet eyes sparkle with mischief, and one side of Rhysand’s lips tips up. “Until then, boys,” he says, “you’d better practice your dancing.”
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Azriel really hopes she’s not there, but sure enough, when he enters his room at the dorms, Kaeda is sitting up in his bed.
It gives him a little bit of satisfaction to see her look…less than perfect, for once. Her hair is knotted, and even the vibrancy of the red shade seems a little dulled. Her skin is sallow, her eyes bleary. He wonders if she’s as miserable as she currently looks.
She beholds him with a strangely coy look, like she’s waiting for him to rip into her. But if she really knew the shadowsinger, she’d know that that is not his style. He does not shout. He rarely fights physically. His danger lies in his quiet voice and icy stare.
Kaeda’s tired eyes fall to the blanket pooled around her waist, and she murmurs, “You’re angry with me.” Her throat bobs with a swallow. “I understand. But I appreciate you putting me to sleep in here when I was in a vulnerable state.”
“I would have done it for anyone.” Az presses his back against the wall, folding his arms. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
The female merely bows her head. Doesn’t bother to argue.
“I have a question.” Azriel then says. “I’d like an answer.”
“I know that Cassian has probably told you about last night, and all I can say is I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed him. I was drunk and upset and I—”
“I don’t care about that.” He really doesn’t, and it shows on his face. “I want to know what your father is playing at by organising an Illyrian ball. I don’t believe for a second that the gesture is an innocent one.”
She glances down again, but Azriel doesn’t buy the coy act for one moment.
“Kaeda.” His voice is laced with warning. “Tell me.”
“It’s just…a ball. A ball to have all camps in one place, so he can get a good look at what each one has to offer. It’s nothing sinister.”
“So, a chance for him to scout more supporters for his cause.”
“He’s trying to make a change, Azriel. A good one—”
“He’s interfering with lives. Tearing families apart.”
“Good results require difficult choices.” Her voice hardens.
The shadowsinger bites out a cold, brusque laugh, turning away from her. “Mother above, he has you trained well.”
There’s movement behind him. Kaeda is kicking the sheets away and pushing to her feet. And she’s…seething.
“You would laugh in the face of somebody trying to make a positive change?” She snaps. “What reason have you to be so arrogant? At least my father is trying to make a difference. All you’re doing is clinging to a miserable life in a miserable place where you don’t even have a family or home of your own—”
“Except that I do.” Azriel rounds on her so quickly that his wing knocks a fragrance bottle off a shelf. “I may not have your riches, and that’s fine, because I have a group of people — a family I made — who love me enough to care whether or not I come home at night. Who want nothing less for me than happiness and contentedness, and not just to use me as a pawn in some convoluted plan that will do more harm than good. I have reason to be in Windhaven, whether it’s miserable or not. I have love here. So much of it. And there’s nothing — not a damn thing — that would make me turn my back on it.”
Something in his impassioned speech clearly hits a nerve with Kaeda. She goes still.
And she looks…small, despite being fairly tall. She looks…insignificant.
Her eyes fill with tears. One spills over and rolls down her cheek as she whispers, “Please, Azriel.”
Azriel says nothing. Stares at her.
“Please.” She takes a step closer. “I’m not above begging. I…” Her voice cracks. “I need this. I need you to say yes—”
“Your father,” he interrupts quietly, “is playing a very dangerous game. And he’s using you to do it.”
“You don’t understand. I…if I can’t give him what he wants, I’m finished. I’ll have no home to go to, nobody on my side.”
“You already have nobody on your side. You’re his daughter and he’s dangling your livelihood over your head and ready to snatch it away if he doesn’t get what he wants. You’re already finished.”
“Please.” She says again. Tears are streaming, now, and she tries fruitlessly to wipe them away. “Please, just…if this is about Y/N—”
“Do not,” he grits out, “bring her into this.”
“She’s already in this. I know that you want her and not me…that you always have…and that’s fine. Bring her to Fenlaros with you, if you must. I’m sure my father could be persuaded on that. But just…please—”
“You’re not listening, Kaeda. This isn’t just about my family. It’s about all the other families that would be separated, ripped apart by your father’s scheming. He’s power hungry. This is just the beginning of a whole host of self-serving plans that will bring him glory — do not doubt that for a second. People like him are never satisfied, and he needs to be stopped. Not encouraged.”
“You’re wrong.” Her voice is so weak, Az isn’t convinced she believes her own words. “He just wants a better future for Illyria—”
“No.” Az levels her with a pointed look. “He wants a better future for himself. I will not play a part in that, and neither will my loved ones.”
“Azriel, please—”
“I will attend your father’s ball, just as Lord Devlon has ordered me to do.” He breezes to the door, not caring that this is his room he’s leaving her behind in. He stops, palm poised on the handle. “But as for delivering a male straight into your father’s den? You better start trying that seduction on somebody else. Because there is nothing that would make me follow you into that camp.”
He leaves without a glance back. And while it sits uncomfortably inside him that he made a female cry…he can’t help feeling like he’s finally doing the right thing.
About time, too.
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This — this is the last thing you ever would have expected of coming to Velaris.
The tonic you’d needed was an extended amount of girl time with Roza. And yet here you are…in the High Lord’s arms.
“This is useless.” You murmur, aware of every single place your body brushes against his. One of his hands is a firm weight on the small of your back, the other clasping yours. “I’m not a natural dancer. Fuck, I’ve never even been to a dance.”
Fin’s mouth tips up at the corners. “There’s that filthy mouth.” His hand lets go of yours, opting to move up to the cut of your jaw, where he allows his thumb to rest on your lower lip. “You,” the pad of it swipes slowly over your mouth, “are going to be exquisite.”
You square your shoulders. Cock a challenging eyebrow. “Is that genuine encouragement, High Lord? Or an order?”
A deep chuckle. Slowly — reluctantly —he lets his hand drop. “Both.”
Flirting with him like this, playing the part of the High Lord’s pet, is a necessary evil. You’re just so surprisingly good at it that you can’t discern whether it’s an affront to him, or to Roza. Or both.
But you can’t deny that you’ve been flattered by his undivided attention this past week. And perhaps he’s been flattered by yours, too.
Mother bless Roza for her undying support. The best you can do for her, right now, is to keep her in the loop. She merely tells you to be careful.
But a week — a week of cosying up to Fin, of breaking through his exterior and appealing yourself to him. You humour him with these dance lessons, with the preposterously expensive shopping trips and dinners, the late night fireside conversations. Anything, everything, to get him to tell you what truth lies behind the excited glint in his eyes whenever he speaks of the ball. To tell you what it is he’s planning.
Perhaps you’re not appealing enough. You are no more aware than anyone else. And that’s really fucking frustrating.
At least your hard work has kept you from thinking about Azriel every five minutes.
Your breath still heaving from your dance efforts, you make your way over to the table of refreshments by the huge, arcing windows that overlook the city. The High Lord’s palace, you have to admit, is a place you might miss once you’re back in Windhaven. You’ve never been one for luxury, never had more than a few things to your name — but the views are what makes you feel like the richest person in all of Prythian. These are not the cold, barren views of your camp, but a place of such vibrancy, it sometimes makes you want to cry. It’s like the setting of a storybook, laid out right before you.
From behind, slow, graceful footsteps sweep across the wooden floor. Fin comes to a stop so closely behind you that his body heat encases you.
Fingertips make contact with your skin, the back of your neck. The sleeveless tunic you wore for your practice now feels like nothing more than a paper towel.
“You have such beautiful skin.” Fin says roughly, and you tense. So far, this week, he’s kept a respectful distance away. Hasn’t put you in any awkward positions.
You pivot under his touch, pressing your back up against the table enough that his hand drops. It’s not entirely for show as you smile apologetically and tell him, “Sorry — scars.”
Such genuine, slicing rage fills his face. The intensity of it almost knocks you breathless.
“I will kill him.” He says the words like a lover’s promise. “With my bare hands, I will kill him for taking your wings.”
He had the power to stop the practice before you were even born. He is very old — over nine-hundred-years — and very powerful. What he says, goes.
And yet…he means it. You can see it. And perhaps you have seen so much unkindness, such brutality, that little scraps of ferocity, of passion, in your defence, make you a blinded fool.
But a part of him — however small — actually cares about you. Enough to mark your abuser for death.
But your father’s blood will soak your hands, and yours only.
You smile up at him, wickedly, cunningly, prettily. “No, you won’t.” You reply. “Because I will do it first.”
And the fury in his stare simmers immediately to a different sort of heat. Your words are a flirtation to him — a cut of raw meat dangled above a hungry, waiting animal. They make him feel something.
“Such a murderous little thing.” His soft laugh caresses your skin. He sounds pleased — impressed. “I like that. I like it a lot.”
“I would hope so. I am to be your special guest at the ball, after all.” A small voice in your head wants to coax him; tell me what you’re planning, tell me what to expect.
But, as always, he steers the conversation away, a vague, mysterious smile on his face. “Do you like it here in Velaris, my murderess?”
“I do, very much so.”
“I can’t help pondering how much you would thrive here. You were made for so much more than Windhaven. Illyria, even.”
A soft, coy smile — one that comes from deep within that part of you that wants the praise, the compliments — that needs them. “Many would disagree with you.”
“Show them to me, and I will twist their minds until they see in you what I do.”
“And what is it you see in me?” A disingenuous little liar. A good actress. A traitor.
Fin leans down, and for one startling, heart-stopping, stomach-lurching moment, you think his mouth might meet yours.
But his lips brush over your cheek in a tender, barely-there caress. He presses a kiss to the skin before retracting. Straightening himself out. The way he slides his hands into his pockets with casual arrogance reminds you so much of Rhys that you miss your friend instantaneously.
“I see beauty that is unappreciated, and intelligence that is underestimated.” Fin says. “And I see a female that I wouldn’t mind having at my side.” His eyes trace you from head to toe. “I wouldn’t mind it at all.”
No response sits on your tongue. You think you might be too surprised by the genuine praise. The fact that the High Lord actually feels some level of affection towards you.
Maybe you’re not so bad at these games.
He turns without waiting for your response, and only when he’s at the door does he make eye contact with you over his shoulder.
“Keep practicing the dancing, my murderess.” He says. “We’ll make a fine pair at that ball.”
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If Roza weren’t so worried, she might laugh at the three expressions of outrage that meet her when she strolls into the cottage.
Rhysand jumps up immediately and demands, “Did you fly here? You’re supposed to be resting.”
Roza merely rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind her. “Don’t get your undergarments in a bunch, Rhysand. I’m pregnant — not on my death bed. The babe is fine.”
Her son does not look convinced. Neither do Azriel or Cassian. As if they’re, like, experts on pregnancy, or something.
“What are you doing here, mother?” Rhys stalks straight to the fire and stokes it. Then straight over to the kitchen to make a hot drink. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes. Mostly.” Roza pauses. “I hope.”
Azriel sits up at that. “Is Y/N alright?”
“She’s fine.” If playing games with the High Lord of the Night Court can be considered fine. Roza eases herself into a seat, and Cassian is promptly propping cushions behind her back. “I want to talk to you about the ball.”
Cass’s lips turn up into a half-smile. “We’ll be on our best behaviour, Roz. Promise.”
“You’d better be. Because I want all three of you looking out for Y/N at that ball, do you hear me?”
The command is a firm one, and yet the three males don’t straighten up at her matriarchal tone like they usually do. Instead, they share a puzzled glance, frowns pinching their features.
“It’s a ball for Illyrian soldiers and their guests of choice.” Rhys explains, carrying a steaming mug over to her. “None of us are bringing her along. Not to that.”
“You may not be.” Roza slides a protective hand over her bump. “But your father is.”
All three males go so preternaturally still, it’s almost frightening.
Rhys bites out, quietly, “What?”
“Your father is taking Y/N to the ball as his special guest. He’s bought her a gown, taught her to dance — he’s serious about this.”
“He can’t.” The shadowsinger’s face is like rolling thunder. “He cannot take her there. All those males—”
“That’s precisely why I’m not attending. He needs someone in my place, and he’s taking Y/N.”
“He can choose someone else.” Azriel’s clipped tone, his panic, is not at all personal to Roza. Usually, he would never speak to her in such a way, but—
But this is Y/N they’re talking about. Y/N in the High Lord’s hands, at a ball with so many Illyrian males, too many Illyrian males.
“Watch your tone, Azriel.” Rhys warns, but Roza is holding up a hand. Because she gets it — the panic.
“I’ve tried telling him to take somebody, anybody, else.” She says. “He’s insistent — absolutely adamant that he wants Y/N.”
“But why?” Cassian frowns.
“I don’t know. I don’t know if his kindness to her is genuine or not.” She shakes her head, absentmindedly stroking her bump. “All I know is that he’s taking Y/N to that ball, and I’m not going to be there. You know, Rhysand, that there is no changing your father’s mind once it’s set. I need the three of you to look out for her.”
Because Y/N is just as much a daughter to Roza as the little girl growing in her belly. They know that.
Rhys inclines his head, reaching out to place a hand over Roza’s. “We will, mother.” He promises. “Whatever game he’s playing…we’ll look after Y/N.”
Roza’s eyes dart to Azriel, to Cassian. “Do you promise?”
“We promise.” Cassian, unfazed as always, grins. “You just focus on the little one, Roz.”
Azriel’s face is grave, but he nods once. “We won’t let her out of our sight.”
Y/N is in good hands with them, Roza knows. She may even be in good hands with Fin, depending on what his true intentions are. Perhaps being at the High Lord’s side is the safest place she can be. It’s an unknown.
But one thing Azriel does know, as he wishes and wishes for this damn ball to just be over already, is that he’s wracked with guilt.
He can’t help feeling like it’s his fault — that his actions, his behaviour, chased Y/N right into a viper’s den.
summary: fifty beautiful years you and azriel had spent together, and fifty and more he had promised to you. but when azriel meets the mate he never thought he would, he’s left to grapple with making a decision that may hurt the one person he’d never imagine he could.
warnings: cheating (ish? not really? for like, a very brief moment at the beginning!), major angst
wc: 3.1
a/n: i didn’t intend to make azriel a cheating bastard but i kind of did at the beginning </3 nothing descriptive or crazy, he just meets his mate and doesn’t tell for a few days
-
He shouldn’t be here, he knows that much. Despite that recognition, the allusive Shadowsinger pushed the glass door open anyways. When a familiar bell chimes above the door, an unusual quickening of his heartbeat occurs. He needs to turn around and leave, his mind insists, but when his own shadows seem to betray his thoughts and push him to move forward, he listens.
One step in front of the other, Azriel continues, until he finds himself face to face with the person he hasn’t been able to rid of since their first meeting. A person he knows isn’t you, a whisper of a doubt plagues him. This isn’t like him. He isn’t this person, he tells himself. But when the woman in front of him flashes a kind smile, the thought evaporates.
“Hi,” her melodic voice reaches him.
“Hi there,” his own gruff voice speaks, unable to stop the hint of a smile that graces the corner of his lips.
-
Azriel stumbled into the cafe one evening by sheer obligation.
It was some random, obscure mission. Rhysand never felt as though it was particularly necessary to dabble in the manners of the mortal world, but Feyre had some insatiable pregnancy craving. A treat from her past live that she used to enjoy long ago, before her family had lost their fortune. Despite the critically acclaimed chefs and magical conjurings of her High Lord husband, the woman had yet to be satisfied, claiming she needed the dessert from one specific family shop.
By the looks of Rhysand when Azriel appeared at their doorstep in the middle of the night, he takes it his friend’s attempt at saying no to the woman who was having a particularly difficult second pregnancy did not go to well. Azriel set off within the next hour to the human lands.
It was where he met her. Evelyn was her name. Evie was what she liked to be called. He swore his heart did somersaults when it rolled off her lips in introduction.
The emotions left him floored at the time. Where was his self-control? In the moment, he returned to the thought of you, tucked in your shared bed, where he pressed a soft kiss to your head before slipping out the doors. But then, she had asked him for his name, and the word tumbled from his lips before he could process it. And from there, despite acquiring the pastries he was requested to retrieve, his feet stayed floored to the cool tiles of the bakery. Before he knew it, he had spent his entire day in there. From closing to opening, it was slow, and Azriel, unlike his usual-self, stayed to simply talk to the human woman.
And at the end of the night, he walked her to her car. He thanked her, he recalls, for the food. She returned the sentiment, thanking him for the company. For a moment, the two of them stood there, staring at each other. It was dark out, the only light casted upon them now was the street lamp that was dangerously dim. She gave him one final smile, hand coming to rest on the bicep of his arm and it just…snapped.
It shook him from the inside out, and a low gasp was let out. It was a warming sensation, spreading from his chest to the tips of his extremities and it was all-consuming of him. It was too much, he realized as he looked back up at her face, now scrunched in concern.
Before she could ask him what was wrong, he fled.
Miles away and miles away, his body screamed at him to turn back and go to her. His shadows pulled him backwards, but he refused, fighting against their force. His chest ached the further the distance grew, and his flying was sporadic as he failed to push the sound of her sweet laughter from his mind. Finally, he landed shakily at the front of your shared apartment door. The trek home was all but a blur to him, and now here he was, at his apartment. Your shared apartment. His home with you.
“Oh Gods,” Azriel breathed. How could he forget about you? A sickening wave of nausea casted over him in that moment, and he hunched over to empty the contents of his stomach into the peonies you fuzzed over so much.
Azriel couldn’t stand to face you that night.
-
The next morning he had casted some excuse about how Rhysand had sent him on back to back missions and it had preoccupied his time longer than he expected. “I’m sorry, love,” he had said, tucking a small strand of hair behind your ear, gently caressing your cheek.
But soon after, he kept disappearing. Day after day he would leave your bed early enough in the mornings that his side would be cold to your touch when you woke, and return in the dead of the night when you’ve long gone fallen asleep.
“Work has been a lot,” he said the first time you asked, eyes shining with curiosity, and a tad bit of anger as well.
“You know Rhys has been taking a step back, focusing on Feyre,” he reassured on the fourth night, when you stayed up to wait for his return.
“It’ll be over soon, I promise,” he wrote on a note and left on your bedside on the sixth night when Mor told him how agonized you’ve been over his behavior.
You weren’t sure how long you would’ve tolerated his behavior for before you would’ve lost it. Maybe a few weeks, you guess. Afterall, Azriel has been known to get himself into moods before. His past was complicated, the challenges of his trauma continue to haunt him despite the years that have come and gone. You knew better than anyone that sometimes Azriel just needed space. Sometimes he just needed to work it out of his system.
How badly do you wish that that was the truth.
-
The silence between the two of you was suffocating. Only the sound of ticking coming from the analog clock the two of you have hung above the fireplace mantel echoed throughout the room. But it’s not as if you hear it anyways. No, the roaring of blood rushing in your ears and your thunderous heartbeat are much too loud.
The fabric of the plush sofa you and Azriel had picked out together after the first week of moving in together scratches against the back of your arms, irritating your skin. But you can’t move. You’re frozen, stuck in place. You don’t think you even remember how to breathe.
You can only stare at the photo frame atop the coffee table. It’s an old picture, taken, Gods, too many years ago for you to even remember now. 40 years ago? You don’t know. You and Azriel beamed brightly at the camera, a twinkle in your eyes that have now since faded. You wonder if you knew then, what you do now, if you would’ve stayed.
“Please say something,” Azriel’s voice drifts across the room. His voice is small, quite unlike him, as he pleads for your response.
You can’t stand to look at him. Throat dry, your voice light as you ask, “What am I to say?” Azriel shuffles uncomfortably, dropping the arms crossed over his chest as he pushes off the wall. You let out a quiet laugh. “You’ve…found your mate.”
That’s where he’s been. While you’ve spent the last few nights, tossing and turning in your all too-big bed without him by your side, he was with…her. The realization makes you close your eyes, tears welling as your heart constricts tightly in your chest. He was with her.
“What can we do?” The couch dips besides you as Azriel takes a seat.
You scoff and turn your face away from him, tears shining brightly as the midafternoon sun shines into them through your large arched window. “‘What can we do?’” you repeat him mockingly, voice monotone. “I hadn’t realize this was a we decision, Azriel.”
His troubled sigh reaches your ears, and when his tentative hand reaches out to touch your arm, you jerk away from him, continuing to refuse to meet his eye. He flinches at your cold behavior, but withdraws. After a moment, Azriel says with conviction, “You are my love.” You wipe the tear that falls. “We have been through the worst of it,” you feel him shake his head. “You are my partner in everything. I would lay my life down for you, and promised it to you. Of course this is a we decision, Y/n.”
You refuse to reply.
“Y/n, please,” Azriel begs, and you hear the crack in his voice. “I hadn’t expected this, I couldn’t have known. A choice is to be made here and I—”
“Oh, you’ve been making plenty choices,” you hiss at him. The decision to hide this, the decision to continue to see her, the decision to abandon you all these nights. Your hands begin to shake at the thought and more tears begin to fall, a mixture of anger and deep sadness.
A week is nothing in the eyes of an immortal and yet, you know that deep down, these mere few days will continue to haunt you for the rest of your eternity. You will never move past this.
When Azriel fails to conjur a response, you scoff and exit the room, no longer able to bear the weight of the conversation.
-
Day bled into night, and night into day.
You and Azriel have yet to exchange words since his initial confession, but he’s here, and he believes that it must count for something.
In silence, the two of you begin to make the bed that you shared together the night before. The few inches of space you made sure to keep between the two of you as you laid in silence for hours felt like miles to Azriel. His heart longed to reach out and touch you, to hold you. Even his shadows began to miss your loving hands despite their traitorous thoughts only days before. But they both had no right. And so he stuck to watching your back all night, praying that you’d cave and turn around to face him. You didn’t.
“Y/n…” he begins. You don’t even acknowledge him. The coexistence was killing him. “Hey,” he reaches over the bed to grab your hand that was agitatedly fluffing the pillows. His contact burns your skin, and you flinch away from him. You wonder where else he’s laid those hands, who he’s laid them on and suppress a shiver snaking up your spine.
Azriel shrinks back in understanding. He hates to do this, but Cassian has been covering for him for the past two weeks. Rhysand has become suspicious. With regret, he attempts to deliver with the most earnest tone he can. “I have to go to the House of Winds today. Rhys has been requesting my presence.” His chest aches at the manner in which you wince. He knows what must be going through your mind, and he insists, “I’ll be back in a few hours. I just need to check in with Rhy, that’s all.”
Unsurprisingly, you don’t reply.
“You know where to find me,” he promises, as if you’d believe him.
-
Rhysand could not say a word in response to Azriel’s predicament, his eyes widening for a mere second before he entered into a moment of silence and a look of calculation overtook his features. Elbows on his desk, face in the palm of his hands, Rhys takes his time to just observe Azriel, who was beginning to grow uncomfortable with the unrelenting attention.
Before Azriel could stand with irritation and yell at his friend to “forget it,” Rhysand finally speaks.
“Well,” the High Lord states, leaning back in his chair with a look of humor on his face. “This certainly explains your absence.” His expression turns sympathetic as he takes in the lack of reception on Azriel’s face at his attempt at lightening the mood. “My instinct is to congratulate you, brother.” Rhys frowns at the way Az turns away. “But I understand your situation is…unique.”
“I love Y/n,” Azriel persists. In an attempt to convince Rhysand or himself? Neither of them could truly tell. “And this other woman she…” the Shadowsinger sighs. “She’s just a human.”
“Complicated indeed,” Rhys comments lightly, encouraging Azriel to continue.
“I didn’t expect this to happen, Rhys,” Azriel explains gently. “I never imagined I’d…” he trails off, and though he hates to admit it, the sentence gleams with a sense of excitement, of hope. His companion could garner the same as he takes in Azriel’s words.
“But I love Y/n,” he agonizes, hands dropping into the palms of his hands, his gaze finding the floor.
Rhysand sighs. “Having a mate is…everything. It is unlike anything you could ever imagine,” his thoughts drift to Feyre, lips curling into a slight smile at the thought of his beautiful family. “It may not be what you expected, Az, but it is hardly a situation you can ignore. It’s fate.” Despite the advice not being what his friend hopes to hear, Rhysand felt an obligation to admit, “Love is rarely simple, Az. You have to make a choice now, for your future. What kind of love do you truly want?”
-
A year, Azriel requests. 356 days.
He stands before you, stance stoic as though he is attempting to keep himself together, as if his words aren’t shredding you to your core.
“What?” you let out breathlessly. It is all you can do, all that you can say in the face of such incredulity.
“It’s only one year, that’s all I’m asking,” Azriel downplays the severity of what he’s asking, and you laugh utter disbelief.
“Only?” you take a deep breath, willing yourself to curb the mix of anger and hurt swirling in your chest. “It is hardly a simply ask,” you seethe.
He knows as much, he knows what an absolute slap in the face this is to you. But, “I need time,” Azriel pleads with you, hoping with every fiber in his being that any piece of you could understand. He knows it’s an unfair thought to have.
A year is nothing to you and him, immortal beings meant to live until the end of time, but a year is much more to a human. Invaluable time for those who won’t even survive the length of your relationship with Azriel. Still, it was a cruel and purely selfish thought. Two things you would have never imagined the man before you to be.
“The Mothers above have made a decision for me,” Azriel begins to explain. “One that you and I believed would never come into fruition and we made promises to each other on that basis.” You turn from him, beginning to walk away, unable to stand there and listen to him lecture you about what the Couldron has blessed him with. Azriel follows you, voice bleeding with desperation, “But things have changed.”
The two of you move into the kitchen, and Az’s voice trails after you. “It changed and I need to know,” he grabs your arm, forcing you to turn around to face him, “I deserve to know!”
Your chest heaves, tears lining your eyes as you will them not to fall. “Where is your loyalty?” you shout. “They call you the Shadowsinger, a man with strength that armys tremble in the face of, with power leaders of Pyrthian envy, and yet here you are,” you sneer at him. “Crumbling in the face of your own fate.”
You rip your arm from Azriel, turning to grip the counter as you collect yourself. The thought of what he is asking of you truly settling in, and rage morphs into despair. Is this truly the extent of Azriel’s love? Were you truly this replaceable to him?
Conflict and sorrow burns into the depths of Azriel’s core. He takes a step closer to you, hand coming to softly rest on your shoulder and you don’t have the strength to push him away. “Y/n, if I don’t do this, we’ll forever wonder.” His voice is just a whisper. “You deserve more than a love tainted with doubt and uncertainty. You deserve to be loved wholly. And I can’t promise you that without doing this.”
Sobs begin to rack through you, unable to withstand it anymore. “How noble of you,” you laugh humorlessly. He prepares to utter apologies once more, but your shaky cries stops him. You stand, gently pushing him off of you. When you turn to face him, you’ve wiped all expression off your face, but your eyes shine with grief. “You want me to stand by, watch as you walk away, and wait for you as you love another? For my greater good, you say?”
Azriel’s eyes mirror yours, and doubt flickers across his face for a moment, but you stop him before he speaks.
“Don’t say another word.” You take a deep breathe, voice growing soft as you say, “Azriel if you choose to do this, I will not be here when you return.”
“Y/n—”
“I will not wait for you,” you say kindly, despite the ache in your chest. “But I will not ask you to stay. So the choice is yours, Az. What is it? Her or me?”
In that moment, Azriel can do nothing but stand frozen, caught between the weight of two worlds. Hesitation grips him like a vice. What he believed to be the only resolution was now not an option at all. As he stares at you, the fear of losing you aches in him.
You watch as his face scrunches in conflict, pain echoing in every line. Was the choice truly so difficult, you wonder. Did the years of passion and joy the two of you share compare lightly to the mere hours he spent with this human woman? The thought of not being enough for him haunts you.
Laden with the burden of a decision that would shape the rest of his life, Azreil voice cracks as he painfully states, “I need to know.”
The disappointment in your eyes weighs him down. Your heart that was once so tightly bound to his sinks in your chest, physically hurting you as you let out a soft exhale. As the two of you stare at each other, you cannot find any other words except, “Then I hope you find what you’re looking for, Azriel.”
And despite the heaviness dragging you down, the two of you share a wistful smile that doesn’t meet either of your eyes. A quiet farewell, for a love you’ve both lost.
