Lark Aloft [III]
A Court of Thorns and Roses Story
Azriel X Hemophiliac!Reader
5.0K Words
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Summary:
A human hiding amongst the Fae, you operate as a common bookkeeper in Velaris, using tactics to avoid being detected and sent back to the mortal realm (or worse). Trouble and violence brews in your homeland and the clarion call of war threatens; if you are sent back, you face immeasurable danger. For now, you pray you remain unknown, and your shop successful. That is, until a stranger appears and challenges your idyllic existence. You have secrets that may spill blood; a certain Fae has secrets that will spill blood. Will they remain hidden? Or will the life you've spent years cultivating come crumbling down in the tangled web of Fate and silver-tongued lies?
Chapter Three:
"Lark Aloft"
Where you spend the day in a Velaris marketplace hunting for supplies, and instead encounter a strange shopkeeper and a stranger book. Payment day looms.
NOTE:
No beginning notes today! Meant to get this out earlier but I got delayed.
Little ol' me screwed up the formatting massively and had to manually go through and reformat each separate text piece. That took, uh, a while.
The market bloomed before you on the street as if flowers sprung from the cobblestone—a messy, labyrinthine assemblage of stalls slicing through the paved causeways of the Rainbow—crowds sluicing easily through the menagerie of scents and smells, cries and criers, all harking their wares to the available ear and the steely eye, hoping to win from them a silver glint of recognition, a burning interest, a pretty coin for their toils on the street side.
Once, when you had first stepped foot into Velaris, worried step after worried step, you feared such crowds—the dangers it brought, the Fae that all but loomed over you in every aspect of life. The crushing breathlessness of fast-paced conversations without the chance to consider if—and what—you might accidentally reveal. But now...to say you feel like you're drowning in the crowds made as much sense as a raindrop protesting to join the vast expanse of ocean. You felt the energy, the cosmopolitan pulse that shuddered beneath every hurried step, rushed breath, careless words tossed to the wind and the tinkling of coins darting between ethereal figures. You felt that odd sense of serenity, a faceless mass amongst the living body of the crowd; a sense of community that an outcast, a misfit would never even begin to consider.
Sometimes, you wished you could just lose yourself in that crowd, like a raindrop that falls on the beach, sits on a pebble, adores the ocean it failed to join and savoring the aroma from the cyclical motion of the waves. The crowd before you had that aching life, a mass of vibrant clothes shining in the morning light, people gliding like enchanting shoals of speedy fish. There was chatter between the sellers and buyers, the drone of old friends catching up on the wayside, new friends clasping hands. They were, in such a strange way, your kin.
Ellora had sent you to fetch more supplies from the myriad of temporary sellers that dotted the street's landscape—too many repairs on her desk and not enough glue, or enough thread, or enough paper. Her instructions were very precise. Honestly, you thought it was all just a ploy to force you out of the shop! At least it wasn't a terrible deluge like yesterday had been—the sun was shining in full force, a brilliant lantern casting the everyday hues of the marketplace into vivid glows. The kind made of the best of dreams, you thought.
Slipping through the crowds, one hand grasping the edge of your cloak as you were forced to brush by a pair of Fae ogling a stall of prim, intricate jewelry, you forced your way through the cacophony. Your eyes sought two stalls in the mess—like a lighthouse to a lost ship in the sea—two vendors that offered the best supplies for the most reasonable prices. All you needed was some animal and archival glues and a few spools of thread, after all.
There!
The flashing maroon awning, a fabric that seemed to greedily devour the overjoyous light, caught your eye. You fought you ways toward it, a minnow darting against the current, offering profuse apologies to Fae who glared daggers in your direction, grunts of dismissal to those who snatched at your argentite cloak. Every time you felt that pull, fear found infancy in your heart, your mind, twining with the incessant pool of dread plaguing your thoughts.
The crowds were comforting, but they were also your enemy.
Any one of them could grow too curious, peer too closely, ask too insightful a question that threatened the careful sanctity of your disguise. Any one of them could put you, and the veneer of the Fae would be thrown away, the gossamer fabric of reality flowing on the wind, to reflect the beastly, the violent, the dangerous trickster Fae. The Fae that you had read, learned, heard about. That, you feared. Discovery.
Stepping from the stream, into the comfort of distance, you emerged at the edge of that burgundy-covered stall, a bloody light seeping through the canvas to illuminate a man with piercing blue eyes, wheat-dashed hair, flashing the most brilliant of smiles. Recognition widened his grin, and he waved you over with the lilting call of "Wren! Wren!"
You swore it sounded like a bird-call. The man—Kirin, one of your fellow bookbinders in the region—always had some cheerful glimmer in his eye. He never went anywhere without his steadfast cheer, to his stall, his shop on the other side of the Sidra, or otherwise. As such, the two of you had become steadfast trading partners—his supplies, your books; it was a symbiotic relationship. His movements were pragmatic in that casually aristocratic way, tipping his head down at your approach as if you were a wayward royal, then propping himself up by an elbow. He twirled a speckled ink brush between his fingers, an appraising glance sweeping up your figure. Kirin arched a brow, "Always the stylish one, even in this heat, are you not?"
You scoffed, smoothing the fabric of your cloak, "You know how the weather always changes on a whim. No one can be too prepared." A pause, and you set a few silver coins on the counter. Kirin didn't look, not yet—a silent agreement passed between you two. Whatever he could spare.
He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes still staring at you—through you—as if puzzling some secret of your soul. "Of course." He didn't sound fully convinced. You didn't feel convincing either. "I've never seen your eyes before, you know. All this time, all this time," Kirin clicked his tongue, finally turning away—and you swallowed the building anxiety in your throat—and searching through the tinctures and vials, the bound signatures, the leather-pressed covers, the assortment of glues retrieved from all over Prythian and, you expected, a few from the Mortal Realms as well. His stall was always a mess.
Another Fae stalked up to the stall, the delirium of imperial hauteur sharp in his eyes, his clothes a decadent purple. Kirin didn't spare him a glance, offering a noncommittal smile as he, clutching close to his chest a plethora of vials and a spool of umber thread. Not the highest quality, but it would do anyways. You just hoped Ellora was skilled enough with her materials that she didn't waste any (or, worse, that a repaired book would fall apart!). A moment passed, and the strange man released a dissatisfied huff, glanced towards you, and walked away.
"Here you are, my dearest bookkeep!" A heap of supplies dropped to the counter. More than your paltry coins had paid for.
"Kirin, I can't—"
"Word on the street is you're struggling, Wren. Please, let me."
Protests fumbled on your lips, died bloody deaths as you fought the urge to deny his kindness. Why should you receive such a gift? An impostor among their ranks, dressed in their livery, passing for a Fae, and you took their gifts! It wasn't right—but what other choice did you have? You pushed those ceaseless thoughts aside, leaving them for another stormy day. Kirin was staring at you again. Searching. What did he see? What did he want to find?
Gently, you picked up the vials of glue, marveling at the sheen of light curving on their surface; collected the signatures and the thread, the paper too soft, too nice, with a thread much too clean to be old. Met his eyes, offered him a meek smile. "Thank you."
He flashed a smile, "Don't worry yourself. You're my most loyal patron, I wouldn't let you go under just because you can't afford some coin here and then! Cauldron knows you would've done the same for me in your position. Now, shoo! Be safe!"
Be safe. Those words, they stuck to your thoughts like a cloying scent, nauseating, overwhelming. You stepped away, back into the numbing rush of steps and voices and scents. Those eyes—those damned eyes!—peering into your soul. What did Kirin know? Was it possible that he—
Word on the street is you're struggling...
An electric shock sparked wildfire in your mind—some spindly creature of Nature whispering a revelation into your covered ears. Of course. Of course! If he knew of your troubles then he knew of the Wardens. He was just trying to help you out; he didn't suspect you of anything! No nefarious plan, no mortal quandary. But you hadn't told anyone about the beast of burden chained to your store's lot. The bills that piled, the coin that dwindled. Ellora knew, but she wouldn't tell a soul. Solicit help from others that weren't the Wardens, and you invited bundles of trouble that swept, viciously, darkly through the night with fangs of poison and treachery.
That was the rule. Make the payment yourself. Always.
The Wardens sent your mind into a spin. A spiral, aching with heavy gravity—your thoughts, your thoughts always came back to them! The iron grasp they held on your life, your store, your existence. They crowded, a maelstrom occupying too much space. And then the sounds grew brighter, bled from the air, seeped into your ears. The scents grew louder, battering your nose, your throat, your mouth. Choking, suffocating. If you didn't have enough money for supplies, how could you pay them? It was only a few days away! And then—
In your distraction, you missed a step. Fell out of harmony with the flowing crowd. Something slammed into you, your leg twisted and you cried out—a flash of deep purple, remorseless eyes, words spearing through the air, into your chest, "Fool." Thrown off-balance, then another woman elbowed your shoulder—you were too short, or she too tall, to give any pitiful regard, and you gasped, stumbling, eyes wide, clutching your prize to your chest. So many Fae, too many Fae—
The tinkling sound of glass shattering filled the air. A flurry of pages announced your precipitous calamity.
You impacted the ground, thrown to the side by some defiance of nature, some well-timed prayer to the Mother. Your knees burned. You couldn't parse whether it was the sun-baked stones or the pain. Pain. It radiated through your shoulder, your leg. You pressed your hand to the ground, forcing yourself to a stumbling stand. The bruise on your arm, from yesterday, still ached something fierce.
Tears brimmed beneath your sheer blindfold. Panic, that primal, human instinct of dread and fear and despair, ebbed and flowed with your rapid heart and trembling lip. A step forward, two steps stumbling back, clutching your leg with a silent, shaky cry. You'd been shoved into some off-shoot of an alley from the main streets. Steps away the crowd rushed, seemingly oblivious.
Then the sounds caught up to your ears. And you realized what you had done—the glass decorating the cobbled with a mockery of a starlit sky. Glue splattering the stone. Unspooled thread wet and grimy, befouled by the darkened recesses of Velaris. Ruined. And what few coins you'd given Kirin—a sizable sum of your "fortune"—lost to the streets.
The second stall had all but fled your mind as you sat staring, dejectedly, morosely, as the remnants of your supplies. Ellora was going to be furious—she was your assistant, but she was also your partner! It stared back at you, mockingly, the glass reflecting a sharp-fanged smile of light. You sank against the wall of the alley, dropping once more to the ground. You tried not to cry. You didn't want to cry. A tear slipped free anyways, falling sparklingly, radiantly, in a fractal of brightness to the dingy ground.
A voice rasped.
A new emotion—beating back the panic, the distress—swept you forward, up, down, left and right about the tumultuous sea of your brain.
Terror.
"My child, my sweet darling child, come, come. Do not cry."
Something primal jumped in your heart, thundering along the blood racing through your veins. To your right—deeper in the alley, that's where it was coming from. Warily, you shifted your weight forward, snatching a shard of glass. Pushing up from the wall, you peered into the depths. Saw a form haloed by the dying embers of a rusted lantern.
Its hand slithered from the recesses of its ragged, ruined cloak, beckoning, summoning. Darkness obscured the thing's face, a second mask. Thin, bony, too frail for the majestic Fae that filled the streets behind you.
"Who are you?" Your voice was barely a whisper.
A rasping response, the darkness stretched beneath its hood. Smiling, it was smiling. Aged fingers crooked, another summons. Fingernails yellowed and misshapen, long and brittle, accentuating the bulbous, grotesque nature of its hands. "You shouldn't be here, child. Much too dangerous for folk like you."
Silently, the urge to run, to flee, settled in the pit of your stomach. Folk like you.
"What do you mean?"
Its head tipped, and rotting teeth, dark with mossy neglect met the dim light of the alley. A tongue flickered out, ran over them, a tendril of saliva slipping down its lips. Slavering. "You walk among them with such an enchanting cloak. Not as one of them. A mirage. An illusion."
Now, you stepped closer. Closing the distance, and the tatters of its cloak seemed to shift with the disturbance. From the depths reflected beady eyes. Eyes much too wise, too knowing. Eyes that sparkled with secrets and cosmic ideas. No. No. Leave! Everything in your body screamed that this was something, someone dangerous. Words fumbled to your lips, "I actually have to go—"
A hand shot out, clutching your cloak and yanking you towards it. "Human!" Venom infused its words, the seething of its emotion frothing at the corners of its mouth. Spittle hit your cheeks and you sank back. But it's grip—iron-clad—forced you into against its body. Behind it, the lantern jumped with caustic vehemence, casting licking, weak shadows along the walls. Beastly shadows that violently wrestled with your own.
Weakly, fearfully, you ventured your question. "What are you?"
Seemingly satisfied, the thing released you. A shaky breath, and it answered. "A... benefactor." It glided with a smooth, preternatural gracefulness not born of its decrepit form towards a haphazard table. On it, an eclectic collection of wares. Wooden accessories. A book sat primly underneath a thin silk cover. The Fae (for you believed that it was such), removed the cover, seeming to marvel at the book for a moment, before urging you closer. "My child, my child. Come, look. Perhaps I have something you need, no?"
Nothing could replace your supplies—but if it was offering.... Your wariness incensed it. "Please, I speak of truths, child. I seek safety here, like you. I will not expose you. Do not worry."
It struck you then, what this thing was. An ancient, malicious Fae. A Suriel. Panic seized your throat, but you stilled it. Beat it down. Regarded the boom it urged you to. First, you noticed the book was an ancient thing, an ugly ancient thing. Wooden slats crudely bound together in the archaic ways, stuffed with pages of yellowed and crumbling paper. A layer of leather tried to save the integrity of the piece. Second, you noticed there was no title on the wooden cover. And then you noticed the wood was a lighter color—not native to the Night Court or the birds that roosted here. Everything on the table was made of it.
Ash wood. Fatal to Fae.
"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else—"
The book flew across the table, shoved by the Suriel's spindly fingers. "No, no. I insist. You are a bookkeep are you not? Ah, I thought so, I thought so. A shame you tripped. But here!" Excitedly, it knocked the cover with its knuckles, "Free of charge, free of charge, for your troubles!"
Everything about it was off. Wrong. Was its mind so addled, so distraught that it made the Suriel...like this? Disturbed. No Fae would willingly offer ash wood.
"Why?" The word sat heavy in the air between the two of you, in this darkened alleyway of covert negotiations. It grew paws, a sniveling snout, pranced around the licking shadows, claws primed. It leapt at the Suriel, these words, brightened its eyes with delirious intensity and it cried out with zeal—
"You will need it! Someone will ask, and you must give it to them." Its voice jumped in the air, like the fluttering of many wings in a frightened flock taking flight.
Its nails scraped along the book, digging up splinters from the soft wood. The crowd, the marketplace seemed a lifetime away as you regarded that singular instance. "And if I don't?"
The Suriel wrenched its hand back as if the words had scalded it, and violence burned in the specks of eyes buried in the cloak, "You must!" Its raspy voice reached a crescendo. The lantern popped, flame unraveling like a thread, tendrils seeking, then recombining.
It sounded like a whip-crack, that quiet pop.
"You must!" the Suriel shrieked.
Suddenly, the storm in its voice, the tempest in its movements seized. It went frigid, stiff, muttering, chest heaving, robes jittering around its body as it struggled to tame its words, its thoughts, its emotions. Silence ensued, thickening the tension, until it spoke, controlled and modulated. "The Fae signed a treaty long ago, to end a war. To end the enslavement of mortals. That was the...purpose of it all. The Wall. The borders." It didn't even seem to be speaking to you. It was staring intently at the book, at the claw marks in the cover. Ancient wisdom spilled from its lips, like a chalice overflowing with wine. Greedily, you waited.
"It collapsed not too long ago. They're trying again—again! The treaty! The negotiations! Vallahan! How foolish. Can't they see? It shall fail. Always. Too violent, too fickle, too aggressive and amoral, you mortals. Prone to war and bloodshed. Too prone, I say."
Surprise nestled amongst your curiosity. The Wall had collapsed? Vaguely, you were aware of the history, just enough to pass, but you'd had to sneak through a crack in the wall so long ago. It was...gone? Who was guarding it? The threat implicit in those words rose to mind, bubbling amongst the vitriol that the mortal realm already possessed against the Fae. A tentative treaty that was going to fail. Violence already champing at the reins that held it back. The wars and violence you fled, the burgeoning turmoil in the mortal realm, if that came here. If that came to Prythian.
Then it became a question of whether mortal fury could beat immortal pride. You had an inkling as to which would win.
"Child of the warmongers—you know, you understand? I see it in the eyes you hide. Truth cannot be so hidden from me."
Forcibly, you cleared your throat. The two of you were both in hiding—one from its people, the other from its past. You swept up the book, eyeing the Suriel with a newfound sense of admiration. It carried ash wood with it not because it was twisted or disturbed—it was a talisman, in case it was endangered. A malicious Fae, holding the very thing that could, just as well, be its doom.
A resolution sat heavy in your mind. Your hands closed around the book, engulfing it in the folds of your cloak. "I accept, Suriel."
"Ah, keen you are. Yes, yes. World-walker, leave me here. You have what you need, what makes your eyes free of the veil and the mask. The others—fools, blinded by their hubris, others by their violence." The Suriel quieted, its words devolving into a series of ramblings and mutterings, secrets slipping into the space between seconds, incomprehensible. Its eyes no longer seemed so transfixed on you.
The loss of your materials no longer seemed so intense. You didn't even regard it on the ground. Glass crunched under your feet.
The lantern sputtered and died as you left. Shadows flooded the alleyway.
* * *
The marketplace's vibrant pulse of life amplified when you fell back into its rhythm. Or, rather, as an accompaniment to its rushing harmony of movement. A stumbling ache in your leg impeded swiftness, and the throbbing in your shoulder, halted by the adrenaline of the encounter, surfaced with force. Their searching eyes now appeared glassy, their chatter having lost its vicious bite. Docile, tamed, from the apparent surge of before. The second stall that you'd intended to visit—more out of courtesy than a need to purchase, given your financial burdens at the moment—stood stalwart before you.
It contained a mixture of inks, a mess of paints, a few blank canvasses, and an assortment of decorated awls for easing the threading of signatures, bone scorers for folding pages, and other useful tools. Ellora always swore the more expensive items off—she preferred her version of repairing the books, and so you often let her decide which tools to buy and which to leave as "window attractions," such that she called them.
You trailed a finger over one of the tools—a stark, ivory bone scorer, with a dull edge so that the signatures didn't rip as you folded them. A pretty little thing, without a mark on it. On a whim, you flagged down the shopkeeper, offered a single coin (just enough to cover the cost, it was), and pocketed the slim device. A dash of mauve caught your eye, right as it knocked into you. A startled cry resounded, like a nightingale striking up its song. The man was more startled than you, running a pampered hand down his richly embroidered jacket.
"Ah, Wren! Just who I wanted to see today! I meant to swing by yesterday, mind you, but that dreadful weather halted my quest. A flood of never-ending water, it seemed; never seen anything like it. I'll say."
Of course. Master Oberyn.
Cautiously, you clasped the strange book tighter under the confines of your cloak. Whatever that Suriel intended, this book was obviously something important—perhaps, even, valuable to the right people. You plastered on a shaky smile, "The weather was terrible yesterday. I wouldn't have dreamt of anyone making such a trek!"
"Ah, nonetheless, I'm glad I ran into you now! I think I still have it..." he pats his suit jacket, puzzling through the curiosity that was his extraordinary attire. All the while, anxiety grips your shoulders, searching for some way to escape the interaction and get somewhere—back to your bookstore. Oberyn, with a huff of triumph, produced a cream-colored envelope, elegantly scribed with your false name, and what you thought was an attempt at drawing a bird. Which one, you did not know, but it was certainly, indubitably, a bird.
He offered it to you, all the while chattering away, "—My lovely Alette, she's just dying to meet you. Growing sicker by the day, I fear, but she simply adores the idea of your store and coming there in person one day. Wants to see all you have to offer; she loves those books more than me, I swear." His laughter was sincere, almost wistful, and he waved off his misty-eyed expression with a bright smile, "She wants to host a small dinner party, just to meet you. Alette, you see, she'll read anything; her knowledge of literature is something rivaling even the best scholars of the Day Court. Anyways, you'll come?"
Not so much an invitation, you saw, but a demand. But Master Oberyn was always so kind and thoughtful, you couldn't disappoint him or his lady. You nodded, somewhat too eagerly, "I'll bring some titles over for her." You knew you couldn't afford that. You knew it might also not make a lick of difference. "Is there a date for the party?"
"Hm, I believe she said...five days from today? She wanted to give you some time to prepare anything you might need."
Your heart sank. Tithing Day—when you were supposed to meet the Wardens for your payments. But, it was necessary to go to Oberyn's party—it was a matter of duty, if that. The payments didn't usually take long—if you had the money, that was. So, a day-trip into the Hewn City, a visit to the Wardens, and back in time for supper at Oberyn's.
Easy, right?
Nevertheless, queasiness turned your stomach, and that Suriel was fresh on your mind. You shouldn't attend. Instead, you smile, "Master Oberyn, I'd be delighted to attend."
And as you turned to leave, pocketing the invitation, he clears his throat, somewhat awkward, "Alette says you can bring someone with you, too! Please do, the more the merrier!" He vanishes into the crowd with a final wave, leaving you standing there with a book that may or may not be cursed, an invitation to a party that may or may not threaten your identity, on a day that may or may not involve death threats.
Fatigued from the adventures of the day, you wind your way free of the marketplace labyrinth, detouring from your route only to stop at the Sidra for a moment of respite, admiring the waters. Trying not to think about the book heavy against your side, of the Suriel, or of anything that brought you back to that uncontrolled spiraling anxiety of the shaky day. So, you decided to think about the one thing that wasn't so awful.
Azriel.
You hadn't seen him since yesterday—when he had left you with a beautifully repaired book, after watching the rare event of an eagle's death spiral. Was he lurking about, the spymaster of the Night Court? Over there, in the shade of the unassuming bush, or flirting with the shadows of alleyways, hunting some common criminal? Ironic, how desperately you wanted to unravel his secrets, yet so desperately clinging to your own in the same fashion.
You breathe in, inhaling the subtle, heady scent of the rushing river, letting it wash through your body, scoop away the day's tumultuous emotions and thoughts and make them anew into something vaguely peaceful. You watched the river, a rushing thing so full of glimmering beauty yet so invariably deadly; a vital glowing thing of flame and gold in the dallying sun. A shadow flitted over the water, and you looked up.
Far above, a small shape zipped by—wings shaped like a bat. At this hour? Much too early, much too early. One part of your brain wanted to rationalize that it was just an early riser of the bats; but the other part...well, it wanted to believe a fiction, a non-reality that could never be, because that would threaten too much. And you couldn't afford what kindling of hope that he stirred.
So, when you turned away from the Sidra, you crushed it. That beauty was much too dangerous.
The walk home was uneventful for the sole reason that there was every possibility of doing so today.
The door rattled as you opened it, as it always did, a warm greeting. Ellora sat at her desk, threading a needle through bundles of pages to be rebound. She barely looked up, but somehow she sensed the rigors of the day. She had that having way about her, always reading people's minds with a glance. "Azriel didn't stop by, if that's what you're worried about."
Strange, how you felt so dejected hearing that. He was a stranger! Someone you barely knew and who'd read only one of your many books. Silently, you stepped past the threshold, ducking behind the counter.
"Birdie, what's wrong?"
Please don't.
"You didn't come back with any supplies, I thought we were running low on glues."
"We were." The phrase sounded hollow to your ears, "I fell on the way back, broke the vials. Oberyn's invited me to a dinner in five days—are you able to come with me?"
Ellora set the book down, a queer light burning in her dark eyes, "That's the day we're supposed to visit the Wardens, Wren. I'll be too busy anyways with the paperwork." She winced, as if the words had struck some harsh blow, "Sorry." Ellora turned back to her book, humming a lullaby she usually sang.
Taking the chance, you slipped the strange book from your cloak, where it had spent the day burning a hole in your makeshift holster. The wood was blemished with age, the nail marks from the Suriel a superficial gouge. You lifted the cover, spurred on by some inane courage to see what it contained—a name emblazoned on the cover, Lady Marin, ringing some faint bell from your travels around Prythian.
An unassuming lady in the Summer Court. What had she done to come into the possession of this book? You suspected that wouldn't be answered for a while—you couldn't ask her directly, and whatever this book was meant for, it was apparently dangerous.
You didn't look further—couldn't bring yourself to. As such, you debated where to hide it—if you should hide it—what might entail if you revealed it to Ellora, or to anyone for that matter. Too many questions and not enough answers. On a whim, you crouched behind the counter, feeling for a loose floorboard. It was an old building and rarely up to code, and the drafts that often leaked in were a result of its less-than-structurally sound foundation. Finding a loose nail, a board that creaked ever so slightly, you pried it up with a grunt.
"Everything okay?" Ellora called.
"Fine, just a nail that snagged on something." You shove the book into the slim gap, just wide enough to fit on, and push the board back down into place.
"Who are you going to take to the dinner? If I can't go, surely someone else would like to?"
You didn't have an answer for her—as you didn't for many of the questions aroused today. But, at least for this one, you had an inkling where to start.
After all, the best way to know your enemies was to keep them closer than your friends, and what better way to do that than to ask the Spymaster of the Night Court to a friendly supper?
Thus entailed your next endeavor.
Finding that secretive bat in time.
* * *
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A/N:
Less Azriel-focused on this chapter in order to set up future points—however, he will be very much present in the next chapters, in whatever capacity that may look like! But, on the plus side, a Suriel! Huzzah!
(If you spot any formatting errors, no you didn't, those were, uh, intentional! Yeah...)
If anyone wants to be added or removed from the tag list, please let me know and I'll gladly provide the service 🫡
Hopefully you enjoyed, and if you did feel free to leave a comment, a critique, or any number of ideas that you might have about the story so far Have a good weekend!
Your friendly neighborhood lore creature,
~ Lethe
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